The Best Kind of Magic Read online

  He looks down at the spot where I touched him. Whoops, that was probably too much. I know he has desperate girls invading his personal space all the time. I don’t want him getting the wrong idea. All this uncharted territory is making me even more twitchy.

  “A matchmaker?” he questions. “Like in Fiddler on the Roof?”

  “Well, I see the Blitzmans have their Broadway In Chicago season pass up to date.” I smirk.

  “But seriously, folks.”

  “Yes, like in Fiddler. Think of me as an honest-to-goodness Yente. Although”—I tap my chin dreamily—“I do wish my matchmaking sessions came with the completely unhinged bonus of ex-wives rising from the grave, like hers do. That would definitely give my reputation some edge.”

  To this, he says nothing, which means he either thinks my reputation is bad enough as it is, or that I’m a complete nutjob.

  I give him a few seconds to decide which, but when I can’t stand him just staring blankly at me anymore, I blurt out, “Look, I have a whole display of medicinal herbs that won’t alphabetize themselves, so…”

  “Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I’ve heard kids at school call you a matchmaker, but I tend not to believe anything I hear in those hallways.”

  “That’s probably a best practice,” I say.

  “I guess I didn’t realize matchmaking was an actual thing.”

  “So you accept witchcraft as reality, but you draw the line at matchmaking?”

  “No, I just…I guess I never thought about it before.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it. Real-life matchmaking hasn’t exactly reached the cultural zeitgeist. I won’t hold it against you.”

  His face goes back to a more normal, less confused expression. “Okay, well, can you tell me if Cassandra is my dad’s match?”

  “That I can do,” I say. “Though take it from me, people don’t like to hear that the person they’re hooking up with is a waste of time.”

  “I’ll worry about breaking the news,” he says. “I just want to know for sure.”

  “Okay then, step into my office.” I gesture to my overly pink matchmaking station.

  We sit across from each other. “So, how does this work?” he asks.

  I don’t usually divulge the tricks of my trade, but since this is an unconventional matchmaking scenario, I guess I’ll have to give some hints. “Usually I just need to be around a person and I automatically visualize his match.”

  Charlie’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “Really? That seems kind of invasive.”

  “Oh, it totally is,” I say. “But it’s not like I lie awake at night replaying other people’s tender moments.”

  “Well, that’s good, I guess,” he says with a small smile.

  “Anyway, I’ve known your dad long enough to have a clear vision of his match. Do you have a picture of Cassandra so I can confirm?”

  He frowns, pulling out his phone. “I don’t think so, but I’ll check.”

  “You know, if she’s such a parasite like you say, I’m surprised I haven’t seen her pictures in the press. Fame mongering usually goes hand in hand with gold digging,” I say.

  He’s scrolling through his phone. “You’d think so, but she’s kind of weird about being photographed. I thought they were just keeping their relationship quiet until the engagement was official, but she won’t even let Dad take pictures at home.” He sets down his phone in defeat. “I got nothing.”

  “Well, if you want my help, you’ll need to find a picture.”

  “All right, I’ll work on it.”

  “I’d do it soon, because once Mom starts conjuring stuff it’s kind of hard to make her stop,” I advise.

  “Noted.” We sit, business concluded, and I don’t know what to do next. Usually, I process payment and offer some sort of poetic love quote or something, but I can’t charge Charlie because nothing’s happened yet. This whole situation has really got me thrown.

  “So…” I start.

  “So I’ll see you around, then. Thanks for your help, Amber.”

  And with that concludes the most civil interaction I’ve ever had with one of my peers.

  AMANI’S FACE IS GROWING A FUNGUS. We’re on my couch, cheeks slathered with a highly pungent avocado-and-grape-seed-oil face mask she swears will brighten our complexions in thirty short minutes. (As if Amani has a problem with her skin. She is so youthful-looking I sometimes wonder if her mom drank from the Fountain of Youth when she was in the womb.) The mask smells like day-old guacamole, and not in a “wow, I could really go for tacos” kind of way. More like an “I forgot to take out the garbage and now rats are flocking to my doorstep” way. The concoction has started to harden, meaning we can’t open our mouths wide enough to eat the dark chocolate pretzel bars I spent two hours making. Still, she loves this kind of girly thing, so I continue watching the clock because that’s what best friends do.

  “How many more minutes?” she asks with limited lip movement.

  “Nine,” I say, feeling a spot on my chin crack.

  We’re watching some reality show where women compete to win their dream wedding dress. For a program whose central theme should be romance, there sure is a lot of screaming going on.

  “Wait, why is the brunette girl crying?” I ask.

  “Because the curly-haired girl won the beading challenge, and now the brunette is in last place,” Amani replies.

  “So now she won’t get to walk down the aisle of dreams?”

  “Right. Her life is basically over.”

  “Clearly.”

  I’m glad I don’t have to deal with this relationship stage with my clients. I come in way before the wedding and am usually forgotten about by the time “I dos” are exchanged. Which is for the best, since I know next to nothing about tulle, letterpressing, or what the different colors of roses represent. Amani, though, has already planned her entire wedding and is just waiting for Mr. Right to make his grand entrance.

  “These girls have such gaudy taste anyway,” she says dismissively. “My dress is going to be simple, elegant. Like something Audrey Hepburn would’ve worn.”

  “I can see that.”

  “With a little blusher veil off to the side. Very fifties chic, very classy.”

  I nod (I have no idea what a blusher is). “Sounds very Leave It to Beaver.”

  “Well, I’ll have a flask tucked into my garter, duh.”

  I snort, and a chunk of moldy green falls into my lap.

  “Don’t laugh! Only a few more minutes till perfect skin!” she scolds.

  “Praise the Gods!” I say, raising my hands to the heavens.

  This time Amani laughs, making her forehead crackle. She taps it carefully back into place, ensuring none of the mask falls on her pink dress. The two of us could not be more different on the outside; Amani is always dressed like a “lady,” in something that would respond appropriately if she twirled. I like to rotate a collection of T-shirts and jeans, and if I’m feeling particularly wild, I might mix in leggings or a hoodie. We may not sync as shopping buddies, but we’re pretty much identical on most other points of the friendship checklist.

  The women on the screen have been challenged to a pie-eating contest, only with wedding cake. Most of them are holding back (trying to maintain their wedding-day figures, I’m sure), but the curly-haired girl is going to town. That one is in it to win it.

  “So how was your meeting with Charlie?” Amani asks once she’s reassembled her face.

  “Informative,” I say. “Turns out it’s his future stepmom who’s missing.”

  “Ooh, intriguing. Think the Blitz blitzed her?”

  I shake my head. “Doubtful. Charlie says he’s crazy for her. Besides, John’s a total softie.”

  “So why’d Charlie come to you?”

  I peer into the kitchen, where Mom is mixing up some stress-relieving elixir. Her supernatural genes didn’t give her extra-sensitive hearing or anything, but who knows if she’s using a sound amplification charm to l
isten in on our conversation. Charlie was right to be wary; it’s definitely possible. Usually I wouldn’t mind—I’m pretty open with my mom, even if she isn’t always so open with me—but I don’t want her knowing about Charlie’s concerns until I verify John’s match. I turn back to Amani and use sign language to continue talking. (One of her little brothers had serious hearing problems when he was little; he eventually went deaf. The whole family learned to sign, and I did too, mostly to support my friend but also because sign language is pretty much the coolest.)

  I tell her everything Charlie told me, though I struggle signing “gold digger.” That one’s not in my vocabulary.

  Amani signs back, Sounds mysterious, and then adds, How was it talking to him?

  I hesitate, not because I don’t know the signs, but because I don’t know how to describe talking to Charlie. “Unnerving” seems too severe, but “nice” is too affectionate. I settle on “fine.”

  “As in, he’s so fine?” she says aloud, in a sassy voice that mimics the bridal contestants.

  The timer on my phone goes off, and I bolt to the bathroom to scrub my algae-ridden face. Amani is close behind.

  “Amber Sand,” she says, our faces dunking in the sink. “Do you think Charlie Blitzman is cute?”

  “What makes you say that?” I ask, picking green from my eyebrow.

  “You sure did run away from my question.”

  “I’ve been inhaling this toxic scent for a half hour. The sooner I can breathe, the better.”

  “Mm-hm,” she replies. Even underwater, her eyes are rolling.

  “Yeah. Besides, even if I did, which I am not admitting, there’s no point.”

  “Why, because he’s not your match?” she says in a frustrated tone. Amani has heard me rationalize cute boys away before. And sure, maybe it’s something I’ve done on occasion. But you try daydreaming about a boy when all you see is his future wife.

  “Ding, ding, ding,” I say.

  “Please tell me it’s not someone we know.”

  “Nope, a total stranger.”

  Amani pats her face dry. Her skin does look brighter; mine just looks not green. “Well, that’s good,” she says.

  “Yeah, I thought so too.”

  “Because you like him?” She smirks.

  “No, because I am a terrible person who takes pleasure in other people’s pain.”

  “Ah yes, I forgot about that.”

  “Also because I am doomed to roam the earth alone, remember?” I throw her this line, seeing if she’ll take the bait. Amani likes to talk about boys and likes to tease me about liking boys, but whenever I try to “get real” with her, she just changes the subject. I know we have our pact and everything, but I’ve toed the line, feeding her curiosity with inconsequential attributes about her future husband. She seems to view the pact as an iron-clad, legally binding agreement that would incur some kind of mortal peril if breached. It’s not like we made a crazy blood oath; we were just two kids trying to figure out our magical selves. When you’re young, your magic comes pouring out of you, and you have little ability to reel it in. But we’re way past that now. I wouldn’t mind if she let a detail slip every now and then, because every time she glosses over my half-joking self-pity, my poor little heart goes deeper into preparations for solitude. I mean, it’s not like Amani has ever said, “Amber, you are destined to be a cat lady.” But she doesn’t have to: her body language says so much more.

  We watch the rest of the dream-dress show and eat the treats I made (I put cayenne powder in Amani’s to give them that extra spicy kick she craves). The curly-haired girl advances to the next round and delivers a monologue about how wonderful it is to have one special day to celebrate love.

  “Life is hard,” she says, “and it is not only our right but our responsibility as people to appreciate the good things. Sure, weddings can be lavish and excessive, but isn’t that what makes them good? Isn’t doing something so over the top in the name of love a beautiful reason to be alive? If we don’t celebrate the good things, we’ve missed an opportunity to live life to its fullest. At least, that’s what I believe.”

  Amani goes home to finish her calculus homework, and I sit in my room, thinking about the curly-haired girl as I polish off my pretzel bars. For having just consumed a three-tiered wedding cake, that girl sure did speak eloquently about love. Maybe her words were spoken on a ridiculous TV show, but that doesn’t mean they’re invalid. Love is a powerful thing, and while I am making matches constantly, it doesn’t mean it’s a given or easy to find. I know love is real—I KNOW IT—but that doesn’t keep it from being an evasive little bastard that works in mind-boggling ways. I see it every day: people who should be together don’t always find each other, and some attach themselves to others when they should keep looking.

  If you are lucky enough to find love, you should celebrate it. You should shout it from the rooftops, or sing it in a song, or compete in a reality show to make your dream comes true. You shouldn’t let love pass by unnoticed, especially because there are many who will never experience it. Like this girl right here. I have no clue what’s in the cards for me. I’m hoping there’s passion and friendship at the end of my rainbow, but all the magic in the world cannot guarantee such a thing.

  I mean, c’mon…a matchmaker without a match?

  Talk about irony.

  WITH MY HEAD A CONSTANT swirl of relentless romance and lemon Bundt cake recipes, you’d think there wouldn’t be any room up there for schoolwork. Actually, while I know quadratic equations and dissected frog entrails will never apply to my chosen professions, I get a certain satisfaction from excelling at school. (If I were a full-blown witch, the frog stuff would probably come into play, but luckily, no part of matchmaking ever requires Kermit guts.) I’m not on the valedictorian track or anything, but I keep my grades high in hopes of snagging scholarships for culinary school. Plus, getting an A just feels good, you know?

  You know what doesn’t make school exciting, besides being trapped in a box with people who are technically my peers but realistically lacking in any sort of redeemable qualities? I’ll tell you: group projects. If you are someone who enjoys group projects, then you are probably the reason they are the worst. No matter the subject or combinations of personalities or intelligence levels, there’s always one person who completely takes advantage of the others, doing absolutely nothing but still riding the wave to A-town. I am not in the business of maintaining someone else’s GPA, but group projects are so evil that they force you to care about other people’s incompetence, lest you want to drown by the weight of their laziness. ARGH. And don’t try to feed me some garbage about how teamwork will prepare me for the real world: NO. If I encounter bull like this while building my cupcake empire, there will be hell to pay (and trust me, I can get in touch with the right people to make that happen).

  But for now, I’m at the mercy of the American school system, sitting in English just waiting to see which batch of Manchester’s best I’ll be chained to for our next collaborative affair. Ms. Dell announces with annoying glee that we’ll be doing group presentations on notable female writers. She assembles the groups herself, ensuring what she believes to be a balance of talents. Amani is in my class, but we never get paired up. No, I’ll get whoever is worst suited for me, because Karma is an alcoholic bastard who more often than not is asleep at the wheel.

  “Amani,” Ms. Dell calls from her clipboard. “You’ll be covering Maya Angelou’s works with”—Amber Sand, Amber Sand, Amber Sand—“Jeremy and Brian.” Damn, foiled again. But she didn’t get off too bad: at least Brian works on the school’s lit mag.

  “Amber”—oh boy, here we go—“you’ll be covering Sylvia Plath with Brendan and Ivy.”

  UUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHH.

  Ivy shoots me an icy glare from across the room. My skin prickles like it knows something wretched is heading my way.

  Ms. Dell finishes the group assignments and instructs us to cluster up and start mapping out our r
esearch plans. I wait as long as possible to trudge over to Ivy, whereas Brendan has already pulled his desk up as close to her as possible. He shifts awkwardly in his seat, trying to find the “coolest” way to sit, alternating between a crossed-leg and laid-back slouch. Poor bastard. This must be the happiest day of his life; too bad Ivy hasn’t even noticed he’s alive, let alone sitting so “casually” next to her.

  She’s staring right at me, a serpentine smile curling on her glossy lips. I search the room for Amani, who has taken residence in a back corner with her group. She sees me approaching the Ice Queen and hangs herself on an invisible noose, tongue flopping out in imaginary death.

  “So, Sylvia Path,” I say as I finally take a seat. “Should be uplifting.”

  Brendan takes no notice of me. If he’s not careful, he’ll start drooling.

  “Well, if anyone knows about eternal suffering, it would be you,” Ivy sneers.

  “True.” I nod. “And luckily, we’ll have you as our star expert on human torture!”

  Ivy leans forward, French-manicured nails gripping the desk. Her blouse is scarcely buttoned—the bare minimum to keep the girls from escaping—and our male teammate is physically incapable of noticing anything else. “Listen, Amber, you get how this works. No matter what happens, I’m getting an A, I’ll see to it. And even though I could, I certainly won’t be using my charms to do the same for you.”

  I cannot stress enough how much of a waste it is to use precious siren magic on something so stupid as a high school English assignment, but hey, the sooner her power’s used up, the better for mankind.

  “Sure, I get it. I’m a take-action kind of girl anyway; I don’t like to rely on the uncertainty of magic,” I say.

  She scoffs. “Tsk, tsk, Amber. What would your mother say?”

  “She’d say the same. Just because you can use magic, doesn’t mean you should. That’s just a little life tip from me to you.”

  She lays a limp hand across her heart. “Wow, that means a lot, thanks. Especially when I know you’d do anything to be more like me.”