The Best Kind of Magic Page 6

  “A siren? Nah. I’d take matchmaking over putting boys like Brendan in a boob coma any day.”

  She looks at him, as if just noticing he’s there. “Oh, that? That has nothing to do with being a siren and everything to do with genetics. An area in which you are clearly lacking.”

  I’m about to spit fire when Ms. Dell butts her fleshy bottom in. “How’s it going, you three?”

  “Just wonderful!” Ivy beams, turning up her wattage. “We’re all really clicking on a team plan.” Her sticky-sweet tone is bringing up my morning waffle.

  Ms. Dell just smiles back, brain probably scrambled by Ivy’s signals. I have a feeling Ivy could’ve said, “I’m going to murder these two and feed their livers to my dog,” and our teacher’s reaction would’ve been the same. That’s some magic trick. With Ivy pulling hypnosis purposely on Ms. Dell and inadvertently on Brendan, it looks like I’ll be doing this project all by myself. Perfect.

  The bell rings, and I peel myself from my chair. My body feels like dead weight. Being around a siren’s energy completely depletes mine. Good Gods, how can it only be the end of second period?

  Amani has dashed off; her next class is all the way across campus, so she always has to haul to make it, leaving me to brave the hallways alone. But today when I step outside English, I see Charlie waving at me. About ten girls in the crosshairs nearly faint, thinking his gesture is for them, but they keep themselves off the floor long enough to witness him walking toward me instead.

  I’ve never been so simultaneously loathed and envied.

  “Hey,” he says. “I’m glad I caught you.”

  I am too, but mostly because his talking to me is causing other girls crippling pain. “Did you find a picture?”

  Charlie grins. “Yeah, but it’s not the best shot; her hand is partially blocking her face. Is that okay?”

  I shrug. “Maybe. Let’s see it.”

  He swings his bag around and shuffles through. Just as he’s about to pull out the picture, Ivy materializes and presses her chest into his.

  “Hey, Charlie,” she says in a low, bedroom voice. “Looking for that love letter you wrote me?”

  He recoils like he just smelled a skunk. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  She tosses her head back in a fake laugh, golden hair cascading over her shoulders. “You are such a tease!” She tiptoes her fingers up his arm.

  “Ivy, I’m flattered, but I’m talking to Amber here,” he says, gently removing her tentacles from his suit jacket.

  Ivy pops her hip, arms crossed, and makes a disgusted sound. “Why?”

  “Because I need her.”

  The brilliance of his answer floors me and triggers blood lust in Ivy’s eyes.

  “Gross. I’ve never figured you to go slumming,” she says.

  “Only when I’m talking to you,” he replies.

  My mouth drops in tandem with Ivy’s. That was…everything! I’ve never seen Ivy put in her place before; who knew her siren powers had limits? For a split second, I wonder if Charlie is 1/100th magical in some way and could therefore deflect her advances mystically, but I don’t have time to fully process, since Ivy’s spazzing and that’s much more worthy of my attention. She spins around and disappears into the crowded hallway. Suddenly, I’m having the best day ever.

  “As president of the Ivy Chamberlain Is the Worst Club, I’d like to offer you a free lifetime membership,” I say, extending my hand to Charlie. He grins, and as we shake, I realize this is the first time I’ve touched a boy in a non-matchmaking session in a long time. I hope my palms aren’t sweaty.

  “Is there a membership card?”

  “Of course. And buttons.”

  “Well, sure.”

  “But before I heat up the lamination machine, please tell me more of your hatred for Ivy,” I say, relishing the moment. He laughs, and I notice we’re still palm to palm. We release before it gets weird.

  “Maybe another time. The bell’s gonna ring soon. Can I still show you the picture?” he asks.

  “Oh yeah, let me see.”

  He pulls it out, and it doesn’t take long for me to make my assessment. I’ve known Mr. Blitzman my whole life, and spent plenty of time crystallizing the image of his beloved. And even with only a partial view of this woman Charlie is presenting, I can tell from the curve of her nose to the wave of her hair that things are about to get interesting.

  “Charlie,” I say, “this is not your future stepmother.”

  “Really?” he asks excitedly. “Are you sure?”

  “Definitely. I’ve envisioned your dad’s match plenty of times, and this is an imposter,” I confirm.

  “That’s great. This is great,” he says. I can almost feel his brain bouncing with happiness. It’s like when I get an idea for a new recipe and I feel the possibilities opening up to me. I’ve never seen someone have this reaction to a match negation. I’m glad he’s pleased, though I doubt John will be. “So what next?”

  “Well, anything moving forward is kind of outside my job description.”

  “But you’ve gotten me this far. You can’t back out now,” he pleads.

  “Technically, that’s not true—”

  He takes a step closer and puts both hands on my shoulders. I’m in such close proximity to his face I notice he missed a tiny spot shaving this morning, and somehow seeing such a minute detail of his jawline makes me squirm for some reason.

  “Amber, I don’t have anyone else I can go to on this. Regardless of what you just told me, my dad still loves Cass; he’s not gonna stop looking for her. If we can find her first, maybe we can convince her—or bribe her—not to come back. And then you can point Dad toward his real match.”

  “It’s just that that’s not really how it works, Charlie. Just because I can see who this woman is doesn’t mean I have her GPS coordinates in my temporal lobe—”

  “Amber, please?” From behind his frames, Charlie’s eyes are working overtime, trying to pull off that one-two punch of puppy-dog need and sincere vulnerability. He suckers me in, though I’m not sure if it’s due to his devotion to his dad’s happiness or my nervousness at standing so close to him. I will say, for someone who’s probably used to getting whatever he wants, the boy has serious persuasion skills.

  I relent. “All right, geez, I’ll help. But I make no guarantees. You probably won’t be a satisfied customer.”

  “I’m already satisfied.”

  “Great. Then there’s nowhere to go but down.”

  Charlie smiles. Unlike most girls, I haven’t dedicated hours of my life to memorizing his physical attributes, though for this feature, I will admit their studies may not have been a complete waste of time. I can’t say there’s anything truly distinctive about his smile; it’s not like he has disproportionately sized lips or dimples that suddenly dot his cheeks. No, it’s just…I know our interaction is fleeting, and he has surely flashed his pearly whites all over town, but somehow this particular smile seems meant just for me, like I’m the only one he’s ever pulled out this expression for. Must be part of that celebrity influence, inspiring me to do his bidding. I better tread lightly here.

  The bell rings and everyone starts to scurry, a mad dash of green plaid. I’ll be late for sure; too bad I can’t hop on a broomstick (kidding).

  “I’ll meet you after school, okay?” Charlie asks as he starts walking backward. “We’ll come up with a game plan.”

  “Is that, like, a football reference?”

  “Sure.” He laughs, before jogging off. “Time to bear down.” Maybe I’ll have to brush up on my sports terminology if I’m going to be helping one of the game’s most famous families.

  AMANI AND I ARE SITTING on the quad, shoes off, toes in the grass. Mom always says it’s important to stay connected to the earth: to be aware of the elements around you. That’s a very witchy way of suggesting one stop and smell the roses. Chicago has a lot of green spaces tucked within the concrete cityscape, so I do my best to honor the wishes of m
y Wicca ancestors by occasionally rolling in the grass like a kindergartener. Charlie and I didn’t set up a meeting spot, but he’s a determined young lad, so I figure he’ll find me eventually.

  “We had critiques in photography today,” Amani says, pulling off her socks.

  “For that lighting assignment?” I ask. She nods. “How’d it go?”

  She shrugs, picking at a dandelion. “Mr. Espy says I don’t have vision.”

  I laugh. “If only he knew.”

  The corner of her mouth turns up. “Yeah. Still, I thought I did well.”

  “I like your photos. What the hell does he know?”

  “He’s the teacher. I don’t know. I just wish I could find what I’m good at. What’s the point of being a precog if I can’t even figure out my own future?”

  “Preach, sister,” I say, waving my hands in the air.

  “I’m serious, Amber. You already know everything you pull from an oven will taste like heaven; I seem to lack any discernible talent.” Her shoulders slump forward. Everyone worries about the future, but Amani’s particular situation has made “The Future” a major point of contention for her. She’s always worrying, always obsessing about what’s to come and getting overly upset when she makes mistakes. It’s like she feels she has to master whatever’s in front of her; if she doesn’t live her life perfectly, her gift will have gone to waste. This is ridiculous because (a) she cannot see her own future, (b) she barely takes the time to see other people’s futures, and (c) whose life is perfect? I’m convinced this pressure she puts on herself is why she’s already planned her wedding, because it’s the only thing she knows for sure will happen (because I told her). I wish I could help her chill out and see how awesome she is.

  “I think we’re having one of those ‘grass is greener’ moments,” I say. “Want to do a Freaky Friday so you could find out your career path and I could find out for sure if I end up a spinster?”

  Now she’s smiling. “Sure. Do you think your mom would notice if her daughter’s aura changed?”

  “Hmm, probably. I bet she’d whip up a truth serum to be sure.”

  “Truth serum? Ugh. Sounds gooey, like it would stick to the roof of your mouth,” she says, making a disgusted face.

  “Oh yeah, truth serums are the worst. They taste like tar. It’s like you can’t help but vomit up the truth,” I say.

  She’s giggling. “And you know from experience?”

  “Mom gave me one once, when I was nine. She thought I broke her great-grandma’s looking glass. And she was right; I totally did.” I stick out my tongue, remembering the thick brown sludge in my mouth. “I haven’t lied to her since.”

  We’re both laughing now and don’t notice Charlie approach.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting,” he says with a little wave. His school blazer is slung over the top of his messenger bag, but even in a more relaxed state, he still looks polished.

  “No, we were just reminiscing about my time as a criminal youth,” I say. “Charlie, you know Amani?”

  “Yeah, we’re in photography together. I liked your print today,” he says to her.

  She perks up. “Really? Thanks. Yours was…” She trails off, trying to think of something positive to say.

  “Not very good,” he fills in. “I don’t think I’m destined for the arts.”

  “Me neither,” she agrees.

  We stand to meet him, brushing stray grass off our skirts. I’ve been trying to come up with a “game plan” for Charlie all day, but it’s been tricky, seeing as how I’m not really built for this kind of work. Being neither a witch nor a teenage private investigator, I’m not sure how to go out into the world and find someone’s match. How do people do it? Where do they look? Is this why online dating exists? Still, I promised I would help, and the best I can think of is to find Cass and prove to John that she’s not the one.

  “So I know my mom tried a locator spell for Cass that went nowhere, which makes me think there’s a supernatural element at play,” I say.

  “Like…?”

  “Like, has Cass ever sprouted fangs at the dinner table? Any unexplained scales upon getting wet?”

  “You’re speaking metaphorically, right?” he asks.

  “No. I’m trying to figure out Cass’s backstory, and sometimes the supernatural can fend off magical advances.”

  Charlie’s face freezes in confusion as if I removed his batteries mid-thought. I’ve met so many magical creatures at this point, the thrill behind it is gone, but I guess for someone like Charlie, suggesting his dad’s girlfriend could be something from a monster movie is akin to revealing Santa Claus is real. To his credit, he doesn’t immediately write me off as others have been known to do, but he’s definitely processing at a slower bandwidth.

  Finally, he comes back online, saying, “I mean, I’ve never seen her drinking the blood of the innocent, if that’s where you’re going with this.”

  “Doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened, though,” Amani chimes in.

  “Right. Let’s not rule that out,” I say. “What else can you tell me about her?”

  Charlie takes a deep breath, trying to keep his feet on the ground. “You guys are joking, right?”

  Amani and I share a glance. “I think you’d know if we were telling jokes,” I say.

  “Yeah, we’re really funny people,” Amani replies.

  Charlie doesn’t know what to do with himself. He came to find his dad’s missing girlfriend, and now we’re talking about vampires and stuff. While he may consider Cassandra a type of monster, I don’t think he’s ever entertained that as an actual possibility.

  “It’s okay, Charlie; we’re not trying to mess with you. We just need more information about Cass.”

  He blinks slowly, probably second-guessing every interaction he’s ever had with her. “Well, um, she’s not very social, mostly likes to stay in with Dad. I don’t think she has a job, but somehow she leaves a lot of shopping bags at our place.”

  “Hmm, not enough. If I had something of hers, something that she touched, maybe that would help,” I say.

  “Well, I could take you to my place and you could look around,” he suggests.

  Amani’s eyes open wide, her eyebrows up to her hairline. I know what she’s thinking: an invitation to Charlie Blitzman’s house?! She really wants me to attach myself to a boy—any boy—but if she’s still entertaining the idea of me crushing on Charlie, she needs to drop it. Like yesterday. There’s no point getting attached to a boy whose future is written with someone else. I subtly sign to her, Cut it out.

  “Okay, if you want,” I say to Charlie. “When’s a good time?”

  “How about now? You free?”

  Today’s my one weekday off from Windy City Magic (Mom says I need regular free time to “explore my teenage self,” which is slightly unfortunate phrasing). Amani signs to me, Get it, girl!

  I sign back, Your subtlety is blinding.

  Charlie notices our silent conversation. “What are you two saying?” he asks.

  “Nothing. Uh, Amani just…thinks you’re hot.” Charlie blushes, but not to the extent of Amani’s coloration: her face turns so red I’m sure steam will spill from her ears. She is PISSED. “I’m free now.”

  “All right, my driver is waiting around the corner.”

  I try not to gag. “Well, we better get going, then. Bye, Amani!” I say sweetly.

  “Nice talking to you,” Charlie adds as we head off. I look back at my best friend, who is slowly sliding a finger across her neck like she’s going to kill me. It’s okay. I’ll make it up to her with a jalapeño cheesecake.

  Charlie opens the door to his waiting black Town Car and lets me in first. He slides in after, setting his bag in his lap and rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing the tail of some sort of reptilian tattoo on his right forearm. Interesting. I’m surprised John let him get such a large tattoo, being underage and all.

  “So where are we headed?” I ask.

&nbs
p; “The Gold Coast. Where do you live?”

  “Wicker Park.”

  “Cool.”

  The Gold Coast, as you can imagine, is an affluent neighborhood of Chicago. Lots of old money there. Million-dollar brownstones and elegant high-rises are the name of the game. Picture ladies in heels walking bichon frises and you’ve got the vibe. My neighborhood, Wicker Park, is more eclectic, bohemian, bordering on hipster. Lots of independent boutiques and funky shops with the occasional Starbucks sprinkled in. I’ve begged Mom to relocate Windy City Magic there, but she refuses, saying the locals wouldn’t support us. I disagree; everyone there is super-committed to being cool, and what’s cooler than magic?

  “So, tell me more about this supernatural stuff,” Charlie says casually.

  “I’m surprised you don’t already know. You seem like a man of the world,” I say.

  “I mean, I’ve traveled with my dad, sure, but he’s never taken me to Transylvania or anything.”

  I choke out a laugh. “Transylvania? That’s adorable.”

  He laughs too. “I don’t know! You’re implying vampires are real; where are they supposed to come from?”

  “Where does anyone come from? We’re all just individuals trying to get through our days.”

  “So, let me see here: witches, vampires…Are there any other fictional creatures I should start believing in?”

  “Charlie, witches are real, and so are vampires. So are a lot of things.”

  He’s smiling but shaking his head.

  I continue. “If you think the things that go bump in the night are only the stuff of fairy tales, then you haven’t been observing the weird world we live in.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, really! Why do you think so many movies and books are littered with monsters?”

  “Because those writers are on drugs?”

  “No…Well, maybe some of them,” I concede. “But the truth is, monsters roam among us. To not write about them would be a lie.”

  He’s giving me a pitying look an adult would give a hyper-imaginative child.

  “Fine! If you don’t believe me, I’ll just have to show you!”