The Fairest Kind of Love Page 7

  “That does sound cute.” She giggles. “Are people being nice?”

  I give her a look.

  “I guess not. Oh, Amber, I’m sorry. Don’t let the haters get you down, okay? I need to get back to the register.” She bounces away and I swear a trail of glitter is left in her wake. To think that this real-life unicorn was causing me such anguish for so long is boggling. Life is weird.

  “Finding love is magic!” sings a group of girls waiting next in line. “Open your heart and seeeeeee!”

  “That’s it!” I yell, throwing my hands up in a mock table flip. “I’m taking a break.”

  “Thank the Gods,” Bob says, shaking out his drawing hand as I’m pushing in my chair.

  “I’ll be back . . . when I’m back.”

  My remaining customers let out a collective groan as I exit the store, one muttering, “I bet Madame L’Amour never takes breaks,” as I walk by. Whatever. If these people want their love lives delivered with a spoonful of sugar, then I need a second to collect myself.

  Except I don’t get that either, because just as I walk to the lake’s edge, I spot Ivy, waiting for me (I presume), tangled hair fluttering over her sullen face. After seeing me, she wipes her cheeks to erase any evidence of crying and, with great effort, pulls herself to her feet. As I notice her baggy shorts, smudged from sitting on the ground, I’m taken aback by how thin her arms and legs are; I guess her voluminous graduation gown masked her practically skin-and-bones frame. It’s weird, honestly, to see her like this, a despondent dragon fallen from grace. I bite my lip to keep from saying something stupid.

  We stare at each other, my brain too full of mashed-up matches to think of what to say. I need sugar and I need it now.

  “So, want to grab a drink or something?” I offer with caution. Even though she looks like a breeze could knock her over, part of me still thinks she’s going to randomly scratch out my eyes. I’ve yet to let down my protective shield; old habits die hard.

  “Sure.” She shrugs, moving at the speed of snail toward a kiosk. We wander around the carnival area of the pier, watching tourists spin around on swings and the merry-go-round. Her steps are slow, deliberate, and even though we’re moving at a turtle’s pace, her breathing is pained, like she needs an inhaler. I’m probably the world’s most out-of-shape person, but I could run circles around her right now. To be fair, it’s crazy hot today, with the kind of humidity that makes you sweat so hard so fast, you wonder why you even bother showering in the morning. I have a strict “no shorts” policy, even if the temperature climbs into the triple digits, which means my jeans are currently adhered to my legs. I’m contemplating dumping my iced coffee over my head when Ivy asks, “Ever been up there?”

  She point to the two-hundred-foot-high Ferris wheel that beckons Chicago travelers to the pier. It looms above us, turning ever so slowly, the sun radiating off its silver spires. “Good Gods no,” I say. “Have you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Interesting. I automatically reject all things Pier. “It’s so . . . touristy.”

  “But the gondolas are air-conditioned.”

  “Good point. Let’s go.”

  As we wait in the horrendously long line, we play a fun game called Let’s Not Make Eye Contact Ever! The rules are simple: stand in awkward silence for as long as possible with a person you have passionately disliked for years! For someone who has been begging me to talk to her, she’s suddenly out of words, and I don’t know the steps for getting a former enemy to open up. Neither of us are the talk-about-boys-over-mani-pedis type, nor the toast-marshmallows-and-tell-your-deepest-secret set (although I’m always down for s’mores). It’s not like I’m Kim or Amani, who can flawlessly flow into the girl thing and cuddle up to someone in need. I’d like to know why Ivy missed so much school and what’s happening to her, but short of shoving a truth serum down her throat, I’m out of ideas. All I can think to ask is “What is wrong with you?” but that doesn’t feel like the right thing to say, now or ever.

  Finally it’s our turn to take a spin in the sky, and we’re ushered into our gondola, completely encased in glass, even the bottom, which is in no way terrifying. Slowly we rise, higher and higher, over the rainbow-colored boats dotting the lake, getting an unbelievable view of the city streets and buildings curving against the water. From the south, the Shedd Aquarium waves; from the north, high-rises melt into three-story walk-ups. Sunlight floods the gondola as the pod sways gently in the Chicago wind, not at all disturbing my stomach or sense of well-being. The farther we climb, the more I dig my claws into my seat. I don’t think I’ve ever dangled this high up in the air, and I’m not a fan of the sensation. We make our way around the giant circle, pausing at the top. I forbid my eyes from looking down, an order that they immediately disobey. Gulp.

  Maybe Ivy is experiencing a similar adverse reaction to heights, as she’s not as transfixed by the view as I thought she’d be. I’m about to make a stupid joke just to hear myself talk when Ivy says, “Have you ever heard the story of Gwendolyn the Greedy?”

  “I can’t say that I have.” Random, but I’ll go with it.

  “Gwendolyn was a siren back in Renaissance times or something,” Ivy starts, once-upon-a-time–style. “She rocked the whole Greek-goddess look: gauzy white gowns, blond waves down to her ankles, curves for days, that whole thing. Any guy who crossed her path instantly fell in love with her, and she loved the attention. She fed off it, and soon it wasn’t enough for her to simply be loved, she wanted to be craved. Coveted. Pursued with such passion that men would literally die for her.

  “So that was her goal. She started using her siren powers to drive her suitors mad with lust, gaining not only their hearts but their blood. Men fought to the death over her, and no matter the outcome, she was always the victor. This went on for quite some time, until one day when a man who had previously pledged his eternal soul to Gwendolyn left her side without explanation or warning. Others followed, until this once-desirable diva found herself all alone. No one would love her or even look her way. She went from town to town, sirening men to fall at her feet, but none would succumb to her spell. Unbeknownst to her, she’d used up all her powers and could no longer control another being for her own personal gain.”

  Ivy pauses, stopping to catch her breath. Her washed-out features appear even more pasty next to the vibrant blue of the lake. “Gwendolyn did not take this well. On top of falling into depression, her body started literally falling apart, losing all its strength and color. Without her magic, she turned into a zombie version of herself, until she was nothing but a pile of bones.” Ivy looks to the sky, quickly blinking back the tears building in her faded eyes. “I always thought it was some BS fairy-tale crap my parents used to keep me and Iris in line, you know? Right up there with warnings to eat our vegetables and not stare into the sun. Use your powers wisely, girls. Don’t end up like Gwendolyn. Well, as it turns out, this bedtime story was real and now I’m dying.”

  Wait . . . what? Did she really just say she’s . . . dying? My heart skips a beat. I was worried about her post-siren state before, but I figured the dimming of her personality and appearance was mostly about her missing Iris or adjusting to her lack of power. I never thought her life was in danger. I struggle to find a reply. “Ivy . . . I’m so . . .”

  “Don’t apologize, I deserve this.” She gestures to her anemic frame, picking up the ragged split ends of her once-lustrous locks. “That’s why I missed so much school. My parents have been dragging me to every shaman and witch doctor across the globe, trying to figure out if I can be saved. Turns out that there’s not a lot of sympathy for a stupid siren who used up all her magic, and most have laughed us away.” Shoulders and ankles shaking ever so slightly, she wraps her bony arms around herself. “I’m running out of time, and we have no leads. My parents are currently running through some Brazilian rain forest looking for some kind of rare flower with magic pollen, if you can believe it.” She chokes on a sad laugh. “When your frien
d brought up fairy dust, I had one last glimmer of hope. But then she left, and now it feels too late.”

  The Ferris wheel starts to move again, and I scoot over next to her as our gondola begins gliding downward. As we dangle in silence, the details of her story churn inside me, stirring up a feeling of dread. I’d be lying if I said I’d never daydreamed about Ivy disappearing forever, mostly during school when she went out of her way to bully and berate me, all because she thought my brand of magic was less than. But I never wanted her dead, just gone. I may not be a siren anthropologist, but I’ve never heard of this, ever—not for any supernatural creature. Magic is a part of us, sure, but more like a force that shapes who we are as people: the way we see the world and how we live our lives. Our talents are integral to our being, but they’re not our lifeblood . . . unless . . . I’m understanding it wrong. Could it be that magic is more, an essence as crucial as air?

  Though I’ve complained about my abilities more than once, it would be awful if they disappeared. Matchmaking has shaped me—for better or worse—and without it, I’m not sure where I’d be. How would I feel about love? Destiny? Fate? It’s possible that I’d barely care at all; that’s not the Amber I want to be. And that’s nothing compared to what Ivy has relinquished; having the world no longer bend to your whim seems like a hard thing to get over, but now her life is on the line. I carefully pat Ivy’s shoulder to let her know I’m here just as a terrifying and (admittedly) selfish thought crosses my mind: if my matchmaking problems are a sign I’m reaching the bottom of my well, what does that mean for me in the long term? I’ve viewed this issue as a total inconvenience, but what if it’s deeper than that? What if this breakdown means a core part of my being is near extinction?

  She turns to me, not as the vicious siren who could cut you with a glance but as a girl looking for a hand to hold. I can’t think of a single thing to say.

  “Anyway,” she says with a shrug that’s much too casual considering our conversation. “Sorry to dump all this on you. But hey, maybe you won’t have to deal with me much longer, huh?”

  “Gods, don’t even talk like that,” I snap. “Rose may have left, but she’s not gone. We can go to her farm, and—”

  Ivy looks at me like the trip would be more effort than it’s worth. “I don’t know, Amber. I’m so tired. I’ve been crisscrossing this stupid planet for months looking for hope, only to be served dead ends. I can’t get my hopes up again.”

  There’s too much on the line for her to say no. Maybe we can’t use the dust ourselves, but there’s no way Rose would refuse making a wish for someone if it’s a matter of life and death, right? I frown at her with a tsk tsk. “The Ivy I know would not admit defeat so easily.”

  “Yeah, well, the Ivy you know is shriveling into the disgusting hell beast she was meant to be.” Her head hangs heavy over her knees.

  But I won’t let her throw in the towel so easily. “Aww, Ivy, you’ve always been a hell beast in my eyes.”

  With just a hint of her former sparkle, she gives me a familiar death stare, accompanied by a sliver of a smile. “You really are the worst, you know that?” she says with some of her usual sass.

  “I sure do!” I cheer, as our gondola finally reaches the ground. “Now, GET UP. We’re going on a road trip.”

  WHAT DOES ONE PACK for a fairy-farm road trip? To be honest, the closest I’ve ever come to farm life was when Navy Pier held a disastrous petting zoo that resulted in a permanent policy banning animals from the premises. I’m definitely one of those Chicagoans who feels leaving the city limits is a huge inconvenience, so I’m not exactly a country girl. My knowledge of farms comes from pop culture stereotypes—meaning I know nothing at all. But meeting the Wisterias and learning about fairy dust has put an interesting spin on my previous understanding of fairies themselves.

  Before seeing Papa and Mama Wisteria full of fire and fury, I couldn’t even picture a fairy raising their voice, let alone creating a hostile home life. The brief encounters I’ve had with other fairies have always been chill, harmonious; I fully believe the fairy community is responsible for getting the general population to recycle, compost, use rain barrels, and all that jazz. But what do I know?

  Maybe all that fairy dust has jacked up their brains. Gods know if I could sprinkle sparkles over all my problems and make them disappear, I would abuse the heck out of that. Though that “unforeseen yet comparable consequence” thing would definitely put a damper on things. Would I be willing to wish my matchmaker powers back to normal if it meant my sense of taste or something would be destroyed? Even the threat of not being able to experience baking flavors is enough to scare me away from that option forever. Ivy’s on board to go full dust, though at this point, she doesn’t have much to lose.

  “Mom, do we have any more powdered sugar?” I’m packing up only the essentials for this road trip, meaning snacks. I mean, sure, I have a toothbrush and underwear in my bag, but Jane’s family’s farm is in Champaign, Illinois—about a two-hour drive. That means I need a healthy stash of portable treats, and by “healthy,” I mean “plentiful,” not “of nutritional value.” I’m getting picked up any minute, but I need to put the finishing touches on this peanut butter puppy chow.

  “How should I know?” Mom says from the kitchen table, where she’s carefully cutting some periwinkle root for a memory potion. The demand for love-themed spells is still going strong, but she’s also keeping regular inventory well stocked.

  “I figured your witchy brain just magically knew the entire contents of our cabinets at all times.”

  Without looking up, she says, “Check behind the granola,” and lo and behold, a fresh bag of powdered sugar awaits.

  “See?! I knew it.” Mom chuckles to herself as I dump my sticky cereal mix into a Ziploc bag and start shaking it up. In addition to this mix, I’ve also whipped up s’mores popcorn balls and dark chocolate trail-mix cookies, a few of which have wasabi almonds especially for Amani, who has graciously agreed to accompany me on this fairyland adventure so I don’t accidentally smother Ivy or make matters worse for Jane. I mean, her parents apparently hate matchmakers, so what could possibly go wrong?

  “How is Ivy handling all this?” Mom asks.

  I let out a long exhale. “I mean, she’s not great. She’s looking at this like it’s her last hope. We’ll see what happens.” I’m certainly not going to stand in the way of her mystilogical health, even if there could be an equally terrible side effect waiting for her. If she does get her siren powers back and becomes awful again, well, I won’t understand the Fates ever.

  Mom crosses the room, putting her hands on my shoulders. “I want to make something very clear: Ivy is taking a big risk here. Her situation is much different than yours. . . .” Worry creeps into the corners of her eyes. “I don’t want you to get any ideas about what fairy dust could do for you. I know you’ve been struggling with your magic, but trust me: stay away from fairy dust.” She squeezes me harder. “We’ll find a different solution for you, somehow.”

  “Okay, okay!” I squirm, trying to get back to my snack prep. “I wasn’t even thinking about using dust for myself.” Okay, that’s a lie, but I’m 87 percent sure I wouldn’t use it, unless Rose or another friendly fairy decides she wants to help a girl out with her wish.

  Parental warning properly applied, Mom sits back down and returns to her spell making. “So, you’re sure the boys aren’t joining you on this little road trip?” she asks, a hint of suspicion curling her lips.

  “You know, actually, yes, you caught me. This whole fairy matchmaker story was all a ruse to have a giant boy slumber party in the heart of Illinois.”

  She sets down her knife slowly, which is somehow just as menacing as her holding it.

  “I’m kidding!” I laugh. “Obviously, there will not be any members of the male species involved. Except for any boy fairies that live there, of course. It’s just going to be quick: we go, say hello, save Ivy’s life, give Jane emotional support, the end.
”

  Mom gives me serious “I don’t believe you” eyes but moves on anyway. “You’ve never gone on an overnight trip like this before.”

  “That you know of,” I snort. She rolls her eyes. “Sorry, kidding again.” For better or worse, we really have been two weird little peas in a magical pod for most of my life. Despite my struggles with being witch-adjacent, I’ve never really ventured too far from the nest, never sneaking out of the house or fighting furiously for later curfew. When you only have one friend and she’s Mom-approved, there’s no social-life drama. When I start at the Culinary Institute this fall, I’ll still be living at home, so this excursion is really our first glimpse of post–high school independence or whatever.

  “I want you to be safe,” she says.

  “I’ll buckle my seat belt and look both ways before crossing.”

  “I mean with the magic.”

  “I will. For real.” I cross my heart with my fingers for dramatic effect. “Besides, all Ivy really needs from me is a foot in the door. She is determined to see this through. We’ll see what happens.”

  Mom frowns. “You haven’t been great at keeping out of other people’s magical business of late.”

  “That’s true. When I was a lovable loser with only one friend, life was way less interesting.”

  “I don’t expect you to have any trouble with the fairies.” She cradles my face in her hands, stroking my cheek with her thumb, a gesture I can’t ever remember her making, even when I was little. Not sure if she’s more riled up by the dust or the idea of me going out into the world by myself, but either way, she holds me like I’m a fragile keepsake on the verge of shattering. “Just promise you’ll stay away from the dust,” she warns.

  “My precious,” I croak in my best Gollum voice.

  “Amber!”

  “I promise!”

  “And no boys?” She raises an accusatory eyebrow. “You are eighteen now. . . .”

  Ugh, gross. I don’t even want to go where she’s venturing. “Geez, Mom—no boys, no fairy dust . . . you’re really cramping my style.”