The Best Kind of Magic Page 8

  “You want a snack or something?” Charlie offers.

  “Sure.” He emerges from the kitchen with a bowl of Cheetos and bottled water. Mmm…Cheetos.

  “I’m just gonna change out of my uniform. I’ll be right back,” he says.

  I wish I had a change of clothes, but I focus on the Cheetos instead. I walk around the living room, artificial cheese dust on my lips, looking at photos. There are lots of pictures of Charlie: baby Charlie, Little League Charlie, stuck-in-a-pile-of-Legos Charlie. Then there’s one of John, Charlie, and Charlie’s mom; she was in a car accident when he was five. That was so long ago…before my matchmaking awakened, before I knew John would one day find love again. I remember John coming to our house sometimes, to talk with Mom, and I’d feel so sad to hear a grown man cry. Seeing this picture makes me want to help him find happiness even more.

  Charlie comes back out, dressed in a blue plaid shirt and gray wool tie over dark jeans. He’s swapped out his Manchester fox tie clip for another, this one a silver skull. It’s the same basic pieces as his uniform, so I don’t know why he bothered.

  “Okay, so…where should we start?” he asks.

  “Well, does Cass live with you guys? Does she have a place to store her stuff?”

  “She has her own place, but she stays here a lot. I’m sure she has a drawer or something in my dad’s room.” He leads the way, and we pass by a plethora of blue-and-orange Bears paraphernalia. It’s all so shiny, I have to resist the urge to touch everything. Luckily, my orange-stained fingertips keep me in check (damn Cheetos).

  I let Charlie take charge of going through the drawers, as the idea of coming across John’s boxer briefs horrifies me, until he finds one that’s decidedly girly. He pulls out the drawer from the bureau and lays it on the bed, unwilling to touch Cass’s unmentionables.

  “Can you look through it? I feel weird,” he says.

  “Yeah, let’s find some treasures,” I say, wiping my fingers on my skirt. As I dig through a stranger’s underwear, I can’t help but think what an interesting scenario this is. Here I am, sitting on a bed with Charlie, perusing panties. Ah, if the harpies at school could see me now.

  The drawer is mostly filled with undergarments—very soft, silky pieces that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. But near the back, my hand hits something that clanks against the mahogany frame.

  I pull out a locket on a long brass chain. It’s tarnished and very gaudy, especially compared to the finery of the underwear. There’s an inscription on the top, but it’s hard to make out.

  “Can you read this?” I ask, passing it to Charlie. He runs his fingers over it, adjusting his glasses.

  “It looks like another language.”

  “I should take it to my mom. She’d know.”

  “Oh…I thought we weren’t involving her?” he asks, confused.

  “Well, now that we know Cass is not your dad’s match, we can. She’ll be on our side. She’s all about harmony and truthfulness and blah, blah.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I trust you.” He places the locket back in my hands, his other hand cupping mine. It’s weird; besides Amani, I’ve never had someone repeatedly put faith in me. My matchmaking services are usually one-time engagements, and no one at school approaches me unless they’re forced to. Charlie here is either very trusting or just really hard up for friends. Still, it’s nice to be looked at favorably.

  “Well then,” I say. “I think it’s time we have a séance.”

  TONIGHT I TACKLE A BANANA cream pie, something I’ve been craving since today’s biology discussion on monkeys. I start by popping a deep-dish double-crusted pie shell I stuck in the freezer the other day in the oven. While it warms into flaky, buttery goodness, I get started on the filling. Sugar and whole milk melt in a saucepan as I slice up three ripe bananas. I gently whisk some egg yolks, adding them to my simmering mix, along with flour, salt, and vanilla. Once everything’s combined, I remove it from the stove top, letting the ingredients fully blend together. I taste the batter to be sure it’s sweet enough just before pulling the browned crust from the oven. The fruit gets scattered at the bottom of the pie, overlapping slightly so not a bite will go without a burst of banana. Then I pour the thick filling on top, spreading it out evenly with a spatula. To finish it off, I whip up a meringue with my extra egg whites, making a nice fluffy cloud to set on my sunshiny dessert. Voilà!

  I’ve been staring at the door for almost ten minutes now, salivating, just waiting for Mom to walk in so I can tear into this treat.

  She gets home around 9:45, and I have dinner waiting for her in the oven. I’m not as good a cook as I am a baker, but I hold my own. I always make dinner on the nights I don’t work; it’s only fair. Having the apartment all to myself also means I can dig my hands into new recipes without interruption. Mom spends a lot of time in the kitchen testing out spells for the shop; living in the city means it’s not exactly convenient to fire up a cauldron outside. She usually bogarts the space, but this is also my altar. Baking offers me a release I’ve never found anywhere else.

  When Mom finally gets home, she looks wrecked; I can only imagine what’s running through her head after the coven’s little beauty shop field trip. As Dawning Day’s de facto leader, I know she’s troubled about Victoria’s “contribution” to the group. Mom’s certainly not one to pull rank, but as a legacy member, I’m sure she’s feeling torn over the direction of the coven. I decide not to mention it (I’ve already expressed my frustration), so if she wants to talk about it, she can bring it up.

  As she’s eating her lasagna and I’m eating pie (baked to perfection, natch), I casually remove Cass’s locket from my pocket and place it on the table.

  “What’s this?” she asks.

  “It belongs to Cass. I got it from Charlie.” Mom eyes me carefully before I add, “We need your help.”

  Mom lays down her fork and interlaces her fingers on the table. “Spill.”

  I tell her the whole thing—no disgusting truth tar necessary!—and when I’m done, she takes several deep breaths, keeping her aura calm.

  “And you’re sure Cass is not John’s match?”

  “Completely. One thousand percent.”

  She takes her time responding. Sometimes I feel like Mom moves at half speed; her gestures and actions are always decelerated, deliberate. I don’t consider myself to be hyperactive, but compared to her meaningful movements, I come off like a jackrabbit in heat.

  “All right,” she says finally. “Then we need to find her and set things right.”

  “Great!” I say, leaping out of my chair, sugar clearly coursing through my veins. “I’ll get the supplies.”

  “Why don’t you call Amani over to join us?” Mom suggests. “I could use the energy of a precog.”

  “Uh, ooookay. But you know, she isn’t exactly practicing these days.”

  Mom twists her head. “Why is that?”

  It’s not really my place to share Amani’s mystical hang-ups, and besides, jumping into a moral quandary on the pros and cons of magic is not what I’m up for right now. “Not sure. There seem to be some issues there.”

  “Well, all the more reason to have her join. Do you think she could come now?”

  It’s getting late, but Amani only lives down the street, a wondrous blessing if there ever was one. “I’m sure it’d be fine.”

  I call her, while Mom goes in her room to meditate and ready her mind. Amani shows up a few minutes later, dressed in her pink kitty pj’s, and doesn’t look too happy about being at my apartment instead of her bed.

  “I cannot believe you told Charlie I think he’s hot,” she says as I open the door. “That was the definition of lame.”

  “I’m sorry. You were making me nervous with all your weird ‘ooh, baby’ faces.”

  “Still. Lame.”

  “I’m sorry, I really am. I will tell him you think he’s very unattractive.”

  “Amber.” She crosses her arms.

&nbs
p; “I’ll…give you another clue about your future husband?”

  “Better. But also, I don’t really want in on this séance.”

  “I figured you’d say that. Mom wants your chi.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are an all-powerful precog. She wants you to own it. As do I, by the way,” I say.

  She groans. “I’m really tired. I don’t feel like dealing with the Fates.”

  “Nobody wants to deal with the Fates, so just sit there like I do and let Mom do all the heavy lifting.”

  Amani drags herself inside, as if I’m pulling her by an imaginary leash. She’s like the walking dead making her way to our office, where we’ll perform the séance. The closer she gets, the more stiff her movements become; you’d think we were asking her to mutilate baby kittens or something. All she has to do is sit there and be a magical conduit. I know she’s upset with me, but this is a little too melodramatic.

  A witch’s office, as you might expect, is slightly different from your average work space. Think fewer Post-it notes, more eye of newt. The room is filled from ceiling to floor with the tools of witchcraft; spell books, or grimoires, are stacked and shoved into every inch of shelf space, glass boxes packed with talismans line the floor, and a few culturally significant figurines have been placed wherever they fit. It’s more like a very genre-specific library than an office.

  Some of the books are crazy old, their leather-bound covers cracked and peeling, while others are pristine, the authors’ names clearly inscribed on the bindings. Grimoires are kind of like witch diaries, but instead of filling the pages with personal insecurities and tales of cute boys, witches record spells. Every spell is documented, whether it was successful or not. Keeping track of the failures is just as important as the victories; making a mystical mistake twice is not only embarrassing, but a waste of natural resources. I tried keeping a grimoire in my early matchmaking days so I could be like the cool kids, but lost interest after a while. Unlike the ever-changing and challenging world of witchcraft, matchmaking is kind of a one-trick pony and not a very compelling read.

  The room is overshadowed by a giant oak armoire, where all the good stuff is stored. Hundreds of tiny glass vials filled with everything from dandelion root to bat wings are neatly arranged, with meticulously handwritten labels. Mom keeps this stuff here and not at the shop because it’d take too long to restock in the event of a break-in or disaster at Navy Pier. The armoire is fireproof and waterproof, and can only be unlocked with her command. Bank vaults have nothing on the Sand family armoire.

  The room is candlelit when we enter; Mom has outlined a circle of sand on the hardwood floor with three pillows inside for us to sit on. The candles are buttercream-frosting scented, because even though the Fates have been around since the beginning of time and should therefore be above such simple earthly pleasures, they are drawn to sweet smells. The Fates can be total arrogant weirdoes, but we relate on this one point.

  “Amani, so nice to see you,” Mom says as we enter the room.

  “You too, Ms. Sand,” she replies sleepily.

  “It’s getting late, we need to get started.” Mom gestures to the pillows.

  “Yeah, let’s find a hussy!” I cheer. Amani and Mom both give me a “seriously?” look. “Sorry.”

  Mom huffs in that “I can’t believe you’re my offspring” kind of way that tells me to take it down a notch. For years and years, I begged her to include me in magical happenings such as séances, so I know my making light of it now is disrespectful in her eyes. She is nothing if not proper.

  But here’s the thing about séances: they are wildly unpredictable. Every tween sleepover in the history of ever has attempted one, with pajama-clad pals deciding to whip out a Ouija board and contact someone’s great-great-great-great-grandmother. Everyone sits around, giggling and chanting, dipping hands into alternate bowls of potato chips and M&Ms, until someone declares she “feels something” and everyone reacts like hyperactive birds. Maybe that girl is full of it, just trying to get a rise out of everybody, but maybe, just maybe, she actually did make contact with the other side ever so briefly. It does happen, even for non-magical folk. Spirits have just as much personality as the living, and some of them are mischievous little suckers who like to stir up trouble. Poking around the subconscious of a willing participant gives them just as big a thrill as it does us, and let’s be honest, it must be boring being dead.

  If you want to avoid the prankster spirits and really get things going during a séance, you need a bona fide witch in your circle. None of that “light as a feather, stiff as a board” crap. A witch can bypass the hooligans and reach out to the Fates, a much different crop than your regular ol’ spirits. The Fates are the ones who set things in motion; they pull all the strings for the big stuff. Fates are real creatures, working with astral-plane levels of sorcery, not just convenient notions that tie up the ends of romantic comedies. As you can imagine, though, Fates are very, very busy and don’t like to be bothered unless it’s absolutely necessary. They are a cranky bunch, and you don’t want to deal with them if you don’t have to. Which is why you need a witch.

  We each take a seat and join hands. Mom has placed Cass’s locket in the center; it will act as a beacon that points us toward her. For Cass’s sake, I hope whichever Fate graces us with his/her presence doesn’t take a liking to her jewelry, because sometimes they feel they are owed and have a habit of gifting themselves other people’s worldly possessions.

  Mom takes several deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. “Tonight we are here to find a missing person. She has evaded advanced locator spells; we are worried she is either in danger or planning mischief toward others. We wish to maintain balance and peace; we come with pure hearts and intentions. Let the energy from this keepsake share its secrets of its owner.”

  I stare at the heap of brass chain, knowing full well no secrets will be shared with me. My job here is like an anchor, just a blob of flesh keeping all the actual power from getting out of control.

  We’re quiet, breathing in the scent of birthday cake, looking at a rusty necklace, and I’m sure that any second Mom will call on the Fates for their wisdom or whatever, when suddenly I feel a charge zip through my limbs. It’s like a buzz, vibrating my skin and making my arm hair stand up on end. I look over at Mom to see if she’s reciting some sort of silent incantation, but no, her lips are still. Our eyes meet—mine alarmed, hers weirdly serene—before we both turn to Amani, whose face is trapped in a voiceless gasp, eyes spinning in their sockets. If we weren’t holding her hands, I’m not sure she’d still be sitting upright. There’s no doubt about it; she is having a vision.

  I squeeze her hand to let her know I’m there, but judging by her suspended expression, there’s no way it’ll register. She’s positively transfixed by the locket, which has taken on a faint glow, tiny tendrils of light peeking through the brass hinge. What the hell? I can almost feel the connection between the necklace and my friend; it’s powerful, pulling energy from other elements in the room. The candles are flickering; sand is skittering on the floor. I’ve seen her have visions before, but this is different. It’s like her mind is moving outside herself. I don’t like it. I don’t know if Mom’s magic is somehow intensifying the act, but I feel like my nerves are rubber bands ready to snap. If that’s how it is for me, I can’t imagine what Amani is feeling. Time for this to stop.

  Finally, her eyes roll back in her head, and the buzzing ends. The locket stops glowing, the flames extinguish: Amani releases our hands and starts to tip backward. Mom quickly levitates another pillow and places it under Amani’s head just before she hits the hardwood. She lies like a corpse, very still and pale. I crawl to her side.

  “Amani! Oh my Gods! Are you okay?”

  No response.

  “MOM! WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?” I yell.

  “Amber, calm down,” Mom says in that infuriatingly monotone voice she uses during emergencies. Just because
you speak in a serene manner doesn’t mean your vocal cords will actually soothe the drama before you. “She will be fine.”

  “Fine? Fine? She sure as hell doesn’t look fine!” I try shaking Amani’s shoulder, which feels cold and heavy. I’ve never seen her go catatonic after a vision; something is wrong with my best friend, and I won’t be able to live with myself if she doesn’t wake up.

  “Stop saying hell.”

  “Mom!” Good Gods! This is no time for an etiquette lesson!

  “Amber, trust me. Clearly it’s been a while since Amani has had a vision; she must have overloaded. But she’s built for this; she’ll recover. I’ll go make her some tea.”

  Tea? Seriously? I’m about ready to stab Amani’s heart with pure adrenaline to wake her up, but sure, I bet water and leaves will do just the trick.

  Mom sees the skepticism in my face. “I’ll add a drop of rejuvenation potion to it,” she offers.

  “Thanks.” I sit with Amani while Mom disappears to the kitchen. I push a few strands of damp brunette hair from her forehead; her skin is so clammy. No wonder she’s been repressing her talent; it doesn’t just momentarily flood her system like mine does. It completely overrides her.

  Mom comes back with the tea, but Amani is still out. She begins clearing the sand and candles from the floor, yet she’s very blasé about the unconscious girl in the middle of the room, and honestly, it’s pissing me off.

  “Why didn’t you call on the Fates?” I ask as Mom picks up the locket.

  She runs her fingers over the necklace, examining the details. “Such a strange inscription; I believe it’s Latin,” she says, completely ignoring my question. “Felicitas ubi lux tangit. Hmm.”

  “Mom?”

  She sighs. “I was about to, but then Amani took over.”

  I find this hard to believe. “Really. She just happened to jump in and do the one thing she actively tries to avoid on a daily basis?”

  Mom stands up straight, towering over me in my seated position. “What are you implying?”