A car swerves around the lane below, a car I recognize. "You guys! I have another awful idea!"
Kenzie laughs. "You've got a lot more in you than I ever could have thought, Miss Perfect."
"And to think, you didn't even want to come out tonight," Alyssa says.
"What's the idea?" Kenzie asks.
"Dragons," I say, and their eyebrows furrow in unison. "That's Preston's car below us. I'm sure all his friends are in there, and I'm sure he's driving."
"And dragons?" Kenzie asks.
"We could run a dragon up behind his car, that only he could see," I explain.
Kenzie stares at me blankly, and then explodes with laughter. "You're evil," she says. "I love it. Let's do it."
Alyssa rolls her eyes. "I'm in."
With very little direction, we float the car along the road beside them, close enough to see their reaction. Between the flying car and the invisibility and how long it's been since I've used any magic, it almost feels like I'm stretched too thin to make a purple dragon appear in the road behind us. Almost.
Its bubble nose is almost too cute to look scary, but the spiked shape of its wings and the fire erupting through its nostrils more than balances it out. I could make special effects for Hollywood, I'm sure.
"Not bad," I say.
"You've got to make it run," Kenzie says.
"Easy," I say, and tilt my head toward their car.
It takes a lot longer than it should for Preston to look up from his cell phone, but when he does, the fire in his rearview mirror opens his eyes so wide I wonder if he'll ever be able to close them again. He sputters, and though I can't hear him, I can imagine the strangled noises he's making. He hits the breaks, and the dragon flies right through his car. He screams as the fire, and then the purple body, surrounds him as it charges through his car and barrels down the road in front of him. It hops down the lane and takes flight before it disappears.
He jumps out of his car, pointing and screaming. His friends bust up laughing and one of them pulls out his cell phone, recording Preston's insane rambling.
We rise up from the ground, leaving Preston below us to explain to his friends that not only had he seen a dragon, but that they'd all been inside one. I just don't think this night can get any better.
Kenzie and Alyssa, still laughing, both lean against me in the car.
"You are so much better than that loser," Alyssa says.
"I know," I say, and when I hear it come out of my mouth I break out laughing because I know it's true.
We decide to park on the hill above town for the midnight countdown instead of going to that party, because there's simply no way there will be something there that's better than the time we're having with each other. Kenzie pops her trunk and pulls out a couple bags of chips and a case of soda. We gather some wood from the ground around us, and pile it up at the edge of the cliff. I back up and shoot a flame from my finger, the wood ignites with a flourish that could only come from magic. We smile at each other and sit on the log behind us, watching the flames.
"I always see shapes in the flames," Alyssa says. "Like people do with clouds." She points at the fire with her pointer finger and thumb, and plucks out dancing shapes from the flames. "See?" What looks like a burning giraffe, dog, and fish move around a circle in the air in front of us.
"Clever," Kenzie says. "I was always more into potions than all this stuff."
"Really? Potions? I never learned any of that," I say. "Where'd you find out about it?"
"The internet," she says with a shrug. "Where else?"
Alyssa keeps pulling shapes from the flames, and Kenzie tells a story about a potion she used to turn her hair different colors. It really caused a ruckus when her kid sister drank it.
I reach my hand into Kenzie's bag and pull out a chip. I take a bite, and then freeze. I hold the half-eaten chip out, and everything inside of me shakes. The chiseled edges from my teeth make a stark line in front of the fire light, and it blurs under my tears. I just took a bite of food, without thinking about it first. This is what people do. I'm like, a person. Who eats. Without hours of planning first. I pop the rest of the chip in my mouth and almost choke between my tears and my laughter and the jagged edges of potato chip scratching their way down my throat. I throw my arms above my head and shout over the fire, to the lights of the city below, "Happy New Year!"
"Happy New Year!" Kenzie and Alyssa shout after me. I lean against Kenzie's shoulder, and she pats me on the head.
"You're so weird, Renee," Kenzie says.
I shrug.
"I like it, in case that wasn't clear," she says.
"I like you too, you rude bully," I say.
She messes up my hair, and I sit up straight, giving her a playful glare.
"So," I say. "What are your resolutions?"
"More parties," Alyssa says. We all nod.
"More glitter," Kenzie says, and shakes a few flakes off her arm. "What about you, sweet cheeks? Other than more glitter, which I'm going to hold you to."
Before I think about it, I say, "More of this," and smile down at the sparks sizzling from my fingertips.
The Smiths
Michael Siemsen
ONE
New Year's Eve in San Francisco, the skyline was still sprinkled with holiday lights, and the western span of the Bay Bridge glowed brake light red. Kyle Smith loved the view from his factory at the far end of Treasure Island, smack dab in the middle of the Bay, though in a few minutes he'd be joining the party-going throngs as they crept, inch-by-inch, into the city. But counter to his typical attitude on traffic, Kyle realized he didn't mind so much tonight. There was no rush to get to his parents' annual bash, and he looked forward to seeing all of his family members that had driven or flown into the city.
He walked to his luxury SUV and opened the door to the back seat where his neatly pressed change of clothes hung. Kyle peered around the vacant parking lot to be sure the coast was clear, and stripped off his shirt and undershirt. A misty, sub-forty degree wind gust told him it would have been prudent to climb into the back seat to change, and he hurriedly pulled on the fresh undershirt, dress shirt, and sport coat, tucking and buttoning with haste.
"'Spensive fucking clothes you got there," spoke an odd voice behind him—a wet lisp atop throat gravel.
Kyle jumped and spun round to see a scruffy bearded man in tattered sweatpants and flannel shirt. The potent, bitter scent of body odor mixed with an old, wet ashtray. The man held a rusty length of rebar at his side. The pole wasn't sharp, but certainly heavy enough to crack a skull.
"You're gonna gimme your wallet," the man said as he took a step closer. He had no teeth in the top of his mouth, and only a couple on the bottom. "And the keys to this sweet fucken ride."
Only vaguely worried, Kyle offered a kind smile. "You hungry, buddy?"
"Won't be in a little bit. Now shut the fuck up before I smash your pretty girl face in." The man gripped the bar in both hands like a batter warming up for the pitch. "Wallet, phone, watch, fucken keys, jewelry … those fucken shoes—goddamn!"
Kyle sighed and glanced around again to be sure no other eyes could see them.
Five minutes later, Kyle pulled behind a sixteen-vehicle line to merge onto the bridge. He looked at himself in the rearview mirror, his face lit up red from the idling pickup in front. He wondered if he'd done the right thing with the man back there. Should he have called the police? Probably, but then he'd have had to wait around for them and end up arriving at his parents' even later.
Sure, he'd done the right thing.
Finally creeping along with the bridge traffic, Kyle imagined what was going on at his parent's house. It was almost eight, so pretty much everyone had already shown up. Rooms had been claimed, luggage left on beds like dog urine on new territory. Kyle planned to drink, so he had already arranged to spend the night. Fortunately, he'd thought ahead, phoning his mother to get the basement in-law locked up for him and his "little" sister, Jessica.
Jess had texted him earlier, letting him know she wouldn't arrive until after nine. Now, she may actually beat him there.
Kyle lowered his window and inhaled the salty bay air. The sounds of horns and diverse music, of a subwoofer vibrating a car apart, an idling diesel engine. He was halfway across the western span and creeping, creeping along. He closed the window and grabbed his phone, activating the screen. Jess had texted him again a few minutes earlier: "Almost there."
He'd also missed a text from his girlfriend, Nishiyo: "Will miss you tonight. Say hi to everyone for me. ;)"
A tiny jab, and understandable. After two years, she could get away with being a lot more outraged with the situation. When they got together, Nishiyo hadn't signed up to be a secret. Her acceptance and patience with him had only served to enhance her perfection in his mind. But somehow Kyle still thought the family wasn't ready … as if they ever would be. What it really came down to was his willingness to deal with the storm that would surely follow.
Traffic came to a full stop and Kyle tapped out a quick reply: "Miss you, too. Thanks for understanding. You're the best. Love you."
He guessed she wouldn't even reply. Not out of spite or punishment, but because she was just that cool. How lucky was that? But what if it was all an act? What if she was furious and would never tell him? Or maybe she'd just hold it all in until one day she snapped and listed every single sleight, catalogued from day one? He couldn't think about that now. When he saw her tomorrow, he'd remind her that she's his whole world, and he promise her next New Year's would be theirs. And he'd keep the promise.
In the meantime, he had to take his mind off Nishiyo.
Back to the house.
What kind of shenanigans were going on now? Surely those that hadn't arrived yesterday or early enough today were now moaning about suboptimal lodgings. Sofa beds in the TV room, bunk beds in the attic, roll-aways and air mattresses—all inadequate for those accustomed to vacationing in presidential suites. Aunts and uncles were no doubt asserting their respective values and ranks within the family. Grandpa Tural, the last survivor from the "old country," Azerbaijan, had undoubtedly been given the second master bedroom despite its capacity to sleep six, and despite being the humblest and least picky of the bunch. And, no doubt, one or more outraged latecomers had climbed up on a cross and said they'd "… just have to find some little hotel … if there are even rooms available at this point."
These were all very wealthy—very spoiled—people. Kyle wouldn't have been surprised if a pile of the existing mattresses lay stacked up beside the house. Even though every bed in the place boasted one of the finest luxury mattresses his father, Serg, produced, someone would have decided by now that they could do better, and replaced theirs.
Kyle enjoyed growing up affluent, and he made no apologies for his privilege. He got to attend great schools, vacation all over the world, and almost always got whatever he wanted. Almost. Because Kyle's father feared his children would turn out like his siblings and their rotten kids, he frequently selected seemingly arbitrary items to ban from the house.
One day, when Kyle was 14 and Jess 13, Kyle came home from an afternoon at a friend's house and asked about electric can openers.
"Why?" Dad had demanded, dropping the butter knife and bread he'd been preparing for a tuna sandwich. He was in a mood. "What about them?"
"Well I was just wondering why we don't have one." Kyle examined the primitive manual version his household used. "Hunter's house has one."
And in that moment the fate was sealed for electric can openers in the Smith house. "We don't have one because we don't need one!" Dad had barked, exposing the subtle accent he'd inherited from his father. He snatched the kitchen tool from Kyle's hands and turned the flat knob as if opening an invisible can. "Because we can pinch our fingers and flex our wrists and open a cursed can like a regular person without some high-tech doodad!"
The same decree would eventually doom cassette tapes, the Super Nintendo game console, cordless phones, mechanical pencils, and refrigerators with built-in icemakers. Who needed such things? Conversely, they were allowed a DustBuster vacuum, Atari and Sega Genesis game systems, an electric carving knife, and a VHS player for the big TV in the living room. Arbitrary or not, Kyle now thought that the conspicuous absence of certain things in his life had resulted in the desired outcome: appreciation. He was thankful for what he had, and so too was Jess. Kyle had expensive tastes, sure, but he also enjoyed working hard. He couldn't say the same for most of his cousins.
He did, however, like his first cousin, Vemmie—an artist. Her intricate sculptures of intertwined glass and concrete blew people's minds, and despite her rising fame, she remained grounded. Her parents had kept things fairly humble with their plant in Louisiana. They made generic office supplies for some of the big box retailers to label and sell as their in-house brand. Tape dispensers, pen holders, CD cases, and the like. Even with one of the highest profit margins in the family, her parents didn't feel the need to brag like all of the others.
Kyle reached the end of the bridge and leaned left and right to see down the congested freeway. Stay on or exit to surface streets? Pacific Heights was on the opposite end of the city and he envisioned getting stuck behind 300 red lights. He stayed on the freeway and wondered if his cousin, Anita, would be there. Surely her obnoxious parents would be.
Like the rest of the Smith clan, Anita's parents made things, though Kyle couldn't remember what it was they produced these days. It was always changing. Uncle Frank had a short attention span and disregarded the concept of building a brand. Their company name changed along with their product of the week, and the last Kyle had heard, the factory in Texas was producing coil springs for beds and other furniture. Kyle's father had asked at the time, "Why springs? Why not the whole bed? The sofa?" to which his brother responded "It's all about bulk. Bulk is the key." But most folks knew that those sorts of products were too complicated for Uncle Frank. He just didn't have the skill. And Frank's wife, Natasha, though talented in her own right, seemed to spend all of her time playing matchmaker. She and Kyle's mother, Elle, were first cousins, and had been conspiring since Kyle's birth. In their minds, Anita and Kyle were made for each other.
Of course Anita would be at the party. Kyle knew his mother and hers couldn't resist this opportunity. As far as they were concerned, Anita and Kyle were growing troublingly old. Bafflingly, they had yet to marry and begin families. The truth was, Anita and Kyle had long ago discussed their parents' plans for them, and had agreed they wouldn't be following the tradition of "keeping it in the family." Kyle had Nishiyo and—sorry Mom and Aunt Natasha—but Anita's a lesbian.
Some of the elders liked to say that inbreeding was essential to the family's survival, comparing them to royal pedigree all throughout history, but what Kyle didn't reply in those situations was that a lot of those royal babies were born with webbed feet, tails, or were simply stillborn. His own birth was of particular concern to the family, given that his parents were first cousins. Their union had met with disapproval both quiet and loud. No one could remember the last time any pair closer than second cousins had married. But Kyle came out healthy … "at least so far," they could now joke.
But his sister, Jessica—she ended up carrying the weight of their parents' perceived carelessness. She wasn't like the rest of the family. While Kyle was considered the most skilled in the entire clan, Jess didn't have any talent whatsoever. He never heard anyone talk about it, but Kyle knew the aunts and uncles wouldn't ever let go of something so monumental. It was like she was the runt of the entire generation. Defective. Blighted. Kyle wished there had been at least one other born like her, but alas. More than one hundred living Smiths, and she was the only one.
The Smiths had been makers for as far back as anyone knew. Kyle's grandparents had been the first ones to emigrate from Azerbaijan in 1938, changing their name to Smith, and leaving behind a thriving rubber business. Those that remained there still had the original surname,
Yaradan, and Kyle was certain that, on both sides of the Atlantic, the clan's genealogists were still in contact with each other, pulling out their family trees, and drawing dotted red lines between names every time a new baby was born. When word spread about Jess's lack of talent, all of the dotted lines leading to her name had undoubtedly been removed.
Kyle finally turned onto his parents' block, observing the lack of a single parking space. Fortunately, Kyle knew most of the families on the street, and pulled into one of the driveways. He was blocking in their car, but the rule of the neighborhood was that you could park behind someone as long as you left your keys under the passenger seat and your door unlocked. It seemed to work well: in his thirty-one years, he had yet to hear of a car being stolen from his parents' block.
Kyle stepped out and immediately heard the muffled music resonating from his parents' house across the street. He re-tucked his shirt, adjusted his coat, and took a deep breath. It was going to be a mad house, but the greatest kind of mad house he could imag—
He stopped at the edge of the neighbor's driveway and stood in awe of the sight. His parents' familiar white two-story Victorian house was no longer the two-story home it had been for the past ninety years, up until today. Someone or -ones in the house were clearly already drunk.
Towering fifteen to twenty feet higher than the adjacent Victorians, Kyle's parents' house now had a third story that it didn't have yesterday. His parents were going to flip out, but this couldn't wait until morning. Kyle's expectations for the evening evaporated as he foresaw how he'd be spending his New Year's Eve.
TWO
The familiar aromas of saffron rice, lamb kabobs, and too much perfume streamed out the door as Kyle stepped inside the warm house. Comforting, nostalgic smells—his stress seemed to dip a couple degrees as he closed the door behind him. Two passing aunts greeted him with hugs and kisses and the traditional pinching and squeezing of his arms and waist: the fat check.
The Stroke of Midnight: A Supernatural New Year's Anthology Page 16