by Lisa Moore
It’s not grades I’m worried about, Miranda, I say. I really care about him. My voice goes all funny.
Oh — oh, I know that, baby. I know.
But it hurts. Like, why doesn’t he care about me? What’s wrong with me? Why not love me?
I love you, kid.
I know.
I love my babies a lot. She hugs me and it feels good. Well, it feels better.
I’m about to start my period, I say. Maybe that’s why I’m so emotional. I mean, that’s part of it. And then I shed a few tears.
Me too, Miranda says. We’re synced. But we have lots of reasons to feel emotional. Life isn’t fair. There’s nothing wrong with emotion, Flan. That’s how we know we’re alive. It’s good.
It doesn’t feel very good, I say.
Now, what’s the plan for the love potion labels? Miranda asks, straightening herself up.
Labels? I say. It’s just colored water, Miranda. It’s only a gag.
Sure it is, she says.
Okay, I say. I go and get my notes and show her what I have written down so far, what I am calling the Four Elixirs of Love.
1) Blue: fast-acting befuddling crush-inducer, effects last two to four hours.
2) Red: eternal love, effects include marriage and anniversaries up to ten years.
3) Orange: good for securing a prom date.
4) Green: for provoking an unending stream of compliments from the one you love.
Miranda jumps up and I hear her rummaging around in her studio and then she comes back with these huge sheets of thick, bumpy, beige-ish paper.
Look, Flannery! Left over from my paper-making phase, she beams.
I don’t say this, but the paper sort of looks like the paper towels in our washrooms at school.
But then Miranda gets the idea to attach some kind of written spell to the neck of each bottle.
Just a phrase or two, she says. For promotional purposes. Like a label, but more mysterious.
I had already thought maybe a gold cord with little gold tassels for the price tag, I tell her. They have them at Fabricville.
Gold tassels are all wrong, she says. You need twine.
She jumps up again and bangs around in the laundry room cupboard this time and while she’s doing that I cut out a tag for the blue potion and I write:
This love potion has a short and bittersweet bite,
One little sip and it’s love at first sight.
It’s complete foolishness but it sounds good. And that’s what marketing is all about, right?
Miranda comes back with a ball of twine. It’s brown and bristly with rough little hairy bits sticking off.
But the gold tassels, I say.
We want to conjure up medieval times. Those gold tassels would scream kitsch, she says.
I think they’d be classy.
Picture, Miranda says, a castle on a craggy moor, nothing for miles but jagged rock and tufts of dead grass shrouded in fog. Ancient fog. Fog that has been creeping across the earth for centuries. Bleak, sopping, sorry-looking fog.
Fog with cat feet, I say.
Panther feet, she says. Fog that steals and swallows and sucks and —
Yeah, I got it. Fog. What’s that got to do with tassels or twine?
Medieval, Flan. More medieval, more magical. Picture fairies flitting in the shadows or riding the backs of butterflies, she says. Leprechauns dancing jigs; fireflies glowing in the dusk. Never mind tassels. Twine is more “of the common folk.”
Okay, I say. The twine.
Picture in the distance, a castle, all towers and … what do you call them?
Moats?
Not moats.
Ramparts?
Yes, ramparts. And drawbridges.
Yeah, okay, the twine.
And in the shadow of the tower window, which is just basically a hole in the wall because they didn’t have glass windows, a young lass, forlorn. Is she going to be impressed by gold tassels?
I’m guessing no?
Think of what she’s going through, Miranda says.
Is she in love?
Yes, but thoroughly unrequited love. Picture the face on her.
She’s annoyed.
She’s forlorn, Flannery. There’s a difference.
Forlorn.
Like, heartbroken because she’s in love with a guy who doesn’t return her affection.
Is he maybe in her Entrepreneurship class?
Oh, he’s in a different class from her altogether.
She’s got it bad.
And not only that, it’s medieval times, she has to eat her food with her hands because they don’t have utensils yet. Half the time she has chicken grease smeared all over her chin.
Which has got to be a drawback if you’re trying to get a guy’s attention.
They can’t text, or Instagram, there’s no Tumblr or Google glasses or email thank God and I won’t even go into the plumbing situation. Also the castle could use a space heater. Place is like a fridge. Talk about visits from the field worker. Costs a fortune to heat that place. So, you can see, these tassels you mentioned are all wrong. And she’s sixteen, so she’s already suffering a midlife crisis, they died so early back then.
Wouldn’t the silky gold tassels cheer everybody up a bit?
Sending the wrong message, Flan.
The twine is sending a message?
Absolutely. It’s authentic.
Gotcha. The twine is better than the tassels. And we don’t have to go to the mall. The twine is right here.
Exactly, says Miranda, looking at her watch. It’s nearly midnight. The spirits are roaming. I’d say it’s the perfect time for our spell.
I’ve already written the first one, Miranda. See —
No, Flannery, we need to say the thing. An incantation. So the potion works, you know?
She’s smiling slyly, daring me.
All right, whatever, I say.
After all, it’s just a gag, right?
So let’s have the eternal love one, she says. I set out the bottle of red potion and she clears her throat with a little ahem.
We call upon all the goddesses of love in the universe and beyond …
She looks at me expectantly. I roll my eyes.
One sip of this potion, Miranda continues, and you’ll grow eternally fond … of the first person you see. Better than fond. After one little sip, you’ll play your part.
And I chime in with the ending: The first person you see will steal your heart.
What about the green potion? I say. My pen is ready, hovering over the bumpy paper.
One sip of this green potion, says Miranda, and your true love will turn into a poet. You’ll be ravished with compliments before you know it. I write it down on the bumpy paper and attach the little note to the neck of the bottle. I try to make my writing look all medieval-like, pointy and jagged.
And the orange potion? she says.
Easy-peasy, I say.
One sip of this and any Dick, Mary, or Tom
Will instantly ask you to go to the prom.
22
Elaine Power holds the door for me on Monday when I’m taking the love potion prototypes back to my locker after Entrepreneurship class.
And then she stops me. She looks at each of the bottles.
Let me try the red one, she says.
But that’s eternal love, I say. Why not go for blue? With the blue potion you get a crush, it’s milder, the effects wear off after a few hours.
Elaine looks up at me and I see that, for just one millisecond, she’s actually buying it.
I mean, go ahead if you want, I say. But whomsoever you happen to gaze upon after a sip of the red potion — that’s it, you’ll long for them forever. The. Rest. Of. Your. Life. It’s kind of a big decision.
Elaine seems kind of awed. But then the old Elaine — scientific-genius Elaine — floods back, eclipsing soft-vulnerable-believing-romantic Elaine in a nanosecond.
Great sales patter, Malone, she s
ays. Gimme the red one.
Okay, I say. You asked for it. She takes a moment to read the label.
“Steal your heart.” Yes, bloody likely, she says.
I take the frosted glass stopper out of the bottle and hand it to her. She swirls the bottle and sniffs it.
How did the prototype app for saving butterflies go? I ask, embarrassed, because it’s a project of such obvious eco-political merit, especially compared to mine, a mere sight gag.
One butterfly at a time, Flan, one butterfly at a time, she says with a sigh. She tells me that she and Mark Galway are doing a live demonstration in Mr. Payne’s office this very afternoon.
Then she takes a glug of the potion. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing her black lipstick. Her eyes are squeezed shut for a moment, no doubt formulating a chemical analysis/critique of the potion.
Hmm, she says. Just what I thought. Colored water. Beets? Nice gimmick, Malone. Low overhead. I think these will sell big. You’re going to have a tidy profit —
At that very instant, Mark Galway comes through the door and bangs into her. I mean, he has his head down and the brim of that stupid fedora must be blocking his view and he just collides with her and her eyes fly open.
And there they are, eye to eye.
Elaine Power is wearing wishbone earrings. I mean, like actual dried chicken bones, and they are dancing with indignation under her earlobes. She is clearly ready to lacerate Mark with a single, elegant, precise and vicious comment about what a graceless douche he is.
I feel a horror/fascination. What will remain of Mark Galway once Elaine Power is finished with him? A fedora floating in an oozing puddle of gristle on the floor? A puddle that used to be Mark Galway?
But all she says is, Oh, hi, Mark.
And Elaine Power sounds dreamy and doubtful about all she has hitherto understood of the universe and everything in it.
Mark and I exchange a glance. He’s cowering. We both figure she’s holding back so she can deliver the full force of her attack aided by the element of surprise. A tactical move for which Mark is not going to fall.
I’m so sorry about that, Mark says.
It was an accident, I say.
Well, duh, says Elaine. Obviously. But, hey, nice to bump into you.
Then she giggles, well, like a schoolgirl.
After that, I keep seeing Elaine Power and Mark Galway, sworn enemies of yore, together, and every time Elaine is giggling her fool head off. Yes, apparently Elaine Power has a giggle mode. Who knew?
More astonishing, it’s always something Mark is saying that’s making her laugh, causing her glee. Once she even hip-checks him right there in the hallway, just as if they were actually friends, or more than friends, even. I have to admit, it’s giving me shivers to think of her lifting that love potion bottle to her black lips.
Of course, the transformation can’t have had anything to do with the potion.
But Elaine starts telling the story of taking a sip of the prototype seconds before Mark came through the door and banged into her. And when she gets to that part of the story she stretches up onto her tiptoes and kisses him on the cheek.
And I’ve been head over heels ever since, Elaine says. I can’t get enough of him.
Yup, that’s true, says Mark. He actually seems pretty chuffed. She is the smartest person in the entire history of the school, after all. He’s stopped coming to school in the Hummer. Now he’s on a skateboard. Talking nonstop about butterflies.
The story about Elaine and the potion spreads around the school pretty fast. Next Brittany Bishop is coming up to me in the corridor.
I’ll try the blue potion, she says.
But that’s just a crush, I say. Don’t you want eternal love?
Not on your life, she says. Give me a hit of that crush potion. The blue, green and orange prototypes are still in my locker, so I take the blue one out and hand it to her. And as soon as she takes a sip, Melody Martin shows up.
Melody, Brittany says. You’ve got to try this. She hands the bottle to Melody who takes a sip and a little drip of blue potion runs down Melody’s chin, and Brittany touches it with her finger and catches the drip.
Want to pip off and walk Signal Hill with me? Brittany says.
God, that’s exactly what I want, says Melody. How did you know? They walk off down the corridor holding hands.
Just before math class Kyle Keating is coming out of drama, where they’ve been rehearsing Romeo and Juliet, and he runs into me near the lockers. Sort of ridiculously/gorgeously, he’s wearing tights and a jacket with big puffy velvet sleeves and a slouchy velvet cap with a feather which looks sort of cool with his dreadlocks. But definitely not a look everybody can get away with. Turns out he’s playing Romeo.
He announces loudly that he wants to try the green potion right there in the corridor. Everybody is rushing off to class but a little crowd gathers around us.
I don’t know, I say. We’ve got to get to math. But I take the potion out of my locker and hand it over.
Kyle takes out the little frosted-tipped stopper.
So what’s this one supposed to do? He reads out the tag. Compliments? I’m supposed to start just coming up with compliments on the spot? Come on. You don’t expect people to believe that?
Well, it’s kind of a gag, I mumble. Like canned fog. He takes a sip.
Just like I thought, he says. Tastes like spinach. It’s spinach water, everybody. Just spinach and water is my guess. Is that right, Flannery?
I can feel my shoulders slump a little.
Yup, I say. He swirls it around. And takes another mouthful.
I’m getting nutty undertones, he says. It’s fruity, am I right? Hints of cherry? Maybe some oak in there? Definitely an oak base. And it follows through with a hint of anise. Light but full-bodied? (When he says full-bodied he actually lets his eyes slide all the way down my body and back to my face, and wiggles his eyebrows.)
Actually it tastes pretty good, Kyle says. This is probably the best spinach juice I’ve ever had.
Nobody asks if he’s ever had spinach juice before. Who drinks spinach juice? But he’s looking straight into my eyes and takes another sip.
You have green eyes, he says. I never noticed that before. Really green. Not many people have green eyes. Not like yours. Like, a stormy sea-green. Like the green in the Northern Lights. Your eyes are beautiful, Flannery. I guess you get that all the time.
I can feel a blush flooding into my cheeks. I mean, I know he’s joking around but he doesn’t look away and he sounds dead serious.
And your freckles are like cinnamon. (Now he’s really hamming it up.) Shall I compare you to an October’s day in Newfoundland? he says.
You have the most beautiful freckles I’ve ever seen, Flannery Malone. Like autumn leaves scattering in the wind.
I punch him gently on the arm.
Aw, shucks, I say.
Everybody is laughing.
A door swings open down the hall and Mr. Green sticks his head out of the classroom.
Mr. Keating, he says. You have exactly three minutes to change out of that costume and get to class or you’re in big trouble. Ms. Malone, get in here and stop causing congestion in the corridors. You others, move along. The buzzer has sounded.
Kyle hands me the bottle and stopper and exits stage left, male bathrooms.
The next day orders for the green potion are through the roof.
Three more people want to try the blue and red potions so they can fall immediately in love with the first person they see.
And then I get wise. No more free sips. I start taking back orders. Everybody wants a bottle. After just a few days of taking orders, the red potion, eternal love, sells out.
Then there’s an announcement over the PA that the student council is looking for volunteers from grade twelve for the grad committee. After school there’s a big run on the orange potion, the one that gets you a prom date. Prepaid. It definitely looks like I’ll be able to pa
y back Fred the glassblower and maybe even get a new order of bottles before he takes off for Europe.
It’s word of mouth, just like Sensei Larry said. And like Ms. Rideout said, everybody believes in at least a little bit of magic. And at the same time, everybody knows it’s a joke. But a charming joke.
Talk about the love potions spreads like crazy. And because people start to believe, even a little tiny bit, the potions actually start to work. They work instantly.
23
Amber Mackey! snaps Madame Lapointe. She has been wandering up and down the rows between the desks, the shrapnel cracks of her high heels on the tiles ricocheting off the walls.
Up and down, up and down.
Madame Lapointe is eight months pregnant but she’s still in stilettos. While it may seem crazy that we have a woman from Paris, France, teaching us English, we’re also learning about the hairpin turns one can make in very high heels. Madame Lapointe is the most beautifully dressed woman I’ve ever seen. Her wardrobe is wasted on most of these lumber-jacket-wearing louts in grade twelve.
The classroom is dark with the curtains drawn, lights off. How can they expect Amber to stay awake when the lights are off?
We are watching a film clip of the three witches from Macbeth. One of the witches wears a black skullcap that ties under the chin, with holes cut out for the ears. Very fetching.
I can see Elaine Power eying it, like it’s just the thing to go with her construction boots and her black skirt with dried chicken bones dangling off the hem.
The wide blue eye of the projector sends out a fan of light that grazes the top of Amber’s blonde hair. She’s snoring softly.
I have stopped talking to Amber. I haven’t spoken to her for two weeks. Even when she sits in the desk in front of me — not a single word. Not even to congratulate her on qualifying for the Nationals at the swim meet in Toronto last weekend. Or to say how great it is that everyone in her dad’s office had doubled their money on those stupid bets. Nah-ah.
At first it was just to teach her a lesson. You wait, I thought. Wait until you see how dull and full of despair life is without me, your best friend since sippy cups.