The Sweetest Kind of Fate

by Crystal Cestari

  Today I met an interesting man. I was meditating near the lake, trying to clear away the negative energy from the night before, when he politely interrupted me. I couldn’t believe anyone would be so audacious as to disturb a reflective state, but when I opened my eyes, I was already forgiving him. Not because he was handsome (he was), but because his aura was unlike any I’ve encountered. No supernatural element, and yet, there was great power emanating from his person; I was instantly drawn in. He asked me for directions back to his hotel (he’s from Milwaukee), and I agreed to take him there myself, which was probably a bit forward, but I had to figure out where this energy was coming from. We talked for blocks, and all the while, his spirit grew stronger. It was addictive; I’d only just met him, and yet I didn’t want to say good-bye. I’ve never felt so drawn to a mere human, and I still can’t understand why. Even now as I write this, my aura is all lit up, magic swirling inside me. Rather than go out with Victoria tonight, I want to channel this energy into that virility spell that’s been giving me trouble. And I owe it all to Tom.

  Tom?! Victoria?!

  “Amber! Hello! I need your help here!” Mom yells, breaking me from her prose.

  “Sorry! Um, found it!” I scoot into the kitchen, propping the tome on her bookstand. Her hair is all frazzled from the yellowish steam coming from the stockpot, and there are a million sunflower seed shells scattered across the floor. Her face is very stern, and I can tell whatever she’s trying to accomplish is not going well. “What can I do?” I add.

  She throws more seeds into the pot, a giant yellow puff hitting her right in the face. “Can you find the page concerning protection spells? I’m trying to do a variation,” she says through gritted teeth.

  “Okay.” But I cannot focus on witchcraft when all I want to do is jump to the back of the suddenly very important book. Going out with Victoria, meeting Tom: this is the story of my mom befriending the worst witch of all time AND meeting my dad! Ahhh! I have to know more!

  “Did you find it?”

  “Huh?”

  Mom whips a wild gaze my way. “THE SPELL.”

  “Oh, sorry, I…”

  She grunts. “Let me do it.” She impatiently drops her ladle, which hovers in midair, and holds her hand over the grimoire; it automatically flips to the correct page.

  “I’ve always thought that was a pretty cool trick,” I say, trying to ease some tension. “I wish I could activate stuff with my fingertips.” The angry eyes continue, and I get it; I get frustrated when my recipes go awry too. I also know the only way to deal is to plow through the problem, so I sneak back to my room, head spinning with Mom’s written words. I have to know more. I HAVE TO.

  I try to sleep, but who can surrender to the dream world when real-life stories are filling my head? Mom never talks about Dad—never—and my clearest memory of him is when he left. Since then, Mom hasn’t dated, unless she somehow has a secret second family holed up somewhere, and if so, bravo for keeping such an elaborate cover. I don’t have a yearning to learn more about Dad (he left, so BYE, GOOD RIDDANCE), but the idea of Mom being in love is so intoxicating….What was she like? Was she soft and cuddly? Did she walk around humming Top 40 love songs (ugh, hope not)? Divorce may have pushed the needle toward the mostly solemn creature I know and love, but what other emotions lie under that steely surface? And what in the world is Victoria doing in conjunction with that story? I’m surprised the parchment didn’t burst into flames from having her name scribbled on it.

  I slip on thick wool socks and proceed to slide to the kitchen. (Old wood floors are notorious narcs: make one misstep and they shout your schemes to the world. Sliding is where it’s at.) Mom must’ve really lost it with that spell; she didn’t even clean up, leaving seeds and spoons all over the place. (In witchcraft, even the tools you use can affect the outcome of a spell, so a wooden spoon could wield different results than silver.) The grimoire is open on the same page, so technically I’m not prying. (Ah, the lies we tell ourselves.) I step over a pot filled with charred goo and carefully try to find the section I want; every precise page turn sounds like a sledgehammer slam against the quiet of night. I’m sure Mom’s inhuman hearing will catch me any minute, but I finally find the passage I want without being caught. I consider grabbing a cookie and mug of milk to accompany this bedtime story, but decide better to satisfy my curiosity than sweet tooth at this point.

  After the initial Dad entry, there are a few doodles and drawings for different spell ideas, but shortly thereafter, she picks up the narrative again. Looks like dear ol’ Dad didn’t waste any time asking her out.

  Every part of me is tingling, every nerve ending electric. Being around Tom is an experience unto itself. I thought spending more time with him would reveal his magic, but no; our encounters have made me even more curious. The past few days have left me in a state of complete confusion, and yet, I’ve never been happier trying to solve a puzzle. To have that kind of magnetic charisma, one would have to have at the very least a recessed siren gene, but if he does, he’s using an extraordinary cloaking device, which I’d also want to discover.

  There’s something about him I can’t understand…the way his eyes squint when he laughs, the way he talks faster and faster when he’s excited: these things shouldn’t undo me, but when he adds four sugars to his coffee or bites the corner of his mouth after I tell him a joke, it’s almost too much for me to bear. When he touches me…

  Gah! I skip forward to more PG copy….

  I want to be near him, constantly, because when I am, I’m simultaneously two feet off the ground yet completely settled, shooting for the moon yet right where I need to be. I’ve questioned the Fates for their decisions in the past, cursing their seemingly random choices, but now I know: every bend in the road, every closed door has led me here, to this man.

  Wow. Holy sappy. I cannot picture these words ever coming out of Mom’s mouth, but here they are, in her handwriting. And Dad…he really did bring out something new in her, because the next dozen pages are filled corner to corner with fresh spells, talisman sketches, even notes for opening a magic shop. Some of her most successful spells were perfected during this time: Makeover in a Bottle, Instant Serenity, Miracle Grow (not to be confused with the fertilizer, though this does add a half inch to human height). She was inspired, overflowing with creativity; I can almost feel her excitement from her hurried penmanship, like she couldn’t get her ideas down fast enough. She’s always so careful and measured, evaluating every detail before she moves ahead, but from the sounds of it, Dad jolted her to her core.

  There are several more passages illustrating her growing love, interspersed with magical writings, but the details soon become more and more intimate, and my gag reflex can only take so much. Just because I’m interested in their courtship doesn’t mean I want to know the details of my dad’s kissing game. BLECH.

  For a second, I think I hear footsteps, and I consider hiding in the oven for safety. But after a panicked minute without breath or movement, I decide it must have been the downstairs neighbors getting a 2:00 A.M. snack. Not wanting to test the Fates much longer, I skip ahead, trying to see if Victoria pops up again, and I catch her name on the second-to-last page. A short paragraph, back in Mom’s precise writing:

  It’s disappointing, after everything we’ve been through, that Victoria won’t come to the wedding. She’s never approved of Tom, but I thought she’d put aside her frustration over my changing course for one day. Just because I’m no longer delving into the darker arts does not mean I’ve given up on magic; in fact, I’ve never felt so fulfilled in my pursuit of holistic spells. I guess our friendship really is over after all.

  Whaaaaaaa—now I really do hear something, so I toss the grimoire back on the counter and dive for the fridge, pretending to be in deep consideration over treat options just as Mom wanders in.

  “What are you doing up so late?” she asks, pulling her robe tighter.

  “Couldn’t sleep. Need sugar. You?”


  “I thought sleep might bring some perspective on my problem”—she eyes her earlier mess—“but I don’t think I’ve logged enough hours.”

  “You’ll figure it out, Mom. You always do.”

  She nods, head heavy with a need for more zzz’s, and starts a halfhearted attempt at cleaning up. I bend down to help, watching her sleepy face, and think of all the secrets locked behind it. Epic loves. Friendship fallouts. Dabbling in the dark arts?

  Oh, you can be sure I’m gonna Veronica Mars the crap out of this.

  MANCHESTER Prep is one of my least favorite places in the world, but within these ancient corridors of torture, there are a few sacred spots that can be used to alleviate pain. About a month ago, Charlie and I discovered a bend near the band room that seems to go untouched by both foot traffic and brooms, with the cobwebs to prove it. Still, it’s a snuggly little space for a quick afternoon pick-me-up, conveniently located near both of our fifth-period classes.

  We took a couple days off, but the lure of our secret spot was too much for both of us, and finally the metaphorical dust has settled. Thank the Gods. I’m blessedly pressed up against Charlie, my hands wrapped behind his neck, when out of nowhere, the visual of my mom and dad making out pops into my brain.

  “Gah!” I pull back, shaking my head furiously in hopes the image will leak out my ears.

  “You okay?” Charlie asks, slightly breathless. “I didn’t just, like, bite you or something, did I?”

  “No.” I laugh. “I, uh…Last night I kinda sorta accidentally read some of my mom’s grimoire, and there were some highly illustrative details on her past.”

  “I thought grimoires were just like witch shopping lists.”

  “So did I, but as it turns out, they are part recipe book, part diary. She had a bunch of stuff in there about meeting my dad and…kissing my dad.”

  Charlie frowns like he just smelled something gross. “That’s…something.”

  “Yeah, I mean, I’m not really interested in the intimate details of her love life, and I’ve definitely already read things I can’t unsee, but there’s so much about my mom’s past I know nothing about. She’s not exactly big on sharing, but evidence suggests she was a wild one back in the day. Even her own grimoire has holes, but I want to fill in the blanks, do a little investigating.” I walk my fingers up his tie. “You in?”

  He considers, green eyes gleaming behind his glasses. “Okay. But only if we can wear trench coats and call each other Holmes and Watson.”

  “Obviously. And if we could get pipes that blow bubbles, that’d be ideal.”

  He snorts. “You know, Holmes, the best place to start would be my dad, since those two have been tied at the hip since high school.”

  “Excellent, Watson!” I give him a squeeze. “But do you think your dad will be cool spilling my mom’s secrets?”

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out,” he says, checking his watch before he pulls me back close. “But we only have one more minute before the bell, so we’d better make that count.”

  So I lay one on him.

  Immediately after the final bell rings, I text Charlie to finalize our meet-up plans but get no response. There’s no way he’s already off school grounds, so I circle past his locker and a few other places I can think of, but he’s nowhere to be found. We don’t always see each other after school, since most of the time I’m running off to one of my three jobs, but on my Windy City days, I have some more flexibility and try to grab a hug and kiss when I can. After stomping around the campus perimeter twice, I decide to give up, when I hear laughter coming from the gym (which, to be clear, is not a place I associate with happiness of any kind).

  The gym doors are open ever so slightly, so I take a peek through the opening to see an explosion of art supplies: jars of paint, glitter, brushes, and long rolls of white craft paper crisscross the basketball courts. There are a few painters already in action, meticulously guiding careful brushes across the banners, while Alison Bleeker dashes around the room, giving instructions to the rest of her worker bees. Ah, this must be winter carnival indentured labor, so Charlie has to be here. I scan the room until I see a rolled-up sleeve revealing a forearm of tattooed scales and flames; he’s sitting on the floor, smiling, paintbrush perched and ready to go. I adore this boy, but he’s not really the best artist, so I can’t imagine how his final product will turn out.

  I’m about to walk in and deliver a surprise smooch when I notice his attention is already accounted for. He’s laughing, and not in a polite, Gods-I-can’t-wait-until-this-is-over kind of way. There are too many people blocking my view, so I can’t see who is making him so happy, until the crowd clears and my worst fear is revealed: Kim. She’s sitting across from him, only twelve inches of paper separating them. I can’t tell what she’s saying, but Charlie sure does think it’s hilarious. She too seems equally delighted by his company, and I start to feel queasy. I watch as she dips her brush into a jar of blue paint, which accidentally (?) splatters onto Charlie’s side of the banner. He mocks offense and sends a spatter of red her way. This only encourages her, and soon the two of them are flinging a rainbow of splotches back and forth, only pausing when Alison’s watchful eye passes by. Their banner is completely ruined, but clearly that’s the last thing on their minds. My boyfriend’s face is covered in a spectrum of colors, but the one that concerns me is the blushing pink behind the paint.

  Flirting. This is flirting. There’s nothing else it could be, right? My heartbeat is on stereo, blaring through my eardrums and pounding against my rib cage. He told me nothing was going on; he told me to believe him. Should I ignore what’s right before me, put my trust in something that feels so wrong? I stand there for a few more seconds before I decide I can’t take it anymore and run outside to catch a bus.

  I sulk all through my Windy City shift, making a point not to check my phone for possible texts from Charlie. I don’t even know if I can believe anything he says, so why bother? A few hopefuls approach my matchmaking table, but I stare at them with such venom, they back away like hikers trying to avoid a bear attack. I even make Bob tumble backward into our display of cauldrons after he asks me about how things are going with Charlie.

  After, instead of going home, I take a cab over to the Black Phoenix to talk to Vincent. I wanted to get some insight into my mom’s past tonight, and I’m not going to let my detour into emotional ruin deter me.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” Vincent asks as I walk up to the bar. The restaurant is pretty empty, since it’s close to closing, but there are still a few creatures nursing cocktails. I slump onto a stool, seeing my grumpy expression reflected in the golden bar top. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah…I mean, no. I’m not sure.”

  Vincent grabs a clean martini glass. “You want to talk about it?”

  “Not really. I’m still…processing.”

  He nods. “Can I pour you a drink?” I give him a sour face. “Virgin, of course,” he adds. I shrug, and he mixes together something that tastes delightful, whatever it is.

  Vincent makes his way down the bar, attending to his clientele with his usual charm while I slurp down the rest of my kiddie cocktail. When he gets back to me, I say, “Actually, there is something you can help me with.”

  “Anything for you, Miss Sand,” he says with his hand across his heart. Diamond cuff links shine back at me, along with his dazzling vampire smile.

  “Did you know my mom when she was friends with Victoria?”

  His grin instantly fades; I can tell he’s regretting his offer to help. He grabs a rag and starts wiping down the bar.

  “Why do you ask?” he says dryly.

  “Well, because I’m curious about what she was like back then, and she won’t tell me.”

  Vincent leans in and stares me down. I try to ignore the smell of blood on his breath. “Don’t you think there’s a reason for that?”

  “Probably? But I desperately want to know that reason.” He
shakes his head, closing out the tab of the fairy sitting next to me. “Please?! For your favorite employee?”

  His eyes are rolling, but his lips are smiling. “Who says you’re my favorite?”

  I start to lean back in bravado, when I remember I’m sitting on a barstool. “C’mon, I know you love me.”

  He sighs. “The truth is, I don’t have a lot to tell. I did know your mom back then, but mostly through rumors. You know as well as I do that supernaturals love to gossip.” I nod, thinking about the gabfests most of our shop vendors engage in every time they drop off a shipment. He continues. “Let’s just say, whatever broke up their friendship was for the best because Lucille is now a leader in our community. There’s no way she would’ve gone on to start Windy City Magic if she’d stayed close with Victoria, especially after some of the worst things I heard.”

  My skin prickles. “What were the worst things?” I ask, clutching the edge of the bar top.

  He shakes his head. “Nothing worth repeating. Especially if they aren’t true.”

  ARGH! “You are only stoking my curiosity—you know that, right?”

  “Sorry, Miss Matchmaker.”

  Frustrated, I spin around to see Marcus, all bundled up and ready to head out the door. Upon seeing me, he briefly stops in his tracks before composing himself to come over. “Hey,” he says, so quiet I almost miss it. I’ve noticed his shyness skyrockets around Vincent, and I wonder if it’s because historically, vampires and werewolves have never exactly been BFFs.