She gave me an appraising look and seemed to decide something. “Most of his exes are total sluts. You almost look respectable.”
“Almost?” Bea gasped.
“Don’t talk to my friends, Sheila.” Thompson’s voice boomed out from behind the woman.
She started in surprise and nearly bonked her head on the window frame. She turned in fury to face him. He’d changed into a clean pair of jeans and a white button-down. She scowled at him. “Matt, honey, what is wrong with you? I’m just saying hello.”
“Just … don’t.” Thompson’s eyes narrowed threateningly as he spoke, and he took a menacing step toward the door she blocked. I held my breath. I thought there was going to be a fight. He just kept coming, and she got out of his way, though not happily.
“You’re a bully just like your father,” she shouted as he started the engine. “You should show some respect. I’m your stepmother.”
“You’re nothing except trouble,” he growled.
Thompson hit the gas so hard the wheels squealed.
Nobody said anything for a long time. Finally, Thompson muttered, “I’m sorry. I thought she’d stay in the house. Why didn’t she stay in the house?”
“She seemed nice,” I offered, even though she’d completely insulted all his exes and me in the same breath.
He snorted and rolled his eyes at me. “That’s because you don’t live with her.”
“Honestly, I thought she was a bitch,” Bea muttered out the window.
“No shit,” Thompson snarled.
I had no comment on that, though I felt I probably should have either agreed or consoled him. Once again, the more socially adept Bea came to our rescue. “I’m starving,” she said. “Can we drive through somewhere?”
We ate our burgers in the cab, parked outside the building marked LITTLE THEATER on the Augsburg College campus. It looked more like a rickety house than the sort of theaters I was used to. It had wide, plank siding and a strange sort of scalloped top, which reminded me of something out of the Old West. There were other early arrivals, sitting on concrete block stairs underneath the theater’s triangularly shaped awning. More sat in the shade of the trees in the large, flat grassy quad across the street. We’d found a spot on the curb next to the wooden noise barrier that separated the campus from the highway.
None of us mentioned the scene at Thompson’s house. Instead, we talked about the upcoming audition and our impressions of what it might be like to work at the event. I’d been to the Renaissance Festival once or twice with Mom when I was much younger. It was a long drive from St. Paul, almost a half hour out. I had the strongest memory of a gigantic parking lot filled with row after row of cars. As you got closer to the main gates, the signs marking rows took you back in time by a decade or more—2000, 1990, and so on all the way back to 1500. It was pretty clever, honestly. The whole thing was built like a walled city, and there were permanent shop buildings, stages, an arena for falconers, and a jousting contest.
“I don’t even remember anybody out there except Puke and Snot,” Thompson admitted. “And Snot died a couple of years ago.”
I didn’t even have very strong memories of that because the crowd around the stage was so thick that I couldn’t even see what was happening, much less hear it. I remembered that the stage had been decked out to look like a pirate ship, though, and I thought that was cool.
“I know what you mean,” Bea agreed, around a mouthful of cheeseburger. “I think I might have been accosted by one person who made a big fuss about my having to use the ‘privy,’ and a bunch of people yelled out anytime I spent a twenty-dollar bill. But I don’t remember a lot of free-range actors. And yet they say they employ more than a thousand people.”
“We don’t have to have some kind of act or anything, do we?” I got nervous at the thought. I wasn’t ready for anything that serious.
“No, they audition those people separately.” Thompson was the one who’d originally heard about this, so I trusted him. “In fact, if I don’t make the cut, I have a lead on a job with the guys who do the jousting.”
“Seriously?” I was impressed. Those guys seemed crazy, but in a kind of awesome way. They wore real armor and knocked themselves off horses.
Bea made a strangled, excited sound and shoved the remains of her food into her mouth while gesturing wildly with her hands. I looked where she was pointing. They were opening the doors.
We emerged an hour later, having played a lot of games. I spent most of the time convinced that everyone else was much better at improvisation than I was, especially since some people’s antics made me laugh out loud. Still, I always felt it was encouraging when I’d had fun. Thompson and I sat on the stoop, enjoying the hot sun and quiet after the cool darkness and chaos of the theater. Bea was still inside, flirting outrageously with one of the funnier boys. I wondered if her alternative plan to getting into Festival was being snuck in the back as someone’s girlfriend.
Frankly I didn’t think there was much hope for the three of us. The director was a stern, gaunt man whose face seemed perpetually stuck in a scowl of distaste. He never even cracked a smile when the rest of the house was rolling in the aisles with laughter. He just scribbled something down on his clipboard and yelled, “Next!” in that booming directorial voice that made even the laziest slacker hop to.
“I’m going to call that jousting organization,” Thompson said. He pulled himself upright with a sigh and wandered a short distance down the block to dial the numbers on his cell.
I probably should have told him that he’d done fine and not to worry, but Thompson was even worse at improvisation than I was, and he knew it. I’d cringed in my seat while I watched his stiff performances. I could sympathize. He and I were much better with scripts. If they’d had an opening for a singer, though, he would have rocked the house. That was how he’d gotten the male lead in My Fair Lady, after all.
The double doors behind me swung open, and Bea flounced out, accompanied by not one, but a whole troupe of boys. I’d have been irritated or jealous, but this was standard operating procedure for Bea. She had those curls and curves, and boys had no choice but to fall into her gravitational field. Even gay boys liked her.
She plopped down beside me, and the guys took up positions around us, enclosing us in a circle of testosterone. She waved her hand in various introductions, and I shook hands, desperately trying to hang on to names I could feel myself already forgetting. Part of my difficulty was that they had a kind of similarity despite all their differences. They were loud, boisterous, made a lot of obscure cultural references, and clearly found themselves deeply amusing. Still, for the most part, I found them charming—and cute.
I particularly liked the ponytail dude, who had been so good at coming up with puns and other hilarious bits during the improv games. He was a touch on the pudgy side, but I thought it made him seem even more approachable and friendly.
“Hey,” Thompson said with the kind of tone you might expect from someone who had come back to find his spot inhabited by a whole gang of theater boys.
Bea jumped in with a repeat of names, but I was too busy watching everyone to catch them this time either. It was funny the way the males reacted to the sudden appearance of another set of clearly more alpha XY chromosomes. They squared their shoulders as if they hoped that fluffing themselves up might add the inches they’d need to look Thompson in the eye. You could almost hear knuckles cracking as they exchanged manly handshakes.
A rival had clearly crashed their party, though you could see a few sneers forming instantly. In their obvious list making of attributes, they remembered Thompson’s poor showing on stage. I knew what was going to happen next. Jokes would become more biting, references more obtuse, and there would be this subtle play among the theater people that would serve to highlight Thompson’s weaknesses.
So I got up and took Thompson by the hand. He looked down in shock for a moment at our clasped palms, but he let me lead him away from the pack o
f boys. “How’d it go with the jousters?”
“Pretty good,” he said. “They were impressed that I’m a brown belt in kuk sool wan. Apparently, it’s really important to know how to fall properly and not kill yourself. They said I could come in for an interview.”
“That’s great,” I told him sincerely. We’d crossed the street and were strolling along a dirt path that had been worn into the quad. I felt I should probably let go of his hand, but I found I didn’t entirely want to. I asked, “What the heck is kuk whatever?”
“It’s a Korean mixed martial art.”
“And you have a brown belt?”
He nodded. “I got into it by accident. It’s not really my normal kind of sport, but my parents were looking for something to channel my energy when I was little, you know? I think they were hoping it would make me less …” He shrugged, searching for the right word. “Hyperactive? Anyway, I ended up sticking with it. There’s actually a bunch of Festival guys at my dojang. That’s how I heard about this jousting company and the tryouts.”
“You never fail to surprise me,” I told him honestly.
He stopped and used my momentum to swing me around to face him. His voice was low and intimate. “Is that a good thing?”
His face was very close. I could smell his aftershave, and the sunlight played along the strong line of his jaw. If I wanted to kiss him, I’d have to go up on tiptoes. But, if I did that, I’d have to finally admit that we were dating.
“Of course it’s good, silly.” I twirled away, but didn’t let go of his hand. I tugged him forward. “Let’s go exploring!”
I’d never been to the Augsburg campus, and it didn’t look as though it would take very long to see the whole thing.
We crossed the street again, dodging through tightly packed cars. Apparently, there were a lot of students around on the weekend. We saw people coming in and out of a building clearly marked STUDENT CENTER, and I stopped to check out a wooden kiosk in front of it. There were all sorts of notices tacked up for student organizations and prayer groups. It took me a second of scanning the posters to suss out that Augsburg was a Lutheran college. I probably wouldn’t be going there. I wondered what they’d do if I marked “witch” on the application.
I turned to Thompson. He was staring at our hands, as if trying to divine something from the way our fingers curled around one another. I ignored that. “You’re Catholic, right? I remember you telling me something about being an altar boy.”
“I sing in the choir,” he said distractedly, as if I’d awakened him from a daydream. “I haven’t been an altar boy since I was nine or ten.”
Catholic! His family would probably consider me some kind of devil worshipper—another reason “us” could never work. I loosened my grip on his hand, but he sensed my movement and held me tighter.
“Ana, there’s something I need to ask you,” Thompson said. Instead of waiting for a reply, he blurted out, “Will you go out with me?”
Why do boys always ruin things!?
I couldn’t believe Thompson had just asked me directly if I would date him. Now I was going to have to say something, and every moment I hesitated was going to complicate whatever answer I chose. If he’d just let things go on the way they had been, we could have stayed in this happily ambiguous place!
Luckily, he decided to keep talking. “I like you a lot. I think we could have fun. Everybody already thinks we’re dating, even my evil stepmother. But I want to, you know, take you places—movies, dancing, dinner—all that traditional stuff.”
Thompson would take me out to dinner? And dancing? Dancing? Seriously? I don’t think I’ve ever had the kind of boyfriend who actually made dates for a movie. Usually, we were too busy fighting off vampire hordes or dealing with some evil plot of my mother’s coven. “I’d kind of like that,” I admitted.
I’d never seen anyone look so relieved. I wanted to tell him that while it sounded good in theory, I had my doubts about the logistics of reality. But when I opened my mouth, I found his lips pressed against mine. He swept me up in his arms and held me tightly against his chest. His tongue worked its way into my mouth. Somehow I’d let go of his hand and was grasping his shoulders, pulling him closer. I guess my body had a clearer idea of what I wanted than my brain did.
Time didn’t stop. No sparks exploded. But it was a damn fine kiss.
I ran my fingertips along the short hairs at the back of his neck. The sensation reminded me of Elias’s militaristic cut. Guilt tugged me away from Thompson’s kiss.
When he opened his eyes, he frowned at me. He seemed to be able to tell that I had someone else on my mind.
Before he could ask a question I didn’t want to answer, I asked, “Will you really take me dancing?”
He brightened. “They have dances in the Wabasha Caves; did you know?”
Caves! I wondered how many vampires trolled that scene. “Uh, I don’t really like going underground.”
It was mostly true, but I would have happily lied and said I was claustrophobic. Could you imagine what my dad would say if he saw Thompson and me together? The skeptical way Thompson looked at me made me wonder again if our kiss had given him psychic powers.
“I thought the caves would be your sort of scene,” he said, chewing on the edge of his lip. We stood face-to-face, arms still encircling each other. I felt every muscle of his body move against mine. “Sometimes they do big band nights where people dress up in 1940s styles.”
“It sounds cool,” I admitted. A big part of me seriously wanted to see Thompson decked out as some kind of retro GI. “I can’t do caves. At all.”
He still seemed to be scanning my face for evidence of falsehoods. “Okay. What kind of music do you like? I mean, there’s a folk dancing group in town. We could go to one of their public events.”
“Folk dancing?” Now the image of Thompson in lederhosen jumped into my mind, and I giggled. “I guess I was thinking we’d go out to a club or something.”
Thompson considered this very seriously. “Do we like the same bands?”
I remembered the music the radio had blasted. “Probably not.”
He nodded and then sighed almost wistfully. “I suppose we should go rescue Bea.”
I agreed. When we broke our intimate contact, I kind of felt “it,” you know? All that stuff people tell you you’re supposed to feel when you’re with a boy shimmied along my nerve endings. I might even have gasped. I grabbed his hand suddenly, as if I needed his touch to survive.
Gah. How hopeless did that sound?
Still, I found myself leaning into his shoulder as we walked. This was so unexpected. In fact, my brain still rebelled. Thompson!? I mean, he was the last person I thought I’d date. Plus, I was going to have to actually start calling him Matthew or Matt or something other than his surname.
Bea was going to tease me mercilessly.
I thought for sure she’d be able to tell something was different when we walked up to the theater steps. Bea, instead, hardly even noticed our approach. She and the lone survivor of her admirers’ club were head-to-head over something on his iPhone. I was glad to see it was the pun guy. Erik? Nathan? Rupert? I had no idea, and I wondered if I needed to remember, given that she was supposed to be dating Malcolm.
Thompson cleared his throat. “Ready?”
Bea blinked as if coming out of a dream. “Oh!” She grabbed the pun guy’s phone and messed around on it, as though she owned it, and then made more noises of concern. “Ana! We’re going to be late to the potluck. Malcolm is picking me up at my place in ten minutes.”
The pun guy’s eyebrows twitched at the mention of another boy’s name. He grabbed for his iPhone petulantly, but Bea handed it back without protest. She was up and moving to the truck, leaving us to apologize and say an awkward good-bye to her jilted paramour.
We followed after her, shaking our heads at her frantic dialing and constant stream of inventive curses. She let out a blue streak when she apparently connected to Malcolm’
s voice mail. “Hey, hon,” she said, in a voice as sweet as her expletives had been strong. “Tryouts ran late. You’ll have to meet us at the park.” She proceeded to give directions to the band shelter at Como Park.
“Where are we taking her?” Thompson wanted to know.
“Oh, um, do you have plans?” I asked, and when he didn’t immediately jump in, I continued. “Bea and I have a potluck for this, uh, group we belong to. Anyway, it’s kind of a big deal. Bea always calls it the social event of the season. Want to come?”
Thompson looked a bit unsure.
“As our first date,” I added to sweeten the deal.
So many witches attended the Midsummer Gathering that Thompson had to park his truck two blocks from the pavilion. “Wow,” he said as we started the long walk through the park. “What is this? Some kind of charity event?”
“Sort of,” Bea said snidely, and then went back to her phone.
I shot her a glare, but she didn’t see it. She was busy trying to figure out how to meet up with Malcolm. Their conversation had been going on for more than five minutes. I was beginning to think he’d gone to the wrong part of the park. Como was huge.
“Sort of?” Thompson asked.
“Bea’s just being a jerk,” I said. What she meant was that the Midsummer Gathering was one of the few events where non-Initiates, or failed ones, like me, got the “privilege” of hanging out with the Inner Circle and the Elders. “It’s just a party for our coven.”
“Wait.” Thompson, who had been holding my hand again, jerked back. “You guys really are witches?”
“Duh,” Bea said before going back to berating Malcolm for going around Como Lake instead of coming over to the zoo side.
“I’m not really,” I said. “I didn’t make the tryout.”
“You have to audition?” he asked incredulously.
“In a way,” I said. I was under a strict oath not to reveal too much about the nature of True Magic, but I hated lying. If Thompson and I were going to try to date, I needed to be able to tell him something about all this, didn’t I? “Think of it like cheerleading squad or hockey, right? There are some things you have to be good at. If you are, you make the team. If not …” I shrugged.
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