Love Spells and Other Disasters

by Angie Barrett

  “Well, it’s funny you should say that.” She clearly misses the sarcasm. “Because I want to do something that will boost everyone’s spirits. April is so dull and wet. I think we should do something fun, like candy grams.”

  “Candy grams are a boring Valentine’s Day thing. Totally overdone. Besides, it’s not allowed.” I tap the assignment sheet where it says no candy grams in bolded, block letters.

  “I was thinking more like edible arrangements or something, but you’re right, too overdone.” Abby’s pops up from her chair. “I have another idea.” She heads toward the non-fiction section before disappearing down an aisle.

  I suppose I could follow her but I’m glued to my seat, a silent protest against the injustices of this day. My irritation at this whole situation is back.

  I don’t want to work with Abby.

  And I don’t like group work unless it’s with Ethan.

  I’m a sucker for a good grade, though, so I read the assignment sheet over again and hope a killer idea smacks me upside the head so we can get on with it.

  “Got it!” Abby zips out of the aisle with a book in her hand. One book.

  This better be a fantastic idea.

  Her smile is megawatt bright as she holds the book for me to see.

  I stare at the cover. “Love spells?”

  “This is perfect! Think about it.” She’s flipping through the pages. “We can sell…not love spells, that’s silly…but…crush spells for hookups. For National Lover’s Day! It’ll be so much fun!”

  “National Lover’s Day is totally not a thing.”

  Abby slaps the book closed then yanks her phone from her back pocket. “It is a thing!” She taps an icon. “It’s on April 23rd, which also happens to be Take a Chance Day. This is perfect!” She turns her phone so I can see the app she’s on.

  “You have an app for obscure holidays?”

  The look she gives makes me feel like I should also have an app for obscure holidays. “I’m on the social committee, duh.” As if that explains everything.

  “That’s the stupidest idea—”

  She folds her arms and taps her long nails against her skin. “Oh, right, I get it. Your mom’s all into the supernatural stuff so you have to rebel, right? Be all, like, screw this magic stuff?”

  “No,” I mumble. But yeah, kind of.

  Abby rolls her eyes and moves past me to her seat, flipping through the pages, stopping here and there to read. I peek at what she’s reading. The spells she lands on all sound like super basic greeting cards and say things like: lily white, fortune’s bright, binding love, forever might.

  “Mr. Tremmel is the chair of the business department,” Abby says without looking up from the spell book. “I’ve never had a class with him so he doesn’t really know what I can do. I need to impress him with this project, Rowan.” She stabs me with a hard glare. “I need a reference letter from him.”

  “What for?” I blurt without thinking. I didn’t know Abby was into business. “I mean, I figured you’d be heading into biomechanics, chemical engineering, something like that.” When we were in middle school together, she was all about science. After all the work she used to put into her projects, I always just assumed, if she was going to have a career at all, it would be in that field.

  “No, I’m not.” Her lips stretch into a thin line. “I changed my focus.”

  A lead ball of guilt settles in my stomach. I might have had something to do with that change in focus. After what had happened to her science project, I probably would have given up on that field, too. But that doesn’t mean she should.

  “Not that it’s any of your business.” She clears her throat. “But I’m trying to get a scholarship and I need three reference letters.”

  “Okay, I get that, but why does it have to be Mr. Tremmel? You know he’s really stingy with that stuff. Ms. Savey is your teacher. Wouldn’t it make more sense to get one from her?”

  Abby gives me one of her signature yeah duh looks. “I do have one from her. It isn’t enough. I want one from Mr. Tremmel, the department chair. It’ll make a huge difference. I need you in this with me.”

  My irritation retracts its claws a bit at the expression in her eyes, like I’m seeing inside a window that I’ve never been able to look in before. This might be a chance to make it up to her for ruining her science project all those years ago, even if she never knew it was me.

  “These spells are missing something.” I grab a pen and tap my bottom lip with the end. What would I want in a guy if I were going to summon one with a spell? I mean, if spells actually worked.

  I’d want someone who was hot, of course, and fun. Into me in a caring, interested way, not a creepy, possessive way. He’d be down to earth and realistic. Open-minded, sure, but I have enough weirdness in my life as it is, so not a guy who’d be all into ghosts and stuff, or at least, not someone who would be enamored by my mom’s line of work. Someone I can laugh with, like I do with Ethan. The belly hurting kind of laughs that make everything seem like it’s going to be okay no matter what. I’d love someone who knows what I’m thinking and what I need without me saying a word.

  Okay, that’s a long list.

  I sigh inwardly. Let’s face it—even if a guy like that exists, someone like that would never go for a girl like me, no matter how awesome Ethan thinks I am.

  Abby’s watching me daydream with a look of annoyance on her face. I put pen to paper and scribble a poem. “There is a love I desperately long for, so vibrant that it makes my heart soar. With a love at first sight, we’ll know it’s just right—”

  Her eyes go wide. “Whoa there, Shakespeare. Maybe poetry isn’t your forte.” She taps the book. “Let’s stick to one of these but put a twist on it with names.”

  I push my notebook away, closing it on the silly poem I just wrote. “I was joking.” Sort of.

  “Well, I’m not.” She shoves the book toward me. “Seriously. Read this.”

  I cock an eyebrow, and despite my better judgement, glance at the words on the page. “This says not to use names.”

  “Mel, come here!” Abby shouts to one of her friends, completely ignoring me as she waves Mel over. “How much would you pay for a hookup with your crush?”

  Mel is a tall, lithe, gorgeous girl who probably could get any guy she wants just with a flutter of her eyes. “Who’s that guy from St. Michael’s College we met the other weekend? Andrew?” She closes her eyes and sighs. “He won’t give me the time of day. Rich, hot, and very into older women.”

  “Yes, but what would you pay for a chance?”

  Mel’s eyes pop open and she smiles like a cat with a mouse trapped under its paw. “Mmmm… A lot.”

  “Hang on, genius.” I point to the book again. “First of all, this is not an actual thing. Magic doesn’t work. And second of all, what you’re proposing is a little skeevy, don’t you think?”

  Abby contemplates me. “Okay, right, I got a little excited.” She looks over at Mel again. “For entertainment purposes, what would you pay for a crush spell—you know, a little poem that you could read for fun that would be about you and Andrew k-i-s-s-i-n-g-ing? Five bucks? Ten?”

  Mel pops a hip out and puts a finger on her lips. “For fun? Maybe a dollar?”

  Abby holds her hand out. “Okay, give us a dollar.” She looks at me. “Write her a spell.”

  My mouth drops open.

  “All you have to do is copy these.” She leans in close so Mel can’t hear and taps the book. “Come on, we’re doing this project together. I’m the brains and you’re the—” She gives me a judge-y once over. “Well, I don’t know what you are but your cursive is legible and I guess pretty, besides you’re stuck with me.” She narrows her eyes. “And I’m stuck with you.”

  I scan the library and take note that every other person in our classes has been partnered up. There
are no other options and I know, without even asking, that Mr. T will not agree to a switch.

  “This is stupid.” I pick up the pen, though, because she has a point. We are stuck with each other.

  Abby’s smile curls knowingly. “I knew you’d see it my way.” She shoves my notebook back toward me. “Write a crush spell for Mel.”

  Mel fishes out a dollar and hands it to Abby. “Your first customer.”

  Abby waves the bill at me. “No overhead. Pure profit.”

  Okay…true. We’ve already aced this project if people fall for this nonsense, and if she needs to impress Mr. Tremmel, making a butt-load of money for his charity will have us both in his good books for a while. Abby’s social status alone will get us customers, and I do have nice cursive thanks to my mom’s calligraphy phase years ago. If I’m going to be copying the simple rhymes from this book, at least I can make it look pretty.

  “Fine. What’s the guy’s name again?”

  “Andrew.” Mel giggles. “He’s got the cutest dimples and these huge blue eyes. Mmmm, I just melt when I see him.”

  “Okay. Andrew…” I glance at the spell book. Pretty straight forward. “A wish for love, she beckons for him. He’ll come when called, her heart he shall win. Forever in Mel’s arms, Andrew will agree. No other will do, so bound will they be.” I glance over at Abby. “It’s not exactly Pulitzer prize winning but…”

  “Do I have to do anything with it?” Mel asks as she takes the sheet of paper, obviously not caring that it sounds ridiculous as hell.

  “Uhhh…” Abby reads the book. “Yeah, you have to read it out loud when you’re alone tonight. Light two white candles before you do and then…” She continues reading. “And then burn the spell when you’re done.”

  Mel laughs as she folds the paper. “Okay.” She winks. “Best dollar I’ve ever spent just for the fantasy of it all. Andrew is totally out of my league.”

  Hard to imagine someone being out of Mel’s league, but okay. She walks away and Abby grabs my arm, her long, manicured nails pinching into my skin.

  “We’re going to make a ton of money with this project. Mr. Tremmel will love us and then he’ll totally write me a glowing referral. Best plan ever!”

  Chapter Two

  The tension from today has roped itself through my muscles, leaving me achy and ready for a nap. The math test wasn’t too bad, but the unexpected quality time with Abby was stressful. She was being civil for the first time in ages, and I couldn’t help but wonder what hostility might be lurking in her next comment.

  Ethan drives me home from school—when his car is working, that is. His dad got him a very well-used Jeep when he first got his license and we’re both surprised that the thing still gets us from point A to point B. It looks decent on the outside, but it’s prone to breaking down. Often. The wipers kind of jitter their way over the windshield and the headlights fade in and out on occasion. Sometimes the heater works, sometimes it doesn’t, like today.

  Ethan spends the whole ride home, which is a whopping twenty minutes, whining about the math test and how sure he is that he failed. He’s convinced that our math teacher threw in concepts that we never learned. We did, but Ethan was likely staring out the window or doodling in his sketchbook. It’s hard to console him when I tried to get him to study in the days leading up to the test but, as usual, he got too distracted by more interesting things. I totally do, though, because what kind of BFF would I be if I didn’t at least attempt to make him feel justified in his complaining?

  He drops me off at the end of my driveway on his way to the grocery store. It’s pouring again so I speed-walk, not being particularly careful to avoid the puddled divots. Wet gravel crunches under my sneakers and water seeps between the seams.

  By the time I get in the door, I’m ready to slip on some baggy track pants, a bigger hoodie, and my fleece socks, curl up with a hot chocolate, and read a book or something.

  “Sweetie, I’m glad you’re home.” My mom pops her head out of her office doorway. “Mr. Columbus and some guys are working on the chimney in the long room. Would you mind bringing them something to drink? Sparkling water maybe?”

  I’m dripping onto the slate tiles, making a mess that I’m going to have to mop up. “Sure.” I give her a once-over and my eyes widen. “You have an interview today or something?”

  She smiles like she’s on camera as she flicks her hair out of her face. “Local station is sending someone over in a bit to do a piece on reincarnation. ’Tis the season.”

  I nod. The Spring Rebirth. Mom and I can track the moods of the community by what media requests she gets at any given time of year. March and April are all about washing away the winter and starting over. That’s usually when the requests come for interviews with Mom about ghostly encounters related to making peace and settling unfinished business. It’s also the time where people get very into the idea of past-life regression and what may lay ahead for our souls. It’s weird how predictable it is.

  I kick my water-logged shoes onto the boot tray then grimace at my damp socks. Mom’s still standing there and I can practically feel her analyzing my body language. She isn’t the kind of mom who asks things like how was your day? Or what did you learn today? She’s the kind of mom that looks for blips in my aura and sends her questions telepathically just to see if I can figure out what she wants to know.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her about the love spell idea. It’s totally something she would love to hear about. But if I tell her about the love spells, she’ll lecture me about using magic responsibly. It doesn’t matter that these love spells are a joke—Mom takes anything related to the supernatural very seriously. Better to keep quiet and save myself the headache.

  I steer the conversation in a different direction as I strip off my socks. “You look nice. I like that dress on you.”

  She’s wearing a flowy black tank top blouse that showcases her tattoos in all their vibrancy and a wispy printed skirt that swishes when she walks—one that I love seeing her wear because I know it means her mood is less broody and more whimsical. As always, her hair is shaved on one side, parted in a way that makes her look half warrior, half fashion model but at some point today she must have gotten out the hair dye because she’s sporting some purple streaks that weren’t there this morning.

  Bottom line, my mom is way cooler than I’ll ever be. In fact, it would make more sense for Ethan to be her son. His sense of style aligns with hers more than my lack of style does.

  “Thanks!” She gives me a little twirl, then motions toward the kitchen. “Bring the guys some cookies or something. I’m sure they’re hungry.”

  Cookies. Right.

  “Oh! I sorted the piles of fan mail in the library. I’ve tackled most of the emails myself.”

  I turn my back to hang up my jacket so she can’t see my expression. I hate answering the handwritten letters. I know she thinks that I do a better job than she does but she doesn’t seem to realize how draining it is to write them. Emails get email replies, but handwritten letters get handwritten replies. That’s her policy. If someone takes the time to write a letter the old-fashioned way, then we need to do the same. And by we, I mean me. On a day where I’m already worn out, the thought of another few hours of hand-cramping cursive is even more oppressive.

  When I turn back around, she’s gone, so I trudge into the kitchen, plate some cookies, get some sparkling water and put lemon slices in a bowl, and then pile it all onto a tray.

  We live in what Youngtown, Ohio might classify as a mansion. It’s old as hell, built, like, at least a hundred and fifty years ago, and has too many rooms that we’ll never use. Because it’s so old we’ve been enduring renovations on it for the last ten years, at least, around the time my mom finished her doctorate and suddenly became famous. When the money started flowing, the renos started.

  She loves it, even with the draf
ty, impossible to clean rooms, and spotty heat and water pressure. It’s a family heirloom. My dad grew up here and according to Mom’s many theories on ghost habitations, that’s the primary ingredient to a haunting. She insists that Dad’s spirit is living with us. I, on the other hand, have never seen or felt any proof of that. I would think that if Dad was around, he’d make himself known to me, wouldn’t he? I am his only child.

  I take the tray through the servant hallway and into the long room, which I think used to be the main dining room at one point. Now it hardly ever gets used. There’s a massive fireplace at the opposite end that has never worked in all the years we’ve lived here. The one time Mom tried to actually light a fire in it, we ended up with the fire department having to come in and put it out. The smoke stains were a total pain to clean. We mainly use the room as a second library for all the books we have.

  True to her word, there are men working at the far end. Working so hard that they don’t hear me come in.

  “Hey, I’ve brought some water.”

  “Holy crap, girl! You scared the daylights out of me!”

  Mr. Columbus, contractor extraordinaire, is almost unrecognizable with the amount of soot on his body. He’s short and stocky, with arms as thick as tree trunks. He has this grumpy bark to him but he’s actually the sweetest man, like the grandfather who slips you a full-size chocolate bar when your parents aren’t looking. He’s been working here and there to help us renovate this place practically since the day we moved in.

  “Sorry, Mr. C.” I put the tray down on the long side table that’s been covered with a plastic sheet to protect it. “Maybe you should stop fixing all the squeaky hinges so I can’t sneak up on you anymore.”