You Must Not Miss

by Katrina Leno

  “You’re first, Shitbrain,” Clare said sweetly. Ben made a face, and she blew him a kiss.

  Magpie had never gone bowling with Allison—she wouldn’t have worn the shoes; she wouldn’t have liked how the ball made your fingers smell like sweat and grease sometimes. She also didn’t like to lose, so she generally stayed away from anything that required keeping score: too much of a risk.

  “Image is everything,” she’d told Magpie once, her legs shin-deep in pedicure water. Magpie’s own water had been too hot, but she hadn’t wanted to complain. “Ow! That hurts,” Allison had snapped at her nail technician.

  The memory made Magpie feel a little queasy.

  Ben bowled a strike and the crowd went wild.

  “You’re up, Prettygirl,” he said to Magpie, trying not to look pleased, trying not to blush, not quite making eye contact when he called her that.

  Magpie got up, found her ball, and hit a lackluster three pins. The crowd went wild again. She quickly realized that the crowd went wild no matter whose turn it was, no matter what sort of score they ended up with. The nonbowling three of them acted as personal cheering brigade for whichever name was up on the screen.

  Magpie sat next to Ben, and Clare hopped up to take her turn.

  “Nice job,” Ben said.

  “I only got three pins,” Magpie replied, rolling her eyes. Her second ball had gone straight in the gutter.

  “You’re turning your hand,” he said. “Right when you let the ball go. That’s why it went crooked.”

  “Wow, Ben, I didn’t know you were such an expert bowler; you’ll have to give me a lesson,” Jeremy said, winking as he got up to congratulate Clare on a spare.

  “He’s a good guy,” Ben whispered, pointing his chin at Jeremy, who had bent down to retie his shoelaces. “He has a trans aunt; she took me to my first pride parade.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, she’s cool. And Jeremy’s not from Farther, you know, so he didn’t know me before,” Ben said. “I was kind of nervous. To tell him. But he was totally normal; he just launched into this really funny story about his aunt spraying him in the face with a garden hose.” Ben laughed. “It had nothing to do with her being trans; he’s just really random.”

  Clare erupted into applause, and Magpie and Ben looked up to see that Jeremy had gotten a strike. After three games, everyone had won except Magpie, but they were all tired, and their time was up, and losing a bowling game against friends didn’t seem like that much of a loss to Magpie anyway.

  It was after midnight by the time they made their way out to the parking lot. Clare was giving Jeremy a ride home, and Ben insisted on biking back to Magpie’s house with her to make sure she got home okay.

  Très chivalrous.

  “You guys could probably just stick your bikes in the back of my mom’s SUV,” Clare offered.

  “We’re fine. It’s a nice night,” Ben said.

  “Mags? Last chance,” Clare said.

  “We’re fine,” Magpie echoed. Clare shrugged, then stepped forward and in one movement had wrapped her arms around Magpie’s shoulders and squeezed her and then was gone again. Jeremy hugged her next, and then he and Ben did some funny guy hug, and he got in the passenger seat of the SUV, and they were gone. It was just the two remaining bowlers. Ben started off toward the bike rack and Magpie followed.

  They unlocked their bikes and were on their way, Ben sometimes coming up beside Magpie, sometimes falling behind, sometimes talking, sometimes not. It was a nice night, he was right—the humidity of the day had burned off, but it was still warm, and the stars were out, and there was a smell in the air, as if it might start to rain soon. But a nice, welcome rain. A rain that would bring a cool morning with it.

  When they reached Magpie’s house, they both slid off their bikes in the driveway. There were no lights on inside, but Ann Marie’s car was parked in the driveway. Was she already asleep? Magpie hoped so. She turned toward Ben, and he’d taken off his helmet and looped it around his handlebars. But he still held his bike; he didn’t kickstand it—as if he knew this was as far as he was allowed to come.

  “I had a really fun time tonight,” he said, then he laughed and touched his hair. “Is that the most stereotypical thing I’ve ever said?”

  “I had fun, too,” Magpie said.

  And she had a sudden, wild thought.

  She should take him to Near.

  Ben was one of her closest friends now. And in Near she could repay him for his friendship. His words echoed back to her—he didn’t know me from before. She had heard the things people had said about him when he’d first come out. She had heard what Allison had said about him. But she hadn’t known him then. And she hadn’t done anything. But she could do something now. She could give him whatever he wanted. She could give him a car, a pile of money, a—

  A pile of money.

  I was wondering how long it was going to take you to think of that.

  Magpie could bring money back from Near. She could make money and bring it back.

  It’s not quite that simple, actually. Money is complicated. Lots of little anticounterfeit bits.

  “I should get inside,” Magpie said. She could only think about the color green raining from the sky and filling up buckets like nothing.

  You want to make it rain money? I hadn’t realized you were such a little capitalist.

  Ben nodded, then looked past Magpie and up at the house, suddenly concerned. “Your mom—I hope she’s feeling better.”

  “She’s fine,” Magpie said. “Probably sleeping. Thanks for asking.”

  “I’ll text you,” Ben said. He did not make a move toward her. She stepped backward and nodded.

  She did not want Ben to kiss her because if he did that, he might get the wrong impression: that she was the type of girl who should be kissed. And she wasn’t. She was the type of girl who should be run from.

  “Text me,” she said. “Get home safely.”

  She angled the bike between them, so even if he suddenly thought he should get closer to her, he couldn’t. There was a wall of metal, of rubber, between them.

  “All right,” he said. He fitted his helmet back on and swung a leg over his bike.

  He seemed to know that she didn’t want him to wait for her to get inside. He started off down the street; Magpie dropped her bike on the grass and dug her keys out of her purse.

  She was quiet going in the house. Ann Marie’s bedroom door was closed, and Magpie could see a flickering light coming from underneath it. She had the TV on, muted, while she slept.

  “Tell me why I can’t make money?” Magpie whispered.

  You made one pen and you think you’re a wizard. Hither had taken up much of the couch, spreading an unnecessary amount of limbs over the cushions and pillows.

  “I made one pen and it didn’t kill me. So why should money be any different?”

  You want to go into Near and bring a hundred bucks back? Be my guest.

  “But why should I stop there?”

  Because one pen is one pen. And one hundred-dollar bill is one hundred-dollar bill. It would take you months to create enough money to add up to anything substantial. And you haven’t made anything since the pen, I’ve noticed, so clearly you’re still feeling the effects.

  Magpie wasn’t necessarily still feeling the effects, no; she hadn’t made anything since the pen because the way it had made her feel had scared her. There was the feeling that something had been taken from her, yes, but there was something else. There was the power she had felt—the power that she could both make and take whatever she wanted. And the desire to do it again, and again, and again… And the fear that once she gave into that desire, she wouldn’t be able to stop.

  But then—what was the point of creating a world that would answer to her every whim if she was too scared to take advantage of it?

  So she went out to the backyard. And before she could really think about what she was doing, she had thrown open the shed doo
r and strode through it to the bright, sunny hillside of Near.

  It seemed to always be sunny in Near when she entered it. Always around four o’clock in the afternoon. Of course—she could make time speed up or slow down according to her whim. That was easy. She could make it nighttime with the blink of an eye, just as she could take one step and cover a mile of ground.

  Hither had come through with her. It looked indignant; its almost-human arms were crossed over its almost-human chest.

  What do you suppose you’re doing?

  “I’m proving you wrong. This is my world, and I can make anything I want. I can make enough money to do whatever I want.”

  But you don’t need money in here. Everything is free for you. You are a god here.

  “But you need money in the real world,” Magpie said. “And I could buy my own house, a car, an entire town. I could buy the town of Farther and make it just like Near. I could do anything I wanted to.”

  And she raised her hand, palm up, and it happened much more quickly this time: a flutter of wind, a flash of light, and there was a perfectly real hundred-dollar bill resting in Magpie’s fingers.

  Not a counterfeit bill. A bill as real as the pen in her pocket, the pen she carried with her now wherever she went to remind herself that she had written her own destiny, that she was in control of everything.

  I’d stop there. I warned you before; you are not limitless.

  “But you’re just a part of me,” Magpie said. “You’re just something I created. So if you’re telling me I’m not limitless, that’s just my own subconscious doubting what I can do. And I’m never going to break free of that unless I try.”

  Your logic sounds good and all, but that’s not how it works. I’m telling you, you’re going to hurt yourself if you try to do more.

  “I’m going to hurt myself if I don’t,” she corrected.

  And then…

  There was…

  A flash of light.

  And another bill fluttered down.

  And another…

  And another…

  And that was all Magpie could see: a green rain cloud of money.

  And she felt triumphant and strong and powerful and huge.

  Until she didn’t feel any of those things.

  And the world went dark.

  EIGHT FOR A WISH

  Magpie became aware, gradually, of two things: the sound of a bird singing from far, far away and the pounding headache that was beating against her temples, as if her brain had become too big for the skull that encased it.

  She opened her eyes. Wherever she was, it was daytime, and the sunlight felt more like a knife slicing into her vision in a streak of white-hot flames. She groaned and covered her face with her hand.

  She was lying on something soft. The grass in Near? What was the last thing she remembered? Hither was lecturing her about something. Hither was telling her not to do what she wanted to do. But she had done it anyway, because it was her world, and what was the point of having your own world if you couldn’t do what you wanted in it?

  And then nothing. She couldn’t remember anything.

  She groaned again and opened her eyes under the protection of her cupped palm.

  The sunlight was much more bearable when filtered through the tiny cracks in her fingers, but still her skin glowed red with it and it hurt to blink and it hurt to not blink and it hurt to do anything.

  So after a moment or two of feeling sorry for herself, she removed her hand from her eyes and attempted to let them adjust to the sunlight.

  And she found that she was in her bedroom, although she couldn’t immediately say whether it was her bedroom in Near or her bedroom in Farther because they looked very similar.

  She groaned again. She couldn’t help it. It felt as if somebody were actively sledgehammering her head. She turned to her left and saw a glass of water on her nightstand, two brick-red pills of ibuprofen lying next to it. And lying next to them—the size of a ladybug—was Hither, looking at her with I-told-you-so eyes.

  “Where am I?” she asked. Her voice came out no louder than a whisper. She was trying very hard not to groan again, but it was a battle she thought she would end up losing.

  Do you not remember?

  “We were in Near…”

  And you collapsed. Because you thought you were smarter than I am. Which means you’re really the exact opposite.

  “Are we still in Near?”

  I dragged you back through the doorway. It wouldn’t have been good to stay there in your present condition. You need your rest. You need to replenish your strength. Although you wouldn’t have needed either of those things if you had just listened to me in the first place.

  “How long have I been sleeping?”

  An annoyingly long time. You’ve been quite dramatic.

  Memories were coming back to Magpie in strange flashes. Something pulling her bodily along a field of lime-green grass. Waking up two or three times before now, but falling almost immediately back into a deep, heavy sleep. Ann Marie standing over her holding a glass of something, fretting, wringing her hands, and saying Magpie’s name over and over.

  “Where is my mother?” Magpie asked. “Is it Saturday yet?”

  Saturday is long gone, see you later, ancient history. It is Sunday, my little princess of the nonlistening.

  “Sunday? I’ve been sleeping for more than a day?”

  Lucky for you, you were blessed with a self-involved beast of a birther, or she might have hauled you right back to the hospital she just left. That’s what any sensible mother would have done.

  “What do you know about mothers?”

  Only what you know.

  Magpie would have answered, but Ann Marie chose that moment to walk briskly into the room.

  “Magpie? I thought I heard you. My poor baby. Are you feeling better?”

  Magpie was happy she hadn’t been brought to the hospital, of course, but she couldn’t help but feel a little bit… stung. What mother let her child sleep for an entire weekend without thinking something might be wrong?

  Magpie did her best to look ignorant. “Mom? What happened? Was I asleep?”

  “Oh, sweetheart, it was terrible. I found you in bed like this on Saturday morning. You were in a cold sweat; you wouldn’t stir much when I tried to wake you, but I knew you were okay at least. You said your head was pounding. I’m sure this is the worst migraine I’ve ever seen. Do you remember when I used to get them? They started when I was about your age, but thank God, they seem to have stopped for me now. I was so happy neither of you had ever gotten one; I thought they’d skipped a generation. My poor baby.”

  But Magpie did feel just the slightest bit better. At least Ann Marie had checked on her. And if Magpie really had said her head was pounding (she had no memory of that conversation, but her head was pounding even now), then it made sense that Ann Marie thought it was just a bad migraine. Magpie remembered being younger and not being allowed into her parents’ room because Ann Marie was sleeping off a migraine, a wet washcloth over her eyes to both block out the light and cool her sweaty face. Days of being shushed constantly because Ann Marie needed complete silence.

  “It still hurts a lot,” Magpie said.

  “You’re overworked and overtired, no doubt,” Ann Marie responded. “I always said those schools expect too much of you kids. You can forget about going tomorrow. Maybe Tuesday, too. You need your rest, Magpie, all right?”

  “I have work to do—”

  “Forget it. They can live without a few homework assignments. You’re an excellent student; you aren’t going to compromise your health for anyone.”

  And that was all it took to happily flick the idea of Amelia Earhart or Joyce Carol Oates out of Magpie’s head. She stretched out a little in bed, and said, “I think I’m hungry. Is there anything to eat?”

  “Of course. Just sit right here, and I’ll bring you a plate of something.”

  Ann Marie leaned over the bed and kissed
Magpie on the forehead.

  The kiss felt more like a punch, an explosion of pain that sank deep into Magpie’s head.

  Ann Marie left the room.

  I bet you listen to me from now on, huh?

  “Get over yourself,” Magpie hissed, putting her hand on her head again.

  You could have died. The least you could do is thank me for getting you someplace safe.

  “I’m safe in Near. I would have been safe. It’s out here that worries me more.”

  Already not listening to me. Maybe next time I won’t be so helpful.

  Magpie did not go to school on Monday, and she didn’t go to school on Tuesday, and on Wednesday Ann Marie was gone before Magpie even woke up, so she spent the day, mostly recovered, floating in the pool and enjoying hours on end without anyone around.

  She did not look at the shed much.

  She felt its presence as if it had its own gravity, as if it were doing its best to pull her toward it. But she still felt the weakness inside her own veins, the feeling that something had been taken from her, the feeling that she had exchanged a piece of herself for something. A trade gone wrong.

  She tried not to admit to herself that Hither had been right because it was gloating enough as it was, and she didn’t want to give it any more fuel for its fire.

  She went back to school on Thursday, deliberately late so as to miss Mr. James’s class, and nobody talked to her until lunchtime when Ben and Clare fell upon her as if she had just returned from a war.

  “Mags! Where the hell have you been? I texted you, like, a billion times. I was going to show up at your house if you weren’t here today. What’s wrong?” Clare demanded in a frantic whisper. Magpie was grateful for that; the last thing she needed was the attention of the rest of the lunch table.

  “I’m really sorry. I’ve been so sick. Honestly, I haven’t even looked at my phone.”

  “We were really worried about you,” Ben said, his voice even quieter than Clare’s so Magpie had to lean in a little bit to hear him.

  “Ben thought you weren’t coming to school because you had such a terrible time at bowling,” Clare said. “But I told him three days of classes are a lot to miss just because you didn’t win.” She paused, then added thoughtfully, “Wait… That’s not why you were out, right?”