The Best Kind of Magic

by Crystal Cestari

“Do I look bothered?” he answers with a grin. He turns back to me. “I should probably go say hi to my dad so he doesn’t think I’m embarrassed by him. I’ll see you later, okay?”

  “Okay.” I watch him head back to the auditorium; he throws me a smile over his shoulder that makes Ivy’s jaw hit the floor.

  “You two are not hooking up later,” she says, more like a question than a statement.

  “Seems that way,” I respond. “Don’t tell me a siren is jealous of a lowly matchmaker.”

  I’ve rendered her speechless, which is pretty much the best way to end any conversation.

  After school, I make a quick stop at the apartment to get fresh socks and unmentionables, knowing full well Mom will be occupied at Windy City. I haven’t been home for a couple days and even though she knows I’m with the Sharmas, I find it extremely negligent of her to just let me roam wild without calling or texting me to check in. I mean for Gods’ sakes, I could be getting myself in a lot of trouble, and not just the typical kinds of teenage trouble, like drugs and whatnot. Even if I’m not up to her supernatural standards, I still know lots of ways to stir up the paranormal underworld. The more I think about it, the angrier I get. Do I really need to go to her for help on the Cassandra case? It seems like I’m doing all right on my own. If she couldn’t make any progress, maybe the Sand bloodline is not as great as she’s made it out to be. Clearly not, if her genetics resulted in my complete magical failure. Maybe I don’t need her help, for this or anything else.

  Because I don’t care what Amani says; Mom will NOT CARE that my motivations have been pure and will bring out the big hexes for this. Heaven forbid I keep a secret from her when she refuses to ever let me even remotely near her inner circle. This kind of cyclical thinking convinces me that we don’t need my mom, and I won’t share any of this with her until we have Cassandra back safe and sound. I’d rather her be informed of my disobedience, after all is said and done, in a “well, it worked out in the end! SUCK IT, MOM!” sort of way.

  While riffling through my drawers, I come across my blank Chicago Culinary Institute application. I’ve been looking at it every couple days since my campus visit last spring. Gods that was a fun day. Mom couldn’t close the shop to go with me, but my buddy Ella was able to have someone cover at her bakery so she could be my guide. It was Ella who suggested the school; while I could just get going with my own business straight after graduation, Ella said getting a culinary degree would help me with stuff beyond the kitchen, like learning about sanitary codes and managing a staff. We had such a good time peeking in on classes such as Pastry Design and World Cuisine that I wanted to ditch Manchester right away and start my coursework. But since then, I haven’t even made progress on the application.

  I keep reading the questions over and over, wondering how my life will fit neatly into a series of empty boxes. Besides the basics of my name, birth date, and social security number, I’m really not sure how to capture the essence of Amber without looking like I’m applying for a creative writing degree.

  Tell us about yourself

  Well, I’m the only girl in my family to be born without the powers of witchcraft, but I am super-talented at helping other people fall in love. My best friend has the ability to see the future, but due to a pact we made in middle school, I have no idea what lies ahead other than I will eventually escape high school. I’m currently working on finding a family friend who was most likely kidnapped by goblins.

  No.

  What are your extracurricular activities?

  I don’t participate in any school functions, partly because everyone at school hates me, but mostly because I work at my mom’s magic shop five days a week. I can’t play sports, sing, act, or do anything that would garner me a position in any club or team.

  Cool.

  Why do you want to attend the Chicago Culinary Institute?

  Here’s the big one, the question that actually means something and won’t make me seem like a lunatic. This is the one that counts. But how can I put my reasons into words and convincingly convey how important this is to me? How can I make them understand how walking through those doors on my campus tour made me feel like I belong? How I never know what to wear but that a white chef’s coat will fit me just perfectly? How baking is something I discovered on my own—not a talent bestowed on me by ancient mystical bloodlines but a skill I built myself from the ground up. Baking is something that’s entirely mine, outside of the crazy world where I’ve always struggled to find my place.

  And now that my match-reading for Amani completely blew up in my face, getting into school is even more important. I’ve always been confident in my supernatural skills, but now I’m plagued with doubt. I know I can make a kickass pumpkin pie, but do I know FOR SURE that I can make a match? I keep trying to convince myself that what happened with Amani and Vincent has to be a fluke; maybe I built him up too much or maybe she expected some sort of crazy, unobtainably romantic first meeting that could never match her ideal. I can’t understand why I would’ve messed it up. I’ve always seen love as black and white: someone’s either your match or he’s not. But this stuff with Amani (and let’s be real, Charlie) is throwing in shades of gray I can’t process. Why would the powers that be even allow matchmakers to exist if our magic isn’t a surefire thing?

  Although…although…if there is an error in my match processor, it does open up some possibilities—possibilities that I shouldn’t find any solace in, but that would definitely make my current conundrum less troublesome. Because if my matches may be questionable, that means maybe the girl who keeps taunting me from behind a certain young man’s eyes may not be as big a concern and…

  Stop it, Amber. Focus on something that’s real, not crazy hypotheticals. I’ve started this college essay a billion times, but the words never come out right. It’s always too cheesy, too schmaltzy, too melodramatic. Why do I have to prove I can write anyway? Shouldn’t my admission be based on something more pertinent, like a perfect pineapple upside-down cake? Who cares if I can craft a moving essay if my pies can blow people’s minds? Although I guess it would be difficult for an admissions counselor to eat his way through daily submissions of sugar.

  ARGH!

  I put it away and head to MarshmElla’s, where I spend the evening helping Ella prep tomorrow morning’s batch of cinnamon buns and teaching Charlie the proper icing-to-pastry ratio.

  Delicious.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I WAKE up at dawn to make blueberry muffins from scratch. There’s something calming about being awake before much of the world, and though I haven’t caught many sunrises in my day, I decide today will be a good one. Though it takes some time to acclimate to the Sharmas’ kitchen (who puts a sifter next to a pizza stone?), I eventually find my rhythm, mixing in flour and brown sugar. The batter comes together nicely, and I carefully grease the muffin tin. As I work, I don’t have to think about schoolwork or supernaturals; don’t have to worry about the intricacies of love or heartbreak. I only need to fold in the berries and bake for twenty minutes. If only everything else in life was so easy (and delicious). I pull them out before they’re completely done and add a sugar crumble to the golden tops. The batch cools on a butcher block while I finish getting ready for school; being up this early means I won’t have to endure another bathroom confessional with Amani.

  I decide to take a break from public transit and walk to school. I can roam the Chicago streets, taking in all the morning rush while sipping a nice overpriced coffee and enjoying the fruits of my labor.

  A few blocks away from Manchester, I spot a familiar face coming toward me: resident adorable elderly person, Wendy Pumple. She sees me and panics. Physically unable to make a run for it and fully aware it would be rude to turn around and walk away, she stands frozen, nervously fumbling with her handbag as if she purposely stopped in the middle of the street to find something.

  “Oh. Well hello, dear,” she says, her voice quivering, and not in a cute old lady way.

 
; “Hey, Mrs. P., are you sure you should be talking to me? I mean, I wouldn’t want you to belittle your magical standing,” I say. A little sassy, but whatever.

  “Oh, Amber, I feel terrible about what happened the other night,” she says sadly. “You have every right to be upset. The conversation elevated so quickly and I…wanted to say something, but I didn’t want to rock the boat.”

  “Well, you weren’t the only one. Seems like the whole group was content in sending me off to drift.” Saying the words aloud only confirms how much their dismissal hurt me. I know I was never really part of the coven, but I felt like I belonged, like a spirited mascot or something. Instead, I was just some random who occasionally provided snacks.

  “It’s not like that, dear,” Wendy tries to assure me, but I cross my arms to let her know I don’t buy it. “The group is just going through some changes, that’s all.”

  “And how’s that going, hmm?”

  Wendy looks nervous, like a hunted animal backed into a corner. I can see her mentally cycling through a series of statements, trying to decide which would be the less incriminating. “It has been interesting. Victoria has brought a different energy to Dawning Day.”

  Now there’s a politically correct response if I ever heard one. “I don’t trust her. I don’t think Mom does either.”

  “Oh, well, I wouldn’t know about that. Your mother has such a nurturing soul, what with taking in Bob and opening her shop to the mystical community. She’s always been so welcoming to others.”

  Except to her own daughter. “I guess,” I huff.

  “Try not to be too hard on her, dear,” Wendy insists. “Your mom loves you very much. Even though it may not seem like it, I know she doesn’t act without reason.” Whatever. This is witchy “give yourself over to the Fates” talk, and I’m not having it right now. If Mom had a reason for casting me out, she could have told me at any time. There shouldn’t be a need for secrecy among the Sands.

  “Give her my love, will you, dear?” she asks.

  Sure, if I ever speak to her again.

  A few minutes late to school, I’ve missed the opening rituals of a morning pep rally. Darn this school and its constant onslaught of organized student gatherings! I never know what to do with myself at these things. I mean, I wouldn’t immediately land on “peppy” as an adjective for myself, so how am I supposed to conjure it for a group of my peers who are only being celebrated because they happen to show a slight advantage in athleticism? So you can take an air-filled shape and put it through another shape—so what? Didn’t we get applause for that sort of thing as toddlers? Is this really something we have to cheer for?

  The whole school is seated on wooden bleachers in the gym, watching the dopes from the football team wave from center court. There is a blanket of green and orange—our school colors—covering the bleachers, making me nauseous. I’m not a graphic designer, but I’m pretty sure those colors do not belong in such close proximity. Neil Foster, the school mascot, skips around in a copper fox suit, stopping to shake his bushy tail at random intervals. And of course, Ivy and the rest of the cheerleading squad are down there, dancing to some pumped-in beat, their skirts dangerously short. Sometimes I think these things are solely organized by the siren herself, forgetting that there’s even a team to recognize and giving her an excuse to be “foxy” (vomit).

  Well, at least it’s getting me out of gym class.

  Everyone is now up on their feet, singing the school song, but I stay put, a sea of butts in my face. It’s uncomfortable, to say the least. The crowd starts yelling louder, spelling out f-o-x over and over.

  After suffering through a final call-and-response cheer led by Ivy, I notice one boy in the crowd who’s not completely hypnotized by her hip gyrations and is actually looking my way instead: Charlie. From across the gym, he gives me a little wave, and I wave back, my heart desperately trying to claw its way out of its current funk. He wraps his hands around his neck and pantomimes choking himself, which makes me laugh and catches the attention of Queen Ivy, who’s not used to having her subjects disobey her command. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her watching my and Charlie’s exchange, and even though she still wears a smile for the audience, I can sense jealousy in her eyes. Good.

  Once we’re finally dismissed, everyone starts to disperse, and I look for Charlie in the masses. One significant disadvantage to school uniforms is trying to find someone when we’re all mashed together; forgive the cliché, but it really is like picking a needle out of a haystack. Physical discrepancies sort of disappear when all you see is plaid, plaid, plaid.

  Of course I easily find Ivy, who’s already claiming her next victim, climbing up on some sad, needy boy whose blond bombshell fantasies have gotten the best of him. Sucker. As everyone continues to exit the gym, I watch as she slithers up against him, a python squeezing her willing prey, hiding his features from view as she consumes him. It’s messed up. I’ve seen it time and again and usually turn away before my gag reflex kicks in, but for some reason, I can’t stop watching this boy happily and willingly be a part of her power trip.

  Until I see why. She’s doing this snake-charming performance just for me. Because when she’s finished writhing, it’s clear the boy is not some random choice.

  It’s Charlie.

  I feel myself break into a thousand pieces. Sensing me behind her, she playfully pulls Charlie’s hand from her hip and looks back at me, her lip gloss smudged with satisfaction. Once she’s released her siren grip, Charlie shakes his head, as if he’s just awoken from a bad dream. His eyes lock on mine, and his lips form a horrified “oh.” He tries to push himself away from her, but there’s so many people still exiting the gym, they keep knocking him back into her, much to Ivy’s delight.

  “Amber,” he calls, panicked. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

  “Charlie?” Even though it was only a whisper, a crowd starts to gather around us, sensing blood in the water. I hear giggling and hushed gossip, but my pounding heart drowns it all out.

  “I was waiting for you, and she threw herself at me.”

  “Yeah, and he caught me. With his lips.” She wipes some of her cherry-red lip gloss from his mouth.

  “Stop.” He winces.

  “Stop what, Charlie? She saw you; everyone saw you.” She gestures like a game show host. “We’ve been doing this dance for years.”

  Charlie looks at me, desperation behind his frames. “It’s not like that.”

  “Sure seems that way,” Ivy says, relishing the moment. “And it’s about time.” She snuggles up next to him, but he squirms away. By this time, Amani has pushed through the horde to be by my side.

  “What’s going on?” she asks.

  “He…she…” I can’t find the words. I can’t feel my face. I’m completely numb, like I’m having open-heart surgery in front of the whole school. Everyone’s humming and buzzing around me, but I can’t move, paralyzed by an unresponsive organ.

  “Amber?”

  “Amani, let me explain,” Charlie begs.

  Despite our recent friendship chill, she immediately goes into a protective stance. She sees Ivy’s victorious gloating and quickly connects the dots.

  “Let’s go,” Amani says to me. She grabs my arm, pulling me into the crowd, hurrying toward the nearest girls’ restroom. The echoes of whoops and hollers ring in my ears.

  “Are you okay?” she asks as we duck into an accessible stall. She grabs a fistful of toilet paper, and the words that escaped me finally start vomiting out through intermittent choking.

  “I…I don’t even know why I’m upset. It’s not like he owes me anything. I’m not his girlfriend; I’m not his match. He can kiss whoever he wants,” I say, forcing the building tears to stay put in their ducts. And it’s true: I have no claim over Charlie Blitzman. I have no right to even be here, on the verge of tears over someone who isn’t mine.

  “Well, it doesn’t always work out nice and neat, does it?” Amani says gently. She pull
s me toward her, wrapping her arms around me. I wipe a few escapees on her uniform, leaving a trail of splotches on her shoulder.

  “This is so stupid! Why am I crying?”

  “Because…you like him, whether he’s your match or not. The heart wants what it wants.”

  And suddenly I’m in the shoes of every client whose dreams I’ve dashed, whose hearts have broken right before my eyes as I’ve told them their love is not meant to be. I’ve never understood why they get so upset; isn’t my advice a blessing? A warning not to go down a path that leads to a dead end? But now I know: the heart, for all its strength, beats blindly.

  The bell echoes through the bathroom; the four-minute passing period of pain is over.

  “Want to just stay here?” Amani offers. “We can stand on the toilet seats if anyone comes looking.”

  “No, I don’t want to give anyone, most of all Ivy, the satisfaction of knowing I’m broken in the bathroom,” I say, wiping my face clean. Amani gives a weak smile. She takes my hand as we head off to English together through the empty hallways. The problem with suffering a personal tragedy at school is that no matter the outcome, you’re still at school. Your insides can be bleeding, but you’re still expected to turn in your homework and take notes on the wars of our ancestors, when all you really can focus on is the war within yourself. It’s an isolated battle, fought in silence at an ancient desk, one exceedingly pointless class after another. There’s no escape, no place to hide, the only mercy being the final bell.

  I hold my head high as we walk in late to class, ignoring the whispers and mocking gestures as I take my seat. I stare straight ahead, tuning out everything around me. I can’t control if my classmates talk, but I can control whether or not I show I care.

  “Amber, Amani, you’re tardy.” Ms. Dell states the obvious. “Our first group has already started, and now you’re interrupting their presentation on Jane Austen.” I look at the three suckers squirming in full Regency costume. They seem almost grateful for the intermission. “Explanation now.”