The Best Kind of Magic

by Crystal Cestari

  “I was attacked by a sea snake,” I say. “I’m bleeding internally.” (Overdramatic? Sure. But you gotta know your audience. A teacher who forces her students to dress in nineteenth-century formal wear enjoys theatrics.)

  Ms. Dell’s face twists in confusion as Ivy groans, “Oh please. Don’t be such an attention whore.”

  “Takes one to know one,” Amani retorts.

  “Girls, that’s enough,” Ms. Dell says to deaf ears.

  “You act like it’s some big surprise. I know you thought you and Charlie had this little flirtation going, but honestly, hon, don’t you think that’s a little bit sad? I mean, why would he go for a peacock-haired freak when he could have a woman like me?” Ivy says, twisting the ends of her golden hair like a mustachioed villain.

  And I realize, this whole thing is just a game. Even if Charlie is not my boyfriend, he would never kiss Ivy, not without a healthy helping of siren powers manipulating him. Evil is not his type. Ivy hates coming in second, and it must have been eating her alive to know there was a Manchester boy who wasn’t worshipping at her feet.

  “What’s sad is being so jealous of a peacock-haired freak that you have to force yourself on innocent victims,” I say. There’s a small smattering of gasps and snickers; the Mr. Darcy up front shifts uncomfortably in his codpiece.

  Ivy stands up, incensed. “You are such a bitch!”

  And before I can stop it, my fist is connecting with Ivy’s nose.

  HOLY HELL, MY KNUCKLES FEEL like they’ve shattered into a million razor-sharp shards. No one tells you how much pain is inflicted on the one who throws the punch. While it was totally satisfying to watch blood drip down Ivy’s pearly whites, I’m not sure my immediate suffering was worth it.

  I’m sitting in Mr. Boger’s office, ice pack resting atop my throbbing hand. I’m pretty sure he and the dean are in the other room discussing whether or not I should be suspended. I’ve been in plenty of fights before, but I’ve never thrown a punch. It’s usually been your basic girl-fight combo of scratching and hair pulling, but since I never start it, I can always play the good ol’ self-defense card. Not this time. Too bad I can’t use one of my mom’s super-sensitive listening charms to hear what they’re saying, but she’ll be here soon enough to end my life, so it really doesn’t matter what they decide.

  Condensation drips on my thigh, and I mentally replay the morning. How did I get here? Somewhere, the Fates are laughing, pointing their spectral fingers at the silly matchmaker who is clearly veering off course. I bet they’re having a real good time at my expense. But you know what? Screw those bastards. They may have a looking glass into past, present, and future, but they’re just bystanders, absently watching while life happens around them. It’s easy to be high and mighty when you never have to take a chance.

  Mr. Boger comes back through the door, wearing his usual “oh, Amber” face. I wonder if other students have gotten to see this winning combination of disappointment and pity, or if I’m just special.

  “Well,” he starts, grunting as he takes the seat across from me. “I wish I could say I’m surprised this happened.”

  “I’m surprised it didn’t happen earlier,” I say, trying to add some levity. “I mean, it’s not like she didn’t have it coming.”

  He is not amused. He leans his elbows on his desk, burying his face in his hands. A sigh leaks through his meaty fingers. “Let the record show that I do not condone violence.”

  “Noted.”

  “I will agree that Ivy is a repeated bully, but you’re smar-ter than this, Amber. I wish you could’ve risen above her level.”

  I swish the melting ice around the bag. A quiet “I know” escapes me.

  “I tried to advocate for you, showing how you’ve been a target for bullying, but the dean is really cracking down on fighting, so it’s a three-day suspension.”

  I say nothing.

  “I called your mother. She should be here soon to pick you up.”

  “Good Gods,” I whisper.

  “I’m sorry, my hands are tied,” Mr. Boger says with a frown. “I think it would be best if you put Ivy Chamberlain out of your mind.”

  Not likely. She seems to be a permanent stain on my existence.

  “The dean was going to come in here and have you issue a statement, but I held her off, as I assume you do not regret your actions.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “That’s what I thought.” A short knock at the door makes him stir, but before he can get up to answer, Mom is walking through. It’s not the first time she’s been here, but it’s definitely her first time picking up a guilty offender.

  “What happened?” she asks Mr. Boger.

  “Ms. Sand, please take a seat.” He gestures toward the empty chair beside me. Mom eyes me like a bomb ready to detonate as she sits.

  “Amber threw a punch at a classmate, Ivy Chamberlain, during their second-period English class. She caught Ivy kissing her—boyfriend?—Charlie Blitzman, after a pep rally.” Mom’s eyes grow wide at the succession of “boyfriend” and “Charlie Blitzman” but says nothing. Mr. Boger continues relaying the facts. “Ivy taunted her afterward, and in front of the class, Amber threw a punch.”

  “Charlie’s not my boyfriend,” I say, as if it matters.

  Mr. Boger nods. “Still, Amber assaulted a student on school grounds. She’s been suspended for three days.”

  Mom sighs, but not her usual fire-breathing dragon sigh. The air comes out softer, more like a cloud than a flame. She frowns, and I almost see a touch of sadness in her eyes. Where’s the fire and brimstone, the crackling cauldron of pain? What’s going on?

  “I understand,” Mom says. “I will handle this at home. Let’s go, Amber.”

  Water trickles down my leg as we exit the office, and I dump the leaky ice pack in a trash can. We walk down the empty halls in silence, occasional curious eyes peeking out from classroom doors. I smear a smile on my face for anyone who catches a glimpse: an unapologetic criminal happy with her offense.

  When we get outside, I see Mom has borrowed Bob’s giant Hummer, the only car large enough to accommodate his mountainous body. We’re pretty much never alone in a car together, so the discomfort of the situation skyrockets.

  We drive a few blocks before she finally asks, “So what do you have to say for yourself?”

  I think before speaking, watching the city landscape roll by. I know I must choose the best explanation if I want to survive. If I turn it back to witchcraft—emphasize how I’m having an existential matchmaking crisis—maybe she’ll spare me. “Things have been really hard with the love stuff lately, and—”

  “You’re dating Charlie?” she interrupts.

  “No. Well, not really.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” She stares straight ahead, but even in profile, I detect hurt feelings. Telling my mom about Charlie would have been awkward no matter how you sliced it, and this delightful revelation is not made any easier thanks to our days spent in mutual stubborn silence.

  “Oh. I don’t know. There’s not really anything to tell….” I trail off.

  Mom takes her right hand off the wheel and reaches for mine. Her grasp is firm, almost pinching, echoing the pained expression on her face. “When I watched you two together that day at the shop, I had my suspicions. Your combined auras just seemed so…light. I’m sorry this happened.”

  Her sympathy is surprising but not unwelcome. “So, you’re not mad?”

  “Well, I’m not happy my daughter is suspended. But from my perspective, some actions are justified. And sticking it to a siren is one of them.”

  Ha! How about that? I smile to myself, but am honestly confused by this gentle, almost understanding reaction. How am I getting off this easily?

  “Mom, I don’t want to sound ungrateful here, but what’s going on? The first time you see me in days is me getting kicked out of school, and you’re all chill? Did you take some sort of witch Quaaludes before picking me up?”

&
nbsp; She neither cracks a smile nor a grimace. She just keeps her eyes on the road. “What happened the other day with the coven…I was…wrong to shut you out.” The word “wrong” comes out slightly mangled, like she’s speaking a foreign language. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her apologize for something, especially anything magic related. “Everything with Dawning Day has been changing; I don’t have the same authority within the group lately and…I was embarrassed for you to see it.”

  My mom, embarrassed? What the what? “It’s not anything to be embarrassed about; they’re the ones being jerks. Anyone who listens to anything Victoria says is clearly deranged.”

  She tilts her head to acknowledge what I’ve said, but I can tell she doesn’t completely believe it. “Still, you shouldn’t have to worry about your mother’s social problems.”

  “But that’s the thing Mom: I do. You’re my mom, and I actually give a crap what happens to you.” This makes her smile a bit. “You don’t have to shield me from everything.”

  She looks over at me quickly, her dark eyes starting to warm. “Okay. I’ll try to remember that.”

  Mom drops me at home and goes to relieve Bob from his solo shop management (being left alone with so much magical merchandise is often a recipe for madness for a recovering addict). When I get upstairs and check my phone, I have a bazillion text messages from Charlie waiting for me.

  Amber, I’m so sorry about today

  You have to know I would NEVER kiss her

  Just the thought of her lips on mine is making me nauseous

  In fact, is penicillin over the counter? I should get some

  Or is there a bacteria-killing potion your mom sells?

  Please text back

  Holy crap, did you punch Ivy?

  I heard you got suspended

  Now I’m extra sad

  Greetings from the outside, I type back. It’s lunch break at school, and I get a response right away.

  OMG! You’re alive!

  Of course I am, I’m not the one who got punched in the face

  I can’t believe you did that. So badass

  She deserved it

  Yes she did

  You know it was her, right? She put some sort of spell on me

  Well, that’s her MO

  It was gross

  I bet

  I’m sorry

  You don’t have to apologize to me

  Don’t I?

  I pause before typing back. It makes me nervous, having my thoughts captured for potentially all of eternity. It’s easy to refute words you’ve said, but it’s hard to deny the digital proof. Anything I type will be carried around not only in his head but in his pocket, so I feel like I have to be extra careful with every response. My reaction to the scene probably already gave away my true feelings for him, but it still doesn’t change that he’s not my match, and I need to steer clear.

  You’re a free agent

  Technically

  But I hope not for long

  Better change the subject before I say anything too incriminating.

  You ready for our big adventure tomorrow night?

  Which adventure would that be?

  OMG the one where we save your stepmom??

  Oh right, that

  Yeah, I told Dad the plan

  And he’s cool?

  As in, not gonna tell my mom?

  I told him not to

  Thanks

  I’m already on thin ice. Don’t want any more punishment

  Me too. Don’t want you locked up

  That would be a travesty for society

  Or at least for me ;)

  My chest swells with a fluttery feeling—bubbling around in what I used to think was a dark empty chamber—but I still can’t let that out. Charlie doesn’t seem to have a problem expressing his feelings, but then again, he’s not burdened with the same obligation to cosmic forces as I am.

  Ignorance is bliss, no?

  THE NEXT DAY, I HAD to fake menstrual cramps to get out of my last two hours at Windy City so I could make the goblin hoedown on time. Mom seemed suspicious, but since cramps come with the silver lining of not having any outwardly disprovable symptoms, she let Bob finish out the night without me. This performance was only really a half lie, because while I wasn’t having any side effects of my monthly cycle, the idea of deceiving my mom does make me physically ill. I hope it’s worth it, and I can show her once and for all that my magic doesn’t belong at the bottom of the mystical pile. That I can swim in the deeper waters of witchcraft without floaties.

  Now I’m waiting just west of the designated address, at a Starbucks across the street. Mr. Hollister’s instructions were to meet at Michigan and Jackson, which is right by the Art Institute downtown. I’m surprised he’d pick such a public, touristy meeting spot to conduct his goblin business, but maybe he likes to stick to easily recognizable landmarks. Still, even at this late hour, there are people milling around the stone steps to the museum; I can’t see how he’ll pull anything shady with so many potential witnesses, which I guess is to our advantage.

  I’m really embracing this whole covert affairs thing, wearing a black trench coat that’s way too warm for the season, and oversized black sunglasses, even though the sun has already set and it’s so dark I can barely see my macchiato. If I were really a secret agent, I’d probably have a tiny handgun strapped to my inner thigh and a lipstick case that’s actually filled with poison, but since I’m a matchmaker, all I’ve got on me is my phone, a candy bar wrapper (the contents of which I meant to save for later, but…), and a small bag of contraband from the shop, including a stupefying powder that when blown into an opponent’s face, will give you a ten-second head start at running away while they temporarily forget where they’re standing. That may not seem like a lot, but every second counts when you’re making a getaway. Watch out, supernatural element!

  Charlie and John show up just as I’ve finished my overly sugared drink, and between my kickass outfit and caffeine, I’m buzzing to get started.

  “Alpha, alpha, one, two, three,” I say into an imaginary wristwatch. “Do you read me?”

  “Sorry, my walkie-talkie’s in the shop,” Charlie jumps in right on cue. He’s dressed in regular, non-spy attire. Lame. “Guess we’ll have to communicate by homing pigeon.”

  “Fine,” I sigh. “But I’m sending you the dry cleaning bills.”

  “Are you implying my birds are crappy?”

  I open my mouth to respond, but John holds up a massive, football-size hand to silence our banter. I can see why he wouldn’t be in the mood for spy games; the stakes are high for him.

  “Guys, please,” he says, his voice heavy and low. He sounds like someone who’s battling a migraine, wanting to shut out all sensory input. He too is wearing an unnecessary coat, but I’m sure his is more about keeping the general public—not goblins—away. The Blitz is the most recognizable figure in the city, and drawing attention to himself is the last thing he needs right now. The hood of his coat is pulled down over his forehead, but I can still see the tension in his brows. “Amber, I’m concerned you haven’t mentioned this to your mother. I appreciate your helping Charlie and me, but don’t you think she’d be of assistance here? I don’t exactly know how to handle”—he lowers his voice—“goblins.”

  “Well, you’ve probably worked with them before but just didn’t realize it,” I say. “It’s not like they’d print ‘goblin’ on a business card. It doesn’t exactly have the best connotation. But the good thing about goblins is they’re tiny. With all your football prowess, you could probably fling a lot of them aside like a pair of dirty socks.”

  He shakes his head. “The mayor of Chicago can’t go around flinging his constituents.”

  “Right, of course not. Which is why I brought these.” I pull out a Ziploc baggie filled with a scoop of gold shavings. I snuck them from the shop when Bob wasn’t looking, from the bulk-size “mystical properties” section. Customers can fill up pouches with rose
petals, feathers, assorted bones, and other miscellaneously magical elements for only $5.99/quarter pound to make their own “potions.” While the stuff we sell can legitimately be used in real spells, most people just buy combinations that look pretty enough to put on a shelf. The gold shavings are generally overlooked, probably because when they’re piled together they kind of look like dirt, and also people assume they aren’t real. Of course they’re real, though, because while my mom is a lot of things, a con artist she ain’t.

  “What are those, pencil shavings?” Charlie asks, stepping closer to examine my haul. (See?)

  “Yes, exactly. We’re going to rub tiny wood fragments into their skin until they get splinters.” He scrunches his face in confusion. “They’re gold shavings,” I say, shaking the bag so the fluorescent light shows off the shimmer. “Goblins are helpless in the presence of treasure. It’s a documented fact.”

  “So, we’ll make a trade?” John asks. “Cassandra for the gold?”

  “Seems civil enough.” Charlie nods approvingly.

  “Keeps us off the evening news,” I say. “I mean, I’ve never met Cassandra, and I’m sure she’s one in a million, but unless she’s gold-plated, I don’t see how those little guys could resist.” I pass the stash to John, who handles it delicately, like a water balloon you don’t want to burst. “You should make the trade. Goblins are businessmen. They won’t be able to pass on a deal from someone like you.”

  John looks at his Rolex. “How much time do we have?”

  “The note said eight o’clock, but you should probably lie low until they show up.”

  We sit at our table, staring out the coffee shop window, waiting for our target. Charlie’s sitting across from me, with his dad in between us. Poor John looks like a wreck, biting his nails, barely able to keep his knees from bouncing against the table. I guess if I hadn’t seen my partner in weeks, I’d be anxious too.

  But to be honest, I’m too distracted to even think about being nervous. I’m all revved up from my venti pre-gaming, leading me to believe that coffee is not the best choice for a stakeout. My eyes refuse to stay still, checking out everything but the window I’m supposed to be studying. Somehow the stainless steel milk frothers and giant pumps filled with gooey syrups seem much more important, and I watch as a parade of customers order drinks in mind-boggling combinations. Grande non-fat non-whip mocha…Triple venti soy no-foam latte…Quad grande extra-hot caramel macchiato. It’s kind of insane, and yet, it’s what I love about food. Take one simple ingredient, and an endless amount of transformations spill out. Talk about magic.