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The Best Kind of Magic

Page 18

by Crystal Cestari


  “Amber,” she starts, her voice icy but measured, “it goes without saying I am beyond disappointed in you. You are aware of your magical deficiencies, yet you chose to engage with forces beyond your range.” The word “deficiencies” stings, like I’m some kind of deformed mutation, but I’m in no position to bring this up. “Your pride put people dear to us in danger, all because you couldn’t admit you are not a witch.”

  Record scratch. “Um, that’s not it at all. I never pretended to be a witch; I told Charlie from the start that this whole thing was outside my wheelhouse—”

  “Yet you kept going with it. Why?”

  Okay, so maybe I didn’t tell her everything, like how holding Charlie’s hand lit up a part of me I wasn’t even sure existed. Of course I kept it going because I liked being with him. But I keep those nuggets for myself.

  “I don’t know, I guess I thought I could figure it out. It was vaguely love related after all and—”

  “Amber, you need to accept your mystical limitations.”

  Now I’m pissed. “Limitations? Mom, I know I’m not a witch and will never be one. I happen to like being a matchmaker. I’ve accepted it, but clearly you haven’t.”

  Her head jerks in reverse, a literal taking aback. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re always reminding me of how I don’t fit into the Sand family genetic code. Sometimes I think you have a bigger problem with it than I do.” Mom sits frozen, stunned by my words. I don’t usually talk this way with her, but I’m on the verge of punishment anyway, so I might as well unleash. “I’m sorry I’m not the daughter you hoped for, the one who could use your grimoires for more than dusty old bookends. I’m sorry I’m not a witch, not for my sake, but for yours.”

  Tears I’d rather not shed are building up, so I start to storm off, but she snaps her fingers and says, “Congelasco,” and I’m stopped in my tracks. Great. A holding spell.

  “Don’t you dare flip this back around on me,” Mom growls. “You’ve put me in a very difficult position, and I should not have to defend my disappointment.” She walks around to face me, her long skirt flowing behind her like an angry, anthropomorphic cape. “I don’t have time to deal with you right now; I have to go clean up your mess. You will stay right here until I return.” She raises her palms and chants, “Manete resideo,” and while I’m able to move my feet again, I know she’s performed a binding spell, keeping me within the confines of this building. Which honestly is fine. It could’ve gone way worse. Now I can just sleep away my soul-crushing guilt.

  Mom slams the door behind her, and I head to my room to get out of my wet clothes. I leave the trench in a mushy pile, and I pull on a fresh cotton tee and jersey pajama pants. After standing in the rain for so long, the dry fabric feels practically indulgent. I flop back on my twin bed, looking up at the glow-in-the-dark solar system I adhered to my ceiling when I was five. Even though most of the stars have lost their luster, I keep them up there to remember a simpler time, when I could look at things with my own eyes and not have to worry about performing a magic trick upon meeting a stranger.

  The rain has really picked up. Being on the top floor, I can hear it pounding on the roof. It’s always nice to experience a storm from indoors, watching it rage all around you from the safety of a blanket. I remember I never texted Amani back and realize she’s probably freaking by now, so I get up to dig through my coat pockets just as the apartment buzzer sounds.

  At first I ignore it—people are always hitting the wrong buttons downstairs—but the obnoxious buzzing persists, rattling my nervous system with every incremental tone. It’s like a swarm of cracked-out bees, completely destroying the rainy misery I was just starting to sink into, so I stomp over to the receiver, pounding my fist into the answer button with a frustrated “What?!”

  “It’s Charlie,” the speaker crackles. I’m so surprised to hear his voice in my apartment, I accidentally release the call button. I take a beat before I reply, “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you,” he says, voice distorted by the ancient communication system. “Can you buzz me up?”

  “I’ll be right down.” I slip on some mismatched flip-flops and head down the three story staircase. When I get to the telephone booth–size entry, I see him through the glass door, shivering. Yet when I try to usher him in, he stays in the downpour.

  “No, I need to say something first,” he says through chattering teeth. “I like you, Amber.”

  “Charlie—”

  “No. I like you. And you like me too; I know it. But you’re keeping me at a distance, and I want to know why.”

  I want to refute him, to say some snarky little comeback to cover my true feelings, but I think it’s too late for that.

  “Please,” he adds. “I’d like some answers before I die of hypothermia.” The rain is so intense, it’s like one aggravated cloud is hovering directly over Charlie, unleashing its pent-up wrath. “Why don’t you want to be close to me?”

  I don’t respond at first, but he gestures to the rain like an impatient person tapping on a watch. “Because. It’s…pointless,” I eventually admit.

  “Why is it pointless? Is it because you know my match?”

  He’s going to make me say it, crystallize his fate by declaring the identity of his future partner. But even though it’s what I was born to do, I can’t bring myself to say her name.

  “I want you to do it,” he demands.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do it, matchmaker. Work your magic; tell me my match. You should be able to see her, right?”

  I look down at my bare toes, unable to face him as I say, “Yes.”

  He’s silent for so long, I’m afraid the rain has washed him away, but when I look up, he’s smiling. Genuinely smiling.

  “I see her too,” he says, joyful. “Because she’s not out there; she’s right here, in front of me. She’s the only one who treats me like a person and not a prize. She doesn’t say what she thinks I want to hear just to get me to like her; she doesn’t even care if I like her at all. But I do. So much.”

  I hold on to the doorframe, reeling from his response, unsure if I should categorize him as romantic or certifiable. “Charlie, that’s…very sweet, but…that’s not the way it works.”

  “People aren’t allowed to follow their hearts, to make their own decisions?” he challenges.

  “Sure, but…people don’t always make the best decisions for themselves. That’s why I have a job. And thanks to my job, I know that I’m not your match.”

  “Yeah, well, I know what I feel.”

  His determination floors me, and not just because he’s confessing his affection for me. It’s so rare to see someone so confident in his feelings, throwing caution to the wind even after official confirmation that it’s the wrong choice. “How can you be so sure? People follow their hearts all the time and get led astray; they end up with the wrong person, break up, fall apart, get divorced, disappear.”

  “Yeah, and that sucks!” he says, causing me to choke out a laugh. “But I don’t want to spend my life worrying about what could happen in the future. This girl that you’ve planned for me…I don’t know her. She’s not the one I think about at night; she’s not the one I look forward to seeing in the morning. Hell, she may not be the one at all!” He throws his arms out to his sides, spraying water everywhere. “Think about it, Amber. You matched Amani incorrectly; you could be wrong here too. All I know is what I want right now, and I won’t deny myself that.”

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe Kim isn’t the girl for him. Maybe I’m a complete hack who has no right to meddle in other people’s love lives. Or maybe she is, but he’s right; she’s not here right now. She could show up tomorrow or in ten years; either way, if they are truly meant to be, they will be, and nothing that happens now can change that. Right? Suddenly, there’s a window, a peek into a possibility I’ve yet to let myself fully consider. Maybe…I can let myself have this, for now, and maybe, that’s okay.
The storm continues to rage, but for the first time since Charlie asked for my help, there’s a lightness in my heart, pulsing warmth to every inch of my being.

  I’m almost afraid to ask the question, but I can’t keep the words inside. “So, what do you want?”

  In one swift movement, he walks through the door, wrapping me in his arms and pressing my back against the wall of metal mailboxes. The rain from his shirt bleeds into mine, sticking us together as our lips meet. His skin is cold, but his mouth is warm; the kiss is soft yet passionate all once, like a sweet and salty cupcake that satisfies your every craving.

  I press my hands into his chest to push him back, and he looks worried, like he’s done something wrong. But the kiss was so unexpectedly electric, I just need a second to catch my breath, to let the moment properly register.

  “Sorry,” he says quietly, as I notice the raindrops dotting my arms and legs. I push his storm-tossed hair off his forehead, admiring the close-up view of his face.

  “I’m not sorry,” I say, and I grab his tie, pulling him back to me for more.

  I’ve kissed boys before, don’t get me wrong, but it’s always felt like more of a chore, like an obligation of adolescence. Since it’s always been crystal clear that none of them were the one for me, making out has seemed like preparation, coasting on training wheels before the real run. I don’t know if it’s my feelings for Charlie or his feelings for me, but this is the first time the ride has been a thrill.

  His arms hold me tight, and I press myself as close to him as possible. We stay like that for a few blissful minutes, before I realize how incredibly public the foyer is. So I slowly pull away and take his hand to lead him up the stairs, stopping every few steps to kiss, touch, and be close to each other. It takes a while to get to the third floor; I’m out of breath and sufficiently soaked when we make it to the top. I run my finger over his smiling wet lips as I turn the doorknob to my apartment.

  Yet after all that stairway action, when we make it inside, we simply lie on the couch, my face pressed close to his chest, listening to his heart as he runs his fingers through my choppy hair. It’s nice. More than nice; it’s the closest I’ve ever felt to a boy.

  “So, can we just accept this as a possibility for a while? Defy the stars and just be?” Charlie asks softly.

  I can feel my matchmaker ancestors shaking their stubborn fists at me, but I ignore them all by answering, “Okay.”

  CHARLIE STAYED FOR AN HOUR or so, but we both agreed it would be best if my mom returned to a boy-free apartment, what with the punishment and all. As we said good night, he kissed my forehead, our hands entwined at our sides.

  Of course I had to call Amani as soon as Charlie disappeared down the steps. I think our conversation can be recapped thusly:

  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  I’ve never been a girly girl and doubt I ever will be, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was fun to share all the swoony details with my best friend.

  Mom didn’t come home until 2:00 a.m. I’d fallen asleep watching the Food Network, but sprang to life when she came through the door.

  “Can I get you anything?” I asked, noticing the dark circles under her eyes.

  “Tea.” She collapsed onto the couch, pushing her gray hair back with ring-covered fingers. I set the kettle on the stove and settled down on the cushion next to her.

  “Any luck?” I asked.

  She sat staring at the ceiling, eyes heavy with regret as she answered, “I went to see Victoria.”

  “What? Why her?”

  She looked at me with one of those stern, “I’m still pissed at you so don’t push it” faces. “She’s going to aid me with a more powerful locator spell,” she said in a reluctant tone.

  “Really? I wouldn’t peg her as the charitable type.”

  “It’s not charity. I offered to supply her craft for six months.”

  I could not believe the horribleness of such an arrangement. “Mom! I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Victoria has been trying to single-white-female you ever since she moved here: relocating coven meetings, sitting in your circle spot. She’s slowly weaving her way into everything you’ve worked so hard to create. If you give her an opening, she’ll take it all.”

  She kept looking up as she said quietly, “You don’t think I know that?”

  “If you do, then why are you doing this? Why go to her?”

  Suddenly, her volume knob spun to max. “Why do you think, Amber? These goblins have obviously found some mass power source, and I’m not strong enough on my own. Not only is John my dearest friend, but he’s the mayor, and his absence won’t go unnoticed for long. And Charlie, he can’t be left alone. I need help and I need it now, and the only way I can get it is with other powerful witches.”

  “But why not just use the coven?”

  “All of their power combined does not compare to what Victoria wields,” she said bitterly. This revelation surprised me, but I held my tongue. I tried to picture Victoria doing anything besides getting an eyebrow wax, but somehow, the image of her bundling a sage stick with acrylic nails would not compute.

  “Good Gods, are you serious?” I asked.

  “Victoria is not a stranger; I’ve known her for years,” Mom confessed. “She’s not someone you want on your bad side. It’s why I silenced you at that meeting.”

  What? “And that’s the kind of person you let into Dawning Day?”

  “Let is a generous term. More like, made room to avoid repercussions.”

  I can’t even. All this time, Mom has been battling with a frenemy all on her own. And now I’ve put her in a position that gives Victoria the upper hand. Just the thought of Mom standing before that smug she-devil, all vulnerable and small, makes me want a lobotomy so I don’t have to visualize it anymore.

  “Witches aren’t the only ones with magic,” I pleaded. “This city is crawling with ancient bloodlines that can conjure up some trouble.”

  “What do you suggest, then, huh? Stand on Michigan Ave with a sign that reads ‘Will work for magic’? Where do you think you’ll find all these supernatural allies just waiting to jump into a potentially dangerous situation that has nothing to do with them?”

  The answer came to me immediately, but I knew the suggestion would be rubbing salt in a wound. “The Black Phoenix,” I said with caution.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Black Phoenix. When I was there, I had a…situation with a vamp, but everyone there jumped in to help. They barely knew me, but they all stood up to that bloodsucker.”

  She circled her pointer fingers at her temples. “Funny how you failed to mention that part before.”

  Crap. “Oh. Um, sorry. But it was okay! There are good people and creatures there.”

  She considered this, sleep deprivation dulling her decision-making abilities. “Fine. But if we don’t find help there tomorrow night, it’s Victoria.”

  Now I’m sitting at Windy City, mind turning to mush as I listen to a pair of preteens debate over which color of stardust (a.k.a. glitter) would make their boobs look bigger. The correct answer is none, since they’re both flat as boards and shouldn’t be worrying over superficial stuff like that, but hey, who am I to derail the strange and twisted path toward self-acceptance. I want them to hurry up so I can dig into a massively oversize cupcake I bought a few doors down.

  I’ve been here all day, and for a Friday, it’s been painfully slow. I’ve had enough time to dust and sweep every square inch of the shop, and even alphabetize the essential oils. I’m hoping things will pick up now that it’s late afternoon, because if not, I’m going to stab myself with a raven feather.

  I ring up the boob twins (who chose pink, by the way) to find Charlie as the next customer in line. He’s dressed slightly more casual than I’m used to, missing his usual button-down and tie, so I know he’s struggling today. He’s been trying to put on a brave face about his dad, but when a dapper dude shows up in a T-shirt, th
at’s a pain you can’t dismiss.

  I’m just about to give him a comforting kiss when Mom walks in, looking as tired as she did when I left her. “Charlie,” she starts, instantly wrapping him in a hug. “How are you?”

  “Well, I’ve been better. It was really weird being in the apartment by myself last night. But thank you for calling and checking on me,” he says.

  She nods. “I sent Bob by your place in the middle of the night; he laid some crushed citrine at your doorway as a precaution. It wards off wickedness.”

  “I appreciate that,” he says with a sad smile. “You know, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen when I came to Amber for help.”

  Mom works to untangle her hair from her scarf, then sighs in futility. “Don’t even worry about that. I know that both of you were only trying to help John, and unfortunately, you can never predict how those in the community will conduct themselves. Even still, we’ll find a way around this. Goblins are not the nicest of fellows, but they often stay under the radar for fear of drawing attention to their schemes. Kidnapping—especially a celebrity—is not their usual MO.”

  “Yeah, they usually just sneer and look at you like you killed a puppy,” I say.

  “What do you think they want with my dad?” Charlie asks.

  “Based on Amber’s retelling, I suspect they only wanted Cassandra, but took John as a two-for-one transaction. If she tried to back out of any sort of deal with them, they wouldn’t stop until they received their end of the bargain.”

  “Like a goblin mafia,” Charlie says.

  “Only less machine guns, more magic wands,” I add.

  Mom looks like she’s about to scold me for making light of a serious situation, but then the unholy pile of pink sugar sitting near the register catches her eye. “Is that yours?” she asks me, pointing at my cupcake.

  “Um, actually, it’s yours,” I offer, sliding the confection her way. She doesn’t question it, simply picks up the cake and says, “Thank you,” before ducking behind her velvet curtain.

  “That was very generous,” Charlie says.

 

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