I didn’t expect an early morning pajama party to turn into a confessional, but without sounding too corny, it does make the pastries taste sweeter. I wipe the crumbs from my lips and move toward her, sitting in her lap like when I was little. I wrap my arms around her neck, getting tangled in her scent as the arms of her pink sleep shirt tuck around my waist.
Neither of us says anything more; we don’t have to.
After a day spent watching infomercials and sitcom reruns, Mom hops in the shower to get ready for her dinner with John. Usually I’d take the opportunity of an empty apartment to have some quality time in the kitchen, but the laziness of the afternoon has transformed me into a sloth, moving only to change the channel or take bites of Nutella. I’m pretty much never this lethargic, constantly bustling back and forth between school and the shop, so the heaviness in my bones is a welcome stranger. I know people say you should live every day like it’s your last, but sometimes it’s nice to do absolutely nothing; the lack of activity recharges you for whatever lies ahead.
A knock at the door interrupts my fifth straight episode of Friends. I don’t move at first—movement of any significant kind has not been achieved in hours—but the insistent pounding forces my feet to hit the floor. Who the hell could be out there? I’m not expecting anyone except a Lou Malnati’s delivery guy, and he’d need to be buzzed in.
My socks slip on the hardwood as I lurch over; my right leg is completely asleep. When I open the door, I wish I’d just stayed on the couch.
It’s Victoria.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
“How did you get past the buzzer?” I ask.
“Amber, darling,” she says in that deep voice that doesn’t match her face. She takes in my faded purple tee and ripped sweatpants. “You look…rested. I’m here to pick up your mother.”
“Huh?”
“For our arrangement? I’m ready to help the Sands find their missing friend.” Her smile is so smug that I’m instantly super-excited to wipe it from her face. “Aren’t you going to ask me in?”
“Actually no. You and your leopard-print miniskirt can stay right there,” I say in the bitchy tone I reserve for the truly wretched. I’ve been craving a moment like this, and I’m going to savor it like the key lime pie you only get to have in summer. “We don’t need you anymore.”
“Excuse me?” Her jaw twists to the side like she’s been punched.
“You heard me. Get your second-rate witchcraft off our welcome mat.”
“What is the meaning of this? How dare you speak to me that way, you disgraceful little matchmaker!”
I step forward, my cotton-covered toe encroaching on her stiletto. “I may be a matchmaker, but I’m not a disgrace. I don’t know why you came to Chicago, but ever since you got here, you’ve been trying to intimidate her, I’m guessing because you know despite your power, you’ll always be standing in her shadow. That’s disgraceful.”
Victoria’s fuming, her fake chest rising and falling in anger. She reaches into her black Birkin bag and pulls out a bottle of something green. She raises the putrid liquid above her head, chanting, “Suffocat,” but just before she smashes the glass on the ground, the bottle starts levitating, and flies past my head, into my apartment. I whip around to see Mom in her bathrobe, fingers perched like a claw, drawing the nearly detonated spell toward her. She takes the bottle in her hand and charges forward, pushing me out of the doorway. In a swift movement, she completes the spell Victoria intended for me, causing the liquid to turn into an asparagus-colored steam that swirls around the hag’s neck. Victoria’s angry huffs turn into strangled gasps as the green cloud closes off her airways.
Mom watches her struggle to breathe, stepping closer to feel the tortured cries against her skin. There’s a vacancy in her eyes that’s truly terrifying; I get the feeling Mom could snap Victoria’s neck and then just turn around and get dressed like nothing had happened. She’s calm—serene even—as her nemesis labors to stay alive. It’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.
“If you ever—EVER—try to use magic against my daughter again, I will end you,” Mom says coolly. She tilts her head, giving Victoria one more moment to let this sink in. “Do you understand?”
Victoria nods her purple head, unable to speak. Tears stream down her collagen-pumped cheeks, creating streaks of what I am sure is extremely overpriced mascara. Mom snaps, and the choking cloud dissipates, causing Victoria to fall to the floor. Her pained gasps fill the hallway; her acrylic nails claw at the carpet. While she most definitely brought this on herself, it’s still unnerving to watch someone fight for her life.
“The deal is off. I don’t need your help.” Mom steps back, slamming the door in Victoria’s face. I can still hear her wheezing on the other side.
Mom walks into her office and lights a candle. She sits on the floor, cross-legged, and closes her eyes. I’m sure she needs to reset her chi or something, but I can’t stay quiet.
“Um, holy crap, Mom, that was terrifying!” I exclaim. “You were straight up torturing her!”
“She was about to do that to you,” she replies calmly.
“I know but…wow! I didn’t know you had that in you!”
“There’s a lot about magic—about me—that I’d rather you not know.”
“Like how you already knew the head goblin man?”
“Yes, exactly that. Just as you fought to manage your matchmaking, I too had a journey.” I wait for elaboration, but it seems like that vault is staying shut.
“Well…besides almost committing homicide, it was cool to see that witch get knocked down off her silicone pedestal,” I say.
A tiny, very un-Wicca smile wiggles onto Mom’s face. “I wouldn’t have let her die. Just suffer.”
I run out of the room before my laughter adds to the weight of her aura.
WEEKDAY MORNINGS USED TO BE a never-ending tango between me and my alarm, its repeated chimes reminding me of my inability to perform a time-bending spell. I’d hit the snooze until the last conceivable moment, when I’d pull on my plaid skirt and begrudgingly head to school. Now I find myself waking up without digital assistance, just so I can get to school early. Yes—EARLY. Today is my first day back from suspension, and I’m weirdly itching to get back to it all. Charlie and I don’t have any classes together, so passing periods are our only chance to see each other during the day. We have to maximize what we’ve got.
Dating Charlie has not increased my popularity; in fact, I’m probably even more hated now than I was before. I’ve been a bottom-feeder for most of my life, and I’m comfortable in the muck; let us not forget what happens to those who throw their hearts in the ring for the wrong reasons (good luck to you, Cass, wherever you are). I’m not sure if his gaggle of admirers hate me because of me or if it’s just because I’ve secured the position of “Charlie’s girlfriend,” effectively taking him off the market, but either way, it’s hilarious and I love it. The looks we get range from mild confusion to blind rage, and I can’t help but relish the tears of those who witness our affection.
“So, what do you hope to take away from your educational experience today, Miss Sand?” Charlie asks as we wait for the morning bell to ring. We’re standing outside my English class, my back up against a case of trophies, Charlie leaning his chest into mine. I’m twirling the little golden fox pinned on his tie, appreciating for the first time how good a Manchester Prep uniform can look on the right guy.
“Well, sir, I’m planning to reach for the stars and go for the gold and any other possible academic cliché.”
“Sounds like you’ll be busy.” He bends closer. “I’m glad you could squeeze me in.”
“I’m an overachiever.” I smile before he kisses me. The bell rings, three loud monotone bongs, and when he pulls back, I notice Ivy glaring at us from the classroom’s doorway. There’s a delicious mix of envy and disgust on her face; just the right recipe I like to inspire in my enemies. And is it me, or has her nose healed in a less flattering
shape than its original? I resist the urge to rub my romance in her face, deciding it’s better to focus on my boyfriend than some spiteful siren.
“See you after class?” he asks, picking his bag up off the floor.
“I’ll pencil you in,” I say. He heads off, giving Amani a wave as she rushes into class just in time.
“Whew, almost didn’t make it,” she wheezes.
“But here you are. Ready to be dazzled by my Sylvia Plath presentation?” I ask. One of the benefits of my brief suspension was having the time to finish this project, since I’ve been a little preoccupied otherwise.
“Oh yeah, can’t wait.”
I’m feeling good—so good that not even having to talk about a famously depressed woman can get me down. For the first time in the history of ever, sitting next to Ivy does not turn my insides to ice. She glares at me in her usual awful way, but I just smile, relishing Charlie’s scent on my skin. It’s moments like these that I wish I could somehow bottle, capturing the magical goodness to use in times of future unhappiness. Now that’s a spell Mom should manufacture: happiness in a bottle.
I’m pulling my notes out of my bag while Ms. Dell makes a few boring announcements. I’m not really listening as I shuffle my note cards, but her last few words trickle in to my awareness.
“…new exchange student all the way from Tokyo. I know you all will give her a warm Manchester welcome. Why don’t you come on up here, Kim?”
All the air is sucked from my lungs as the girl I’ve envisioned for weeks materializes in the front of the room. Kim. In the flesh. Politely waving and looking adorable with multicolored barrettes in her jet-black hair. I rub my eyes to ensure she’s not a mirage, but no, she’s still there, looking just as I pictured…though I never envisioned her in Manchester plaid. What is she doing here? Why is this happening now?
“Jesus, Amber, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Ivy whispers in mock concern. “I hope you puke.”
But her ill wishes barely register, as I’m laser-focused on Kim. The beautiful, bright, future Mrs. Blitzman.
“Hi, everyone, I’m Kim,” she says in a voice that could easily have come from an animated princess. “This is my first time in Chicago, though in addition to being born in Japan, I’ve also lived in San Francisco, Paris, and New York.”
“How exciting!” Ms. Dell exclaims. I really hate her right now.
“We’ve moved a lot, but I’m hoping this city becomes home.” Kim smiles as she takes a seat. I feel chunks starting to rise in my throat. Chicago WILL become her home! She’ll meet her perfect man and start a perfect life in this perfect city and AHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! I whip back to Amani and start frantically signing a spew of craziness, which she struggles to catch. Either my hands are too shaky or I’m so overwhelmed I’ve forgotten how to sign, but all Amani signs back is What?
“Would anyone care to show Kim around for the day? Take her to her classes and get her acquainted with campus?” Ms. Dell asks.
My hand shoots up like it’s under demon possession, a move that shocks not only me, but my teacher as well.
“Amber…really?” Ms. Dell looks concerned at my uncharacteristic display of school spirit, but since no one else has volunteered, she’s forced to relent. “All right, then. And since you’re so full of enthusiasm, why doesn’t your group kick off today’s presentations.”
Ivy, Brendan, and I head to the front of the class, looking like a very sad lot compared to the other groups. We aren’t dressed in costumes; we don’t have any props. What would we bring anyway? Since Ivy declared from the start that she would be contributing absolutely nothing to this effort, it’s up to Brendan and me to get it done, but between his visible shaking and my sudden shock, I doubt this will go very well.
“Sylvia Plath was a brilliant, troubled mind who is forever remembered for her exit from this world,” I begin. “The words that swirled within her were a gift she shared, but she was unable to let their vividness brighten her worldview. Her suicide was a tragedy, especially because it painted a darker cast on everything that came before that afternoon of pain. Somehow, her ending became just as significant as her life as a woman, mother, and talented writer.”
Just over the tops of my note cards is Kim’s face, watching me with genuine interest. Seeing her makes my vision go wonky, and though I know I should avoid it at all costs, I can’t help but lock eyes with her momentarily. It’s a mistake, an irreversible mistake, because suddenly Charlie is swimming in my thoughts, only not with me, but with her. Honey-covered episodes of their love start playing before me, and even my high sugar tolerance cannot handle it. I force myself to look back at my notes, but they seem to be written in another language, and I struggle to continue.
“This got me thinking about endings and how the final moments of a story can color our entire perception of a narrative. But endings aren’t the epitome of a story; they are just how it stops. The real story is the middle: the ups and downs, the lefts and rights. There are so many directions a story can go, and it’s that meaty middle that gives us insight into what is truly going on.”
My brain is turning to Jell-O; I can’t feel my face. These words I wrote in the thrall of love are taunting me now. I recite them like a robot, trying to separate the sentiment from the delivery, but the irony of it all is making me sick.
“I used to think stories had only one trajectory: up. That the people you meet and challenges you face are just collateral damage until you reach your final destination. But studying Sylvia helped me realize that a life—and story—cannot be defined simply by the way one says good-bye. It’s the introductions, the mistakes, and the triumphs that create a clear picture of who we are and where we’re going.
“Appreciate the journey, because when you get to the end, you’ll only be able to look back and hope you don’t regret what you see.”
Then Brendan takes over, and for the first and probably last time, I’m thankful for Ivy’s siren powers, as she’s clearly whispered something into Brendan’s ear that has turned him into a human Wikipedia page on the life of Ms. Plath. I stand there, dazed, as he recites her timeline and notable achievements, and it’s all I can do not to melt into the floor. At some point, the presentation ends, but I don’t remember walking back to my seat or sitting through Amani’s group presentation on Maya Angelou. Suddenly, the bell is ringing, and Amani is shaking me.
“What is going on? Are you okay? Why are you so clammy?” she asks in rapid fire.
“Kim…it’s her. Charlie’s match.” I almost choke on the words. Amani clutches her gut like she’s been sliced by a sword, but there’s no time to assess the wound because Kim’s approaching.
“Hi…Amber?” she asks shyly.
I feel like an alien, unable to communicate with other life-forms. Slowly, my brain comes back into focus. “Uh, yes.” I cough, rubbing the sweat from my palms on my shirt. “Yup, I’m Amber.”
“Thanks for helping me out. At my last school, I was put through weeks of hazing before anyone would speak to me, and even then it was in French, so…” She shrugs off the pain of the past, looking to me with hope. What on earth made me volunteer to take this girl around? I’m probably the last person at Manchester who should be her guide, and yet I willfully accepted the challenge. Why? Does she harbor a kind of dark magic I can’t detect? Is she some sort of black widow hybrid, luring me into a trap so she can devour me whole before claiming her prize? She looks normal enough, but who knows if she’s hiding a stinger under her skirt. I have to find out.
“I wouldn’t expect most people at Manchester to roll out a welcome mat for you either,” I say. “Ninety-nine percent of the student body has been infected with horriblepersonitis.”
“Seems to be an epidemic across several high schools, then,” Kim says. Hmph, that was kind of funny. Dammit.
“This is Amani Sharma. She’s one of the immune.”
“Nice to meet you,” Amani says with caution, and I don’t blame her; how do you greet someone who
is most likely going to take away your best friend’s happiness? “I have to run, but maybe I’ll catch up with you girls at lunch?” she says through gritted teeth.
“Sure, we’ll be fine,” I assure her.
Text me ASAP, she signs as she walks away.
“She seems nice,” Kim says. “Was that sign language?”
“Yes, to both.” We walk down the halls in silence. I truly am the worst tour guide, but I have no idea what to say. Here’s the bay of lockers a senior girl shoved me into last year after I told her her boyfriend was a dud, and here’s the gym, where your self-esteem will plummet once you don the terry-cloth shorts. Also, what are you doing here, and why are you ruining my life? None of it sounds particularly welcoming, so instead I ask, “So what’s your next class?”
Kim pulls out her schedule. “Chemistry. With Mr. Longhorn.”
Of course it is because the Fates hate me today. I am now literally leading her to Charlie, who also has that class, because naturally the first time these two future lovebirds should meet is in CHEMISTRY. Of all the subjects. I can see them giving a toast at their rehearsal dinner now…“Tra, la, and to think it all started in chemistry!” UGH.
But really, this moment was unavoidable, right? I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to. A matchmaker, bringing a couple together. I stressed over my feelings for Charlie potentially disrupting his happily ever after, but from the looks of it, everything’s still running on course. I foolishly hoped my error with Amani and Vincent would bleed over into my life, giving me the possibility of a future with Charlie. But no, I am just a bump along the road, a detour from the final destination.
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