by Eve Langlais
All of his parking–lot jerkiness translated into confidence and passion when he spoke about music. He kept talking about how songs are the most powerful form of magical spells in the modern world, connecting hearts and minds in a way nothing else can.
“Are you getting all this?” he asked. “You. Yes, you. Underneath the gentleman in plaid.”
I leaned around the student using me as a chair cozy. “Magical spells… connecting hearts and minds… blah, blah. Hey, Mr. J, will all your deep thoughts be on the exam? Or will there also be some questions about actual composition?”
The students around me giggled. Arturo’s blue eyes grew wide and his eyebrows rose out of respect for my honesty and insightfulness, or so I like to think.
He crossed over to his desk and ran his finger down a sheet of paper there. “Your name is… Zebrina?”
I cocked my free hand into an imaginary pistol and fired bullets of awesomeness his way.
“You got it, Mr. J! My friends all call me Zeb, or Zebbie, or even Little Zebbie, on account of how I’m so little and sweet.”
He frowned, failing to enjoy the additional entertainment value I brought to his composition class.
I kept going, “You can call me anything, just don’t call me late for curtain.” I fired two more imaginary bullets of awesomeness his way. “Just some showbiz humor. Sorry. I’ve been touring the last year. It’s a lifestyle. I’ll just stop talking now and let you teach your class, Mr. J.”
“Thank you,” he said solemnly, then he flicked on the projection screen and got back to the heavy stuff.
I took notes at a furious pace, trying to keep up.
The rest of the class flew by quickly, and when it was done, the professor gave us a stack of homework, then packed up his things and left without a word.
The shaggy–haired young man in plaid who’d been sitting on me got up, glanced back at me, then did a double–take.
“You’re real!” he exclaimed.
“Of course I’m real. Did you think you were hallucinating me? Are you high?”
He grinned wide enough to let me know his answers to those two questions were yes and extremely, yes.
That was how I first met Kenny, who later became my best friend and roommate.
He actually became my roommate that first night, when I confessed to him I had nowhere to sleep except inside Piglet.
Kenny upgraded to being my best friend five weeks later, when he held my hair and soothingly patted my back while I chucked up half a batch of his experimental mushroom brownies, which I had mistakenly assumed were drug–free. We share the blame for that particular debacle equally, because while I did ask Kenny if they were pot brownies, he denied it and forbade me to eat them. But he should have known I can’t resist chocolate, and I should have known that Kenny doesn’t bake anything drug–free.
All of that may seem like it has nothing to do with what happened between me and Arturo, but it actually does. You’ll see.
Chapter Three
The way I saw it, Arturo and I were arch–nemeses, like Batman and the Joker. Or like someone else and Catwoman. I don’t really know comic book stuff, but please picture me as Catwoman in this metaphor.
He would try to teach music composition, and I’d offer him constructive feedback during class. I would always raise my hand and wait until I was called on, of course. I’m not an animal.
I thought he was enjoying our witty repartee, honestly. Some days I’d be tired from staying up all night studying or working through a new song, and I’d sub–contract out some of my material to Kenny. He’d scrunch his forehead and stick out his tongue, the way he always does when he’s in deep thought, and write down interesting questions for me to ask Mr. J.
I’d wave my hand, wait to be called on, then ask whatever Kenny passed over to me. Sidenote: Kenny’s handwriting looks like a robot’s.
On my third week in class, the question, as handed to me by Kenny, was a two–parter: “Mr. J, those are some really sweet jeans you’re wearing. Do they come in men’s sizes as well?”
The class laughed pretty hard, thanks to my top–notch delivery.
Arturo clicked off the projector and took a seat on the edge of his desk, arms crossed. I started laughing along with the class, because I hadn’t, until that moment, realized how narrow Arturo’s hips were. He wasn’t the tallest guy around, and it suddenly occurred to me that he could actually be wearing jeans from the boys’ department.
“Zeb, you do a lot of talking, and not just in my classroom. You talk between your songs. You were at the Depot last night, weren’t you? For someone who bills herself as a singer, there wasn’t a lot of singing going on, was there?”
Everyone stopped laughing. The previous night’s live performance had been a disaster, and a few people knew it.
“Were you there?” I asked.
He jerked his head, tossing back his dark wavy hair. His blue eyes glinted with malevolence.
“You saw everything,” I breathed. “I was having an off night. Everyone has off nights.” My insides clenched, and not in the good way.
“You’ve lost it,” he said. “This morning, you came into my classroom and started in on me because you’re afraid. You’ve lost your mojo.”
“No!” As soon as I answered, I realized that by yelling the answer, I’d pretty much admitted it. He was right. I had lost my mojo.
He continued, “Your first show after you showed up in town… wasn’t bad. But you’re off, Zeb. Out of your league and off your game.”
“You’ve been coming to all my shows?” I shook my head furiously. “That’s not fair.”
“Of course it’s not fair. To be fair, I would have sat up front and heckled you.”
The class collectively sucked in its breath, then let out a low chuckle, laughing at me instead of with me. The traitors! Even Kenny was smirking. I reached over and flicked his ear. He responded by flicking my ear twice as hard. Kenny didn’t get the memo about not hitting girls.
I sat there, my ear stinging from being double–flicked and my face burning from being called out in front of my classmates.
I had to do something, so I looked steadily into Arturo’s blue eyes, and pleaded, “Can you help me get my mojo back?”
“I’m a composition and mathematical genius, Zeb. I can do anything.”
“I particularly like your modesty.”
“That’s the first time you’ve ever said anything nice to me. You’d better not say anything else for the rest of class and ruin it. See me after school today, and we’ll talk about your mojo problem.”
I mimed zipping my lips, and nodded in agreement.
Class took forever, and keeping my mouth shut was painful. Finally, the bell rang, and everyone packed up for their next class.
During my other classes, I asked my teachers if they thought I’d lost my mojo. None of them knew what I was talking about, let alone had come to see me perform.
“You know, the mojo,” I tried to explain. “When you hit the notes just right, and you feel like you’ve threaded a needle with a gossamer beam of light from everyone in the audience. You can move the needle through the tapestry however you want, through sorrow or joy, and everyone’s right there with you. If you tug the thread from two people, and look them in the eye while you sing the notes, you can make them fall in love.”
My last teacher of the day, a white–haired woman who kept three pairs of glasses on a chain around her neck, laughed and told me I had a wonderful imagination. “You young people,” she said. “Always wanting to believe in the mystical rather than play your scales or learn your triads.”
I left her classroom and hustled back over to Arturo’s usual room. I found him at the piano, playing a melody. The notes swirled around, the rhythm intoxicating.
I slipped quietly into a chair. He kept playing, and I unbuttoned my blouse to let my skin breathe in the notes.
“Zeb, I know what you are,” he said without turning his head my way.
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“It’s just us, Arturo. No need for insults. Can you help me with my mojo, or what?”
He kept playing the sexy notes, and my temperature kept rising. I was thirsty, but not for water. I wanted his sweet mouth on mine. The desire was so powerful, I could barely keep myself seated.
He turned and looked over his shoulder at me. “Show me your basic deflection charm,” he said.
I snorted and gave him a hand gesture I usually reserve for bad drivers who cut off Piglet.
He stopped playing and turned around on the piano bench. “You don’t have to hide who you are around me,” he said. “I’m a wizard.”
I rolled my eyes. “And a math genius. I know.”
Suddenly, he was in front of me, kneeling so we were eye level.
“Zeb, I know what you need,” he said. His voice was thick with desire, and his eyes were so bright, they weren’t even blue anymore. His eyes were… amethyst. Purple.
I croaked out a response. “What do I need?”
He leaned into my space, placing one palm on my knee, where it burned like an ember thrown from a roaring campfire. He brought his beautiful mouth to my ear, and he told me what I needed to get my mojo back.
It was a physical act, involving the two of us, and there was an F–word.
I whipped my arm back and slapped him across the face, hard enough to leave the imprint of my hand on his cheek.
In the shocked silence following the slap, I said, “Gross. You’re so old. And you’re my teacher.”
He settled back, sitting on his heels and grinning. “Zeb, you’re almost twenty. I’m barely four years older than you. The college frowns upon fraternization, but I’m willing to take the risk.” His eyes continued to burn into me, still being all weird and amethyst–colored.
“Fine. You’ve made your point,” I said. “I’ll leave you alone. Sorry for trying to make your classes more fun.”
His smile gradually turned into a frown. His handsome eyebrows knitted together in confusion.
“Zeb, do you really not know you’re a song witch?” He shook his head, which toned down his eyes to their regular cool blue. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were operating without the guidance of a coven. I should have known… with the way you act. So wild. So beautiful. So–”
“So reporting you to the dean!” I jumped out of the chair and moved quickly to put the desk between us.
He looked up at me, his expression an intoxicating mixture of sweetness and sexual hunger.
“Zeb, I just want to help you.”
I took two steps back and spat out, “You just want to F–word your best student in the P–word.”
Then I turned and ran out of the room.
I really had to give full points to Arturo. Not only had he guessed I was a virgin who couldn’t even say dirty words, much less do them, but he’d effectively regained control of his classroom.
The next day, I withdrew from his composition class, vowing to never speak to him again.
Kenny quit the class out of solidarity, though I wouldn’t even tell him the nature of my meltdown for two more weeks.
Chapter Four
I spent every waking minute focusing on my musical performance skills. I had extra hours, from dropping the composition class, and I used the time to practice on my guitar until my fingers bled.
It was no use, though. I played at every low–rent gig and open mike in the city, and even Kenny had to admit I was getting worse, not better.
I took a few days off, figuring it was a lack of rest that was killing my mojo, but that didn’t help.
On a Saturday afternoon, five weeks after I’d started at the music school, I loafed around the house in my pajamas, threatening to quit.
My roommates–all four of them, if you count the dog, who you should count, since he’s bigger than me–told me to hang in there. They said every artist goes through a rough patch. It’s how you find out what you’re made of.
I wailed about my mojo, and the unfairness of life, and eventually everyone but the dog left me for more uplifting activities. And the dog only stayed because I had cookies.
It was thanks to the dog that the next horrifying thing happened. The dog jumped onto the couch after the cookies were gone and licked the crumbs off my shirt and face, making me giggle. With that bit of contact, I felt about five percent better.
My imagination started up, and it brought in Arturo, as my imagination had been doing for the last two weeks.
If getting crumbs licked off my chin by a dog cheered me up, I could imagine how much of a pick–me–up I might get from letting Arturo do his kinky man things to me.
It took me less than five minutes to track down his phone number and text him to set up a sex date. I was very clear about what I wanted. I texted the following:
Arturo, let’s have a sex date right now. No need to take me for dinner, because I just ate. Send me your address and I’ll bring Piglet over. I’ve got a futon in the back. Please supply your own condoms, not because I’m too embarrassed to buy my own, but because I don’t know what size you take.
Ten long minutes later, he replied with his address, as well as those four sexy words: Ready when you are.
I ran into the kitchen and told Kenny I was going on a sex date.
“Zeb, I’ll cover your rent if you need a loan. There’s no need to turn to prostitution.”
“He’s not paying me for it,” I said. “Unless… do you think… never mind.” I leaned over and sniffed the cocoa powder. “Are you making pot brownies?”
“No. I’m out of hemp butter.” He smacked my hand. “Don’t touch. These aren’t for you. Promise you’ll leave these alone.”
I turned to leave and called over my shoulder, “Who needs chocolate when they have a hot sex date?”
“Good luck on your sex date, Zeb! Don’t laugh when you see his you–know–what!”
I yelled back down the hallway, “I didn’t laugh when I accidentally saw yours in the shower last week!”
“Yes, you did, Zeb! You laughed and you took a picture with your phone!”
“The college years are all about making memories, Kenny!”
Chapter Five
I pulled up to Arturo’s mansion just as the sun was setting. He seemed awfully wealthy for someone who taught part–time at a music college. Perhaps if I’d known he was a wizard, things might have gone a different way.
After our last interaction, I did do some basic googling, starting with the phrase “song witch.” I found fan pages for a singer named Stevie Nicks, but not much else.
Piglet went blat–blat as I pulled into Arturo’s pristine paved driveway. The surrounding houses looked fancy enough to have their own staff. I checked my hair in the rear view mirror, then honked the horn three times. Arturo didn’t open the front door of his mansion right away, so I honked two more times.
He finally came out of the house, looking pretty irritated for someone just seconds away from a hot sex date.
I leaned out the window and asked, “Did you bring the party favors? Extra–medium?”
He muttered something under his breath, then came around and got in the passenger side.
“Hi,” I said breathily. “I’ve missed seeing you around.”
He sat in his seat, staring straight ahead. “I’ve missed you, too,” he admitted grumpily. “Two of your former classmates have taken up the class clown job, but they’re no Zeb and Kenny. No imagination. I’m surprised they got through the admissions process.”
“Speaking of admissions… how did I get in without even applying? I haven’t asked faculty, because I’m worried they’ll notice their mistake and kick me out.”
“You’re legacy, Zeb. Your great–grandmother was one of the founding partners in the music college.”
I gasped. “You knew my great–grandmother? I figured you were old, but gosh.”
He turned and gave me a dirty look that gradually melted into a smile when he saw I was joking.
“You didn’t know about your family’s involvement with the school?”
“Nope. My great–grandmother’s gone now, and I think she meant to tell me a lot of things, but didn’t get the time.”
“We’ve got some recordings of her in the archives, and photos. She was a beautiful woman, like how you’d look, minus all the weird stuff. And she was a gifted song witch.”
I snorted. “You say song witch like it’s a real thing.”
“Zeb, do you seriously not believe in magic?”
I reached across the distance between our bucket seats and gave Arturo’s knee a squeeze. His leg felt surprisingly firm and interesting. A zinging feeling shot through me.
“I dunno. Let’s try to make some magic,” I whispered sexily.
He leaned toward me and stroked the edge of my jaw with the backs of his fingers. I felt something, like stars bursting. I assumed it was just my hormones, and a perfectly normal chemical response. He stroked my cheek, this time while murmuring a sequence of numbers.
I caught a glimpse of my cheek in the rear view mirror and gasped. The stars were real. The side of my face was lit up like a disco ball, with purple sparkles twinkling back at me.
Arturo, still chanting the numbers, held his hand up between us, palm facing me. More purple sparkles swirled and dazzled before me, merging in and out of his skin.
Magic is real.
In that moment, I crossed through a metaphorical door, into the new world. Once, I was a girl who didn’t believe in magic, didn’t know she was a song witch, and then, Arturo showed me his light, and everything changed.
I gazed into his eyes, which were glowing the same shade of purple.
“Kiss me,” I said.
He leaned forward some more, and brought his lips to mine. I met his kiss with hunger. Sparks flew up, bursting from us and raining down like confetti. Most of the light was purple, but some of it was gold.