by G. F. Miller
I smile back at her reflection in the mirror, even though the prickling on my forehead has turned into a full-on tap dance.
4 Just One Sucker Punch After Another
My sister and I have dinner together every Thursday night. Well, I’m eating dinner. She’s eating breakfast. And we aren’t really together. I have the tablet propped up next to me so we can vidchat while we eat. But it’s better than nothing—at least until she finishes her internship and comes home in a couple months. We usually spend half the call talking about our current events, then the other half making plans. We’re going to backpack around South America over Christmas break. And we’re going to room together while she works at a pet clinic and I take classes at Cal State next year.
I love Thursday nights.
It’s pouring rain in Thailand, and Hope’s windows don’t have any glass. She’s eating granola and yogurt out of a Hello Kitty teacup. I’m eating take-out pad Thai, which Hope declares to be totally Americanized, but it still makes me feel a little closer to her.
I just finished telling her about Vindhya.
She says, “I still don’t know why you do it. Like, what’s in it for you?”
I tell her for the millionth time, “It brings me joy to see people’s wishes come true. I’m putting positive things into the Universe.”
“Whatever.” Hope’s eye roll looks choppy over our long-distance connection. “Mom working late?”
“Of course.” I twirl a forkful of noodles in the peanut sauce.
“How’s Memom?”
“She’s awesome. Planning a wedding for one of the ladies at her retirement complex.”
Hope laughs.
“Guess what?” I ask with my mouth full.
“What?”
“I figured out that I can create my own Personal Image Consulting major at Cal State by combining fashion, sociology, and marketing classes. How perfect is that?”
“Cool.” She sounds less interested than I’d hoped she’d be.
I venture, “How’s Hope World?”
“Good.” There’s something heavy in that word. And in the way she looks out her window at the rain.
“Hope? What’s up?” I prod.
Eight thousand miles away, she turns to face me again. “Chay, I decided to stay here. I’m not coming back.”
“Oh.”
For a moment that feels stretched into slow motion, I see myself, looking stunned, in the little selfie-feed in the corner of the screen. I can’t swallow my noodles.
Hope rushes on like she’s been rehearsing. “They’ve offered me a two-year contract. My school’s going to count it for my last few credits so I can graduate in absentia. And Bernice needs me. She really does. And… I met someone.”
“Oh?” It’s my new go-to syllable. Barely holding it together.
“Yeah.” She bites her lip. “He’s… I don’t know if it’ll be anything, but it’s worth sticking around to find out, you know?”
“Yeah. Um. Yeah.” I open my eyes wide and lift my eyebrows, checking the selfie to make sure I look excited for her. “That’s great.”
“Aw, I miss you, sis.” She pretends to hug me through the tablet, but it’s just pixels. Not real. “And we’ll still have breakfast-dinner, okay? And maybe you can come visit on spring break. You’d love it here!”
I pull it together to tell her I love her back and that it would be awesome to visit. Then I end the call. I stare at the home screen for a while. It’s a picture of Hope and me with our arms around each other at the airport. The picture blurs in front of me as the truth settles in: my sister threw me over for an elephant and a guy she barely knows.
I dump the rest of my pad Thai in the trash, walk calmly to the bathroom, and dye my hair deep lavender. Like loneliness. Like a Thai rainstorm.
* * *
I get a text at 6:08 a.m., which is a really craptastic time for a text. I push the tangle of lavender hair out of my face with one hand and feel around for my phone with the other. When I find it, the screen seems blindingly bright to my barely open eyes.
I squint and read: Unknown. So it’s from Stalker. The text says: Tonight. Then there’s a pin dropped at the playground at Rotary Park.
I rub my sleep-crusted eyes and hammer off a response: There’s a football game tonight.
Stalker: After.
Me: I’m not meeting you at a park at night. Kidnap people much?
Stalker: I thought you wouldn’t want to be seen. But okay. Inland Empire Bakery.
That place will be packed. Every decent place within ten miles will be packed on a Friday night after a football game. Stalker is right. I don’t want to be seen with them. And I most definitely don’t want to be overheard. I sigh heavily.
Me: Fine. The park. But I’ll have pepper spray with me.
Stalker: Me too.
Me: I’ll have a Taser.
Stalker: I’ll have a photon torpedo.
A surprised laugh—more of a blat, really—escapes my lips. Did Stalker just make a joke? Or is Stalker a permanent resident of Imagination Land? I send back: You know only one of those is a real thing, right?
I catch myself half smiling as I wait for the reply, and rearrange my features on principle, even though no one is around.
Stalker: 10:00. Don’t be late.
* * *
Vindhya’s physics class is the last hour of the day. Even though there’s a chance Stalker is watching me—now and, well, always—I can’t resist sprinting there after trig to catch the meet-cute in progress. As I round the corner into the science hall, I slow to a socially acceptable pace and then stop when I have a clear view of the doorway. Vindhya and Sean are both on their hands and knees, surrounded by books and the contents of Vindhya’s purse. Judging by the blast radius, she must have hit him like a linebacker. Dang, I’m proud of her.
They’re both reaching for books and sorting out his things from hers. They’re also creating a total roadblock in the process. No one can go in or out of the classroom. Which is brilliant, because all those people are now witnessing the meet-cute.
Sean says something that Vindhya smiles at. Their audience grows as more people arrive for class. Sean hands Vindhya a book, still talking. I really ought to learn how to read lips. I inch closer.
Gwen and Scarlett appear in front of me, totally blocking my view. Scarlett exclaims, “Hey, Charity! I don’t usually see you here!”
I shift slightly to see past her shoulder. Sean gallantly helps Vindhya up. I mutter, “Yeah, I think I forgot something at chem this morning, so…”
Scarlett notices me looking past them, turns to see what’s going on, and gets an eyeful of the Sean-Vindhya meet-cute playing to a packed house. She says, “Guys, check it out.”
All three of us move in closer, just in time to hear Tim Smith, baseball player and resident jagoff, say, “HEY, PRETTY BOY! Get out of the way so the rest of us can get to class.”
I clamp a hand over my mouth to hold back a horrified gasp. No, no, no. Tim’s spewing hate speech all over my meet-cute! I try to make Tim back off with a nudge, but I can’t get a clear shot. There are too many people milling around—not to mention Scarlett, who will not keep still.
“I said MOVE, Twinkle Toes.” Tim shoulders into Sean, who backs away looking miffed.
Vindhya steps in. “Excuse me?”
Tim says, “I was talking to Ballerina Barbie here, not you, Kama Sutra.”
Without missing a beat, Vindhya winds up and punches Tim in the temple. The hallway erupts in applause. Tim grabs his head, swearing, looking both shocked and in pain. The bell rings.
The rent-a-cop security guys appear on Segways to break up the crowd, calling, “GET TO CLASS! EVERYBODY GET TO CLASS. YOU’RE LATE!”
The audience begins to disperse, the security guys following the slowest group in the direction of the cafeteria. Tim Smith stalks toward physics looking acidic. Even though it serves no purpose, I nudge his depth perception just enough to make him run into the doo
rframe. He smacks his face and reels back, erupting in another round of not-school-appropriate words.
Not sorry.
Scarlett and Gwen both turn to me openmouthed. Gwen goes, “OMG. Was that real life?”
Scarlett responds, “That girl is so freaking badass. How do I not know her?”
I shake my head, like, I have no idea what’s going on. But inside I’m weeping for Vindhya and Sean, seething at Tim, blaming the Universe for giving me such pathetic powers, and feeling vaguely guilty for putting anyone in Tim’s line of fire.
The girls announce that they’ve got to go to class. As they walk away, Scarlett says, “Didn’t you used to have a crush on that Tim guy?”
Gwen makes a gagging noise. “Don’t remind me.”
They disappear into a classroom. I approach Sean cautiously, not sure how deep his wounds are. He gives me a half smile that might be conspiratorial… but could just as easily be his brave face.
I stop him with a hand on his arm and a whispered “Are you okay?”
He gives me a nod and a haters gonna hate eye roll.
“I’m so sorry you had to deal with that.”
Sean brushes off my sympathy. “That guy is his own worst enemy. Besides, our plan was good, but that drama—you can’t buy that kind of press.”
Hmmm, when he puts it that way… maybe we can make this work in our favor. But first I have to check on my Cindy. I text her: Tim sucks. Nice right hook, though. You okay?
As I hit send, an incoming notification pops up that Scarlett just posted a video. I click through.
“—not you, Kama Sutra.”
Vindhya’s eyes blaze. Her arm blurs.
Tim staggers and grabs his head.
A squee escapes me. My Cindy is now the knight in shining armor to JLHS’s It Boy. And Scarlett caught it on camera. This is going to blow up. I turn the phone to Sean. “OMG. You were spot-on.”
“You doubted me?”
I whisper, “Wait twenty or thirty minutes for this to build up some steam. Then comment, okay? Make sure you mention Vindhya by name.”
Sean quirks an eyebrow at me.
“Please.”
He nods, lips pursed.
One of the rent-a-cops returns and barks, “You two! CLASS!”
Sean and I go our separate ways. Sure enough, the video is looping on all of Scarlett’s feeds before I even make it to lit. By the end of class it has fourteen shares and thirty-eight comments. Comment thirty-eight says Vindhya Chandramouli for homecoming queen!
5 It’s Not Illegal If It’s Self-Defense
Eight hours post-meet-cute, with our social media campaign going strong, I turn my attention back to the Stalker problem. I arrive at the swing set at 10:02. My heart is pounding, and I can practically hear Memom yelling, “Contain the breach!”
I’m here mostly to protect my Cindies. But I can’t help worrying about myself a little. What if Stalker knows about the magic? I might literally have to drop out of high school and become a wandering fortune-teller in Baghdad or something. I tell myself there is no way Stalker could know. It’s not even in the realm of possibility. Here’s what’s going to happen:
I’m going to meet Stalker, put the smack down, and be done with this detour.
I rock in the swing while I wait. I came straight from the game, so I’m still wearing my Poms uniform under JLHS-branded warm-up pants and team jacket. My hair (still lavender) is up in the standard high ponytail.
The night is cool, dark, and still. There’s a half-moon, a nearby streetlight, and crickets to keep me company. Fourteen seconds of that reverie is enough for me. I pull out my phone and check on the meet-cute video. It’s up to ninety-six shares.
There’s a crunch nearby, and my head pops up. Stalker is backlit by the streetlight—a lanky guy, about six feet tall. I can’t see his face. Without taking my eyes off him, I put the phone away and clutch the pepper spray in my pocket, finger on the trigger.
He takes another step, and I launch out of the swing, facing him, pepper spray out at arm’s length. Just as fast, he whips out his own spray can, aimed at my face.
I growl, “This is law-enforcement strength.”
“Mine is for grizzly bears.”
He takes the step that brings him into the light. Disheveled curls. Glasses. A T-shirt that says DAMN IT, JIM, I’M A DOCTOR, NOT A MIRACLE WORKER. It’s Carmen’s goofy admirer—the one I actually thought was cute—the kid sporting the flip phone in the courtyard when I got that ridiculous bibbidi bobbidi boo text.
“YOU!” I shout the accusation. “You…” Words fail me.
“Noah.” He looks cocky in a way unique to dorks—like he just leveled up in Dungeons & Dragons.
Neither of us has lowered our pepper spray. My arm muscles start to burn a little, mostly because Coach had us do a hundred push-ups yesterday. But the lactic acid in my arms is nothing compared to the fury coursing through my veins. I’m so freaking mad. All my plans for levelheaded diplomacy go out the window. I mean, I’ve never done anything to this guy. I was rooting for him. I feel betrayed. I launch a vicious nudge at him: Hit yourself in the face. But I’m way too upset, and it shoots off into space or somewhere. I’m left with both hands tingling and nothing to show for it.
I hiss, “What the hell is your problem?!”
“My problem? You are unbelievable. I can’t even—” He ends with a single Ha.
I finish the sentence for him: “Can’t stop being a creepy little turd goblin for no reason?”
He laughs—something between surprise, mirth, and anger. “That is the first time I’ve been called that.” He edges to the side, possibly preparing for a left-flank assault.
“Seriously? Because you seem like the kind of guy that would get that a lot.” I swivel just enough to keep him directly in my sights. My arm is really burning now.
He runs his free hand through his mangy hair. “This is getting us nowhere. I’ll lower my weapon if you lower yours.”
I hesitate. “Fine.”
“Okay. On three?”
I shrug, like, I don’t care either way. My arm feels like Jell-O flambé.
He says, “One, two, three,” and we both slowly lower our pepper spray. Sweet relief. But I don’t take my finger off the trigger. I try another nudge: Drop the weapon. It does nothing but spread the pins and needles all the way up my arms. I’m still too mad.
I smack my thighs to wake my hands up. “Okay. Let’s get this over with. What the fffff—”
“Just shut up and listen. Here’s my list of demands.” He pulls a piece of notebook paper out of his pocket, unfolds it, and reads, “Number one, stop messing with people’s lives.”
“Okay,” I snap, “I don’t know where you’re getting your intel. But let’s get something straight. I don’t mess with people’s lives. I grant wishes. I make people happy.”
“You manipulate people for fun. You’re criminally insane.”
“I’m criminally insane? Only one of us has blackmailing, cyberbullying, and stalking on their rap sheet. You’re a freaking wacko.”
He jerks his arm up, but not faster than me. So we’re back to square one, staring down each other’s pepper spray dispensers.
He grinds out, “It’s not called ‘stalking’ if you’re the good guy. It’s called ‘staking out a perp.’ ”
I laugh incredulously. “Oh my gosh. You actually think you’re Captain America.”
“And you actually think you’re a magical, wish-granting fairy.”
’Cuz I am. We glare at each other in silence for a long moment. He blinks first.
He takes a deep breath, looks toward his outstretched hand, and says more calmly, “Can we de-escalate this, please?”
I tilt my head to the side in tacit compliance, and our arms hover down to neutral again.
I match his calm tone. “Okay, Captain Stalker. Seriously. What’s this about? The people on your list are happy. Why would you want to mess with them?”
He is inexplicab
ly angered by that totally reasonable question. “The people on that list are brainwashed sheep. They were happy before, and they were real. You assimilate people like the Borg Queen.”
I don’t know what that means, and I don’t actually care. What I’m really wondering is how much he knows about my magic. How do I defend myself without giving anything away? I hesitate. “That’s not true. I only help people get what they tell me they want.”
“LIAR!” He jabs his notebook paper in my face. “Holly never would have told you she wanted to be arm candy for that mouth breather.”
Aaaaah. Holly Butterman. One of my headache clients. She spent all her time blending into the background and trying not to cast a shadow. Then last year I glimpsed her at prom with Kade Kassab—JLHS star cornerback—dancing in the center of a human sea of deep-green envy. A few well-timed encounters, a little nudge at the opportune time… They’ve been a couple ever since.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“You have a crush on Holly Butterman. That’s what this is about.”
“Not a crush. We were friends. Maybe more than friends. I was taking Holly to junior prom. It took me months to work up the courage to ask her. Then I see the two of you talking in the auditorium, and the next day she tells me it’s off.” His shoulders slump a fraction.
Argh, sympathy. Remorse. It sucks that helping one person broke someone else’s heart. I feel genuinely bad about it. But current events require a stiff upper lip. I tap into my “I’m not a therapist but I play one on TV” voice. “What makes you think those events are connected?”
He goes rigid again and sneers, “Come on. People like you don’t hang out with people like Holly… like she was before.” He continues, sounding rather self-satisfied in a bad-guy-monologue type of way. “I’ve spent five months looking for patterns. Other people this has happened to. It’s amazing that I’m the first one to notice, actually. It’s so obvious once you know what you’re looking for. The sudden change of fortunes. A moment in the spotlight. The meteoric rise to popularity. You, always one or two degrees separated from it all.”