Glimpsed

by G. F. Miller

  Popularity? That’s all he thinks this is about? Reconciliations, romance, dreams come true. I do it all. I’m transforming lives up in here, punk.

  There’s a cutting remark about how off base he is ready on my lips, but I bite it back. I need to be strategic. He’s showing his cards, giving me a chance to find out exactly how much he knows. I give his ego a little prod. “Smart. But why did you say, ‘no wand waving’? That’s kind of out-there.”

  “When Carmen made the Poms squad, I figured she was the most recent victim. So I went to her and told her you had offered to help me, and I wasn’t sure if I should accept. She gave me all the deets—how you approached her out of the blue, how she was sworn to secrecy and is never allowed to talk to you in public, how you called yourself her fairy godmother, and how you somehow managed to stall the tryout when she got a flat tire.”

  Oh, Carmen, you sweet, gullible child. I want to smack you upside the head right now.

  I huff out my irritation and keep my head in the game. No denying he’s holding some disturbingly good cards. But now I know I’ve got a few too:

  He has no proof, really. It’s possible that I could get people to dismiss him as a conspiracy-theory fanatic.

  He doesn’t know about the glimpses or the nudges.

  He’s in love with Holly.

  I pocket my pepper spray and hold out both my hands, palms up, speaking with the most contrite voice I can muster. “I’m so sorry about junior prom. But think about it. If you publish that list, Holly will suffer too. Kade will dump her. She’ll have no friends.”

  “She’ll have me.” There he goes sounding heartbroken and sincere again. It tugs my heartstrings in the most annoying way. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’ll only publish the list if you force me to. Which brings me to demand number two: undo whatever you did to Holly.”

  Irritation overrides my momentary lapse into sympathy. I snap, “I can’t undo it. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “You could if you wanted to. Undo the brainwashing.”

  I shout in frustration, “I don’t brainwash people! I glimpse their wishes, and I help them get to their Happily Ever After.”

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize I just let Captain Stalker into the People Who Know About the Magic Club. He officially knows me better than my own mother now. On one hand, it was a major tactical error. Memom is going to read me the riot act for an hour. But it feels kind of good to tell him. Now he knows I’m the real deal, not the narcissistic puppet master he’s made me out to be. Maybe he’ll ease off me a little.

  Stalker registers the information I’ve given him with slack-jawed incredulity. “You what?”

  I repeat it, clear and steady, because I might as well own it now. “I glimpse their wishes.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “I see something that is meant to happen in their future.”

  “HA!” It’s not a laugh, exactly. It’s the sound of a mind being blown. He shakes his head, making his clown curls jiggle. “You… you glimpse… their future.”

  “One specific moment in their future. The moment their deepest wish comes true.”

  Disbelief gives way to anger again. I can tell because he turns hot pink from his neck to the tips of his ears. “You’re telling me Holly’s deepest wish was to date a meathead football player?”

  “I only—”

  “Do you know one single thing about her? She’s an artist. She draws her own comic books. She makes these cookies that are too beautiful to eat. If you get her laughing hard enough, she snorts so loud. She… she…” He trails off, scrubbing one hand across his forehead.

  I’m speechless for the first time I can remember. I didn’t actually know those things about Holly. The truth is, it never occurred to me there was anything I needed to know that the glimpse didn’t show me. I clear my throat, about to confess. Then I realize I’ve done nothing wrong, and he’s neither a priest nor a judge. I lift my chin and declare, “I’m only interested in people’s futures. The past is not relevant.”

  He coughs into his fist. It sounds like “Hag.”

  I roll my eyes.

  He stuffs the notebook paper back in his pocket, thinks for a moment, then says, “Okay, so you had this little fortune-teller moment, and then, based totally on that, you just convinced Kade and Holly to date each other?”

  “That is super cynical. But… okay. Sure. Whatever.”

  “Then just convince them to stop dating.”

  “I won’t. But even if I wanted to, I can’t.”

  “Give me one good reason.” He crosses his arms and tucks his fists into his armpits.

  Where do I start?

  1. No glimpse, no wish. It’s as simple as that.

  2. I don’t negotiate with terrorists.

  3. If granting a wish gets people to Happily Ever After, then ungranting one derails destiny.

  I could think of like fifty more. But I pick, “Ruining someone’s happiness goes against my code of conduct.”

  “You ruined mine.”

  “That was inadvertent,” I huff, because he really needs to let that go. “I grant wishes. I don’t destroy them.”

  “Fine. You grant wishes. Then grant mine. I wish for Holly Butterman to fall in love with me.”

  “Aaargh.” I throw my hands up. “You are impossible. I’m really sorry that you lost your girl. But it’s time to move on. She chose someone else. It happens. I’m not fixing you up with her. Get a life. The end.”

  He sighs, like I’m the one who doesn’t get it. “I thought maybe the ditzy Poms thing was just a stereotype.”

  “Hey!”

  “Try to get this through your glitter-filled head.” He starts talking really slowly, like I’m four. “You grant my wish, or I destroy your popular little life along with the fake lives of every person you’ve conned into ditching their real friends for a spot at the cool table.”

  Now he’s really pissing me off. I grit back, equally slowly, “You give it your best shot, Captain. You’ve got no proof. It’s your word against mine. You will be the butt of every joke for the rest of the year—the gullible, paranoid, conspiracy-theory-touting loser.”

  I just played my last card. And, yeah, it was mean. But worth it to win.

  He sighs and reaches into his pocket. I whip out my pepper spray, assuming we’re having another quick-draw competition. He slowly pulls his phone out and holds it up. “I don’t think that’s how it’s going to go, though. Because I recorded this whole conversation.”

  The words are a gut punch. I gasp, “That’s a felony.”

  He pulls a whatcha gonna do face. That smug expression puts me completely over the edge. With a primal roar, I squeeze the trigger on the little can in my hand. It takes only a second to empty its contents. Then everything happens at once. The pepper spray has the desired effect—the look on his face morphs to pain and panic. He fumbles the phone, then clutches it to his chest as he drops, facedown in the fetal position, to the wood chips.

  I try again to nudge: Drop it. Drop IT. But my nudger is way too overheated to get the signal through. My arms and legs go buzzy, and he’s still got a death grip on his phone. Looks like we’re doing this the old-fashioned way. Coughing on secondhand fumes, I dive at him with only one thought in my head—get the phone.

  I wedge both hands between his body and the ground, find his hand wrapped around the phone, and claw at his fingers. He wheezes every possible profanity at me, angling his body away. My arms are pinned. I wiggle my fingers and dig my knee into his back. I pant, “Give me the phone. Give it to me.”

  He suddenly rolls away and onto his back. His face is red and splotchy and drenched. Fluid pours from every orifice. His eyes are clamped shut. He’s panting.

  Okay, I feel a smidge guilty for doing that to another human. But I have to get the phone. I launch myself onto him again, desperately prying at his fingers.

  His other arm flashes up. I hear a hiss. And I am on fire
.

  I scream, my hands instinctively covering my face. Instantly I’m a mess of snot and tears and saliva—streaming into my hands, running down my arms, pouring off my chin and soaking my jacket. I am blind. My conflagrated eyes refuse to open. My throat constricts. Between coughing fits, I rasp, “You’re… Satan.”

  “You… drew… first… blood.”

  We don’t talk again for a long time. For five or twenty minutes, the only sound is coughing, gasping, groaning, and nose blowing. Finally, the feeling of being incinerated alive begins to abate. I contemplate my situation while I wipe smears of watery eye makeup onto my sleeves.

  This bottom-feeder is basically trying to force me to quit my job—my calling, my very purpose on earth—the same week my sister hit me with the news that she’s ditching me for good. And in case that doesn’t burn enough, he’s deployed a chemical weapon on me. I don’t even know if what he wants is possible. And even if it is, I’d rather break both his legs than help him. But the brutal reality is, he has me in a corner. I take off my jacket and mop my face with it.

  I hear Stalker mess with his phone, but I’m too spent to restart the fight. There’s a shwoop, and he croaks, “I just emailed the audio file to myself.”

  Game point, Captain Stalker. I concede the win with “I hate you.”

  “I despise you.”

  I want to cry. I want to throw myself into the wood chips and bawl like a baby. Instead I take my first deep breath since getting Maced in the face. The night air feels like Icy Hot on my scorched throat and lungs, and it reinflates me with cool resolve. I’m the fairy godmother. The fairy freaking godmother. My defeat is transitory. My revenge will be swift and sweet.

  Feigning dignity not truly possible in the aftermath of pepper spray, I pull my lips into a tight, saccharine smile and lilt, “Fine. You win. I’ll grant your crappy wish.” I lean into his personal space. “But that means you do exactly what I say and only what I say. From here on out, you don’t put on your tighty-whities without my permission. Got it?” I jab my finger into his collarbone for effect, and he rewards me with an uneasy look. His eyes are pink and puffy and bloodshot. I must look the same.

  I stand up, still holding my soggy jacket and empty pepper spray can. I pivot to make my grand exit, but all the swagger has been burned out of me. Instead of a strut, all I manage is a dead-limbed plod. At the edge of the circle of light, I turn back for the mic drop. “Congratulations, Noah. You’ve got yourself a fairy godmother.”

  6 This Is How I Go to War

  Eight hours. That’s how long I get to recover from the disaster with Noah. At 7:05 on Saturday morning, he texts: Can I put on my underwear now?

  This is sleep-deprivation torture. It’s sick and twisted and inhumane. As I lie in bed contemplating ways to murder him and make it look like an accident, I hear clanging in the kitchen. Without responding to the text, I roll out of bed and pad toward the source of the noise.

  Mom is there—dressed in a suit, hair done, and makeup applied. She looks like she’s been up for hours. When I appear from the hallway, she gives me her deal-making, check-collecting, world-saving smile. “Good morning, sweetheart. Coffee?”

  “I’m trying to quit.” I don’t drink coffee. Maybe she’s being cute, but I suspect she doesn’t know this about me.

  “I’m making eggs and toast. You want some?”

  “Sure.” While Mom cracks eggs into the frying pan, I pour myself a glass of orange juice and flop onto one of the high bar chairs at the counter. Once my morning throat has a protective coating of OJ, I say, “So, you look nice. You going into work today?”

  The question is so casual, like it’s just trivia.

  I hear my phone chime in my room. It might not be Captain Ambush. It might be… someone else who gets up way too early on Saturday. Who am I kidding? No one who doesn’t hate me would be texting right now.

  “I have breakfast with a major donor at nine, and I don’t want to be too hungry.”

  “Oh.”

  My phone chimes again. It could be Hope forgetting what time zone I’m in.

  Mom puts a plate of eggs and toast in front of me and sits down with her own. While we eat, my phone keeps cheeping from my bedroom, and I keep ignoring it. I wait hopefully for Mom to ask me something—anything—about my life. I fill the space by prepping responses, just in case.

  Imaginary Mom: Your eyes look puffy. Are you okay?

  Me: It’s kind of a funny story, actually. This nerd vigilante attacked me.…

  Imaginary Mom: How did the halftime routine go last night?

  Me: It was fine. I’m not really that into Poms, though. I only do it to keep up appearances.…

  Imaginary Mom: How are you doing in trig?

  Me: I’m working really hard, but… this is the first time in my life I’ve felt like I might fail at something. I’m scared, Mom.

  Daydreams. She chews placidly. I realize she’s not really here. She’s rehearsing what she’s going to say to her major donor, and what they might say back, and how she’ll respond. Resentment churns the eggs in my stomach, followed quickly by shame. She’s literally trying to save the ocean from floating garbage and oil slicks. What kind of an attention-starved whiner would resent that?

  I finish my breakfast, slam the last few ounces of OJ, and take my dishes to the sink. I make my voice as cheerful as it should be. “Well, have a great meeting. I hope they give you a million dollars.”

  Her eyes come back into focus. “I’m going to ask them to let us use their yacht for a fundraising dinner.”

  “Oh. Cool.” The wish bubbles up again: Ask about me. It’s petty. I release it with a sigh. “I might go see Memom later. Or maybe tomorrow… She’s been asking when you’re coming to visit.”

  Mom stabs her egg like it’s earned a quick execution. “Really? She’s guilt-tripping me through you now?”

  “I think she just—”

  “I’m sorry, Charity. You shouldn’t have to be our go-between. I’ll try to call her… sometime.”

  This is officially awkward now. They’ve been this way since I was like five. I have a vague memory of a shouting match where Mom accused Memom of filling our heads with fairy tales and Memom called Mom a disappointment. They’ve barely been on speaking terms ever since. I try not to get involved.

  My phone chimes again in the distance, and I back toward the hallway. “I’d better go see who’s texting me. Thanks for breakfast.”

  Mom waves her fork. “Okay, hon. Have a good day.”

  * * *

  7:14, Noah: My underwear. The final frontier.

  7:16, Noah: All right, it’s between blue with the Starfleet insignia or the ones with the schematic of the starship Enterprise across the crotch.

  7:19, Noah: I went with the Enterprise. Hope that’s okay. Now is it okay to pick out my socks?

  7:23, Noah: My mom wants to know why my eyes look like raw meat. Should I tell her I was attacked by a PMS-raging pompon girl? Or should I lie?

  I glare at the phone, trying to strategize, caught in the purgatory between laughing and screaming. If Noah’s play is to annoy me until I come completely unglued, it’s working. On the other hand, maybe he’s simply a loser with nothing but time on his hands and no filter. Either way, I have to set some boundaries now.

  While I consider what it would take to get under Noah’s skin, he texts me a picture of his feet. One sock has lime-green, royal-blue, and fluorescent-yellow stripes. The other is orange with purple polka dots. If I look at them long enough I’m pretty sure I’ll have a seizure.

  The next incoming text reads: Which ones?

  Then there’s a GIF of a guy with pointy ears and a bad Caesar haircut raising one weird eyebrow.

  Curse the day this kid got my number.

  It’s time to take the war to his front door. I write: Text me your address. We start today.

  I punch send with unnecessary roughness and toss the phone on the bed. Dealing with this is the last thing I need right now
. I should be focused on Vindhya’s wish—now made even trickier by the fact that I’m going to have to accomplish it without Noah figuring out what’s going on. I seriously have zero time for teaching sketchy exes of former Cindies basic phone etiquette.

  But you know what? The fairy godmother can handle any challenge. I head to the bathroom for a shower.

  When I return to the phone—clean, dry, dressed, and primped—forty-five minutes later, Noah has sent his address, along with twenty-three more texts. Six are about choosing breakfast cereal, eleven are unintelligible sci-fi references, two are pictures of a “weird spot” on his knee, and four are video clips of Wiggles songs. I want to claw my own eyes out.

  This is definitely weaponized geekery. No one on earth could be accidentally this obnoxious.

  I check myself in the mirror to make sure I’m battle ready. Every curve is accentuated in my short shorts and pink tank top. I adjust to reveal a peek of red lace at my cleavage. My lavender waves are in a devil-may-care tousle. Carefully applied concealer has erased last night’s trauma. Satisfied with my look, I douse myself with satsuma body spray and slip into sandals.

  My plan of attack is simple:

  Set off every hormonal trip wire in his feeble boy brain.

  Once he’s mentally incapacitated, demonstrate how easily I could crush him.

  Leave him terrified to cross me again.

  * * *

  Noah’s house is unnervingly close to my house, it turns out. He lives six blocks away from me. The houses on his street come in the same three floor plans as the houses on my street. Mom and I have the one-story Spanish Revival the color of sand. They have the two-story Spanish Revival the color of slightly darker sand.