by G. F. Miller
Pretty soon everyone is talking about the game. Awkward question officially dodged.
But Noah is glaring at me hard enough to melt all the ice cream in this room. I shoot him a quick not now look and then avert my eyes. I’m three people from the front of the line and getting more uneasy by the minute. Any hope I had for talking this out in private evaporates. Noah’s about to turn state’s witness in front of JLHS’s collective social jury.
This would be the perfect time for a quick exit. As the girl in front of me orders, I consider my options for escape:
Fake emergency text. Estimated time required to pull out phone, make a big deal, arrange alternate rides for the girls I brought here, and walk out the door: 125 seconds. Pros: Relatively easy to fake. Cons: Slow and clunky. High drama. Way too big a window for Noah to call me out.
Phantom nausea. Time required to double over and run out the door: 12 seconds. Pros: Quick and easy to pull off. Cons: Potential pregnancy rumors.
Nudge somebody to pull the fire alarm. Time required to wink the temptation into someone’s head: 2 seconds. Pros: Extremely effective and untraceable. Cons: Pins and needles for a couple minutes and a lifetime of guilt feelings for getting someone in a crap ton of trouble.
“Charity?” Carmen prods me from behind. “Your turn.”
I snap out of it and face off with Noah over the cash register. Intriguingly, his eyes aren’t just one color—they’re a starburst of bright green, clear blue, and light brown. Like stirred-up mud puddles, I tell myself resolutely.
Said muddy eyes have a dangerous glint in them. Under different circumstances, I’m fairly certain he would take me down with pepper spray right now. My eye twitches, but I don’t look away.
Scarlett squeezes in next to me. “We know this guy, Charity. Remember? He was creeping on our practice a few days ago.” She says it with a smile in her voice. She leans toward him over the counter. “So you work here?”
Noah is forced to break the stare-off to look at Scarlett. Without missing a beat, he says, “No. I work at Tastee Freez.”
Scarlett laughs. “Really?”
Noah raises his eyebrows. I rub the spot between mine.
Scarlett looks from me to him, still oblivious of the number of stereotypes she’s perpetuating. Then she makes an I figured it out face. “You two do know each other, don’t you?”
Noah motions toward me with his ice cream spade. “Yeah. Actually, she comes in here all the time. You’d be amazed at the secrets I know about Charity.”
Scarlett looks hungry—like she’s on the brink of a Pulitzer. I press my lips together. Noah and I lock eyes again.
Mine say, Have mercy.
His say, Payback time.
He moves to the stone slab and dips his spade into one of the tubs. “For instance, I know that Charity secretly loves cotton candy ice cream.”
I really wanted a hot-fudge sundae. But if me eating cotton candy ice cream makes Noah feel like justice has been done, so be it. I remain perfectly still.
He says, “And I know all her favorite toppings.” He ladles some blueberries into the dish. Fine, I’ll eat blueberries on my cotton candy ice cream.
He picks up a squeeze bottle of caramel sauce. Blueberries and caramel? Who does that? My tongue feels violated just thinking about it. I nudge him to stop. He pauses for a long moment before shaking his head and proceeding to squirt on an obnoxious amount of caramel.
Scarlett and Carmen are enthralled. Gwen pokes her head into the huddle, scrunches her nose, and goes, “Eew. You’re going to eat that?”
I can’t even.
Noah answers for me. “Oh yeah. She’s going to eat every… last… bite.”
I lift my chin slightly. I hear the threat in his voice—if I don’t consume this miscreation, he’ll out Vindhya. And me.
I try another nudge, both arms buzzing now: Be kind.
His hand stills again, his jaw works, and he visibly crushes the invading thought. My wimpy magic can’t overpower his legit anger.
With renewed determination, he heaps on rainbow sprinkles, like a mountain of tiny unicorn turds. Then his hand hovers over the toppings bar as he considers what else to add.
He meets my gaze. His fingers rest on the lid of the gummy worm jar. Only slightly more appealing than actual worms.
Going for genuine sympathy over magic, I silently plead for him to stop. Haven’t I been punished enough?
He smirks. The worms go into the cup, followed by mini-marshmallows—the kind that were born stale. Then peanut butter. Chunky peanut butter—the ugly stepsister of nut butters.
Finally, he holds the cup of retribution out to me. I take it with a smile, but my eyes say, You’re a monster.
Scarlett pulls out her phone to record and post this moment. “Seriously, Charity? That’s so gross.”
I smile plastically for the camera. “I… uh…”
Noah cuts in. “You know, we even named this treat after someone very special to Charity.”
Scarlett, Carmen, and a handful of girls within earshot all lean in.
Please don’t do this, I silently plead.
“It’s called Vind—”
“Spoon please,” I squeak.
Noah says, “Vin Diesel’s Just Desserts. That’s what it’s called. She’s such a fangirl.” He hands me a spoon. “That’ll be eighteen fifty.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, I don’t have to feign nausea. After gagging down Noah’s version of humble pie, I am so sick to my stomach that I tell Scarlett and Gwen I have to leave, and Angie offers to give them rides home.
As I reach my car, Noah’s voice crosses the dark parking lot. “Why did you do it?”
The thing is, he sounds so hurt. Apparently he poured all of his anger into the sugar bomb I just ate, and now what’s left is the pain of betrayal. A new wave of shame washes over me. I pause, my hand on the door handle. “I’m a fairy godmother.” It comes out hollow.
“You’ve been messing with Vindhya this whole time, haven’t you?” He makes a noise of sheer contempt. “I can’t believe I didn’t realize what you were up to.”
I can’t make myself face him, even though staring at my car door has become officially awkward at this point. I compromise by turning halfway around and fixating on a crack in the blacktop. “We still have a deal, though. Right? I help you with Holly; you keep the Cindies’ secret.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
I finally force my eyes upward. Noah’s pink-and-green shirt is untucked and unbuttoned, revealing the white undershirt beneath. The apron is gone. The Arctic Marble ball cap is now being crushed in his fist.
I cross my arms defensively. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
“Really? Because I feel like I’ve been super clear about this.” He takes a commanding step toward me. “Stop what you’re doing to Vindhya.”
I press my back against the car. “I can’t. I glimpsed it. I have to finish this.”
“So these glimpses give you the right to use people? Con anyone and everyone into doing whatever you want? Lie, cheat, steal?”
Okay, can we get some perspective here? It was just a dress. He’s making it sound like I smuggle guns to warlords or something. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, okay? But I had to—”
“No, you didn’t. You don’t have to. You could just let people live their lives.”
I take a calming breath and try again to explain who and what I am. Maybe he can hear me better now that neither of us has a biological weapon. “The Universe wants me to make these wishes come true. My Cindies need me.”
He laughs, breathy and humorless. “Or do you need them to make you feel important?”
“Stop it!” My voice chokes from the tension, but I’m not on the verge of crying. I’m not. I press a finger between my eyes to calm down. “Once I get a glimpse, I have to make it happen.”
“Why?” he demands again. “What if you don’t? Do you melt into a puddle? Assume you
r true, hideous form? Does somebody turn into a pumpkin?”
His questions hang in the air unanswered for a beat. Then two.
Finally, I admit, “I don’t know. I’ve never failed.”
“So, are we talking about magical enslavement here? Are you like a genie in a lamp? Or are you just afraid of failure?”
I’ve never asked myself this question. When I was twelve, I glimpsed Kelly Bodworth cuddling a slobbery, shaggy, black-and-tan puppy. And I just knew I had to bring them together. She and I spent the whole summer scouring alleys and animal shelters for that dog. I nudged the Humane Society guy to waive the adoption fee. She named him Juggernaut. Every glimpse I’ve ever gotten since that first one comes with the conviction that I’m supposed to make it happen. But why? What’s driving me?
All my air catches near my sternum, and I have to force out the truth. “I don’t know.”
He sets his jaw. “Then stop. And see what happens.”
I can’t do that. That’s what I’m trying to tell him. Either he’s not listening or he’s being purposely obtuse. I mean, seriously, what is his deal? I apologized about the dress. I agreed to help him get his girl back. I ate every bite of his Frankenfrosty. I’ve basically been a slave to his every whim. Now he wants me to drop my Cindy like a bad habit less than twenty-four hours before the ball? And I’m the one with a problem?
My hands clench into fists at my sides. I snap, “You know what? You’re such a hypocrite. You’re perfectly happy to have me do my thing when it benefits you. But if I help Vindhya, suddenly I’m a villain.”
He throws his hands up. “Don’t you see the difference? I asked for your help. She didn’t. You just decided for her what turn her life should take. It’s sick, and it’s wrong.”
“Vindhya had a choice.”
“Or did you coerce her into it?”
“NO! It’s her deepest wish. I glimpsed—”
“How do you even know what you’re glimpsing? What if you’re glimpsing pure evil—literally the worst thing that could happen to that person? Or whatever random thing is crossing their mind in that moment? Or a figment of your own imagination?”
Another question I’ve never asked myself. Ever since Kelly and Juggernaut, I’ve felt that the glimpses were unimpeachable. It’s a gut thing. And Memom—she always trusts the glimpses. Plus, how could popularity and true love and puppies be evil? Come on, they’re puppies.
I blurt, “I just know.”
We study each other in the dark. There’s a breeze playing with his curls. His hands are in his pockets, and his glasses reflect the distant streetlight. Behind the frames, his eyes look deeply disappointed. Finally he says again, “You need to stop.” Then he turns to walk away.
And suddenly I don’t want him to go. Maybe I can’t handle anyone not thinking I’m God’s gift to JLHS. Maybe I’m that much of a people pleaser. To keep him here I say, “Why are you so sure that I’m the bad guy?”
He doesn’t stop moving away from me but calls over his shoulder, “Why are you so sure you’re not?”
13 Okay, Not How I Pictured This Going
The obnoxiously loud and long buzzer sounds the end of the second quarter, officially ringing in halftime at the homecoming game. We’re down by two. My hair has been White Wolves Purple all day. I’m so over it already. But, you know, gotta represent for school spirit day. The Poms mill around the track waiting to do our routine, while the football team jogs off the field for their halftime pep talk, and the homecoming court nominees are led onto the field for the big reveal.
It’s all background noise. Inside my head, a movie called My Fight with Noah at the Arctic Marble is playing on repeat. I spent the whole first half looking for Noah in the bleachers, because, I don’t know, maybe he’s cooled off. Maybe he’s sorry he called me a bad guy. But he’s not here. Which is good, and I’m glad.
I mentally smack myself to pay attention. This is Vindhya’s destiny moment, her metaphorical dance with Prince Charming. The fairy godmother does not phone it in at zero hour. I train my gaze on Vindhya, lined up with the rest of the court about twenty feet from me. She is stunning in the red sari that I glimpsed ten days ago. Thick black eyeliner makes her eyes look enormous—like cartoon-princess big.
My forehead feels like tiny carnies are setting off fireworks on it.
Ms. Martinez, the vice principal, signals the pep band, and the school fight song overpowers the noise in the bleachers. As soon as they hit the last note, Ms. Martinez lifts the microphone to her mouth and yells, “Happy homecoming, White Wolves!”
The crowd cheers. She proceeds to announce the homecoming court, one at a time, starting with the freshman duke and duchess. She works her way up to the king and queen. There’s no doubt in my mind that Vindhya is going to be crowned.
“White Wolves, I present this year’s homecoming king: Kade Kassab!”
Holly’s football-star boyfriend. How predictable. The crowd goes wild. Kade, in his football uniform, dripping sweat and undoubtedly stinking, jogs forward to accept the crown.
“And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for. I give you this year’s queen of the White Wolves…” Dramatic pause; the pep band amps the theatrics with a drum roll. “Vindhya Chandramouli!”
I cheer along with everyone else, flooded with proud endorphins despite my malaise beforehand. Vindhya’s smile is seismic. I can feel the shock waves of elation even when she covers her mouth with both hands, and it makes me shout and clap that much louder. Another wish officially granted. All the drama from the last few days—it was all worth it to give Vindhya her Happily Ever After.
Ms. Martinez places the silver-and-rhinestone tiara on her silky black hair. The noise from the bleachers is bananas—pounding feet, whooping, woofing, the band blasting random notes and banging cymbals.
Vindhya and Kade are guided to the back seat of a convertible and driven slowly around the track. She sits straight and tall, waving gracefully like a true queen—radiant, confident, owning it. Exactly as I glimpsed her.
Her adoring subjects cheer and cheer. The foot stomping turns rhythmic. The band plays the fight song again. As the car completes its circuit around the track, the noise finally subsides, but it’s almost instantly replaced by chanting. It starts kind of jumbled and indecipherable but gains volume and clarity with each round.
“SELLOUT,” they shout.
“SELLOUT!”
“SELLOUT!”
I look toward the source of the chorus. My first thought is, Did Noah do this? There’s a whole section of STEMers—I recognize them because they’re sporting Coding Club T-shirts and MATHMAGICIAN T-shirts and shirts that say, GOT ROBOTS? They wave banners and signs with Sharpie messages like POSEUR and QUEEN OF GARBAGE. They chant “SELLOUT! SELLOUT! SELLOUT!” Loud. Angry. Extremely well organized.
I look to Vindhya. Her smile is frozen on her face. Her eyes are huge with horror. Imagine it’s the zombie apocalypse, and a horde of zombies is marching toward you, and smiling is the only way to keep your brain from being eaten. That look is on Vindhya’s face right now.
Her gaze cuts to me, and it’s like, Why did you release all these hungry zombies? And is that brain matter running down your chin?
I’m numb with shock and horror. This isn’t how it’s supposed to turn out. The seconds tick down on the halftime clock.
Kade, of all people, comes to the rescue. He offers Vindhya his sweaty arm. When she takes it with a shaking hand, he guides her out of the car and off the field. Meanwhile the chant continues. “SELLOUT! SELLOUT!”
The adults scramble to salvage what’s left of homecoming. Ms. Martinez herds the rest of the court off the field in a hurry. Coach waves us frantically onto the field. The moment we’re set, the thumping bass of our routine mix blasts through the sound system louder than it has ever played before. Loud enough to drown out the chanting.
Two minutes and forty-two seconds later, I strut off the field, holding my poms at my lower back just like the rest of
the squad, so they bounce in time with every step. We march across the track and through the entrance to the players’ area. Several minutes of mandatory post-performance chitchat and commentary on the Vindhya scandal must be endured. But as soon as propriety allows, I melt away from my teammates.
I find Vindhya in the girls’ bathroom. She’s sobbing into one of those scratchy brown paper towels. The door swings closed behind me. “Vindhya—” What makes this better? Ignore those haters? I’m sorry this happened? You looked magnificent out there?
I don’t need to figure out what to say, because Vindhya looks up, black eyeliner streaming down her face, and yells, “Get out of here! Leave me alone!”
I hesitate for a moment, all the things I should say still poised on my lips. But none of them would make this suck less. And the moment I glimpsed has come and gone. There’s no road map, no precedent, for further intervention. I’m not a hugger. I’m a fixer. And I can’t fix this.
Vindhya screams, “I SAID GET OUT!”
So I do. I walk away and leave her there.
* * *
The next morning I fall through Memom’s front door and belly flop onto her couch. The chanting still rings in my ears. SELLOUT! SELLOUT! A tousle of White Wolves Purple falls over my face, blocking out the world.
Memom’s voice comes from the other side of the hair shield. “I haven’t seen an entrance that dramatic since Beaches. Hello.”
I mumble, “Hello.”
“I’ll make some tea. Nice hair, by the way.”
“Thanks.” I listen to Memom putz around with the teakettle and cups. Even though I’ve come running here for a shoulder to cry on, I’m not sure how to confess to her that I let a wish go so far off the rails. Maybe I actually want to get yelled at. Maybe she’ll fire me. How would that even work?
When I get tired of hairs tickling my nose every time I inhale, I push the mop away from my face. A tower of wedding magazines has taken over the coffee table. So I guess Memom’s current Cindy is progressing nicely.