by G. F. Miller
I say, “You’re such a goober.”
“Shh.”
We go back to spying on Kade. He hands the coach his solid-B paper. Coach shakes his hand. “You squeaked in, champ.” Then he leans back, crossing his arms. “You’ve been on academic probation all week. This makes you eligible, but are you ready to face Loma Linda tonight?”
Kade says, “Put me in, Coach. I wanna play.”
Noah puts his fist out, and I touch my knuckles to his in a tiny, silent victory bump.
On one hand, I feel like I’m falling off the “no more granting wishes” wagon. But on the other hand, we did save the football game—possibly the whole season—and get Kade’s destiny back on track (for whatever that’s worth). But that’s not why my heart is pounding.
My cheek brushes Noah’s. We’re squeezed so close already that it could have been an accident if I hadn’t done it on purpose.
Noah exhales.
The inch of air between us feels effervescent. It’s like magic.
“Here he comes!” Noah shoves me away from the door. “Run, run, run!”
We trip over each other for a few feet and tumble into the weight room in a giggling tangle of arms and legs and headphone cord. That was just what I needed to break the tension I had built up in my head.
I laugh. “Wish. Granted. That was exactly what I glimpsed. You did it!”
Noah holds out his hand with a grin. “Put ’er there, partner.”
Yeah. Still tension. I shake his hand, trying to ignore the tractor beam pulling me toward him.
“I guess I’m officially a fairy godmother now,” he says.
I can’t stop smiling. He’s looking at me today—not just plotting points on an invisible “paranormal activity” graph. My voice sounds a little breathy when I quip, “I’ll make you a membership card.”
He glances at our still-linked hands. “It should probably say ‘hapless human male.’ ”
Oh no.
It always ends very badly for the hapless human.
All the fairy research I did slams into me like a wrecking ball. How many stories did I read of fairies getting infatuated with some dude, luring him away from the woman he truly loves, and destroying his life? So many.
How many men has my own family chewed up and spit out?
My grandpa.
My dad.
Kiet.
The smile slides off my face. I snatch my hand back. “I’ve gotta go.”
“You— Huh? Can we… talk… first?”
I’m already halfway out the door. “I really can’t be late for class.”
“Later then?”
“Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe.”
No matter how fast I walk, he stays right next to me. He makes it so hard to do the right thing.
“How about we go somewhere tonight?”
“I have the football game.”
“Then after that.”
“It’ll be late—”
The bell rings, and people flood the hallway. I slow my pace and control my breathing. The show must go on. I grit, “Arm.”
He wraps his arm around my shoulders with an audible sigh. To keep my heart from bursting and my thoughts in check, I say, “Just one more week until our contract is up. You and Holly are going to be a total power couple. I’m pretty sure she was giving me a jealous look yesterday. So—”
“Does your cloaking device have an off switch?”
By now I’ve watched enough Star Trek to know he’s calling me out. He knows I’m hiding. Actually, he might be calling me sneaky and belligerent, because Romulans were the ones who used cloaking devices, and they could be real a-holes.
How did I get myself this tangled up inside? I’m a science project to him. A very Romulany test subject. And he’s Holly’s Prince Charming—they belong together. I know all this. Unfortunately, my heart doesn’t give a rip about facts.
Maybe this was Morgan le Fay’s problem too. Maybe her heart just took over and made her do evil things like seducing men and sabotaging their lives even when she had every intention of leaving them alone.
I glance at Noah, my rebellious heart trying to squeeze the fight out of me. His head is tilted toward me and his gaze is locked on, waiting for a response.
“Hi, Charity! Hi, Noah!” Gwen calls as we pass. She scrunches her nose like, You guys are so cute.
We both say, “Hey.”
We stop outside my classroom, and I slide out from under Noah’s arm. “See ya.”
He captures my wrist. “Will you…? I just…” He bites his lip and clenches his free hand. “Seven days, right?”
“Right.” Perky, perky, perky.
“Okay.” He releases me. “I’ll talk to you later.”
* * *
I don’t glimpse anyone’s destiny at the football game, even though I try everything from meditation to visualization to chanting to telepathy. Afterward I force myself to go out for pizza with the squad, and I make a big show of sitting by Carmen.
Saturday morning, I wake up to a text from Noah: Buenos dias
I snuggle under my comforter and text back a good morning.
Noah: Any glimpses?
I groan into my pillow and text back: Nope.
Noah: Want to do something? Since we’re dating, we should go on a date. Be seen. Right?
I already made sure I wouldn’t be tempted to spend time with Noah today by packing my schedule. Sorry. I promised Sean I’d watch his rehearsal, and later I’m going to help Memom make some table centerpieces.
Noah: Memom?
Me: My grandma
Noah: How about tonight? Next Generation marathon at my house?
Me: How does that count as being seen?
Noah: We can post a selfie.
I try not to smile and fail. I should say no. Keeping my distance is the right thing to do. But my thumbs betray me and type: maybe.
26 It Would Be Okay If I Never Hear the Word “Data” Again
Sean and I have lunch at a gourmet grilled-cheese food truck after his ballet rehearsal. Between mouthfuls, I say, “I had no idea it was possible to jump that high.”
“It’s called leaping, hon. By the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you, I got accepted into the BFA program at SMU.”
“What?!” I throw my sandwich down. “Should we hug?!” He nod-laughs, and I run around the picnic table for a hug-and-squeal.
When we sit back down, he says, “You know, if it weren’t for you, it never would have happened.”
“No, it was all you. You work so hard.”
He steals my pickle. “Yeah, but you’re, like, the wind beneath my wings.”
“Har, har, har.”
For a couple of minutes there’s no more talking, just crunching. Then I circle back around. “The thing is, so many wishes have gone completely off the rails. How come yours turned out so good?”
He wipes his hands on a brown paper napkin. “I’ve been thinking about the Vindhya nightmare. The thing is, I knew how to make someone homecoming queen, and I just went for it. But I didn’t know her.”
“Yeah. Same.”
“With you and me, it was the opposite, right? You didn’t necessarily know anything about ballet, but we just hung out and talked and eventually got there.”
“You’re so right,” I say. Sean and I share the same look Hope and I gave each other when I was six and we broke our mom’s iPhone. Clearly, neither of us knows how to fix this right now. I ball my paper up. “All right, as much as I enjoy all this soul-searching, we’ve gotta go. I promised Memom we’d be there by two.”
He grimaces. “How did you rope me into making wedding centerpieces?”
* * *
When I get home—more than a little covered in glitter—there’s a notification on my tablet that I have a Facebook PM. I drop my backpack and stare at the notification for several seconds, suddenly nervous. It has to be from Kelly Bodworth because I don’t know anyone else who would try to contact me through Facebook. Part of me i
s relieved to, hopefully, close the final chapter on the Cindies, for better or worse. But given the likelihood that I messed up her life, an equally vocal part of me doesn’t want any more reasons for self-deprecation. I stand in the middle of my room, indecisive, for almost a full minute. Eventually my curiosity, combined with my desire for closure, wins out. I drop into my desk chair and navigate to Messenger.
The message from Kelly says:
Dear Charity, Wow, it’s been so long! Of course I remember you! How could I forget? How are you? So, you asked about Juggernaut. The first year I had him, he chewed everything in sight. My entire family pretty much hated him. Eventually he started to grow out of it, though. Then, a few years ago, I started talking to this guy on Snapchat a lot. I didn’t know him, but he seemed really nice and cool. After a while we set up a time to meet. Horrible decision, I know! I rode my bike to the meetup, and—long story short—it got creepy fast. Just when I started to panic, Juggernaut showed up and got right in between us, barking and snarling. He had managed to somehow break out of the yard and follow me! Ever since that happened, my parents will barely let me use social media at all. The whole thing freaked us all out. But, anyway, you asked if I’m still glad I got him—YES, YES, YES! He’s the best, best dog. He saved me! He’s my hero! I don’t even know what would have happened to me without him that day. Stay sweet, K.B.
I reread the message a couple of times, letting it sink in.
It’s a bona fide Happily Ever After. That makes two.
Nothing is random. That’s what Noah would say. Look for the patterns. So I pull out a piece of paper and start writing what Sean and Kelly have in common:
No headache.
Time. They both took months.
I pause, my pen hovering. Because that’s not a real pattern. Carmen and Sara both took a long time too, and neither of them gave me a headache. And both of their HEAs are definitely iffy.
Still, even though it’s not an answer, it feels like a lead, a thread to follow. I flip the paper over and make a chart with all my Cindies along the side and characteristics of their transformations at the top. It’s pretty easy to see that the biggest fails were all on the low end of time, and they all gave me a headache. But more time doesn’t necessarily guarantee success either.
I go back to the iPad and write a note to Kelly:
Glad Juggernaut was there when you needed him. I’ve been kind of off my game, but your note helped. Thanks for writing back.
It’s still only seven. I fold up the chart, stick it in my back pocket, and—because I’m a moth and he’s my own personal bug zapper—I head to Noah’s.
* * *
Noah probably could have mentioned that it was going to be a family movie night. When I arrive, the whole TrekkieFam is already deep in it. As Noah leads me into the living room, they all look up, and Dad pauses the show.
Nat looks surprised. His dad looks confused. His mom looks skeptical. It’s not exactly a warm welcome. Not that I deserve one. My stomach knots, once again waiting for them to tear into me about the Deanna Troi dress.
“Hi.” I force a smile.
They offer a jumble of “Hey there,” “Oh, Charity, hi,” and “Welcome in.”
Noah’s standing next to me, unhelpfully saying nothing. I’m tempted to dive behind him rather than face his family. Instead I clear my throat and confess, “I want to say I’m sorry. About the Deanna Troi dress.”
Lisa’s up off the couch in an instant. “What happened to the dress?!”
Wait. What?! He still never told them?
Noah goes, “Nothing! The dress is totally fine, Mom.”
She looks at us, confused. Waiting for an explanation.
“I, um, knew someone else who needed a costume, so I loaned it to her without permission. I’m… sorry.”
Lisa exhales, with her hand on her heart. “Why didn’t you just ask?”
“I didn’t think you’d say yes.”
She gives me a forced smile. “Okay. Well, that was not the best judgment, but your heart was in the right place, wanting to help a friend. And I’m glad you told us.”
Dad chimes in, “Yeah, no harm done. Come on in and join us.”
Natalie scoots a few inches closer to Dad. “There’s room right here.”
It shouldn’t matter that Noah’s family is inviting me in. But it does. And I never want to break their trust again. I squeeze in next to Natalie, and she offers me a big metallic smile and a bowl of popcorn.
Noah sits on the floor next to us, so I guess I got his seat. I spend the next three hours consuming Star Trek-themed snacks—like Romulan ale (which I’m pretty sure is blue cream soda) and the “Klingon delicacy Gladst” (kale chips)—while getting an intense introduction to Star Trek: The Next Generation. Pretty much every definable thing is better than the original series—the special effects, the plotlines, the props, the lack of blatant sexism. But I miss Spock.
Half of my brain pays attention to the show, while the other half plays Disclosure Pong. Do I tell Noah about Sean’s and Kelly’s happy endings and ask for his help… or not? On one hand, I don’t want to, because I want him to realize I’m a real girl—not a lab rat. But he is the guy who could track down a fairy godmother just by analyzing the data sets of a few Cindies. If I’m going to get help from anyone, it’s him. And besides, I’m not supposed to want him to want me. Better to be a science project than nothing at all.
After the fourth episode, I announce that I need to get going. His parents invite me to come again next weekend for DS9 (which I remind myself to look up later), and Noah walks me out. The door clicks behind us, leaving us standing in the soft porch light. Noah shifts from foot to foot, not quite looking at my face. “I’m really… glad you… came.”
“Me too.”
He looks like he doesn’t know what to do next. If it were anyone else but me standing here, I’d say it’s time for some kissing. But the kisses belong to the Cinderellas, not the fairy godmothers. Speaking of Cinderellas… I pull the paper out of my pocket and begin unfolding it, grateful to have something to do with my hands. “So, hey. I’ve been comparing my Cindies, trying to figure out if there’s a pattern to which happy endings went wrong, and I thought… maybe you’d like to take a look.”
“Oh. Kay.” He takes the paper and studies it for a moment. “Bryce? Kelly?”
“Surprise.”
He shoots me a disappointed look. And I give him a sheepish smile. He shakes his head, pushes his glasses up, and says, “Hang on, okay?”
He goes back in the house and returns half a minute later with a tablet. “I need more information.”
He proceeds to spend an hour asking me details about every glimpse, every wish-granting period, my relationship with each Cindy, and the results. I almost give myself whiplash seesawing between loving sitting in the dark receiving 100 percent of Noah’s attention and hating that I’m under scientific observation.
At one point his mom sticks her head out the door, sees us sitting on the steps with a tablet between us, and goes back in without a word.
Without even looking up, Noah grumbles, “Nice, Mom. Subtle.”
This form of mom behavior is incomprehensible to me. “What was that?”
“She wants me to know that she’s watching.”
“Why?”
“Because she wants me to be a virgin until I die.” He looks up. “Doesn’t your mom— Never mind.”
This feels like a seriously personal conversation to be having on the front porch. But I still find myself admitting, “My mom’s too worried about blue whales not procreating to worry about whether I am.”
“Why aren’t the whales procreating?”
“It’s a great big ocean. Hard to find that special someone.”
Noah laughs.
“What? That’s really why.”
He shakes his head, still chuckling, and goes back to the spreadsheet he’s making. “So, what are the criteria you’re using for whether someone’s wish has a
positive outcome?”
We stick to analysis and algorithms until long after midnight.
* * *
I sleep until after noon the next day. It’s glorious. Except that when I finally make my way out to the kitchen, I find a note that says: Hey there, sleepyhead. I’ve got a quick trip to Portland. Be good I’ll see you Tuesday. Love, Mom
I listen to the mantel clock tick for a while.
Then I dye my hair acid green, like toxic waste, and go back to bed.
* * *
Four hours later the doorbell rings. I shuffle out to see if there’s a package and find Noah, looking anxious. Swinging the door open, I grouse, “Did you forget how to use a phone again?”
“No. Did you? I texted you about eighteen times.”
Oops. I guess I never checked my phone today. I hit him with a little sarcastic “Shocking. That’s so unlike you.”
Unfazed, he says, “What did you do to your hair?”
I had forgotten about the acid green until this moment. I shrug. “I got mad.”
“At your hair?”
I roll my eyes.
He gestures at my athleisure wear. “Are you okay? Did you have a glimpse?”
“No glimpse. I’m fine. Just lazy.”
He looks past me into the house. “Is your mom home?”
“Nope. She’s in Portland.” That came out a little snippy. It’s like I hate the ocean. Sigh.
Noah has that scientific-researcher look on his face. Damn it. He’s adding everything I say to his mental database of fairy godmother facts. I just know it. “So this—” He gestures at my hair. “This is because your mom’s gone again.”
It’s not a question. “Did you need something?”
“Can I come in?”
I take a step back and wave him in. He sits on the couch with his tablet, so I close the door and join him.
He wakes up the screen with a double tap. “So I’ve been looking at our data set here.”