by G. F. Miller
Noah’s fingers drum a frenetic rhythm against the steering wheel. He turns into Surya’s neighborhood, following the robotic instructions from his phone. Cars line Surya’s street. We have to park a block away.
I reach for the door handle.
“Do you want to hear my idea?” Noah’s voice pierces the loaded silence.
I don’t say yes, but I also don’t make a break for it.
He says, “We scrap the plan. We don’t break up tonight. We just give this time and see where it goes.”
What wouldn’t I pay to give in to that wonderful, beautiful, doomed idea? If I even look at him, my willpower might crumble again. I fix my eyes on the dashboard. “It doesn’t go anywhere. We made this up to get you Holly, remember?” Then I’m out of the car and striding toward Surya’s house as fast as strappy sandals will carry me.
Noah grabs my hand, forcing me to stop and face him. “The only reason I went along with this ludicrous plan was to spend more time with you. I’ve spent every minute of the past ten days trying to show you that we should be together.”
“Holly is your true love.”
“I don’t want Holly anymore!”
I jerk my hand away and say flatly, “And I don’t want to be the consolation prize.” I walk.
He keeps pace with me. “What the heck is that supposed to mean?”
My fairy godmother voice doesn’t fail me—kind and patient and condescending. “Cold feet are normal at this stage. But you went to great lengths for her, Noah. When you love someone like that, it doesn’t just vanish overnight. The past few days, it maybe felt a little too real. You got confused. You’re letting me stand in for her.”
I hate how logical and reasonable that sounded. How clearly true.
“You’re wrong.”
I look pointedly straight ahead. Only a few more houses, and we’ll be there. “I’m sure you don’t think it consciously, but—”
Noah’s voice is strained. “So, basically, you’re calling me a desperate, confused, deluded player.”
“You’re taking this too personally.”
“What is it besides personal?” He stops me again, so I’m forced to look into his eyes. “Stop trying to convince me that I don’t like you. I love you, Charity.”
It’s all I can do to inhale. His blue-green-gingerbread eyes are like wishing wells. It would be so easy to fall in and drown in all my wishes. I manage, “Don’t be silly.”
“That’s it? I love you. And that’s all you can say?”
It really, really is. I swallow, but the lump in my throat won’t go down.
“If you want me to leave you alone, all you have to say is ‘Noah, I don’t like you. I never did, and I never will.’ Just say it.”
The look of desperation on his face causes me physical pain. I close my eyes for a second, trying to find the strength to either tell the biggest lie of my life or be more honest than I’ve ever been.
“Fairy godmothers don’t get the Happily Ever After.” My voice sounds far away in my own ears. “We’re fix-and-release people. I tried to tell you—relationships don’t work for me. But it’s the hapless human who really gets burned. I wouldn’t mean to destroy you, Noah. It would be an accident. But that is what would happen.”
“You’re talking about fairy tales—” He draws an invisible line between my heart and his. “This is real.”
I finally break away from his gaze and find the strength to keep walking. “I’m sorry, Noah. But it’s simple math. There are zero reasons left for us to be together. We’re sticking to the plan.”
I climb the steps to the front porch, Noah following. The house cannot contain the sounds of the party—the happy chaos seems to call to us from within. Noah raises his voice above the din. “You know what, Charity? I might be confused, but you’re a hypocrite. You try to get everyone else to ‘embrace their potential’ and believe in ‘magic.’ But you don’t do it yourself. Because you’re scared. You’re a scared little liar.”
Now I’m mad. How dare he call me exactly what I am? I resist the impulse to shove him off the porch and into the bushes. Instead I hit him with a Star Trek quote. “Insults are effective only where emotion is present.” I raise my hand, palm out, and spread my fingers in a Vulcan salute. “Spock out.”
He looks like I blasted him with a neural disruptor. Surya opens the door, the cacophony of loud music, talking, and laughter flooding into the heavy silence between us. Surya, oblivious, says, “Hey, guys! Come on in! Join the party!”
I step over the threshold, where the noise is even louder.
Noah yells after me, “You’re not Spock! I’m Spock.”
I march down the hall, pretending I can’t hear him. One of the cheer girls approaches with a tray of rainbow-colored plastic shot glasses. She does a big-eyed, open-mouth I’m too happy for a regular smile face, not noticing the tension zinging between Noah and me. “Hey! Want a Jell-O shot? Tastes like Jell-O, gets you messed up like vodka!”
Typically, I abstain from this sort of thing. The fairy godmother must stay in control at all times. But between Noah’s accusations, the deeply depressing thing I am about to do, and my mother’s specific line of questioning about alcohol at the party, I’m the easiest sell ever. “Absolutely I would!” I grab a Jell-O shot and dump it into my mouth. Hmmm. Fruity, with an invigorating afterburn.
Noah says, “Your liver can only filter 1.5 ounces of alcohol per hour.”
I shoot him a visual bite me and pointedly take another shot from the tray.
Cheer girl yells, “Guys! Charity’s doing Jell-O shots!” And the hallway is suddenly crammed with people clambering for their own edible booze. They empty the tray. I hold up my electric-blue Jell-O in salute, and we all do bottoms-up.
Noah yells in my ear, “You know, alcohol-related accidents are the leading cause of death among teens.”
I look at him with shock and betrayal, like he said something more like, I don’t know what I ever saw in you. I can feel the eyes of the crowd on us. “How could you?” There is a sob in my voice, and a natural raspiness because my throat is really burning from the vodka. I storm away, pushing through the crowd.
By the time I get to the back patio, female voices around me are saying things like “What’s going on?” and “Is Charity okay?”
Scarlett muscles her way in next to me. “Charity, what happened with Noah?” She sounds too much like a journalist with an exclusive to really be comforting.
I let the tears come. “Why doesn’t he love me, Scarlett?”
She looks confused. “He does. Right?”
I shake my head. “No. He loves Holly. He always loved Holly.”
She’s shocked now. The girls around lean in for more. “What?! What a two-timer!”
I cry harder, the truth and the show blending seamlessly so that even I can’t quite find the dividing line. Someone hands me a tissue, and I wipe my face with it. “No he’s not. He told me… before… but I just thought maybe I could make him love me instead.”
Carmen swims into my line of vision. “That is so tragic.” She hugs me, and I’m not sure who’s comforting who. I pat her on the back.
Scarlett says, “Kade is going to freak when he finds out. Is that why Holly dumped him this afternoon?”
She did?! Of course she did. Didn’t I know that’s what would happen after our heart-to-heart in the bathroom?
Gwen’s voice comes from the crowd on my left. “Scarlett, jeez. Insensitive much?”
One of the other girls says, “Wait, so did you guys break up?”
I nod feebly. “He said he just can’t do it anymore.”
I wipe my face again, registering a shuffling and murmuring among my ladies-in-waiting. A moment later Noah stands in front of me. I know it’s him without lifting my head past his knees. He’s wearing The Jeans. He reaches for me. “Charity, stop this.” I shake off his hand. He reaches for me again. “Can we please go somewhere else and talk?”
“No. No. You were
right. It’s better this way. I’ll be okay.” I offer him a shaky, tearful smile, but my eyes say, Your wish is granted.
“Charity—” He has that pleading look again. The one my heart has no defense against. But I’ve already given him everything.
Everything.
Sean appears. The crowd parts for him like for no one else. He shoulders past Noah to help me up. “I’ll take it from here.”
Noah states flatly, “She came with me. I’ll take her home.”
Sean puts his arm around me protectively, and I sag against him. My real friend. He faces off with Noah. “You’ve done enough. Go home, before Kade goes Neanderthal about the whole stealing-his-girlfriend thing.”
With that, Sean escorts me back through the house. But not before I see Noah’s expression—it’s more like There’s a knife in my back! than This pumpkin coach is a total pimp ride! And then Holly is there, wrapping herself around him like the sickeningly fake chocolate coating on a Little Darling. My stomach lurches.
He’s so much more than an It Boy. If she can’t see that, she doesn’t deserve him.
No. It’s supposed to end this way. They were together before I meddled. When I set her free, she came back to him. They belong together.
I require another dose of alcohol.
As Sean leads me past a row of Solo cups sitting on the counter, I grab one and gulp down the entirety of whatever it is—some kind of boozy grape juice.
When I lower the cup, there’s Surya. He takes the empty out of my hand with a hopeful smile. “So, uh, Charity. I heard you and Noah broke up. Do you wanna maybe go somewhere and talk?”
I raise my finger to point at him, and accidentally poke him in the cheek. “Still no.”
“Come on.” Sean steers me around Surya and guides me out to his car. I crumple into the seat, head spinning, nose running. Turns out I’m a sad, sad drunk.
Sean sighs. “Why did you do this to yourself?” He carefully maneuvers the car out from the jigsaw of parked vehicles outside Surya’s house. “I’ll take you home.”
I have just enough self-awareness left to say, “No! Not home. I want… I want my Memom.”
33 It’s Actually Way More Than One Fairy Godmother Can Handle
The next forty-five minutes are a haze of tears, Google Maps directions, punk music, and Sean warning me not to puke in his car. Eventually he asks, “Which one is Memom’s?”
I look around blearily at all the identical doors, and I’m pretty sure there are twice as many as there used to be. I try to point to Memom’s, but it won’t hold still. Sean drags me in that direction, while I stumble along, pondering aloud that I can’t feel my face.
Memom’s door opens, and I squint to try to see her in the dark. “Trick-’r-treat.”
She says, “Mercy sakes. Bring her in.”
Sean lifts and pushes, the ground trips me, and I stumble into the apartment like I’m drunk or something.
Sean steers me to the couch. I flop. It feels good to not have to hold myself up. Memom says, “What have we got?”
“Two Jell-O shots, a mystery drink, and a bad breakup.”
“Charity had a boyfriend?”
“Not in the conventional sense.”
Sean’s telling it wrong. I blurt, “I messed up, Memom. I feeled in love for Cindy.”
Memom says, clearly horrified, “I’ll make some tea.”
My eyes are too heavy to see with. Every time I blink, they open like a creaky gate. Screw it. It’s too much trouble to open them anymore.
* * *
“She’s my daughter. Of course I came.”
I lift my eyelids a millimeter and see mauve. Memom’s couch. Whatever. I fall back asleep.
* * *
I wake up to bright daylight and instinctively throw my arm across my eyes to block it out.
“Oh good. You’re up.” Memom’s chair creaks as she pulls herself out of it. “I’ll get you some tea.”
She clangs around in the kitchen. My head is pounding, and I feel like I swallowed a piece of sandpaper. But, let me tell you, it sucks 50 percent less than ignoring a glimpse. A few minutes later she returns, pushing her fully loaded tea cart. I force myself to a sitting position with my eyes kind of open.
“Drink up. It will help.” She pours two cups, then settles back into her chair. “Your mother was here. She went to get some breakfast.”
“Am I in trouble?”
Memom shrugs. “Not with me.” Her eyes twinkle. “I had a vodka incident in 1978 that—”
“Incident? How does something reach the level of an incident?”
She takes a dainty sip of tea. “It’s midway between a mistake and a twelve-step program.”
I lay my head back and groan. “That’s probably all I need to know.”
She chuckles again about something that undoubtedly happened in 1978. “So, tell me what’s going on.”
I can’t. Not at first. Where do I even begin? How do I put any of it into words? Eventually I say, “Well, there’s this boy. Actually, I got a glimpse last year—”
I abruptly abandon the story and blurt, “Memom, I can control the glimpses. I can turn them on and off!”
Memom’s deeply wrinkled face manages to look incredibly childlike. She reminds me of a toddler who ate all the cookies and knows she’s busted.
Realization filters through my hangover. “You knew.”
Proverbial cookie crumbs are freaking everywhere. She hedges. “Well…”
I launch myself off the couch. “YOU KNEW IT WAS POSSIBLE! Why would you hide that from me? How could you?”
“I was afraid… if you knew how to control them, you’d decide not to have them at all.” She looks so sheepish that I almost can’t stay mad at her. Almost. Her lip trembles. “Like Hope, and like—”
“Memom, you were the one person I thought I could rely on! I wanted to be a fairy godmother because of you. And you purposely kept me in the dark about my own magic! I can never trust you again.”
She’s full-on crying now. If you’ve never made your own grandmother cry, let me suggest you don’t. It is soul killing. I’m immediately filled with remorse. With a sigh, I sit back down.
She sniffles. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just didn’t want to lose you, like I lost my Katie.”
“You didn’t lose me. I’m right here.” Mom stands in the doorway with a café paper bag and a cardboard tray of coffee cups. She still doesn’t freaking know I don’t drink coffee.
Memom and I both straighten up and wipe our noses, like kids facing the principal after a fight.
“Charity.” The way she says it, it means, What do you have to say for yourself? She holds out a paper cup to me. I look at it stoically. Eventually she gives up and sets it on the coffee table. She sits with a heavy exhale and begins rifling through the bag, pulling out pastries and bagel sandwiches. She holds a sandwich out to me. “What happened last night with Noah?”
I take the bagel from Mom and unwrap it to buy time. My stomach is roiling in Hangover Land, but I’ve heard that eating can help, so I take a nibble.
Mom loses patience. “Well?”
“Nothing. We were kind of a thing and then we broke up. I drank too much, mostly because you didn’t want me to. The end.”
She purses her lips. “Let’s put the rebellion drinking in the parking lot for right now and focus on the breakup. What happened?”
I seriously do not get why we’re having an inquisition about this. The woman barely looks at me for weeks at a time. I have such a headache, and I’m so not in the mood. I drop my bagel onto its wrapper. “Why are we talking about this? Why are you even here?”
She looks at me like we’re in a board meeting and I’m blocking her budget override. “You’re my daughter. When Memom called—”
“Thanks a lot,” I mutter, shooting Memom the stink eye. She pretends not to notice and starts flipping through a Contemporary Bride magazine.
Mom presses on. “Noah seems like a nice guy. You sh
ould think about—”
And that is absolutely the last straw. The headache, the heartbreak, the crappy coffee, Memom’s betrayal, and seventeen years of mommy-abandonment issues… it’s all I can take. I get to my feet, and I let her have it—the truth. “Mom, for as long as I can remember, you’ve been working late, leaving early, glued to your phone, flying off to Belize or God knows where. I get whatever scraps of your attention are left over, if I’m lucky. Now all the sudden you’re going to reappear and give me advice about relationships? It doesn’t work like that! Give me one good reason why I should listen to you.”
She stands so we’re eye to eye. “Because I previewed it.”
“Previewed it?”
Memom interjects, “He flashed her.”
Okay, we really need to agree on our terms here. And also: “WHAT THE EFFING CRAP?!”
All this time, my mom has been getting glimpses or flashes or whatever, and she never freaking mentioned it? I grit out, “The magic didn’t skip you.”
“It doesn’t skip any of us.”
I level my anger at Memom. “You were hiding this too.”
She gives me a pathetic sad-puppy look.
I throw my hands up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Memom looks around the apartment. “She swore me to secrecy. What could I do? I’m held hostage here.”
Mom snaps, “I pay for this swanky retirement home, and somehow you make it sound like an act of terrorism. Thank you, Mother.”
I stomp my foot like a toddler. “Stop arguing, you guys! This is about ME.”
Mom and Memom look at each other like they’re having a silent spat.
“WHAT?” I demand. “I want to know. Why can’t two grown women figure their stuff out and get along? Why did Hope and I have to split our loyalties and keep your secrets and deliver your messages all these years? WHY?”
Mom presses her lips together and studies her shoes before answering. “Memom wanted you girls to grow up as fairy godmothers. I didn’t. It’s as simple as that.”
Memom gets to her feet, decrepit but ready for battle. “You can’t change who you are by ignoring it, Katie. And you certainly can’t put these girls in a mold that you—”