Magic for Nothing

by Seanan McGuire

  “That might be a bit much, but I’d agree to another date, if you wanted one,” I said. “I really did have a great time.”

  “Another date it is,” he said. “I’d punch the air, but I’m driving.”

  “I appreciate your restraint,” I said gravely.

  Sam laughed and drove us into town.

  St. Cloud, Minnesota, was a town like any other: probably super boring to the inhabitants, who had already discovered all its mysteries, but fascinating to the pair of us, strangers who’d been camped outside its boundaries for days. Sam slowed as we hit the city limits, backing off the gas until we were moving at exactly the speed limit, and we goggled at everything around us like the tourists that we were.

  “When I was a kid, I thought McDonalds was the best thing in the world, because there was one everywhere we went,” said Sam. “It was like . . . maybe we’d be in a town that thought video games were evil or where I was the only Chinese person people had ever seen, but there was always a McDonalds. Happy Meals made everything better.”

  “I can’t decide whether that’s sweet or sad,” I said. “I have a thing for diners. There are seven million different ways to bake a pumpkin pie, and I am going to taste every single one of them before I die.”

  “So you’re saying I should take you to a diner.”

  “No toys with the hamburgers, but the odds are good the meat is cow, not rat or squirrel or whatever else the folks back at McDonalds HQ have been able to shove into a grinder.”

  “You make an excellent point.” Sam turned into the Target parking lot. “Our mission awaits.”

  “Let’s do this.”

  Sam shopped like a man who’d been going on supply runs since the day he was old enough to get his license: quickly, efficiently, and with a refreshing lack of screwing around. It probably helped that Targets only have, like, five floor plans, which means that even if you’ve never been to a specific store before, familiarity with the chain will make it easy to navigate. He picked up detergent, shampoo, conditioner, and enough ramen to constitute a health hazard anywhere else in the world. I looked at him quizzically at the last. He shrugged.

  “Everybody eats it, so it makes a good filler food between meals. Haven’t you wound up in the mess tent when it wasn’t officially lunch?”

  “New girl,” I reminded him. “I try to avoid the mess tent unless you or Emery will be there, because I still don’t have much to talk about with anyone else. I’m getting there. It’s going to take me a little while.”

  “We’ve got time,” he said, and smiled, and everything was fine. Except for the worm of guilt twisting in my gut, and the heat in my fingertips, because we didn’t have time. The Covenant was coming. I’d allowed myself a night to play and just be a girl, out with a boy, enjoying the world, but that didn’t change the fact that time was running out for me—and if I didn’t find a way to stop what was coming, it was running out for Sam, too.

  After Target came Costco, where we bought tubs of condiments and canned meat and so much toilet paper that the clerk looked at us like we were planning some sort of nefarious tissue escapade. Sam showed all his teeth when he smiled, which didn’t seem to calm her any, and I barely managed to keep my laughter in check. The back of the truck was starting to look like a target for local thieves, and Sam took more and more time securing everything with rope and tarp and bungee cords. A van would have made more sense for this sort of outing but less sense for the carnival. There are always compromises in the real world.

  At the craft store, he parked where he could see the truck from the store windows and helped me wander the aisles, picking up wood glue and Popsicle sticks and nontoxic paint and a few little pieces of “fairy furniture” from the floral department, which were intended for flower arrangements, but would be perfect for Aeslin mice.

  (The sort of people who build “fairy gardens” would be unhappy if they managed to attract real fairies. There are lots of different creatures humans have called “fairies” across the years, and the only thing they all have in common is the way they’ll hurt people if given half a chance.)

  The clerk at the craft store didn’t bat an eye at my assortment of things. She probably saw stranger on a daily basis, which is part of why I like craft stores so much. There’s always someone there who outweirds you. It really takes the pressure off.

  We were almost to the door when I stopped, eyes fixed on the bulletin board where local crafters peddled their wares. It wasn’t just crafters: there was also a section for local events, farmer’s markets and yard sales and pet adoptions. And one big, largely black flyer advertising a no-holds-barred match between two teams I’d never heard of before. That didn’t matter. What mattered were the words “flat track roller derby” and “hell on wheels” and “one night only.” The words that read like home. The words that should have been above my name, encouraging people to come and watch my friends throwing themselves into the wind, knowing they would never hit the ground.

  For the most part, I’d been keeping myself too busy to really stop and think about my situation. In that moment, looking at that flyer, I ran out of momentum, and the homesickness flooded in, washing everything else away.

  “Roller derby, huh?” said Sam. “You a fan?”

  “Huh?” I tore my eyes away from the poster, turning to face him. I managed to nod. “Yeah. I like roller derby.”

  “You know, I’ve never actually been to a match? Is that what they’re called, matches?”

  “Games.”

  “Okay. Still never been.” He glanced at the flyer. “It’s tonight. The show’s closed because of the rain. We could go.”

  The words echoed in my ears. We could go. Or I could stay home and keep trying to find a solution to the situation I found myself in. But that wasn’t going to help, was it? I’d just be sitting alone, not coming up with anything. I’ve always thought better when I thought at the track. The sound of heads bouncing off the track is remarkably good at shaking things out of my own skull.

  It couldn’t hurt anything. There was nothing left to hurt.

  “Please?” I asked, the word coming out meek and eager and hungry, like a child on Christmas morning, asking to open just one present.

  Sam beamed. “It’s a date.”

  It took an hour to get back to the carnival and unload the truck. The rain resumed twice during that time, but that was what umbrellas and extra hands were for: as soon as we pulled into the bone yard, all the people who knew we’d been on a supply run were there to rush us, helping us get everything out and distributing it where it belonged. Ramen was apparently serious business with these people.

  Sam kissed me before he went to tell his grandmother we were back, and he didn’t seem to care who saw him do it: the carnies who saw the quick, glancing gesture grinned at me, some approvingly, others leering, but all apparently unbothered. Gossip spreads fast in a show like this. When everyone lives in everyone else’s back pocket, that sort of thing is a form of currency. Without it, how would anyone know who it was safe to tease?

  Mindy and Mork accepted my offerings of paint, glue, and tiny chairs as their due, scurrying off with them after shouting “HAIL” an appropriate number of times. The Aeslin model of religion involves a lot of gifts from the gods. This created the temporary privacy I required to get ready.

  When I’d packed to run away to the Covenant, I hadn’t been allowed to take anything that might indicate a geographical tie to Portland. Confusing the issue, however, had been considered perfectly fine. I had derby shirts with logos ranging from Helsinki, Finland, to Cardiff, Wales, with a few smaller American and Canadian leagues in the mix to keep things as unclear as possible. I picked out a bright orange-and-black Buenos Aires Tarantellatulas tank top, pairing it with a black pleated skirt and a pair of fishnet tights. Sure, it was a team no one would have ever heard of, but the illustration was of a girl on skates with a
tarantula tattoo; I was pretty sure this crowd would get the idea.

  My hair was too faded for my tastes—it would have been better freshly hennaed, bright and blazing and perfect. I compensated with orange-and-black makeup to match my shirt, blew my reflection a kiss, and grabbed my umbrella before ploughing back into the bone yard, heading for the truck as fast as my legs would carry me.

  Sam was already there. His eyes widened at the sight of my outfit, and when I was close enough he said in a strangled voice, “Wow. Staying tense enough to look human all night is not going to be a problem.”

  “Is that supposed to be flattering?”

  “Yes,” he said, with a firm nod. “It is extremely flattering. Nothing more flattering has ever been said in the history of mankind.”

  “In that case, thank you.” I leaned up to kiss his cheek. My lipstick was heavy-duty enough to leave no marks behind. “Let’s get our derby on.”

  “It’s going to be a great night,” said Sam, and opened the truck door, waving me inside. I got in, beaming at him, and didn’t say a word, because I was pretty sure he was right. Everything was going to be perfect.

  Twenty

  “When someone judges you for something you can’t help, try to forgive them. They don’t understand. And if they keep doing it, knock their fucking teeth in.”

  —Jane Harrington-Price

  A warehouse in downtown St. Cloud, Minnesota, heading for the collapsible bleacher seats, ready for the game to begin

  TICKETS WERE TWENTY DOLLARS at the door, thirty for the remaining VIP seats—which meant, among other things, having seats, since there were only enough spaces in the bleachers for about half the crowd. The rest would be standing at a barely safe distance as the derby girls blazed by. I’d willingly forked over the extra cash for a pair of black wristbands and a place in the front. If I couldn’t skate, I was going to sit.

  “Is our entire dating life going to be defined by wristbands?” asked Sam, fastening his around his wrist.

  “They make great cheap souvenirs,” I said amiably. “I’d roll with it if I were you.”

  “Is that a derby pun, or are you telling me to relax?”

  “A bit of both.” I took a deep breath, inhaling the mix of sweat, stale beer, and competitive fury that filled the air. It was almost intoxicating. If I closed my eyes, letting the clack of wheels on the track and the buzz of the crowd fill my ears, I could pretend I was home. This was an away game, something where I didn’t need to skate, and I was attending with my new boyfriend, who had somehow gotten serious enough that I was willing to take the risk and show him to the league.

  “Ow!” Sam let go of my hand. I opened my eyes to find him blowing on his fingers, looking bemused. “Did you feel that? It was like everything got super-hot all of a sudden.”

  “Um.” I shook my own hand, not to soothe a burn, but to chase the heat out of my fingertips. If I was going to start setting fires when I was content, too, I was about to have a serious problem. “Probably one of the lights throwing down sparks. Come on, let’s get a drink before we find our seats.”

  “I don’t do beer when I’m in public,” said Sam, almost sheepishly. “It makes me relax.”

  And when he relaxed, he wound up with a tail. “Good decision,” I said. “I don’t do beer, period. I’m not happy with the idea of losing control. But the nice thing about apple cider is the way it looks like beer, thus dodging the judgment of the masses, without actually being beer. You, too, can drink the fruits of the orchard and not worry about intoxication.”

  “Teach me more of the strange ways of your people,” said Sam.

  “Sort of inevitable.” I passed a five to the girl at the window, who had purple-streaked hair and an almost feral grin, and received two cups of hot apple cider in return. Sam took one of them with a nod of thanks. I toasted the girl, stuffed a dollar into the tip jar, and began the familiar process of wending my way through a warehouse, looking for a seat.

  Unlike the home games, where we owned the warehouse and could control the way it was set up, every away game was an adventure in figuring out exactly where we were supposed to be, and what we were supposed to be doing while we were there. But the elements were always the same, lending an air of comforting reliability to the layout, even though I’d never seen it before. The ticket window was at the front, at the start of a narrow corridor that herded us past the concession stand and one final opportunity to upgrade our tickets. Then it widened, with the skate mall—a little room packed with vendor tables and booths, half flea market, half dealer’s hall—to our left, and the louder, more raucous arena to our right. We bore right, and the loudness opened up, becoming a ringing bell of noise. The track was in the center, being circled by derby girls in the process of warming up, surrounded by bleachers and standing-room space, with the announcer’s table on a raised platform to one side, and I had never been happier to be somewhere, and I had never felt half so far from home.

  Sam and I made our way to the roped-off VIP seats, flashing our wristbands at the man guarding the rope. He nodded brusquely as he let us through, and I felt a pang at his lack of recognition, even though he’d never seen me before. This was my world, same as the carnival was Sam’s. Somehow, I’d become a stranger in my own world. All the logic I possessed—this wasn’t my home territory, I’d never skated against these people, anonymity was key to my survival right now—couldn’t take the sting out of realizing how easily I could fade away.

  Normally, if I’d been at a game in a territory that wasn’t my own, I would have been wearing my team shirt, the words FINAL GIRL blazoned across the shoulders, marking me as part of the clan. This situation was anything but normal.

  “These names are nuts,” said Sam, snapping me back into the present. I turned to him. He was reading from the program for the evening, looking faintly awed. “It’s the St. Cloud Storm Chasers vs. the Rockville Rollers. The captains are Tornado-si-do and Sedimentary My Dear. It’s like . . . I don’t know, race horses gone weird.”

  “Not a bad description,” I said, watching the circling roller girls with a practiced eye. One group was in white tank tops and red hot pants, with twisters painted on their helmets. The other wore khaki shirts tied over yellow tank tops and khaki shorts, and had rock hammers on their helmets. “Okay, so the ones sort of themed like weathergirls who’ve survived a hurricane, those are the Storm Chasers. The ones in khaki are the Rollers.” I’d never seen a geology-themed team before. Truly the world of roller derby is vast and complicated.

  “Okay,” said Sam. He lowered his program and looked at me expectantly.

  I raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “How does this work?”

  “Oh. Uh . . . rules of roller derby are simple. You have two primary positions on the track: the jammer, whose job it is to skate fast and score points, and the blockers, whose job it is to keep her from doing her job. Each team will field four blockers and one jammer per jam—which is roller derby for ‘inning.’ You can tell the jammer by the star on her helmet. When the whistle blows, she’ll start trying to break through the pack of blockers. Whichever jammer breaks out first is the lead jammer, she controls the play. If she calls it off, it ends. So your team’s jammer has two goals—to score a lot of points, and to stop the jam before the other team’s jammer scores any points at all. Make sense?”

  “Nope,” said Sam. “Whoever invented this game was really into breakfast foods.”

  “Just jam,” I said. The lights flickered. The girls skated off the track. The game was about to get underway. I scooted closer to Sam, leaning my head against his shoulder and forcing myself to relax. This was my world. This was my favorite sport. Sam didn’t know how big a deal it was for me to take a guy to a derby game, and he was never going to, because my time with the carnival was drawing to an end: soon I was going to disappear, and become just another person who’d let him down.

>   Until then, we had this. The announcer began naming the girls as they poured back out onto the track. The Storm Chasers were wearing their team shirts now, which were white and tight and more TV news than the norm, keeping with the “weathergirl” theme. The Rollers looked about the same as they had during practice, although several had added smears of glittery “dirt” to their makeup, like they’d just come from the world’s sparkliest quarry.

  The whistle blew. Play began. I kept my head against Sam’s shoulder, except when something happened that was exciting enough to make me cheer—which meant I was almost constantly in motion, popping out of my seat and thrusting my arms into the air, shouting at a bad call from the refs, cheering for a good jam. I had fallen easily into cheering for the Rollers, who seemed to be the underdogs in this particular pairing. It’s always good to scream for people who need it.

  The bell sounded halftime with the Storm Chasers leading 115 to 75. I sat down and took a long pull from my lukewarm cider, only to find Sam looking at me with admiration.

  “I’ve never heard somebody scream so much when they weren’t on a roller coaster,” he said. “Run away with me.”

  “Tempting, but your grandmother would kill us.” Assuming she found us before the Covenant did. Assuming they found us before Sam heard what they’d done to his family, and didn’t kill me himself. “Want to go check the shopping? There’s usually someone selling cupcakes.”

  “Oh, see, that’s not fair. Turning my head with baked goods? You’re a foul temptress or something.”

  “Or something,” I agreed. We left our programs on our seats. It didn’t guarantee they’d still be there when we got back—if whoever stumbled across them was drunk enough, we’d have to find another spot—but it was something, and it wasn’t like we couldn’t find replacements.