Black Magic
Page 17
“I'm gonna miss my curfew!” the girl yelled, not really at Des. She pounded her fist against her thigh and ran further up the street.
“Oh shit, me too,” Des said, also not to anyone in particular. She walked in the way the girl had gone—just walking, not running, but faster, making an effort.
There were storefronts along this quick stretch of sidewalk: Creation Laundry, Early Bird Liquors; a uniform store called Pull Yourself Together, beside a store selling phones and prepaid phone cards, blasting go-go; The Last Shall Be First Secondhand Clothing; Neighborly Chicken and Check Cashing. A wheatpasted poster on a streetlamp said, U.S. OUT OF ANACOSTIA. A police car rolled by slow. Des tried not to notice if she was nervous. Then more houses.
Des reached the house she was looking for: three stories of weathered white clapboard, and a porch swing next to a giant fake hibiscus plant in a giant fake Grecian urn. There were daffodils and crocuses in the yard, and somebody's bikini-cut red and yellow striped underwear. A sign shaped like a house said, in purple hand-painted lettering,
LOVE'S LABORS LOFT
Your Almost Home.
Des went up the steps and rang the bell. The door opened—and there was the girl who had slammed into her on the street.
The girl looked at her like she was the answer to prayer. “Miss Imani! This her, this the lady. Tell her,” and this, directed at Des, in tones of deep menace, “I bumped into you. That's why I was late for curfew.”
A woman appeared behind the girl. She was tall and wiry, ebony, dressed in lavender scrubs, with thick multicolored braids looping around her head. She seemed wry and somehow futuristic—those hair-loops, maybe, or the silver stud just above her upper lip, with a green jewel that looked like it might shoot lasers. She had the cagey, intelligent look of someone used to sizing up situations and people, and then making decisions about them. There was something unexpected about her, something not quite uniform; but it wasn't something Des was inclined to trust.
“You bumped into her?” this woman said, with meaning.
The impfaced girl made another D.C. noise: a low coo of disappointment and reproach. “Miss Imani,” she said. “I don't think I owe this person an amends. I was coming down the street minding my business. She was just standing there staring with her face out, looking for Elvis!”
“You aren't very late, anyway,” Miss Imani said. She held out her hand to Des. “I'm Imani Rollins.”
“Desiree Schulman,” she said, shifting her small bundle of personal effects so she could shake hands. The impfaced girl moaned somewhere in the background.
Imani Rollins’s hand felt confident and trained. Des was pretty sure her own hand felt clammy.
“Welcome,” Miss Imani said. And then, turning to the impface girl, “I’m going to take our new guest into the office. Ms. Schulman, please follow me. And please meet Ranae Goins,” and here Miss Imani couldn’t help but grin a little, “your mentor.”
“Ray Ray,” the girl clarified. Des wondered if she should hold out her hand, but Miss Imani was already walking down the hall so Des figured it was best to follow.
Down the short front hallway and through the dining room, where all the chairs stood on one side of the table. Past a grandfather clock with faux Chinese scenes painted on its sides, and through a door framed in Christmas lights. A tiny cottage with rose bushes was painted on the white porcelain doorknob.
Miss Imani’s office was narrow and crowded with papers. There was only one chair, so Des stood while Miss Imani explained the seven forms she’d have to fill out: standard intake form, client service agreement, release of information form so she could tell everybody Des’s business, house rules, grievance procedure form, job readiness form, wellness form.
Oh good, Des thought, I’ve been wondering if I’m well.
Des tried to read as little of each form as possible before signing. There was a line that just said “Current problems: ____________” and she considered and rejected answering with an infinity sign, or her full legal name, before leaving it blank. Then she squinted and saw the tiny writing underneath the line: THIS PORTION TO BE FILLED OUT BY INTAKE ADMINISTRATOR.
She hesitated for a long time, trying to think of some alternative, before sighing and putting her parents as her emergency contacts.
The form asked, “Describe your current relationship with your emergency contact person.” Des misunderstood the question, and wrote in, Fraught, before realizing and crossing it out to write, Parents.
The wellness assessment asked how long she had spent in a “controlled environment” and Des…
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About the Author
Steven Henry learned how to read almost before he learned how to walk. Ever since he began reading stories, he wanted to put his own on the page. He lives a very quiet and ordinary life in Minnesota with his wife and dog.
You can follow Steven's work by joining his list attinyurl.com/StevenHenryEmail.
Also by Steven Henry
Ember of Dreams
The Clarion Chronicles, Book One
When magic awakens a long-forgotten folk, a noble lady, a young apprentice, and a solitary blacksmith band together to prevent war and seek understanding between humans and elves.
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Lady Kristyn Tremayne – An otherwise unremarkable young lady’s open heart and inquisitive mind reveal a hidden world of magic.
Robert Blackford – A humble harp maker’s apprentice dreams of being a hero.
Master Gabriel Zane – A master blacksmith’s pursuit of perfection leads him to craft an enchanted sword, drawing him out of his isolation and far from his cozy home.
Lord Luthor Carnarvon – A lonely nobleman with a dark past has won the heart of Kristyn’s mother, but at what cost?
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Readers love Ember of Dreams
“The more I got to know the characters, the more I liked them. The female lead in particular is a treat to accompany on her journey from ordinary to extraordinary.”
“The author’s deep understanding of his protagonists’ motivations and keen eye for psychological detail make Robert and his companions a likable and memorable cast.”
Learn more at tinyurl.com/emberofdreams.
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