“Again.”
How am I supposed to concentrate when Keith Rosen looked at me today? He’s sat in front of me in every class we’ve had together since middle school (thanks, alphabetical order) but this has never happened. Not once. I’ve always told myself he doesn’t know I exist and then–bam! Existence confirmed. Eyes locked. Three whole seconds. (I counted.)
It was in Trigonometry. The bell rang and we were packing up when I dropped my textbook by accident. He stopped, mid-pack, and stared. I forgot how to breathe. If I knew that’s all it took to get him to notice me, I would’ve started dropping my things around him in seventh grade!
“Devon,” Grandma’s stern tone yanks me back to reality.
I groan–full Marge Simpson. “I can’t do it, Grandma.”
“Yes you can. Try it again,” she insists.
“Delvitia suspiria.”
I wave my hands over the red brick on the table, but nothing happens. There’s no white dove. Just a brick.
Grandma sighs.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay–”
“No, it’s not. Maybe I’m not meant to be a witch. This is beginner stuff! If I can’t master a spell this easy, then…”
I hang my head. I’m the last in our line of witches. Grandma only had Mom who only had me. There’s literally no one else to make them proud. No one else to take over our seat in The High Council of the coven. No pressure or anything.
“You mustn’t think like that,” Grandma says. “You are meant for this. One day you’ll be a masterful witch. It just takes time. It didn’t come easy for me at first either. If your great grandmother were around she’d tell you the same thing. Hard work and persistence beat out talent every time, remember that.”
Grandma: the motivational speaker.
I wish her encouragement and belief in me were enough but the reality is magic lessons make me feel inadequate, stupid, and like a straight-up loser. (Okay, I’m exaggerating on that last one but still.) They began after my powers came in at thirteen. Now at sixteen, I’d say my skills have improved marginally. And that’s being very kind.
We’re in the garage-turned magic lair. It’s here that we have our lessons every Tuesday after school. Old furniture and random junk crowd the space: Mom’s ancient vanity, a busted lamp, my old Easy-Bake oven. Grandma goes to put the grimoire back on the shelf and something in my chest swells. I realize I want to make her proud. I want to prove she’s right. That I will be a masterful witch.
“Wait,” I say.
She pauses, the book in her hands.
“Let me try one more time.”
She purses her lips, then sets the book down on its stand and flips it open to the spell.
I take a breath. Close my eyes. Center myself.
But just as I’m about to speak, my mind wanders back to Keith.
“Delveevo sushi,” I manage.
Close enough…except now the brick is on fire. I repeat: the brick is on fire. Bricks are literally non-combustible. How the hell is it on fire?!
Grandma screams. I scream.
“Get the fire extinguisher!” I shout.
Minutes later, the flames are out. The sight of my elderly grandmother standing over the charred brick, fire extinguisher in tow, like a victorious soldier is tickling but I think it best not to comment.
“That’s enough magic for today,” Grandma says.
“Yeah, you think?”
“Vade cum potestate,” Grandma says. A witch’s farewell meaning go with power.
I’m about to reply when the doorbell rings. Grandma shoos me inside.
It’s our neighbor Madeline. “Hi! Is everything okay? There’s smoke coming out of the garage!”
“Madeline, honey, hello! I was grilling corn out there and forgot all about it. Silly me.” Grandma hugs her.
Nice save.
Madeline’s practically family. She’s been friends with Mom since they were in diapers, and they call each other sisters.
Madeline pulls me in. She smells sweet like vanilla. “Nice to see you, Dev.”
“Nice to see you too, Aunt M.”
We file into the kitchen. “Muffin?” Grandma offers our guest.
“No, thank you. I’m watching my figure.” She giggles.
Grandma arches a brow. “Nonsense. You look great.”
“Because I’m watching my figure.”
They chat: Madeline’s just sold a house to a lovely, elderly widow, her Bahama vacation was lovely, her boyfriend is perfect. I mostly sit and listen, feeling like a lump beside her glossy blonde hair and perfect pair of… you know.
“How’s Alice? Is she around?” Madeline asks.
“Yeah, Mom’s good. She’s on a work trip near Montreal,” I answer. Half lie: she’s on coven duty. Rogue witches, tormented pets, bewitched husbands. The usual.
“And Kayla? How’s my sweet girl?” Grandma asks.
Madeline’s smile falters. “Actually, that’s why I came. She’s been off lately. Failing classes, breaking curfew…it’s not like her.”
“Sounds like a boy,” Grandma says.
“I don’t think so. She knows she can talk to me about boys,” Madeline insists.
“Or good ol’ rebellion,” Grandma counters. “She just turned sixteen, right? That’s the age.”
I smolder, because why does sixteen mean caution gets thrown to the wind? I’m no risk taker or rule breaker. I’m still too careful about everything.
Madeline cuts to the chase. “Devon, can you talk to her? You two were close. Maybe she’ll open up to you.”
She’s right, we were inseparable. That is until middle school ended and boys started noticing her. I faded into the background and life went on. I found the Matheletes (and Max), Kayla found The Lilacs.
“I doubt she’ll tell me anything,” I say. Yeah, we catch up sometimes but I don’t exactly have probing rights. Imagine me stopping her in the hallway and going, “Hey, so what the hell is up with you breaking curfew?” No thanks.
“Please, Dev. I’m at my wits’ end.”
Her eyes start to water. I feel bad. Only an asshole would keep refusing so I go, “Uh, sure. Yeah, I’ll talk to her.”
Besides, it’s just one conversation. Not like I could set that on fire.
Leave a Reply