Don't Expect Magic (12 page)

“I’ll have the pecan pancakes and a supersized orange juice,” I tell Hank. “I’m going to go look for a table outside.” I need air. It’s too stifling in here with all these people and pastries and Hank, and it’s fogging up my focus. Before Hank can stop me, a woman with big glasses and bigger hair pops up from her table nearby, having recognized him. I leave Hank trapped in the net of praise the woman has flung over him and slip out the door.

I already know there won’t be any free tables. It’s like the people in the land of nonstop sun have to be outside constantly or they’ll shrivel. They’re antivampires. Every restaurant I’ve seen has outdoor tables. Down the street from the café there’s a guy sitting on a folding chair under an umbrella—in front of a
shoe repair shop
.

I notice Parking Meter Lady at a table by herself next to the low wall that encloses the outdoor tables. She’s holding a novel in one hand and taking forked bites of her fancy herb frittata with the other. Very confident-career-woman-in-the-city. She’s totally happy and relaxed. She doesn’t even glance around to see if anybody’s staring. That’s my goal. To be left alone and make it look like it’s the best place to be.

“Hey, Delaney.” I turn around and see Flynn, with Shaggy and another one of his lunch-table friends. Flynn’s got his ever-present necklace of oversized cameras around his neck, and Shaggy’s on a skateboard, wearing yet another “antique” heavy metal T-shirt, but the shirt’s too faded and stretched out to read the name of the band. The other guy is wearing a sports jacket and khakis and has a quasi-beard decorating his baby face.

“What’s up?” Flynn asks me, but I guess the question is rhetorical, because he keeps talking. “This is Brendan.” He gestures to Shaggy, who grunts. “And Skids.” Bearded Guy holds up a palm in a mature “I’m older than I look” hello.

“Hey,” I say, and continue to look around for a table, making it clear that they don’t need to stop and talk to me because I couldn’t care less. Flynn, being clueless, unfortunately reads the signal as encouragement.

“We’re going down to the skate park on Crescent. Want to come?”

“Why?” Which means “Why on earth would I ever
even consider going with you?” but again, Flynn gets it wrong.

“I’m taking pictures of Brendan. For his fan page.”

I glance over at Brendan. “You have fans?”

“It takes time to build up an online following,” Brendan huffs.

“The key is to keep the content fresh,” Skids says.

“What’re you, his manager?” I ask.

“I write the copy.” Skids retrieves a small notebook with attached mini-pen from his pocket as evidence.

“I still think we should post my photo of you from lunch yesterday,” Flynn says to Brendan. “With that apple crap all over you.” Flynn exchanges a snorting high five with Skids.

“ ‘Brendan the Boardman Creamed by Fresh Produce.’ ” Skids makes quote marks with his fingers.

“Shut up,” Brendan snaps. “And it wasn’t fresh, it was cooked.”

I didn’t imagine it. It
did
happen.

Skids offers a new headline. “ ‘Grilled Granny Smith Brains Boardman.’ ” Brendan shoves him; Skids shoves back.

“Did you see it?” Flynn asks me as his friends continue their better-suited-to-the-sandbox shoving match.

“Um, I heard about it, I think.”

“I’ll show you the picture.” Flynn calls it up on one of his cameras and holds it out for me to see.

“Pretty funny,” I say. “Let me know if you post it.”

“Do it and die, Becker!” Brendan yells from the headlock Skids has him in. Too bad. I could use the photo as Exhibit A for Hank, but there’s no way I’m dragging him out here to see it. How humiliating would
that
be? Having breakfast with your super-nerd father.

“So, you want to come?”

“Sounds like a riveting day of athletic tremendousness and multimedia magnificence, but I’m in the middle of breakfast.” I notice that Parking Meter Lady is gone and has left her half-finished frittata behind. I pull out the chair and sit.

“
Alone?
” Flynn, Skids and Brendan stare at me, as if this is some terrifying concept practiced only by dangerous foreign cultures.

“It
is
done,” I say, but Parking Meter Lady must’ve taken her relaxed cool vibe with her, because I feel weird sitting here by myself. Maybe if I had a book. I can’t let on, though, so I cross my legs, fold my arms and lean back, oozing sophisticated superiority.

“Come after you’re finished, then.” Flynn points down the street. “The park’s three blocks below Orange Grove, or you can walk in at the gate on the corner of Wisteria.”

“Useful information. Thanks.”

Brendan tugs on Flynn’s arm. “Let’s go, man. Before all the preemies show up and hog the good ramps.”

Flynn waves Brendan off and turns back to me. “You could skate down.” He points to my boots.

They’re my biker boots, but they’re not typical ones.
They aren’t short and heavy with laces and lots of studs. They’re sleek and knee high, and I’ve painted a biker on the side of each. Lady bikers with long hair blowing in the breeze below their helmets, engines revving, as if any second their bikes will zoom down off my boots in search of the nearest highway.

“I have a lot to do today. Sorry.” I lean back, waiting for Flynn to get the message. I’m not uneasy anymore. I’ve figured it out. You
act
like you own the space—and then you
do
.

“Excuse me.” I glance up to see Parking Meter Lady, clutching her refilled iced cappuccino and frowning down at me. “This is my seat.” Her voice has that clipped edge, like her next line is going to be “I’m calling the police.”

I stand up. My whole head’s gotten hot and the heat’s spreading downward. I try to pretend Flynn doesn’t exist, but I catch a glimpse of him and I can tell he’s struggling not to laugh. Brendan and Skids are already at the end of the block, but it doesn’t matter if they didn’t hear, because I know Flynn will tell them.

If I had magic skills, I’d make everybody disappear. This day cannot get any worse.

“Delaney! I found us a table inside.” Hank waves from the door, and another thick helping of embarrassment is poured right on top of me. Hank looks even more “King of the Nerds” than I realized. How did I not notice he was wearing loafers—and a
tucked-in
shirt? I’m amazed I don’t drop dead right there. Unfortunately, I remain cruelly
alive. As I walk toward Hank, the heat in my body climbs closer to combustible with each step.

Hank’s gotten us a table inside by the window and he sits down with a huge grin on his face, like he’s given me some amazing toy he knows I’ll love. Great. We’re right where everyone outside can see me. I yank back my chair and take a seat. Flynn’s still out front and he peers in the window, smile turned on all the way now. He gives me a little wave. I hate him. He calls out something to his idiot friends and then walks away, out of sight.

Now they’ll spend the day mocking me and laughing their stupid snorting boy laughter. If I don’t throw myself in front of a truck first, on Monday I’ll be able to enjoy the whole school pointing and laughing after Skids writes up the Facebook copy describing my humiliation. Flynn better watch out in chemistry class. Anything I can find with a skull and crossbones on it is going right into his steel eco water bottle.

“What’s wrong?” Hank’s lost his grin.

“
You
.” I’m now absolutely positive that my head is going to explode any second.

Hank shakes his head. “So we’re starting
that
again.” Right. It’s always about him.

Outside, Parking Meter Lady, who eats alone because why would anyone be her friend, holds up her empty creamer and shakes it at a waiter like a servant’s bell. I pick up my knife and point it at the creamer on the table next to us, outside the window.

“Here I thought we could go out for a nice breakfast—”

The creamer shoots across the path of the waiter and hits the wall next to Parking Meter Lady—
SMASH
. Parking Meter Lady ducks and covers her face with her arms, which get splashed with cream.

Hank’s mouth has dropped open in a mix of horror and disapproval. “What did you just do?” he whispers.

I use my knife to spread the melting honey butter scoop across the top of the pancakes. “She wanted more cream.” I’m feeling so much better. The pressure in my head has drained out. “So I got her more cream.”

Hank leans over the table toward me. “That’s not … You can’t …” His face is all red, as if the heat from my head has been zapped to his. I reach around him for the syrup and pour it over my pancakes in a pretty spiral while Hank struggles with his rage-induced speech impediment. “You can
not
use your magic that way.”

I point my fork at him. “You said it.”

“Said what?”

“ ‘Magic.’ ” Hank huffs and sputters and glares as I chew. I must admit, the food here is as yummy as it is pretty. “I guess you believe me now.”

He leans back and stares at me as the truth washes over him. He’s not the only f.g. anymore.

Hank’s muteness is tragically temporary. I’ve barely gotten through my pancakes when he rebounds and plunges in, in full Dr. Hank “I’m the experienced grown-up f.g. and you’re merely a beginner” mode. First, there’s a speech about how I can’t let emotion affect what I do. I have to remain neutral or it corrupts the magic energy flow or whatever. And I’m not supposed to do anything that could draw attention to me. In other words: no more flying creamers.

“We’re behind-the-scenes operators, Delaney. Doing our work in secret. Exposing yourself will just unnerve people. It’s hard enough convincing your client you’re
what you say you are. With some clients, it’s better not to tell them at all.”

What’s the point of having superpowers if it’s not about awing everybody? Although now that I think about it, pretty much every famous superhero is in the closet. They’re all about masks and disguises. I don’t get it. It seems like Batman would be less doom and gloom if he could tell everybody who he really was.

On the drive home, Hank finally starts explaining the powers, of which there are basically two: Object Transference (moving stuff) and Atom Manipulation (turning stuff into other stuff—so Posh was right about me splitting the atom). I’m pretty sure Hank invented these names out of his need to make it all sound less enchanting fairy tale and more boring scientific than it is. Posh’ll love it.

O.T. is easier to master than A.M., so I’m supposed to practice that one first, and then work my way up to A.M., otherwise I’ll end up with more apple bombs when I’m trying for apple pie. “It’s like learning a sport, Delaney. You don’t start out being Serena Williams. You have to learn the basics, and then train and train and practice nonstop, and if you’re patient and work hard, you’ll get a chance at the pros.”

This means I can only do small wishes for now. With each wish granted, my powers, will get a little stronger—not only the magic powers but the empathy part too. Because, get this, you can’t ask anybody what their wish is.
It’s part of the keeping-it-on-the-down-low thing, I guess, plus, according to Hank: “They’re likely to tell you what they
think
they want or what they
should
want or what they think
you
think they want.” Aren’t these the same things? “Sometimes they don’t even really know what they want.” So not only are we wish granters, we have to be soul readers too.

Then, once I’ve got the whole tuning-in-to-people’s-true-desires thing mastered, I’ll be ready for a client—“probably in a year or two.”

A year? Or
two?
No way.

“It’s like building a muscle, Delaney. You can’t start with the three-hundred-pound barbells. You have to get good at lifting the little five-pound dumbbells and gradually work up to the heavier weights.” He’s sure got a bottomless bag of metaphors. He probably has a whole computer file full of them, to insert into his books at random spots. “That’s why it’s not until
after
you grant your first client’s wish that you get the full powers.”

What?
“You said at the mall that you get the powers and the magic wand and everything once you have a client.”

“Not for the first one. It’s that first wish coming true that provides the spark to ignite the skills you’ve been developing up to that time and propels you to the next level. Like a jump start.”

“How am I supposed to grant somebody’s wish without the wand?”

“That’s the trick.”

“Whose trick? Why am I being tricked?”

“It’s the way it works, Delaney. You have to start slow. If you rush it, you won’t have the empathy to accurately understand the client’s wish, and then the powers won’t matter anyway. I had the same restrictions as you, and I know from experience that you can’t get around the rules. You have to earn it.”

All that life-coaching sure has made him an expert on lecturing new f.g.’s, even though I’m his first. He probably started practicing this speech the second he found out about me and then had to bottle it back up when he thought he’d never be able to use it. That’s why it’s all coming out in an excited gush. By the time he gets to how you can’t just pick up the violin and expect to play a solo concert at Carnegie Hall, I’ve tuned him out.

I’ve already got the muscle, the f.g. equivalent of the deadly backhand. There
are
kids who can pick up the violin and play like a super-genius virtuoso. I’ve seen them on YouTube. I’m not spending two years of my life retrieving lost balls and filling ketchup bottles. I don’t want to have to wait for the flash of light and the glowing wand. I want the big magic now. That means I’ve got to find a client.