Don't Expect Magic (13 page)

Before school starts on Monday, I roller-boot through the halls in an attempt to cover as much wish-vibe area as possible, but nothing wafts my way. The only wish I end up granting is Principal Lee’s, which is that I keep
the boot wheels retracted. I don’t have to do any special mind-reading or soul-searching or yearning-detecting to discover this wish, because he tells it to me out loud, and I grant it because he threatens to give me detention if I don’t. Further proof that he only
pretends
to be a pal of the people.

On my way to chem class, I spot Cadie at her locker and it occurs to me that I don’t have to search at all. Since my first magic success was fulfilling Cadie’s apple pie wish, I’m probably destined to do her big wish too. I know from the mindless lunch-table chatter that Cadie doesn’t have a boyfriend, but there must be some football star or brooding bad boy she has a crush on. All I have to do is start a conversation and then steer it in the right direction until she mentions who she’s been hoping, dreaming, wishing for. The friendly banter thing is not something I’ve done a lot of, but how hard can it be?

I step up beside her and try to think of something to say. “Uh … hi.” Okay, that wasn’t great, but I’m not warmed up yet.

“Hi, Delaney!” No warm-up needed for Cadie Perez. Her niceness dial is already cranked to maximum.

Right. Now I need to say something nice back. A question is good. It’ll get her talking. “How was your weekend?” I’m not hesitant anymore, but now I’m too loud. I sound like an overcaffeinated robot. I take it back—being bitchy is definitely easier.

“It was great! A bunch of us went to the beach on
Saturday, and on Sunday, I saw this play in Amber Hills. I’ll bring you a flyer.”

Great. I’m ready to transition into the main subject. As we make our way down the hall, I walk
really
slowly, to give me as much time as possible for my cross-examination. “So … is there anybody you like?”

“Oh, I like everybody.”

“I mean
boys
.”

“Sure.”

“So, who?”

“What do you mean?”

I know she’s a ditz, but she can’t be this brain-dead. “Listen. You know those dances, where the girls have to ask the guys? Who would you ask?”

“We don’t have those here. Girls can ask guys to any dance.”

“But if you
did
.” I’m starting to sound pissed off, which feels more natural, but it’s not going to help me.

“We usually go as a group. You can come to the next one with us if you want.”

I’m losing it and we’re nearly to class. “Isn’t there
one
guy here who’s you know, less idiotic than average?”

Cadie studies me, intrigued. “Ooooh.” She gets it! “There’s somebody you like, isn’t there?” She
doesn’t
get it. “Who is it?”

“
No
, that’s not—”

“Enjoy your
waffles
?” Flynn has snuck up behind us. He smiles slyly.

“They were
pancakes
. And this happens to be a private conversation, if you don’t mind.”

“Did you guys have breakfast together?” Cadie asks. “That’s so sweet!”

“We did not do
anything
together.” I glare at Flynn but he’s unstoppable.

“Sorry you couldn’t come to the park, Ms. Collins, but I understand. I know how you cherish your ‘alone’ time.” He winks at me before sliding ahead of us into the classroom. Seeing me humiliated has made him dangerously bold. Dangerous for him.

No chance of dumping hydrochloric acid on his camera case in revenge, though, because we have a test. I try to concentrate on the questions, but I keep thinking about Cadie. I should have realized: she’s Princess Charming, not Cinderella. She’s already beautiful and happy. She’s not the type to have a big wish, because she already has everything she wants, and if she wanted anything else, she could get it in a second, without
my
help.

Cadie was a bad choice. I need somebody desperate, somebody whose wish vibe is so strong it reeks.

Cadie’s the only person here I’m on speaking terms with, though, so I’m back to casting my f.g. net wide. After French, I hear a couple of girls two lockers down from mine whisper about a fight one of them had with her boyfriend or her best friend or her ex-friend, I can’t tell. I lean closer to hear better, keeping my face hidden behind
my locker door, but the conversation stops. When I peek around to see if they’ve left, they’re both still there. Staring right at me.

“Oh, hi!” I say. “I was just …” Once again, words fail me. The girls glare at me, waiting for me to finish the sentence. I’m waiting too. Finally, I go with: “Does either of you have an eraser I can borrow?”

Another beat of silence, then: “No.” They slam their lockers, turn their backs to me and walk off, shoulder to shoulder, continuing their whispered conversation. Too bad for them. They’ll have to resolve their love/friend spat on their own.

I stroll past the other lockers, ears alert for any confessions of emotional pain. I smile whenever I catch an eye, but I can feel how fake it is. Even if I couldn’t feel it, I can see it, reflected in the guarded, suspicious looks I get back. This is so not fair, because
I’m
usually the one with the force field up, and it makes me want to scream: I don’t even
like
any of you!

I’m so upset that I don’t notice until the bell rings that I’m on the opposite side of school from world history. I pop my wheels down, risking detention. As I speed through the halls, I succeed in avoiding Principal Lee, but I fail in getting to class on time, and I miss a pop quiz, which Ms. Lammers refuses to let me make up.

Maybe it’ll work better if no one can see me.

The classic eavesdropping location is the girls’ room, so I hide out there before gym. After a lot of coming and
going and “How does my lipstick look?” and “Can you see my freckles or do I need more foundation?” the French snobs from Madame Kessler’s class come in, in the middle of a conversation about a crush one of them has on the drummer in the marching band.

“Ask him if he’ll give you lessons. Tell him we’re starting a girl band.”

“But he’s going out with Insley Burket.”

“So? You’re not doing anything wrong. If Mark falls in love with you instead because you two have so much in common and he and Insley have nothing, that’s not your fault.”

“But I hate the drums.”

Success! Sort of. I have a wisher and a wish, but I can’t tell which one is the crushee, and I can’t see them clearly through the cracks in the stall. I shift around, trying to get a better view—and accidentally ram my elbow into the giant toilet paper holder. Why do they call it the funny bone, when it is
so
not funny?

“Ow! Damn stupid—” I catch myself, but it’s a little late. I can feel the girls’ stares in the silence that follows, burning into the door. I’m surprised the steel doesn’t melt.

“Hello?” one of them says, and not in a friendly way.

I have no choice, so I come out. “Oh, hey,” I say, like I’m really surprised to see them and had absolutely no idea anyone was in the bathroom except me.

“Were you spying on us?” one of them demands.

“What? No, why would I—”

“What did you hear?” asks the other one.

“Nothing.” I should stop there, but how can I drop this opportunity when it might be my only chance? “But if there
is
something—or someone—you want, I might be able to help you.”

“I knew it!” says the first one.

“Get out!” This comes from both of them, not at the same time, but repeatedly and alternately, in increasing decibels, rising from scream to shriek. “Get out!
Get out!
GET OUT!”

“All right! Forget I said anything.” Like I’d want to help either of them anyway. I still don’t know which of them loves Mark the drummer, but neither one of them deserves him. If I ever find out who Insley Burket is, I’m warning her she’d better start tagging along to her boyfriend’s “lessons.”

I drag myself off to gym, late again. At least there are no pop quizzes in yoga. In the locker room, I whip on my East Lombard sweatpants and knee-high striped yoga socks (they aren’t boots, but they cover the same area, so I almost don’t mind them), then rush out to the gym and immediately adopt Child’s Pose, which is basically kneeling forward and plopping your head on your arms. Ms. Byrd says we can “return to Child’s Pose anytime,” so I do it pretty much the entire class. Usually I take a nap, but today I keep replaying my failures and worrying that I really am going to have to wait two years like Hank said. It is not a Zen-ful thought.

In sixth period, in the middle of reading us yet another “here she lies in her grave” poem, Ms. Sandor is interrupted by the class phone. After she hangs up, she announces that the principal wants to see me in his office before seventh period. By this point, I’m used to everybody in the class turning to stare unsupportively, so I barely notice it. Barely.

On the way to the office, I mentally plot my denial that I was roller-booting in the halls again, because I figure this is why he wanted to see me. But as usual, I’m wrong.

“Delaney, Delaney, Delaney.” Principal Lee pulls his chair out from behind his desk, then sits down so we’re practically knee to knee. “Word is you’ve been trying very hard to make friends.” He leans forward, arms folded, brow furrowed in concern. “Maybe you’ve been trying a little
too
hard, though? I’ve heard reports that some of your overtures have been … excessively enthusiastic.”

He must be talking about my client search. I bet the glaring girls near my locker ratted me out. They looked the type to come whining to the principal.

“Would you say your actions were
inappropriate
, even?”

“No. Who told you that?” Maybe it was the French snobs. It wasn’t enough to puncture my eardrums with their shrieking. This is what I get for trying to help people. I’m done with it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Spying in the girls’ bathroom?”

I
knew
it. “I wasn’t spying—”

Principal Lee holds a palm up in a “stop” sign. “Delaney,
Delaney, Delaney. I’m sure there’s an element of misunderstanding involved.” More than an element! There’s an entire
periodic table
of misunderstanding. “You just haven’t had time yet to adjust to the style here. Our young people are a little more sensitive, a little less assertive in their interpersonal relations than they are where you’re from. So let’s find you an easier, more low-key Allegro High way to connect. What do you think?”

Like it matters what I think. Principal Lee’s already made up his mind. No more library seventh period. I have to take an elective.

“How come it’s called an elective if it’s mandatory?” I ask him.

He chuckles and slaps his knee. “I love your sense of humor, Delaney! It’s going to help you make a lot of friends, if you can just tone it down a little.”

I don’t even get to
choose
the
elective
. “I’ve signed you up for yearbook. It’s a great group of kids, very friendly. You’ll be a real asset to them—they need more people.” Ah, the loser elective. Not that it matters in the end. There’s no advanced boot design, so any elective I was forced into would be equally purgatorial.

Yearbook’s in a Latin classroom. There are posters of the Colosseum and of phrases like
“Fortes Fortuna Adiuvat”
and
“Credo Quia Absurdum Est”
taped up all over the place. Flynn’s behind a desk with a nameplate that says “Mrs. Bayshore.”

“Hey,” Flynn says when he sees me. “Come on in.” He grins at me like I’m hesitating or something, which I
am
, but not because I feel awkward or uneasy, since why should I, but because I can’t believe Flynn’s actually
in charge
. He’s the editor? He’s only a sophomore. I must be showing my doubt on my face, because he sort of straightens up and adopts a confident-leader tone of voice, which is very un-Flynn. “We’re glad you’re here, Delaney. The whole staff last year was seniors, so it’s just us.” “Us” is the gang from Flynn’s lunch table: Skids and Brendan, plus the Hello Kitty trio, whose names turn out to be Elly, Hallie and Polly (rhyming must’ve been a prerequisite for the friendship).