Don't Expect Magic (17 page)

In yearbook, Flynn doles out spring-break assignments. I’m all attention as I mentally multitask, flipping through different Flynn-fooling scenarios to find the ideal one for initiating contact between him and Cadie.

“… and Delaney.” Flynn’s looking right at me. How long’s
that
been going on? “Okay?” he asks. Uh-oh. I shrug, and if he takes this to mean “Sure” when I really mean “I have no idea what you just said,” that’s his problem. I’ll email Hallie or Elly or Polly later and find out what I missed.

I’m packed up and ready to go when the bell rings. “Happy Easter, Passover, spring break, whatever,” I say as I dart to the door. The staffettes call good-bye.

“See you later,” Flynn says. Yes, he will. Or rather, he’ll see me
soon
.

I head to the bus circle, where the kids with no wheels—either human-powered or fossil-fueled—are milling around. When Flynn comes out, I skate to the front of the bus circle and wave at the first bus, which is already moving. As it hits the street, I yell, “Hey, hold up,” but not too loud. Just loud enough for Flynn to hear. “I can’t believe I missed the bus!” I say to the air. “I need to meet my dad at three-thirty.”

“Bummer,” Flynn says, but keeps walking toward his car.

I skate up behind him and slap his arm. “Hey!” I say, like I’ve come up with the most brilliant idea ever. “You have a car, don’t you?”

Flynn looks at me like it’s a trick question—which it is. “Uh, yeah, but—”

“That’s great! Thanks so much!”

He’s already unlocked the doors, so I zoom around to the passenger side and climb in fast before he can say anything else. The inside of the car is a disaster. Cameras and camera equipment are everywhere. Photos litter the floor.

Flynn opens the door and gets in. “So?”

“So, what?”

“Where’re you meeting your dad?”

“I don’t remember the exact address,” I say, although I know exactly where we’re going. “Head up Magnolia. I’ll tell you when I see it.”

Flynn shrugs and starts the car. As we drive out of the lot, I shift Flynn’s discarded photos around with my foot. They aren’t yearbook photos or Brendan the Boardman shots. Instead there are blurry portraits of park-goers and off-center pictures of graffiti-covered walls. They remind me of stuff you see in museums, they are that strange.

“Hidden depths,” I murmur to myself.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

I pick up one of the photos from under my boot. It’s a crumpled, footprint-covered picture of a street fair. Off to the side, a little girl holding the strings of several balloons
glances back at the camera. The background is all washed-out metallics, but the balloons are vivid oranges and reds, so bright they’re nearly blinding. The little girl seems sepia-toned, but there’s still some color in her, in her face and in her dress, as if the balloons were reflecting off of her.

I’m impressed, in spite of myself. I hold out the photo. “You took this, right?”

Flynn shrugs.

“You don’t have a lot of respect for your work, do you?”

“That’s just a copy. I was experimenting with contrast in the developing.”

“And then you use the leftovers as insulation. How reuse-recycle of you.” I drop the photo back on the floor.

We turn up Magnolia, which is all stores and restaurants. If the big mall is the movie-studio European village, this is the sitcom set of small-town Main Street. The sidewalks are a shiny slate gray, without one squashed piece of chewing gum or crushed cigarette butt anywhere. The shops all have cute, handmade-looking signs over their doors and cheerful, glittery displays in their windows.

I spot a red awning ahead with a steaming cup of coffee painted on it. “That’s it!”

Flynn pulls up to a meter. I get out of the car, and he gives me a half-wave good-bye as I walk over to his side. “Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you after—”

“Let me buy you a cup of coffee as thanks,” I say, and open his door.

“I thought you had to meet your dad.”

“He just texted me. He’s going to be a few minutes late.”

“I didn’t see you reading any text messages.” Flynn looks at me suspiciously, but he does turn off the ignition.

“Come on, one latte. It’s the least I can do. I’ll even throw in a caramel shot. Unless you’re more of a mint boy.” Flynn grins. I’ve got him. I tug on his arm again, but not that hard, because I’ve already made the sale.

Once we’re inside the coffeehouse, I dart in front of him so I can I scope out the place first.

“What are you doing?” Flynn asks.

B-i-n-g-o. There she is, in line to order. I turn around and give Flynn my best astonished smile. “Look who’s here! It’s Cadie Perez. What an amazing coincidence!”

Flynn starts to back out the door. “Oh no. No …” I block him from leaving and hold out Cadie’s questionnaire. He stares at it, confused.

“Wait, is this …”

“It’s Cadie’s answers to the yearbook questionnaire.”

“There
is
no yearbook questionnaire. You made it up.”

“Whatever. Who cares? Look.” I tap the paper. “This coffeehouse is one of her hangouts. Here’s her favorite drink. All you have to do is order this. Then say hi, and drop a line about the Yokels.” I point to another item. “It’s her favorite band.”

Flynn’s eyes widen in surprise. “Really? I love them!”

“See how much you have in common?” I shove the paper at him, forcing him to take it.

“I guess.” He reads through the questionnaire. “You know, these are great questions, actually. We
should
do this for yearbook. We could take a couple of answers from each person, and use the captions for the class pho—”

“Can you stop thinking about yearbook for one
second
?”

Flynn frowns. “I’m not going to just go up to her and start talking.”

“Why not?”

“She’ll think I’m weird. She’ll think I’m trying to hit on her.”

“You
are
trying to hit on her.”

“No, I’m not. I came in here because
you
invited me.”

“Irrelevant.” I stab the questionnaire with my finger. “She answered these questions because she
believed
they were for yearbook. Which means she believed they were for
you
. Which means she wants you to know this stuff.” Flynn thinks this over. “Just do what I tell you. It’ll work—trust me.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“You’re free to go. I’ll never mention it again.”

“And if I don’t do it, you’ll never leave me alone.”

“That’s right. You’re finally catching on.”

Flynn sort of smiles, but then gets serious again. “You
really
think me … and Cadie?” He studies my face like he’s going to find the answer there, rather than in what I say.

“I
know
it.” I make sure my expression is as sincere as I can manage, which is an effort, since
in
sincerity comes
more naturally to me. “And if you asked her to do one of these ‘things I like to do on weekends,’ she’d say yes.” I hope.

Flynn glances toward Cadie, who’s finished paying. She steps aside to wait for her drink, and I give him a shove. “Go order already, before the line gets too long.”

“Okay, okay. If it’ll get you off my back.” Flynn takes a breath and trudges off like a condemned man.

While Flynn waits to order, I grab a wooden stirrer from the condiment stand and slip behind a nearby merchandise display to keep an eye on things—and look for an opportunity to help out.

The barista calls Cadie’s order and puts it on the counter. If she takes it and leaves before she sees Flynn, or before Flynn gets up the nerve to say anything, this whole trip will have been for nothing. It’s a tragedy to trash a good designer drink, but sacrifices must be made in the name of love and wand acquisition.

I point the stirrer toward the cup and concentrate. It’s got to be slow enough for no one to notice, but fast enough that it works before Cadie picks it up. I barely move my wrist at all, and, one micro-inch at a time, the cup slides toward the edge of the counter.

Then, at the moment Cadie reaches for the cup, it falls.

Cadie leaps back, diving out of the way as it hits the floor—
SPLAT!
Flynn stares, mouth open, more awed by the fallen latte than by being within romancing range of the love of his life. I know I’m going for the big goal here—professional
wand, world domination—but I’m really starting to enjoy the little stuff. It’s sort of like performing practical jokes, but with a purpose.

The barista apologizes for putting the cup too close to the edge and tells Cadie he’ll make her another one. Cadie smiles her usual infatuation-inducing smile in thanks and steps aside to wait.

Flynn finally lifts his gaze from the floor, which another coffeehouse worker is now mopping up, and Cadie catches his eye. She shrugs in mock exasperation and he forces a strained, crooked grin back. Okay, that’s good. At least contact’s been made.

“Next.” Flynn is still staring at Cadie. “Next in line!” the cashier barks louder. The guy behind Flynn taps Flynn’s shoulder, breaking the spell.

Flynn steps up to the counter. “Green tea latte, please—soy!” He practically screams this, but it’s better than mumbling, because Cadie hears him.

“Hey!” she calls to him. “That’s what I got!”

Flynn throws up his hands and widens his eyes in the worst acting job I have ever seen. “No way.
Really?
” It’s a good thing he’s got yearbook, because he’d never make it in drama club.

He pays and joins Cadie to wait for his drink. They smile awkwardly at each other. “Green tea is really good for you,” he says at last.

“I know!” Cadie replies enthusiastically, like they’ve now bonded over this random health tip.

“Soy too,” Flynn says. Cadie nods. Flynn nods back, too many times. Awkward silence descends, and Flynn’s eyes get that panicked “I’ve lost the capability for coherent speech” look. Luckily, his f.g. is here to help.

I spot an iPod in a docking station against the wall and slip closer, without letting Cadie see me. By spinning the stirrer in the direction of the iPod wheel, I’m able to scroll through the playlist until I find a song that will work. Then I use the stirrer to flick a sugar packet at the play button and
voilà. Le succès
.

When the song comes on, Flynn smiles, and this time his surprised look is believable because it’s real.

“ ‘Starless Night,’ ” he says to himself.

Cadie looks surprised too. “The Yokels! I love them.”

“I saw them in August at Williams Stadium.”

“No way!” Cadie says. “I was there!”

“Which night?” Flynn asks.

“I’m embarrassed to say.” Cadie grins sheepishly.

“Why?”

“Mia and I went to all four shows.”

“I would’ve done the same thing, if they hadn’t sold out.” They exchange a smile, a real one. Mission: almost accomplished. I’m stabbed with an especially sharp twinge of the f.g. seasicky ache, worse than the usual yearning, probably because Flynn is so close to the object of his wish. I remind myself that the wand is practically in my hands and I feel a little better.

The barista sets out Cadie’s and Flynn’s drinks and calls
their names. “Okay, well, nice to see you,” Cadie says, and then it happens—Flynn starts to deflate like a punctured blow-up lawn Santa, the courage leaking out of him. Before Cadie can notice Flynn’s impending self-destruction, I jerk the stirrer toward her cup, but in my rush, I forget to be careful, and instead of falling again, it flies out of her hand, across the room. Oh no …

I bite my lip as customers yell out and duck. A super-tanned guy in board shorts is slow on the uptake and the cup heads right for him, an f.g.-fueled surfer-seeking missile. He sees it a second before it hits him and he dives to the side, action-hero-style. The cup slams into the wall, spattering green foamy liquid all over him. It’s the parking meter lady’s creamer all over again. Maybe I better lay off moving liquids until I’m at full power.

The barista looks at Cadie suspiciously. “I didn’t do anything, I swear!” she insists. “It was like it was alive or something.” The girl who’d cleaned up the other latte glares at Cadie and stomps off to get the mop again.

Flynn holds out his drink to Cadie. “Here, take mine,” he says. Cadie shakes her head and says no, but Flynn presses it on her. “Go ahead. It’s my favorite drink, but as soon as I ordered it I was craving a caramel mocha frap.”

“Okay. If you’re sure. Thanks.” Cadie takes the drink and smiles gratefully. Good save, Flynn. I’m impressed.

But my respect doesn’t last, because a second later, Flynn turns back into a frog. The awkwardness redescends like a heavy curtain.
Thunk
. I can sense Flynn frantically
brainstorming for something more to say. His grin grows creepily big as terror slips into his eyes.

Cadie’s smile falters. “Well, I gotta get going,” she says.

Flynn’s grin collapses. “Oh. Right. Sure.”

Cadie thanks him again for the latte and eases off to the exit. I can’t think of anything more I can do, since yanking Cadie’s drink out of her hands a third time would be one wasted latte too many, and I let her disappear out the door.

This is seriously frustrating. I hurry over to Flynn. “What happened? You were totally hitting it off. Yokels, green latte. It was perfect!” You can practically see the pom-poms in my hands, I’m that rah-rah. “Why didn’t you ask her out?”

“Have you ever asked anybody out?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

Flynn shakes his head and pushes past me to the door. “Never mind.”

I follow him out. “How hard can it be when you know in advance she’ll say yes?”

“She’s not into me, Delaney. She was like ‘get me out of here’ the whole time.” Flynn climbs into his car and slams the door.

I park myself by his window. “She was not. You just panicked.”

“You weren’t there.” Flynn starts the car.

“I was two feet away!”

He frowns down at his steering wheel. “A guy knows.”

“Since when? Boy brains have been scientifically proven to be denser than concrete.”

Flynn grips the wheel and turns to me. “I tried, okay? You said if I tried, you’d drop it. We’re not meant to be, all right?” He glances away. “We’re just … not. And I’m fine with it.” He looks so sad when he says this, I know he’s lying, especially since I’m hit with another wave of painful yearning at the same time. “I’ll see you back in school after break.”