Don't Expect Magic (18 page)

As he drives away, I get that weird twinge again, but it’s different. It’s a mix of feelings, all jumbled and confusing. When I try to separate them out, each one is like a stab. I feel bad for Flynn. I’ve let him down. I’ve screwed up and made everything worse. I’ll never get the wand now.

I’m the worst f.g. in the world.

Dr. Hank is staring at me with a frozen grin. If I move to the side a little, the light hits his two-dimensional face and makes it seem like he’s wincing. I wonder how he’d look with a mustache. I’ve got my charcoal pencil with me. It’s tempting.…

“Don’t even think about it,” he says.

“Too late. Come on, aren’t you curious?”

“You’re supposed to be helping me here, Delaney.”

We’re at a table in Brennan’s Books’ café, where we’ve come so Hank can meet with the manager about a book signing for his latest magnum dopus,
Shape Up Before I Slap You
. (It’s really
Shape Your Goals for Success
, but I like
my version better. Catchier.) The bookstore is in the center of Wonder Mall’s curving street. It’s three stories high, and the café looks out over the sun-happy shoppers strolling below. The manager’s busy taking inventory or unloading a new shipment of
The Idiot’s Guide to Idiots
or whatever, so Hank told the assistant manager that he’d sign some of his old books in the meantime. My job is to smack a big sunburst sticker on the cover that says “Autographed Copy.” Snore.

I take a sip of my iced chai. “Does the book cost more if it’s signed?” I ask.

“No.”

“Does it make somebody buy it who wouldn’t otherwise?”

“It’s an added bonus. Plus, a signed book equals a sold book, because signed books are nonreturnable to the publisher.”

“Ah, so it’s like writer fraud. You get the money, the bookstore gets screwed.”

“Only if no one buys it.”

“Forgive me, O Mr.
New York Times
Bestseller. All of
your
books get sold.”

“Stop being a pain, Delaney, and get to work.”

I sit back down next to him and peel and stick.

Hank left me alone when I spent the first day of spring break on the couch in front of the TV with a box of sugar bears on my lap, streaming the Design Channel until two a.m. No lectures about my lack of productivity.
No bugging me to “get some fresh air” or “eat something healthy.” He’d just pop his head in every hour or so and say, “I’m here.…” Like I didn’t know that already when I could hear him typing madly in his office next door and playing the same Billy Joel CD over and over and over and over.

I knew what he meant, though—he was there if I needed to talk. But what I needed was time to veg out. I hadn’t even called or texted Posh. I was tired of telling her I’d screwed up
again
. So I ate dry cereal and did some yearbook sketches and glanced at the TV whenever they mentioned shoes or boots. I fell asleep on the couch, infomercials for recycled-rice-sack handbags and nanotech mineral makeup creeping into my dreams.

I could’ve slept through the whole next day, but Dr. Hank, life coach to the world, doesn’t let anyone slide. He set down a plate of scrambled eggs with a big bouquet of chopped fruit on the side in front of me the next morning, and then announced we were going to the mall.

The breakfast
did
perk me up, I guess, because by the time we were in the car, I was ready to talk, and I filled him in on everything that had happened with Flynn.

“Am I the f.g. from hell?” I ask him now. “Guaranteed to make you unhappy forever after?”

“It has nothing to do with you, Delaney. It’s the clients who have the problem. They don’t want to face the fact that they need to change
themselves
before they can change their lives.”

“I thought that was what the wand is for.”

“Magic is a superficial fix. It only alters the surface, and it doesn’t last. People need to transform from within. It’s what I wrote about in
Self-Help Starts with YOU.
” Hank picks up one of the signed books and hands it to me. “Look at Andrea. As soon as a spell wears off, she does something to sabotage her romance with Aaron. She comes up with excuses for why she can’t see him. Or she cancels dates at the last minute. Until Aaron decides she’s not interested after all, and then we have to start all over.”

I flip through the book. Lots of charts and bullet points and “Ask Yourself These Questions” lists. There are even quizzes at the end of each chapter. “This is like a textbook for class.”

“Exactly! If people would do the homework, they’d be capable of getting their wish themselves. Ideally, a person shouldn’t need magic at all.”

“Just one of your books.”

“Well … yes.” Hank shrugs modestly.

I sigh and flip the book closed.

“Don’t be discouraged, Delaney. I’ve had clients who rejected my help too. Once you have more experience, it’ll get easier to deal with the difficult cases.”

“But how do I deal with
this
one?”

“You’ll have to start over, work on the client, not the wish.”

“Dr. Hank!” A woman with curly brown hair and
dressed in “I’m going to an important meeting” black slacks and a mocha-colored shirt strides over to us. Hank stands up, accidentally bumping into the table. I grab my chai before it spills, but a stack of signed books tumbles to the floor.

Hank and the woman kneel to pick up the books, their apologies canceling each other’s out. I don’t bother to help, because they seem to be doing fine on their own. They laugh awkwardly as they nearly knock the books off the table again when they both try to set them down in the same place.

“Anyway!” Ms. Mocha says to Hank, “I’m Gina! I started here two weeks ago. I used to work at the branch up in Seaside Harbor.” I consider asking her if there are any harbors that
aren’t
seaside, but I’m not sure she’d hear me since her eyes are glued to Hank’s, and he’s nodding like this is the most fascinating piece of information he has ever heard in his life—and possibly any past lives.

“I’m thrilled that you’ll be doing a signing here,” Gina gushes. “Your books are among our top sellers, although I’m sure I don’t have to tell
you
that.”

“Thank you,” Hank says. “That’s nice to hear.” I lean back and prop my boots up on a chair to watch the show. This is much better than the Design Channel.

“I’m a huge fan.
Get off the Wrong Road and Find the Route to Happiness
helped me so much when I went through my divorce.” I wonder how much homework there was in
that
one, although Gina looks like one of those answer-every-question-in-detail types, so she probably ate it up.

Hank tells her he’s glad and nods and smiles and then nods some more. I take a big noisy slurp of my chai, and he glances over at me. He blinks, like he forgot I was there. “Oh. This is my daughter, Delaney.”

“Hi!” Gina chirps, a grown-up version of Cadie. I give her a cool Mia wave in return.

Hank frowns down at my boots. “Delaney, put your feet down.”

“No, wait,” Gina says. She steps back and studies the bottoms. They’re my demon boots. Like the dragon boots, the face is carved on the sole, but there are flames up the sides instead of a body. “Those are great! I’ve never seen anything like them.” When Hank tells her I made them, she gushes some more. I figure she’s just faking for Hank, but then she surprises me. “The leather’s so thin here at the top. This must’ve taken a lot of patience or the swivel knife would’ve gone right through.”

“Yeah.” I can’t believe she noticed this. “I did actually cut too close here, see?” I show her a tiny gash at the end of one of the flames.

“I used to buy old belts at thrift stores and alter them for myself. Nothing as complicated as this, though,” she says, tapping the toe of one of the boots. “You’re very talented.”

She tells me about a couple of new books on leather design that have come in, and I move my boots so she can
sit and write the titles down. It seems like she might actually be semi-cool underneath the bookstore-manager clothes. More hidden depths.

I let Hank and Gina discuss the signing and have some one-on-one time while I wander. I was pretty annoyed at the idea of Hank’s having a girlfriend when I first came here, but now I’m kind of okay with it. It’d be different if we had this intense, going-back-forever relationship, like I had with Mom. But I don’t feel like I’d lose anything if there was a third person in the mix, especially if it’s somebody who gets me.

I find the books Gina mentioned, and although one of them is pretty basic, the other’s filled with manic crazy stuff like using nails for clasps and glued-on pieces of broken ceramics and intentional rips in the leather. I decide to let Hank buy it for me, as payment for my stickersticking.

As I roam up and down the aisles, I glance around at the guides to growing orchids and raising triplets, at the thick volumes on the history of paper and the beheaded royals of Great Britain. There’s a book for everything, which means that somewhere there should be a book that can help me with Flynn.

In the kids’ section, I find a whole set of shelves with nothing but fairy tales. Picture books and chapter books and illustrated collectors’ editions. Plus a whole row of tales from China and India and every other country on the planet.

Five minutes later, I’m sitting on the floor with the little kids, and like them, I’ve got about twenty books open in front of me. Unlike the kids, I’m not reading for fun. I’m studying. What I learn is that everybody in the world’s got their own version of Cinderella and Tom Thumb and Hansel and Gretel, but instead of fairy godmothers, there are enchanted birds, magic snakes and spell-casting trees. Still, the basic story is the same: poor, kindhearted boy or girl hero; magical intervention for good or bad; problem, trouble, setback, obstacle, repeat, repeat; all is lost; but then … happy ending.

It’s easy to see that I’m stuck in the setback, obstacle, repeat, repeat part of the story, but there’s no clue in any of the books to help me get out. The magic is way above my level and the fairy tales feel too foreign. Not because they’re from other countries, but because the places and people and times seem so unreal and far away. Despite the bad stuff that happens, the fairy tales all follow a comforting formula, wraping up neatly and nicely. They’re not messy and complicated like real life. They never end with the problem still unsolved.

On my way back to the café, I pass by the gift area and spot a display of leather bookmarks, with beaches and birds and a bunch of other images carved into them. I grab a handful for more inspiration. I may suck at being an f.g., but at least I still have my boots.

“Hi, Delaney!” Cadie peeks out from the other side of the revolving rack. “What a great book!” She nods to the
design book I’m holding, then glances down at my boots. “Do you actually make all those boots you wear?” When I say yes, she asks me a lot of questions about how I do it, and she really seems interested, so I explain how I buy old ones at consignment shops and thrift stores and then redo them.

“You’re lucky you’re so creative. I wish I could do something like that.”

“Yeah, well. It’s the only thing I
am
good at.”

She notices me staring at the cupcake cookbook cradled in her arm. “It’s a birthday present,” she explains. “A friend of mine loves to make them.” I try to imagine Mia, or any of the cheerleaders, wearing aprons and stirring batter, but who knows? I never read any of their questionnaires—maybe one of them has baking-related hidden depths after all. “She collects dragonflies too, so I’ve been looking for a dragonfly bookmark or pin or something to put on the ribbon when I wrap it. I love these, but all I can find is butterflies.” She spins the rack to reveal a row of wire bookmarks, like big paper clips, bent into different shapes.

“These are great. I could use these on boots. Clip them on the tops.” I search to see if I can find a demon face or a skull but it’s all flowers and butterflies, like Cadie said. I take a few of the roses, because I can always paint stems down the sides of the boots, with thorns dripping blood.

“I’m meeting Mia and some of the other girls from
the squad over at Jill’s Safari after this, to try on bathing suits,” Cadie says. “You should come.”

“Uh, yeah. I don’t think so. Fashion advice from a posse of top-models-in-training would be wasted on me. I’m strictly ‘what not to wear.’ ”

Cadie smiles and leans toward me, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “I know what you mean. They intimidate me too sometimes.” I stare at her like
Is that a joke?
Cadie Perez intimidated by Mia and her fellow Cadie Perez wannabes? I don’t think so.

“I’m not intimidated,” I explain. “I just break out in hostility if people try to tell me what to do.”

Cadie laughs. “I wish I could do that.”

“Why? You want to alienate all your friends?”

“No. I just wish I could say what I think, the way you do. Do what I want. Totally be myself for once.”

“How would you be any different than you are?”

Cadie gazes down with this wistful look that’s a total contrast to her usual super-sunny expression. “Not be ‘Cadie Perez, head cheerleader’ all the time,” she says. “Just be … Cadie.” The way her head is tilted casts sad shadows under her eyes. It makes me think she
does
have a big wish, and I can’t help but wonder what it is.

At least I can grant a small wish for her. I spin the rack of bookmarks. “You should look again,” I tell her.

“I already went through them like fifty times. I wish my friend collected something easier to find. Dragonflies are impossible.”

“Try the bottom rack. I think some were stuck together.”

Cadie leans down, and as she does, I grab a highlighter from a nearby shelf and point it at one of the butterflies on the top rack near me. Its body stretches and its wings shrink. “Hey, look!” I take it off the rack and hold it out to her.

Her eyes brighten when she sees it. She’s back to her hypercheerful Cadie self. “Wow! I can’t believe I missed it! Thanks!” Her phone buzzes and she glances down at it. “I better go. But, hey, I know a bunch of good vintage shops. Any time you want to go, call me. We can look for boots and dragonflies, hang out. Okay?”