Don't Expect Magic (19 page)

Cadie darts off to the cashier to pay, and as usual, her sincerity throws me. I’m beginning to think she really doesn’t see the lines that divide the outcasts from the populars, the yearbook nerds from the cheerleaders.

Flynn’s wrong. She’s not out of his universe. She’s in the same league as everybody else. She’s not “Cadie Perez, head cheerleader, superstar.” She’s just … Cadie. And I think, hey, it might be fun to hang out, go boot shopping.

Whoa.
Really?
Delaney Collins and a cheerleader?
Hanging out?
I’m so dazed by this thought that it isn’t until I’m walking back to the café that I realize turning the butterfly into a dragonfly was something I’d never done before, never even tried. I hadn’t moved something—I’d changed it.

I’d done Atom Manipulation, and I’d done it perfectly.

When I get to the café, Gina is still smiling and tapping Hank on the arm every other second to emphasize a point, but Hank’s turned into Mr. Freeze. He’s so stiff, I’m worried I’m going to have to wheel him out on one of those dolly carts they use to haul the books around. I can’t figure it out. They were totally bonding and now it’s like he’s ingested some paralyzing poison.

He’s grim and silent all the way to the car. Halfway home, I can’t keep quiet any longer. I have to know what happened.

“So … Gina seems
nice
,” I say, and drag out the word “nice.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I think she likes you.”

“It’s just a business relationship, Delaney.”

“She was totally flirting with you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“She gave you her cell number.”

“In case I had any questions about the book signing.”

“Maybe.” I check Hank for signs of blushing out of the corner of my eye. The sun’s bouncing too much glare off the car hood for me to tell if his cheeks are pink, but he
is
gripping the wheel pretty hard. I know he likes her, but he’s gone all Flynn. What I don’t know is why. He’s an adult. And a famous author. And Gina likes him back. What’s his problem?

“When’s the last time you went on a date? Don’t tell me it was Mom.”

“Of course not,” he says, but his grip gets tighter.

“Have you been on more than one date with anybody since Mom?”

“Yes, Delaney. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“How about a girlfriend, then? Have you had a real girlfriend since Mom?”

“Listen, Delaney. Adult relationships are complicated—”

“Spare me the condescending crap about how everybody under eighteen has no concept of human emotions, when adults are the ones who are all repressed and closeted and scarf down your self-help handbooks like they’re fun-size Milky Ways.”

“Motivational manuals,” Hank says, correcting me.

“You may write them, but maybe you should read one. Do the exercises yourself.” I try to remember one of his book titles to quote.
“Seize Happiness by the Throat and Choke It Until It Gives In.”

Hank smiles for a second and the grip softens. “First of all, it’s
Seize Happiness and Don’t Let Go
. There’s no strangling involved.”

“Too bad.”

“And secondly, I think it’s better if you stay out of my personal life.”

“Hello? I’m your daughter,
Dad
. I’m in your personal life by definition.”

Hank’s smile gets broader and it takes me a second to realize what I said.

Dad
.

It just popped out, but when I think about it, it sticks. It feels right. He’s not Hank anymore, he’s Dad. I’m not sure when it happened, but it doesn’t feel sudden. It feels like it’s been coming for a while. He’s been transformed from within—or is it transformed from
without?
Wait—whose transformation was it?

My cell rings, cutting through my thoughts. It’s Posh. I answer.

“Oh my God, Delaney! It worked!”

“What worked?”

“The Project Completion System!”

“You built the TV station?”

“No, no. I finished that like four days ago. I’m talking about my parents. I used the system on them, one step at a time—and I did it! You can come back! All you have to do is ask Hank to call them and say it’s okay with him.”

I can go. I can go right now, before spring break’s even over. I’ll never have to go back to Happy High. Once again, I’ll be where everything is familiar and there are actual clouds in the sky and the stores don’t look like they were built five days ago and there’s not one palm tree. All I’d be leaving behind is a dad I’d wanted so badly once but then didn’t want at all, only to have him forced on me. And one ungranted wish.

“I can’t go.”

“I know you have to get Flynn his wish first. But after that.”

“I think I might be out here for a while.” I can sense Dad watching me, and listening.

Posh is quiet for a second. Then: “You’re not coming back at all, are you?”

I don’t know what to say. I feel like if I say no I’ll be cutting the tether attaching me to my old life and go flying, out to space.

“In your last text, you know what you called Hank’s house? ‘Home.’ ”

“I did?”

“ ‘I’m on my way home, call you later,’ that’s what you wrote.”

Apparently I’d already grabbed the line to my new life, but my thumbs knew it before my brain did.

“Mom was right, then,” Posh says. “You just had to give it time.”

“Yeah.”

Posh says she has to go, she has to watch
America’s Top Inventors
, and I can tell she’s hit her emotional limit for the day.

“So what was
that
all about, Delaney?” Dad asks after I hang up.

He knows what it was about. I can tell by his huge grin. And he knows I know he knows, so I say something to make his grin even bigger. “I did an Atom Manipulation today.”

“You did? That’s great! See? I told you. You have to keep working at it, and—”

“I know, I know. ‘You can’t just hurl yourself off a cliff right away, Delaney. You have to start small—begin by jumping out your window. And then work up to leaping off of the roof.’ ”

“Very funny.”

I thought so, but although he’s now “Dad,” he’s still Dr. Hank too, unfortunately, which means he can’t pass up a chance to preach to me about the value of setbacks and the glories of failure, hallelujah, whatever. It makes him happy, though, so I let him rant on. And anyway, I’ve gotten good at tuning him out.

As he fills the car with hot air, I crack a window and call up Facebook on my phone. I know from Brendan’s nonstop email blasts that he has a competition this week, and I only hope I haven’t missed it. Staying means I’m not giving up on Flynn. Even if I have to transform him inside
and
out, I’m getting him his wish.

I’ve skated every computation and permutation of the walkways, and I’m growing tired of dodging the itty-bitty Rollerbladers with their decaled helmets and color-coordinated knee and elbow pads. I must’ve read the time wrong on Brendan’s fan page, because whenever I pass by the ramps area, it’s still just weenie wannabes crashing into each other and swearing. No Brendan. And no Flynn.

I’ve come to the park to observe Flynn in his native habitat (interacting with his fellow snort-laughing buddies and snapping photos at the speed of light). My plan is to study him, anthropologist-like, and pinpoint areas where I
can use a little magic to boost his ego and snap him out of his inferiority funk.

I hope I didn’t get the time wrong, because I spent all yesterday practicing my new advanced skills. Since I’ll be living here now, I needed to make my bedroom
livable
, so I convinced Dad to take me yard “sailing” (that’s what Mom and I called it—“sailing” from yard sale to yard sale). Posh had asked me if her parents should send me some of my stuff from storage, but those things still have emotions attached to them, with a thick glue that’s going to take forever to come off—if it ever does. For now I’ve decided I’d rather surround myself with things that are feelings-free.

I found some old brass candlestick holders, a set of ceramic chopsticks that are perfect wands-to-be, a couple of black mugs to store them in, and a creepy-cool iron lamp with a spiderwebby shade and a green bulb that’ll transform the whole room from Cinderella’s castle to haunted house without me having to get rid of one doll.

I tested one of the chopsticks as we shopped. Wishes were easy to find, because everywhere you looked there were rips and tears and scratches and missing parts. I could tell from people’s expressions when they lifted a scarf out of a box or inspected a wooden salad bowl that what they were hoping for was not what they’d found. Using the chopstick, I restored and replaced and mended and polished, and by the end of the afternoon I was an atom-manipulating master.

I brought the chopstick with me to the park and I’ve been mopping up soda spills and keeping Frisbees afloat to kill time, but it’s not even a challenge anymore. I wouldn’t be surprised if I didn’t already
have
the wand. Maybe I’ll be able to wave the chopstick and—
ta-da!
—give Flynn better clothes, a good haircut and a great car, and I’ll be done.

“Going out for Chinese food?” I spin around to see Flynn coming up the path with Brendan. Flynn points to the chopstick. “They actually give those to you at the restaurants here, you know. You don’t have to bring your own.” Flynn smirks. Brendan snort-laughs and gives Flynn a high five.

“I found it … in the grass.” I can hear how lame this sounds, but Flynn’s thrown me off. I expected to find him mopey and depressed, but he’s the complete opposite of the heartsick, heartbroken image of him I’ve been holding in my head since the flying-green-tea-latte incident. The yearning angst coming through my f.g. radar has calmed down a little too, or else I’ve gotten used to it, like Dad said I would.

I do notice Flynn’s eyes flick around for a second, as if he’s afraid I might have Cadie stashed behind a tree, but when he realizes I’m cheerleader-free, he relaxes again. “Hey, I hope you haven’t gotten freaked out by all the emails,” he says.

“What emails?”

“Elly sent out your questionnaire. She started getting answers right away and I told her to forward them to you. If you didn’t get any yet, you will soon. So watch out.”

“Sent the questionnaire out to who?”

“Everybody. I told you it was an awesome idea.”

“Awesome,” Brendan confirms.

“Don’t worry,” Flynn assures me. “I gave you credit.”

“This is going to mean more work for me, isn’t it?”

Flynn grins. “You can wait until after vacation to start.” Brendan climbs onto his skateboard and swivels his hips like he’s surfing an imaginary wave. “There’s a competition today,” Flynn says. “Come hang out if you want.”

“I guess I can cheer on the Boardman for five minutes.” Brendan gives me a salute and skates off to join the line of the other concussion seekers. I glide along beside Flynn, who’s already got his camera up, scoping the park and the crowd.

When we reach the ramps, he drops his camera bag onto a bench near the competition area. “You can take notes if you want. Skids is in Hawaii, so we don’t have a reporter.”

“Really? You call him a
reporter?
He writes status updates. It’s barely two sentences.”

“It adds up. But, hey, if you’d rather, you can be my assistant.”

“I am no one’s assistant.”

Flynn widens his eyes in mock fear and he throws up his hands in surrender. “Sorry. I meant you can be my co-camera … colleague … person.”

“Thanks. But I’ll just observe.”

“All right, Professor Collins. Best view is from the top bench, over on the right.” He points to the metal stands on the opposite side.

I skate over to find a seat and grab a spot in the top row. I ignore the cheering and groans and crashing of helmets and knee pads as I watch Flynn and think. What can I fix that will give him the most confidence? Should I shazam the oversized rumpled army jacket into a fitted leather one? Abracadabra the untied sneakers into motorcycle boots? Restyle the “I’ve never seen a comb in my life” messed-up hair?

Flynn moves through the crowd, snapping the action from every angle, joking around with the skateboarders, getting people to step aside so he can get a better shot. He glances over at me and waves, then points the camera my way. I hide my face, and when I peer out after a second, he’s turned away to take a picture of someone else. I feel let down, which is stupid, and I bring my mind back to the task at hand.

I tap the chopstick against my palm … but I don’t do anything. The more I study Flynn, the more I sense there’s something else different about him, beyond the lack of lovelorn-ness. He changed somehow. He’s already totally confident, totally relaxed, totally happy. He’s
already
transformed from within—without me.

Brendan scores top points for his over-the-loop back-flip one-eighty or whatever, and he and Flynn do this horrible manic monkey-dance to celebrate, hooting and slapping each other in the head. I don’t cringe in horror at the geekiness of it, because everybody around them is cheering and laughing, and it’s impossible not to join in.
Flynn sees me laugh too and he lifts his camera. I raise my hands again, but when I drop them a few seconds later, he’s still facing me, and I can see him click the shutter. He lowers the camera and mouths “Gotcha,” and I realize I don’t have to change anything about Flynn at all. I just need to get Cadie to see Flynn the way I do—and Flynn to see Cadie the way she really is. Then there won’t be anything standing in their way.

It’ll be a happy ending for everybody.