Don't Expect Magic (20 page)

When I show up at school after spring break, I find that it’s not only Flynn—everything has changed. The wary looks are gone. As soon as I step onto the front walk, a zillion kids swarm me. I’m hailed with waves and hellos—and I mean “hail” as in painful, pelting precipitation: “Hey, Delaney.” “How’s it going?” “Can I add another favorite band to my answer on the questionnaire?” “When’s the yearbook coming out?” “Hey, Delaney.” “Hey, Delaney.” “Hey.”

I’m having a hard time cutting through the crowd with my usual hatchet of hostility, because the kids aren’t a mass of flat background detail I can easily push aside anymore. It’s not only because of the small wishes I granted before the break. In the last couple of days, I’ve read through most of the completed questionnaires Elly emailed to me. Knowing all their inner depths has made everybody around me three-dimensional, and I find myself answering them back. “Fine.” “Sure.” “I’ll ask.” “Hi.” “Hi.” “Hey.”

When the bell rings I’ve barely made it inside, and by
the time I go to my locker and get to chem, the class is already in the middle of a lab. Mr. McElroy folds his arms and stares his dry-as-the-desert stare at me as I pass by his desk. “Sorry I’m late,” I say. “The sun was in my eyes.” I swear to God he smiles. It’s only for a second and there are no witnesses, but I know what I saw.

“I’d advise you to invest in some sunglasses, then, Ms. Collins. You live in Southern California now. Sunglasses are not optional equipment.” I flash an okay sign in response, but no smile this time. Must only happen once every ten years or so, like an eclipse.

I’m almost to the lab table when I stop, stunned by what I see. Flynn and Cadie are joking around. With
each other
.

“Life! Life! Give my creation
life
!” Flynn cries in a German accent. He uses a pipette to poke a creature he’s built out of clamps and metal rulers. Cadie laughs. When the metal monster remains inert, Flynn yanks off his goggles and collapses onto the table over his folded arms in mock misery. Mia rolls her eyes, but Cadie keeps laughing.

Has it happened already? Have they connected? Flynn’s definitely dropped the fear-of-Cadie awkwardness he had at the café, but there’s nothing special in how Cadie’s watching Flynn, no intense intensity. She’s just her usual equal-opportunity friend-to-all self. It could be that the spark is there but is too faint to see yet. Luckily, I have the whole class period to fan the flame.

Mr. McElroy calls over from his desk, “Can we save the act for the talent show please, Mr. Becker?” Cadie goes
back to work. Flynn lifts his head and spots me. He puts his goggles up to his eyes, like they’re binoculars. “Greetings, Late One.”

“Don’t give up, Dr. Frankenstein,” I say, so Cadie will look up and reengage. It’s tempting to make the little clamp man move, because it would be pretty amusing to see everybody’s reactions, but the ensuing mass freak-out would defeat my purpose. Instead I pick up the pipette and sweep it toward the filled beaker behind Flynn. “Look! You’ve created a swamp beast!” The liquid fizzes and foams.

Flynn stares at the beaker a second, surprised, then yanks his goggles back on. “You’re right, Brunhilda. It’s aliiiiiive.” He grins over at me. “It’s a miracle.”

I used to watch the kids at East Lombard goofing around in class and I thought they were all idiots. I never imagined
I’d
be doing it. I have a good reason, of course, so it’s justified. But still … I can almost see the appeal of doing it for no reason—except that it’s fun.

“It’s not a miracle, Dr. F. It’s merely your brilliant calculations.” I lift the beaker above my head. “Bog water combined with cheese mold releases laughing gas and forms a new species: Swampus Thingus.”

“I never could have done it without you, Brunie.” Flynn clinks an empty beaker against my fizzing one in a toast.

Cadie smiles at us. “You guys are so cute together!”

What is she talking about? Oh no … She doesn’t think—

“It’s time to break up this little social club, I’m afraid.” Mr. McElroy has materialized at the end of our lab table,
arms crossed, definitely smile-less. “That way you’ll all have a better chance of passing the class instead of having to repeat it with me over summer school. As much as I would enjoy your company.”

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “It was my fault. I’ll shut up.”

“I accept your generous offer, Ms. Collins. And this will make it easier for you to keep your promise.”

He moves Cadie and Mia to Liam and Aidan’s table. The two soccer jocks break out in grateful grins at having Cadie brought within flirting range.

Cadie waves good-bye to us, Flynn shrugs at me, and they both act as if it’s too bad but no big deal. “So, found any good chopsticks lately?” Flynn asks, and gives me a goggle-magnified wink. What is wrong with him? My f.g. radar is still picking up his wish, but I seem to be the only one of us feeling it.

After class, I hurry after Cadie so I can make it clear to her that Flynn and I are lab partners
only
. Well, lab partners
and
yearbook colleagues. And, I guess, friends. But
that’s all
. Unfortunately, Jasper Riker and Bettina Wiehe cut me off the second I enter the hall.

“Hey, Delaney! Guess what? We’re starting a literary journal,” Bettina announces. “It’s called
Calliope
.”

“That’s the muse of epic poetry,” Jasper explains.

“We studied the muses in world lit last year,” Bettina says.

“That’s fascinating info,” I tell them. “Good luck with that.”

“It’s not just poetry, though,” Jasper says. “There’ll be stories and photos and drawings and songs. All sorts of art stuff.”

“It won’t start until next year. We’re going to meet over the summer and plan everything. And we want
you
to be a co-editor.” Bettina points both of her index fingers at me for emphasis, so I know she definitely means
me
. The bell rings before I’ve even begun to reply. “We’ll tell you more about it later,” Bettina says, and dashes off to class.

In the few weeks since I’ve become an f.g., I’ve been late to class more times than in my entire life in New Jersey. If it keeps up, Principal Lee is going to drag me into his office for another “friendly” talk about my latest transgression.

I’m not stupid enough to try a funny excuse with Madame Kessler like I did with Mr. McElroy.
“Je suis désolée”
is all I say as I slink into the room. She smiles anyway, though. I hope her smile only comes every ten years or so too, because it’s
très
scary.

Chemistry class was the only place that Cadie’s and Flynn’s paths naturally crossed, so now I’m forced to find unnatural (or rather, supernatural) ways to get them together, but day after day my attempts fall as flat as they did back when I first felt Flynn’s wish.

In the lunch line on Thursday, I move Flynn’s multigrain chips to Cadie’s tray and Cadie’s peach almond crisp to Flynn’s, but although this confuses both of them, they’re too far away from each other to see where their missing
food has gone. Flynn grabs another bag of chips and gives the crisp to Brendan. Cadie keeps the chips and skips dessert.

Out on the patio, Flynn waves at me to join their table and Cadie waves at me to sit by her, and before I can come up with an object to transfer or an atom to manipulate in order to get them next to each other, Flynn’s table is swarmed by people who want to put in their yearbook orders. At the same time, Peri and a bunch of the other B-Team cheerleaders crowd around me and bombard me with questions.

“Cadie says you make them.”

“Can you make me a pair?”

“Can you make me five pairs?”

“How much do you charge?”

“Can we tell you what designs we want?”

I try to get a word in, get them to stop, get away, but they’re obsessed.

“I have some plain boots at home you can use.”

“I’ll bring you in my pair tomorrow.”

“Me too.”

“How long will it take?”

To shut them up, I tell them to email me with their requests, but by then lunch is over and my f.g. objective remains unattained.

I try again in yearbook. “We should take more photos of the cheerleaders,” I tell Flynn. “We can do it right now. They’re down on the sports field, practicing.”

Flynn looks at me like I told him to set the classroom on fire. “What are you talking about? The photos are done. We need to get going on the layout. We had forty-seven more orders today.”

“Forty-eight!” Polly chimes in.

“More books means we have to budget more time for production. How many designs have you finished for the class pages?”

“Um …”

“Delaney. There’s a deadline.” He raises his arms, his hands like monster claws. “And it’s looming.” He drops the act and gets extra serious. “Go work on it now. Get Hallie and Elly to help you organize them.”

I salute. “Yes, sir, General.” It’s great that he’s being all Mr. Editor-in-Charge, but what’s the point if Cadie’s not seeing it?

When I get home from school that night, I turn up my music, throw myself down on the bed and wait for the usual depression to sink in.

But it doesn’t happen.

I should be miserable because I’ve gotten absolutely nowhere this week. In fact, I’ve gone backward. Nothing has changed.

And yet … everything is different.

I’m not Delaney Collins, semi-orphan, social soloist, anymore. Now I’m Delaney Collins, f.g.,
plus
yearbook art director, literary journal editor
and
boot-making
entrepreneur. In New Jersey, I had one friend, Posh. Now I have Posh, Flynn, everybody else from yearbook and about a hundred other people who could be friends. So many things have been added to my life, I should feel crushed by all of it, but instead I feel weightless. My world’s been stretched like a balloon that starts out an inch long and expands and expands until you think it’s going to burst—and then gets bigger still. The strangest part is that it makes me feel like I’ve expanded too and am floating, up, up …

“Do you have a lot of homework tonight?” Dad peers in from the doorway.

Well, that yanks me right off my cloud of hokey happiness. Somehow I forgot about the two papers I have due next week, the trig test tomorrow and the stupid three-hundred-word essay on agriculture in Burgundy I have to write,
en français
, as punishment for being late to French on Monday. I’ll need to remember this: whenever you want to get depressed, think about homework.

“I’m resting up,” I protest. “I’ll get it done. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried. I wanted to see if you’d like to go out for ice cream later. Help me celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?”

“Aaron proposed to Andrea.” I sit up. “Wish granted.” He grins, thrilled with himself. I, however, have now totally, utterly, slammed back down to earth, thanks to this reminder that I’m a complete f.g. failure.

“I’m glad things are going well for somebody.”

“Life is a long road, Delaney, and there are many
potholes and speed bumps along the way. What you need to remember is that for every—”

“Okay, okay, I’ll go.” I’ll probably have to choke down a few helpings of “the glass is half full, even if it’s mostly ice cubes” along with the ice cream, but it’s better than lying here mood-swinging all night long.