Who Needs Magic? (26 page)

“I
told
you, Ronald—”

“Forget about him,” Flynn says, his voice now sad, no longer angry. “It’s not about him anymore. It’s about you, telling me nothing about what’s going on in your life.”

“That’s because you’re working all the time. You’re the one not sharing. You’re the one who stood me up to photograph a dead lighthouse.”

“That was over a month ago! You’ve been standing me up all summer. Metaphorically.” Flynn leans back in his seat, impressed with himself at his clever phrasing—although it sounds more like something I’d say, which means he’s stolen yet another line from me, even if I never said it or thought it.

“There were reasons,” I tell him.

“Oh, yeah? What were they?”

Flynn’s eyes are in shadow, but I can feel the intensity of his gaze, almost as if he’s the one who has the supernatural powers.

He definitely has the power to cloud my mind, because now I can’t remember the reasons. I know they were good ones—reasons that felt smart and right at the time. Something
about not wanting him to look down on me? That can’t be it, because how could his opinion of me be any lower than it is now?

“Can we go back and start over?” I ask.

“Not unless you have some way of erasing our memories too.” He must think I’m considering it, and maybe I am, a little, because he quickly says, “I’m
not
wishing it.” He sighs. “Why don’t we talk in like a month,” he says.

“A
month
?”

“Yeah. School will be starting again, and we’ll have to see each other then anyway. This way we’ll have lots of time to think about things.”

Things? What things? Another stab of dread hits me, this one less a slam than a creeping, gnawing fear.

I know what he really means. He wants to begin the process of de-needing
me
. And by the time school starts, the process will be complete.

“Okay?” Flynn asks.

Not okay. Not. Okay.

But for some reason, I’m not able to speak. Thoughts come to me, but they’re replays of everything I’ve already said. I have no new argument. No defense. And because of the whole unfair time-travel impossibility problem, no idea of how to go back and prevent the decision that I know he’s already made.

“Good night, Delaney.”

I unlock the seat belt, but it’s become an extremely complicated maneuver for some reason. It takes like three
hours for me to even find the button to push. I see my hand reach for the door handle and I hear myself say, “Good night.” But what I see is through a fog, what I hear is through a haze. When I step inside the house, the muffled rumble of Flynn’s car pulling away is joined by a high-pitched sound. An unnatural sound. A sound that pierces my aural haze and restores my hearing to normal, but which makes the horror of this night even more horrible.

It’s a … giggle. Make that multiple giggles.
Giggling
. It’s coming from the living room and it’s followed by murmurs and the rustle of shifting bodies.

“Delaney?” Dad calls. “You can come in, honey.”

How thoughtful. They’ve forced themselves to pause their—ugh, gross, I don’t want to think about it, but how can I help it?—make-out session, so that I can enter and be witness to their romantic bliss.

It’s as bad as I pictured. Worse. Dad and Gina sit on the couch, hip to hip. Gina tugs on her skirt and smoothes the surface. I noticed Dad’s hair is all messed up on one side. Their faces are glowing and it’s not from the lamp on the end table. It’s that fireworks-inside glow that I will never experience again.

“How was your date?”

How can he even ask me that? How can he throw his happiness in my face and then mock my misery with his cheerful clichéd question?

“Delaney?”

“You two are
disgusting
.” I rocket down the hall at
twice the speed of light, propelled by a fuel of rage and despair—which, if I could harness it, would eliminate the need for pollution-causing energy sources and solve global warming. The sound of my door slamming catches up to me only after I am already on the bed, facedown, screaming into the lace bedspread. My mattress vibrates as it struggles to absorb the eardrum-shattering and earth-shattering decibels.

The doorknob rattles. “
Delaney
. You come out here and apologize.”

I try to summon up another scream, but apparently I’ve depleted my scream stores. I stay facedown, gulping at the tiny bursts of air that I can breathe in through the layers of bedding.

I hear Gina and Dad murmuring and then Gina speaks. “Delaney? Is everything okay?”

I contemplate self-suffocation, but my lungs rebel and I flip over onto my back, gasping for breath.

Another knock, this one just a light tap. “I’m going to take Gina home. I won’t be long.”

More murmuring as their footsteps recede, and a few moments later, the front door clicks closed. Outside, the car engine starts, and then that sound too fades away.

I open my eyes and gaze at Mom’s earrings dangling overhead from the lace canopy eyelets. I don’t have any lights on in the room, so I can barely see them. Occasionally a bead catches the wink of the lights in the yard and twinkles.

I roll to one side. On the windowsill sit the gifts that Flynn bought me at the Bazaar, the nonedible ones: the pink whistle, the
DELIA
license plate, the keychain with the boots. Below, on top of the bookshelf, is Rufus, the blue stuffed dog from the carnival I went to with Flynn. He rescued it after I threw it away. The gifts remind me of the kinds of things I find at the bottom of the boxes that Nancy brings into the store. Random worthless items that you can’t believe anybody would buy or keep.

Now I understand. It’s not the object, it’s what it means. It’s not the gift, it’s the giver. Once the giver and meaning are gone, then, like a spell broken, it all turns back into junk.

I lower my gaze to the dolls. I meet their eyes, but these dolls aren’t like the one in the photo at the gallery. They’re lifeless. They have no message for me.

My cell rings. Oh God, oh God. Please, please, please. Flynn, Flynn, Flynn.

Jeni. Because when, ever, has a call been from the person I expected or wanted it to be from?

“You’re too late,” I tell her.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?”

“What? No. I’m talking about my voice-mail message.”

“Did you call me? I missed it. I was at karaoke with Kevin and everybody.”

“Good idea. Practicing. How did it go?” I’m not really interested, but it’s surprisingly easy to fake it. Maybe the scream drained all emotion from me, permanently. I’m now
an automaton. This is way better than self-suffocation. There’s no physical discomfort.

“Fine,” Jeni says. “But, you know, I’m not sure anymore about tomorrow—”

“Stop.”
Okay, so I guess there
is
some emotion left. “Listen to me, Jeni. This is last-minute jitters. That’s all.”

“Maybe, but—”

“No maybe. Your destiny’s in motion—you committed to it, remember? You don’t have a choice anymore.”

“I don’t?”

“No. Now say it.”

“Um, I’m going to sing tomorrow?”

“Not that.
You know
.”

“Uh … right. Ronald and I are meant to be.”

“Good. If you feel nervous again, just repeat those words. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The war isn’t over. Ariella might have ruined my life, but there’s still time to ruin hers.

I pace back and forth between the paper towel dispenser and the door. Jeni should be here by now. She knew we were meeting in the Bazaar’s ladies’ room, but she’s already two minutes late. No—make that three.

I’d faked sleep when Dad got back from taking Gina home, even though I was so awake, it was like I’d had five double chais. I stayed up until dawn, making sketches. The ideas were finally coming.

Boots with spikes. Boots with metal toes filed to a point. Boots with broken chain links hanging from them, the links’ edges jagged and sharp.

I don’t think the kids at school are going to like many
of these, but supervillains will love them. And who cares anyway? If people don’t like them, they don’t have to buy them.

In the morning, I wrote Dad a note, apologizing, and explaining that I’d been in a bad mood because I caught my boot on the corner of Flynn’s car door and ripped the leather. Then I snuck out before Dad was up and skated the whole way to the mall on my roller boots. The sky was overcast and misty, as if the dampness of the sea air from last night had followed me home. All summer I’m wishing the sun would take a break for five minutes, please, and then today, the one day I need the light and warmth, it hides behind a huge cloud that’s unrolled across the entire sky, coloring everything a shivery gray.

The trip took almost an hour, but I wasn’t even tired. To be safe, I ordered a triple chai at the coffee place in the Bazaar, to go with the two croissants I bought. While I caffeined and carbed up, I did some Internet searching for other small lethal objects I could attach to my new line of villain boots, until it was time to meet Jeni.

“Delaney?” Jeni peeks her head into the ladies’ room.

“You’re four minutes late!”

Jeni trudges in, slumped and frowning. No surprise why. Her rust-colored halter dress is too loose in the waist, her eye shadow is a hideous orange and clashes with her hot-pink lipstick, and she doesn’t have any mascara on at all. “This is all wrong,” she moans.

“Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.” I pull out my chopstick, but
at that moment, a group of women in shorts, fanny packs and matching green “Sunshine Tours” T-shirts burst in, complaining about the cloudy weather and the lack of celebrity sightings. They separate and disappear into the stalls. I slip the chopstick into my belt to work on Jeni’s hair, which I can do without magic. She’s put it up, but the butterfly clip has slipped to the side, like it’s about to make a break for it, spread its wings and fly away.

“I’ve been saying …
you know
 … all morning,” Jeni whispers. “But it’s not working.”

The green T-shirts emerge from the stalls and fan out to the sinks. Their chatter fades as they toss their towels and exit, leaving Jeni and me alone again.

“You’re here and that means it
is
working,” I tell her. “It’s totally understandable to be nervous, but I can tell that inside you’re ready.”

“I am?”

“Totally and completely,” I say. But I’m not as sure as I sound. Jeni’s hair is better, but the butterfly clip is still lopsided. It’ll be easier to fix everything at once. I tap the chopstick against my teeth, mentally adding up the repairs I need to do. This is going to require some big magic. Bigger than just taking in the waist on the dress and softening Jeni’s makeup.

Ariella is still out there somewhere, plotting, scheming. Gearing up her magic for top performance, which means my magic needs to be even better.

What I have to do is bring about a total physical
metamorphosis. Yes, it will be superficial and temporary, but sometimes that’s called for. Generations of f.g.s have transformed pathetic peasant girls into dazzling royalty, so why have I resisted? It’s what I was born to do.

My arm sweeps through the air as if I’m throwing a dagger, but the chopstick never leaves my hand. The bones from my shoulder to my wrist electrify, a thousand volts of energy zapping up through them. The chopstick flashes like a lightsaber.

Forget trying to be a super f.g.—I’m an f.g. Jedi.

Jeni sees herself in the mirror and lets out a startled cry. Her hands flail around her as if she wants to touch herself to make sure it’s all real but is afraid of what will happen if she does. “This is … This isn’t … It’s … I look …”

“Like a princess.”

“Uh …”

The shiny bronze dress wraps around her body like a second skin, curving up from her ankles to her hips to her chest, showing off cleavage that’s probably never seen the light of day until now. Her hair is swept into a twist that defies gravity, glittery hairclips cascading upward. Her eye makeup is sultry and grown-up; her lips are a glossy cherry red. Her bronze nails match the dress and the dangling ruby earrings match her crimson stilettos. She’s better than a princess. She’s a movie star.

“This seems too … too …”

“It’s what you’ve been asking me to do. Use my magic on you.”

“I wasn’t thinking it’d be so … so
so
.”

“Cinderella never would’ve gotten the prince if she’d shown up to the ball in rags.”

“I wasn’t wearing rags. That dress was from Jean and Jane. Cheyenne helped me pick it out. It cost almost forty dollars.”

“It was off the rack. It wasn’t a dress that would make a prince ask you to dance.”

Jeni’s kohl-lined eyes grow even wider with worry. “I didn’t know there was dancing too.”

“That’s just a metaphor. The point is you’re perfect.
Finally
. Let’s go.”

I take her arm and drag her out of the ladies’ room before she can start in on another hesitation-filled protest. As we wind our way through the Bazaar stalls, heads turn. Snack eaters and knickknack shoppers stare. Jeni is totally out of place among the shorts and tees, a diamond in a pile of plastic beads. I can sense Jeni cringing in embarrassment behind me, but this will be a great story to tell a reporter someday when she and Ronald are famous singers and have luxury dressing rooms wherever they go.

When we get to the Alcove, the sky is still gray, yet even in the hazy light, Jeni’s dress is blinding. There are goose bumps on her arms from the cold or nerves, or both. There are more stares, but I pick up speed, tugging Jeni along. I have to put all my energy into clutching onto her, because I’m feeling shaky suddenly, weak. It must be the
aftereffects of doing so much big magic at once. My body’s not used to it.

A crowd’s already formed. There are people sitting on folding beach chairs and blankets and sprawled out on the grass. Along the periphery it’s standing room only. At the far end of the lawn, a platform’s been erected over the stage, raising it about five feet higher. Huge black speakers are parked at the back of the stage. Their wires snake along the ground and are clamped onto the bottoms of poles that stand at each corner like giant Tinkertoys. A huge white cloth stretches between the poles, forming a cover from the sun, if it ever shows up.