Who Needs Magic? (19 page)

“Gee, I hope the wish doesn’t take more than two seconds. Wouldn’t want your client’s longing for happiness to keep you from the baboons.”

Dad wraps the sandwiches up in parchment, carefully folding each end like it was advanced origami. “You know, Delaney, you’re lucky you don’t have a client yet. This way you can enjoy your summer and just have fun.”

Ugh! He is so clueless about my life!

His cell rings, thankfully ending the conversation.
“No, Bob. I’m on my way now,” he says, in the irritated “I have better things to do” voice he uses now for his clients, when he’s not using it on me. “No, that’s not going to work. Because I have plans today.”

He’s as bad as Ariella. They both abuse their powers because they want to get the wish over with. I may have crashed and burned, but at least I made an effort. Lots of efforts. It was Jeni who was the problem. It’s not my fault she rejected her own happily-ever-after.…

Or is it?

Haven’t I been doing the same thing as Dad and Ariella? Sure, I worked hard, but I was focusing only on the end result: Jeni + Ronald. But my job isn’t to get Cinderella the prince, it’s to convince Cinderella that she
deserves
the prince. And that takes more than just telling her over and over.

Once again Dad is the model for what
not
to do. So I guess he is helping me after all.

While Dad continues to bully his client, I carry my bowl to the sink. There’s only milk left in it, dyed a disturbing shade of “Ariella pink.” I tip the bowl and pour it out. Now that I know what I’m doing, Ariella’s chances of winning this war are just like this milk: swirling down the drain.

I set the plate of berry-banana mini-muffins in front of Jeni and sit down across from her. “I’d like to thank you again for coming,” I tell her.

After breakfast I texted Jeni and told her that we had to meet to formalize the severing of our bond—and that I’d lied about the bond-severance thing being a lie.

Jeni shifts her eyes back and forth between me and the muffins.

“Go ahead. Have one.”

She picks one up and takes a tentative bite. She chews tensely, as if she’s waiting for the poison to kick in. Is that what she thinks I’m planning? To sever the bond by killing her?

I grab one of the muffins and take a big bite to prove they’re harmless. “See?” I say after I’ve swallowed. “Just fruit and nuts.”

She has the morning off, so I suggested we meet at this bakery. I come here with Dad sometimes. The first time was when I proved to him that I shared his powers and that he was wrong about me not inheriting them. I always feel empowered here as a result, and it seemed a good place to embark on the Jeni Empowerment Plan as well.

“So, like I explained, we have to go through some steps to make it official, or else we’ll be psychically chained together for eternity.” Jeni chokes as some muffin crumbs go down the wrong way. I lean over and pat her back while she coughs to clear her throat. “And we don’t want that to happen,” I say, using my doom-laden voice. “Do we?”

“Um … no?”

“Correct. According to the f.g. bylaws, which were originally written in the twelfth century” (and which I
have completely made up), “in a land now known as Denmark, in order for us to break our connection, I must help you in some other way, and leave you happier about yourself and your life than when we met. Only then can I move on to the next client, and you to your new destiny.”

Jeni takes another tiny careful bite of muffin and chews. “You swear you’re not going to trick me into running into Ronald?”

“I swear.”

“Or vice versa?”

“This has nothing to do with him.” For now, anyway.

“You won’t try to talk me into it later?”

“I will never again mention his name—unless you do it first.”

“I
won’t
.”

“Okay, then. We’re on the same page—of a different fairy tale. In this one, the peasant girl finds her inner princess—and who cares about the prince?”

Jeni nods. “Okay.”

“Okay. So. What are some things about you or your life that you wish were different?”

“Um … nothing?”

Oh Lord, it’s like we’ve gone backward, to the first day.

Although … on that first day, she had a wish …

I spin my fork in the air. Jeni blinks. She knows something has changed.

“Check out your ponytail,” I tell her.

She pulls the ends of her hair over her shoulder and gasps, stunned to see her brown hair streaked with strands of honey blond. “Highlights,” she sighs happily. And then I know exactly what I need to do.

“Thank you.” Jeni stands up, ready to go.

I hop up next to her and grab her arm. “Oh, we’re not finished. Not nearly.”

Jeni frowns as she holds the pale blue tie-dyed sundress in front of her.

“I don’t think it … My legs are … I’m too short … There aren’t any sleeves, so my arms …”

“Just try it on,” I tell her. “It’s a dress, not a tattoo. It can come off.”

I swallow my frustration, because this is the new Delaney Collins, f.g., the patient, caring, mindful one. Jeni seemed almost eager when I offered to help her find some prettier clothes at Treasures, but every skirt, dress or tunic I hand to her is greeted with the same fear and panic that she showed with Ronald.

“Why do I have to try anything on, when you can just … wave the wand?”

“I told you, magic is temporary. I’m trying to give you some long-term life skills here.”

“You did
this
.” She strokes a strand of her highlighted hair.

“That was to make a point. You could do it yourself
with a box from the drugstore. We’re here so I can show you how to do it all yourself, without me. I’ll be gone, remember, on to the next client.”

Jeni holds up the dress again. “I just think this is too …”

I take the dress from her hand. “Okay. Let’s start over. Why don’t
you
pick out some outfits you think you might like and try them on?” I point to the curtained corner where she can change. Even if what she chooses is
bleah
and/or
blech
, at least it’ll get her out of the metaphorical potato sack she’s wearing. Metaphorical
and
literal: oversized khakis; ugly, faded boy’s T-shirt—and those awful clunky shoes. Once she’s “off with the old,” it’ll be easier to get her “on with the new.” Even if the “new” is vintage. “I’ll be right back,” I tell her. It’s obvious I’m going to need more than clothes and accessories to lure Jeni out of her comfortable nest of dullness. I need
mood
.

In the main part of the store, Nancy is showing a young couple an armoire with rusty hinges. She doesn’t seem to notice as I haul dusty floor lamps and tarnished mirrors to the vintage room and then return for more. On a bookshelf near the front door, I spot an old portable radio. Perfect—except when I snap open the back, it’s empty. Nancy’s now swiping the couple’s credit card, and I see that the armoire has a big
SOLD
tag taped to it. I wait for the couple to finish paying and leave, and then I take the radio up to the counter.

“Do you have any batteries?” I ask Nancy. “I need two Cs.”

Nancy files away the credit card receipt. I see enough of it to know she’s made her big sale of the week. “I’m not paying you to play dress-up with your friends, Delaney.”

“Jeni’s a customer.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And I’m making her a pair of boots.” As soon as I say this, I realize I mean it.

Nancy smiles. “Boots” was the magic word. She reaches under the counter, retrieves a flashlight and unscrews the top. “Not too loud, all right? And nothing too
noisy
.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I’ll let you know.” She drops the flashlight batteries into my hand.

Back in the vintage room, Jeni’s standing in front of one of the mirrors, looking worried and lost. I’m not surprised she’s so upset, because she’s wearing a shapeless shift dress that is (1) ankle-length, (2) high-necked and (3) the color of baby puke.

“I’m ugly.” Jeni’s mouth curves down into a little-kid pout.

I load the batteries into the radio and turn it on. “No. It’s the dress that’s—” I stop myself, because she
did
pick it out and I don’t want to insult her taste, even if she has none; that would probably put a dent in the Jeni Empowerment Plan. I spin the dial on the radio, but it’s all New
Age jazz stations and soft rock. I settle on a techno-pop station because at least the songs have a beat. “That dress is the wrong color for you, that’s all,” I say finally. “Pale green works better against really dark brown skin or fair, pinky skin. You need warmer colors.” I sort through some scarves and find the one I’m looking for. It’s a jungle design of gold and orange. I drape it around Jeni’s shoulders. “There. Much better.” Jeni touches the ends lightly with her fingers, as if testing to see if it’s real. “Let’s get a better view.” I use chairs to prop up two mirrors at opposing angles to a third, to form a three-way. I grab a pair of cowboy boots off the shelf. They’re a faded rust color, with spirals stitched into them. “Try these.” Jeni slips them on. I was prepared to use magic to make them fit, but I don’t have to. They’re exactly the right size. “See? Don’t you think you look pretty?” Jeni blushes and her gaze drops. “Where’s that inner princess we were talking about at breakfast?” Jeni doesn’t answer. She just shakes her head. “Yeah, okay,” I say. “That’s what we have to work on. Not your wardrobe—your
attitude
.” I put my hands on Jeni’s shoulders and press them back, prompting her to look up and into the mirror. “You. Are. Pretty.”

“Nooooo.” She looks away.

“Okay, why not? What’s wrong with you?”

“Everything. My hair … even with highlights, it’s …”

“Do
not
say ugly.”

“But …”

“It’s
hair
, Jeni. It’s a bunch of dead cells. If you do
something with it, it’ll look good. Highlights are a start, but they’re not the finish.” With one hand, I sweep her hair up behind her head in a twist and use the other hand to pull a few strands free. It softens her whole look, making her dark eyes bigger and brighter, giving her a sophistication that surprises even me.

Jeni is awed. “How did you do that?”

“Did it look easy?”

“Yes.”

“It
was
.” I let her hair fall. “You don’t need magic. You just need to take charge.”

“I’d ditch the dress, though. It looks like she’s been dipped in baby puke.” Lourdes stands in the entranceway, dressed in another warrior-wear outfit: a dark, sleeveless denim shirtdress with frayed edges, three thick black leather belts with animal faces engraved on them, and muddy, scuffed-up red moccasins. “So what are we doing here? Makeover?”

“Delaney’s my—”

“Friend,”
I say, cutting Jeni off and shooting her a “Do
not
say anything about me being an f.g., because this is proprietary information” look. It’s a lot to convey in a glance, though, and Jeni stares back at me, utterly confused, but at least she doesn’t say anything.

“It’s not a makeover,” I say. “ ‘Makeover’ implies that there’s something wrong with the person. It’s an enhancement.”

Lourdes considers this. “I like it. Everybody’s got their
own style, right? Look at me.” She waves a hand over her outfit, then flings her arm my way. “Look at
you
.” What’s that supposed to mean? “Still, you have to admit, the dress has to go,” she says. “That sack wouldn’t look good on a supermodel.”

Jeni pouts. I’d been momentarily happy to see Lourdes, but that moment is gone. “Why don’t we pick out some things together,” I tell Jeni. “And Lourdes can belt shop or whatever she’s here for.”

“No way,” Lourdes says. “I want in on the makeover. I mean ‘enhancement.’ ” She picks up one of the lamps. “What’s with these? Why don’t you plug them in? Toss some scarves over them, create a mood.” She does exactly this as she’s talking and soon the room has taken on an amber glow.

“Oooo,” Jeni murmurs under her breath.

“I was just about to do that,” I tell Jeni. “That’s why I brought them back—”

“And what’s with the music?” Lourdes crouches down, spins the radio dial and tunes in a hip-hop station. She cranks up the volume, making the floor vibrate and the belts on the walls shake. “Now that’s—”