Who Needs Magic? (30 page)

The red thing is a long metal rod. There are five of them, one straight, the other four curved and linked by cobwebs. There are indentations where they fit together
and holes where screws would go. I shove another bin out of the way and notice a thick clear plastic bag, with a coil of rope inside, the color of straw, and a large piece of canvas, denim blue, faded from where the sun filtered in from the garage window.

It’s a puzzle, but the pieces all come together in my head, like the answer to a test question on spatial thinking.

Is that a … It
is
. It’s a swing set. But why does Dad have a swing set …?

I figure it out before I finish asking myself the question, because “Duh, Delaney. Why do you think?” Because he had a daughter. She was on the other side of the country and he hardly ever saw her, but he wanted to see her. He wanted her to visit, and if she ever did, he’d have her bedroom all Disneyfied for her and he’d have a swing set out back. Just in case she came.

We
weren’t
alone. The world was right outside the door, but Mom kept the door closed, and locked, and I did the same thing, believing she was right.

Sounds of the night I didn’t notice before filter in: crickets, a cat meowing somewhere, the rustle of a faint breeze through the palms in the yard of the house behind us. I’m not alone now either. The world is all around me. People leave, but there are always more coming. The catch is that you have to open the door to let them in.

Oh God. Now
I’m
starting to sound like Dr. Hank. I guess I can’t avoid it. I
am
his daughter.

I wade back through the boxes to the front of the
garage. I pick up the lamp but leave everything else, and then I flip off the light. The garage door creaks as I pull it shut, the shadows lengthening and covering the boxes and their contents like a blanket, where they’ll be safe until Dad and I can return and unpack everything together.

I can’t believe I’m sitting outside in the sun willingly. But here I am, leaning over the picnic table, sketching as the morning sun rises up from behind the bougainvillea-covered wall at the back of the yard.

The sketch I’m doing isn’t boots. It’s a plan for a space. It’s what the garage will look like after I’ve turned it into a studio. My Treasures job is only for the summer and it’s not like I’ve gotten much accomplished there anyway, boot-wise. So I’m going to concentrate on leaving Nancy the best vintage clothing room possible before the job ends, and bring all my boot-making tools and supplies home. If
I work hard, next year I won’t need a summer job, because I’ll have a business.

Dad and I haven’t gone through the boxes in the garage yet, but we’re going to start next weekend. At breakfast, we talked about the stuff still in storage in New Jersey: the furniture and the rest of Mom’s things. Before I even finished my second Pop-Tart, Dad had booted up his laptop and bought tickets for us to go to New Jersey the week of Labor Day.

At first I’d felt that sense of slasher-movie foreboding that had come when I opened the garage door. But it didn’t take me as long this time to remind myself that I wasn’t going alone. Dad would be with me. And Posh would be there waiting.

“Oh my God, Delaney! Oh my God!” Posh squealed into the phone when I called her. “I can’t wait! I’ve missed you so much!” It’ll be weird to see her again after so much has changed in my life, and in hers. But after everything that’s happened this summer, I can handle weird. Weird will be a relief.

A breeze rustles through the bougainvillea. In the distance, the floppy mop tops of several gawky palm trees sway on their spindly necks. That would be a great design for a pair of boots. A skinny palm tree carved along each calf, with the palm fronds reaching out toward the front and the back. I could also create a series of boots decorated with bougainvillea vines: one pair for each color of leaf
blooms—fuchsia, lavender, orange, pale pink and lipstick red like the one in our yard. A whole California collection.

I flip the page in my sketchbook. There’s no way I’m letting a single moment of inspiration get away anymore.

“Delaney!” Dad calls from the back door.

“I’m not hungry! I’ll get lunch later.”

“There’s somebody at the door for you.”

My first thought is Flynn. My second thought is that no way is it Flynn. He would’ve called first, and even a call is too much to hope for.

“Actually, it’s two people.”

Two
people?

“Hello,” Ariella says while glaring at me from the doorstep, her voice so frosty with hostility that I expect ice crystals to form in the space between us.

“Hello,” I say back, trying extremely hard to make my voice even icier.

Behind Ariella is an older woman, who rolls her eyes at our hello-off. “Introduce us, please, Ariella.” The woman has a French accent, which should spark a horrifying flashback to the evil Madame Kessler, my French teacher at Allegro High, but unlike Madame K, who bites down on every word like she wants to decapitate it, this woman speaks as if the words are flowing through thick maple syrup.

“Delaney, this is my grandmother,” Ariella mumbles. “Grandma, this is Delaney Collins.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, young lady.” She doesn’t have Madame K’s troll face either. Ariella’s grandmother has soft, bronzy skin, and her wrinkles are the kind that come from crinkly smiling eyes, not scowls. Her hair is pinned up in a French twist and she wears a long, cap-sleeved sundress with blooming lilies printed on it. “I have spoken with your father and he has given me permission to steal you away for a small time.”

I glance back at Dad, who is standing behind me in the foyer. He’s got one of his Dr.-Hank-knows-best looks on his face, so there’s no way I’m getting out of this. I follow Ariella and her grandmother down to the street.

Ariella’s grandmother’s car is another old-fashioned one, but it’s not stretched out and sharp-edged like her mom’s. This car is all curves and bright stainless-steel accents on its polished chocolate-brown surface. At first it looks like there’s only a front seat, and I cringe, because I really don’t want to be squeezed up against Ariella Patterson, even for a “small time.” But then Ariella leans in and pulls up on a handle I didn’t initially notice, revealing the backseat.

“Both of you in the back,” her grandmother orders.

As we buckle up, I notice there’s something different about Ariella, but I’m not sure what. Pink headband, pink polka-dotted top, lacy pink skirt, iridescent pink flip-flops—it’s all there … except … “Where’s your peppermint stick?”

Ariella shrugs.

“Lime stick? Orange? Pineapple-coconut?”

“They don’t taste the same without the magic.”

Her grandmother starts the car and pulls out. “Where are we going?” I ask her.

“Where do you think?” Ariella’s grandmother replies. “We are going to the mall.”

Ariella’s grandmother has one hand clamped down on my left shoulder and the other on Ariella’s right as she guides us into Wonderland.

“You two are not finished,” she had told us in the car. “A fairy godmother does not abandon a beneficiary.”

A few shreds of yesterday’s disaster are still around: tiny scorched squares of mini-lawn have been fenced off with string tied to orange flags, to protect the freshly seeded sod inside, and the Tinkertoy rods that held the tarp are stacked in a neat pile, ready to be carried away.

As Ariella’s grandmother steers us around vendor carts, shoppers look on, curious as to why Ariella and I are wincing underneath the apparently affectionate semi-embrace of this pretty older lady. That’s because they can’t see the fingernails digging in. We near the fountain, which is playing a happy, everything-will-be-fine song. It’s like the fountain’s playlist has been programmed for the greatest possible ironic counterpoint to whatever is going on in my life. Eerie, really.

“Who is first?” Ariella’s grandmother asks.

“Her.”
Ariella points at me. “We’re closer to her
beneficiary.” Ariella swings her arm from me to the endless Nutri-Fizzy line.

For once, I’m relieved the line is so long. I’ll have time to psych myself up.

“Well, we are
not
waiting in that line.” Ariella’s grandmother prods us forward. So much for that hope. We’ve reached the entrance and Ariella’s grandmother has just uttered a commanding
“Pardon”
to the people at the front of the line, when the Nutri-Fizzy door bursts open and Jeni comes running out, arms wide.

“Delaney!” She grabs me in a bear hug. Ariella’s grandmother lets go of my shoulder and the blood flows back into where it had been cut off, but my lungs are now being crushed by Jeni. I get it—she’s going to squeeze me to death, like a boa constrictor.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out.

Jeni lets me go. “About what?” She looks genuinely confused by the question.

“Um, well, for ruining your song with Ronald and nearly setting you on fire.”

“Oh, that.” Jeni waves this away as if I’d accidentally bumped into her and not humiliated her in public while almost killing her.

“And for being wrong from the start about Ronald … he’s not your Prince Charming.”

I tense up for the scream, the cry of agony, the angry shove that will send me crashing backward into Ariella and her grandmother. None of these things happens.

“I already know that,” she says, looking at me like I’m five steps behind in the conversation. It feels more like ten. She already knows …?

“Hey, J.J.” Kevin strolls up behind me, backpack slung over his Nutri-Fizzy uniform.

“Hey.” Jeni smiles shyly. I watch as he walks right up to her and kisses her. No hesitation. Just leans in and kisses her right on the lips. And she’s not surprised. “Can you cover for me for a minute?” she asks him when the kiss has ended.

“You bet. Take your time.” He winks at her, grins at me and strolls off toward the entrance.

Ariella’s grandmother whispers something to Ariella. Ariella shrugs and throws her hands up in the air. Her grandmother leads her away a few feet, leaving me alone with Jeni.

“When did
this
happen?” I ask Jeni.

“Yesterday.” Her eyes mist up in an ecstatic memory of I don’t want to know what. Although I kind of do.

“Yesterday?”

“Well, before, actually. The night before. Remember, I told you we went out to karaoke again? Kevin drove me home and there was something, well … I’d been thinking about him for a while. He’s so nice and we talk all the time and it’s so easy, and he makes me laugh. We were in the car, and I felt like maybe we were going to kiss, that he wanted to, and I did too. But then I thought about Ronald, and I was worried that if he liked me now, I’d hurt his
feelings, and I was confused. That’s what I was trying to tell you, before the concert.”

“So you don’t like Ronald?”

“Of course I like him! He’s nice and a great singer and I like his songs. But I don’t
like
him.”

“But your wish—”

“It never seemed believable, the way it does with Kevin. Kevin’s my real wish. Can’t you feel it?”

I try, then shake my head. “My powers are gone. Which is for the best, I guess, since I’m a crappy f.g., obviously.”

“But it’s because of you that I got my real wish! Yesterday, after everything happened, Kevin was so nice, cheering me up, and so I told him. I told him I liked him. And then he said he liked me too! And then, well …” She giggles and her gaze drops, like it used to, but not in the same way. It’s coy, self-aware, no longer the action of somebody who’s trying to disappear. She raises her eyes again and meets mine. “I never would’ve talked to him in the first place if not for you, Delaney. I wouldn’t have all the friends I have now. I’d still be afraid to try new things, new clothes, believe in myself. You’re a great fairy godmother. The best one I could have asked for.” She hugs me again. “I better go. Kevin’s waiting. Will you be okay?”

“Uh, sure. Don’t worry about me,” I tell her. She smiles and runs back to work, to her boyfriend, to the happily-ever-after I never could have predicted.

“Well, that was … unusual.” I turn to see Ariella’s
grandmother right behind me, with Ariella glowering next to her. “You are very lucky it worked out this way, young lady. You understand that?”