Who Needs Magic? (9 page)

“What?”

Dad carries the cord over to me. “We already know the genetic makeup in our family has mutated over time. The ability isn’t supposed to pass from a mother to a son, or from a father to a daughter. So maybe it’s morphed into something else. A lesser version.”

I grab the cord out of his hand and yank the tangles apart. “I am not a mutant
or
a morph. And I am
not
‘lesser.’ ”

“That was the wrong word. I don’t mean lesser in the sense of inferior.”

“Really? Because if I looked ‘lesser’ up in the dictionary, I’m pretty sure that would be the definition.” The cord practically unwinds by itself, like it’s afraid of me, which it should be, because I am
pissed
.

“Your powers may not be as strong in some areas, but you’ll make up for it in other ways.”

“What ways?” I slam the plug end of the light at the socket end of the extension cord, but it won’t go in. When Dad tries to take it out of my hands, I spin away from him.

“Well … we’ll have to see.”

I give up on the stupid lights and throw both cords onto the grass. “I’ve already had my identity messed with enough in one year. I really don’t need this existential torture.” I put my hands on my hips and face Dad. “I
am
an f.g.” I’m vaguely aware that I’ve assumed a superhero pose. I can see why they stand this way. It gives you confidence.

Dad picks up the cords and attaches them. “What we should do is get together as a group.”

“Why? So you can gang up on me?”

“No. Because you’re right when you say I don’t have all the answers. I was so resentful of inheriting the ability myself, I barely asked my mom anything. By the time I was curious, it was too late.” He carries the plug end of the extension cord over to the outdoor outlet. “Wouldn’t it be great to meet and trade information?”

I picture sitting across from Ariella and her mother and her grandmother at a big conference table, like in the movies when lawyers meet. The three supreme f.g.s smile their snide superior smiles at me while Dad types away on his laptop, taking down their testimony—which details the many reasons why he and I are an inferior breed.

No, thank you.

“Oh, yeah. Great. But, um, unfortunately, they’re going away for the summer,” I lie. “Starting tomorrow. One of those RV ‘let’s visit every state park in the Pacific Southwest’ trips. Maybe when they come back, though.” If Dad asks again in the fall, I’ll say Ariella’s father was transferred somewhere far away, like Budapest, and then I’ll be safe until Dad gets an international book tour that includes Eastern Europe, which will hopefully be never.

Dad pauses before he plugs in the cord and glances over at me. I can tell from his expression that he thinks there’s something I’m not telling him, when the truth is I’ve told him too much. I should’ve kept this all to myself.

That’s been my mistake—asking for advice, begging for reassurance. All that does is let people see your doubts. It allows them to think you’re weak.

I don’t need any help. Help gets in the way. I’m on my own here. Like always.

The lights blink to life, shining together for a moment, illuminating my perfect design of spirals and loops and waves. Then they begin to twinkle, like little Tinker Bells, mocking me. I don’t care what Ariella thinks, or Dad. I
will
find a client. I
will
grant the big wish. I’m so sure of it, it’s like it’s already happened.

I’m going to show them all.

Later that night, Flynn calls, like he said he would, and tells me all about the lighthouse and the disgusting dead marine life inside it. I lean back on my bed and listen, relieved not to be discussing me and my inadequacies after a whole evening of it.

But then Flynn runs out of things to say about barnacles and algae and rusted treasure, and he asks me what I did while he was out snapping photos of architectural debris.

And there it is, the opening I need to tell it all to someone who is on my side. But I can’t start with Ariella’s claim that I’m a non-f.g. I’d have to go back further, to before meeting Ariella even. I’d have to tell Flynn that I haven’t had a client since I granted his wish.

On the Night of the First Kiss, after I told Flynn that I
was an f.g. and showed him some small wishes, he was so amazed. I explained that we only get one client at a time, and when he kept asking if I had a new one yet, I finally said I couldn’t talk about the big wishes because it was against the rules, that there’s an f.g.-client confidentiality that I can’t betray.

I planned to tell him everything once I’d granted a big wish or two and got my magic up to speed, because then my flawed abilities would be in the past. In the present, I’d be the amazing supernatural creature Flynn believes me to be. But my next client is still stuck in the future. It doesn’t matter that Flynn liked me before he knew I was an f.g. He knows now. Without my powers, I’m no longer amazing. I’m ordinary.

So when Flynn asks what I did tonight, I tell him, “Not much. I helped Dad put up some lights in the backyard.” I can’t see Flynn, but I can sense from his silence that he, like Dad, suspects there’s something I’m not telling him. Luckily, I know better now. I’m keeping my flaws to myself until they’re fixed.

Okay, I’m open. I’m focused. I’m ready.

So where is the client?

I’ve searched and sensed and listened for the
ping
. I’ve even ramped up the small-wish granting—which is a lot easier to do without Ariella watching and judging—but I don’t feel any closer.

I really thought it would happen, that my inner declaration of impending triumph would be the trigger, but it’s been two days and I’m still waiting.

Waiting in a general sense and, at the moment, in a specific sense. Specifically: waiting in the Nutri-Fizzy line.

As much as I don’t like venturing into Wonderland, this part of the mall does offer a constant crush of humanity. And among those hundreds of humans, I have to believe there’s
one
in major need of an f.g. So I’ve spent every break over here, mainly in the snack-food lines, where humanity is particularly crushed. There are lots of opportunities to magically refill napkin dispensers, aid snackers in coming up with correct change, and avert spills—while also trying to tune my f.g. vibe into the big-wish frequency. During my last break, I hit the Ice Cream Cottage, the Pretzel Palace and the Cinnamon Bun Barn. Most of the time I don’t buy anything, but today, out of desperation, I ordered and devoured a double caramel sundae, a chocolate-covered pretzel and an extra-large pecan roll. I wanted to see if a literal sugar rush would jump-start my client-perception powers, but it’s not working, and the need to find the big wish is inching beyond urgent now, edging toward panic. I know that sounds extreme when it’s only been two additional days after three whole months of nothing, but the nothing has built to a critical mass, thanks to Ariella. Meanwhile, the snacks have all sunk to the bottom of my stomach in a big, fatty, sugary lump.

So here I am at the Nutri-Fizzy Bar in the hopes that something carbonated will dissolve that lump. I’ve spent half of this break in line, but at least I’m inside the store now, and there’s actually a fizziness to the air in here, which perks me up a little. I step onto the mosaic that
covers most of the floor: blue and white glass tiles illustrating a giant tumbler, asterisks of popping bubbles exploding all around it.

I scope out the Fizzy fans eagerly awaiting their Fizzy fix. Ahead of me are three women in classy waiter wear—skinny black pants, white shirts, skinny black ties, hair back in ponytails—and a heavy man with a shaved head in hospital greens talking on his phone. Behind me is a tall guy around my age, shifting his shoulders to whatever’s playing on his iPod and rocking back on the heels of his brand-new unlaced high-tops, and two women in business suits talking office gossip. Farther back, just outside the entrance, there’s somebody texting, somebody reading a magazine, somebody counting their change. Nobody sending any big wishes my way.

I’m starting to suspect there’s something more to it than numbers, that there’s some element I’m missing. But for now, speed-granting is the only strategy I have.

What if it’s not that I need to do more small wishes, though? What if it’s that I’ll never be able to do enough? I’m scared that my client, the one I’m supposed to help next, is actually in Minnesota. Or India. Dad says there are big wishes everywhere and we just have to pick up on them, but what if the frequency I can read is only in a few people in the world? As I move up in line, the conversations of the other customers blend with the Nutri-Fizzy orders, which are like a rhythmic backbeat: “I’ll have a large star fruit with lime and mint, extra fizzy.” “Small triple
berry with agave and vitamin D boost.” “The antioxidant special, hold the banana.”

I wish I could order up a client like that: One extra-large wish, please. Light on the resistance. With a double magic boost. Too bad that’s not on the menu.

My phone goes off inside my purse. Not the “you’ve got a text” chime, but the full-blown crashing-cymbals ring tone. The doctor/​nurse/​orderly/​radiology technician/​whatever guy in front of me glares over his shoulder, like he has any right to be annoyed when he’s been on his phone the whole time he’s been in line. His might be a medical-related life-or-death call, but then why is he wasting three hours waiting in line to order carbonated water when he could just stick a dollar in the hospital vending machine?

I check the phone. Ariella. Again. I punch the Ignore button, cutting off the animated fireworks mid-spark.

She’s texted me about eight hundred times and left about twenty voice mails. I’ve stopped reading or listening to any of them after the first message, which was mostly suggestions of dietary changes that might improve my small-wish-granting skills: “You’re probably low on iron, Delaney, so I’d recommend more leafy greens. And you should cut back on caffeine.” No apology. No “I was being a jerk—of course you’re a real f.g.” In fact, she made a point to emphasize
small
in “small-wish-granting.” Her tone was totally friendly, but I know she only wants to be friends so she can feel superior. Dream on, Peppermint Stick Girl. It’s not happening.

I’ve made it to the popping bubbles at the top of the mosaic, and the spicy citrus scents of the drinks grow sharper. I get an extra-strong whiff of something that smells like a cross between pineapple and damp soil, and my stomach clenches and then flops. Just as I was feeling better. I wonder if the pecan roll gave me food poisoning. I hope I can make it to the counter without passing out, because I’m feeling light-headed too. Suddenly an intense, pained yearning joins the woozy seasickness. It’s not a yearning for the watermelon parsley special with the zinc infusion, though.…

Oh my God. This isn’t food poisoning. Wow. I forgot how physically unpleasant it is. But who cares? It’s happened!
Finally
.

I peer around again at the customers in line. No one looks lovestruck or lovelorn. Please don’t tell me that after all this searching and waiting, my next client has already gotten his or her Fizzy potion and left.

Wait. I still feel it. It’s coming from in front of me. The last two of the three waitresses are giving their orders now, but I don’t think it’s either of them, and I hope it’s not Hospital Greens Guy. It’s not. He’s too close to me. The vibe is coming from slightly farther away, which means it’s got to be one of the “Fizz Masters.” There are two girls taking orders and a guy filling them. The guy could be in love with one of the girls, or one of the girls could be in love with him. I remember Cadie and realize that one of
the girls might be in love with the other. After handing an order to a customer, the guy says something to the girl on his left, a pixie-faced redhead with glassy gold nail extensions. Pixie laughs, but it’s too light and easy.

There’s a sadness in the wish I’m feeling. Hopelessness. The girl on the right, closer to me, whose name tag reads “Jeni,” isn’t looking longingly at anybody, but that’s because she barely lifts her eyes from the ground, even when she’s talking to a customer. Her voice is so soft I can barely hear it, and I’m only two customers back. She’s short, a little heavy. Her skin is the color of a fading tan. Her hair is a dull brown, pulled back in a plain ponytail. “Plain” is the word for her all around. No makeup, no color, no style.

Cinderella before the ball. It has to be her. It’s beyond perfect. She
needs
a fairy godmother. This is going to be a snap.

The guy in the hospital greens steps up to Jeni to order. “Medium pecan nectarine with a ginseng shot.”

The waitresses have stepped aside to wait for their drinks, and Pixie calls, “Next!”

I need to make sure I get Jeni and not the other girl. “Go ahead,” I tell the bopping high-tops guy behind me. “I haven’t decided yet.”

He thanks me and smiles like I’ve made his week and I wonder if that counts as a small wish. It should. As he slips around me, over to Pixie, I feel another tidal wave of f.g. longing roll over me, coming straight from Cinder-Jeni.