Who Needs Magic? (12 page)

She’s not going to give up, so I try to come up with a good metaphor. “I’m supposed to, like … tutor this girl in, um, math. And she really needs a tutor. Bad. But she’s freaking out about it.”

“Because she doesn’t want one? Or she doesn’t believe she needs one? She thinks it’s an insult? What?”

That’s the question. Why? Why would somebody
not
want an f.g.? “I don’t know.”

Lourdes inspects a long blue-and-white vinyl belt. “Yeah, that’s an easy out.” She drops the belt back in the box. “Put yourself in her place. See the situation from her point of view.” She sits down on the floor cross-legged, facing me. “Imagine you’re this girl. What’ve you got against math tutors?”

I lean back on my heels and think. It doesn’t make sense. I’ve given her written proof that her wish will be granted, that I’m the one who can put her together with what she’s been wishing, dreaming, yearning, pining for. And still … “She’s afraid for some reason.”

“Afraid of what? Math?”

Oh my God. That’s it. It’s not
me
she’s afraid of, it’s getting the wish. “She’s scared because she’s never done it!”

“Wait, how old is she?”

“I don’t know. Sixteen?”

“She can’t be sixteen and never—”

I stand up, excited by the realization. “She’s
imagined
 … adding and subtracting, and calculating the area of a trapezoid, but the reality of it … of having a, uh, pencil, and a piece of paper, and having to actually divide eleven thousand by forty-three—it freaks her out.”

“Like those people who have that test phobia thing?”

“Yeah!” I pace around the room. “What if I back off a beat, give her an opt-out? She might relax enough for me to move in and get her to admit—to herself, and then to me—that this
is
something she wants, and that it’s worth the risk to get.”

“I think this is moving beyond math.” Lourdes gathers up belts. I lean down to help her.

“Exactly. And I would’ve figured it out thirty Nutri-Fizzies ago if Ariella hadn’t gotten me all screwed up.”

“Who’s Ariella?”

“She’s this other, um, math tutor. She’s tutored eighty-two people, but she has no idea what she’s doing.”

“But if she’s taught eighty-two—”

“She’s all about the end result, not the process.”

We carry the belts out to the main room. When we reach the counter, Nancy holds up a finger for us to wait, and turns the page in her book.

“Thank you,” I tell Lourdes.

“Hey, I … I have no idea what I did.”

“You helped me see it.”

“If you say so.”

Nancy lets out a surprised chuckle at whatever she just
read and sets the book down on the counter. She peers over her glasses at the pile of belts and gives me a “good work” smile. I didn’t do much, but I’m not going to tell her that, because this sale should earn me a few more unscheduled breaks, which I am now going to need again. When Nancy gets to the rope belt, I tell her about the dollar deal I made. She gives Lourdes a wry smile. “Why don’t we just throw that one in.”

Lourdes and I exchange a grin. After Lourdes pays, I walk her to the exit and she hands me her phone. “Put your number in. I’ll call you to see how the psycho-tutoring goes. And I mean psycho as in ‘psychology,’ not crazed serial killer.”

“Thanks for clarifying.” I type my cell number in and hand the phone back to her.

“We’ll bitch about boys next time. Maybe you can give me some random advice that’ll make sense to me.”

“I’ll try.”

I stay at the door after she leaves, still smiling at our conversation. Maybe I’m fated to always have the challenging clients. An ordinary f.g. wouldn’t know how to help them. But I know how to think outside the wand.

I’ve been sitting here forever, or at least twenty minutes. The wrought-iron bench has definitely engraved a spiral imprint on my butt by now. I stand up and stretch. The mall is starting to come to life. When I first arrived this morning, the sun was already up and bright, as if it had gotten its wake-up call two hours too soon, but the mall was still empty. A couple of gardeners tended to the tiny pink, white and red flowers planted alongside one skinny patch of mini-lawn, but that was it. Now the store employees are ambling down the curved walkways, sipping their iced coffees and inhaling their last breaths of fresh air until their breaks. Vendors raise the grates on their carts and
snack sellers unlock the doors to their stand-alone shops. The last few drops of dew on the lawn evaporate into the summer air, one by one.

I don’t have to be at Treasures until noon, so I’m determined to wait here until whenever Jeni comes on shift. I do a couple of mini-lunges. All around me, store doors swing open as if they’re synchronized, and here come the nannies and mommies, steering their strollers around the edge of the fountain. As if on cue, the fountain jets, which have been bubbling softly, suddenly shoot up into the air, and a full orchestra intro to some show tune blares from the speakers. I’ve moved on to shoulder stretches when I spot Jeni, already in uniform, walking alone. Her head is down, and she’s several feet back from a couple of other Fizz Masters who fizzily chat, oblivious of their shy mouse of a coworker.

I duck behind one of the skinny trees on the lawn side of the fountain. As soon as Jeni goes inside, I dart over to the sidewalk and then creep closer to the entrance, with its giant bubbly tumbler jutting out from above the door.

The pillar with the Sunglasses Man ad is across from the entrance, a little to the left, and it’s perfect to hide behind. I only have to lean out about an inch to get a clear view of Jeni, but she can’t see me. She’d have to drape herself over the counter and crane her neck to the right. This means she’d have to be looking for me in the first place, which there’s no reason for her to do.

At least, not yet.

Despite having come up with a back-off plan, thanks to Lourdes, I still needed to find a way to let Jeni know I was
willing
to back off.

The idea came to me during a trip with Dad to a craft fair. He’d asked me to help him find a birthday present for Gina. I was initially excited at the possibility of seeing a whole park filled with art, but the first few booths were all sequined scarves and hand-painted plastic animals and lots of sunsets: watercolor, oil, collage, felt. I guess a lot of people out here like to have a picture of the sun on their wall, even though they can just look out the window and see it pretty much every day of the year.

“I think they spelled it wrong on the sign,” I told Dad. “They spelled it ‘C-R-A-F-T’ when it’s really ‘C-R-A-P.’ ”

“Eye of the beholder, honey.”

“Yeah, well, this eye is beholding a lot of junk.”

“Stop complaining and help me find something for Gina.”

As we continued on, the offerings got better: handbags made out of grain sacks, benches made out of scrap metal, and sheets of silk-screened wrapping paper. We passed a booth of photographs that I knew Flynn would love. They were black-and-white exteriors, but sun-free. Instead, the skies were filled with clouds that seemed to pulse and swirl even though the images were still. I was tempted to text Flynn, but if he was nearby, he might offer to join us. Although walking hand in hand with Flynn through an art show, mocking and admiring, is something I’ve been
wanting to do with him since he canceled on me the night of the lighthouse, I knew I still needed to wait a little longer, until the Jeni situation was situated. Self-discipline is another f.g. skill I’ve been getting better at with practice. For instance, Dad still thinks I don’t have a client yet, and each time he asks about it, it becomes a little easier to shake my head and say nothing.

“Women like fancy soap, right?” Dad stopped at a table covered with waxy bricks in different colors, each bar flecked with seeds and herbs.

“Gina isn’t ‘women,’ Dad. She’s Gina. You don’t want to get her something generic. You want to give her something that’s
her
.”

When I heard myself say this, it occurred to me that the presents I’d sent Jeni had been exactly that—generic—random bribes I’d bought arbitrarily. For all I knew, Jeni hated chocolate and was allergic to scented lotion. But there
was
one thing I knew she liked.

“I’m going to check out the jewelry,” I told Dad, and zigzagged through the booths until I found an artist who made exactly what I was looking for.

“Earrings!” Dad said when he caught up with me. “Great idea. Women love earrings.”

Dad was hopeless, but he wasn’t my problem. And after I borrowed the money from Dad and asked for a gift box,
my
problem was one step closer to being solved.

So now all I have to do is get the box, with the note I wrote, from my hand to Jeni. I can’t make it suddenly
appear in front of her, or there’ll be a replay of the usual running-off-in-terror, even without me there. I decide to try for the far end of the counter, to the left of Jeni, behind the straw-and-napkin display. She won’t see it until she turns that way, and one of the other Fizz Masters may see it first. But her name is on the note, so they’ll tell her and that’ll work just as well.

Although I’ve done a million Object Transferences by now, they’ve always been pretty simple. It didn’t matter if I was off a little. But today my aim has to be perfect. I can’t miss the counter, and the note has to lean against the box, so it’s visible.

It’s such a minor thing I’m doing in a way, but it feels as big as transforming a dress of rags into a satin ball gown. Bigger, even, because that magic doesn’t have to be precise. If the gown is more azure than indigo, who cares?

It’s all instinct and intention and timing, like changing the size on a skirt after a lady’s already gone into the department store dressing room. A few days ago, I couldn’t do it, but now I have to, so I will.

I hope.

The envelope lies flat in my hand, the small silver box on top of it, the tip of my chopstick hovering a millimeter above the box. If somebody sees me, they’ll probably think I’m practicing a magic trick. Which is sort of true, but I don’t care. I can’t let anything enter my mind but what’s right in front of me. I close my eyes. My breath falls into a rhythm with the fountain’s music, a soft piano tune, an
interlude between the water-dancing songs. I imagine the exact spot on the counter where I want the box and note to appear. I picture it in such clear detail, it’s like I’ve created the reality in my mind.

I feel a coolness sweep over my palm as the box vanishes. When I open my eyes, I glance down to the ground, to make sure the box and note haven’t fallen.

Nope. They’re gone.

In the few seconds this took, the usual endless Fizzy Bar line has already formed, its tail curving out from the entrance, and I can’t see Jeni anymore.

There’s nothing left to do but wait.

And wait.

I return to the bench, but the wrought-iron seat has gotten hot, thanks to the sun, which is nearly directly overhead now. The shade from the tiny tree has shrunk to nothing.

Why did I tell Jeni to meet me here? I could’ve given her my cell number and gone to Brennan’s Books. If Gina’s working, she’d have bought me a chai latte. I could be sitting in the cool A/C’d café, curled up in one of the plush armchairs, drinking tea and reading some random “New for Teens!” novel, until Jeni called. If she calls. To create a little breeze, I reach out my hands and do a swan dive. I arc my arms and then touch my boots, exactly like Ms. Byrd taught us in yoga class. The stretch feels good, but the sun is really heating up now, and I don’t think I can wait outside any longer. I should buy an iced chai from the coffee
cart in front of the movie theater and get to work early, because Jeni’s obviously not coming.

“Um. Delaney?”

The voice blends with the
whish
of the fountain and the blare of the music, so that I can’t tell where it’s coming from. But when I fly up from my forward bend, Jeni is there, right in front of me, jets shooting up behind her like a watery crown. It worked! She’s wearing the earrings I magically transferred to her, a pair of delicate silver strands about an inch long, with tiny pearly beads at the ends.

“Those look very pretty on you,” I tell her.

“Thank you.” She smiles shyly and her gaze drops to the note in her hand. She lifts it out in front of her. “Is this true? I only have to say …”

“If that’s what you want.” She doesn’t answer. I’d made the note sound as ripped-from-the-fairy tales as possible:

I’ve put the power in her hands, which, as I hoped, has lessened the fear enough for her to come out and meet me. But there’s also a subtle threat in there, if she’s smart enough to get it.

“If I tell you I don’t, then that means I won’t ever …?” She gets it.

“Never,” I say. “You’ll never get your wish.”

Jeni doesn’t answer. I can see her struggling with her decision. She may be afraid to have her wish come true right now, but that doesn’t mean she wants to give it up forever.

“The fact that you have this wish, and that I was sent to help you fulfill it, means that it’s your destiny,” I tell her. “If you say no, you’ll be altering the entire fated course of your life.” I keep my voice low, laden with doom. I almost expect the fountains to chime in with some ominous sound track—lots of gongs and the low rumbling of drums. Instead, it segues into an old
Sesame Street
song about a rubber ducky.

Fortunately, Jeni’s listening to my words, not the music, because her tense expression grows tenser. “Would it be bad? If it got, you know, altered?”

“The universe has woven a detailed path for your life, and you come along and rip out all the threads and tangle them up in a ball and toss them? What do you think?”

Jeni bites her lip and considers this. While I wait for her answer, I do an overhead stretch and smile to myself, impressed with my metaphor. Arms still up, I twist to the right, where a few feet away a little boy bobbles his sippy cup and it tumbles free. I wave my chopstick and the cup floats back up to his hands. The little boy giggles and slurps a happy sip.