Family Magic Page 4

  I’m not very good at it. And high school is a singular kind of hell. Don’t get me wrong. I used to try really hard, seeing each move as an opportunity, a chance to finally belong. But trying too hard can come across as pathetic and desperate, which I am good at. Being pegged as the new freak over and over can take a toll on a girl. I finally reached the point where if I couldn’t join them, I could at least blend in with the scenery.

  And part of me now worried about fitting in. What if I found the perfect town, the perfect friends and suddenly—gasp!— had some level of popularity, then someone in the coven screwed up and we had to move away from my dream life?

  Not to say I’m suicidal, but I’d have to slit my wrists.

  I made it to the school steps without incident and considered it a victory. I kept my head down as I moved past the cool girls who waited for the football team to grace them with their presence. It was only because I had my eyes suitably glued to the concrete that I managed to catch myself from tripping over the foot ‘accidentally’ in my path.

  “Oops,” Alison Morgan, a perfect blonde, blue-eyed cheerleader in designer everything, smirked at her friends when I made the mistake of eye contact. “Sorry.”

  I ducked my head again to hide the flush of embarrassment, rushing inside to avoid any further humiliation. Alison was notorious for starting mild and ending up with her target of choice in helpless tears, so I didn’t want to give her the chance to work her own particular brand of magic.

  I was in such a hurry to escape I ended up plowing full-tilt into a dark blue football jacket. The victim turned and I found myself staring in horror at Brad Peters, Senior, football hero and all around perfect yummy chunk of teenage girl’s dream.

  I tried to apologize but Brad, dreamy Brad, smiled at me like he really meant it. I knew what it felt like to melt. He had the most amazing green eyes, clear and light, almost transparent. The skin around them crinkled a little. His wavy blonde hair perfectly framed his tanned, square-jawed face. I tried not to stare at the adorable cleft in his chin for too long, right at my eye level, but gazing into his eyes was much too dangerous and I had to choose my battles.

  Speaking of which, while I stammered and stuttered and tried not to totally fall to pieces, Alison and her cronies appeared around us. I mentally screamed at myself for being such a stupid idiot while Alison put a possessive hand on Brad’s arm and gave me her sweetest smile, a sure sign she decided to attack with all barrels blazing. Why did she have to be dating him? Why?

  I braced myself for the onslaught.

  “You need to be more careful, Syd,” Alison said, voice absolutely dripping sugar. “We’re starting to worry about you.”

  The other cheerleaders laughed. The temperature in the hall rose rapidly.

  No wait, that was just me.

  “Sorry,” I said, making an attempt to escape. Alison’s friends blocked my exit route.

  “Are you okay, Brad?” Alison stroked his white leather sleeve, pouting so hard her lip-gloss buckled.

  “I’m fine, really. Are you okay, Syd?” Brad seemed seriously concerned.

  At any other moment I would have given an arm and most of both legs to have Brad Peters care one iota about me, but his timing was terrible.

  I prayed for a pit to open up and swallow me.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Sorry again.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Brad said. “I was in your way.”

  I stared at him.

  “A bunch of us are getting together after school,” he went on. “At the diner. Want to come?”

  Was my hearing defective? Was I delusional? Dreaming? Head injury from the impact? Surely, he hadn’t meant to invite me to hang out with him and the pops.

  I think Alison was more shocked than me. She recovered quicker, though.

  “Yes, Syd,” she said, anger flashing in her eyes. “Why don’t you join us?”

  Um, let’s see. Complete and utter social suicide or loneliness? I totally took the hint.

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I can’t.”

  “Mommy won’t let you?” Alison asked in a baby voice. Her friends giggled. Brad frowned at her.

  “Maybe next time,” he said to me. “We go pretty much every day.”

  I sought out an escape route that failed to appear. Why did he have to do this to me there, then? My face burned.

  “Yeah,” I stammered and stuttered over my words, “s-s-ure. Maybe.”

  “Aw, too bad,” Alison offered me a tight grin. “Next time, then.”

  “I guess,” I whispered, staring at the floor so hard I was sure a pit would open any second.

  “Leave it, Alison,” Brad said. I almost dropped from the shock. The girls gasped.

  Alison stared at him in utter disbelief before barely composing herself. She turned her attention back to me and gave me a smile that didn’t reach anywhere above her lips.

  “Whatever you want, Brad.” She turned to her girls and started to walk away. I felt the tension drain from my shoulders. Alison paused, turned back and shot me a glare that would have melted glass. “I’ll see you later, Syd.”

  She and her cronies flounced off. I watched the cheerleaders leave, their faces clearly showing their disappointment, knowing they hoped to see a show. I clenched my teeth and for the first time didn’t care about being popular or fitting in. The demon in me would have happily given them the show they looked for, but not to their benefit, oh no.

  I shook my head, realizing how little I cared anymore. This wasn’t working, so time for a new game plan. To my disbelief, Brad Peters still stood there watching me.

  “Show’s over,” I snapped. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  Brad’s eyes widened. He looked genuinely hurt. “Syd, I’m sorry, I—“

  The expression on my face shut him up.

  “Your girlfriend is waiting,” I snapped.

  I stomped off, leaving him gaping after me. I felt like I was in control at last. I was done being a target, for my mother, for the Alison Morgan’s of the world. They wanted a battle? They’d get one, Sydlynn Hayle style.

  Damn. I was late for class.

  ***

  Chapter Six

  I guess I must have made it obvious I wasn’t in the mood for bullying. Despite Alison’s parting remark, a typical fair warning of nastiness to come, I made it through the day in peace and quiet. In fact, unlike most days when I normally had to force my way through the crowd in the cafeteria to get a milk or the push of kids to reach my locker, the way seemed to part before me in a rippling wave of retreating humanity. I’m not sure if they didn’t want to have any contact with me in case I turned contagious and would bring Alison’s wrath down on them too, or if I radiated ‘don’t mess with me.’

  Probably a little bit of both.

  I finally toned back my new badass aura when two freshmen ran away from me with tears in their eyes. Talk about going from one extreme to another. I had to be oozing magic to raise a response like that. Time to pull the reins back and get myself under control. But if the past couple of days taught me anything, I knew I wasn’t getting anywhere doing the same thing over and over again. Time for a new plan, even if it meant flushing any chance I ever had to belong.

  I headed home that afternoon feeling better about myself than I had in a long time, even looking kind of forward to talking to Mom, much to my own amazement. I couldn’t believe I was even considering having a frank discussion with my mother. She wasn’t going to get it anyway. We would devolve into another huge fight where she would cry and I would end up disappearing behind my slamming bedroom door.

  Still, with new optimism blooming and hoping to survive the next ten minutes, I walked into the kitchen to the smell of homemade chocolate chip cookies.

  Allow me to explain. My mother, Miriam Hayle, powerful witch and coven leader, could not bake. In fact, as a rule and a whole, we tried to stop her at the first sign of blossoming domesticity. Her brief and often disastrous forays into all things h
omey were notorious for ending in tragedy, shed blood and a bucket of tears.

  Not always hers.

  So these perfect lumps of divine smelling sugary sweetness could not possibly have come from the hands of my mother.

  I checked around for a telltale paper bag or plastic container explaining the appearance of fresh baked anything in my house. I stood over the cooling rack when Mom came in the kitchen and caught me drooling. She looked adorable in her clean, crisp black apron with ‘Witch in the Kitch’ written across it in florescent green.

  We watched each other, silent, uncomfortable. It was pretty clear she was hiding something from me and didn’t know to share. Decision made, she smiled.

  “Sydlynn, honey, I’m glad you’re home.” Mom took a step forward into the kitchen, still smiling.

  I smiled tentatively back. Maybe this would be easier than I thought.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said.

  Mom glanced down at the tray of cooling cookies and laughed.

  “Surprised?” She said.

  I nodded.

  She went to the cupboard and took out a plate. A spatula emerged from the drawer below it. She started serving cookies onto the waiting dish.

  “I wasn’t sure at first,” she said, “but they seemed to turn out okay in the end.” She held up the plate to me, a hopeful, wistful expression on her face. “Cookie?”

  That cookie could have tasted like crap and it wouldn’t have mattered. I loved my mother so much right then I would have eaten it wriggling or still on fire if I had to. She tried for me. I took a cookie and sniffed in its warm goodness before taking a bite. I almost dropped it, eyes going wide.

  Mom looked distressed. “Tell me I didn’t just poison you!” She reached for the cookie.

  I held it away and laughed, amazed. “Mom!” I said. “It’s delicious!”

  She laughed herself, a little shaky, and tried one too. “So it is,” she said. “Well what do you know?”

  We happily munched our cookies, smiling at each other, as if the sugar we shared melted the rift between us.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said, swallowing the last bite. “That was awesome.”

  “You’re welcome,” she blushed and I knew how hard she was trying. It made me want to try harder too. Maybe there was hope for us after all.

  “Another?” She offered the plate. I couldn’t say no.

  “Seriously, Mom, I’m proud of you,” I said as I studied the cookie for the best place to take the first bite.

  “Finally,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, practice makes perfect, right?” I filled my mouth and grinned at her.

  “You have no idea,” she giggled. I don’t think I ever heard my mother giggle.

  “What do you mean?” I went for a glass and to the fridge for milk as she helped herself to another.

  “These cookies came with a pretty big price tag,” she said.

  I set the milk on the counter beside her to share.

  “Don’t tell me you bought them,” I crossed my arms over my chest, still grinning.

  “No, Syd, I made these cookies with my own two hands,” she assured me.

  “No magic?” I asked.

  “No magic,” she said.

  “So where’s the price tag?” I took a long drink and handed her the glass. She polished off her cookie and the rest of the milk, eyes twinkling over the rim as she finished it in a couple of gulps. She licked off her mustache and winked at me.

  “The sweat of my brow,” she said.

  I went to the closet where we kept the trash with the empty milk carton. “Uh-huh. Erica helped this time?”

  Her eyes widened as I opened the door. She half reached for me before the sparkle returned.

  “What?” I asked, turning to dump the carton.

  As soon as I did, I started to laugh.

  The large silver can overflowed with horribly disfigured and charred cookies, empty bags of sugar, flour and cartons of eggs and milk. From the appearance of the trash, she made cookies all day and went through hell and back to get it right.

  Now I really loved my mother. I turned back to her and grabbed her in the biggest hug, wondering why I had ever been mad at her. My mom, my amazing mom, tortured herself in the kitchen for me so I could feel like a normal kid.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I whispered into her hair.

  I felt her tense before she hugged me back, whole body softening, her power wrapping around me like a warm blanket. “It was worth it for this,” she said.

  For the first time since I could remember, I felt a complete connection to my mother, her unconditional love and acceptance without judgment or expectation.

  It was amazing, but wasn’t meant to last. In fact, it ended shortly after the doorbell rang.

  Mom’s face fell. That was when I knew without a doubt, despite the fact she tried, my mother couldn’t do anything without an ulterior motive. I closed off and from the guarded look in her eyes, she knew it.

  “Can you get the door, please, dear?” She tried to keep the cheer in her voice. “I’ll get a plate of cookies for our guests.”

  I was wrong. The cookies, the effort she made, none of it was really for me at all. She kicked her own butt in the kitchen to impress whoever stood behind door number one. That warm and fuzzy feeling went the way of her discarded attempts, along with my happiness.

  I didn’t bother asking any questions. Whoever waited at the door was going to make me unhappy one way or another or she wouldn’t have been trying so hard.

  I left the kitchen with my distrust rising past my fury even though I had no idea what was going on. Which meant when I answered the door I was already antagonistic and definitely not in the mood for anything to do with Mom’s betrayal or her grand plans for me and my future.

  I pulled the door open a little harder than necessary and scowled at the three people standing on the front step. An immediate wave of unease hit me, scrubbing away my anger and leaving me cold. What appeared to be middle-aged mother, father and teenaged son screamed magic at me. For a moment, I flinched from the usual flood of nausea. The power came and went so fast I wondered if maybe I imagined it.

  I must have been silent, staring for an unusual amount of time, because the woman’s smile began to fade as she held out her hand to me.

  “You must be Sydlynn.” She forced her smile back to its original width, stretching her tacky lipstick so much it showed where it bled into the lines around her mouth.

  “So I’ve been told,” I muttered.

  The woman glanced at the older man beside her and tittered a laugh so fake it made my cheeks ache. She was short, shorter than me, with badly dyed brownish- blonde hair and faded blue eyes made up with too much eyeliner. Her dress tightly hugged her plump figure, excess flesh bunching over her bra. The man beside her stood only slightly taller, dressed in a tweed suit complete with leather arm patches. He even had a pipe in his breast pocket. Imagine.

  “Clever,” he said to the woman beside him. “I like that.” He beamed at me in a male chauvinist kind of way that made me want to slam the door in their faces and tell Mom it had simply been a mysterious walk-by ringing.

  “Thanks,” I said instead. “Can I help you with something?”

  The woman’s expression tightened enough a teenager would notice but a grownup would miss. She did not like me. I can say the feeling was instantaneously mutual.

  “We’re the Moromonds, dear,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  “And?” I prompted.

  Mom’s firm grip on the door saved me from the woman’s curt reply. She pulled it from my hand and stepped up beside me in the now fully opened entry.

  “Batsheva! Dominic! So lovely you came,” Mom reached out for the woman and grasped her hand. Batsheva Moromond plastered her fake smile back on and air kissed my mother on both cheeks.

  “Miriam, dear, it’s been too long,” she said.

  Dominic took Mom’s hand and kissed it, lingering just a little too long, his e
yes never leaving hers. Mom actually blushed.

  “Yes, Miriam,” Dominic said. “Beautiful as ever.”

  Mom pulled her hand free and I could tell she struggled for a way to change the subject. It was so weird to see my all-powerful mother floored by a man hitting on her in front of his wife. Go figure.

  She finally settled on the teenager standing in their shadow.

  “This can’t be Quaid,” she said to Batsheva, holding out a hand to him. As he stepped forward to greet her, I took my first good look.

  Wow. His parents may have been creepy, but he was hot. In fact, Quaid was everything they weren’t. Tall, lean in his punk band t-shirt, black hair shaggy with curls. He offered my mother his large, slim hand, the other shoved in the back pocket of his black jeans. I was never into bad boys. Whether I chose to finally stop hiding who I really was or because he was just that attractive, I found myself wondering, ‘Brad who?’

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Hayle,” Quaid offered in his deep, smooth voice. I imagined he was a singer with pipes like that. His eyes flickered to me, deep brown to almost black with a little curiosity behind them. I tried to play cool but think I came off as weird and goofy. So what else is new?

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi,” he answered.

  “Splendid!” Dominic interrupted. Heat flushed my cheeks. Crap.

  I quickly glanced away and caught Mom watching me out of the corner of my eye. I ignored her and backed out of the way as she welcomed them inside.

  “Syd, why don’t you join us?” My mom motioned me toward the living room we never used. From the pleading in her eyes, she expected a fight. No way, not this time. If these people were important enough to warrant Mom’s descent into domestic humiliation, I needed to know why. Of course, it didn’t hurt I would also have the chance to spend a little more time imprinting Quaid Moromond into my memory for later.

  I was the last to leave the entry. For some reason, I felt compelled to look back outside as I pushed the door closed. A huge black dog sat at the end of the driveway, watching me. I caught the door and watched right back. We faced off, stare to stare. It felt like the showdown went on forever. Mom’s voice calling me from inside the house finally broke my eye contact. I turned to answer her, looked back.