by Emma Savant
“She doesn’t know what she wants,” he said.
The disrespect in the words made me cringe, but he seemed so well-meaning that I didn’t react quickly enough to stop what came next.
He stood up.
“I’m sure you’ll do a great job,” he said. “Your boss said it was your first case, but you seem like a real professional. I know you can do it.”
He smiled like he was the inspiring coach in some sports movie who helped the awkward underdog believe in himself—was this man’s entire life lifted from feel-good movies?—and, before I could get a word in, walked off.
I considered going after him, but I had a strong suspicion it wouldn’t do any good. I’d been trying to talk sense into the man for the last forty-five minutes and had gotten exactly nowhere.
On the bright side, I’d picked up a few insights. Elle had hang-ups about ethical coffee. I didn’t know how that would ever be relevant to anything, but hey—at least the girl was kind of cool.
I had three minutes to get to class before the bell rang, and I was spending it out in the hallway, trying to talk some sense into Daniel.
“Dad is going to kill you,” I said.
“Dad won’t give a crap,” he said. “If he even notices.”
While this was unfortunately mostly true, it didn’t do anything to calm the way my blood pounded in my temples.
“Daniel,” I said, louder than I’d intended and with an edge of desperation in my voice. “Seriously. You can’t just ditch school in the middle of the day. It’s not cool.”
He threw up his hands. “Ask me if I care,” he said.
This was my life: Trying to set up a geeky girl with the most incompatible guy on the planet and—in my oh-so-abundant spare time—trying to rescue my idiot freshman brother from himself before he turned into a juvenile delinquent. Fabulous.
“What’s wrong with you?” I snapped. “Where are you even going?”
“None of your business.”
“You have five seconds to tell me or I’m going straight to the principal’s office,” I said. I cringed with regret less than a second later. I sounded just like our mother.
Daniel seemed to realize he had pushed me into the corner of self-loathing that always came with the realization that either of us was acting like our parents. That meant he had the upper hand, but the threat still hung in the air between us. I looked him in the eye and raised my eyebrows, promising us both that’d I’d follow through, no matter how much of a childish tattle-tale it made me. He sighed loudly, rolled his dark Feye eyes, and said, “Whatever. I’m going to my friend’s to do this thing.”
Immediately, my mind jumped to drugs, shoplifting, and prostitution. That escalated fast, I thought, trying to rein my mind back into something approaching reality. “What thing?” I said.
“None of your business,” he said.
“Principal’s office,” I said. “Not even kidding.”
“Fine,” he said. His face flushed and I felt a wave of hot embarrassment rolling off him. “It’s this performance art thing. My friend Devyn is putting together a spoken-word performance group and we’re rehearsing today for a poetry slam on Saturday. Okay?”
I blinked at him, caught completely off guard. My brother was skipping school for a poetry slam? Apparently I knew even less about him than I’d thought. “Weird homeschool girl Devyn?” I said.
“God,” he said, like I was the most clueless and out-of-touch faerie being on the planet. “Yes. That a problem?”
“Okay,” I said. I lifted my chin and peered down at him, waiting to see if he’d sprout antennae or do something else unexpected. When nothing happened, I sucked on the inside of my cheek and thought for a moment. He was looking at me with a defiant expression, but I could feel hope mixed in with the embarrassment.
On the one hand, he was about to risk his education, future freedom, and a nice big screaming match at the Feye house on the hope that he wouldn’t get caught. On the other hand, I had exactly one minute to be in class and avoid a lecture from Ms. Henson.
“Fine,” I said, like I was doing him a huge favor. “I won’t tell. But it’s not my fault if Mom grounds you until, like, the end of time.”
“Duly noted,” he said. He rolled his eyes again, like it was beginning to be a nervous tic, and took off down the hall.
I growled, the quiet annoyance erupting from my throat before I spun on my heel and went into class. I spent the first half of the period having conversations in my head with Daniel in which he saw the error of his ways and apologized for being such an inconsiderate brat, then spent the second half worrying about Elle and how the hell I was supposed to get her hooked up with someone like Tyler Breckenridge. Imogen passed me notes now and then, but they were mostly about a new witch guy she’d just met, which was no help at all.
Imogen had World History with Elle next. It looked like my only shot at introducing myself to the girl in a non-creepy, semi-plausible way, so I walked Imogen to class. It would have been so much easier if Elle had been just another Glim client—I could have shown up wearing formal wings, waved my wand around, and told her I was her godmother. We could have gotten the whole introduction thing wrapped up in five minutes. As it was, I had to act like a normal person.
I gritted my teeth. This would be great for my college fund, I reminded myself, and that was all that mattered. I flashed a big forced smile as we “accidentally” almost ran into Elle at the door.
“Hey!” Imogen said brightly. She said she’d been making small talk with Elle during class to break the ice. My job sucked, but my best friend was perfect. I reminded myself to tell her so later, then realized I didn’t need to: She’d read my emotion already and was beaming at me, her head cocked and an Aww! expression on her face.
“Hey,” Elle said. She seemed calmer than either of the times I’d seen her at Pumpkin Spice. Apparently, being away from the workplace she was determined to take down had a mellowing effect. “You get your essay done?”
“Ish,” Imogen said, then shrugged and laughed. “I mean, seriously, how much can you say about the Salem witch trials? Puritans were creepy, women are apparently dangerous… that’s about it.”
I held back a smirk. The Salem witch hunts were still kind of a big deal in the Glimmering world. Almost everyone I knew either got choked up whenever they were brought up, or started yelling about how Humdrums would never accept us. The whole issue was a sore point with a lot of people.
“Right?” I said. “You can pretty much get that paper done in two sentences.”
“I wrote the whole thing on powerful women being a disruption to the religious patriarchy,” Elle said.
“Of course you did,” I said, then, when she looked at me weird, hurriedly added, “Sorry. I’m Olivia. Hey, you work at that coffee place downtown, right?”
Elle’s eyebrows quirked up in surprise, but she didn’t seem upset to be recognized as working for the evil establishment. Instead, she smiled and said, “You come in there a lot?”
“Now and then,” I said. “Just heard about it. Nice place.”
“Yeah,” Elle said. She raised and dropped her eyebrows quickly with her lips pursed. “We don’t get a lot of customers.” She clearly expected me to ask what was wrong with it. I didn’t have the energy.
Their teacher looked pointedly at us from inside the classroom. I nudged Imogen.
“Oops!” she said. “Gotta go.”
“We should hang out,” I said. The words tumbled out of my mouth, and I knew in a second that I’d just come across as way too creepy. I mentally kicked myself and said to Elle, “It’s always good to meet new people, right? So many people here are so wrapped up in their own little worlds. My New Year’s resolution was to get off my phone and really be present more.”
It was probably the stupidest thing I’d ever said. But Elle nodded.
“That’s a good one,” she said, kind of surprised but not quite like she was ready to run in the opposite direction. �
�Good for you.”
“We’re going to a spoken-word poetry thing this Saturday,” I said, privately hoping Imogen didn’t already have plans she hadn’t told me about. “You should come.”
Elle looked from me to Imogen, who smiled her encouragement, then back again. “Sure,” she said, though I could feel a little reluctance clinging to her. “Why not? Sounds fun.”
“Awesome!” I said, then, before my voice could give away my excitement, said, “Great. See you then. You guys had better get in there.”
They left me to my awkwardness. My heart pounded in my chest. There was no reason for it, I reminded myself. All I’d done was get in touch with my client. But it had gone okay. It hadn’t been a disaster, and somehow or other, that freaked me out.
Saturday night was going to be uncomfortable. Daniel wasn’t going to want me there, wherever “there” was, and I had a bad feeling Imogen, Elle, and I were going to get stuck in a corner booth while some artsy hipster shouted angry nonsense words into a microphone for three hours. But maybe if there were enough of us there, it would be okay, and it wouldn’t be too weird. Parties always got better when I knew one or two people there; a poetry slam might be okay if I had at least a couple of friends there. Before I could talk myself out of it, I pulled out my phone and texted Lucas.
Olivia: Hey. :) Imogen and I are going to a poetry slam thing Sat night. You want to come with us?
I walked to my class with my hand wrapped tight around my phone. Right before I reached the door, it buzzed.
Lucas: Can’t. My gf and I are going to a concert. Sounds fun, though. Next time!
Lucas had a girlfriend?
I had no reason to be upset by that. We were just friends. I’d been horrible at keeping in touch over the last few years and I’d only learned he was back in Portland in the past week. I shouldn’t be surprised that he had a girlfriend already. He was nice, and cute. Of course he had someone.
I wondered how long they’d been dating. I wondered if I would have been able to snap him up in time if I’d asked him out last week at Pumpkin Spice when Imogen had told me to. I wondered way too many things.
Ok, cool, I texted back. Have fun.
I loved texting. No one could see my expression over a text, or tell whether I was being sincere or not.
I shoved my phone into my pocket, wishing I could shove the irrational flush of embarrassment that had just rushed hot to my cheeks in with it.
His girlfriend wasn’t my problem, I told myself. Elle was my problem, and I was going to get to the bottom of her story on Saturday.
Chapter 6
I was stupid for thinking this was a good idea.
I scanned the dark room, trying to find an empty table. Daniel’s event, Poems in the Key of F-This, was being held in the banquet room of a grungy restaurant in downtown Portland. Tables and booths ringed the room in a vague half-circle around a cheap stage draped with black fabric.
There were more people here than I’d expected, and I made a beeline for the first empty booth I saw. I settled in, looking around at the youthful crowd, and then did another scan for magic.
There wasn’t much. Daniel was avoiding me from a far corner. He’d only told me where the event was when I’d threatened to tell Mom where he was going. A couple of other faeries in their twenties sat at a table near the front of the stage, bright blue drinks in their hands. Everyone ignored me, except for a woman with dark skin and curly gold-streaked hair in the corner who stared vacantly in my direction without seeing me, but she wasn’t Glimmering, and neither was the rest of the room.
At least I didn’t have to worry about this group revealing the Glimmering world to Elle tonight. It wasn’t much as relieving things went, but I was willing to take what I could get.
Imogen drifted across the room while the band started setting up on the stage. She’d given Elle a ride. Trying to manage tonight and a long car ride was more than I could have handled, but Imogen was a master at small talk and didn’t mind being in small enclosed spaces with strangers. I didn’t understand her, but I couldn’t help being thrilled by our differences on nights like tonight.
“Interesting place,” Elle said, sliding into the booth beside Imogen. Her hair was in a loose braid over her shoulder. “Nice décor in the restaurant out front. The grunge thing is old enough to be kind of cool again. I wish I’d thought of it.”
“You want to open a restaurant?” Imogen asked, and I cut my eyes at her. Too much, too soon, I thought, and she rolled her eyes. Stop being so paranoid, she seemed to be saying.
Elle missed our silent conversation and said, “Sure, someday. It’d be brilliant.” She dug in her purse for a minute while I tried to convey back to Imogen that I wasn’t being paranoid, I was being sensible. She thought “paranoid” and “sensible” were the same thing when it came to me, like I couldn’t tell the difference. Elle’s hand emerged from her purse with a tube of lip balm. She slicked it over her lips and continued, “I mean, I basically already run my dad’s place.”
“No kidding?” I said. I couldn’t disguise my interest; fortunately, that just made me look sincere instead of like the creepy stalker of a faerie godmother I was.
“I’d run it a little more, but he’s really trying to push me out,” she said. I held my breath. Was it really going to be this easy? “He’s going to have to deal with me, though. I’m not giving up.”
“That sounds dumb,” I said. “Why would he push you out?”
“Yeah, hello,” Imogen said in a sing-song voice. “Cheap labor?”
Elle rolled her eyes. “He’s afraid of change,” she said. “I’m trying to bring us into the twenty-first century, where we care about things like coffee plantation workers’ rights, but apparently that’s too new-fangled for Mr. Play-It-Safe.”
“I hate that,” Imogen said, and rested her chin on her hand. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Imogen was in exactly the same boat as Elle. I glanced over the top of my glasses and saw a faint rosy shimmer around Imogen. She was glamouring my client to make her feel safe. I squeezed her hand under the table to say thank you.
“Right?” Elle said. “It’s ridiculous.”
“So what’s the story?” I said, also leaning forward on my elbows and mirroring Imogen’s pose. “It sounds like there’s a story.”
And that was all Elle needed. She was off, talking like no one had really listened to her in years.
“The thing is, Pumpkin Spice was my mom’s place,” she said. “And yes, it’s called Pumpkin Spice.” She rolled her eyes. “It was clever ten years ago, but now I just pretend it’s ironic. Anyway, Mom was a total hippie and she wanted to make it into this awesome café where everything was organic and ethically sourced and local musicians came to play—where the community could really get together and do good in the world. I remember the place from when I was a kid and it was amazing. My mom did all these fundraisers and stuff. But then she died—you don’t have to look sorry for me; I know it sucks being the girl with the dead mom but there’s really nothing anyone can do about it—and my dad got remarried. My stepmom is this real wannabe businesswoman and she’s always talking to my dad about ‘sound fiscal choices’ and ‘maximizing profit’ and whatever, and he apparently thinks her opinion is better than mine because we haven’t served coffee that wasn’t commercialized crap for like three years.”
“That sucks,” I said, though she didn’t need the encouragement.
“I know,” she said, throwing up a hand in frustration.
She grabbed hold of her braid and absently gestured with it as she spoke, making the gold-tipped tail of her hair point this way and that.
“I love Pumpkin Spice,” she said. “Love it. And I really want to buy it from my dad as soon as I turn eighteen. I seriously almost have the money for it and I’ve got the numbers worked out so I can grow the business and not be a total commercial sellout. That’s my place, and right now it’s just full of my stupid stepsisters and crappy coffee and it kills me, you
know? It’s like, it could be so great, and instead it’s just another crappy place for another crappy cup of coffee.”
She leaned back and folded her arms.
“I’ve started like three petitions and even got people to come picket once to pressure him into doing the right thing,” she said. “You know, actually supporting the workers and ecosystems that feed our caffeine habit. And you know what that got me? A bunch of long lectures and my dad breathing down my neck, trying to make me best girlfriends with my idiot stepsisters and their sycophants.”
“That sounds rough,” Imogen said.
I couldn’t believe how easy this was. Maybe I was in the right field after all. If godmothering was always like this, I’d have saved up enough for college before the summer was even over.
“You have no idea,” Elle said. “Oh, and just to make it better, my stepsisters? They work there too. And they’re constantly stealing money out of the cash register, but Dad doesn’t seem to think that’s a problem. He calls it their ‘allowance.’” She raised her fingers to make quote marks that bit into the air with all the warmth and affection of snake fangs. “And their mom’s interest in ‘maximizing profits’ apparently doesn’t stretch as far as making her idiot daughters stop taking twenties out of the company coffers. Is that the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard or what?”
“Yeah,” Imogen and I both said. Imogen’s faerie gift still twinkled rosy all around her. I wondered if maybe it was time to ease up a little, but turned back to Elle.
“Don’t take this wrong,” I said. “But why doesn’t your dad just fire you?”
Elle laughed. If anything, she seemed a little flattered. “He doesn’t dare,” she said. “I think he knows that if he fires me I’m going to pull out all the stops, and no one wants to be there for that.”
She was a little intense, but I admired that. I wished I cared that much about anything. I’d thought I was serious about the escaping-the-Glimmering-world-and-studying-ecology thing, but the crazy light in Elle’s eyes made me look like a lamb.
