by E Hall
All of a sudden, Chelsea flies backward into the sand. I whirl around as Logan playfully tackles her. They’re both laughing as he tickles her on the ground.
I turn back to the guy in the top hat. “How’d you know my name?” I ask.
“It was in the stars,” he answers.
Despite the strangeness of his response, something floats between us. It’s an unseen and unknown swoosh and swoop. It makes my insides rise and fall like being in a dark room and fumbling for the light switch.
Then JJ juts his chin toward my mouth. He doesn’t smile, but something like amusement plays on his lips. He points, and says, “You have something there.”
I put my finger to my lip and sticky marshmallow comes away. My cheeks burn. I crash back to reality.
He holds my gaze a moment longer before he nods, tips his hat, and then walks away.
I vaguely hear Chelsea urging Logan to dance, but my attention is stuck on JJ.
Dumbstruck isn’t my natural state or any state I’ve ever found myself in, but by the time I reconfigure my senses—feeling confused and annoyed—, he’s vanished into the darkness.
Confused because of the way he was looking at me.
Annoyed because he seemed repelled by me: not wanting to dance and at the marshmallow on my lip. Sheesh, give a girl a break. Not all of us can be dark, mysterious Mr. McHotStuffs.
Keiko and Reggie call me over for S’more seconds and Chelsea and Logan join us. I notice they hold hands. I give her the you better explain look. As far as I knew, they’d been texting and hadn’t graduated to the tackle-hug, handholding phase. She responds with a later tilt of the head. Then making our silent conversation audible she says, “How’d he know your name?”
“How’d who know what?” Keiko asks.
Chelsea looks over my shoulder. “Him—the one in the—”
“He said his name is JJ,” I say.
“Jean-Jacques?” Reggie asks.
“Doubtful, he had a British accent.”
Chelsea teases, “I think you have a secret admirer. Well, not so secret. I wonder what his brother is like. Hopefully, he likes to dance.
We talk about the brothers a moment longer, leaving me curious. How did he know my name? Was my name really written in the sky, in the stars? Why did he introduce himself?
Just then, I hear my name over the rushing waves and crackling fire. This time it’s Riley McMillan.
“Ooh, Maija, how will you decide? JJ Thorne or Riley McMillan?” Chelsea teases with a giggle. “He’s had a crush on her for ages,” she explains to Logan.
I roll my eyes.
“It’s getting late. He’s probably going to offer to walk me home.” I gaze into the distance where JJ had stood, stuck on that strange interaction.
“I’ve known him since we were in diapers. I’ve told you, this is not the boy-next-door scenario.” Although, he does live next door in the light yellow house.
Riley calls my name again as though I might disappear.
“But if you lived on Skerry Street, that might be a different story. I saw the way JJ looked at you.” Chelsea raises both of her eyebrows suggestively.
“Chelsea, he was wearing an old-fashioned suit and a top hat.” Sometimes she exasperates me.
“Hey, nothing wrong with that. Maybe he was at an old-timey convention earlier.” Chelsea shimmies her shoulders.
Logan’s brow furrows.
“I’m kidding. Sort of.” She giggles.
“Hey, Riley,” I say in greeting.
He and his mop of hair flops down into the sand with us.
“Any S’mores left?” he asks.
“Sorry, Logan got the last one,” Chelsea answers.
I’ve always liked Riley as a friend, period. In the summer when we were kids, he was the boy I climbed trees with. In the winter, we’d make snow forts. Heck, we’ve even farted in front of each other (hashtag real life), but I think of him more like a cousin than dating material. Unfortunately, he doesn’t feel the same way as evidenced by his insistent requests last year that I go to school dances with him. He’d walk me to school and carry my books. He gave me chocolates on Valentine’s Day. He’s very sweet. I trust he’ll find someone who adores him and doesn’t know that he ate a worm once. But when Chelsea brought the purpose of his affections to my attention, I tried to cut it off but didn’t want to rip out his heart. Anyway, there’s the Carter crush.
“Maija, want to walk home together?”
I shrug and glance at the dying fire with no Carter in sight. “Sure.”
After seeing my name in the sky and JJ Thorne knowing it without me introducing myself, I’d rather not walk alone.
After I say goodnight to everyone, we walk along the dunes toward the road. I glance over my shoulder one last time, saying goodbye to my friends and summer.
Beyond them, the silhouette of a guy in a top hat stands off to the side, his gray eyes like chipped diamonds in the dim light and they’re fixed on me.
Chapter 3
★
When I get home, my mom hurries me to bed because I have to get up early tomorrow—she knows I’m generally not a morning person. I want to text Chelsea about her pink hair, Logan’s appearance, meeting the mysterious JJ, and the subtle nervousness that always accompanies me before the first day of school, but my phone is dead.
I lay down, hoping I’ll pass out, but sleep doesn’t come. I feel a gentle dip on my mattress and the swish of Filbert’s tail, soft and ticklish on my leg.
I pet our very large and very furry Maine Coon cat. His sparkling eyes remind me of the stars and JJ. I decide maybe it’s best I go to sleep after all.
The next morning, expecting to roll over with a ball of fluff in my face, the spot beside me where Filbert fell asleep is cold.
The sun shines through the openings in my shades, the birds chirp cheerfully, and I remember it’s the first day of school.
My bedroom door creaks open. I expect my mom to tell me to get up, but it’s Filbert. In his mouth, he carries what looks like a rolled-up piece of paper.
“What do you have there, mister?” I ask.
Don’t worry, even though I talk to my cat, I know he won’t answer. If you have a family pet, don’t even try to tell me you’ve never talked to it.
He jumps onto my bed and I sit up, making room. He drops the scroll and starts to purr. I scratch behind his ears and then pick up the paper. A red ribbon holds it closed.
“Where’d you get this?”
I know, I know, he’s not going to answer. It’s rhetorical.
When I was little, my mom would leave notes in my lunch box, but maybe she’s getting creative, modifying old traditions as I get closer to graduation.
I untie the ribbon and pull open the scroll.
You are in grave danger. They’re coming for you. Do not tell them anything. Do not give up your wish.
What should you do?
Run. Now.
I flop back onto my bed and close my eyes. Behind my lids, my name burns brightly in the night sky. This must be one long, strange dream.
A furry tail tickles my nose. I sneeze. A pair of paws knead my stomach. I feel the pierce of a poorly sheathed claw. Ouch. No, I’m awake. I open my eyes. The note is still there.
Grave danger?
Who’s coming for me?
Run?
This must be some kind of joke.
I scoop Filbert up and follow the sound of my mother’s melodious singing into the kitchen. The only time she’s not singing or humming is if she’s sitting still, which is seldom. I’ve even heard her singing in her sleep. She says her lungs were made for two things: running and singing.
She’s preparing coffee on a tray. From the other room, my father’s voice rumbles in low conversation. Maybe he had to take an early call for work.
“Good morning,” my mom says brightly. “I was going to check if you were upright, dressed, and ready for a big day.”
I clutch the rolled-up paper in my
hand and am about to ask about the note when I hear a second voice answering my father. I take a few steps forward and peer into the room.
My dad sits tall with one ankle crossed over his knee. On the couch opposite sits a woman wearing a light yellow caftan. Beside her, an older woman in a darker yellow caftan sits. Her lips are pursed like she sucked on a lemon.
I slip back into the kitchen, but my mom steers me into the living room. I stutter, starting to protest, but her tight smile reminds me to use my manners. Never mind that, I haven’t even brushed my teeth.
“Good morning,” I say, trying not to breathe on anyone.
“We’re from the OMM,” says the younger woman in the yellow caftan.
“Uh—?”
My dad clears his throat. “The Office of Magical Management.”
My father is many things—sensible, timely, organized—, but having a sense of humor isn’t at the top of the list. My mother is the comedian in the family.
“Is this a joke or—?”
The woman in the light yellow caftan unfolds her hands and gestures to my parents. “I’m Dina and this is Margaret. We’re in charge of your case.”
My father rubs his hands on the legs of his pants, glances at my mom who nods and says, “When you were born we were visited by the OMM. They said you might have special abilities. Specifically that you might be a wish witch—a rare type of witchcraft.” My mother smiles proudly.
Dina says, “Only time would tell if you developed any magical abilities. However, it’s our responsibility to inform all parents that their child might have skills beyond the ordinary.”
“So there are witches?” I ask, hardly believing the words are coming out of my mouth.
“Of course. Typically, they perform household witchcraft, general spell making, the usual.” Dina shrugs as if it’s no big deal.
Both of my parents nod solemnly.
I feel slightly queasy. Not excited like I might have if I were reading about this in a book, eager to know what was going to happen to the main character. Rather, I’m uncertain, afraid, and very much like I learned something extraordinary about myself that goes way, way beyond pink hair. Well, if it’s true because as far as I know, I cannot cast spells or whatever it is people with magic can do.
I lean back in the overstuffed sofa chair and rest my forehead in my hand. In the other, I still hold the piece of paper telling me to run. I glance from my mom to my dad, but neither indicates any of this is a joke nor dangerous.
“So what you’re saying is I’m a witch?” I squeeze my eyes closed and then open them but the scene doesn’t change. I am not imagining this.
Chapter 4
★
My mom and dad, with their mugs of coffee in hand, are the picture of an average morning in our household.
The two women seated on the couch, wearing yellow caftans with what I now notice are little badges on their chests in what appears to be an X, or if I’m thinking about it in a witchy way, two wands crossed, are surreal.
When I catch my reflection in the mirror over the fireplace, with my springy hair sticking out at wild angles and a stricken, but tired expression on my face makes I look crazy. Like the internet memes I woke up like this crazy or I got life-changing news crazy or I’ve gone crazy crazy.
From the silence, I repeat my question. “So you’re telling me, Maija Marie Wessels, an eighteen-year-old senior at Hamilton High School, soccer team captain, straight-A student, collector of sea glass and knitter of scarves, best friend of Chelsea Higgins, secret crusher on Carter Miller, stargazer, speedy swimmer, book lover, ice cream and confetti enthusiast… You’re saying I’m a witch?”
Dina nods vigorously. “Indeed.”
“I don’t believe you.” The words drop like a heavy stone in a lake.
“But you must,” Dina says, turning an anxious eye toward Margaret who remains quiet.
“Can I have more information?” I ask. “Witch doesn’t make sense. Witches aren’t real. Right?”
Dina’s brown wrinkles. “Witches are real. It’s no big secret. Well, except to the non-magically talented.”
I glance at my parents, my eyes widening.
Dina must pick up my meaning because she says, “Parents and authorized guardians have to take an oath that’s bound by their silence on the matter.” Her tone is grave. “If they should speak of it…” she trails off tremulously.
My mother nods, confirming this.
“Everything will be explained at Riptivik Magic Academy. The thing to know is that you need to believe in your abilities before you can access them. Many people don’t know they have these skills so it’s expected that they wouldn’t believe they’re talented in this way,” Dina explains.
“I’m pretty sure you’ve made a mistake.”
My mother shakes her head. “No, dear. These things often run in families. There’s probably something you should know about Aunt Aida and Gramma. I assure you, there is no mistake.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, not masking the irritation in my voice.
My father answers, “We felt it best we leave the explanation to the professionals when the time came. Neither your mother nor I are magically talented.” He takes my hand. “However, we did teach you to run and sprint.”
“And to sing,” Mom says.
“To study and excel in school.”
“To mind your manners.” She arches her eyebrow as though she senses my patience is thin.
“But witchcraft isn’t our area of expertise and because sometimes these skills don’t manifest until you come of age, it didn’t make sense to tell you of the possibility sooner,” my dad finishes.
“Didn’t make sense?” Annoyance toys with the otherwise enormous knot of confusion clouding my thoughts. “Dad, this doesn’t make sense. I woke up this morning and the cat—never mind. Seriously? You want to talk about making sense?”
“Maija, manners,” my mother interjects, nodding at the visitors. She turns back to me and says, “I know this is a lot to take in, but you are very special.”
“So you’ve told me, like, a million times,” I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
“Because it’s true and because I believe in you.” My mom smiles.
I huff a sigh.
“She means that you’re really, really special,” my dad adds.
“If a non-magical person spoke of it, what would happen?” I ask defiantly. I could really stand to talk to Chelsea right now.
“Strict punishment by the Coven Constabulary,” Dina says urgently.
“Is that like the magical police?” I ask.
My parents nod.
“Is Lila magical? Does she know?” I say, carelessly. I feel fists and fire rising inside as my irritation grows.
“No.”
“Then how’d you know about your sister?” I ask, referring to my mom’s comment about Aunt Aida and Gramma.
“My family was different,” my mother says in a clipped tone, signaling this line of questioning is over.
As though trying to douse the flames of a potential argument, Dina says, “After you pack, we’ll escort you to the Academy.”
“Am I going to travel to another realm?”
“Surely not,” Dina says with a laugh. “Conveniently, Riptivik Magic Academy is only six hours away by plane...and half that by broom.” She winks.
“We moved to Boston because it’s about midway between our families in Jamaica and Finland; however this works out nicely. You’ll be able to visit your cousins in Helsinki.” My mother makes this sound so normal like how our favorite bagel place is right down the street. I could go for a toasted cinnamon raisin right now.
“Convenient? Helsinki? Where am I going?” I’m moments away from shouting and stomping my feet on the floor in a tantrum.
“Concordia, of course,” Dina says matter of fact.
“And where is that?”
“North of England. It’s a small, wealthy country,” Dad says.
&nb
sp; Never heard of it.
“I’ll help you pack.” My mom gets to her feet. “Your father will sort out any other details.”
As we walk upstairs, I say to my mom, “Does this make me like a genie?”
Dina calls after us, “No, a genie, or djinn, is another class of magical being. I’m sure you’ll have the pleasure of meeting one soon.”
Perhaps it’s the early hour, the sight of these gently commanding women in their caftans, or my parents telling me I’m a witch, but a dormant part of me bypasses tantrum mode and streaks toward rebellion. I’m eighteen. An adult for goodness sakes.
As the reality of going to a different school, away from my friends and the life I’ve always known, smashes down on me, I yell, “Do I twitch my nose and voila! Wish granted.” I try, exaggeratedly wiggling my nose like in that old show that was made into a movie. “No. Nope.” I throw my hands in the air. “Guess you made a mistake. No witch here.” I whirl on my mother, ready to launch into an angry rant. But the tears in her eyes stop me.
“I always knew you were special. This is not a fairytale, my dear girl. This is a true gift. You are here to do something big with your life. Something that will change the world. I’ve always known this deep down.”
“Mom—” I say, ready with a rebuttal.
She cups my cheeks in her hands. “Maija, you are magic.”
Chapter 5
★
Instead of packing, I slump down onto my bed. My mother busies herself, throwing open the curtains and picking up my dirty laundry. I nibble a granola bar.
A hundred questions bounce like ping pong balls back and forth between my regular life and the one coming for me.
What will I bring?
What about Chelsea?
Do I get a wand?
Are there many people like me?
What about college?
