“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Abby said, her voice small.
“You don’t want to do what?”
“I don’t want to play the piano anymore.”
The instructor huffed. “Absolutely not. You will continue to practice.”
Abby turned her whole body to face her instructor. “Why? You don’t like me. I don’t play well. I hate this. It doesn’t make me happy. Why do you play? Is it because you like the extra money you earn outside of teaching?”
The instructor stared at her, flabbergasted. “I play because I enjoy it.”
“Do you play basketball?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Abby prodded.
“I don’t like it.”
“Don’t you see, ma’am?” Abby asked, her voice stronger. “My playing the piano is like you playing basketball. I don’t like it. I dread every lesson we have.” She took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. “I quit.” Abby stood up and marched to the door, never looking back.
Present Abby and I stood silently as we watched the instructor gather her songbooks and place them on a bookshelf. “I hated that woman,” Abby said quietly. “Did you know that she died about a year later? I wasn’t even sad when Mom told me. I refused to attend her funeral.”
Another transport led us to Abby in middle school. She had styled her hair in braided pigtails and wore bright, shiny braces. She had chosen black and orange bands over her brackets in the spirit of Halloween that was only a few weeks away.
“I can’t believe I wore pigtails in middle school,” the adult Abby said, moaning.
“Braids are never out of style,” I said, trying to be helpful.
We were in the cafeteria and Abby was moving slowly through line, smiling and asking each employee if they had a good weekend. “See you tomorrow, Wendy!” Abby said, leaving the cashier. She joined her friends at a table and noticed they were already laughing. “What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Look at Lucy Donovan. She chopped all her hair off for a ballroom dancing competition! She looks so stupid! She looks like a boy!” one of her friends said.
“I think she looks nice,” Abby replied.
Another friend scowled. “Abby, no one has hair that short if they’re a girl.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to be a girl. Or maybe she’s a big ol’ lesbian!”
The others giggled. “She can go to the thrift store and buy a bunch of flannel shirts! She’d be lumberjack lesbian.” A pause. “Or would she be a lumberjill?” Another outburst of laughter followed.
“Lucy is as graceful as they come. Have you ever seen her dance? She’s wonderful,” Abby said defensively. “She’s been competing for years. If her teacher told her she had to cut off her hair, then she didn’t have a choice.”
“Hey, everyone, Abby has a crush on Lucy!”
“I do not!”
“Then why do you keep talking about Lucy like that?” the leader of the group sneered.
“She lives in my neighborhood. I’ve been over to her house and her mom is the one who owns that ballroom dance studio downtown. They’ve tried to teach me a few dances, but I’ve got two left feet.”
“God, Abby, why are you so weird?” the leader snapped.
Abby looked down at her food, then guiltily toward Lucy. She turned to her friends and whispered, “Her house is really weird, you know.”
“Shut up! Tell us all about it!” another friend said excitedly. Suddenly, all of the girls were looking at Abby in awe as she gushed about the strangeness of Lucy’s home.
“Most of that wasn’t even true,” Abby said.
“It wasn’t?” I asked.
“No.” She was looking at Lucy going through the food line. “I just said those things because I didn’t want them to think I was weird anymore.”
“Did they give you a hard time after that?”
“No. Not really. I just wanted to fit in, you know?”
“At the cost of someone else’s dignity.”
“I was a preteen!”
“Preteens are jerks,” I said simply. “Were you happier then?”
Abby answered slowly. “I was happy that they weren’t mean to me and I felt like a part of a group. But, no, I wasn’t happy about putting others down. I just didn’t want to be lonely.”
“You could have chosen different friends,” I pointed out.
She snickered. “That’s not done so easily and you know that.”
“Let’s see something else.”
“This is a really weird dream,” Abby murmured.
“Sure is,” I said hastily. We appeared in a hallway crowded with students. They were gathering different books for their next class and it was easy to spot sixteen-year-old Abby reaching into her own locker.
“Abby, did you know that Jeff Grinder asked me out?” a friend asked. Before Abby could respond, she began to giggle uncontrollably.
“What’s wrong with him?” Abby asked.
“He’s just odd. Like, really odd.”
“I don’t think he is.”
Her friend rolled her eyes. “Whatever. He’s not my type.”
“How is being a nice guy who wants to take you out somewhere not your type?” Abby pressed, annoyed.
“He’s just not my type.” Her friend shrugged.
Abby’s eyes narrowed. “You know what, Linda? He’s a nice guy. He works hard after school at his dad’s mechanic shop and he makes good grades. Your problem with him is that he isn’t part of the popular crowd.”
“You know our people and his kind of people don’t mix.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” Abby snapped. She started to walk away, then paused. She turned around and added, “Get over yourself, Linda!”
“Way to go, Abby!” I cheered.
Present day Abby nodded. “I was so desperate to be a part of the ‘in crowd’ and I didn’t like who I had become. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back I guess. I didn’t like being mean and so I just went along with what other people said. I thought it was better than actually saying mean things myself.”
“What happened to this Jeff fellow?”
“Wait and see,” Abby said. She followed her younger self to her Spanish class and watched as she took a seat next to a young man. He had short, spiky black hair and stubble that wouldn’t be fashionable on men for another fifteen years. He wore a red shirt that said, “Feed the Ferrets. Save a Superhero.”
“Is that him?” I asked, pointing.
“It is,” Abby answered.
The teacher hadn’t arrived in the room yet and Jeff leaned over, whispering to Abby. “I heard what you said.”
“What did I say?” the younger Abby asked.
“Just now. In the hallway.”
“Oh.” Abby blushed. “I didn’t realize you were standing nearby. I’m sorry about Linda. She can be such a bitch.”
Jeff vigorously nodded his head. “That she is! Listen, you don’t have to apologize for her. You’re not her keeper.” He paused, gathering his courage. “I do want to thank you for sticking up for me. People just don’t do that, it seems, but you did. And to the Queen Bee no less.”
Abby blushed even deeper. “You’re welcome,” she said shyly.
“Did you ever date him?” I asked.
A smile tugged at Abby’s lips. “For a couple of months,” she said. “He graduated and went off to college. He lives in St. Louis now, I hear.”
“Abby, didn’t it make you feel good to stand up for someone?”
“It did,” she admitted. “But that’s not why I did it. I did it because it was the right thing to do.”
“Then why can’t you stand up for yourself against that awful Lennox woman?”
She looked at her feet. “I dislike conflict.”
“What about the other teachers? Don’t they say anything to her?”
“I wouldn’t know. I eat lunch in my classroom instead of the teacher’s lounge.”
&nbs
p; “Abby,” I said sternly. “You’re not a teenager anymore. You don’t have to accept that kind of behavior.”
“You don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand?”
“This is my dream, right?” Abby suddenly grabbed my hand and the next memory we saw was her high school graduation. No one except for her family clapped as she walked across the stage to retrieve her diploma.
“After I told Linda to get over herself, I was an outcast. I was always an outcast of the popular clique, really, but they wouldn’t even let me hang out with them after that. I was expendable. I never fell into another group of friends. I had people I talked to during class, but the friendships never went beyond school grounds.”
Another time hop and we were at the University of North Carolina’s library. Abby was twenty-one and sitting with a small group of people in a study group.
“See? You made friends once you got away from high school.”
“Sort of. We lost touch after graduation when we went our separate ways. I went on to graduate school and was too busy to make friends.”
“You’re not too busy now, though. You get out and go to yoga, you go to kickboxing, and you go to church. You’re putting yourself out there.”
“You still don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me,” I said softly.
Abby went to pull out a chair, but her hand passed through it. “I can’t even sit down in my own dream?”
“Sorry, but we don’t technically exist right now.”
She groaned. “Wonderful.”
“Abby,” I said, steering her back to our conversation.
“I only know how to get along with people one way, and that’s through gossip.”
“Gossip can be fun. Studies show that smart people gossip.”
“Really? They’ll waste money to study anything, won’t they?”
“Apparently.”
“I don’t mean innocent gossip. I mean talking about people behind their backs, telling others things that you weren’t supposed to tell. I feel like the way to fit in is to agree with others, regardless of how awful they are. The only way to be accepted is to conform.”
“That’s asinine,” I chided.
“Is it, though? The teachers I work with seem to have forgotten that they’re not in school themselves anymore and they have these cliques. It’s just like high school. You have your popular clique, cool clique, stoners, band geeks, the smart kids, et cetera.”
“You have stoners?”
Abby rolled her eyes. “The county threatens random drug testing, but they don’t actually do it unless there’s reasonable cause. The stoners go home, smoke, and are fine by the time they come to school.”
“Abby, I have to ask, if you’re so unhappy, then why don’t you leave?”
Abby burst into tears. “I couldn’t leave those kids!”
I sent us back to the circus. Out of her memories now, we were able to touch objects and I snapped my fingers for a chair to appear. One didn’t appear out of nowhere; instead, one walked across the three rings and joined us, then spread its arms as if inviting an occupant.
“How nice of you to join us finally,” I said.
“What a weird freaking dream,” Abby repeated, sitting heavily in the chair.
I thought about what the snowman had said. “Have you ever thought about building something?” I asked timidly.
“What? Like a new school?”
“Not necessarily a school, but something that would include the kids.”
Abby quietly stared at the ground, lost in her thoughts.
I checked my watch and sighed. The night was almost over. “Come on, Abby. We need to go to one more place.”
We popped into a fifties-style diner where the smell of greasy, delicious hamburgers was almost intoxicating. A young waitress sauntered over, her ponytail high on her head and tied off neatly with a bright yellow ribbon. “What will you have, honey?” she said.
Abby glanced at the waitress, startled. The woman sounded like she had been smoking cigarettes for the last twenty years.
“Two slices of pie, please.”
“Any preference?”
I thought for a moment. “Apple,” I answered.
Abby finished her pie and I gently touched her hand one last time. She was growing sluggish and I ushered her into her bed, yanking off her shoes and tossing them haphazardly into her closet.
“Am I still dreaming?” she asked, her voice thick.
“Of course,” I replied.
Abby closed her eyes, her breathing already slow and even. Positive that she was fast asleep, I transported myself back to my own bedroom.
Wearily, I sat on the edge of my bed and tugged off my own shoes. Too tired to put them away, I fell back onto my soft mattress.
“You didn’t do too badly,” Simon said.
“You can’t just show up in my room,” I protested grumpily.
“I’m not in your room. I’m talking to you through your phone speaker. Meet me in my office.”
“In the morning,” I replied, stifling a yawn.
“It is the morning,” Simon pointed out.
“Son of a—”
“Don’t say bad things about my mother,” Simon interrupted.
Grumbling, I snapped my fingers and found myself standing in Simon’s office. Another snap and a chaise lounge appeared.
“None of that,” Simon said, waving his hand. My chaise lounge disappeared. “You can sit in a regular chair like everyone else.”
“Can’t you just pat me on the back and tell me I did a good job? I’m not like Abby. Abby is going to wake up feeling refreshed as if she received a full eight hours.”
“Sorry,” Simon apologized insincerely. “There was a glitch last night that we need to discuss.”
“A glitch? She cried, but I expect everyone cries during a memory trip. Scrooge cried like a baby when he had to relive his first love leave him.”
“Scrooge was an asshole.”
“Did you know him?”
“Not personally, but he had to be bad enough that Dickens wrote about him.”
“Funny that people think it’s a work of fiction.”
“If you think that’s funny, then you need to get out more,” Simon chided. He steepled his hands together and leaned forward on his desk. “You went to an unauthorized memory. That she led you to, no less.”
“I thought people could channel whichever memory they wanted.”
Simon frowned. “Carmen, that’s why we send guides instead of sending people out on their own. The guide knows which memories need to be relived.”
“That’s not true,” I argued. “Past had to give me a list. I wouldn’t have known otherwise. That’s why we have the Ghosts as specialists. They can pick out of a person’s brain exactly what needs to be seen.”
“So can a Cupid.”
“I hate fucking Cupids.”
“One shows up at your divorce and suddenly you hate all of them.”
“That was just a bad time to get the paperwork messed up.”
“I won’t disagree with that, but they’re nice. My neighbor is a Cupid. She’s going to let me surprise Cindy with a trip down memory lane to see the first time we met for our anniversary.” Simon’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “I should be thanked for that really well at the end of the night.”
I grimaced. “How bad is this?” I asked, redirecting the conversation.
“It’s bad, Carmen.”
“How much trouble am I in?”
“You’re not in trouble.”
“Are you in trouble for sending me instead of one of the Ghosts?”
Simon shook his head, his jowls quivering with the motion. “I got a little slap on the wrist. The problem is that Fate has a plan and the plan wasn’t followed accordingly.”
“Fate knows that there are outside factors that change plans.” I yawned, this time not bothering to try and stop myself.
“Fate i
s very strict when it comes to memory trips.”
Annoyance was stirring at the pit of my stomach. “Simon, what’s the real problem here?”
“Abby channeled your magic.”
I snickered. “Impossible.”
“Possible. We didn’t think so either until it happened last night.”
I sat up in my chair, suddenly wide awake. “This was just during the memory trip, right?”
Simon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We don’t know.”
“You’re going to have to give me more than that.”
“I can’t tell you what we don’t know. We don’t know if she was able to channel the magic simply because you had taken her on a memory trip. We don’t know if she could do it another time. We don’t even know if this is isolated to one individual. It could be that anyone who isn’t a witch or wizard can touch one who is and do whatever they want.”
“What about the secrecy? Only spouses know and those people aren’t willing to take advantage of their loved ones.”
“You are so naïve sometimes,” Simon said sadly. “While a person may not be willing to take advantage of his or her spouse, that doesn’t stop that person from taking advantage of someone else.”
Nervously, I began to wring my hands. “This is an isolated issue. Abby thought she was dreaming. We’ll just create some kind of special gloves so that only our magic is accessible by us when we take someone on a memory trip. In the meantime, Fate can have a team research all of the stuff you just said and, if necessary, create some sort of spell to prevent magic transference from happening.”
“We’ve thought about that and we will do that. However, there has already been a ripple effect.”
“Simon, I am deeply sorry. I had no idea what kind of trouble that would cause.” I hung my head, ashamed.
“There is one thing that can fix it.”
“What?”
“You need to go back in time and ensure it doesn’t happen.”
“What? People don’t just travel back in time whenever they want.”
“You’re forgetting what your pal, Enid, does for a living.”
“But they don’t affect anything! They’ve taken precautions,” I protested.
“It’s just for that one moment. When you get done seeing Jeff Grinder talk to Abby, don’t ask her about his future. Just take her on to the next memory at the college.”
A Witchly Influence Page 14
