“Of course!” Brooke cries, splashing in frustration. “Do you think I want anything bad to happen to her? I love her!”
With tensions rising, I step in. “No one wants anything bad for Iris,” I reply. “We all have her best intentions at heart, even if we want different things.” Realizing an opportunity, I press on. “Brooke, I have to ask: What will Iris’s life be like once she’s a mermaid?’
Brooke tilts her head to one side. “What do you mean?”
“Like, what do you do all day, beside swim with the fishes?”
She looks confused, like she’s unsure what I’m asking. “Well, I do a lot. I wake up, I go to work—”
“You have a job?” I interrupt.
“Of course I do,” she says, slightly offended. “Merpeople are the ones who keep the oceanic community running. I mean, you can’t rely on sharks to be law keepers.”
“So you’re, like, in the government?”
“Yes. Iris has told me my job is the equivalent of what a mayor does on land. I hold weekly reef meetings, alert the community to current changes, send out public service announcements on the dangers of fishermen’s bait. Once Iris joins me, she wants to get involved as well. Or…if she joins me…”
“Wow.” I guess life as a mermaid isn’t a 24/7 tropical vacation after all. Maybe my worries are unfounded? “Don’t worry, Brooke, we won’t let Victoria win. My mom is a witch, and she’s doing everything she can to overturn this trick.”
This reassurance does little to calm Brooke, and why would it? She doesn’t know me or Mom. She only knows her girlfriend is in trouble. I kneel down, laying my frosty hand on top of hers. Our eyes meet, and I’m given another view into the mermaids’ romantic future. Brooke and Iris, swimming together, hand in hand, in water so clear, I can see all the way down to the ocean floor. They’re surrounded by tropical fish and hot-pink coral, and their smiles are so bright, they’re like sunlight kissing the waves. I squeeze her freezing fingers, wishing I could transfer this vision to give her hope.
“You’ll be together,” I whisper. “It’s meant to be.”
Her expression brightens slightly. Perhaps Iris shared her matchmaking experience with Brooke. Still, our news has clearly exhausted her, and she seems eager to be alone.
“Thank you,” she replies. “Please, try to keep me updated with any changes. I’ll be there on the full moon, waiting.” She starts sinking back, but not before adding, “And tell Iris I love her. Hopefully…that will help.” Brooke swims away, her shiny tail lapping the water a few times before she disappears completely.
Back home, I can’t seem to get warm, no matter how many blankets I pile on. The events of the morning have left me drowning, submerged in cold from my head to my heart. Thinking of Brooke, and the guilt she must be feeling over setting her love on a difficult path, I can’t say it’s something I’m unfamiliar with. The choices we make while under love’s spell sometimes have unexpected consequences.
I’M fidgeting too much. Problem is, I know I’m fidgeting too much, and the acknowledgment of my fidgeting is making me fidget more. Everything is uncomfortable: this plastic waiting-room chair, this too-tight-across-the-shoulders blazer Mom insisted conveys professionalism and maturity, this scent of slightly burning pie crust wafting from down the hall. This is the Culinary Institute, for Gods’ sakes! Shouldn’t someone be telling that inexperienced noob to take out the way-too-golden dough already?! The smell of that alone is enough to give me hives.
Multiply all of that by the fact that any minute now, Mr. Pru will be ushering me in for my interview. I can’t even imagine what he will ask me, and the thought of having to answer questions about myself in real time is pushing me over the edge. It took months to finish my application essay questions, and those were only a few basic queries. Everything I wrote always sounded either too corny or too insincere; finally, I managed to put together something balancing my severe need to be accepted without verging into desperation. But now the questions will surely be harder, and I won’t be able to edit my responses. If only there were autocorrect for speech.
It doesn’t help, either, that I’m still exhausted from last night’s adventure and this morning’s mermaid rendezvous. Why all of this had to happen right before the biggest conversation of my life is an unfair mystery. I let out a huge yawn just as Mr. Pru emerges from his office. Tall and lanky, with a neatly piled man bun, he’s not exactly who I pictured meeting with. Though I envisioned a French pastry chef with a curlicue mustache, now I realize that was probably unrealistic for someone who works in admissions.
“Amber Sand, I presume?” he asks, outstretching his right palm. I shake it heartily (a firm handshake equals success!) as I hop up to my feet. Even though I’m business-casual on top, my trusty Chuck Taylors keep me grounded. I brush back a few wayward peacock strands and do my best to stand tall and confident, even though I’m so nervous, my bones feel liquefied.
“Nice to meet you,” I manage, flashing an unnaturally wide smile. I know they say you should be yourself at these kinds of things, but my instincts are on the verge of tears, which would probably not be the best impression.
“Please, right this way.” His office is filled with expertly photographed pictures of food—extreme close-ups of dripping chocolate and moist cake crumbs. I don’t know how he’d get any work done in here, with so many visuals always stimulating his palate.
“So, Amber, the admissions board was quite intrigued by your application,” he says, taking a seat across from me. “You submitted some of the most unique essays we’ve read in a while.”
“Oh?” “Unique” is one of those special words with a large spectrum of definitions, ranging anywhere from “amazing” to “what in the world is happening here?” “I’m not really a writer, you know. It’s just that baking is my passion, and I wanted to put that out there.”
He smiles, and my blood pressure goes down a few levels. “Well, you succeeded on that front. I’ve never had anyone go into so much detail regarding her feelings toward butter.”
I squeak out a nervous laugh, shifting in my seat. “Butter is a building block of baking, after all.”
“Indeed.” He beams. “When did you first start?”
“Um, I’ve always spent a lot of time in the kitchen with my mom. She”—I try to create a visual that doesn’t involve frog legs or bubbling cauldrons—“taught me the fundamentals.”
“Wonderful. And I see you have some real-world kitchen experience, working at MarshmElla’s, is it? Tell me about that.”
“Of course!” And we begin a real dialogue, exchanging kitchen catastrophes and successes, touching on some of our favorite recipes and techniques. It all spills out so effortlessly; for a good while, I forget he’s evaluating my responses. The next time I look at the clock, thirty minutes have passed by, and I realize I’ve stopped sweating profusely.
“Well, Amber, the reason I brought you in today is that here at the Culinary Institute, we work very closely as a team, especially once you choose your specialty,” Mr. Pru says. “Since you’re learning a trade, you won’t get the experience you require from a textbook, which is why everyone needs to merge together toward a common goal. I like to meet potential candidates to see what kind of vibe the freshman class is gathering, and if students will mesh well together.” He leans forward. “A true chef, as you know, is difficult to capture on paper. It’s essential to understand the beating heart that moves the hands.”
I nod, hoping my heart has proven true. Everything he’s saying, everything surrounding me, has 100 percent convinced me that this is where I’m meant to be. I hope he can sense that too.
“I’m conducting these sit-downs throughout the week, and it won’t be long thereafter that we make our final decisions.” He stands, walking over to the door. “In the meantime, it was a pleasure speaking to you, Amber; I thoroughly enjoyed our conversation.”
“Me too, thank you,” I say, shaking his hand again. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
I leave with a swirl of pride and confidence: two feelings I haven’t encountered in quite some time. I’m practically skipping down the street when I hear a familiar voice call out to me. “Someone’s full of sunshine.”
At first, I’m convinced I’ve imagined it, that my happiness must be manifesting into something truly epic (and delusional). Cautiously, I turn around, just in case the voice’s owner is actually there and not singing in my head.
“Charlie?” He’s here, in the flesh, not a figment of my imagination. And I’ve been imagining him a lot, especially since he’s been MIA at school and in my life as a whole. I’m left stunned on the sidewalk, because he looks…so damn good, as always: the same smushable face and ridiculously warm glow. His peacoat is unbuttoned, revealing a pink button-down with navy-blue woven tie. And a coordinating tie clip, of course. It’s all working toward one emotionally paralyzed Amber. “What are you doing here?”
“I knew you’d be here. Thought I’d see how your interview went.” Putting aside the fact that he came here—FOR ME SPECIFICALLY—I can’t help but notice how he’s hanging back, not allowing any less than five feet between us. Maybe that’s the requisite distance needed while interacting with an ex, or maybe he doesn’t trust what either of us would do if we came even closer. If it’s the latter, I can’t say I fault his logic; seeing him after such a long absence has me ready to smother him on sight. Better to test the waters slowly.
“That’s very sweet of you,” I say, keeping myself within the allotted boundary. “It went really well, I think.”
“Good, good. I’m happy for you.” We’re both looking around like it’s raining squirrels. Every time I steal a glance his way he’s staring elsewhere, and I wonder if he’s sneaking peeks at me too. He has to be, right? Or why else would he have come?
“Where have you been?” I ask. “I haven’t seen you at school.”
“Oh, well, my dad had a trip to Shanghai—it’s one of Chicago’s sister cities. He thought it would be educational for me to come along.”
“China. Wow.”
“Yeah. He goes on trips like that a lot, but I don’t always go. The timing for this one…happened to work out.”
Good Gods, I didn’t realize I had driven him out of the country. That has to be some sort of all-time matchmaker low. “Was it cool?”
“Honestly?” He lets his gaze finally rest on me. “It was a nightmare.” I try to fight it, to keep my eyes from meeting his, because the last thing I want is for Kim to interrupt this moment. But there’s nowhere else to look; I can feel him staring, begging me to meet his eye. So I do, bracing myself for a scene I haven’t had to endure in a while.
Only…there’s something wrong in the transmission, because when our eyes meet, I’m not flooded with the usual courtship barf-fest I’ve come to expect. I don’t see Kim; I don’t even see Charlie: everything blurs to a fuzzy static, like old-timey television stations that didn’t have 24/7 programming. I rub my eyes, wondering if I’m having an aneurysm, but the static continues. Charlie, interpreting my reaction as emotional (and not technical) difficulties, asks, “Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry, I’m just…I feel bad you didn’t have a good time,” I say, which isn’t completely untrue.
“Yeah, well, I was a little distracted,” he admits, turning away, giving me the opportunity to stare without embarrassment. What happened to my visions? Did I short-circuit? I have never, ever looked someone in the eye and been greeted with anything less than total clarity. Am I doing something wrong? Or is it like with Ivy—have I made so many matches that my magic is all used up, leaving me a washed-up matchmaker with nothing left to give?
“I know what you mean,” I say, trying to concentrate on the conversation at hand.
“Do you?” When he looks at me again, his eyes are starting to shine.
“Yes, Charlie, I do. Do you think I wanted to break up with you? That that was fun for me? I lasted as long as I could, but it was eating me alive.”
“And now? How do you feel now?” he asks with accusation, as if the possibility of me feeling better now would be a crime.
“Awful, I feel awful. Everything that’s happened has left me totally ripped up inside. I only did what I thought was right; I followed the code I’ve learned to rely on. I want what’s best for us—for you—but I don’t know what that is.”
He shakes his head, unsatisfied with my answer. But it’s the truth. My heart wants me to leap into his arms, to kiss him like no one is watching, but my head knows I’ll only end up in the same place, tortured by his future with another girl. No matter how hard it is for either of us, staying apart seems like the only option.
“Yeah, well, your visions were wrong,” Charlie says.
“You can’t know that.”
He kicks a dirty clump of ice. “Actually, I can.”
Without warning, my heart takes off, thumping so hard it’s hard to breathe. “What do you mean?”
Keeping his focus glued to the sidewalk, he says in the quietest voice possible, “I kissed Kim.”
Everything around me starts to spin like a Tilt-A-Whirl. “You…what?”
He swallows hard, shaking his head. “I kissed Kim. I was so mad at you for believing in something other than us that I just had to do it. To prove you wrong.”
I laugh in disbelief. “Let me get this straight. To prove me wrong you went and did the exact thing I predicted?”
“Yes, which I know sounds dumb, but when I kissed her—”
“Stop! I don’t want to hear it.”
“When I kissed her,” he repeats forcefully, “I felt nothing. Like, even less than nothing, if that’s possible.”
“Sure, I bet,” I sneer, tears building. “And I’m guessing she hated it too because kissing you is such torture.”
“She acted like she did. She pushed me off her, saying she could never betray you like that.”
“Well, that makes one of you,” I say.
He frowns, a single tear rolling down his cheek. “That’s not fair.”
Every single vision I’ve ever had of the two of them starts to play in my head at once, fueling my anger. “No, you’re right. None of this is fair!” I yell. “It’s not fair that I fell for someone destined for someone else, and it’s not fair that I’m always right.”
“But you’re not! That’s what I’m trying to tell you!”
“Whatever. I can’t…deal with this right now.” He takes a step toward me, but I brush him off.
“Amber, please. I’m telling you this because I love you.”
It takes a second to fully let his words sink in. I’m frozen, the bomb shrapnel paralyzing my heart. Charlie loves me, Charlie loves me…but Charlie kissed Kim. What am I supposed to do? I don’t know what this means, or how I should feel. Pissed that he kissed another girl, or satisfied that my visions were true? My visions…which have suddenly gone offline, feeding me a new layer of supernatural torture. Though I guess if my magic is truly maxed out, I won’t have to witness any more visions of Charlie and Kim’s love life. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise.
Finally I regain blood flow to my limbs, and I run off, ignoring his calls behind me. I don’t want to talk to him again until I process, and until I figure out what this fuzziness in his eyes means.
“BOB, please stand still. You have to wait for our signal.” For probably one of the first times in his life, Bob is a bouncing ball of energy, practically hopping from foot to foot. Of course when I need him to stop blocking the dry herb supply closet in the storage room, he’s a four-hundred-pound glacier, but when asked to be part of a spell, he’s all over the place. Mom’s put a lot of effort into his rehabilitation, slowly building his access to magical situations, but since he’s twittering like a toddler on Christmas morning, I’d say he still has a way to go.
“Bob! Seriously!” I scold, taking hold of his massive shoulders in an attempt to glue him to the floor.
“I’m sorry, Amber, I just…I’m so excited,�
�� he says. He takes a deep breath, inhaling for five long seconds before letting it go. Awareness of breath is a very Zen thing, beloved by Buddhists, Wiccans, and recovering magic addicts everywhere. Bob repeats this several times and finally manages to hit his mark.
“Okay, are you ready?” I ask, taking cover behind my matchmaking table. I’m not really a fan of magical side effects; one wrong ingredient and you can find yourself with an extra appendage in the morning (which I know is ridiculous, because obviously it takes more than twelve hours to grow an arm, but still).
Bob exhales his final breath and nods. Mom takes her stance at the opposite end of the shop and pulls a handful of what looks like black sand out of a pail. She gives me the signal, and I yell, “Charge!”
With surprising speed, Bob barrels toward Mom, fists balled tight and jaw clenched. Mom tosses the sand in Bob’s direction and calls out, “Prohibere!” in hopes that she will freeze his attack. For a moment, he does stop, both legs dangling midair like giant sausages. It’s quite a sight, seeing a man his size suspended in space like he’s caught in Jell-O, but his will is too strong, and he breaks free, instantly crashing into Mom and the two display tables flanking her. Feathers and vials go flying as Bob lies lifelessly in a body-crushing heap.
“Mom!” I leap out from my hiding spot and grab hold of Bob’s shirttail, trying to roll him off my poor mother. He slumps over, unconscious, into a puddle of hair-removal tonic that broke open. Yikes, that won’t end well for him. “Mom, are you okay?”
Other than a few stray feathers sticking out of her hair, she seems unscathed. “It’s still not right,” Mom grunts, pushing herself up on her elbows. She doesn’t seem to care that she was knocked to the ground and almost suffocated to death, or that the shop looks like a rabid donkey ran through it. “It’s not strong enough.”
“But he did pause, at least,” I offer, helping her off the ground. “That’s progress, right?”
She takes no pleasure in small victories, dusting the wreckage from her ankle-length skirt in angry swipes. Ever since Victoria turned Iris into a mindless slave, Mom has been extra hard on herself, spending every moment of free time working on offensive combat spells. Her plan is to have all angles covered on the night of the full moon, making it impossible for Victoria to walk away the victor. But since Mom’s usually more of an earth-mother, white-light kind of gal, the darker stuff is taking much more effort. I think about Victoria’s words, about Mom abandoning her “dark” practices, and how that’s hurting us now. Not that I want my only parental unit to subscribe to the dark arts, but given the circumstances, I do wonder what the previous Lucille could have whipped out of her arsenal.
The Sweetest Kind of Fate Page 17
