by Kezzy Sparks
I pop the locker door open after entering the combination. To my consternation, the wards have been disturbed! The gorgon cup has been moved to the side and turned around so the protective eyes don't face the hallway. The mirror has been snapped into quarters. This is a serious breach. A big bad force passed through here.
Dreading what might come, I pick up the two pieces of mirror. I will have to find out what happened soon.
For now, I put the two quarters into my tote, and with my heart pounding, rush back to the office.
***
I fight to compose myself as I get back with Mr. Roberts. It’s hard, though, to forget what I saw, and Miss McCartney might be in danger again.
We sit with the principal and the homeroom teacher. Brett Janz is young, perhaps in his early to mid thirties. His face is narrow, with trimmed black sideburns, and he wears fashionable glasses. He is the kind of handsome teacher teen girls might harbor crushes on.
Mr. Janz says, “Mel, I suppose you know we don’t call anyone to our school unless there is an issue.”
“Yes, I know that, sir.”
“Sara is having serious problems focusing,” he adds.
“Really, is she?” I try to think. My sister is at that delicate age when anything could be the reason.
“I take everyone's education seriously,” says Mr. Roberts. “But I hold Sara dear, knowing what you, Mel, have done for us.” He is alluding to that McCartney problem.
“How do my sister's troubles show?” I say for lack of better words.
“She stares around a lot. It’s as if she sees things that others don't,” says Mr. Janz. “And then when you ask her something, she sometimes can't answer. It’s like she wasn't following.”
“Too bad.” I sigh.
“External counselling would be great,” says Mr. Janz. “Does she have a doctor?”
“Of course, she has.”
“I’d suggest a specialist actually,” Brett adds, “so to get a more comprehensive look.”
I hope he isn’t speaking of a mental or psychological evaluation—because if that is what he means, then he is taking things too far too soon. I know my sister very well; she does not have any psychological issues.
The truth is something must be occurring again at this school, and Sara is seeing that. She can’t just be failing to concentrate for no apparent reason. Mr. Janz is too new to know of Miss McCartney's problem and, therefore, has no clue. And then there are those desecrated wards that hint at a prowling, menacing force.
“Thanks for letting me know; I’ll take things up,” I say.
“Talk to her and find out.” Mr. Roberts pays me a concerned look. “We want only the best for her.”
I couldn’t expect any less of that from the dedicated professional I see in him.
“It’s been a pleasure meeting with you, sirs,” I say. “Your concerns are very much appreciated. Good afternoon.” I stand up to go.
My head is swimming in turmoil, but I tell myself to be strong. Things will get sorted out if I work on them.
Ten
I walk back to the parking lot. Since no messages came to the office it means, apart from this new problem of broken wards, I no longer have any other urgent things to work on and might as well take my family break. It’s my usual practice to take such breaks since I work long hours that extend late into the night, and then I also have Sara who needs me, so I must stop for a bit to go and be with her for a while before I drive back to the office. Today, however, there is a date in the works. I must go to Tonawanda to meet with my boyfriend.
Kay lives alone in an apartment on Main. He is a student and doesn’t drive and so the duty to pick him up when we go out usually falls on me.
He is always fun to meet. I decide to dial right away as the expectation of seeing him washes through me.
“How are you doing darling?” He sounds thrilled.
“Really good, really well,” I say.
We have a bit of small talk, and then I tell him I can come over.
“How long will you be?” he asks.
“Not too long,” I say. “Expect me in like thirty.”
“Oh, baby, that’s too long. I need you here, like right now.”
I smile at his words; he is like that mostly, saying things that tickle me the right way.
In a second, the phone clicks shut; the date is on.
Now my eyes dart to myself. I want to impress, but I am still dressed in the same clothes I took to work this morning. The dark slacks and blue flannel shirt may be okay for the office but are so unsuitable for a romantic outing. I will go get something from the mall, as I feel I don’t have anything at home that will give me the look I want.
The Western Senior, where I still am, is not far from the Southgate Plaza, which also happens to be the shopping place nearest to our home. I know the stores there far too well, and I drive and park at Laura’s, a boutique I have window shopped numerous times.
Inside, I quickly search for a fashion consultant to help me, knowing my lack of time. Many shoppers usually take too long where gear selection is concerned, and I am no exception.
“Show me something nice, but won’t break the bank,” I say to the girl. “I have a date like right now.”
“What colors or styles, ma’am?”
I settle for a frilly polyester blouse, and a teal-colored skirt with some dark patterns on it that will help match the black shoes I wear. The skirt exposes a little of my thighs, but that’s perhaps even better for a romantic meet.
Feeling more confident, I dart back to the Vic. The roads are now thick with traffic as if the evening’s upward-creeping temperatures have summoned all kinds of drivers from hibernation. Subarus crawl behind BMWs, which inch behind Cherokees, and the chains are long, snaking on the blacktop.
Kay lives in a studio apartment on a block on Main Street, close to the Tonawanda Creek. As I exit from Delaware Street, I can already smell his favorite colognes, and I wonder which exact one he will put on today. He is not overly fancy regarding scents and usually goes for the midprice stuff like Tommy Hilfiger or Calvin Klein, but I am fine with any, really.
Even without a car, my boyfriend has a parking space rented to him by the building owners. He uses it only for those times when he has brought home a rental, but that’s far in between. Invariably, therefore, I take it each time I visit.
A hazy sense of ownership flutters in my brain as I slot the Vic into the space. I fight back the preposterous feeling, cautioning myself that with Kay we are only just beginning, and haven’t reached that point of deep commitment yet. Avoiding rushing things too soon is something I think I am good at, but I must confess that with Kay, it has been rather hard. And when I think of it, I can’t help imagining there is a clock in me that’s ticking fast, secretly urging me to consider settling down.
From the Vic, I fetch the bag of clothes from Laura’s, and then I bring my handbag with a makeup kit in it. The jean tote with my witch-hunting paraphernalia can remain in the car, because Kay is a regular guy not endowed with magical gifts, nor is he a firm believer in supernatural things, so I can’t unnecessarily expose him to my magical knick-knacks. Guild rules are that we don’t bother those who have no association with magic.
At the door, I punch his number into the intercom pad. While I do that, I grin to myself as I remember my magic door openers, but that’s beside the point.
“Is that you, jeez, come right in.”
The lock clicks, and I swing the door open. My heart starts to pump as I go up the elevator. Will he kiss me and what will it feel like?
At his unit, I only knock once and then try the handle. The door isn’t locked.
“Mel, sweetest, I missed you.”
“I missed you, too, honey.” What a lot of cozy little words from a couple that hasn’t slept together yet.
He takes me into his arms, and his lips awkwardly brush my cheek. He smells of that spicy cologne that—oh dumb me—I can’t exactly name.
“My love, how have you been keeping?”
“Very well, you?”
Today he wears a pair of Levi’s jeans and a blue shirt that clearly is from American Eagle Outfitters. I pat myself. That, at least, I have been able to place.
“What did you bring us?” He takes the bag with the new clothes.
“Nothing for you, mister.”
My heart races again when I regard his face. He is twenty-seven but has boyish looks, accentuated by the fact he is slim—almost to the point of being called thin. His jaw is straight, and he has a full mouth, but when he smiles, he has spaces in his teeth. Something he could get a dentist to fix, but it’s not one of my urges to get him to do so. And neither is it his, apparently.
His living area is a library in itself. There are thick volumes on his couch. There is one that’s open on his oval coffee table. His giant bookshelf is decorated with similar compendiums, and there are lots of trade magazines on the top shelf. It’s not surprising, since he is a doctoral student at NYSU, and I imagine he has been up to quite some studying.
Kay catches me gazing at the chaotic order and says, “Never mind, you know I’m so messy.”
“Messy with books is great,” I say.
Actually I don’t lie when I make that remark. Some time ago I was deep into studying myself, and in some way, the thick volumes in here are a stark reminder of the life I left behind. Before getting called to witch hunting, my hope had been that I become a lawyer one day. And to that end, I completed an undergraduate degree and then got admitted into law studies—which, though, I couldn’t finish. Main problem was that I ended up doing two things at the same time, both studying and witch hunting, and then when I got so busy with the latter, the former had to go.
“Can I fix you something before we go?” Kay asks, yanking me back to the present.
“A Diet Coke, please, but that will be for later; now I will take a quick shower,” I say. “I must be stinking.”
It has become my practice, should I have come straight from the office or the field, to shower here before a date. I run the hot water over my body, soaking myself, then brush my teeth before applying my makeup. I chase Kay out of the room to put on the new clothes.
Glancing into the mirror, I see a little transformed wizardess. People say I have mysterious brown eyes, and they probably aren’t far from the mark. My complexion is a shade between pale and dark, but my hair is completely black and wavy.
“You look gorgeous, Mel. Here's your Diet Coke,” Kay says when he is back.
In a few moments, we are out. We are heading to a Red Lobster in nearby Amherst—because Kay is a sucker for seafood. For fun, we alternate to choose which roads to get to a destination, and Kay’s choice today is for us to head south east on Young and then merge onto Route 425. The sun is far from setting, and those jasmine and lavender aromas are swirling around our nostrils, transporting us to somewhere heavenly and tranquil.
Inside the restaurant, we are serenaded to a table near the bar, which to me is a bit of a bummer because it’s louder there, and when I am with Kay, I like it quiet. You don’t, though, always get what you want, even if you know how to bust black magic, do you?
A few guys are drinking and watching sports TV, mainly analyses of the recent hockey and basketball games. Kay loves football, and I prefer basketball more, but then there is no NBA franchise in Buffalo, whereas I have accompanied him to one or two Bills games.
Unlike in the car, we now swim headily in the airs of a real seafood restaurant. Wafting is the aroma of salmon, halibut, fried shrimps, along with steamed veggies like baby carrots, onions, and broccoli.
We make our orders. He selects an entrée of lobster tail with shrimps in butter. I do love lobster, too, sometimes, but now I show my independence by opting instead for a filet of salmon served with a baked potato. For drinks, he has a Miller Lite while I must choose an alcohol-free vodka cocktail—because my workday is not over, and I am going to drive a lot tonight.
As we sit and chat, I start to dread where this date will take us. If I heard Kay well before, it’s about seeing how to get to the next level, whatever that means.
Truly, that statement is loaded, and it sets off a storm of butterflies in my stomach. We have only been seeing each other once or twice a week or so, but have remained platonic, and I quiver at the prospect that this innocent stage might be passing soon.
“Mel, you know it’s been four months.” Kay smiles. “And I’m hoping for a little celebration.”
Yeah, that’s it there, pretty much, but I also know how to play a few word games myself. “Champagne and caviar, I can't afford that.” I laugh a bit.
He smiles again. Jeez, how I love those tiny gaps in his otherwise perfect teeth.
“Absolutely nothing too deep, just a little touchy-feely, Mel.”
“Where, Mr. Romantic?” I try to stare him down.
Now in his gray eyes, a hot naked need glints. “Won’t my cramped little apartment do? I know how to roll out a red carpet.”
“I have been in there fifteen times before, today was the sixteenth.” I glare at him.
“As a casual visitor, yes, but not as a… you know.”
I gasp. “Kay, who is giving you those ideas?”
“I’ve never decorated my apartment with roses, but for you I will.”
“I’m allergic,” I say, “to everything that smells like roses.”
“Mine will be magical. They will change you.”
“Don’t tell me you now know how to work magic.”
“For you, I can. And please tell me you’ll stay for one night.” He checks my bust.
A flutter hovers in my chest; I like the idea. It’s been a long while since I was in bed with a man, and somehow this dude creates in me a longing. He is not built so tough and muscular like I might have dreamt of in my teenage years, but I find his slimness quite alluring. Almost delicate. I check him out and almost whisper, baby why not tonight…
“Let’s keep working on it,” I say, more sensibly. “One of these days it sure will happen.”
Kay half rises from his seat and grabs my hand. He pulls me toward him with an intensity of emotion only exceeded by that sparkly gray in his eyes. Our lips meet, his are beery, but I am overpowered by the sense this awaited night might just come sooner. Much sooner perhaps than I ever had imagined.
Thank God, it’s time to head back.
We drive out the lot. Kay is speaking faster because he is a little drunk. I like him more when he is like that, because a side of him comes out that you would never see when he is sober.
It’s getting darker when I drop him back at his apartment. We kiss again in the car, just before he opens the door. He leaves my lips burning. I almost call him back as he pops out.
“Goodnight sweetheart,” I say to the dark empty air.
***
I met him late last year at a Halloween party held at the university. Then, he had just started his doctoral studies, having completed both his undergraduate and master’s degrees at Syracuse.
Halloween day, I remember well, was on a Wednesday last year, and some folks I know were grumbling that hump day wasn’t the most perfect one, and would have loved it more if it was a Friday—but, hey, don’t we all know how that happens only once in seven years.
Myself, I am not entirely big on this witchy occasion, and so with no clue whatsoever as to what might happen, I suddenly got a call for a job at the event. The reason I was needed was that word had filtered to the organizers that actual witches and wizards wanted to attend.
“There is going to be lots of booze and revelry,” Sheena, the party’s main organizer explained in greater detail, “and we fear spells might be cast, and one or two guests could be taken advantage of.”
I of course knew she meant taken advantage of sexually, a thing that often happens during or after such parties. Honestly, it’s hard at times to believe what some bad people will use their magical powers for. Sheena wanted me to work as
the undercover magic police, and I agreed—which meant I would take care of anyone who tried to do illegal things by means of supernatural powers.
“No problem, I will come, see you then.” I accepted.
On the day, for the first time in I don’t know how many years, I wore an actual Halloween costume. The dress was black, with white and red skeletons, and skull and crossbones. I topped it off with a black witch’s hat. My stockings were red, as well as my boots. I didn’t wear a face mask but put on a garish dark makeup.
In the party room were lots of googly-eyed attendees, and beer and wine and whiskies were being swilled while horror-laced rock music boomed from disco-style speakers.
That night, my strategy was to take preventive action and break any curses or spells before they took effect. And so I would secretly surf the air with my sniffer, and if I sensed something I would break it with my hammer. This was a merry party, therefore I wasn’t going to arrest anyone for using black magic.
And further, I blew a neutralizer concoction into the air as a precaution—to weaken any spells that might be cast while I wasn’t looking. Truly, some baddies had stolen in, and I sensed a lot of mischievous spell casting attempts, though I never stood up to point at anyone. It’s illegal anyway according to US law to publicly pronounce someone a witch or a spellcaster. You can get into big trouble for that.
So, I continued with the breaking and neutralizing. They don’t call me The Breaker for nothing.
Later on, however, things got hot, and the party room practically became a war zone, magically speaking. The mischief was intense. It soon got to a point where in spite of my previous plans, I now wanted to know who was trying to cast all those rascally spells. I was ready for a confrontation, and to make an arrest if needed.
I started eyeing for suspects. Funny enough, Kay was the first to fall into my suspicions radar. He sat at a table near the door, nursing a whiskey—or was it a cognac? He wasn’t talking much, nor was he hitting on the tipsy young googly-eyed girls. He looked devilishly handsome in the strobe lights.
