Almost Magic

by Kathleen Bullock

  “Hot bods in Hades!” I waved my hands at exhaust fumes and groaned. “I did it again.”

  I glanced up and down the highway, wondering if I could hitch. The cars sped past without even one driver darting a glance my way. I started walking.

  As I trudged, my mind ran over all the spells I could remember. (A short list.) Nothing seemed quite right. And I sensed another crisis coming—one almost as disastrous for me as the End of the World. My father read the Ordinary people’s newspapers. It wouldn’t help my chances of attending eighth grade if he read a report about a flying scooter.

  By noon, weary and ravenous, I crashed at a rest-stop picnic table and unfolded Wanda. “Make me a hot dog—succulent, steamy; layered with mustard—spicy and creamy!” Then, horrified at what I’d said, I quickly amended. “I mean, BRING me a frankfurter with mustard.” One ALWAYS had to be very precise with magical requests, and Wanda was more particular than most, so I held my breath until the food appeared. The last thing I needed was to be turned into a hot dog!

  I thought about that renegade scooter again. I hoped it had a homing spell and hadn’t gone rogue. Cornelia was very possessive about her scooter. And unforgiving.

  “Eleven hours, twenty-five minutes, and point zero seven seconds—no, point zero six seconds left!”

  Phil had taken to whimpering. I stuffed the hot dog down my throat and jumped to my feet, holding the wand with my less-mustardy hand. “Okay, forgive me for losing the scooter, Wanda; forgive me for misspeaking the spell. YOU handle this next one however you choose. Please take us to the city before the Earth explodes—unless you really want to be a splinter on a junk heap in the sky.”

  Zap! My head spun and my heart stuck in my throat as I found myself joggled up and down on the back seat of a bus headed in the right direction. As usual, when some kind of magic was involved, none of the Ordinaries seemed to notice. My plant and I sat back feeling glum. “Good work, Wanda,” I praised with as much fervor as I could muster, while fuming inside. Why couldn’t she take us straight to the Magician? She would have done it for Corny, if Corny had asked. I smacked my head. Of course! I hadn’t asked, and that made all the difference. Another lesson learned too late.

  Time ticked on, and I imagined a cartoon image of a stick of dynamite with a not-so-long fuse sputtering and sparking as it gobbled up the line.

  Phil’s leaves perked up. “ZR-19 straight ahead. Eleven hours, two minutes, and fifty-six seconds.

  By dusk, we found ourselves in a bus terminal at the end of the line. I stretched my spine and shook the kinks out of my legs after our long ride. (It wouldn’t have been half as long if the scooter hadn’t totally taken us in the wrong direction from the start.) The neighborhood where we found ourselves was old and run-down with a hodge-podge of little storefronts (many boarded up), and shady characters loitering on street corners. Shadows grew as the sun sank in the sky. Most passersby ignored us, but I still felt anxious. “Have you picked up any vibes yet, Phil? If so, we’d better hurry and follow them.”

  “19 is close. His mind is shuttered, but I sense his Being. His Being is very happy. Keep advancing in northwest direction, Apollonia Louise Bramblewood. Time allotted is shrinking.”

  The direction meant nothing to me, but when he said “turn,” I turned. When he said “straight,” I went straight. The streets grew darker. I held Wanda in a sweaty palm and felt her hand-carved shaft tremble. Not an encouraging sign.

  We wandered streets and byways for hours—me, tired, achy, and nearly asleep on my feet, Phil, deeply agitated, and Wanda, retracted. We only managed to keep going because we believed the fate of the world was in our hands.

  Suddenly, I spotted a possible clue.

  I tore a poster off a telephone pole and read it aloud. “Listen to this—‘The Happy Medium Bar and Grill—Soul Food and Séances—Presents the Prestidigitation of Marvelous Maynard the Magician. Three Shows Nightly.’”

  “Prestidigitation,” I explained, proud of my vocabulary, “means tricky sleight of hand. Marvelous Maynard? He’s got to be the one you’re looking for, right?”

  “Go left.”

  After a few more turns, I found myself facing a tavern door with red and blue glass windowpanes and a sign that proclaimed The Happy Medium Bar and Grill. Cautiously, we entered a crowded room abuzz with chattering voices, clinking tableware, blinking neon lights, and weird, spacey music.

  I set Phil in the center of the last available table, perched myself on a wobbly chair, and tried mighty hard to look as inconspicuous and as old as possible. “Is Nineteen here?” I whispered from the side of my mouth.

  Phil’s leaves moved up and down. “Yes.”

  “Ahhh. So Marvelous Maynard is the one?”

  Phil hesitated. His glossy leaves thrashed again. “Maybe.”

  I leaned close. “The show will start in a few minutes and then we’ll know. What’s the plan?”

  He shrugged his leaves. “I am still potted plant. I am hoping for the miracle.”

  I blinked my tired eyes and clutched the sides of my stool. “Now I get it, Wanda. He’s counting on me—well, us—to solve this problem.” I felt the weight of the Earth pressing on my shoulders—just like that famous statue of Atlas.

  A drum roll signaled the start of the show. A beak-nosed guy with a gray ponytail pranced onto the stage and raised his hands. “Ladies and dudes, listen up,” he yelled. “Marvelous Maynard fell out of a tree and had to make an unexpected trip to the hospital. The Happy Medium proudly presents his apprentice, Amazing Arnold.”

  Amazing Arnold was a rotund little fellow with wild staring eyes and a tuxedo coat too tight for him. He fumbled through a few tricks, dropped cards, and missed cues. The crowd booed and threw things, making the so-called magician mess-up even more.

  My eyes widened. “Oh no, if Maynard isn’t the one, where is ZR-19? Surely not inside Arnold?”

  Phil began to quiver so hard I thought he’d shake himself off the table. “Behind you!” he screamed in my head.

  I cupped hands over my ears. “Hey! Don’t think so loud!”

  A figure loomed in the corner of my eye. Wanda squirmed under my hand, reminding me that I was out of my league.

  “Here’s a little tip, honeybun.” The silky drawl sounded close and familiar. “Never bother with a two-bit magician when there’s a first-class witchy-poo to grab. I found this model dancing in the woods last night.”

  I whirled and almost wept with relief. “Cornelia!”

  I’d never been so happy to see my sister in my life.

  “Well, well, the teenybopper sister. Green, but feisty.” Cornelia turned her attention on the plant. “You’re looking a little green yourself, ZR-20. Hard trip? I knew you’d trace me here. I’ve been waiting inside this gold medal wizard to settle our score and get you off my trail once and for all.”

  “Corny?” My voice cracked. Wanda snapped to attention. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

  “Ya think?”

  Oh, it took me a while, but my flabbergast button had finally been pressed. Cornelia was possessed by ZR-19!

  The imposter pointed Corny’s wand at Phil. “Would Corn-girl do this?” Phil flew across the room, hovered in the spotlight, and then dropped with a horrifying smash on the stage.

  The crowd cheered. Amazing Arnold fled.

  “You slimeball,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “Get out of my sister’s body right now or I’ll…I’ll…” Realizing I couldn’t let Wanda zap the villain while he had possession of Cornelia’s body, I grabbed my sister’s arm and made a desperate attempt to contact her. “Corny! Corny! Snap out of it!”

  No go. Blank wall. Dead end.

  I switched gears and decided to talk directly to the alien and try not to sound desperate. “Listen, ZR-19, you probably don’t know this, but the Mighty Apex is going to blast this world to smithereens any minute now.”

  “Twelve minutes, twenty-seven seconds,” murmured Phil from across the room.

 
; I stared at ZR-19/Corny. “You and I, and everyone else in this place, will go ka-boom. Only the Eye is indestructible, remember?”

  “Thanks for the tip, Toots, but the Eye and I will be long gone. There’s a nifty little planet on the other side of the galaxy beckoning. Say goodbye to the potted plant for me.”

  Again, frantic, I tried pleading with the sister who I knew must still exist inside somewhere. “Corny! Don’t let that alien monster use you! Show your stuff! Kick him out!”

  Cornelia’s body froze in mid-step. I held my breath. Did she hear me?

  My hopes rose like crazy when Corny punched herself in the eye. I bounced on my seat for joy.

  “Harder,” I urged. “Punch! Punch! Whack! Whomp!” Part of her cringed with every blow, but the other part kept pounding. Corny was trying to knock herself out. Brilliant!

  As I watched, I thought it might be prudent to lend my sister a hand. I braced myself and held up a stool.

  “First, Wanda,” I said, “make sure the crowd is distracted.”

  Immediately, the saltshaker rose from our table and arced through the air. It landed on target. “Hey! Who threw that?” an angry voice cried. Soon food and condiments soared wildly across the room. The crowd grew so absorbed with shouting, scuffling, and throwing things at each other that they never noticed the golden-haired girl in the corner punching herself silly.

  Phil, nothing more than a clump of soil and a few mangled leaves, whispered weakly. “When Cornelia Bramblewood’s lights go out, use wand to call Eye. Make haste, before 19 wakes.”

  “Forgive me for this, Corny.” Closing my eyes, I crashed the stool onto my poor sister’s cranium. She slumped to the ground like a rag doll losing its stuffing.

  “This is it, Wanda,” I whispered. “Remember, your retractable butt is on the line, too.” I planted my feet and held out my hand, chanting the first thing that came to mind: “Eye, Eye, come to me. Apple B will set you free and send you to your Deity.” Almost instantly, a slippery blob appeared in my open palm.

  “Ewww,” I gasped. I hadn’t expected the Eye to be real—all bloodshot, squishy, and covered with slime. If I thought anything, I expected it to be a jewel, or a crystal, or even a glass eye.

  An amorphous vapor of sparkling energy rose from Cornelia’s half-open mouth. The energy hurled a string of screeching insults.

  “Curse you, witch-brat. I want that Eye! I hope your gizzards fry in hot mustardy chasms of fire.”

  “You don’t talk nearly as refined without my sister’s storehouse of words, do you?”

  I held the Eye against my chest and thought, where to?

  “Nothingness is best,” Phil decreed.

  “Get ready to go to a very cold place now. With the power of the Eye, I wish it!”

  Snap! The energy mass disappeared, leaving behind a smell like fresh skid marks on a hot highway.

  Gingerly, I put the Eye in my pocket and rushed to Corny. I found her breathing evenly, so I took a moment to scoop Phil’s roots back into the pot. Most of the patrons at The Happy Medium probably thought I was part of the clean-up crew. Only a few of the remaining patrons glanced our way. “Come on, Phil,” I said, tucking him under one arm. “Let’s get Corny out of here. Should we use the Eye to take us ho…?”

  The Eye was so fast, I’d barely uttered the words before I found myself clutching a wilted Phil on the front porch of our house. Cornelia lay crumpled at my feet.

  “Wow. That was awesome. I love this Eye, even if it is covered in slime.”

  Cornelia moaned and struggled to sit upright, rubbing the knot on the back of her head. “Did you have to hit me so hard?’ she grumbled. “Well, I guess you did. At least that thing is gone. Yuck! My brain needs a bath.”

  “Just remember,” I cautioned, thinking ahead. “You gave yourself that shiner.”

  Phil’s leaves trembled. “Zero hours, zero minutes and forty-three seconds. Must go. Fast.”

  I opened my sticky hand and revealed the Eye.

  “Eye must see me,” said Phil. “Hurry.”

  I turned it. “Off you go. It’s been a pleasure saving the world with you, Phyllus-ZR-20…” Once again, the words were hardly uttered before Phil and the Eye shot heavenward. “Go-o-dbye Ap-ollonia Bramble-w-o-oo-o-d…” Like a star going nova, he burned brilliantly for a moment and then winked out.

  Corny and I leaned against each other on the porch swing and looked at the empty place in the sky for quite a while.

  “Can we ever tell anyone?” I wondered out loud.

  “Better not.” Cornelia tested the swelling on her head with a finger. “Mom and Pop will be really furious if they find out—” She shut her mouth and looked at me from the corners of her eyes.

  I stared back at her. “About how you went dancing under the moon and didn’t babysit me? Lunar love charms, was it?”

  Her anxious eyes widened. Then she grimaced. “Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. Can I count on you?”

  I thought of the wonderful fun I could have holding the truth over my sister’s head, but I did have a practical request and this was the best time to make it. “You know that ratty old journal you tossed in the trash?”

  “That old thing? It doesn’t even have a key. It’s useless, journal-wise.”

  “I put a finger–prick spell on it, but I had to take it off.” I held up a bandaged finger to prove my point. “If I keep your secret, will you find the key and promise not to read it?”

  Corny threw her head back and hooted. “Oh, sister of mine. You’re always good for a laugh. I haven’t the slightest interest in reading your dreary journal.”

  I was counting on that.

  Half-asleep and contented, my thoughts drifted. I was kind of proud of myself. I’d undertaken a hard task and followed it through to a successful end. A first for me. Even my brilliant sister couldn’t have done much better.

  Dear Journal,

  My mother expects me to learn something new every day. For what it’s worth, here’s what I learned today—maybe a person doesn’t have to be the best and brightest to save the world. Maybe a person who makes the greatest possible effort can succeed against incredible odds.

  And sometimes, maybe, it’s just Dumb Luck.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A few weeks after the alien incident, Cornelia and I were once again alone for the afternoon while Mom and Dad shopped in the Ordinaries’ mall in town. Gray clouds loomed over our house all day, and by evening a wild wind whipped through the gaps and crannies of our drafty old house. Rain spattered against the window. I was supposed to be studying fractions, but those tiny little numbers kept tumbling around in my brain like snow flurries. I dropped my pencil, zipped my pink hoodie, and shivered as I stomped over to check the thermostat.

  Sixty-two degrees! Brrrr. My father insisted on living like “Ordinary people” when it came to using and paying for electricity, water, heat, taxes, and the other things Ordinary bureaucrats kept records about.

  “Sure,” Dad was fond of saying, “I could conjure us up a mansion with all the amenities (meaning—comforts and conveniences, sigh), but that’s no way for witches and wizards to live in the modern world. When we pay our bills like good citizens, no one notices that we’re different. That’s how we get along.”

  Fine, I thought. But my parents never earned quite enough real-world money to pay all the bills with a little left over for extras. Dad had been very disappointed when his idea for a necktie that opened into a dinner napkin fizzled. That was a crossover invention if ever there was one. And as for my mother, her paintings often seemed a little too dark and quirky for run-of-the-mill Ordinaries.

  “This portrait gives me the creeps,” an over-dressed woman said at one of Mom’s exhibitions. “I feel as if the eyes are following me.”

  (They were.)

  We Bramblewoods were condemned by arbitrary Bramblewood Law to live within our means, to Cornelia’s everlasting disappointment. But there was no rule to keep me from conjuring a roaring fir
e that cold and gusty afternoon except, naturally, I didn’t know the proper incantation. I scratched my chin and pondered. Wouldn’t do to make a mess—Mom and Dad would never let me attend John Quincy Adams Middle School if I accidentally burned the house down.

  But, being optimistic, I headed for the Encyclopedia of Useful Household Enchantments. Maybe I’d find a good, safe, easy-to-recite spell. And Mom would be proud that I was practicing my magic.

  After checking the contents, I flipped to page 424–All about Fire: “Fire brand…Fire-breather…Fire bug…Fire dragon… Fire plug…Fire-starter.” Ah, just the thing, I thought—until I read the recipe.

  Sulfur? Oh, no. Did I really need a “ha’penny’s worth of sulfur?” Where the heck do they come up with these charms?

  Sma-a-a-ack! Boo-oom! Crash!

  The house shook, nearly knocking me off my feet. “Lightning strike!” I shouted as I raced down the hall and up the attic steps. “Dad’s really gonna go bananas.” He had gone to a lot of trouble putting up a magical lightning rod for some invention he was working on. I pushed open the creaky attic door and stepped through cobwebs into a pool of darkness.

  “Holey gaping craters!” I yelped, eyeing the six-foot hole in the roof. Rain fell through, dousing the charred and steaming edges, the only upside I could see to the foul weather.

  I spotted a pair of skinny orange and yellow-striped legs stretched behind a dusty trunk. Whipping Wanda from my pocket and waving it at the curly-toed slippers attached to those legs, I shouted, “Don’t make a move—I have you covered.”

  The legs twitched. I inched around for a better view, using Wanda as a flashlight.

  A tiny man lay spread-eagle on the floor. He groaned. “Mein kopf—my head—ist gebrochen!” Quivering, he sat up and rubbed the goose egg on his forehead. His hair was lime-green, his eyes were as large and round as a lemur’s, and he had no chin. And his clothes were awful! Why anyone would purposely wear a patchwork suit that was short in the legs and a purple bowler hat with a feather was beyond me. His wings were cute, though. As the little man groped for and found his magic wand, I chuckled. I couldn’t help it. His wand had a large tin star glued on the end.