Ordinary Magic

by Caitlen Rubino-Bradway

  “Well, I suppose you can’t get these wet,” she said, her hands surprisingly gentle as she held out my bandaged arms for inspection. “I’ll get Sarah to scrub the floors until you’re better, but heal up fast, mind. She’s not got as deft a hand at it.”

  In the midst of this, someone was missing; I had to ask Fred where Peter was. “Um, he was at the table with us, so …” Fred looked around, blinking in surprise. “… still there, I guess? I’m glad you’re back,” he sighed, and then corrected himself. “I mean, I’m glad you’re back, just for you, you know, period. But also because Peter’s, he’s been a lot more Peter than usual. Can you please go turn him into a real boy?”

  Fred was right. Peter was still sitting at the table, alone, arms crossed and jaw tight. I shoved my way through chairs and just about climbed over a table to launch myself at him with a “You’reokay, you’reokay, you’reokay!” His fingers dug into my shoulders, and it took me a second to realize he was prying me off, and that I was making a fool of myself. “You’re okay! Alexa said you were and I knew you had to be and what happened—?”

  But he pushed himself away and moved around behind his chair. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  And his voice was so hard, and his face so closed that it cut through my babbling excitement. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” he shouted, still not looking at me. “And I don’t want to talk to you!” Then he grabbed his book and slammed out of the dining hall. I followed him into the courtyard, calling after him—wanting to know what was wrong—but he ran into the dorm and locked himself in his room and stayed there the rest of the day.

  Trixie remained “at large,” as the newscasters called it. Nobody saw her either, and I overheard Dimitrios wondering to Becky if anybody would see her.

  As you can probably guess, Mom and Dad weren’t thrilled with having to head back to Lennox after that. Oh, sure, they ordered Jeremy back to Thorten because he had classes, and Mom packed off Olivia back home because somebody had to run the bakery. But the two of them stuck around for a week, sleeping in Alexa’s living room and driving her crazy. Fortunately for her, Yuletide was coming up in a month, and it’s a big holiday for bakeries and luxury goods both, which meant they eventually had to leave.

  The day before they left, Fred and Fran and I were in the kitchen during our free period, crowded around the island eating cookies. (We’d basically turned into a group of three because Peter was totally avoiding us—okay, me.) Cook Bella had decided she wasn’t going to let me be completely lazy while I healed, so she appointed me taste tester. And then Fred managed to talk his way in by convincing Cook Bella she needed a “control group” or something like that, and Fran had gotten to the point where she’d show up for stuff on her own so we wouldn’t have to drag her places. We were digging into a new recipe for hazelnut cookies when Alexa appeared, plopping down in the chair next to me. She crossed her arms on the table and plunked her head down. “I tried, Abby, I tried. I promised them that you would call every day, that you would call twice a day—I even offered three times, because Cook Bella has a crystal in the kitchen. But no. They’re all ‘she’s my daughter,’ and ‘she was kidnapped,’ and ‘we’re upset about it.’ Crazy.”

  “Didn’t King Steve say you were freaking out—”

  “That’s beside the point,” Alexa interrupted, her head popping up. “The point is that—ooh, cookies—” She chewed appreciatively for a few seconds before finishing. “Dad is coming to live with me. Just until Yuletide, so he can keep an eye on you, and then we’ll all fly down together. Mom would stay too, except she’s swamped with all the orders for Yule bread and chocolate logs, which Olivia can’t handle alone, praise the heavens on high.”

  Fred threw his hands in the air. “Hallelujah!”

  “Sing it, Randalls.” She held out her palm and he slapped it. “Anyway, they’re determined to be paranoid.”

  “But you’re here all the time,” Fran offered, staring at her cookie.

  “But that’s cool. Because we like you,” Fred added quickly.

  “That’s what I told them,” she said to Fran. “But apparently I’m going to be too busy with work. Which means,” she continued to me, “that you need to alert Public Safety about a visiting relative, so make sure you stop by and tell them tonight.”

  CHAPTER

  21

  I know I’m going to sound like a total dork for saying this, but it was actually fun having my dad there. He usually came by around dinner, and longer on the weekends, and as per King Steve’s orders, we never left campus. He would sit with us, sometimes working off of his belt loom, and want to know how everyone was doing, how our classes were. He even got the Majid sisters to admit, out loud, in front of everyone, that their names were Naija and Eila. It was especially nice to have him around because things got really weird with Peter after the fest.

  Actually, it was not so much weird as reversed, as if we’d gone through a time warp and were back at the beginning of the year, when Peter didn’t like anybody or anything, except it was worse. He stopped coming to the lounge for homework and he stopped raising his hand in class, until he started getting in trouble for not participating. Fred told us that Peter even stopped snarking about his side of the room, which was freaking Fred out.

  “But it’s nice, right? Quieter?” Fran asked, twisting her hair through her fingers.

  “Oh, yeah. Quieter, sure,” Fred agreed. “But not Peter. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I”—he faked forcing the word out—“liked normal Peter.”

  I knew what Fred meant. It was like Peter had turned into that princess in the story whose brothers are cursed and if she says anything to anybody ever, they’ll be stuck as blackbirds for the rest of their lives. He just kept his head buried in that little blue book of his, acting like the rest of us didn’t exist.

  Peter had stopped checking on me at night, too, which was actually kind of a good thing. I didn’t want to sleep. When I did I had bad dreams, mostly about Trixie. Mostly that she’d show up, anywhere, everywhere, huge and angry and strong, and sometimes I would run and sometimes I would fight, but whatever I did, it was never enough. A couple of times I woke up, in a panic that someone was holding me down, and then realizing the hands on my arms were real and panicking more. But it was always Becky, who’d heard me and, worried, came to wake me. She’d sit by my bed and murmur defensive techniques until I fell asleep.

  A couple of weeks later, Alexa had finally convinced Dad that I was safe enough at school that they could go to a movie. Everyone was in the dining hall for dinner, and it was one of my last times to sit with my friends and enjoy the meal before I got back into the kitchen. The doctor had stopped by that day to check on me and take my bandages off. Part of me worried I’d have big ugly scars, but my wrists were fine. A little pink, but nothing you’d notice unless you really stared at them. Which Peter did.

  Yuletide break was coming up, and Fred and I were talking about the trip home. Or, at least, my trip home and his possible one. Many of the kids would be staying on campus because they didn’t have homes to go to. Fred, though, was in a weird situation. He never heard from his parents—or, at least, he never heard from his stepmom, period. And his dad never called, but at the same time he was always sending stuff. Clothes, books, sometimes games, the newest and most expensive kind.

  And here’s the really cool thing about Fred: he would always share. The books and toys usually ended up in the lounge for everyone to get in on, and it was pretty well known that if you needed a new shirt or socks or something like that, Fred had one to spare. Or he would take a special request, and if Mr. Randalls suspected anything when his kid wrote home asking for three different sizes of pants, he didn’t say anything. Probably because that would have meant talking to Fred.

  And right before Fall Fest, Fred got a card with a wreath on the cover and Holiday Wishes from the Randalls Family on the inside. Apparently this con
fused Mrs. Murphy enough that she finally pulled Fred aside and asked if he wanted her to check with his family about him going home for break.

  Fred said yes.

  So there we were, over dinner, and Fred was saying how Mrs. Murphy had called (and called) and had to leave a message at his dad’s office, which was really the best way to connect with him. “They’re not going to want me to come. I’m not sure if I even really want to go,” Fred told us. “It’s a lot of boring stuff, anyway.”

  “Like what?” Naija asked.

  Fred took a deep breath, the humor falling away from his face as his shoulders set tight. “Like my father’s office Yuletide party. We’re always expected to attend. There are a few charity banquets, too: FeyAid, and”—he glanced around at the minotaurs—“NOMI. Not On My Island,” he explained to our blank faces. “It’s an Astrin organization, Deeta’s really. She’s from there. And, of course, the Randalls Family Twelfth Night Party. That’s always really boring. But it makes up for it by going on forever,” he joked.

  “My family has one of those,” I said. “Not the endlessly boring part, just the Twelfth Night Party, and it is awesome. Seriously, years from now Ms. Macartney will be teaching kids about this party instead of horribly boring kings and queens. Your family should come to my family’s party,” I told him, seizing on the idea.

  “I doubt they’d be able to,” Fred said. “Deeta’s probably been planning the thing for months now.”

  “Yeah, but if it’s not fun, then what’s the point?”

  “To show off how much money we have?”

  That stopped me. I couldn’t quite tell if he meant it as a joke. “Really?”

  Fred opened his mouth, then stopped and smiled and shrugged. But Fred’s usually the first one to crack a smile, which means that when it’s not a real smile you notice right away. “Okay, fine, no party. But you should at least come visit us, because you’re actually not going to be that far away, and my family—”

  “All right, we get it,” Frances muttered. We all stopped and looked at her. She sounded … grumpy, and it really wasn’t like Fran to sound grumpy.

  “I’m … sorry?” I said.

  Fran didn’t say anything at first, her jaw working back and forth. Then, louder, “You know, we get it, all right? We get it. You have a fantastic, wonderful family and everybody else’s family sucks. We get it. Your family is perfect and they like you. All right? Fine. We don’t need to hear it anymore.”

  I glanced at Fred, who gave me a bewildered look.

  “Frances,” Fred began carefully.

  “What’s your problem, Fran?” Peter demanded.

  “Don’t be a jerk, Peter,” Fred rushed in. And I sat there, staring at Peter, somewhere between angry and completely baffled. He was going to start talking now?

  “I’m not being a jerk, I just want to know what her problem is,” he said, not looking at me, just glaring at her.

  Fran’s chin was trembling. “I don’t have a problem.”

  “Now you’re a liar and you have problems.”

  “Stop it, Peter,” she hissed.

  “No, you stop. Don’t you be a jerk just because Abby has a family that loves her and cares about her and you don’t.”

  First Fran was mad at me, and now Peter—who had been ignoring me and had apparently changed his mind about us being friends—now he was going to lash out at Fran for no reason?

  “I don’t like you, Peter,” she said. Her voice was close to tears.

  “What, are you going to start in on me now? ’Cause my mom loves me and doesn’t wish I didn’t exist?”

  “Is there a problem here?” It was Mrs. Murphy, who liked to appear out of nowhere and wait to see how long it took misbehaving students to notice she was there. Only this time I guess she didn’t want to wait.

  Fred pointed at Peter. “He’s being a jerk.”

  Peter nodded at Frances, a stubborn set to his jaw. “She started it. She was picking on Abby. Because she’s jealous. And pathetic.”

  And now Fran was crying in earnest. And I was so angry it felt like my ribs were made of hot coals. “Not cool, Peter. That is not fair.”

  “Fair?” he shot back, sounding more surprised than angry. Now he was looking at me.

  “Yeah. You shouldn’t be so mean to her, she doesn’t have anybody!”

  “And you shouldn’t be nice to her just because she doesn’t have anybody!”

  I shoved Peter and told him to stop it.

  He shoved me back. “You stop it! Why do you let her talk to you like that? Stand up for yourself! Fight back! You’re too nice, stop being so nice!”

  “Nice?” I screeched. “What do you know about being nice?”

  “I know enough not to be captured by adventurers!” he shouted back at me. “You got grabbed once already, Abby, and it’ll happen again, and next time it’ll be all your own fault!”

  I went to shove him again, but Mrs. Murphy grabbed my arms, and there was a second when angry mixed with scared—which was silly, because I knew where I was and what was going on. But Mrs. Murphy let me go right away and just patted me on the back, and then said very firmly that she was ashamed of having students behave like this. Ms. Macartney volunteered to take Peter to one of the classrooms and “give him something to do,” and Mrs. Murphy suggested that Dimitrios take me down to Public Safety and do the same. But then Cook Bella, who was watching (because everybody was watching), said that she was a bit shorthanded in the kitchen, and if Mrs. Murphy didn’t mind, ma’am, she’d take charge of me. Which stunk because there’s nothing more frustrating than getting into a good argument and not being able to finish it, especially when you know you’re right.

  Cook Bella set me up in quiet corner in the kitchen. She braided my hair and wrapped a scarf around my head to keep it neat, and got me a cool cloth. I clutched it against my hot face, not wanting to see anybody for a moment, really not wanting them to see me. And then I felt Cook Bella’s big, warm hand running back and forth along my shoulders. I choked against the wet cloth, even as I scrambled to pull myself together, because the small, still reasonable part of me recognized that it had gotten way too quiet in the kitchen.

  When I had dried my face and felt steadier, Cook Bella let me pound garlic and chop onions and peel and grate potatoes for tomorrow’s hash browns until I was too tired to hunt Peter down and shove him in a closet. Nobody talked to me, and for once I didn’t want them to. I just concentrated on what I was doing, blinking when the onions stung my eyes.

  CHAPTER

  22

  I told Dad about the argument—well, the Fred and Fran parts of it—when I saw him the next day, and he got his thinking look on his face. “Wait a minute, baby.”

  “Why, what are you going to do?”

  He gave me a look that said I should wait a minute like he told me, called up Mom, and stepped just out of hearing. I caught something about swapping rooms and calling somebody to get permission. Then Dad hung up and asked me, “Why don’t you ask your friends to come spend winter break in Lennox with us?”

  “Really?”

  “Really. If they want to, Mom’ll call Mr. Randalls and Frances’s parents for permission.”

  I threw my arms around his waist. “You are the best dad ever.”

  “Remember that next time you ask to get your ears pierced.” He kissed the top of my head and asked, “Do you want to talk about it?” Because he knew. Of course he knew. Because there were a dozen people here who would have told him—the teachers, probably, or Dimitrios—or maybe he just knew the way dads know things sometimes.

  I shook my head, because I didn’t, and managed, “He’s just mean.”

  Dad sighed.

  “Could you—” I leaned back to look at him. “Alexa’s going to hear about this, and she’s … she’s not really—”

  “I know, I know. She’s nosy. I’ll talk to her.”

  It took a little effort to convince Fred and Fran to sign up for the trip—well, none a
t all for Fred, actually, especially once he’d gotten official word from his dad’s secretary that Mr. Randalls regretted to inform him that it would be better if Fred stayed at school during the holidays, as the Randalls family would be traveling out of the country. “That probably means the Astrin Islands,” Fred told us. “We, they—there’s a vacation house there. My brother, Arthur, really likes it and we went—they go there every other Yuletide. We went last year. I guess they decided to switch things up. Have you ever been to the Astrin Islands?” he asked brightly, straightening.

  Fran and I shook our heads.

  “It’s nice. Pretty. Beaches and date trees everywhere. But Father”—he swallowed—“Mr. Randalls is right. It’s not a good place for an ord.”

  Fran, however, needed a good twenty minutes of pleading and repeating that we really did want her to go, that we weren’t just being nice, until Fred started shaking her by the shoulders, shouting “Peer pressure! Peer pressure! Give in!” and, laughing, she did.

  We never did hear back from the Roses about whether or not Fran could visit, in spite of the fact that Alexa sent them permission forms twice and Mom called no less than four times. Luckily, no one mentioned that Mr. Rose’s signature didn’t exactly look right when we handed in the permission slips.

  It took longer to arrange when we could go down, because while King Steve gave permission for us to leave, he insisted that we travel with proper security. Dad himself wasn’t considered enough protection for three ords. Jeremy offered to come up, since Thorten wasn’t that far away, but Alexa told him that he wasn’t considered any protection at all, and in the end we spent the first part of break up at the school, waiting for Alexa to get off work.

  We got the first really good storm of the winter right before we left, which Becky and the older students greeted with outright applause. They’d watched the darkening skies for days, and exclamations of it looks like rain and does it seem more humid to you ricocheted along the halls. I thought Yuletide might be, like, a depressing time at school, but the students just got more and more cheerful. When the clouds finally opened up and the torrential downpour began, the cheering resulted in a couple of police officers showing up with noise complaints.