All For Nothing

by Laurie Treacy

  Part of me is envious. Remy is a fifth year student warlock indicated by the five black strips running across his right sleeve and I’m…nothing.

  I sandwich my hands on either side of my head, rocking on the heels of my Doc Martens.

  Dad shifts in place, the familiar scowl taking up residence above his eyebrows.

  I wonder what Dorothy’s up to. Any tornadoes sighted in her section in Kansas?

  Taking a deep breath, I release my own storm. “Dad, I appreciate everything you’ve done,” I point at the three long counters surrounding us covered in magical supplies. “All the books, and the crystal balls. The scrying tools. Cauldrons and parchment paper. Herbs. Everything a beginning witch needs is here. It’s like my very own Hogwarts, and you’ve set it up.”

  There’s complete silence.

  I stop moving. “But, none of these things are helping. I’m hopeless.”

  Dad scowls. “Nonsense. You need to stop with the defeatist attitude. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Witches and warlocks practice their craft every day, despite the bumps and misses. I’m trying, honey, but you’re letting your anger and frustration get the best of you.”

  “Anger?” I close my eyes before I slant them at him. “I think I have a right to be angry, Dad. Wouldn’t you? Mom kept everything from me all these years, so did Aunt Rhea and everyone else who knew.” I flash a glare at Remy.

  He looks away.

  “Now you expect me to accept this new world like nothing happened? Embrace it. Call it mine? I don’t think so. I’m more than angry—”

  A vein bulges above Dad’s left eye, distracting me. I’m suddenly back in the other realm, tied to a chair, being threatened by a madman.

  “Salem, what is it?” Dad leans over, gripping my hands in his.

  Remy’s stool scrapes the floor as he moves closer.

  My bottom lip trembles. “You look like Erich when you’re mad,” I whisper. “That vein above your eye shakes.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry about what Thomas did to you.” He touches the side of my cheek before settling down across from me.

  Even our moments of closeness are awkward.

  “Every day I spent frozen in that water globe, I wished for a way to free myself. I lost out on your childhood. You’re a young woman, and all I do is remind you of my crazy sibling.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” I look up into his face, notice the lengthening crow’s feet by his eyes. His shoulder-length black hair has a two-inch white streak just past his side part. Like all of Erich’s victims, the siphoning of his magic left behind a telltale scar. “You’re not responsible for your brother. I hope he rots away in whatever magic infused cell he’s in. Better yet, they should put him in a snow globe.”

  The haunted look so prominent in Dad’s eyes lately returns. I regret bringing Erich-Thomas up. “Okay, I’m trying the spell. Again.”

  Remy’s leg begins to shake just as it does every time I attempt magic.

  “Salem, take a deep breath and clear your mind of everything. Every fear and emotion. Start with a clear canvas.”

  “Hey, no restraints.” Remy jumps up and removes my hair tie, fanning the strands out down my back.

  Dad frowns at him.

  Remy drops the hair tie onto the counter. “Maybe you need a black cat for luck.”

  “If you’re going to be a hindrance, young man, leave now,” Dad barks.

  I rest the palms of my hands on the counter and stare at the white carnation. Images of red things—blood, lipstick, Converse, dyed hair—flash through my mind as I put all of my energy into imagining the petals as crimson. My limbs complain from the exertion.

  Please let this work!

  Compressing every molecule, every fiber, every ounce of sweat into this one thought, this one command, my mind screams, “Turn red, turn red!”

  Dad gasps.

  The flower tips begin to curl. A pink tinge spreads across their surface like runaway veins.

  Remy bounces up onto his feet, and three sets of expectant eyes watch and witness.

  The petals coil up into themselves, transform from pretty pink to ugly brown, then despicable gray, and finally turn to a depressing ash.

  Utter failure, yet again.

  Dad and Remy take turns sighing.

  “Guess that’s my own lame form of magic.” I flop down on the stool, hugging myself and fighting to control the stupid threatening tears.

  Remy rubs my back. “But, it’s magic. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

  Dad leans against the counter. “It’s okay, Salem. We’ll try again in the morning before school.” Exhaustion and everything else he’s endured is evident in his tone.

  All I want to do is give up. I never asked for this. I never wanted this stupid new life. I wipe the remaining sweat off my brow. “Dad, everyone calls me Amy. How many more days do I have to suffer? It’s obvious I don’t have a magical bone, or cell, or hair on my body.”

  He tries for a smile. “Nonsense. Your birth name is Salem, and that’s what I’m going to call you. I haven’t seen my daughter in fourteen years. You will always be Salem to me.” His voice cracks and he looks away.

  Something cracks inside me. I’ve been so self-consumed. I never thought about my dad’s feelings. Jumping up, I hurry around the table. “I’m sorry, Dad. Call me Salem. I love you.”

  He stares at my face. Our situations—being victims— are as similar as our features, especially our pale gray/light blue eyes. Tears pool in the corners of his as his arms envelop me.

  When Mom’s coven rescued me, Dad, and ultimately one-hundred-and-twenty-seven others held prisoner by Erich, the reunion between my parents was poignant to behold. But, meeting my dad after all those years…tanked. Despite our shared features, and love of James Bond movies and Milky Way bars, he was a stranger to me. I had no memory of him. All I’d ever had were pictures and bedtime stories—everything borrowed from Mom.

  “We’ll get through this, honey, taking these baby steps. We’re in the same boat, aren’t we?” He pulls back to gaze at me, his attention centered on the side of my head.

  “Don’t tell me there’s a spider in my hair.” I panic, about to go into a swatting frenzy.

  “Ah, no, no, there’s no bug,” Remy stammers, coming around to gawk.

  Dad chuckles.

  Remy’s jaw ticks as he cocks his head.

  “What?” I ask, hands immediately settling hips.

  “Looks like you were successful with the variance spell, Salem,” Dad says, pride in his voice.

  “But, you changed the tips of your hair, not the flowers. I don’t understand, Mr. Corbett.” Remy glances from Dad to me and back again.

  I finger the ends of my hair, pulling them outwards to see for myself. My purple hair chalk tips are gone, replaced by a bold red. “Whoa, is this permanent?”

  Remy’s eyes grow huge and he shrugs.

  “It’s magic, honey. Only time will tell,” Dad reaches out to touch my hair. “This is a first for me, though.”

  “Did it backfire?” Remy asks.

  “Not exactly,” Dad says, dropping my strands. “I’ve never heard of anyone having a spell directed at something specific affect them instead.” He bends over his grimoire, turning pages.

  “Do you think Amy might be a maverick, then?”

  I’m about to ask what Remy means when the room turns frigid. Dad’s element is air and it’s leaking from his emotional state. He glares at Remy. “Don’t use that word ever again. Amy has a powerful warlock and a talented witch for parents. She will have incredible skill when she is ready. She’s not one of those.”

  Remy rubs his sleeves with shaking fingers. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Um, we’re going for a walk.” I signal Remy. I need to clear my head.

  We remove our tunics and hang them on the hooks beside the door leading upstairs.

  “Bye, Mr. Corbett.”

  “Bye, kids.” Busy with his spell books, D
ad doesn’t pay us any more attention.