The Three Rules of Everyday Magic

by Amanda Rawson Hill

  “It’s just been a few misunderstandings, Mom,” I say, stopping her from trying to talk about our feelings. “And, you know, Marisa and the play. It’s not … nothing is changing.” It comes out louder than it should.

  “Things are always changing, honey.”

  I stomp my foot. “Not this!”

  I run to my room, drop the grocery bag on the floor, and walk over to my guitar. I pull the polishing rag out and sit down on my bed, running it over and over the dark wood until it shines.

  “There,” I whisper. “Soon.” Because it’s real now. Dad, Sofia, the magic. It’s all real. And it’s all happening.

  Dear Dad,

  Have you ever wanted anything so much you could actually see it? The first few days after you left I swore I saw headlights pulling into our driveway every night because I wanted to see them so bad. And now that I know the magic is real, now that I know it works, I can see Sofia sitting in my bedroom talking about school and homework and everything.

  And I can see you too. Driving up, walking in, coming home.

  Love,

  Kate

  Chapter 21

  It’s five thirty when I wake up. My body must know it’s an important day. The day magic will change everything for me. I flip on my light switch and pull out the necklace and the notebook.

  The necklace is perfect, all shiny and silver. Jane would probably love it. She needs something silver to wear. But it isn’t for Jane. I need to remember that.

  I hold the notebook on my lap, fish around under the bed for the shoebox, remove the sparkly purple pen, and try to think of a really good poem. Something with magic. Something to win back and keep a best friend. But the only poem that comes to me is the one Grammy said at the store.

  Roses are red, violets are blue, write a poem in this notebook, to say I love you.

  I change the last line to try to make the magic work exactly how I want it to.

  Roses are red, violets are blue, write a poem in this notebook, because that’s what best friends do.

  Right as I close the notebook, Grammy tiptoes in and sits on my bed. She has her knitting and needles with her again. I wonder if she always knits before the sun’s awake.

  “We saw my Tony yesterday, didn’t we?”

  I nod.

  “He didn’t look good … did he?”

  I shake my head.

  Grammy sighs. “I’d been hoping I could blame it on this rotten noggin of mine.”

  All at once, I want to make her smile, really smile, the way she used to before she was sick. When every time she looked at me she knew who I was. “I’m giving him magic today,” I whisper. “I’m taking him all his favorite things: peanut-butter cookies and ice cream and spaghetti.”

  “And a hat?”

  I don’t have time to make a hat. “I don’t know.”

  “My Tony needs a hat. He’s scared and sad. He needs a hat to keep the bad thoughts away.” Her hands slip on the needles as she struggles with a stitch. “Gosh darn it.”

  Grammy is absolutely right. Dad needs a hat. But she isn’t going to finish it. She’s making knots and dropping stitches.

  “Here. Let me help.” I take the needles from her and begin my slow, unsure knitting. “Just stay here with me. Tell me stories about Dad.”

  But Grammy only sits on my bed, staring around my room, getting lost somewhere in her mind. I want to reach inside her, take her hand and pull her back. She whispers, “My Tony.”

  Maybe he’s in there, holding her hand down one of those windy paths. Suddenly, I feel like the loneliest person in the world.

  At seven thirty, Mom knocks on my bedroom door. She walks in and sees me knitting again. “Big day today,” she says. “How are you feeling about that presentation?”

  I’d forgotten about the presentation in all of the magic. Somehow, George Washington doesn’t seem as important as a dad and a best friend. So I put on a smile and tell an almost-lie.

  “Good. Great.”

  “Wonderful! I can’t wait to hear all about it, Katydid.”

  I bristle at the insect name.

  As soon as Mom and Grammy leave, I shove the necklace, notebook, knitting, and shopping list in my backpack. Then I notice Grammy’s letter. It’s lying near the top of my shoebox full of notes. Dad’s name is still on it with nothing underneath. I stuff it in with everything else and run into the kitchen. Since I don’t know how much spaghetti and ice cream will cost, I need some more money, just in case my Christmas money isn’t enough. Fortunately, I know exactly where to get it.

  Mom’s in her room still getting ready, so I sneak some bills from the emergency fund. I know that it’s for super emergencies, like forest fires and tornadoes. But we don’t live by a forest. And we don’t get tornadoes. I guess we could have an earthquake, but if I have a dad again it won’t matter if the whole house shakes to the ground.

  I grab some peanut-butter cookies, too. Hopefully the magic didn’t wear off while they sat in the cookie jar. But even though my backpack is filled with magic, it still feels too light. It’s not enough. Something is missing, and I can’t have anything missing. With something as important as this, I have to try everything.

  I wander out of the kitchen, through the living room, into the music room, looking, looking, looking. And then I see Dad’s guitar case with his freshly polished guitar inside, right where I left it.

  That’s it.

  That’s the last part of the magic. Mom comes out of the bedroom right as I’m picking up the case. It’s a little heavier than I remember and the end of it swings, hitting the wall.

  “What are you doing, Katydid?”

  I freeze. “I’m, uh …” I can’t tell Mom my secret plan to take Dad the magic. She’ll tell me I can’t go.

  “Is that for your presentation today?” Her face breaks out into a bigger smile than I’ve seen her wear in a long time. “Are you going to sing?”

  A thousand beetles crawl across my chest when I tell the lie. “Yep.”

  Mom rushes over and scoops me into a hug, sending the guitar case bumping into the wall again. “Oh, I’m so happy. I’m so, so happy.” She pulls away and wipes at her eyes. “I can’t wait to sing with you again, Katydid.”

  I hope that after today Mom won’t ever call me that again. But I don’t mention it. Instead I say, “I can’t wait to sing all together again, either.” It’s the biggest truth I’ve told in a long time.

  I grab an apple off the counter and run for the door, a little lopsidedly because of the guitar. Knowing I have all that magic in my backpack waiting to be given away makes me feel like a firework ready to shoot into the sky.

  “Whoa! What’s the rush?”

  I open the door. The sun pours onto my skin. “It’s a huge day.”

  Mom laughs. “You know, I think you’re right.”

  I look out into Mr. Harris’s orchard and see the blossoms fluttering off the trees and I just know, know, know. Today everything changes.

  Then I’m gone, running right into that change so big it’s all I can see.

  I have to keep switching the guitar from hand to hand because my arms get tired, but I still race past the orchard, past the crossing guard, all the way to school. I arrive right as a maroon van pulls up and Parker jumps out. I don’t know if I should speed up or slow down, because I don’t know if I want to talk to him or not. But he sees me and waves.

  “Hi, Kate.”

  “Hi, Parker.”

  “Did you hear about the rain today?”

  I look at the sky and spot a small patch of gray clouds in the distance I hadn’t noticed before. “I didn’t know it was supposed to rain.”

  Parker nods. “Loads! My dad has been praying and praying for rain all winter, and it’s finally here. But he says it’s too late. And this storm’s supposed to be big—so big it might rip all the blossoms off the almond trees and destroy the crop. He’s really nervous.”

  Mom’s always talking about how California needs more rain
. I’ve seen the signs telling people to pray for it. I never thought it was only a good thing at a certain time. Aren’t good things always good things?

  The magic in my backpack feels heavier. Dad’s been gone for five months and twenty days.

  What if I’m too late?

  I have to try the magic. Now. Just to remind myself that it still really, truly works. I have so much right there in my backpack. It can’t hurt to share a little bit with Parker.

  I put the guitar on the ground for a second so I can unzip my backpack and grab a peanut-butter cookie. But when I look back to where Parker was just standing, he’s gone. Reading and walking, he almost trips on a trash can. The cookie feels stupid and crumbly in my hands.

  As I get closer to the front doors, I see Marisa in the middle of a group of girls. Sofia stands to the side.

  Holding the cookie a little tighter, I make my way toward her. I’m going as fast as I can. But I don’t quite get to Sofia before the bell rings and everybody pushes inside.

  Jane comes up next to me as I walk through the front door. “Hey, Kate.”

  “Oh, hi.”

  She’s holding a big piece of sketch paper, folded in half. “I did the drawing for our presentation today. This isn’t it, but … is that a guitar? Did you change your mind? Are you singing?”

  “No. I’m not singing.” It comes out sounding short and prickly. I speed up and try to push closer to Sofia, but Jane stays right by my side.

  “Oookaayy. So the guitar is just a decoration. Whatever.” She points at the cookie in my hand. “What kind of cookie is that? Is that your breakfast? Your mom is so much cooler than mine.”

  “It’s peanut butter. Do you want it?” I mumble, still trying to keep an eye on Sofia’s dark ponytail up ahead.

  “Sure! Thanks. You know, there’s lots of cookies at my house. Not cookies for breakfast obviously, but after-school snack cookies … if you want to come over.”

  I don’t even look at her. “I can’t. I’ve got lots to do today.”

  It’s the truth. Right after school I’m going to Dad’s apartment and giving him all the magic.

  Jane stops walking and grabs my arm so I have to stop, too. “Seriously?”

  I can’t see Sofia anymore. “I’m sorry. You can still have the cookie, though.”

  Jane crumples up the piece of paper she’s holding and shoves it at me. “Forget it.” She weaves into the crowd ahead without even looking back.

  People are moving all around me, but I stay still and unfold the paper. It’s a picture of two girls. One is holding a pair of knitting needles that are hooked by yarn to a hat on top of the other girl’s head. It’s me and Jane. My throat feels tight like skin with a sunburn.

  As I fold the picture back up, the cookie in my hand breaks apart and falls to the ground. I bend down to pick up the pieces right as someone steps on them and grinds them into the floor. And then all I can do is stare at that. At my cookie. My magic. Broken and stomped on.

  I’ve tried to give the magic away twice already, and it hasn’t worked. A voice inside me whispers, Maybe you’re just too late.

  Chapter 22

  The rest of the morning trickles along slower than Bear Creek. The rain clouds rumble in while Parker and his partner, James, give their presentation on Martin Luther King Jr. Parker shows defensive karate moves for a peaceful demonstration, and James plays a protest song on his trumpet.

  The sky blackens while Sofia and Marisa give their presentation on Ellen Ochoa, the first Hispanic woman in space. They do a song and dance together, just like I thought they were planning. A few days ago, that might have made me sad. Today, it doesn’t matter because all I can do is worry about the magic.

  There are two, three, four more presentations before the lunch bell rings. As Miss Reynolds announces that Jane and I will be the next group up after lunch, the wind starts shaking the windows.

  At my locker, I grab my sack lunch, the notebook, and the gum-wrapper chain, gently lowering it over my head and touching a few of the links. The rain is coming, and I can’t help remembering what Parker said earlier, can’t help worrying my magic is too late or not enough.

  Grammy’s voice whispers in my mind. Believe.

  Deep breath.

  I have to get the magic to Sofia. Then do the presentation. Then help Dad. Everything will be better after that.

  I practice exactly what I’m going to say to Sofia as I walk to the cafeteria and wait by the door. Jane sits at her usual round table with Brooklyn and Emma, reading a tiny, wrinkled piece of paper. Parker is still in line. When Sofia takes a seat, Marisa isn’t around, so I sit down right next to her.

  “Hi,” I say.

  Sofia straightens up. “Hey.” She pokes at her green beans, and my whole planned speech runs out of my head.

  Instead I say this: “Do you remember when we stuffed all those green beans and fries into our milk cartons last year?”

  Sofia smiles. “And then dumped them in the toilet so it looked like someone threw up?”

  “Do you think anyone found that? Do you think they thought someone was actually sick?”

  “Eeew!” Sofia giggles. “That was so gross!”

  “Yeah. But it was fun.”

  Sofia stabs a green bean and holds it up on her fork. “Yeah, it was.”

  I pull the chain off my neck and hold it out for her. The silver links hang below my hand. “I made this for you.”

  Sofia touches one of the wrappers. “Wow,” she whispers. “You really made that? That’s a lot of gum!”

  “Yep. It’s for you. It means we’ll always be friends.” I push the notebook across the table. “And I have this for writing poems and stuff.”

  Sofia looks toward the lunch line and then flips open the notebook and reads the poem on the first page. After slowly closing the notebook, she taps on the cover. She’s silent a long moment before sighing and saying, “Thanks, Kate. Do you think … maybe … Marisa could do it with us?”

  “What?” I practically choke. “No. This is just for us. For best friends. Me and you.”

  Sofia picks up the notebook and looks at the cover for a few seconds before finally saying, “Then … I can’t take it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well …” She looks back to the line, and I know who she’s looking for. “It would hurt Marisa’s feelings if I had a notebook all about how you and I are best friends.”

  “But I thought we were …” My throat aches too much to finish.

  “We were.” Sofia puts the notebook down with shaky hands. “I mean, we are. It’s just … Marisa is my best friend, too. You’re … both my best friends.”

  That’s when I spot her new necklace. A gold chain with half a heart on it. And I realize, finally realize, Sofia’s moved to a new orchard. She’s sunk her roots down deep and isn’t leaving.

  “Liar,” I whisper.

  “What?” Sofia’s eyes get squishy and wet like she cares what I have to say. But I know it’s just one great big dopey act. Like when she’ll be on stage in Annie, pretending to be a sad orphan, while she has a mom and a dad right there in the audience, waiting to bring her flowers and scoop her up after the show.

  “You’re not best friends with both of us. If you were best friends with both of us, then you’d spend time with both of us. But …” My voice catches. “You’re always with Marisa.”

  “That’s just because of Annie.”

  “And sleeping over at Marisa’s house on the weekends and partnering up for everything in class.”

  “When Annie is over, we’ll hang out again. I promise.”

  The space behind my eyes is hot, and the burning pushes all the angry words out of my mouth. “Don’t promise. I hate promises. I hate them!” I stand up so fast the whole table shakes. “Real best friends don’t have to go back to being best friends. They never stop to begin with.”

  Outside, the first raindrops slip down the windowpane. I throw my gum-wrapper chain across the floor and ru
n out of the cafeteria. I race to my locker, grab my backpack and the guitar, and I’m out the door, on the playground, at the bus stop. By the time the bus comes, I’m completely soaked by thousands of great big drops of too-late rain.

  Dear Dad,

  I’m writing this to you on the bus. I couldn’t stay at school. Sofia isn’t my best friend anymore. Things will never go back to how they used to be with her. But I still have you. You need me and I’m on my way.

  I’m missing the presentation and I don’t care. Because you are more important than George Washington.

  Love,

  Kate

  Chapter 23

  The grocery store was full of staring eyes and the hollow sound of my footsteps. But standing in front of Dad’s door with a sack of groceries in one hand and a guitar in the other is scarier. My arms are stretching and pulling out of shape with the weight. The paint on the fake wood door is chipping, and the number 304 hangs crooked and lopsided.

  I take a few shaky breaths and try to form my arms into that strong, rounded position that always comes before the kata at karate. But the bag and guitar are too heavy.

  I knock. Long and hard. It echoes in my brain. Deep and shaking like the thunder rolling outside. Then I wait.

  He doesn’t come. And he doesn’t come. And he doesn’t come.

  My whole body is like a bike tire with a tiny hole leaking air. But I’m not leaking air. I’m leaking hope, lots of it, until the knob finally turns and the door opens. Dad stands behind it, staring down at me.

  I saw him yesterday. But I guess part of me hoped he’d answer the door and be my old Dad again. Because when his face is still saggy and scruffy, I’m surprised.

  “Hi, Dad,” I whisper.

  He scratches his cheek and that scraggly beard sounds like soap on the cheese grater when Mom makes laundry detergent. “Katydid.”

  I think it’s how he says it that hurts the most. Like it’s a question. Like he’s not sure.

  “What are you doing here?”

  That hurts second worst.