Some Kind of Magic

by Adrian Fogelin

  He glanced at the ball, then back at me. “Unless you’re ‘fraid you can’t make the grade.”

  “You know I’m not afraid, but I am hot and hungry. I’ll whup you some other day. Ask Big to play.”

  Slumped on the curb, Big looked like something put out for trash pick-up.

  “Nah,” said Leroy. “The man can’t hoop.”

  “Me!” His kid brother Jahmal slapped at the ball. “I can hoop ‘cause I got the poop!”

  “Stupid must be contagious,” Big mumbled.

  “Let’s go.” I grabbed Cass by her pocket, then turned back. “Piano lesson tomorrow, Big?” He practices at my house. We have a piano and he doesn’t.

  “Yup. Monday, same as always.” He sighed just like I would if I was thinking about my piano lesson—only I would mean it. Guess he was trying to sound cool about the lesson so Leroy wouldn’t make some stupid rhyme about a kid who’d rather play piano than shoot hoops.

  “See ya later, Big!” I yelled. I knew my “See ya later” would give Lookin’ Good Leroy something to think about.

  “Jemmie, that you?” my grandmother called as we ran up the steps of my house.

  I opened the front door. “Me and Cass, Nana.” We fell into the cool.

  In the kitchen, Nana Grace was mixing up a big bowl of potato salad, hugging it against the front of her flowered apron. “You two are right on time.” Bread and sliced baloney were already on the table where my little brother Artie sat coloring. “Somebody put out dishes.”

  Cass swung open the cupboard door. “Can you believe Cody hit two shots with that hat over his eyes?”

  I stood at the sink and filled the water glasses, then let the water run cold over my wrists. “He got lucky, I guess.”

  “Lucky? Twice?” Cass set the dishes on the table and did a hocus-pocus thing with her hands. “Maybe it was the magic of the hat!”

  My grandmother handed Artie a cracker as she passed his chair. “What’re you talking about, Cass?”

  “Cody has this hat he says gives him powers.”

  “Oh, the hat.” My grandmother smiled and shook her head. “I just hope he don’t get himself run over with that magic hat down over his eyes.”

  Cass walked to the table with a fistful of silverware. “Too bad there’s no such thing as a magic hat. I’d use it to make this summer last forever.”

  “Good thing you don’t have a magic hat!” I said, carrying the water glasses over from the sink. “I’m ready for something new. Besides, there’s no such thing as magic, and definitely no such thing as a magic hat—unless your name is Harry Potter.”

  Nana set the potato salad bowl down with a thump. “Why not a magic hat? Magic can come from all kinds of strange places.”

  I turned toward my grandmother. “You don’t believe in magic, do you, Nana?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I believe. Question is, what does Cody Floyd believe?”

  Cass sat down at the table. “He definitely believes in the power of the hat.” She pulled her legs up and hugged her knees, her heels hooked over the edge of the chair seat. “But you know, Cody never hits the hoop, even when he’s looking right at it. Maybe it was the hat.”

  I took the blue crayon out of Artie’s hand and gave him a red. “No such thing as blue apples, Smarty Artie.” I turned to Cass. “And there’s no such thing as magic hats or magic anything. And why would you want summer to last forever anyway?”

  Nana’s cool fingers brushed against my hot neck. “Don’t go hard on Cass. Nothing wrong with liking things as is, and don’t go hard on Cody, either. Everybody needs some kind of magic to get ’em through.”

  As we grabbed hands and asked the blessing, I thought about Leroy and his rapping. Maybe talking big was Leroy’s magic hat—talking big and jamming the ball through the hoop. With no dad at home, his mom called him “the man of the house.” He had a lot on his shoulders. He never would’ve been able to go to basketball camp this summer if it cost money. And even the fact that it was free wouldn’t have helped if his aunt hadn’t lost her job. Now she’d be watching Jahmal so Leroy didn’t have to.

  Nana put her hands on her tired back and straightened up. “Big’s got a lesson tomorrow. If that boy’s coming over to practice later, I’d best put together a sandwich for him. He’s always hungry.”

  “Sure.” I squirted mustard on my bread. “He said he’d be over.” Big’s magic hat was his music, definitely.

  I don’t know what it would be for Cass. Maybe running, maybe hanging on to the same old, same old.

  Running’s my magic hat, for sure. Something bothers me? I run.

  My father died of cancer a couple of years ago. Most of the time I can outrun thinking about it.

  But sometimes, when Big is playing my father’s old piano I sit at the bend in the stairs where he can’t see me and I pretend I’m listening to my father play.

  I wish Dad could’ve heard him. He would’ve said, “Mmmm, mmmm. That boy’s got blue-eyed soul.”

  Ben

  We’d shot hoops and eaten lunch. After scarfing down his tofu burger, Cody had wandered off while I cleaned up. I wiped the table, then rested my back against the fridge.

  Now what? The first week in August my family would be camping in the North Georgia mountains, but until then? Not much.

  I had a stack of required summer reading to do before I hit AP English at Leon High. Dad had recommended I “pace myself,” which meant don’t wait until the end of August to start reading, but even he would be amazed. I’d started reading To Kill a Mockingbird first thing this morning, and until the day cooled down a little I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

  I wandered into the den where I’d left the book open on the arm of the sofa, but somebody had closed it. “Cody!” I yelled. No answer. Some teacher had told him that leaving an open book facedown hurt its spine. Cody thinks a book’s spine actually hurts—he isn’t real clear on the difference between living things and just things.

  I flopped down, shoving the couch back a few inches, and it made a funny sound—like a surprised snort. A snorting couch? I was beginning to think like Cody.

  It wasn’t hard to find my place in the book. I hadn’t gotten far. Page four—so maybe I didn’t need to kill him.

  I was a couple of chapters in when I heard a knock on the front door, then the sound of the door opening slowly. “Ben?”

  “In here!” I yelled.

  Justin appeared in the door, a fresh ketchup stain on his Killer App T-shirt.

  “Fries for lunch?”

  “Nope. I finished the fries at breakfast.” He looked down. “The foraging was slim so I had cereal. Since it was lunch I thought I’d try Special K with ketchup. FYI? Bad idea.” The couch made the same funny sound as Jus fell onto the cushions beside me. He didn’t mention it, so I didn’t either. He nodded at the book in my lap. “What’re you reading?”

  “Something on the list.”

  “Come on, we just got out of school and you’re doing required reading?” He drummed on the edge of the couch.

  “Anything going on at your place?” I asked.

  “Just the Mom and Dad show. Dad’s home this week. He and Mom are having ‘together time.’”

  “How’s that working out?”

  “About like you’d expect. Hey, you think Cody would lend me his power hat so I can kick Dad’s butt out?”

  I stretched and hung the book back over the arm of the couch. “There’s gotta be something to do.”

  Justin shoved his legs out straight. “Not necessarily.” His socks ballooned around his ankles; they’d lost their snap.

  We rested our necks on the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling.

  I was about to ask him if the swirl in the plaster over our heads looked like a dog sniffing its own butt when a high-pitched voice from behind the couch yelled, “She’s coming!”

  I whipped around. “Cody, you little punk! Why didn’t you say you were back there?”

  �
�I would’ve, but you were mad about the book.”

  “Who’s coming?” Justin asked.

  “Cass!”

  I peered into the gap between the couch and the wall. No wonder he’d made those noises. We had him pinned good, the brim of his hat folded up on both sides. I snatched the hat off his head. “Who says she is?”

  “Why should I tell you?” He blinked up at me. “You don’t believe in it.”

  “Hey!” The couch creaked as Justin leaned forward. “Check it out, Ben.”

  I turned and looked out our front window. Cass was wandering slowly down the street.

  Cody crawled out from behind the couch. “Told ya!” he crowed.

  “Lucky guess, Detective Dobbs.”

  “It wasn’t lucky, and it wasn’t a guess. Can I please have my hat?”

  I plopped it back on his head and watched Cass, who had leaned over to smell one of Mom’s roses. Her parents don’t like her knocking on our door—something about chasing boys.

  “She wants you to notice her,” said the voice under the hat.

  “Okay, Ben.” Justin shoved himself to his feet. “Guess you better go out there and notice her. And I better get over to the Lewises’ and practice.”

  I pointed at the ketchup on his shirt. “You might want to rinse that off before Jemmie sees you.”

  He held out the front of his shirt and shrugged. “Like it’ll make a difference.”

  “Wash it off,” said the voice from under the hat.

  Cody

  He could see Ben outside, talking to Cass by the bush with the creamsicle orange roses. Cass had one skinny leg twisted around the other. Ben wore a stupid grin.

  Justin had already scuffed down the road with a big wet spot on his shirt.

  Cody flumped down on the couch. He needed to think, but there was that book, open again. He hesitated, then closed the book about killing birds.

  What had just happened? It was like one second he wasn’t even thinking and the next second—tingle!—he’d opened his mouth and blurted out, “She’s coming!” He opened and closed his mouth now to see if the hat would make him talk again, but it didn’t.

  Dad always said there was a logical explanation for everything. Maybe Uncle Paul, who was a real person, not a hat, was behind the tingly messages.

  That would be sort of logical.

  Cody pushed the hat back on his forehead and walked into the kitchen.

  The refrigerator hummed hello, but he wasn’t looking for a snack. Instead, he studied the picture on the front of the postcard stuck to the refrigerator door with a smiley magnet. It still looked like a platter with a lid—and for sure fried chicken underneath.

  “Detective Dobbs,” he whispered. A good detective wouldn’t be distracted by a platter of fried chicken.

  When he tugged on it, the smiley magnet fell and rolled under the refrigerator. But the postcard stayed where it was. Stuck. He had to peel it off. It’d been hanging there so long, it was used to the spot.

  When he turned it over, the message on the back was in pencil. Faded bad. The handwriting? Seemed as if he’d seen it before—but lots of people wrote sloppy.

  He struggled to read the words. “Some…good stuff…happening out…here.” The letters slanted back. Maybe his uncle was left-handed like him. “Think I’m…finally on the…right track! More details soon.”

  In the very bottom corner it said, “Hang in there, Shotgun!”

  “Who’s Shotgun?” Cody whispered. “And how come you never sent the details?”

  He shoved the postcard under the hatband, put the hat on, and opened the fridge. He had to think, but he needed a snack first.

  “Most moms wouldn’t let a kid wear a hat inside the house,” Mom said when she walked into the kitchen. But she didn’t make him take it off.

  “All right, Cody,” she said as she cooked supper. “No moms would let a son wear that hat at the dinner table. Put it back in the closet before Dad gets home.”

  Instead he snuck it up the stairs to his room—no hats at the table, that was the main thing. He hung it on one of the carved pineapple bedposts—his bed had been Mom’s when she was a kid.

  “Wait here,” he told the hat.

  Dad came home, took off his coveralls, and scrubbed the grease off his arms at the kitchen sink. They ate supper. Watched TV.

  The hat was waiting for Cody when he went up to bed. “Hi, hat.”

  He pulled off his shirt and practiced a superhero pose in the mirror. “Wait!” He put on the hat carefully and did it again. “Super detective!” He sucked his stomach in until his ribs stuck out.

  Suddenly, he was sure his uncle was skinny too. Not regular skinny, but skinny-bone-skinny. Totally not like Dad, the Big Beluga.

  Was the hat showing him his uncle, or was he remembering stuff from before he was three years old? Seemed like the uncle in his head was walking down their driveway get-out-of-here fast, and someone was yelling at him.

  Cody opened his eyes in the dark of the hat, his heart pounding.

  He took the hat off, put on his pj’s, and dove into bed.

  He was still seeing the uncle in his head when a voice boomed, “Good night, Sport!”

  “Aaaah!” Cody sat straight up in bed.

  Dad filled the door. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He drummed his palms on the door frame, then stopped. Looking at the hat, he sighed. “Look what you’ve got.” He came into the room and lifted the hat off the bedpost.

  Cody pulled his knees up so Dad would sit, but he didn’t. “That’s Uncle Paul’s hat.”

  “Yup.” Dad turned the hat in his hands. “I see you have the postcard too. Be careful with it, okay? It’s all we’ve got, at least till he sends another one.”

  “I will.”

  Dad knuckle-rubbed the top of Cody’s head. “You two share a birthday, you know.”

  “And a name. Only backwards.” Cody pointed at his own chest—“Cody Paul”—then at the hat—“Paul Cody. We’re exact opposites.”

  Dad shook his head. “Thank God for that. Two Paul Codys in one family? Disaster.”

  Cody rested his chin on his knees. “Is Uncle Paul left-handed, like me?”

  “Sure is.” Dad gazed at the loaded shelf over Cody’s bed. “And you both like comic books.”

  “Manga!”

  Dad turned the hat in his hands. “Your uncle picked this up at the Goodwill on Mabry, wore it to a job interview I got for him.” One corner of his mouth perked up in a sort-of smile. “I could’ve killed him. Who hires a long-haired guy in a Goodwill hat?”

  “He didn’t get the job, huh?”

  “Believe it or not, he did. He lasted two whole days, then hit the road.”

  The image of his skinny uncle walking fast down the driveway flashed in Cody’s head. Was Dad the one doing the yelling?

  Dad pulled the postcard from the hatband and read the scribbled writing: “…finally on the right track.” The bedsprings chirped as Dad sat down. “You wouldn’t know the right track if it bit you.” Now Dad was talking to the hat too. “I tried so hard to keep you out of trouble.”

  “Like Ben keeps me out of trouble?”

  Dad snorted. “With you two it’ll be the other way around.”

  “Ben’s responsible.”

  “Like when he almost got both of you killed over Christmas break?”

  “He wasn’t trying to get us killed. The boat just ran out of gas and it got dark and the wind was blowing the wrong direction.”

  Dad shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder if having Ben watch you this summer is a good idea.”

  “Yeah, I can pretty much take care of myself.”

  Dad slapped his knees. “Question is, who’ll look out for Ben?”

  “Me! I will.”

  “All right!” Dad gave Cody a quick hug, then stood. “You’re in charge.” He jammed the card back into the hatband and tossed the hat at the bedpost. It caught, spun, and then wobbled to a stop. “Check in, Paulie,” Dad said, poin
ting at the hat. He turned off the light and left the door open a crack like always, so light from the hall could sneak in.

  Cody lay back. What if Ben disappeared like Uncle Paul? Ben always said he wanted to go someplace.

  Cody turned and knocked on the wall, thump, thump. Two knocks was how the brothers said good night, and how Cody got Ben’s attention when he had a nightmare. Ben wasn’t in bed yet; Cody could hear him in his room, messing around.

  Ben didn’t thump back.

  Cody knocked again, louder.

  “Aren’t you getting a little old for this?” Ben called.

  “I’m only six.”

  “For seven—make that six—more days.” Ben knocked twice. “Go to sleep now, little bro.”

  Cody flopped onto his back and looked up. A giant vampire bat was swooping across the ceiling!

  He almost yelled. Good thing he didn’t. It was just a hat shadow from the light coming in from the hall.

  But it looked like a bat.

  He knocked softly, one last time.

  “We already did that!” Ben called.

  “Just double-checking!” Cody closed his eyes.

  The bat on the ceiling hovered over him all night long.

  Monday

  (Seven Minus Six)

  Justin

  That thing about putting the pillow over your head so you can’t hear? Doesn’t work. The battle going on in my parents’ room buzz-saws right through the flimsy bag of feathers.

  The clock by my bed says 4:27 when I pull on my clothes and sneak out.

  Not that I need to sneak. The parental units are too busy fighting to notice me creeping past their door, down the creaky stairs, across the messy living room, through the kitchen where a week’s worth of dishes are piled in the sink, and out into the dark.

  I can still hear them shouting as I cut across the damp grass. Our neighbor’s light is on. Must be fun living next door to us.

  On my way to Ben’s I pass a cat sleeping on the hood of a car. A couple of porch lights are on, but the houses are dark. Everyone’s asleep but my family—and our next-door neighbors.