Some Kind of Magic

by Adrian Fogelin

  “How do you know it’s crazy till you’ve tried it?” I ask, keeping my eyes closed.

  No answer. Maybe she’s silently sneaking away.

  But the next thing I hear is a loud huff, and when I look she’s sprawled out beside me on the road not three feet away.

  This is seriously weird.

  We stare into the oak that hangs over the road. “This road stinks,” she says.

  The fumes from the warm tar are pretty strong, but not bad. “I kind of like the smell.” I shrug my shoulders again. “The road feels good against your back, doesn’t it?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her shrug too. “It’s okay.”

  On the sunny side of the street we would fry, but here in the shade the road feels almost cool on my sweaty skin. I lift my arms, finally strong enough to do it, and check out my wounds. “My arms look like the time I tried to give Gizmo a bath.”

  “You got scratched up pretty good.” She makes it sound like a compliment.

  When I let my arms fall, my knuckles brush hers. She whips her hand away and pretends she needs to tug her shirt down. Bet she wishes she’d sprawled farther away.

  She folds her hands on her stomach. “Wonder what would happen if someone came peeling around the corner?”

  I turn my head and look at her. “Splat?”

  What would Ben think if he saw me and Jemmie Lewis lying on our backs on Rankin?

  I hear her sneakers scrape as she bends her knees. “Big? How long are we gonna lie here smelling the road?”

  “I dunno. I’m comfortable.”

  “Me too,” she admits. “Guess we’d better put up a sign.”

  “What kind of sign?”

  “Speed Bump.”

  I laugh. “Hey, that was funny.”

  “You think funny is your department?” She sits up fast. “I can be funny!” She jumps to her feet and goes.

  “Okay!” I yell, listening to her sneakers slap the pavement. “I’ll give you a head start.”

  Tuesday

  (Seven Minus Five)

  Cody

  Floaty and half-asleep, Cody heard Mom singing downstairs. “‘Blacks and bays…dapples and grays…all the pretty little horses.’”

  “Toast?” Dad’s voice.

  “‘Way down yonder…in the meadow…’”

  A basketball hit the floor. “Not in the house, Ben.” Mom sang the words like they were part of “Pretty Horses.”

  Coffee smell sneaked up the stairs.

  Cody opened his eyes and pushed up on his elbows. Everything in his room looked as gray as the hat that hung on his bedpost—everything except the postcard. A skinny finger of light poking between the curtains hit it like a spotlight.

  Remembering his uncle’s name scrawled in that comic book, Cody crawled to the end of the bed and stared at the Space Needle. This time, instead of a covered platter of fried chicken, he saw a spaceship.

  Maybe Uncle Paul was abducted!

  But he couldn’t say that to his family. They laughed when he’d asked if eating too much broccoli could turn him into broccoli—even though he did look sort of green.

  They laughed when he asked them if a tidal wave might hit Tallahassee, and if it did, would there be sharks in it? “Cody and his wild imagination,” they said.

  But was it wild to wonder about an uncle no one had heard from in years?

  He felt a sudden shiver, then remembered what he’d heard Nana Grace say: “A shiver means someone’s walking on your grave.” Even though Cody was pretty sure he didn’t have one, the word “grave” made him shiver again.

  He stood on the bed and grabbed his uncle’s fedora. “Come on, hat.”

  He jumped off the bed, then hopped down the stairs on one foot—lucky left. As his foot hit the floor at the bottom, he remembered what day it was. Seven minus five.

  He stopped in the kitchen door. “Hey, how old will Uncle Paul be on our birthday?”

  No one answered. Ben was watching the numbers on the microwave go down and Dad was pouring a cup of coffee. Mom, just humming now, looked up from the newspaper. “No hats at the table.” As Cody sat in his chair, she took the hat off, kissed the top of his head, and then rubbed her mouth.

  “Tickle-lips?” he asked.

  “Tickle-lips.”

  Cody’s summer haircut had bristles.

  “How old will Uncle Paul be?” he repeated.

  “Twenty-nine.” Dad opened a cupboard. “How about some breakfast, Sport? Let me guess.” He snapped his fingers. “Cereal?”

  “What else?” Dad knew he always had cereal.

  “How can you stand eating the same stuff every day?” Ben sucked up a snake of spaghetti, spraying his lips with tomato sauce. “You may not have noticed, little bro, but your life is pretty boring.”

  “Guess what we found yesterday?” Cody blurted.

  Ben’s eyebrows shot up.

  “What?” Dad glanced at Ben. When he turned away to hand Cody the Cheerios box, Ben gave Cody the laser look.

  “Oh, nothing.” He shook cereal into his bowl carefully, so the Os would land one at a time. Ping…ping…ping…

  “Ben?” Dad wasn’t smiling. “Watching your brother is your summer job. No disasters, remember? We’re counting on you, and you’re getting paid, so be responsible.”

  Cody glanced back and forth between his brother and Dad. Ben stared right back at Dad like he had nothing to hide.

  Nothing but a whole building he’d had to pry open!

  “We’re not getting in trouble,” Ben said.

  Dad turned. “Cody?”

  Cody pushed a Cheerio under the milk with his spoon and waited for it pop back up. It didn’t. “We’re not getting in trouble.” He added a silent yet.

  Mom and Dad hurried out the front door, ready for work, but Dad stuck his head back in. “To repeat: No disasters, Ben. Are we clear on this?”

  “Crystal.” As the door closed, Ben swung around. “Cody?”

  Oh man, he was going to get it now!

  “We gotta talk.” Ben squeezed the back of Cody’s neck and propelled him toward the living room, then let go and plopped down on the sofa.

  Cody flumped into Dad’s recliner, keeping his distance. “You lied to Dad.”

  “No, I didn’t!” Ben frowned. “Maybe I didn’t exactly tell the truth, but you weren’t supposed to say anything about what we found! We all agreed that was rule number one.”

  “Number three!”

  “Yeah, yeah, spiders and stuff.”

  Cody rubbed a finger back and forth on the arm of the recliner. “I think they should know about it.”

  Ben crossed his legs. His sneaker lace jiggled as his foot bobbed up and down. “This is a need-to-know situation. If there’s a reason why they should know, we’ll tell them. I promise.” He uncrossed his legs, put both feet flat on the floor, and leaned toward Cody, resting his forearms on his thighs. “Here’s the thing. We’ve lived in this one place our whole lives. And nothing ever happens here.”

  “I like it here.”

  “It’s okay when you’re little, but wait a while and you’ll feel like”—Ben stared at the ceiling light for a second—“like a car with its engine revving real fast but there’s no way to get out of park. You know what I’m talking about?”

  “I guess.” Ben and Dad compared everything to cars.

  “So, here we are, stuck in park, probably for the whole summer, and then you make this great discovery. Do I think Dad would put the place off-limits if he knew about it? I sure do. But will anything bad happen if we don’t tell him and just keep going there? No. Why would it? Dad’s a worrier. He always expects the worst.”

  Cody popped his thumbnail back and forth over a seam on the chair arm. “Ben? That place feels creepy.”

  “You imagine stuff, Cody. Remember the time you had a bad feeling about leaving your socks under your bed ‘cause you thought they’d grow and turn into monsters overnight?”

  “I was little then!
”

  “Or when you thought your toys came to life when you were out of your room?”

  “I didn’t really!” Cody shrugged. “Not for long, anyway!”

  “You’re big now. Almost seven, old enough to think for yourself. So, think about this. Take away Nowhere and all we have ahead of us is a long, hot summer.” He held up his hands, then slapped the couch on either side of him. “What do you say? Are you going to tell like a baby, even though you promised not to?”

  “I said I wouldn’t tell!”

  “Great! Perfect! Just don’t forget.” Ben grinned. “We’ll seal the deal with a little Moose Tracks.” He headed for the kitchen.

  Armed with spoons, they each dug out one big bite of ice cream. This was another thing Cody wasn’t so sure about. Ever since the last day of school, Ben had waited until after Mom and Dad left for work, then he’d broken out the ice cream so they could each take a bite.

  Ben tossed his spoon in the sink. “Think of it this way,” he said. “I’m in charge of you when Mom and Dad are at work. If I say a thing is okay—like hanging out at Nowhere—it’s okay.”

  “And like stealing ice cream?”

  “Who’s stealing ice cream?” Ben put the carton back in the freezer in the exact spot where he’d found it. “This is our house, our freezer. Besides, Mom and Dad hit the Moose Tracks every night after we go to bed. As long as we don’t take too much, they’ll never notice.”

  Cody wondered, Did Mom and Dad’s not noticing make it okay?

  Justin

  I wake up to the hum of Gizmo’s purr motor as our old cat dozes on my chest. I lace my hands behind my head and smile at the ceiling.

  Not a bad day yesterday.

  Good, actually.

  Better keep that at “not bad.” Why tempt the joy-crushing forces of the universe?

  But it isn’t like the universe can make yesterday un-happen. For instance, my piano lesson with Butler. At the beginning of the year Butler was nothing but the massive English teacher who drummed rhythms on his desk with a couple of pencils. Then I discovered that, like me, he had music playing in his head 24–7. With him teaching me, the music in my head is finally getting out.

  My biggest Butler worry now is not how to stay awake in his English class, but how to get to his house for piano lessons. My drivers are unreliable.

  Yesterday Dad dropped me off, then headed to the driving range. I worried that he’d forget to pick me up—but I forgot about Dad as I played “Clair de Lune.” I tried to stick with the piece the way Debussy wrote it, and not mess with the man’s notes.

  When I finished, Butler wore this little smile. “Now play it again—the way you would have written it.”

  So I launched. When the last note died out, Butler folded his hands over a gut that makes mine look like a six-pack. “Mr. Riggs. As an English student, your performance is quite mediocre, but as a piano student, you show great promise. I have never had a student learn so quickly or display such creativity. You are, quite simply, the best I’ve ever worked with.”

  My face heated up. I’m used to being called mediocre, so that was no biggie. But I’ve never been called the best—at anything.

  Butler reached over and played a quick flourish on the low notes, a bit of the melody I had just played. Then he let his hands fall to his knees. “You are very fortunate to find out at such an early age what you are.”

  I’d been called a lot of things, none of them exactly complimentary. “What am I?” I asked, staring at the keys.

  “A musician!”

  “A musician,” I whisper now. I scruff the cat behind the ears. “How about that, Giz? Butler says I’m a musician.” I think about telling Mom. Dad wouldn’t care, but Mom might.

  I raise my head and listen to downstairs. Silence, then the microwave beeps. Somebody’s up. After that beep, more silence.

  Silence is okay, if only one of them is up. And if only one of them is up, I hope it’s Mom.

  I lift the Giz off my chest and set him on the pillow, then dress for Nowhere in long pants, socks, and sneakers. I roll up the long sleeves of my shirt—even in the AC I’m sweating—then I grab the open bag of bedside marshmallows and stuff them in a cargo pocket. I walk past my brother’s empty room—Duane is in the Army—slip past my parents’ closed door, and go downstairs.

  They’re both in the kitchen, wearing their matching blue bathrobes.

  Mom isn’t talking.

  Dad isn’t talking.

  I’ve seen this before. The frozen argument.

  Mom drops a piece of bread in the toaster and slams the lever down. Although they aren’t talking, they can turn anything—even making toast—into part of the argument.

  Best course of action? Act like nothing is wrong and get out fast. “Good morning, you guys.”

  Dad grunts. I just see the top of his shiny bald head above the Democrat.

  “How was your lesson?” asks Mom.

  It’s probably not the time to tell her I’m the best, so I shrug. “It was okay.”

  “I still don’t get the lessons.” Dad lowers the paper and gives me one of his just-between-us-guys smiles. “We don’t even own a piano.”

  “True,” I say. “But we could get one.”

  Dad laughs like I’m joking, then turns to Mom, who stirs her coffee loudly, clanking her spoon against the cup. “Does this piano thing seem crazy to anyone but me?” he asks.

  When she doesn’t even look at him, he turns to me and holds up his hands like he just doesn’t get it. “The lessons cost money, and as soon as you discover girls you’ll forget all about playing the piano. It’s kind of sissy anyway.”

  I stare at my sneakers. Way to go, universe. Set me up with a good day, then knock me down. “Mr. Butler says I have a lot of talent,” I mutter.

  Dad shrugs. He sells restaurant equipment up and down the East Coast. What does he care about musical talent?

  But Mom drops her spoon on the counter. “Are you dismissing your son’s talent?”

  He puts on a crooked smile, like, Can’t you take a joke? “No. I’m just glad to hear he has one.”

  If Dad could pick a talent for me, it wouldn’t be music. He keeps telling me I’m built for football. Excuse me, but I like music a lot better than knocking people down.

  Dad turns around in his chair and stares at the smoking toaster. His eyebrows, the only hair on his head, lift. “Kathy, I believe your toast is ready.”

  Forget breakfast. I’m out of here.

  Before the door even closes behind me, I’m nailed by the morning heat.

  So much for my “great day.” In case you haven’t noticed, the universe has a mean streak. I won’t be surprised if the hideout Cody and the Wonder Hat found has been crushed by the dead limb Ben wants to cut down.

  When I see the roof between the trees, I let out my breath. The limb is still waiting to fall. Sooner or later it will, though, or else Cody will leak and tell his parents, making the place off-limits. But until then I have a place to go besides Ben’s house. A place with a piano.

  I pull the door open and walk quietly across the room. I sit down at the piano, rest my palms on the cool wooden lid, and let out a long, slow breath.

  I lift the lid and strike middle C, holding the key down until the note dies out. Then I begin to play “Clair de Lune,” my way. It’s hard to ignore the old piano’s sour notes, or the G, C-sharp, and D that don’t play at all. I wish I had a Steinway like Butler’s.

  I walk my fingers up and down the scales.

  It worries me when my dad talks like he might not go on paying for lessons, but he can’t take away what Butler said. That part of my good day was real.

  I’m kind of scared to think about the other good part of my good day. I tell the universe, Look, it probably didn’t actually happen, so what is there to take away?

  But the facts are undeniable. Jemmie and I did lie down on the road together and talk. And for a while she acted (or sort of acted) as if she (kind of) liked
me.

  Needing a little sugar to help me think, I pull the sack of marshmallows out of my cargo pocket and pop two in my mouth, a pink and a yellow.

  Okay, “liked” is probably too strong a word. At best, Jemmie tolerates me.

  But yesterday?

  Yesterday she tolerated me for a really long time.

  Cody

  The push broom thumped Cody’s shoulder as he marched through the woods behind Ben. “Do I look like a soldier?”

  Ben stopped and turned. He cocked his head.

  “Well?” Cody marched in place. “Do I?”

  “You would.” Ben grinned. “If soldiers were four feet tall, wore detective hats, and shot people with brooms.”

  Cody pointed at the two paint scrapers sticking out of his brother’s jeans pockets. “You look like the Wild West.”

  Ben snatched the paint scrapers out. “Stick ’em up!”

  But Cody swung the broom off his shoulder extra fast. “Bam! Too bad. You’re dead.”

  “The shame!” Ben grabbed his chest and staggered. “Killed by a janitor!” He shoved the scraper handles back in his pockets. “C’mon.”

  “Hey, hear that?” Cody pointed at the garage, barely visible through the trees.

  The notes of the Nowhere anthem drifted toward them. Cody marched ahead of Ben, leading the way to the garage.

  When they got there, Ben grabbed Cody’s broom and put a foot on a rung of the rickety ladder leaned against the roof. “Go on inside.” He scrambled up the wobbly ladder.

  Cody tipped his head back. “Can you see our house?”

  “No. Just trees.”

  “Can I climb up too?”

  Ben looked down on him. “You heard Dad, no disasters. Besides, I’m not up here to have fun. I’m gonna sweep the leaves off, then see what kind of shape the shingles are in. Go in and say hey to Justin.”

  “I want to go on the roof too!” Cody kicked at a pile of damp leaves and bumped something hard. “Wonder what’s under there,” he mumbled.

  He found a stick and dug, uncovering a cloudy semicircle sticking up from the mud. He scraped away leaves and dirt until he could pull it out. A drinking glass. It was old and dirty, but not broken. He held it up. “Hey, look!” he yelled, but the only answer was the sound of sweeping. He stared at the glass. How long had it been lying there waiting?