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AVERY

I t’s not easy being a gay teen in the magical world.

The human world has moved on a lot in terms of same-sex relationships and become somewhat more progressive.

But the magical world is still stuck in the Middle Ages.

In most of the Realms, being same-sex oriented is viewed with varying degrees of horror to homophobia.

Take my own family, for instance. My magic manifested early and so did my sexual orientation.

My father was not pleased about either one.

He’s a big shot, super powerful Warlock, working on serious issues like Climate Change and no doubt he was hoping his only son would follow in his footsteps.

Unfortunately, the very first time my magic manifested, he knew right away that wasn’t to be.

I was an early flamer—in every sense of the word. But in the magical world, the world of witchcraft, specifically, when we talk about someone “flaming up” we mean the first time the magic in their blood comes to the surface and manifests in the outside world.

Most boys with witch powers—Warlocks—flame up in very manly ways.

I had a childhood friend, Brandon,—(well, I was mostly friends with his sister, but we were around the same age)—who wanted really badly to do well on his Little League team.

He was working on his batting and catching and whatever else it is you do in baseball every day, but he just couldn’t seem to hit the ball very far.

Well, when Brandon’s magic manifested, it came out at a big game. He hit the ball so hard he knocked the cover off of it and it flew some ungodly distance—right out of the Little League park they were playing in—and crashed through some woman’s bay window about a mile away.

Of course, there was a lot of work to do, convincing the Norms—which is what the magical community calls regular humans with no magic—that it had all been some trick of the wind—a freak accident that could never happen again.

But his family and the rest of the magical community in our little town of Frostproof, Florida, knew what had really happened and his father could not have been prouder.

Seriously, I remember hearing him brag to my own Dad constantly about his little super slugger and seeing the envy in my father’s eyes as he nodded and congratulated his friend.

Another boy around my age, Andrew, started a truck with his magic when it manifested, because he wanted to drive “like the race cars on NASCAR.” Another one I know tamed a poisonous snake—a water moccasin—and made it his familiar when his magic came out.

And the list just goes on and on. Guys with witch blood tend to have dramatic and very masculine magical manifestations.

But not me.

No, the very first time my magic manifested, was when my mother sewed herself a dress that I, in my six-year-old wisdom, considered too plain. (Yes, I was fashion-forward at an early age.)

Anyway, my mother is a Null. That’s what the magical community calls someone who comes from a magical family but has no magic themselves.

My mom’s Null status means she has to do things the hard way but she hasn’t let that stop her.

She’s the most determined and positive person I know and she’s also my biggest cheerleader—I love her so much.

So mom had sewed herself a little black dress for an upcoming cocktail party but when I saw it hanging there on her dress mannequin, I remember thinking that it needed some decoration.

Just something to brighten it up a bit. In fact, I could almost see what it needed in my head—the colorful pattern that would take it from blah to beautiful.

And as I stood there, seeing these shapes and colors in my head—(my magic has always had a very visual component)—my fingertips began to tingle.

And before I knew it, the pattern I had been imagining was happening —colorful threads were appearing from nowhere and decorating my mother’s little black dress with a gorgeous profusion of flowers and geometric shapes and even a huge, red dragon—which my “magic needle” as I call it—sewed onto the front of the bodice.

It was just that easy—I willed the pattern to be there and it was .

Lots of witchcraft involves spells and incantation that take a long time to set up and gather all of the ingredients for.

But my magic needle has always just been there for me, with almost no effort on my part.

It’s like breathing and I still love it for its simplicity and the way it comes so naturally.

Anyway, I came from a magical family, so I wasn’t amazed or horrified by this strange thing I had suddenly done—I knew it was just my magic finally coming out.

But I was absolutely delighted that I could now “fix” problem clothes without having to try and use my mom’s clunky sewing machine—(which she was trying to teach me at my own request.)

I still remember my parents’ reaction to my first foray into magic—my first flame up—vividly.

When I called my mother into the room and she saw how I had “decorated” her new dress—(which she spent hours sewing, by the way)—she didn’t get upset or think that I had ruined it.

Instead, her face broke into this huge, sunny smile and she grabbed me and hugged me as hard as she could.

“Oh, Avery!” she gushed. “It’s beautiful! I am so proud of you! And you did this all with your own magic?”

“My very own,” I said proudly, reveling in her praise. “I thought it was too plain, so I decided to fix it.”

“You certainly did!” my mother exclaimed. She walked around and around the dressmaker’s dummy, examining the dress from every angle and praising all the different details. Then she called my father. “Harold—come look what our son did!”

My father ambled into the room and stopped short when he saw the now-colorful little black dress that my mom was so proudly displaying. I’ll never forget his reaction—which couldn’t have been more different from my mom’s.

He stopped dead in the middle of the room, his eyes fixed on the dress.

“Avery did that?” he asked, in a strange, flat voice. “With magic? His magic?”

“Yes—isn’t it wonderful?” my mother gushed. “And so young too! Our son is amazingly talented!”

“Shit…” My father’s mouth twisted itself into a disgusted sneer. “I knew it,” he said, his voice low and harsh and filled with disappointment. “I fucking knew it.”

“Harold!” my mother exclaimed. “Language!”

“How can you care about language at a time like this?” my father roared. He stabbed a finger at the newly-decorated dress. “Look at that! Just look at it! I always knew there was something wrong with him and this just proves it!”

“It doesn’t prove anything except that he’s immensely magically gifted!

” my mother snapped back. “You were the one who was afraid Avery might take after me and be a Null. But just look! Look at the intricacy of the pattern—the amazing detail! It would take weeks or months of hand-embroidery to do that kind of work—and Avery did it in a few minutes! Plus, think of the imagination and creativity that went into it! It’s a work of art! ”

“It’s a disgrace,” my father said bitterly. “It’s woman’s magic.”

“Magic does not have to be gendered,” my mother said hotly. (Though to be honest, it usually is. You don’t often see warlocks magically embroidering dresses or witches doing spells to help an oil rig pump faster or whatever it is oil rigs do.)

“I knew it,” my father said again, giving me that disgusted look, which I have never forgotten.

“He’d rather play with dolls than throw a baseball with me.

And he’s always in the kitchen, baking cookies with you instead of going outside and digging in the dirt like other boys his age. I knew he was a damn fag?—“

“Harold James Connor don’t you dare say that ugly, hateful word in my house!” My mother’s voice was low but so filled with rage and warning it had the intensity of a shout.

My father glared at her.

“I’ll say what I want! It’s true and you know it!”

“I don’t care!” my mother shouted back “And you shouldn’t either!”

My father’s face was so red by this time he looked like a pickled beet. He shot a murderous look at my mother and then he turned that same, ugly look on me.

Now lest you think my parents fought all the time, they didn’t.

I grew up in a very quiet, functional household with lots of positive reinforcement.

Granted, most of that positivity was from my mom, but my dad wasn’t cruel or abusive when it came to me—just quiet and somewhat withdrawn.

This was the first time I had ever seen him look so disgusted and angry and all those negative emotions were directed at me— at what I had done.

I burst into tears.

“Now just look what you’ve done!” My mother rushed to comfort me, taking me in her arms and holding me close. “It’s all right, Avery,” she whispered in my ear. “Your magic is beautiful and you are wonderful and smart and talented and I love you!” I told you she believed in positive reinforcement.

But all the positive reinforcement in the world couldn’t make up for my dad’s angry words and the way he had looked at me. I remembered thinking—for the first time—that something was wrong with me and I couldn’t stop crying.

My father left—storming out of the house in an uncharacteristic rage that was all the more frightening because it was so unusual for him.

He didn’t come back for dinner either—also unusual because my mom is a pretty good cook.

(She taught me everything she knows, which really comes in handy at Nocturne Academy, where the food can be somewhat lacking at times.)

After my dad left, I still kept crying. My mother eventually gave me some kid’s Benadryl to calm me down and put me to bed early. I was that upset. I remember her rocking me in her lap while I asked her over and over again what I did wrong and if daddy hated me now.

My poor mom—it must have broken her heart. And I know for a fact, it nearly broke her marriage. For a long time after that, my dad was distant and silent. He started working away from home a lot more and I saw him less and less at dinnertime.

To give him at least some credit, though, he never shouted at me again—he wasn’t really a shouting kind of guy.

I think it was just the shock of seeing how my magic had manifested that made him upset enough to crack his WASPy exterior.

After that one incident, he was mostly distant and cool with me—and also with my mom.

So yeah—things were tense in my house after my magic came out in the open. That’s because my dad was right in thinking that it was a precursor to another kind of coming out.

And why am I telling you all this? Maybe so you’ll understand how the magical world sees someone like me. And you’ll also understand that what was happening to me in gym class wasn’t at all unusual…