Page 14 of Everything She Does Is Magic (Fableview #1)

Anya

As I cower in Aunt Cal’s old Volkswagen Beetle—an unfortunate shade of notice-me yellow—my parents initiate their weekly video call.

Mom’s face crowds the screen, too close to the camera, providing me with an unsolicited tour of her most recent dental work.

In the corner, visible only by his shoulder, is mydad.

“We are getting so excited!” Mom says.

It would seem my mom’s magical power is enthusiasm.

Really it’s herbalism. In our family, mothers and their firstborn children tend to have complementary powers.

It’s true for Mom and me. I am best at mending plants.

Mom can grow them under almost any condition.

When my dad forgot their anniversary a few years ago, she called me to say she’d grown tomatoes in his pillowcase overnight as payback.

“I’m excited too,” I tell her, lying through my teeth. The closer their visit gets, the closer I come to having to tell everyone I’m choosing not to join the coven.

“Are you in Cal’s car?” Mom asks, spotting the herbs Cal has hanging from her sunroof.

“I’m not driving, though.” I flip the camera around to show the view of Fableview Boulevard from where I’m parked.

Even through a screen on an overcast day, the charm is clear.

If anything, the flat gray sky accentuates the orange of the leaves sprinkled across the cobblestone.

It looks like a memory somehow, something that makes me ache with longing for what used to be, even though it’s right here, right now.

“Just lovely,” Mom says. “I almost chose to live there myself. I’m glad that Cal ended up there.”

When I don’t see my parents, it’s easy to convince myself I don’t need them around. I’ve spent a lot of my life away from them already. But then they’re in front of me, even if it’s only through a screen, and my chest burns at the thought of giving all this up.

An idea comes to me—a last-ditch shot at finding a loophole that could make my initiation work. “Who is Cal’s protector again?” I ask.

Mom leans so close to the phone, I swear it might be inside her mouth. “Oh gosh, I haven’t thought about him in years. Mark…” Her voice trails off, searching for a last name.

My dad chimes in to answer for her. “Blake.”

Like Piper , I realize. The Piper who just returned.

“Ah, got it,” I say, pretending not to recognize the name. My asking these kinds of questions has already sparked way too much intrigue. It’s important I sound bored, like I don’t even know why I’m asking. “What happened with Mark and AuntCal?”

“He broke her heart into about ten thousand pieces,” Mom tells me.

“Shattered, I tell you. When he went away to college, he fell in love with another girl. I’m pretty sure that’s who he ended up marrying.

He didn’t tell Cal about her until he came back that summer.

” Mom squints her eyes. “Why? Did she bring him up?”

“No,” I say quickly. “Aunt Cal isn’t using words to speak rightnow.”

Mom chuckles. “That sounds like Cal. She reminds me of you in that way. Protective of herself.”

“I talk,” I protest.

“You sure do.” Mom beams. “And I love hearing every single thing you have to say.” Sometimes she’s so complimentary that there is nowhere to go inside the cage of her kindness.

But I have to press on, searching for a solution. “What happens if you don’t talk to your protector anymore? Shouldn’t that be grounds for removal the same way it is not to have one atall?”

My mom pulls the camera back. She thinks it will somehow show her more of me instead of show me more of her. I’ve stepped on a land mine, and it’s important to stay still, not making this seem any more interesting than it already is.

“You don’t have to speak to someone to have them look out for you. These people take oaths, honey. They’re very committed. Mark still follows it, I can promise you that. It’s not the same as not having a protector at all.”

“What are they even protecting us from? This isn’t the 1400s anymore or whatever.”

Mom chuckles. “I know, sweetie. It’s not. But part of being a witch in our family is about investing in community. And in the event there ever is trouble, well then, you have someone you know can look out for you.”

“I thought that’s what the coven is for,” I say.

“It is. But we need more than just our family to thrive, dear. We need other people to witness us. That’s all that remains when we’re gone. The memories of us that other people carry. That’s what really keeps our magic alive. Protectors ensure that too.”

Little does she know that in just over two weeks, that’s all that will remain of me, even though I’ll still be alive and well. Just banished.

“Do protectors have to be mortal?” I ask next. There must be some weak point I can identify. “Actually, could Dad be my protector? He’s not in the coven, and he’s mortal. He even agreed to take your last name. Feels like he’s pretty dedicated to the cause of keeping the magic alive.”

“Oh, honey, why are you asking all these questions? You’ve got yourself a lovely protector! Gosh, I’m getting so excited to meet her. I wish your grandma were still alive to see it. And Darcy’s. It’s just too special.” Mom wipes an actual tear from hereye.

The strange thing about spending so little time actually living with my parents is that they don’t know I’m queer.

They don’t not know either. It just isn’t something we’ve discussed when I’ve stayed with them in the summers or on any of these calls.

My identity isn’t a thing I have many words for anyway.

It just is . Like my magic, thrumming through me, always there, even when I’m not accessing it.

My queerness makes me who I am, affects every single thing I do, but at the same time, it’s only mine to fully know. And I like it that way.

It hasn’t occurred to my mom that I might have romantic feelings for Darcy. She assumes Darcy is a safe protector choice because she’s a girl.

“I actually have to go,” I say. “I’m taking Darcy’s ceramics class.” This, at least, is true. It’s nice to say true things. Even if there are several layers of lies hidden between them.

“Tell her we said hello!” Mom replies. “Love you so much, honey. Can’t wait to see you very soon!”

“Love you too.”

After hanging up, I take the short walk from my car to Pam’s Paints, breathing in that familiar heady scent of impending rain. I feel a huge swell of affection. This place really is lovely. It’s a shame I won’t be able to stay here either.

Taking in the shops along the boulevard, I look up at the hand-painted signs, thinking of the people who made them, wondering what their stories are. Did they get what they wanted out of life? How did they know who they were meant to become?

The door chime tells Darcy I’ve arrived. She’s back in the same witch’s costume from the first night I really spoke to her, only now she’s overseeing several tables’ worth of people painting ceramics.

It’s hard to surprise Darcy Keller. She knows everything about this town. Showing up unannounced has done the trick, and I think I could get addicted to the way her head tilts toward her left shoulder as she places her hand against her heart.

“This wasn’t on the schedule,” she says in greeting.

We’ve been clinging to that schedule she gave me, the both of us.

At school we say nothing. But if it’s an official item on the Fableview October schedule, we’re bursting at the seams to talk to each other.

There’s something unscheduled that I need to do, though.

One loose thread that must be fixed before I lose my powers forever.

“I wanted to paint my own ceramic,” I say, fighting the urge to stare at the floor, knowing my cheeks are already burning red.

“I’m sorry to say, we haven’t made any gnomes in a while.”

“That’s a real shame.”

“I’ll tell my parents to order more.”

“That will be very appreciated. By me and the gnome community.”

“In the meantime, what are you looking to paint?” She directs me to a shelf of unpainted ceramics near the front.

“You don’t have to do anything Halloween-themed, but we have a good selection right now.

Bats, pumpkins, ghosts. Witches. ” She waves her fingers like she’s calling back to our long-running joke.

“I’d like to do a cat,” I tell her.

This gets a laugh out of her that she doesn’t explain, not even when I pry her with my most specific, unflinching, explain-yourself stare.

“Perfect,” she says, her sharp green eyes sparkling in delight. “Are cats your favorite?”

“I’m actually allergic. But they say you love what you can’t have.”

This is supposed to be my attempt at joking right back. The statement has a friction I don’t expect. After admitting that I think she’s pretty and her telling me the same thing back, electricity has begun humming in the gaps of every word we exchange.

Darcy handles it with her usual grace, waltzing over to a wall of animals and finding me a ceramic kitten. She gets me set up at my own station, explaining the process of getting the paints and all the layers that are required to make the ceramic look good after it’s put in the kiln.

“I’ll just be painting it black,” I say.

She plops down a whole bottle of black paint she’d already grabbed for me. “I figured. Just keep it at your table. It’s easier that way.”

Once I begin to work on my kitten, she mills around for longer than I anticipate.

Hovering, really. Pam’s Paints isn’t wide, but it’s long.

There are a lot of alcoves and clutter, as well as treasures available for purchase, including any number of Fableview-themed ornaments and magnets.

Plenty of things for her to adjust. And other people to attend to. But she stays here with me.

In any other circumstance, I would want her around. Smelling her bodywash, coming up with any clever remark I could think of just to see that smile on her face, to know I’m the one who made her laugh.

Right now I need her far away.