Page 18 of Everything She Does Is Magic (Fableview #1)
Darcy
“No costume?” Grace asks, pointing to my overalls. She doesn’t bother with shielding her horror. It’s almost funny with prosthetics glued to her cheeks and a light green body paint covering her skin. I’m being judged by an alien for dressing normally.
“It wasn’t meant to be a statement,” I say. But maybe it was. I wanted to look cute just to be cute, not look cute as a character.
Everything has felt different since the almost kiss. I couldn’t muster up the interest in putting on my costume and pretending to be something I’m not, because it seems like I’m pretending everywhere in life, and putting on one more costume would be a bridge too far.
“You’re being very mysterious these days,” Grace says, waving her green fingers in my face.
Piper walks up with a crate of apples. She’s wearing one of her hand-embroidered sweaters.
This one has a single tiny apple in the left corner.
No one gives her a hard time about her mild commitment to our event themes.
Not that I think we should start. Splitting time between her divorced parents’ houses is already tough enough on her.
I’m just feeling the weight of my own burdens in a way I haven’t before.
The pressure to be perfect all season long.
“Will Anya be joining us?” Piper asks, never one for subtlety.
“I’m sure she’ll skip this,” I tell them both.
“I’m sure she won’t,” Grace says, more to Piper than me. The two of them laugh. Then Grace picks up an apple from the crate and takes a bite. “You know, she’s not as sinister as I first thought.”
Grace’s opinions of people tend to be stubbornly fixed. Even if someone has spent years proving her otherwise, she almost always goes back to her gut.
“She’s definitely not sinister,” I confirm, wanting to validate this.
If nothing else, I would like my friends to like Anya.
Since Anya is apparently also my friend.
A friend with secrets. A friend who Julia told me not to trust. Not that Julia’s worth trusting herself.
But something specific happened between them that I don’t know about, and it seems connected to everything else I don’t know about Anya.
“You’re right. Anya’s kind of, like…” Grace lets the thought hang, searching for a word that’s very obvious to me.
“Thoughtful,” I fill in for her.
“Exactly,” Grace says. “And she’s also, like…I don’t know…kind of…” She waves her half-bitten apple around.
“Funny?” I guess. Grace doesn’t accept that one, so I keep going. “Observant?”
“Amazing?” Piper interjects. “Incredible? Perfect in everyway?”
She and Grace exchange a smirking look.
Whenever Piper’s out of town, Grace is only at half strength.
And while Grace and I have always been the true best friend duo, Piper strengthens us both.
We need a third party who can split the difference when we’re stuck, and Piper settles well into that role.
Really she fits into any role. She’s a chameleon in that way, flitting in and out of all the Fableview High friend groups with ease.
She’s only a junior, and I forget it constantly, because she’s that good at slipping into the middle of any moment and acting like she’s been there the entire time, when she’s usually around for only half of it.
This was a setup, and I fell right into the trap.
“We need to get these over to my parents,” I say, lifting the crate Piper just set down and walking away with it. While it’s inconvenient to carry thirty pounds of apples that are already exactly where they need to be, it’s the kind of grueling task I welcome. “More apples are here,” I tell my mom.
She’s busy chatting up the mayor. She casts one quick look my way and then another, longer double take, her mortification only thinly disguised by her Frankenstein’s bride makeup.
“Did something happen to your costume?” she asks, employing the same hushed urgency she’d use if I walked out of the bathroom with toilet paper on my shoe.
“I decided to dress in the spirit of the event instead,” I tell her. “Apple bobbing feels very overalls and pigtail braids to me.”
“You’ve really made it your mission to do things differently this year,” she comments.
It’s the first clue she’s even been paying attention to any of my subtle tweaks this season.
“Change is good,” I say. “For my new era as owner.”
We stare at each other.
“Does this have anything to do with your friend?” Dad interjects. “The one who joined the committee?”
“She’s not my friend,” I say defensively, still prickly from Grace and Piper’s attempts to approach me on the subject. “I mean, yes, she is. But it’s nothing to do with that.”
But really, Anya isn’t my friend. Or she isn’t just my friend. She is not like Grace or Piper. She’s not like Kyle Holtzenberg. She’s her own category. A hands-shaking, palms-sweating category that I’m still in the process of developing.
Dad puts his hands up. He didn’t intend to provoke me, unlike Grace and Piper. “No worries. I just want you to know you can always talk to me.”
“Thanks,” I tell him. It’s amusing how much he means it.
There’s sincerity in his eyes, and I feel it in the way he hugs me close, all fatherly sentimentality, surely thinking something like My baby girl is growing up.
But when I do something as mild as wear overalls to the apple picking contest instead of dressing up in a costume, it’s a cause of conflict.
He hasn’t given me any room to actually confide in him.
“Do you want me to put these apples back where they belong?” Mom asks.
“Oh, sorry, I thought maybe you guys needed some.”
“Last I checked, all the apples we need will be baked into the pies we’re judging,” she says, more to the mayor, who has been standing a few feet away, obviously listening to the three of us.
The families of Fableview, building the texture of our quaint little town.
“But maybe you should take a break from your friends and help us out with the pie contest. We haven’t gotten to enjoy many activities together this year. ”
Normally this would be an uninteresting idea. More time with my parents sounds like a recipe for stress. Right now, having a reason to do things without Grace and Anya to pester me sounds ideal. “Yeah, that works.”
When I carry the apple crate back to Grace and Piper, I pretend it was my parents’ error.
“They thought they might need some, but they realized that if they do, they’ll just come get them from you guys,” I say, dropping it off and heading back in the direction of the pies.
“You’re not hosting the bobbing contest with me?” Grace calls out. She’s spoken it through her handheld voice modulator. Still, the hurt in her voice is clear, even with warbles in it intended to make her sound like she’s not of this Earth.
“My parents want me to spend time with them. And I’ve been doing so much rule breaking behind their backs that it’s probably a good idea to hang out with them. Renew their goodwill,” I say.
Grace starts up a conversation with Piper, no modulator involved. It’s the kind intended for me to overhear—loud, with overly emphasized syllables—but I tune it out, not needing any more judgment.
I will enjoy this event in peace. Eat some good pies and share some laughs with my parents. Next year their life will be my life. I might as well find some new things to love about it.
Working the contest turns out to be genuinely fun. The entries are amazing. There are apple pies done up in every way possible, from classic cinnamon and sugar to more adventurous offerings, like a maple bacon Gruyère that is surprisingly delightful.
I’m midway through my third bite of a salted caramel entry—my contender for first place—when Mom says through a mouthful of her own serving, “Oh, look. There’s your friend.”
To my horror, she’s pointing.
At Anya.
Anya walks—sulks, more accurately—beside her Aunt Cal.
There are two more people next to them. A man with a brooding mysteriousness that matches Anya’s, and a smiling older woman dressed in bright florals, waving at every person they pass.
These must be Anya’s parents. Somehow, they seem like two sides of her coin.
The dad obviously captures her dark, moody exterior.
But beneath that is a secret, gooey softness that matches her mom’s.
When Anya invited me to dinner with them, I swore she said they were coming next week.
Yet here they are right now, with my mom pointing at them, practically beckoning them forward.