Page 3 of Everything She Does Is Magic (Fableview #1)

Darcy

“Howdy, painters!” My dad jogs down the stairs that separate the art shop from our condo above it.

My mom follows behind him. “Welcome to witchy paint night!”

My parents rarely let me teach a class without making at least one appearance.

Tonight my mom is dressed as Sandy from Grease .

Not the bodysuit-wearing, hair-teased Sandy from the end of the movie, but the poodle-skirt-and-cardigan one from the beginning.

My dad is dressed as Rick Moranis’s character from the original Ghostbusters .

Over forty years ago, someone told my dad he looked like that actor, and Dad took that as a lifelong oath he must honor every single year.

Both of my parents have worn these costumes so much that it’s how I picture them when we’re not together—my dad with his cardboard ghost-busting backpack, and my mom in a poodle skirt with her hair in a curled ponytail that swishes from side to side as she flits through our art shop.

“We’re so thrilled to have you learning from the great and powerful Darcy,” Dad says, kissing me on the cheek as he addresses tonight’s painters.

Shifting his focus to the corner of the shop, he takes out his ghost gun and makes a show of pretending to attack an invisible intruder, adding in his own pew-pew-pew noises to go along with it.

My mom inspects my lips. “Where’s the pink?” she whispers, voice full of concern.

“I ran out of lipstick.”

The truth is, Grace gave me a red lip stain she didn’t want, and she insisted I wear it tonight.

“I’ll go out and get you some tomorrow morning,” Mom says.

In our painting, the witch’s lips are nothing more than a needle-fine prick with the smallest brush we provide.

Changing my own lip color from pink to red is not going to rattle our customers’ foundation of belief.

Deep down, they have to already know I’m not a real witch.

“Witch” is a title people give themselves when they want to read tarot, like Piper Blake’s family, or when they need a good excuse to keep their spooky decorations up year-round.

I used to believe when I was a kid. Just like I believed in Santa Claus.

The Easter Bunny. The tooth fairy. One by one, my parents revealed the truth about those other things.

They haven’t said anything about witches being fake, but they don’t need to.

They are real because collectively we commit to the idea that they could be.

It’s way too vital to Fableview to do otherwise.

But every change I make, no matter how small, rocks my parents to their cores.

They won’t even let me mend this old cape, afraid that patches of new fabric will detract from the garment’s history.

It’s the cape my grandmother wore, and then my mother, and now me.

As is the case with so many things aroundhere.

“Now that our base is complete, it’s time to turn our background into a real sky.

” I demonstrate the next steps as my parents walk down the rows of painters, offering gentle redirections.

While we’re supposed to encourage everyone’s individual creativity, my parents don’t like to see anyone walk out of here with a finished product that’s strayed too far from our intended vision.

We’re so early in the process that it’s hard to believe they have any instruction to give at all.

Somehow, my mom and dad always find a way.

“I haven’t seen Anya in about six minutes,” Grace tells me, managing something close to a whisper now that my parents are downstairs with us.

“Are you running a stopwatch?” I ask.

“You know I have a very strong internal clock.”

“Grace, this lovely woman could use your help perfecting her clouds,” my mom announces. She could be the one to help, but what she really wants is for Grace to stop talking to me.

Grace hurries over to assist the painter while my mom swaps spots with her up front, plucking the paintbrush right out of my hands.

“I’m sure Darcy already told you, but Halloween night in Fableview is always unbelievable,” Mom says, streaking shades of green across my canvas.

“The sky looks almost like the northern lights.”

This kind of intrusion, my mom taking over my job for me, is not unfamiliar.

Maybe because my parents had me so much later in life—they were forty-three when I was born, putting them both at sixty now—it doesn’t bother me to have them hover over my every action.

It’s the way they’ve always been, praising me as their long-awaited miracle.

Their precious baby girl they wanted more than anything in the world.

It’s not a responsibility I can escape. Accepting it makes life easier for everyone.

They will always be too present, too involved.

That doesn’t mean I don’t want a break every once in a while.

Which is what college out of state could be.

If I can just find a good time to talk to them about it…

Almost all the kids in Fableview stick around after high school.

Those who don’t already work around here get jobs as soon as they can.

Some go to the community college a few towns over to get their associate’s degrees in something useful, but it’s usually just to fill in whatever gaps are due to spring up in Fableview, like a new preschool teacher at the daycare or a technician at the vet.

It’s rare for anyone to actually leave for a four-year college.

That’s reserved for the teens who really know what they want.

The future doctors and teachers, the scholarship athletes.

Kids who have already made very firm decisions about what they want their lives to be.

I am not any of those things. I have good grades.

I participate in a handful of extracurriculars.

But my grades aren’t super impressive, and I didn’t pick my activities to be building blocks for padding out my college applications.

They are just me exploring my interests, trying to figure out what compels me.

I don’t feel like I’ve made a firm decision about anything.

Which is part of why I want the chance to see what life is like outside of Fableview.

To maybe get the chance to learn something new about myself in the process.

As if realizing her overstep, my mom hands the brush back to me, blushing. “I’ll let my Darcy show you,” she says. “You couldn’t be in better hands.”

“Not only is the sky streaked with iridescent greens, but countless stars blanket the night here, making everything from the Big Dipper to the Scorpion visible to the trained eye,” I say. “When I look up, I understand how big the world is. And it makes me eager to discover as much as I can.”

This is my way of dropping a hint. It’s all I’ve been brave enough to do, fearing the resistance I already know I will get.

I expect to see my mom’s face creased with concern, catching the hidden meaning in my speech.

Instead she’s smiling, pleased. She doesn’t hear the truth in my words, even though she knows that almost every night, I lay in the hammock on the balcony attached to my bedroom, and I look up at the sky.

When I see the stars above me, I wonder about everything beyond our strange little town.

What do other people see at night? What would I see, living somewhere else?

“Lucky for us, our Darcy girl is here in Fableview,” my dad says. “She’ll be taking over our shop for us when we retire nextyear.”

Grace lets out a gasp, as surprised by this reveal as I am. The painters clap like this is the best news they’ve heard all night. My mom squeezes my shoulder.

“What?” I’m careful to keep my voice measured, even as my mind spins.

My dad encourages a smile by painting an exaggerated one on his own face—always mindful of our customers.

It’s of utmost importance to my parents that we pull out all the stops every single night of October.

This month is when we make over half of our money for the entire year.

Not just our shop, but the entire town of Fableview.

“That’s right,” Dad says, voice spilling over with pride. “Our precious Darcy will be taking control of our beloved Halloween empire. Who could do it better than her?”

“No one!” Mom answers for him.

My mouth goes dry. All the words I want to say fight for purchase—the anger, the hurt, and the disappointment colliding. What do they mean I will take over next year ? That’s too soon. I haven’t lived enough. I don’t know who I am yet.

The front doorbell chimes, distracting all of us.

Anya Doyle stands in our shop like a cat that’s stumbled into a dog convention, as skittish as she is oddly self-possessed, the unflinching intensity of her gaze never breaking, even as she reaches one arm protectively for her elbow.

I feel this overwhelming swell of gratitude for the interruption.

Her presence has accomplished in two seconds what would’ve taken me minutes, if not hours, to do.

By standing here, looking so out of place, she’s stopped my parents from escalating this situation.

If she hadn’t arrived, they might’ve dug out a business contract for me to sign on the spot.

“I was wondering if…” she starts quietly. I make the mistake of stepping forward to hear her better, and she jerks back. “I should go.” She hurries out the same way she hurried in, fast and erratic.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell my parents, following Anya out thedoor.