Page 34 of Everything She Does Is Magic (Fableview #1)

Anya

Madame Poncik hands a stack of red and green construction paper to the first person in every row, asking them to take a sheet of each and pass the rest back. Darcy sits in front of me, her blond hair soft and flowing, touching the edge of my desk.

My girlfriend.

That will never get old.

When she turns around, she smiles. Her green eyes are the only thing that could ever look this good under the unforgiving fluorescent lights of Fableview High.

“Salut,” she says.

“Salut,” I respond. “Comment ca va?”

“Très bien.” She pretends to struggle with separating the papers, buying us a few more precious seconds. Madame Poncik hates small talk. “Et toi?”

“Comme ci comme ca.”

“Just so-so?” she asks in English.

“Oui,” I confirm in French. “Je dois regarder l’arrière de la tête de ma copine toute la journée.” I have to look at the back of my girlfriend’s head all day.

“Ah,” she says. “Comme c’est triste.” How sad.

“Do you know what we’re doing?” I ask.

“Maybe,” she says, turning back around.

I tap her shoulder, leaning in closer. “Tell me.” My breath tickles her neck, and she shifts in her seat, her shoulder twitching at the feeling.

“Charlotte, Renée,” Madame Poncik says, scolding us with our French names.

I sit up straight. I hate getting in trouble.

Once everyone has their papers, Madame Poncik calls Darcy to the front of the class, and I’m wishing I pushed through the fear of being reprimanded a little longer, because Darcy is directly involved in whatever’s going on.

I track her every movement, telegraphing my confusion. Look at me. Explain what’s going on.

In a mix of French and English, she tells our class that we will be constructing flowers out of paper today.

All my classmates are as confused as I am, but no one is upset by this development.

A surprise craft day is on the same level as a surprise movie day, which is to say, it’s a very good day indeed.

The rest of them don’t care to know why we’re doing this, only trying to make sure Madame Poncik doesn’t change her mind and decide we need to work on our past participles instead.

Darcy demonstrates each step of the process for us.

We cut the red construction paper into smaller squares, then fold each sheet until it’s as small as the insides of our palms. She shows us how to cut a curve into the paper next.

When she unfolds it, she twirls the paper until it’s transformed into a petal.

“This is one of the first crafts my parents ever taught me,” she tells us. “I was six. And I promise, it’s still as cool now as it was back in kindergarten.”

“Charlotte! En Francais!” Madame Poncik scolds.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, ducking slightly in apology. “Je suis desolée.”

It makes me smile to think of six-year-old Darcy at Pam’s Paints, doing her best with scissors and glue. She probably learned this on a Monday and started teaching it to Grace by Wednesday, never missing a chance to spread her knowledge or take command of a room.

Patiently, doing her best to use French but mostly getting away with English, she helps our class create flowers. They are red roses with long green stems.

While the project is simple, it’s also relaxing. Fun. I can see why Darcy likes art so much. There’s a meditative element to it, just you and the medium, working together.

When my rose is nearly constructed, a quick glance around the room tells me some of my classmates haven’t done much better than a kindergartener, but everyone is so focused, so serious about their craft, that it’s endearing.

No one ever lets us do something simple and sweet like this.

I don’t know if that’s Darcy’s motivation, but I appreciate it all the same.

Madame Poncik tells Darcy to start wrapping up. Darcy goes around the classroom, collecting the finished roses. I hand mine over without comment, and it’s enough to make Darcy’s lips quirk. She was expecting me to say something.

It’s fun to keep surprising her.

“Charlotte!” Madame Poncik exclaims when Darcy’s got everyone’s roses collected. “C’est magnifique!” She obviously doubted how effective this craft would be, but she’s right to be impressed now.

When Darcy wrangles together all twenty-two roses, tying them together with a little thread of red ribbon, it looks lovely. Not real, but that’s not the point. The charm is in the effort.

“Can I do this next part in English?” she asks Madame Poncik.

Madame sighs, narrowing her eyes. Darcy parries with her best please-please-please look. It’s enough to make our stern French teacher drop her guard.

“Fine,” Madame says, waving dismissively. “Make it count.”

Darcy gives her widest, most dazzling grin in return, and my heart does its now-familiar hiccup at the sight.

“I’m sure you’re all wondering why you just spent the hour making paper flowers for me,” she starts, looking out at our classmates.

“Beyond wanting you to experience the satisfaction of a good old-fashioned paper craft and getting to practice my French public speaking, of course.” She turns back to Madame Poncik and smiles again.

Madame Poncik nods. “Get on with it, Charlotte.”

“I wanted to make my own version of everlasting roses,” Darcy says.

A boy named Derek Blankenmeier, one of Kyle’s best friends, yells out, “Oui, oui,” in his exaggerated French accent, getting everyone to laugh.

“Not now, Derek,” Darcy says.

The laughter turns to intrigue, everyone murmuring a version of “What’s going on?”

What is going on? I wonder too.

“Anya,” Darcy says, drawing my attention back.

Just hearing her say my name out loud in front of our class makes a fizzy, bright feeling rise inside me like a shaken soda can.

“You’ve been here long enough to know we have a lot of silly traditions in our town.

And one of them is that you’re supposed to ask people to the Fall Ball in public.

I’m sure you’ve witnessed it around school.

So you might have an idea of what’s going on right now. ”

I’m distantly aware of the way my classmates begin to shift. Heads darting sideways to make eye contact with their friends, understanding dawning over the collective.

Darcy Keller is asking me to the dance. In public.

“I used to say I’d never date anyone in Fableview,” she says, addressing our classmates like she’d address the painters at her parents’ shop or the committee members at the planning meetings.

No one is better in front of a crowd than her.

Confident and sure, even about this. “And I really believed it.”

She shifts her gaze, no longer looking at our classmates.

She’s looking at me.

“Until you came along,” she says.

Madame Poncik leans back in her computer chair, and the chair lets out a long, loud groan. It’s the perfect tension breaker. Everyone laughs.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, whispering. “Keep going.”

Darcy takes this chance to walk to my desk, setting the bouquet of flowers atop it. Then she kneels, not on one knee but two, so she’s right beside me.

“Anya Doyle, would you go to the Fall Ball with me?”

“Say yes!” Derek calls out, gaining more laughs. Then, like he’s expecting trouble from Madame Poncik, he adds, “Say oui!”

It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. The whole class could get up and do a dance right now, and I wouldn’t care.

“Yes,” I tell Darcy, fighting the rise of happy tears. “Of course I will.”

I move to hug her, but she doesn’t settle for that. She kisses me here, in front of our entire French class. The applause is thunderous, the same as my heart, wild and pounding and joyful.