Page 35 of Everything She Does Is Magic (Fableview #1)

Darcy

The school gym has been transformed. The whole space is washed in a violet glow, with a black tarp covering the walls usually lined with gym class accomplishments and Fableview sports champions.

In front of the tarp are cardboard cutout paintings of iconic locations around town.

The shops along the boulevard. The apple orchard.

The pumpkin farm. The Fall Ball is the one event of the season that isn’t open to just anyone.

You need an invite from a local to gain entry.

The ball is for all ages, but it tends to be most popular with those of us in high school, though our mayor always attends, as well as some of the most spirited Fableview lifers, like my parents.

Even though this is our home, it feels right to dance inside a re-creation of it, like this is our only real chance to celebrate ourselves.

This Fall Ball is the one event where the locals are the tourists.

“My parents and I painted those,” I whisper into Anya’s ear. She’s wearing a long black dress that hugs her body all the way to the floor. Sleek and elegant, just like her, with a black velvet choker around her neck and dark lipstick on her smart mouth.

“They’re perfect,” she says. “You got the twinkle lights just right.”

Somehow she always knows which pieces of art are mine. The lights had taken me weeks to perfect. I obsessed over how much to suffuse them, wanting the street in front of our shop to be perfectly buttery.

“It looks cozy. That’s how I know they came from you,” she explains, giving me her knowing smirk.

No one’s ever described my art as cozy before, but she’s right.

In everything I create, I’m always looking to capture the comfort of the image.

The charm. Even my witch-and-basset-hound painting, which my parents have finally let me teach.

I wanted it to have a sense of whimsy but also to capture the safety of Fableview, the gentle hug that is my home.

There are round tables scattered around the dance floor, with a DJ booth up front. Grace waves us over. She’s in a dazzling sequined gown that she wouldn’t show me beforehand. She told me it was going to be a simple look, and she didn’t need to run it by me.

I should have known to expect something jaw-dropping.

Naturally, the disco ball is battling her for the title of the sparkliest thing in the room.

She’s done her long black hair in waving curls, and there are crystal gems on either side of her face.

What she meant is that she doesn’t look exaggerated.

This isn’t a silly Grace Halloween costume or an outlandish, campy ensemble.

It’s stunning, old-Hollywood-style glamour.

“You look beautiful,” I say.

She twirls to give the full effect. Then she holds my hand so I can do the same.

I’m in a lavender gown that has enough movement at the bottom to flow outward as I spin, and I would never admit it to Kyle, but I understand what he meant now about wanting to be a charming prince—any charming prince—because this dress makes me feel like a princess, not from any story but my own.

Beside Grace is the one and only Parker Holt.

They stretch out a hand to shake mine, which is so formal, so nervously human of them, that I find it endearing.

They have on a collared black button-down tucked into black pants, the first few buttons open.

Their hair is longer than the last time I saw them, messy in that cool way I’ve never understood how people achieve.

“Been a while,” I say. “How’s Scarlet Creek?”

“Same as ever,” they say back. “Trying to be Fableview and failing.”

Anya steps beside me, and Grace slings an arm around Parker’s neck. “Mystery and trouble collide,” she says, pointing between Anya and Parker.

Parker gives Grace a kiss on the cheek, and she goes gentle in a way I don’t often get to see from her. For all of Parker’s faults, they coax out Grace’s softer side. I have to appreciate them forthat.

Anya introduces herself, going through the usual pleasantries. Then she fixes her face into something serious, pulling Parker closer. “Take good care of her tonight,” she whispers.

As we make our way farther into the crowd, almost everyone stops to say hi, complimenting us both on our dresses.

They’re friendlier to Anya tonight than they’ve been all year, and I know it’s because of the way my Fall Ball ask sent ripples through the school.

But she’s done so much other work to become the person she is on my arm.

If that’s what it took to have her finally catch the eye of our classmates, I’d do it again a hundred times over.

Anya takes me by surprise when she presses her body into mine to whisper, “I want to dance.”

My eyes light up with hope.

“I don’t want to be the person I’ve been anymore, who’s so scared of everything,” she continues. “I want to make this night count. And I know that if I’m the one lucky enough to be here with you, then I better get out onto that floor and give you the night you deserve. It might be one of my last.”

She’s been doing this. Referencing her departure from Fableview once her birthday passes in November.

It’s frustrating me that she can’t see the solution yet. But I trust that she will.

On the floor, Anya outdances everyone . When my feet start to hurt or I need to get a drink of water, Anya continues dancing. When Kyle Holtzenberg starts asking who will let him lift them, she offers herself up as the first person to be hoisted above the crowd.

She smiles at everyone so much I think her mouth must be sore, because it’s never gotten this much use.

I’d say I don’t recognize her, but that wouldn’t be true—I see her better than ever.

The light behind all that darkness has been waiting to be let out, and tonight she’s like a star, bright and inextinguishable.

“We need to start bringing her water,” Grace says, catching me watching. “This pace is unsustainable.”

“You’re right,” I say. “Let’s put together a little food plate too.”

We head to the snack table, scanning the various treats for things we think would appeal to our dancing queen.

Most of the baked goods are homemade, brought in by members of the Fableview Fall Planning Committee.

They’re all labeled, but so many people have stampeded through the table that some of the labels are too water stained or crumpled to read.

Grace throws together a plate, and I get the waters. When we return to the gym, Anya is exactly where we left her, spinning and clapping in the middle of the floor.

“Doyle!” Grace calls out. “It’s time for you to eat.”

“I’m dancing!” Anya responds.

Grace gives me a look. “Does she think I can’t see that?” She shoves her way back through the crowd, still holding the plate of treats. I follow with the waters, taking a sip of my own along the way.

“Take a bite,” Grace says, pushing the plate toward Anya.

Anya almost keeps going, but she seems to think better of it, stopping and grabbing the first thing she sees—a cookie she shoves into her mouth in one piece. “This is good,” she says, pointing to her mouth in shock.

“What is it?”

“Oatmeal chocolate chip.”

“My favorite.” Grace grabs the next cookie on the plate and takes a bite.

For a while, the four of us dance. It’s the most fun I’ve had in months.

Maybe ever. There is no one asking anything of me.

No pressure to keep this whole dance running.

It’s just my girlfriend, my best friend, her love interest, and me, spinning together under a disco ball, not a single care in the world.

Midway through one of our favorite songs, Grace’s expression shifts. It’s not her usual Grace drama either. It’s something… flatter, somehow. She says nothing, just heads toward the gym exit, her pace increasing with every step.

It’s strange enough that even Anya stops moving. “What was that about?”

I want to say something like “You know Grace,” but this isn’t like Grace at all. Grace doesn’t walk away from things without explanation. She likes to talk more than anyone I know, make a big splashy scene of an exit wherever she can.

Anya senses this too, and we both leave the dance floor.

The hallway outside the gym is empty. Only a few lights are on, just enough to make sure it’s not pitch-dark. The moonlight does more heavy lifting, turning everything from the lockers to the linoleum into the dusty navy of night.

“Grace!” I call out, spotting her near the now-unattended sign-in table.

She doesn’t turn back. She keeps walking, but her pace slows, until suddenly, she stops, slumping to the ground.

“ Almonds ,” Anya and I say in unison, running to Grace.

Her lips have already swelled to double their size, and her eyes are glossy and bright. A million thoughts crowd my head. She carries an EpiPen in her purse. That must be what she came into the hallway to get. The baggage check is just beyond the sign-in table.

“Which bag did you bring?” I ask.

She points toward the closet where they’ve stored the bags and jackets, misunderstanding my question. There’s no time to overthink. I’m sure whatever bag Grace has brought will be immediately identifiable as hers. I’ll have to use my best friend intuition to figure it out.

Except the closet is locked.

“I think I can break it,” Anya says. She puts her hands over the lock, closing her eyes in the way I now recognize as magical.

The lock melts under her touch, returning to the liquid version of whatever metal formed it.

There’s no time to ask her how she’s undone it or wonder about this development.

There’s no time for anything.

I leap inside, tearing through piles of coats and purses, searching for one that looks like Grace’s. I’m taking too long , I think, my panic increasing. I need to be calmer.

Anya joins me, plucking through the piles I’ve haphazardly created. “It probably has a reptile on it,” she says. “She has a snake clip in her hair tonight.”

She’s right. She’s always right.

“Good call.”

It narrows our search, hones our focus. “Go back and keep an eye on Grace,” I say. “I’ll keep looking.”

I don’t know how long I search or how much time passes.

How much time we have at all. Grace hasn’t had a severe reaction since we were really young.

I’m fighting not to recall the horrible way she gasped for breath, writhing on the ground as our third-grade teacher stabbed her leg with an EpiPen.

Weeks later we found out that Joey Longardi had snuck an almond into Grace’s lunch “just to see what would happen.”

As soon as I find this pen, I will have to channel my bravery instead of crumbling under the pressure and fear. It’s what Grace would do for me. She’d jab a million EpiPens into my leg if necessary.

There are too many bags and coats in here. Or maybe my mind is too scattered. A better use of my time would be to alert an adult. Call 911. Every second is precious.

When I return to the front hall, Grace is still slumped over, and Anya’s right beside her, kneeling. “Grace, please. Stay with me. It’ll just be a second. Please.”

For the first time, I understand Julia. How she’d asked Anya to heal her grandfather. Anya had told her she couldn’t. That’s not what her magic is for.

I could never ask her that. We have medicine for this. We just have to get it.

I run past the two of them to go back into the gym for an adult, or a phone. Anything. My heels clank against the ground so hard that it shakes my teeth.

Suddenly Grace lets out a loud, gasping breath, stopping me in my tracks. I look back, afraid this is one of those last-breath-of-life things. But Grace is sitting up. Groggy, but alert.

“I didn’t fix it all the way,” Anya whispers.

Everything is so frantic that it takes me a second to understand.

She’s used her magic.

“We still need to call an ambulance. Her airways should be open enough for her to make it to a hospital.” She brushes Grace’s hair off her forehead. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

There isn’t time to thank Anya. To tell her that was reckless. Any of it. I rush into the gym, letting everyone know what’s happened.

The ambulance arrives. The Fall Ball comes to a pause as we watch Grace getting wheeled off on a stretcher.

I answer questions for adults, telling everyone that Grace ate a cookie with almonds and went into anaphylactic shock.

Then I lie just as smoothly, saying Anya was able to get Grace’s EpiPen, buying her enough time to get to the hospital to recover.

No one here knows what Anya did. Only her and me.

Still, her mood is dark. Part of me wishes Grace could see it, because this is real brooding.

“You saved her,” I remind Anya, hoping to lift her spirits.

“I broke the rules,” she tells me back.

“But no one knows that.”

“I know it. And so do you. And somehow, I know my family does too.”

I don’t ask questions, because I can tell she doesn’t want to hear them. Once the ambulance has left, the dance resumes, but no one’s heart is in it.

“I have to go,” Anya says, sulking off into the night.