Page 136 of Wicked Hungry

“Okay,” he says.

And my fate at Natural Magic is sealed right there with a handshake, with my friend Enrique as a witness.

He looks at Enrique. “You want a job, too?”

Enrique shakes his head. “I’m too busy working at the garage.”

Blaine smiles. “I could teach you ways to make cars do amazing things.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll have to think about it. Wouldn’t that be cheating, using magic in cars?”

Blaine shrugs. “You know, magic is hard work, too.”

So we leave it at that. I say goodbye to Enrique and Blaine and walk into my house.

My mother has me prepare the pot roast myself, which is kind of torture, since I want to bite into it raw. She makes me leave it in the oven for two hours. She tells me about how my meat was once a noble buffalo, grazing on natural grasses on the plains of Oklahoma, before it was humanely processed, put into plastic, and shipped to our Whole Foods.

She’s being very brave. Luckily she has her coven. They’ll be meeting almost every other night until the problems pass. Which doesn’t look to be anytime soon.

Do I have to tell you that I finish off the two pounds of roast myself? My father is proud of me. He was never as much into vegetarianism as my mother. He tells me he’s never seen anyone put away so much food.

Finally it’s time to go to sleep. But first I pick up the phone.

Meredith picks up on the first ring. “Hello, Stanley?”

“Hi,” I say.

“Are you doing all right?” she asks.

I don’t really know how to answer that question. I mean, my stomach is full and warm, but my heart and my mind are empty and cold. So I don’t say anything. I can kind of feel her there, waiting, on the phone.

“I promised you I’d call,” I say.

“Do you want to come over?” she says.

“It’s late,” I say. “I want to get some sleep.”

“I think it’s going to be a little hard to sleep tonight, don’t you?”

Then there’s this silence. Maybe she realizes she’s said too much. I don’t know.

The silence is drawn out, and I just want to hang up the phone. Maybe we just don’t have anything else to say to each other.

“Are you still angry, Stanley?” she asks.

“Just tired, I think.”

“You don’t hate me, do you?”

“I’m too tired to hate anyone,” I say.

“Ouch,” she says.

“Sorry,” I say. “That came out a little rough. But I don’t hate you, anyhow.”

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“Thanks,” she says. “That makes me feel a little better.”