Who Needs Magic?

Chapter One
It’s taking all my willpower not to point my Popsicle stick Theo’s way and recharge his phone battery so he can keep playing his war-on-the-high-seas game. But I’m forbidden from using magic in front of Theo. Dad and Gina don’t want to tell him about the whole f.g. thing until the time is right.
Like there’s ever going to be a right time for Dad to tell his girlfriend’s ten-year-old son, “Hey, I’m a fairy godmother.” I really think they should let me tell Theo that I’m a fairy godmother first, because at least I’m female.
I did manage to grant one wish for Theo without using magic. I insisted that Dad and Gina let us have Popsicles to tide us over until Dad finishes scraping off the layers of burnt hamburger, hot dog, ribs, steak and whatever other mystery meats have built up on the park grill from holiday barbecues gone by. Not that I got a “Thanks, Delaney” or anything. Theo went right back to waging his electronic naval war with one hand while devouring the Popsicle he clutched in the other.
Now the Popsicle’s gone, the phone battery is dead and any second the whining will--
“I’m bored.”
Ah, there it is.
“Why don’t you and Delaney play tag?” Dad proposes. Theo and I, who have nothing in common, since I’m five years older and a girl, experience a moment of complete synchronicity as we both stare at Dad in disbelief.
“They’re a little old for tag, Hank.” Gina shoos another fly away from the side dishes she’s set out on the corners of the picnic table to hold the tablecloth down.
“Not to mention, I’m wearing a skirt,” I point out. “And boots.”
“It was just a suggestion.”
What’s next? Patty-cake? “I’m taking a walk,” I say.
“We’re eating soon, honey,” Dad warns.
“I’ll be back in time,” I promise. As long as I make it back this century, I’ll still have returned before he’s gotten the first hamburger on the grill.
I cross the grass to one of the intersecting walkways that loop through and around the park, linking the soccer field, the baseball diamond and the playground. In between are tiny tree-shaded pastures and lots and lots of picnic tables and grills, all of which are filled with families and packs of friends celebrating the Fourth of July.
Now that I’m free to use my magic, I subtly aim my Popsicle stick to stop paper napkins from blowing away, repair leaky balloons and send Frisbees back on their intended paths. I usually carry a chopstick with me, but a Popsicle stick makes an equally effective wand.
I’m ready to move beyond these little point-and-shoot wishes, though--the bit of Object Transference here, the dash of Atom Manipulation there. I want to experience the big f.g. magic--the powers I earned by granting my first big wish. But I can’t access those powers until I find my next client.
It’s been three months, which seems a pathetically long time. Not that I have a lot of fairy godmothers to compare myself to. The only other one I know of is Dad, and he got his second client in like two weeks back when he started out. Whenever I ask him why it’s taking me so long, he gives me a lecture about “Trusting the Process” or “Cultivating Forbearance” or some other chapter title from the latest “Dr. Hank’s Self-Help for the Hopeless” book he’s writing (so that non-clients can also benefit from his wisdom). To prevent myself from choking him to death, thereby eliminating the one parent I have left, I’ve “cultivated” the “process” of not bringing it up anymore.
I can’t believe I’m supposed to just sit around and wait, though. That means big wishes are going ungranted and my full powers are going untested. It’s not like I can randomly pick somebody. The small wishes I can do for anybody. They’re just guesses. But the big wish is a meant-to-be thing. In the sense that I’m meant to be that person’s f.g. and meant to grant their major, love-finding, life-changing, happily-ever-after wish. It’s an emotional connection that only happens with one person at a time, and it’s why you feel their wish as strongly as they do.
I know from watching Dad that it takes more than wielding a wand to make a client’s big wish come true, and that magic, even if it is major pumpkin-into-coach, rags-into-ball-gown magic, is only a tool. The powers go beyond that, but if I don’t get more practice at it, I’m never going to know just how far beyond they go.
Shrieks of laughter and calls to dinner and shouts of “Heads up!” as softballs fly by rise and fall as I wind around the park. I pause in my small-wish granting to concentrate. Today might be the day. Could my next client be one of the kids in that family over there with all the pizza boxes? Or one of the two boys playing Frisbee? How about that couple making out on the beach blanket? Hmm, probably not any of them.
A cool breeze blows past. Back in New Jersey, July was hot and humid, but as Dad likes to remind me, here in the golden part of the Golden State, where everything is perpetually pretty and perfect, summers are all sunny seventies and dry desert nights. Maybe the wish I’m meant to grant is being carried off on that same breeze, over my head, out of reach.
I make my way down to the playground. There’s a swing free, so I take a seat and kick my legs out. If I can get high enough, maybe I can catch the wish as it floats by. I’m not sure wishes work this way, but it’s worth a try.
“Be careful, Ms. Collins. Swing too high and you may fly off.” I glance down and see Flynn leaning against one of the swing-set poles, grinning his goofy adorable Flynn grin. I hadn’t expected to see him today, but here he is: my big wish, my first client and my boyfriend, all wrapped up in one oversized-army-jacketed, photography-obsessed, yearbook-editing prince. He lifts up a digital camera to take my picture. “Unless flying is another one of your powers.”
I leap off the swing and my boots crunch down into the sand. “Not so loud, Mr. Becker.”
Flynn wraps his arms around my waist and smiles. “Haven’t you heard? Paranormal is the new black. You should know that. You’re the fashion designer.”
“Shut up,” I say. “I mean it.”
“Make me shut up,” he says. And so I do.
You know how people say “there were fireworks” when they kissed? I always pictured that as fireworks going off overhead, in the sky, above and around you. But it’s not like that. The fireworks are inside; little explosions of energy and heat in every limb, every cell. Tiny sparklers igniting behind your eyes, in your ears. My whole body flushes hot while my skin prickles from the cool air, and it almost seems like maybe I’ll explode. “Happy Independence Day,” Flynn says when we pull apart.
“Go red, white and blue, or whatever.”
Flynn grins and takes my hand, and we start up the path away from the playground. It’s ironic that this Independence Day has come at a time when I suddenly have all these connections. Back in New Jersey, Mom and I would spend the Fourth of July inside, in the air-conditioning. Sometimes Posh, my best but also my only friend, would join us and we would watch marathons of old black-and-white TV shows, happy to be away from the heat and the crowds--independent.
Now I have a boyfriend, and Dad and Gina and Theo, and the yearbook people, and Cadie and the other kids at Allegro High I’ve only started to get to know. Plus, here I am today, in a crowded park, willingly, actively seeking yet another person to add to my life. It’s all pretty strange to me.
“A dime for your thoughts, Ms. Collins.”
“Happy Interdependence Day,” I say. “I’m glad you could come.”
He smiles. “We drove home early because--guess what?--I got the job I applied for at the paper. And Skids got one too. We start tomorrow.”
“I didn’t know writing Facebook status updates for Brendan’s skateboarding fan page qualified Skids to be hired as a journalist.”
“It’s an internship, it’s how you learn. We can’t all be paid professionals like you, Ms. Collins.” We circle around the soccer field, where a couple of dads are teaching drills to a confused gaggle of toddlers. I wave my Popsicle stick to stop the soccer ball from rolling into the trees. “Skids’ll be writing copy,” Flynn says, “and I’ll be taking photos. Even without a paycheck, it’ll be like I’m a full-time photojournalist for the whole summer.”
“Full-time? But I thought it was called the Sea Foam Weekly.” My heel catches on the edge of the concrete and I lose my balance for a second, but Flynn pulls me upright.
“Seaside Weekly. And just because they don’t publish every day doesn’t mean they don’t work every day. News doesn’t only happen once a week.”
“I know, but . . .”
Flynn laughs. “Were you expecting me to hang around outside your store every day and wait for you to get off work?”
“No.” I didn’t expect him to hang out doing nothing. He could pop in now and then to keep me company. He could even leave for a while, take a few pictures around the mall and come back. As long as he didn’t go too far.
“Anyway, aren’t you going to be busy, making boots and granting wishes?”
“I guess.” I haven’t gotten started on either yet, but I don’t tell him this.
I’m feeling on shaky ground again, even though my boots are now solidly on the path. Flynn and I have been going out for three months, but it seems like we’ve barely started. First there was finishing the yearbook, and then finals, and then as soon as school ended, Flynn went off on some camping trip with his family for two weeks. If you subtract the group outings with Brendan and Skids and the yearbook staffettes, our time together has been microscopic. This is another area where I need practice, but until now I hadn’t been worried about it, because I’d expected we’d have the whole summer together. Just like I’d expected to have another client long before now, but here we are, back at our picnic table, where Dad is still scraping, Gina is still shooing and Theo is now sinking ships on Gina’s phone. And I am still client-free.
“This is a stupid Fourth of July,” Theo says after Flynn wishes him a happy Independence Day. “We don’t even get to have any fireworks.”
I squeeze Flynn’s hand and think, Some of us do. Flynn smiles, which means maybe he’s thinking the same thing. This is one of the things I would have been surer about after we spent some serious quality and quantity time together this summer, which now won’t be happening.
“I was saving these for later.” Dad takes a break from his scraping to retrieve a bag from under the table. “But you can each do one now.” He lifts out a box of sparklers and hands it to Gina.
“That’s a great idea!” she says, opening the box. “Our own individual fireworks! Right, Theo?” Theo grunts, noncommittal, but he puts down the phone.
Soon we’re each holding a lit silver stick, fiery sparks snapping off the end. Theo waves his in a big circle, the most energetic I’ve seen him all day. Flynn makes figure eights in the air.
It occurs to me that a sparkler should make an excellent wand. Maybe it’s attracting client energy right now. I swing my arm up high over my head, but a second later I hear a sizzle and look up. The sparkler’s gone out. I hear Theo moan as his fizzles too.
Flynn’s is still burning. “Make a wish, Delaney,” he says.
I close my eyes. What should I wish for? That I find a client? That my full powers work once I do? That Flynn’s job won’t get in the way of our relationship? And what about my boot-making business?
“Hurry!”
“Okay, okay! I wish for all of my wishes to come true.” I open my eyes and blow as Flynn’s sparkler sparks its last spark.
“Leave it to Delaney Collins to find a way to get everything she wants.” Flynn smiles at me and I smile back.
It’s not until he’s tossing the burnt-out sparklers in the trash that I realize I forgot something. I forgot to say when I wanted the wish to happen.

Chapter Two
Ugh. I hold the boot up, examining it. This is beyond frustrating. I’m at Treasures, and luckily for me--and not so luckily for Nancy, the owner--there aren’t any customers. So I can do what I like. Except I’m not liking what I’ve done so far today. I have this fantastic summer job at Treasures, a secondhand store/antiques shop. (It’s fantastic partly because it means I’m not working for Dad. He’d offered to pay me to be his “office assistant,” helping him with filing, typing, proofreading and stuff like that. But that was pretty much a job I’d pay not to do.)
It was Cadie who told me about Treasures. She said that Nancy occasionally got boxes of clothing and accessories mixed in with the lots she buys at estate sales to stock the store. Nancy never unpacked any of the clothing boxes, though. Instead, she put them in a smaller room connected to the main room, and vintage shoppers would come in and sort through the boxes, hoping they’d find something they liked. Because this is the land of sunshine and sandals, secondhand boots aren’t big sellers, which means there were a lot of them. But I know how to redesign them to make them new, and saleable, so I persuaded Nancy to hire me for the summer to overhaul the vintage clothing room in return for minimum wage, an employee discount and permission to work on my redesigns when business is slow.
My plan is to get started on a boot business. Why wait until I’ve gone to college? Especially when Cadie and her cheerleader friends, plus a bunch of other kids at Allegro, have told me they’d buy them. My goal is to have at least twenty pairs finished by the time school starts in the fall.
But I’m already behind schedule, because it took me three weeks to unpack all the boxes and sort and organize and stack and hang everything. Today, finally, I was able to try out my first design. And it’s a flop.
Literally.
It looked so great in the sketch: the calf of the boot sliced into strips, and the strips braided and clipped at the top. But the one boot I’ve finished looks like it’s been mauled by some mad scientist trying to build Frankenboot. The clipped strips keep collapsing, so I stitched a band beneath the clips to hold the strips up. But now I realize there’s no way anybody could ever get the boot on--unless their leg was the width of a pencil. As I pull out the stitching, a customer about my age flits past my view, darting in and out from behind tilting bookshelves and dusty lamps in the main room of the store. She’s wearing a pink ruffled skirt, a sparkly silver headband in her wavy blond hair and a kaleidoscope of pastel-tinted jelly bracelets on one arm. She reminds me of Tinker Bell. She flutters past a couple more times and then I guess she leaves, which is no surprise. This doesn’t seem like her kind of store.