Mixing Magics, page 3
“No,” I finally say, tearing my eyes away from the melty cheese and shoving one of the seven crackers from my lunch bag into my mouth. “But they said it wasn’t canceled. So I guess your mom wasn’t too mad?”
“Oh, she was mad,” Cai says, shoving a huge bite of stromboli into his mouth. “And when your mom is a mind mage, she doesn’t even really need to chew you out, she can just basically beam her disappointment into your head. And she took away my phone for the next couple days. Which is why I didn’t text you back.”
“Yikes,” I say, dialing up my insulin based on the carb counts Mom wrote on the bags of food.
“Yeah, but, like, what about your parents? Are you in trouble?”
“I mean, they’re not happy with me, but they said whatever we have planned is about my diabetes and, like . . . making it easier, I guess? And they said they weren’t about to take away a super amazing opportunity just because I messed up ‘big time.’” I put air quotes around the last two words.
“Okay, so—” Cai starts, but then realizes his mouth is too full to talk. I can see his eyes dancing as he chews and I know he’s gonna totally spill the beans on the afternoon plans. Thank the goddess.
“My mom is going to help you get an insulin pump, basically,” he says. “I don’t fully understand how, but, like, that’s the plan.”
“Wait, really?” My heart jumps into my throat like a hope-filled balloon.
“Yeah,” Cai says through the cheesy mouthful. Then he frowns. “Do you want a bite?” he asks.
“Cai, I told you to stay out of my head.” I shove another cracker in my mouth.
“Hate to break it to you, but that one was written all over your face.” He cuts off a particularly cheesy bite, making sure to avoid any ham. “Here, at least have one bite. It’s like hardly any carbs, it’s mostly melted cheese.”
“Thanks.” I take a bite and almost make a totally embarrassing and absolutely inappropriate sound as the cheese fills my mouth. So much better than crackers. And I don’t want to be mean about Mom. And Dad. They’ve both been trying really hard to make things easy for me, which is what my pre-carb-counted lunches are supposed to do. But watching everyone else eat steaming cheese while you eat crackers and peanut butter should probably be included as some form of unethical torture forbidden by any reasonable society. Not that there’s anything reasonable about middle school.
“So I was doing some research on insulin pumps last night once I realized that’s what they have planned,” Cai says. “And the patch pump ones seem cool, ’cuz, like, no tubes. But then you’re kinda stuck with it on one part of your body. Literally.” He laughs. His happiness is contagious. Not just because he’s a mind mage, but because he’s just kinda a happy guy. And it’s been really cool how much he’s thrown himself into helping me with diabetes the last few weeks.
Beyond just helping me focus my mind when I test and inject, he spends hours on YouTube watching doctors and diabetes influencers. I swear he knows more about diabetes than me by now.
“I’ve been watching some videos and I’m leaning toward the one with tubes that has the touch screen,” I say. “If I get one,” I add.
“Yeah, if.” He winks. “Hey! Want to make a pros-cons list?”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “But I don’t mind if you make one,” I add quickly. I don’t want to squash his enthusiasm, but Cai and I absolutely do not make decisions the same way. He wants to weigh all the factors, get all the opinions, and then talk through it over and over and over again. And I love that for him. I really do. But sometimes I need to let myself figure out what I want and throw out a few of the variables that don’t matter so much.
“Cool,” he says. He’s not at all put off by my lack of enthusiasm. That’s the best part about Cai. He gets me. Maybe that has something to do with him being able to kind of, sort of, not quite, but almost read my mind. He swears it isn’t like he can pull fully formed thoughts from my head, especially without permission. Which is a relief, because having him read my actual, unfiltered, totally random and often absolutely chaotic thoughts? I think that’s more than I could handle. But thinking of his powers reminds me of the real question I have for him.
“We need to talk about last night,” I say, shoving a couple more crackers into my mouth and chewing quickly. One of the really annoying things about diabetes is that no matter how distracted you get, you have to remember to eat once you’ve shot your insulin. I learned that the hard way once . . . didn’t I? I try to remember, but can’t. Odd.
“Ber?” Cai asks. “Last night?”
“Right, yes.” I focus back on Cai, back on the task at hand. Back on the plan. “You said it was worth it, before we left the river. Does that mean you learned something from the memories my parents gave up?”
That was our theory. That something in the memories my parents would choose to give up might give us a clue into what they aren’t telling us about why we haven’t figured out how to get Grandma Orla back from the demon dimension.
“So I couldn’t see their memories or anything,” Cai says. I’m both relieved and disappointed. The thought of him being able to see our thoughts that clearly, especially from far away, is too weird. But it would have been useful. “But I was really focused on your mom’s . . . vibes? That sounds weird, but not her thoughts, just, like, where her energy was going. She wasn’t being evasive.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“There’s this energy people have when they’re lying or avoiding something,” Cai says. My brain immediately snaps into hyperdrive and starts to wonder if it’s possible to be boyfriend-girlfriend with someone who knows this kind of stuff, but I force myself to leave those “intrusive thoughts,” as Maeve would call them, for another time and focus. “Basically, I don’t think your parents are hiding anything from you,” he says.
“And you think that’s a good thing?”
“I mean, for clue gathering, no,” he admits. “But for, like, having solid parents who want the best for you and aren’t lying to you and, like, not helping bring your grandma back from the demon dimension when they could, yeah.”
“I mean, I guess,” I grumble as I shove another cracker into my mouth. It tastes like sand and I wish I didn’t have to finish eating it. If only Clío could have come to school with me today so I could slip the rest of my lunch to her. But she hasn’t technically gotten clearance.
“Um, Ber?” Cai asks, and when I look up at him, he won’t fully meet my eyes.
“What?” I ask, suddenly very suspicious.
“Do you do this a lot?” he asks. “Give up your memories?” He finally meets my eyes, and I laugh at how serious he looks.
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “I mean, only certain full moons. And some major holidays. But it’s not abnormal or anything. And not, like, a lot a lot.”
“That seems like a lot a lot,” he says, still way too serious.
I shake my head. “It’s about collective memory,” I explain.
“Seems like it’s also about secrets,” he mutters.
“Mind mages keep secrets too!” I hiss, trying to keep my voice down and barely succeeding.
“Whoa, Ber. It’s okay,” Cai says.
And I feel myself relax. But not because I’m actually relaxed.
“Stop that!” I snap. “That’s exactly what I mean. You get all judgy about our traditions and you’re over here like literally messing with people’s heads.”
A loud thunk startles both of us. When we look over, we see a bird on the ground. It just smacked right into the floor-to-ceiling window. Cai and I rush to get a better look at it.
It’s big. Bigger than I thought. Bigger than the birds that clung to Cai last night at the ritual after chasing him out of hiding. And when it scrambles to its feet and looks back at us, I see it’s a fluffy, scowling owl.
“Whoa,” Cai whispers.
“I’m glad it’s okay,” I say, but he holds up a hand for me to be quiet and closes his eyes. After a long moment he shakes his head, opening his eyes in time to see the little owl rustle its golden-brown feathers and fly away.
“More keys?” I ask.
“What?” Cai’s not looking at me, he’s looking off into the distance, where the owl flew toward.
“Keys, like last night,” I repeat. “Didn’t you say the birds were all thinking about keys?”
“Yeah.” His voice is distracted. “This one wasn’t thinking about keys.”
“What was it thinking about?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Cai says, his voice barely audible.
The warning bell chimes, and we hurry back to our table to finish the end of our lunches.
“Wanna test really quick before lunch is over since we don’t have another class together until the end of the day?” He smiles broadly. I want to ask him more about the owl, more about the birds last night, more about what the plan with his mom is after school, but we’re out of time for any of it.
“Good call,” I say instead, pulling out my meter.
I feel the moment Cai’s magic slips into my mind. My thoughts are focused and clear. No background static or distractions at all. I put in the test strip, stab the fleshy bit under my pinky, and let the blood absorb into the stip.
Just a few weeks ago, when I didn’t know Cai was a mind mage and I was eating most of my lunches alone or on the periphery of a couple of friend groups I didn’t actually belong to, testing my blood sugar would have meant accidentally conjuring a demon. But now, I feel a quiet, focused certainty as I watch the meter count down.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Not a single demon. And a perfect 135. Maybe Mom has a point about the carb-counted lunches. My insulin-to-carb ratio seems to be working pretty well. I guess sometimes parents are right about some things. So annoying.
chapter five
deducti-whatevers
After school I discover that the plan isn’t actually an insulin pump. Yet. But apparently there are a lot of steps involved in getting an insulin pump, and some definitely not legal but super cool mind magic can speed up the process considerably.
So now Cai’s mom Greta, Mom, and I are sitting in one of those “Get Insurance Here” offices I’ve never paid much attention to before. And Greta is about to do some really cool magic.
“And who are you to the Crowley family, exactly?” the insurance lady asks, frowning slightly as she looks between Mom and Greta.
“You don’t need to concern yourself with that,” Greta says. Her voice is low and melodic, and even though I still can’t feel magic—at least not the way Cai and Phoebe and Tempest talk about feeling magic—I know her words are carrying a demon-load of power.
“I just need you to listen to me very carefully, okay?” Greta places her hand on the desk and the poor geenin woman takes it. A rush of guilt floods my brain, but I try to remember what this will mean. Insulin pump. CGM. One step closer to this whole diabetes thing being easy. Well, maybe not easy. That’s way too much to hope for. But I’ll take easier. Even if it means letting a powerful mind mage mess around in some geenin insurance agent’s head.
In the same low, musical voice, Cai’s mom tells the lady how to click through her forms until somehow the Crowley family has something called Platinum Tier insurance. For free. Forever. The kind of insurance that means free insulin and no copays and deducti-whatevers.
I’m practically vibrating with excitement as we leave the office, and Mom calls my doctor to confirm our insurance and get me an insulin pump. But then I see the look on her face as she ends the call.
“What?” I ask. “What happened? Did it not work? Did the insurance thing not go through? Does it not cover—”
“No, no,” Mom says. “Nothing like that. It’s just that there’s only the one endocrinologist in Missoula now, so it’ll be a little while before they can get you in for the appointment.”
“Oh.” I try not to sound too disappointed. I’m happy overall. But I wince as I ask, “How long is a little while?”
“Well, the first appointment she offered was in February,” Mom says, and I swear my head almost explodes. February? That’s a million years from now. “But,” Mom adds quickly, “she said they had a cancellation and we can get in tomorrow, but you may not be able to go home with a pump.”
“But I might be able to?”
“I’m not sure,” Mom says. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up too high.”
“Too late,” I say. “Hopes are higher than high. Higher than my blood sugar when I was diagnosed. Higher than—”
“Okay, okay,” Mom says, laughing. “I’m just glad you’re happy.”
“So, so happy,” I say. And I am. It feels like my chest might burst open and a swarm of happiness bees might explode and sting everyone else with happiness venom too. Which is a little dark, but hey, I’m a diabetic, my metaphors are a bit stabby sometimes.
“Seriously, Mrs. Anderson,” I say, turning to Cai’s mom. “Thank you so much. I know this was a really big deal and I promise I won’t tell anyone and—”
“It was my idea, Ber,” Greta says, cutting me off and placing a hand on my shoulder. “And I was happy to do it. But you’re right, we shouldn’t mention it to anyone. And I don’t use magic like this lightly. If the system weren’t so terribly rigged, I wouldn’t have done it at all. But sometimes I think using magic to right the wrongs of unjust, flawed human systems is the right thing to do. Even if it’s complicated.”
“Thank you again,” Mom says.
“Yeah, and—” I break off, my voice going all high and squeaky, and I have to swallow a few times before I can finish my thought. But I need to. “Just, thank you for not canceling this. Or deciding I wasn’t ready even though Cai and I betrayed your trust.”
Greta and Mom exchange a look and the swarm of happy bees in my chest suddenly feels less happy and more nervous.
“Ber,” Mom says, and it’s her serious voice.
Oh no. I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have stopped talking after I thanked them. I’m always doing this. Saying too much. Being too much. But then she takes my hand in hers and squeezes it tight.
“I will never, never punish you by keeping you from anything that will make your life as a diabetic easier,” Mom says. “Never. Do you understand me?”
I nod as tears fill my eyes.
“I never want to punish you at all, not really. But sometimes there are consequences for mistakes, for making really bad choices. And last night was a really bad choice.”
“I know—” I start, but she shakes her head, cutting me off.
“I know you do, but you also don’t. The last few months have been a lot, and the last few weeks have been more than any kid should have to handle. You and Cai have been through so much, and we’re glad you have each other.” I feel heat start to rise in my cheeks at the look Mom and Greta exchange, and I wonder what our moms think about us officially being a couple. Heck, I wonder what I think of it.
“But when it comes to anything to do with diabetes,” Mom continues, “we will never ever keep anything from you that could make your life better. Not if we can help it. And today, with Greta’s help, I think we could a little.”
“But Cai is still grounded,” Greta adds. “At least until the weekend.”
“Fair,” I say. “And seriously, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Greta says. We all say goodbye and she gets in her car and drives away while Mom and I stand in the parking lot for a while longer.
“Mom, I’m so sorry—” I start.
“I know you are,” she says. “And I think I know how you can start proving it.”
* * *
Chores. Chores is how I can start showing my parents how sorry I am. I should have guessed. And not just chores, demon-free chores. At first, it’s torture. Dusting is always annoying, but knowing you could just conjure a demon to do it makes it worse. But I practically have all Mom’s and Grandma Orla’s lectures about the privilege of conjuring demons for day-to-day assistance memorized, so I know not to even try to argue. And then, after a break to have a snack and play with Clío, I have an idea.
“I’m done with the living room,” I say, sticking my head into Mom’s office. She’s hunched over her desk and barely looks up, so I forge ahead, trying to take advantage of her distraction. “I’m gonna go do Grandma Orla’s study next.” I keep my voice calm and super normal. No ulterior motives here. Just a helpful daughter who is making amends.
“Sounds good,” Mom says.
Perfect. She can’t even say I’m sneaking around now. Which I’m absolutely not about to do. I’m just going to dust Grandma Orla’s study. And maybe also her bedroom. Possibly her hallway bookcases too. I’m being helpful.
Clío and I are out the back door and across the yard so fast you’d think we conjured a Direct. But when I get to the front door, I pause. Because Clío doesn’t want to go in.
“Come on, girl,” I say, stepping into Grandma Orla’s kitchen and trying to coax my dog in to follow me. “This is home too,” I explain. “Just like the other house. This one is where Grandma Orla lives, and soon she’s going to be back.”
Clío looks skeptical, her little doggy eyebrows drawn up in a way that reminds me so much of Fin. Who is not a dog. They are a demon. A Mystery demon. And powerful and dangerous and kind of the exact opposite of my sweet and lovely dog in a million ways. And goddess, do I miss them.
As Clío finally comes into the house, a feeling crashes over me that I think I’ve been hiding from for the last few weeks since Grandma Orla and Fin disappeared into the demon dimension.
It’s not just Grandma Orla I miss. It’s Fin.
And I knew that. Every time I have to stab myself to test my blood sugar, every time I have to risk an accidental demon coming through, it’s a reminder that Fin could smell my blood sugar. That they could do so much more than Clío can, even though she’s doing such a good job and trying her best. But I miss more than just Fin’s blood-sugar-sniffing abilities. I miss them. Which feels like a betrayal of Grandma Orla. I betrayed her to conjure Fin in the first place. I betrayed her when I let her go back to the demon dimension with them. And now I’m betraying her all over again by snooping in her house and missing a Mystery demon. Suddenly my plan to clean and sneaky-snoop around Grandma Orla’s house feels like an emotional minefield.
