Mixing Magics, page 4
“Okay, Clío, maybe you were right,” I say. “Maybe we shouldn’t be in here at all. Maybe it’s better to just shove your feelings down into a little box and not look at them. Today. Or maybe ever.” And of course now that I’ve decided to give up on this little adventure, Clío finally decides she’s actually not scared of Grandma Orla’s house at all and races down the hall, then disappears from sight.
chapter six
melting clues and learning curves
I follow Clío into Grandma Orla’s study. I’m still not used to how different it looks without all her demons. She stashes demons everywhere. Or she used to, when she was here, in this dimension, where she belongs.
A demon isn’t released back to the demon dimension until it has fulfilled the narrative purpose of its conjuring. And to have that purpose last for days, weeks, even years? That’s rare. Grandma Orla is super powerful. She had Defenders on all her special stuff, Minimizers for her clothes when she packed for trips. And you have to be one powerful witch to trust a class D Minimizer demon to last for a whole flight when it’s tucked away in a checked bag.
Concealer demons used to hide half the books, keeping them away from prying eyes. And prying hands. Basically from me and Maeve, though mostly Maeve. I know Maeve has been raiding Grandma Orla’s library since she’s been gone, and I thought that would help us as we tried to decipher Fin’s Prophecy. But I’m starting to think Maeve doesn’t actually want Grandma Orla to come back. Which is mean and unfair, but sometimes my brain thinks mean and unfair things even when I would rather it didn’t.
As Clío hops onto the small couch and snuggles up in a blanket, my eyes scan the room for clues. But I don’t even know what I should be looking for. Even though the room looks different without the usual demons (and without Grandma Orla), I don’t know where to begin. I sit on the couch next to Clío and let her rest her head on my lap as I search my brain.
The key is the story you tell yourself.
Fin left a message in Cai’s mind before they disappeared, and I’ve started to think of it as Fin’s Prophecy. I have it memorized at this point, but no matter how many times I’ve let the words play through my head, they never make any more sense.
“The key is the story you tell yourself,” I mutter as I scratch Clío’s ears. “The key is—wait!” My heart races as something clicks into place, almost like a key in a lock. A key. “The key is the story you tell yourself,” I say again, my voice stronger, louder. Clío gives me an annoyed look as I dislodge her head and pull out my phone to call Cai.
But he doesn’t answer. I call three times in a row, but it just goes to voicemail.
I switch gears and text him.
I think I figured it out! Well, not all of it, but part of it. What if the birds are a message? They were thinking of keys, right?? What if it’s a message? From Grandma Orla? Or Fin? Or both of them! The key is the story you tell yourself. Key. The birds were thinking of keys! It’s a clue. I know it. It has to be. What did the owl tell you? The one that hit the window.
My hands are shaking as I press send.
“Come on, girl,” I say, jumping up from the couch. “Let’s go tell them what we figured out!”
Clío just stares at me and burrows further into the blanket.
“I can’t leave you here,” I say. “Grandma Orla doesn’t even let Mars come in here by himself. Come on!”
I swear my dog actually rolls her eyes as she hops down and lets me lead us back to the main house. It’s cold outside, way colder than when we crossed the yard only a few minutes ago. I hadn’t realized it was almost dark. Maybe we sat on Grandma Orla’s couch longer than I realized. I slip off my shoes at the back door as Clío runs into the kitchen. But when I join her, I find the rest of my family chatting away, cooking dinner. And they’re happy. Which should be a good thing, right? I think of what Cai said at lunch, that Mom and Dad aren’t hiding anything from me about Grandma Orla. At least not that he can sense. But if they’re not hiding anything and they’re just happily making dinner, does that mean they’re actually glad she’s gone?
Suddenly my need to tell my family about the clue I’ve discovered melts like ice cream left out on the counter overnight. It’s still technically ice cream, but if you handed it to someone they’d probably be kinda bummed. And I don’t want to hand my family melted ice cream. Especially not when they keep treating my need to save Grandma Orla like an Annoyance demon that needs banishing.
No. I’ll wait to tell them. I’ll wait until Cai and I have proof. Until we know exactly what message Fin and Grandma Orla are sending. Then they’ll have to believe me. And then we can bring her home.
* * *
The appointment the next day is at seven. In the morning. Which is way too early to learn anything. Especially things as important as how your new loaner insulin pump works. I’ll have this one, which is exactly the same as the one that’s on order, for a few weeks while our fancy new insurance does its thing.
This is kind of like a practice pump. But with very real insulin. So I’m sitting as still as I can, trying to take in everything the diabetes doctor is saying. She’s not an endocrinologist, which is the type of doctor who does diabetes stuff. She’s a diabetes educator. So maybe she’s not even a doctor. But she knows a lot. And it seems like she expects me and Mom and Dad and Maeve to all learn it. And fast.
“There’s definitely a learning curve,” the woman laughs as she gently takes the vial of insulin and giant needle from me.
Why are there so many steps to filling this thing up? The thought of having to do it every two or three days is almost as bad as injections. Almost.
Putting in the site where the pump will attach to my skin is somehow both better and worse than just poking myself with the tiny pen needles. There’s so much plastic involved. Plastic covered in plastic, wrapped in more plastic. But in the center of all that plastic is a needle, a spring-loaded needle that shoots yet another little piece of plastic into my skin. It’s called a cannula. And at this point, I think if I have to learn one more term for something to do with this stupid disease I’m going to cry or scream. Or, more likely, just suck it up and deal with it. Because what other choice do I have?
I’d imagined today as a huge celebration. The moment I finally got this amazing thing that would make at least some aspect of my more and more complicated life easier. But instead, it’s mostly just overwhelming. And by the time I’m learning how to stab the CGM sensor into my skin with yet another intimidating hunk of plastic hiding another needle . . . I’m tapped out.
And stabbed out.
And worn out.
But at least all my new plastic parts are now attached in places they should be. My pump is shiny and black and about the size of a large matchbook, but metal is way heavier than I expected. It’s in a purple case that I have clipped to the top of my leggings and attached to my stomach by a tube that’s twenty inches long. Which seems somehow both way too long and way too short. The other side of my stomach now sports a little plastic sensor that still kinda hurts.
“Are you sure you want to go to school today?” Mom asks as we pile into the car.
“I’m fine with skipping,” Maeve says.
“Irrelevant,” Mom says, turning to me. “That was a lot of learning. If you want to come home with me instead, that’s okay.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, yes. I mean, I’m fine going to school. Really!”
I don’t actually want to go to school. Not really. My brain feels like scrambled eggs and my stomach feels even more like a pincushion than usual. But I want to see Cai. I need to see Cai. He hasn’t responded to my text from last night.
But he’s not in Bio. Or at lunch. He doesn’t show up the whole day and still doesn’t respond to my text. I almost ask Mom about it when she picks me up after school, to see if Greta said anything about them going out of town or on some mind mage holiday I don’t know about. But she just has a hundred questions about how things went with my pump. Which is fine. They went fine. It’s really cool, and on any other day, I’d probably be bubbling with excitement about it and ready to tell her everything, but I can’t shake the feeling something’s wrong. Well, more than just my grandma being stuck in another dimension and me having an incurable disease.
“Ber, are you sure you’re okay?” Mom asks. “If you don’t like the pump, you don’t have to use it. You can use the CGM without it. Or we can try a different one. I don’t think everything is finalized—”
“No, I like it,” I say quickly. “I’m just really worn out. Maybe you were right about school after the doctor’s office.”
“Hard day?”
“Cai wasn’t there,” I say, and then immediately feel weird about it, so I decide to just double down. “Do you know where he was? Did Greta say anything?”
Mom’s silent for a long time, and when I look at her, I can tell she’s trying to decide whether to say something or not. She’s got her lips pulled in and her nostrils flare a little too much as she takes a deep breath.
“I think Cai should tell you himself,” she finally says. Well, that’s ominous. And now I’m full panicking.
“Wait, tell me what?” I ask. “He’s not responding to my texts. Is he okay?”
“Oh, Ber, yes, he’s fine,” Mom says quickly. “But he should be the one to tell you why he wasn’t at school today, if he wants to.”
“Oh, okay,” I say. And the rest of the drive home passes in a silence as uncomfortable as shoes three sizes too small. With heels.
chapter seven
a very special kind of disappointing
“Hey Ber.”
I look up to see Ms. Abdullah, the Phys Ed teacher, staring down at me. Her hijab is black and shiny and reminds me of Fin’s eyes as it reflects the fluorescent lights of the cafeteria.
“Oh, hi, Ms. Abdullah. What’s up?”
“I was wondering if you wanted to join the diabetic kids’ lunch,” she says. “Or the kids with diabetes lunch? Sorry, I’m trying to use the right words.”
“I don’t mind diabetic,” I say with a shrug. “I mean, I am one.”
“Too true. Well, they have diet soda for you guys. Girls. Kids.”
This is so awkward. It’s always so cringe when teachers try too hard.
“Yeah, I’m actually waiting for Cai,” I say, hoping she’ll take the hint. It’s not that I don’t like Ms. Abdullah. As far as teachers go, she’s great.
“Oh, you are?” she asks, and her eyebrows shoot up and her mouth pinches into a little smile and I know I need to do anything to escape this social interaction.
“Yeah, but you’re right. It would be good for me to meet the other diabetic kids,” I say quickly. “Which table?”
“By the salad bar,” Ms. Abdullah says. “Here, I can show you.”
“I’ll find it,” I say. “Thanks!” And I set off toward the salad bar.
The diabetic kids’ lunch happens every Friday. I don’t know why I’ve never joined before. It’s not like they could be that intimidating. There are only a few other diabetic kids who go to Fort Missoula Middle School. And if the last few weeks have taught me anything, it’s that it’s important to have people who understand you. I haven’t ever met any other diabetics (that I know of). Maybe Cai still being out of school and still not answering my texts is a sign I need to diversify my friend group a smidge.
I finally spot the table; the six-pack of untouched off-brand diet cola gives it away. But there aren’t five kids there. There’s just one.
“Who are you?” The girl frowning at me has long blond hair that is perfectly curled. Seriously, not a single strand is out of place. She’s thin and wearing a tight pink shirt and white jeans and all of her jewelry is the exact same shade of rose gold.
She looks fancy and I feel like a total slob in my old leggings and cozy red sweatshirt. Then I kick myself mentally because Grandma Orla got me this sweatshirt in Ireland. It’s even got Celtic designs on the hem and sleeves. I was wearing it the last time I saw her. I wore this sweatshirt to feel like myself and I’m not going to let some preppy girl’s perfect hair and flawless eyeliner mess with that.
“I’m Ber,” I say. “Bernadette. Crowley.”
“And you’re diabetic?” She frowns again. What’s with the skepticism?
“Um, yeah,” I say as I settle onto the bench across from her. “I was diagnosed in July.” I pull out my pump. “I just got my pump this week.”
“Pump?” She frowns at my pump as I awkwardly clip it back onto the top of my leggings. “Oh, I just thought maybe you were type two because . . .”
She trails off and I can feel my face go red. I know why she’s saying it. Because I’m chubby. Because I’m not thin like she is. My ears are pounding, and I don’t know what to say. So I pull my lunch out of my bag and grab one of the diet sodas sitting on the table.
“You know aspartame is a carcinogen, right?” The girl raises her eyebrows.
And I almost get up. I almost take my soda and walk across the lunchroom and go back to my solo lunch by the window. But I don’t like to judge people by first impressions. Unlike this girl. I’ll be the better person. I’ll stay. I’ll at least try to make a new friend.
“Oh, I’m Krystal,” she says. Not offering up her last name. Maybe she doesn’t have one. Maybe she’s just Krystal. It’s probably with a K. “With a K.” Yep.
“Do you have a pump?” I ask as I pull mine out again and type in my carbs for the lunch Mom packed.
“Duh,” Krystal with a K says. “I’ve got a patch pump. The tubing was just too much for me, you know? Such a pain with dresses.”
I nod as if I know what she’s talking about. As if I’ve had my pump for more than two days.
And I wonder if I should have picked a patch pump. Maybe I should have let Cai make that pros and cons list after all.
“Um, are you even listening?” Krystal with a K asks.
“Yeah, totally.” I wasn’t. I’m not. This sucks. I thought it would be like being with other magic kids for the first time. I thought we’d be able to talk about things only we would understand. I thought I wouldn’t have to explain. And instead I just feel judged and shamed.
I let Krystal with a K go on and on about her strict low-carb regimen and her workout routine. Apparently she has a bunch of followers on Instagram too. Her mom made her an account when she was diagnosed when she was seven. That seems kinda messed up to me, but she seems really into it. So I try not to judge. I fail. But I do try.
There’s a moment when she’s talking about the grain-free low-carb crackers her mom makes from scratch when I almost mention that my family got pizza to celebrate my pump. Just to see the look on her perfect face. But the more I think about it, the more I realize it would just be even more of an opportunity for her to judge me. She’s already basically said I’m a bad diabetic.
“Well, I’m gonna go,” Krystal with a K says. “See you around, Betty.”
“It’s Ber,” I correct her. But she’s not listening. She’s grabbing her pink designer backpack and walking away. Perfect blond hair swinging as she goes. And as I watch her, my heart sinks. Krystal is the first diabetic I’ve ever met. At least the first type one. And I hate her. She’s the worst. She’s not some soulmate who can understand me like my other friends can’t. She’s kinda mean. And really boring.
And then I have a series of terrible, wonderful ideas.
I glance around the lunchroom. I’m alone. Almost everyone has already gotten up to go to class. The nearest group of kids is three tables away.
First, I put all the diet sodas in my bag. I prefer the sugar ones and just shooting the insulin for them. But I’m not turning down free soda.
Next, I take out my meter. The Sir Ber bag with the tiny lady knight is a bit dingy and faded; I should wash it. And I should change my lancet—the tiny bit of metal that stabs my hand. But I know I won’t be doing either of those things anytime soon.
Then I pull out my phone and scroll through iDemon, the demon identification and reference app my cousins in Ireland made.
I don’t have to scroll very far. Annoyances are in my “recent searches.” And they’re a class A. And I know I shouldn’t. I know that with my brain. But my heart? My heart knows the truth. Krystal with a K deserves this.
A little chaos to create
Until the target is irate.
Silly pranks and sneaky tricks
Hilarious hijinks in the mix
Confuse, confound, and cause some stress
Until her hair’s a total mess.
I prick my ring finger and watch the blood well, catching it with the waiting test strip. But once the strip has drunk its fill, the blood keeps coming. And coming. I shove my finger into my mouth, wondering if I have a Band-Aid in my bag somewhere. I haven’t had a bleeder this bad in a hot second. But maybe there was a tiny bit of adrenaline driving me on as I stabbed my finger. Perhaps just an itty bitty bit of pettiness too. And I’m not sure if it was the extra blood or the less-than-ideal state of mind, but I’ve overshot my spell a bit.
The demon that swoops into the mortal dimension is not an Annoyance. For one, it has wings. And I’ve never seen an Annoyance with wings. I know it’s a Mischief demon; the bright green eyes give it away. There are six of them, and they blink at me slowly, a chaotic gleam in each and every one. The Mischief demon also has a single, spiraling horn and a long, swishing tail. And it’s as big as Clío. I’m suddenly glad she stayed home today. The demon is such a deep purple it’s almost black. Its eyes move from mine and turn toward the doors of the lunchroom. Its wings unfurl. They’re thin and nearly translucent, like a bat’s. Once they’re fully extended, they’ve got to be five feet wide. The demon takes one look back at me, flexes its shining silver claws, and then takes off.
