1Wini
My nerves flutter around like powdered sugar just before it lands on top of a warm chocolate soufflé. The wind howls outside my window, promising a storm soon. I’d better get a move on.
“Pen to paper, words to cook, close and seal my special book.” My recipe journal whooshes shut and seals itself as I take another bite of the Fabulous Financier I smuggled from my family’s bakery, Wayward Sentiments Café & Sweetery. The almond cake––which is sheer perfection, if I do say so myself––is supposed to make me feel unstoppable and successful, but it hasn’t kicked in yet. I really hope it does soon. Because tonight, with a little bit of magic and all the talent I can muster, I’m going to make a dream come true.
At least I hope I can. In all honesty, I’ve never done anything like this before.
But failure is not an option.
I’m wearing my best vintage, plus-size thrift treasures: knee-high boots that go perfectly with the new fifties blue-and-red plaid dress I found in the clearance bin. I buckle the belt on the emerald-green trench coat that makes me feel like a devious girl on a mission. Of course, I am a devious girl on a mission, but I add a multicolored scarf to soften the image.
This is armor for the most dreaded battle of the season: I’m going to my very first Thursday night football game, where everyone and their mom will be doing whatever people do at football games. Honeycrisp Hill loves community time and a contact sport.
The sun set a little bit ago, and all that’s left is the pale pink glow of twilight. The rest of the shops down the block sport pumpkins and leaf garlands that flutter as the October air sends chilly gusts up and down Main Street. A smile creeps to my lips. Fall’s my favorite. Everything seems a bit wonderful, a bit possible, this time of year.
I adjust my glasses, take a deep breath … and walk right into my dad, who’s carrying a fifty-pound sack of flour like it’s a bag of Halloween candy. A haze of magic spirals around him—a strength spell to help him carry all the heavy flour and sugar into the bakery. My purse nearly falls off my shoulder and I stumble slightly before correcting myself.
His dark eyes lock on mine. “Where are you going?”
“Uh, you know…” I raise my chin slowly. “Just going to the game. Being normal. Acting my age. Like you keep telling me to do.”
He lets out a howl of laughter that cuts through my fear of getting caught like a hot spoon through ice cream. “You should ease into it, you know? Games are a big step.” Dad and Aunt Maddie don’t go to the games, preferring to seize the perfect opportunity to clean the shop without any customers around.
“It won’t be so bad. I can drink hot chocolate and leave anytime. Besides,” I say, stepping around him, avoiding eye contact, “I’m going to make new friends.”
He eyes my adorable outfit. “Friends from this century?”
I make a face. “Says the guy who has a bow tie collection.”
He shakes his head with a small chuckle. “Okay, okay. Just have fun. Message me when you get there, okay?”
“Mm-hm, yup. Love you, too, Dad. Gotta go!” I rush past him, putting in my earbuds. Stevie Wonder’s “Sir Duke” makes the best soundtrack on my short walk through the town to the school.
The thing about Honeycrisp Hill, Rhode Island, is that it’s small. Ridiculously small. Everyone knows one another. There’s no such thing as privacy here. And this is the safest, most magical place on Earth, which is why no one bats an eye at a twelve-year-old—which is nearly a teenager, which means I’m on my way to adulthood, thank you very much—walking alone.
As I tread into the town square (it’s actually a trapezoid), complete with a statue in the center named Derrick, I notice Ms. Chavers at the same time she notices me. Her eyes and mouth go wide.
“You!” she spits out. Even though I can’t hear her, I know the sound well. Thankfully, Stevie’s keeping me cozy and safe.
Ms. Chavers, the grumpiest resident of Honeycrisp Hill, has been my enemy for a few years now. It all happened one day in a grocery store line. See, there was only one pint of fresh strawberries left. And I had my hands on them. I’d planned on making strawberry shortcake—you know, the perfect summer treat—when she grabbed the container from me. So I did what anyone who has their dreams suddenly crushed does … I pointed out the shop window and said, “Oh my goodness, is that Tom Hanks?”
Fact: His Meg Ryan rom-coms are the only DVDs at the public library, and they’re always checked out. Ms. Chavers works at the library. Coincidence? I think not.
In the moment of distraction, her grip loosened and I snatched the strawberries and made my escape. Since that fateful day, every time she sees me, a deep, withering glare etches onto her face. The drama is real, but I’m not gonna lie: The shortcake was worth it.
I scurry away with a cheeky wink. I wave quickly at Derrick the statue and Mr. Collins, his living keeper, who is currently sweeping errant leaves away from the base of Derrick’s stone feet. Mr. Collins glares my way.
Because the other thing about Honeycrisp Hill is that everyone here is a bit weird. A bit … off. And grumpy, especially to me. Before I was born, my birth mom, Coraline—who I never even met!—cast a curse on the entire town. No one knows why or even how she did it, but one thing was certain afterward: Any enchanter who was there when the curse fell upon the town can’t leave without losing their magic forever. Including Aunt Maddie and Dad, which is why no one blames them.
Nope. They blame me.
I look just like her, my magic’s just as potent, and I was born outside of town, so I have the freedom to leave. It makes sense that I’m the easiest target for their scorn. I only wish I wasn’t.
Anyway, there’s nothing I can do about any of that. No matter how many times I apologize, or how many times I research breaking curses, I’m just a kid in a small magical town, going to a football game.
A very crowded football game.
When I pass the first of my classmates in the parking lot, I’m met with stares.
“It’s Black Betty Crocker.”
“Stay far, far away from her.”
“Witch.”
I’m not a witch. I’m an enchanter, just like them.
Copyright © 2023 by Alechia Dow.
