When We Were Magic by Sarah Gailey (novels to read txt) 📗

grave-dirt-covered clothes with me all day. I buy my day-old bagel from the cafeteria, and I make it to my first class just before the bell rings. All morning long, my fingertips sweetly ache where they brushed Roya’s palm. It feels just like it does when I’m pushing magic out of myself and into the world, and I can’t stop checking to see if they’re glowing.

I’m still staring at them when my math teacher announces that Josh is missing.

7.

I HAVE CALCULUS FIRST PERIOD. My teacher, Mr. Wyatt, is kind of a mess. His divorce was finalized at the beginning of the school year, and he’s been trying to date since winter break. School gossip has been unrelenting, with reports circulating of his unsuccessful dates with all of the single female teachers (and, uncharitably, a couple of the married ones). Sometime around January he bought a motorcycle and stopped buttoning the top few buttons of his shirts. I’m sure he’s a great guy and all that, but his midlife crisis is a little overwhelming to witness. We all try to be gentle with him, which adds an extra layer of hard-to-watch to his announcement about Josh.

“Anyone who has any information about Josh’s whereabouts should head to the front office right away. You won’t get in trouble if you know where he is.” He’s trying to look calm and comforting, but also stern and authoritative, which results in a facial expression I can only describe as “clenched.” “His family is worried about him, guys,” he says in a scolding tone that implies we all know where Josh is but think it’s fun to keep the information to ourselves. “Think about what they’re going through. Do the right thing.”

I glance around the room. Some people are casting worried looks at each other, mouthing, “Did you hear from him?” One girl is texting under her desk without watching the screen, her thumbs moving fast while she stares at Mr. Wyatt with a fixed, I’m-definitely-listening look on her face. A few people look totally locked down—they’re not responding well to Mr. Wyatt’s tone, his assumption that we know something but aren’t telling.

Maryam sits two rows in front of me. I can’t see her face, and the back of her head tells me absolutely nothing about whether she’s mad or scared or sad or what. All I know is that she’s sitting very still. She doesn’t raise her hand and say, “I know who killed him!” She doesn’t look back at me. There’s nothing she could possibly do in this moment to make me feel better, but still—a bright knot of worry tightens in my belly at the sight of her stillness. What if this morning she was giving us all some kind of last chance? What if she’s decided that telling someone what happened is the Right Thing to Do?

Mr. Wyatt finally finishes staring at all of us like we’re hiding his car keys, and transitions to handing out the day’s worksheet. We’re doing worksheets for the entire last month of school, because he knows that every senior he teaches has one foot out the door. He gives us completely unnecessary instructions, which basically boil down to “Answer all the questions on the page instead of screwing around for the next hour,” then sits down at his desk to fiddle with his profile on this month’s dating site. There are no pretenses here. The second his butt hits the chair, the classroom erupts into whispers.

Nikki Palay, who sits in front of me, gets up and we swap seats. It’s a long-standing arrangement that lets me talk to Maryam while Nikki talks to her best friend, who sits in the back row.

“Hey,” I say as I slide into Nikki’s still-warm chair. Maryam turns around to look at me. She’s styled herself in the last couple of hours. Her eyeshadow is silver and blue today, with sharp black cat-eye liner framing her lids on either side. The second I see her makeup, I breathe a sigh of relief—I realize that part of me was afraid she’d turn around and still be barefaced, grieving. Haunted by what I did.

Or worse: afraid of what I am.

“Hey,” she says, layering her hands over mine. She gives my fingers a squeeze. “How are you?”

Her smile makes my chest ache. “I’m okay,” I say weakly, and we both laugh. “I mean, I’m awful, but I’m okay now. I was worried about you.”

She shakes her head at me. “Don’t worry about me,” she says. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

“Are you really fine?”

“No,” she says, smiling a little. “But I know you guys tried your best,” she says, then glances away. “And I know we’ll figure something out. Together.”

“You don’t have to be—”

She cuts me off. “So, my video went viral this weekend.”

Her eyes are wide and serious. I blink a couple of times. What the hell does her video have to do with anything?

She nods once, then repeats herself, more slowly this time. “So. My video. Went viral.”

Oh.

She’s asking me for a break. She’s asking me to talk about this other thing, this significant thing that isn’t as significant as I murdered a boy with magic I don’t understand but that matters to her, that matters to our friendship. She’s asking me for time.

I can give her that.

“Tell me every single thing” I say, and just like that we slide into a conversation about her viral makeup tutorial. It has something like a million views now. She’s getting a shockingly low volume of hate mail, considering the usual tone of people on the internet. Marcelina is monitoring the comments section to report anything nasty in there. Maryam talks about the responses she’s getting with a brightness that almost reads as true. It’s the kind of conversation we’d be having if prom had gone any other way—a conversation about her ambition.

She talks about makeup, and she talks about making the video, and for half an hour, everything is fine.

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