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

on the chat. It’s the only acceptable response. I send one too, then put my phone down and stay in bed, listening to the sounds of the house and trying hard not to worry. Water is running in the bathroom—Nico’s morning shower, which will last for about thirty minutes or until Dad pounds on the door to tell him to leave some hot water for the rest of us. Dad and Pop are murmuring to each other in the kitchen. I strain to hear what they’re saying, a habit from when I was little and would try to overhear them talking about me. I wonder if they’re talking about me now. About what they know, and what might need to be done about me.

I wonder if I was wrong to show them.

My alarm goes off again. I turn it off and stay under the covers. It feels like maybe if I lie still enough, everything will freeze around me and I won’t have to face the day. I won’t have to find out what the 911 is about, what today’s disaster is going to be. I won’t have to watch that gray-haired cop pulling people out of classrooms. I won’t have to eat, won’t have to have conversations, won’t have to breathe.

But then I hear Dad’s footsteps down the hall, his knuckles on the door to the bathroom. A few seconds later, they’re tapping on the wall outside of my room.

“Hey, bug, time to wake up,” he says to the door.

“I’m awake,” I say, and the spell is broken. I can’t stay in bed, and I know it. I become aware of the bad taste in my mouth and the way the covers are a little too warm.

Something bad is happening. I can feel it. I wonder if someone else lost something big, if something else is broken beyond repair, if something else is going horribly, horribly wrong.

The day is waiting. The 911 is waiting. The gray-haired cop is waiting. The worry is waiting.

And I have to face it all.

Maryam and I are the last ones to arrive at the restroom during first period. It’s not that we have trouble getting hall passes—it’s just that it’s nearly impossible to make Mr. Wyatt look up from the earnest “Are you interested in dating a high-strung calculus teacher with a penchant for lavender ties?” profile he’s in the middle of composing. He doesn’t seem to notice that we’re standing next to him until there’s a knock on the door of the classroom. It’s a freshman from the administrative office with a note for Mr. Wyatt—a summons for Angela Trinh.

Here is what I know about Angela: Her twin brother is on the lacrosse team. She does badly on quizzes but never seems stressed about her grades. She wants to be a singer. That’s about it. Sometimes I wonder how it’s possible, in a town as small as mine, that I don’t know more about all of my classmates—but then, I’ve never really needed to learn more about them. I’ve always had my friends, and they’ve always been all I need. And by the time I started to really feel bad for not making more of an effort to get to know everyone, it was already senior year, and it felt like a waste.

Angela leaves slowly. Her eyes fill with tears as she picks up her bag. She could have been called to the principal’s office for anything, but everyone in the classroom is thinking the same thing as she hesitates with her hand on the doorknob: she is going to be questioned about Josh.

Josh, who has been missing for over a week now. Josh, who still hasn’t been found.

We trail Angela and the office messenger down the hall, walking a little slower with every step until we’re far enough behind them to duck out of sight. We scoot behind some lockers and wait until we can’t hear their footfalls. Until we can’t hear Angela sniffling anymore. Maryam’s face is calm, but she twists the hem of her shirt between her fingers.

“You okay?” I whisper.

“Yeah,” she says. “Just worried about Roya. And everything.”

“You don’t have to come to this. It’s probably about the thing, and the less you know, the less involved you are.”

Maryam looks at me like I’ve slapped her hard across the cheek. “Of course I’m coming. It’s a 911, Alexis. I’m not ignoring that.”

“Okay, okay,” I say. “Sorry.”

She shakes her head. “I’m still here, you know,” she murmurs. “Just because I couldn’t—”

“I know,” I interrupt desperately. “I know, I’m sorry, I know. I didn’t mean it that way.”

She lifts her chin. “Stop apologizing,” she says. “Let’s go.”

When we walk into the restroom, Roya steps past me and locks the door. I raise my eyebrows as Marcelina checks all the stalls for occupants. “What’s the big emergency?” I ask.

Roya leans against the sink with her arms crossed. She’s wearing a flannel over ripped-up shorts today, and I have to work hard not to stare at the lines of muscle in her thighs. She’s not looking at Paulie, and I can’t figure out if she’s just not looking at Paulie or if she’s specifically not looking at Paulie. There’s a major vibe. I try to catch Paulie’s eye, but she’s busy adjusting something in the back of her high-waisted skirt. Paulie is all business today: chignon, pressed blouse, a pen on a necklace. I try to parse what message today’s fashion is sending, because there’s always a message with Paulie. But my head is swimming, and I just can’t. I can’t decode my friends today.

“We have a problem,” Roya says. Her voice is low, strained. She takes out her phone and pulls up a photoset. “Look.”

She passes the phone around, and I watch as one by one, my friends see whatever it is that made Roya lock that door. Marcelina makes a noise low in her throat. Iris sways on her feet. I peer over Maryam’s shoulder when the phone gets to