“I can’t do it!” I nearly scream at Bea, handing her the stuck jar of artichoke hearts like everything—every single last thing on earth—is her fault.

She takes it, giving me a look I don’t understand, and opens it easily. “Use your belly next time,” she says.

“To open a jar?” I ask, sarcastic, rolling my eyes, like I sometimes do with Dad or Sally. That’s pushing it, I realize, but it’s a pushing it kind of day.

“To do anything,” she replies, not fed up just yet. Maybe she even understands. “That’s where your energy is stored. Call on it, and send it to your hands. Easy.”

Easy. Easy. Everything for them is easy.

“That’s not what’s bothering you,” she says, eyeing me again.

“You’re right,” I say, slopping the artichoke hearts into the hot sauce pan. They sizzle and spit, like I want to. “It’s the hundred people coming. Like I know how to throw a party for a hundred people. The last party I had anything to do with was at a laser tag adventure zone for a dozen kids and all I had to do was show up and let them sing me happy frigging tenth birthday.”

I turn up the heat.

“That’ll burn,” she warns me, but not too strongly, like if I want it to burn, why should she care? Same thing with the party. If we fail, no big deal. And if good old Aunt Helene absolutely hates the living guts out of me for throwing it in the first place? Why should they worry?

 I turn the knob down about half way from where it was. I’m getting reasonably good at cooking after a few weeks of lessons. Still, as Bea if often saying, when you are in the realm of magic, your mood risks everything you are preparing. 

“Did you call about the tables?” she badgers.

“Yes,” I say with a humph. “And the tent, and the silverware, and the punch bowl, and the food delivery—10 AM Friday—and the invitations, and…”

“All I asked about were the tables,” she says, her voice finally sounding like she’s starting to get annoyed. Which is good, because I’m obviously up for a fight. And bad, because if we got into one, I would lose so fast it would make my head spin. I’m sure of that. Just like I’m sure Aunt Helene is going to have my head on a platter if I do any little thing wrong. Even if I don’t, most likely.

“Sorry,” I mumble. Just like I did this morning at breakfast, with Dad and Sally. I wasn’t any more sorry then than I am now. And anyway, Sally pushed me with all that hyped up happiness guru crap.

First, she made us listen to the guy, who even on a CD you could tell was hopping all over some stage somewhere, totally full of himself, a little stick microphone going from his ear to his mouth. He was saying you could have whatever you wanted, all you had to do was get a picture in your mind and then make yourself all emotional over it. So of course, when he was done, Sally had to ask me what I wanted, so she could gush/visualize with me.

I could have answered what I would have a month ago, even three weeks ago: A boyfriend. Wasn’t that all I really wanted back then? Better yet, I could have flat lined her with the updated truth: I want Anna out of that hell hole Dad calls a nursing home. I want Michael to stay and be my best friend and brother forever. I want to know why everyone is so morbidly afraid of Helene Bayless—even me who has never met her—and what in heaven’s name I’m going to do when everyone who has been hiding out for years gets together under one little party tent at my house. I could have said that I want to shapeshift into something wild, even if it takes me five thousand years to learn how. But most of all, I could have told her that I want to be a member of Bea and Anna’s clan more than I wanted to breathe another fifty years, and that my life would reach the pinnacle of success only if Magic wants me as much I want Magic. 

Of course, I didn’t say any of that. Not to Sally and Dad. No way.

Instead, I offered a thoroughly sarcastic “Breakfast in peace?” Hence, the “sorry,” which was forced upon me by Dad in about two seconds flat. Suffice to say they were not amused.

“Apology accepted,” Bea says in a way that makes me think she is amused. Maybe she knows how unlikely an apology from a teen is, or maybe she just appreciates the humble pie it takes to offer one. Or, maybe she knows why I’m so uptight.

I could just ask outright: What’s the deal with Helene? Why are we inviting her here, if you’ve made sure to stay off her radar for so long? Will she like me, and what if she doesn’t? But I don’t want to ask Bea all that. I want to ask Anna. And later today, if all goes well and these party details are even moderately under control, I plan to.

I add a few pinches of a wide range of spices—“it is worthy to experiment in the kitchen,” Bea says—and then begin to set the table. It’s just us two for lunch, but Bea never misses a chance to have me practice creating a whole meal, from placemat to the proper containment of leftovers.

I’m glad for it. Even with the weight of a hundred people on my shoulders, I’m aware these lessons could end with the party. There’s still so much to learn.

“She isn’t going to hate you,” Bea says.

“Who?” I ask, though I know already. Bea talks about what you are thinking about more often than not. Even so, I want to hear her say it. I want to hear how the word “Helene” comes out of her mouth.

“You know who.”

“Helene?” I ask, forcing the name into the room.

“It’s best not to speak of her directly,” Bea says, alarmed. “She has feelers out there.”

Feelers? I want to ask, but am not sure I want to know.

“How can you be so sure she won’t hate me?”

“Why would she? She’s not one to waste that much energy on someone with no power.”

Well, doesn’t that make me feel just wonderful? I go to the fridge to get some extra goodies for the sauce, grab the 2 quart pan and get some instant hot water, then swoop into the back room to get the handmade pasta we made earlier, which is now drying on a small rack.

“Don’t go so fast,” she scolds me from the other room. “You can’t do magic if you’re not paying attention.”

“I’m just making us lunch,” I argue, yet return a bit slower.

“Don’t assume anything,” she says in that mysterious I-know-something-but-you-don’t way of hers. Again.

“So,” Bea continues, “you can be afraid of her, or work on your power.”

I add a handful of fresh cherry tomatoes to the saucepan and stir gently. “So she can be impressed, but hate me more? I don’t think so. Besides, how much more power can I get in a few days?”

“A lot,” I hear a voice say from behind me. It’s a guy. Not Michael though, and surely not Dad.

Jake!

Yes, Jake…here. The reality lands like a thud in my gut, and at the same time sets my heart leaping, like seriously, about ten profuse blood surges in a row. I’d assume it was a heart attack, if I was Dad’s age or something. I turn slowly, so as not to appear too eager.

“Hi Jake,” I say, like we’ve been expecting him. Now that I think about it, that’s probably what Bea knew. How like her. I wonder what else she has up her sleeve?

“Hi Mayden,” he says in a low voice that grumbles the way a guys does right after his voice changes.

“Took your time getting here,” Bea says to him. “I called hours ago.”

“The nature police were out,” he says. “I had to make sure the house stayed hidden.”

“So you do hide the house!” I say, though once again I’m reminded how crazy anything like hiding a house sounds. Will I ever get used to all this?

They both look at me like I’m a little slow. Or a lot. Like of course they hide the house, how do you think we live there without getting kicked off government land? But then Jake smiles, and I smile, and I hardly remember what we were talking about.

“Watch your fire,” Bea says to me. I jump, realizing I’ve started to burn the tomatoes.

“So why did you call?” Jake asks Bea, coming to take a look at my near disaster of a pasta sauce. My face goes red for no good reason. Actually, it feels like it’s my whole body, like my knees might well be as bright as these tomatoes. I’m suddenly burning all over.

“Can I taste?” he asks me, touching my fingers as he takes the wooden spoon. Fire hot, that current that runs between us. I’d forgotten about it. Also how he smells. Like he brought a wood burning stove with him, all smoky and nice, mixing perfectly with lunch.  Okay, I hadn’t forgotten. It still jolts me to feel it again.

Bea and I both wait for his response. “That’s really good,” he says, sounding surprised. “It took me a lot longer to get this good.”

I’m surprised to hear he likes it, even a little burned, but even more surprised to hear he can cook. I guess they’d teach him like they are teaching me, though I never really thought about it. I like imagining him at the stove, the way I have been these past few weeks, and what we could make together.

He looks at me, beaming. Maybe thinking the exact same thing.

“Well, I’ll take those smiles between you to mean you’ll do fine without me. Jake, I called you to tell Mayden here about the next steps in shapeshifting. I learned so long ago, I forget what you need to know. I’ll scuttle off and leave you two to your lunch.”

With that, she was gone. I don’t mean she left, she was like, gone. Again I had to look around, to see if I am really here, if Magic is playing tricks or something.

“It’s real,” Jake says, like he knows what I am thinking. I can feel it when Magic uses me. She’s not, this time.”

“You think Bea really forgot how to teach shapeshifting?” I ask, beyond skeptical.

“No way,” he says, laughing easily. “She the one teaching me. I think she just wanted us to spend some time together.” He shrugs and adds, “For some reason.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I move to finish setting the table and dish out our meal. If I had known I was cooking for Jake, I’d have been less of a jerk. How many times has Bea said what you feel when you cook makes the meal? So what he’s going to eat is frustration, sarcasm, and grump. Great way to make an impression. My hands fumble and I try to think of a way to touch his fingers again, but can’t. Maybe if we had rolls, to pass butter…

“Maybe,” I finally say, “she really does want you to give me your perspective. On learning to shapeshift, I mean.”

Again he shrugs. “What can I say. It’s hard. Sometimes it hurts. But it’s awesome. Python told me she’s gotten you to nowhere. Pretty good. Actually, really good. You have no idea how fast you’re learning this stuff. It took me years.”

I beam, beyond excited to hear it. Even the part about it hurting doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe I can avoid that, or at least have it go really quickly.

“What do you think I’ll shapeshift into? I mean, I know everyone is different. Do you think I’ll be a jaguar, like you?”

“You’re too nice,” he says.

Okay, so that sappy thing about “Be still my heart?” I get it now.

“I’m not always nice,” I say, remembering what Anna said about being good, and how Jake isn’t always good. If he’s not always good, he probably doesn’t want a girlfriend that’s always good.

“No, you are,” he says, but doesn’t say more.

We eat, mostly in silence. But not because there isn’t anything to say. Because we somehow, miraculously, don’t need to speak.

His eyes seem to wonder aloud: Have you seen me in your dreams?

Mine reply: Yes.

Do you love Michael?

As a brother.

Only a brother?

Yes.

Do you remember me now?

Sort of.

Don’t forget what you know about me.

What is that?

I’m on your side—even when it gets bad.

Will it get bad?

Yes. Worse than you know. You’ll feel betrayed. Remember I knew that here, today. Remember that.

But you are with me? On my side?

Yes. Always.

He finishes then stands to leave, touching my hand, sending those thousand volts surging through me yet again.

I want to say something, but can’t. What would I say, anyway? We said it all.