I’ve just done the math and I think I will surely vomit from nerves.

A hundred folding chairs waiting are for me outside on the lawn, each with a fabric cover here inside the laundry room with little Cinderella me. They are sealed in a heavy tough plastic that needs to be 1) carefully cut open—no ripping and tearing these buggers, 2) STEAMED for wrinkles—per detailed package instructions, 3) pulled tight over the seat frames, and 4) tied into a bow on the back. I’m thinking a bad job will take five minutes, a good job ten…each. One hundred times the minimum five minutes and I have five hundred minutes of work in chairs alone. I don’t want to think about how many hours that is, because when you add to that the other gazillion items yet to be done, each of which has it’s own five to fifteen to fifty minutes associated with it, it becomes crystal clear that I will not accomplish my tasks in the exactly three hours and seventeen minutes I have before people start arriving.

Had someone told me I needed to add labor to the delivery fee, we would be fine. But did anyone tell me? Did anyone say, when you order the fancy white linen covered folding chairs, keep in mind you will have to assemble them? Did anyone say anything at all about wrinkles? No. They did not. I guess they forgot.

“You look stressed,” Michael says, a huge canvas bag hanging over his shoulder, weighing him down. I can’t think about the fact that he’s leaving as soon as the party is over. I just can’t.

“Shut up and help me,” I say, then add a truly desperate and somewhat apologetic, “please.”

“Sure,” he says, heaving the bag off to one side of the laundry room and pulling out a pocket knife for the plastic packaging. I immediately weight the options of him accidentally cutting into a chair cover versus not getting the job done, and opt to trust him. 

I figure out how to rev up the steamer, not knowing we even had one until this very hour.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, though his face doesn’t look right when he says it. It’s obvious, even out of the corner of my eye, that he is upset, so I stop for a moment to look at him dead on.

“What are you worried about?” I ask. Maybe he’s having second thoughts! My heart pounds at the idea. If he didn’t leave, things would be right. Or at least a thousand times better, and easier.

“Nothing,” he says, in that way people do when they are trying really hard to cover something up. My heart drops, realizing he’s not having second thoughts. At least not about leaving.

If I had time, I’d stop and beat the problem out of him. But I don’t.

“I have to leave early,” he says. “My ride is at 2. I’ll have just enough time to say hello to Aunt Helene and then…”

“What? No! You can’t leave an hour into the party. This is your party, for her. What am I going to do with her for three more hours? I don’t even know what Bea or Jake have planned… No, you can’t leave me alone with her. You can’t. I simply will not forgive you if you do. Ever.”

“That’s the least of what I’m hoping you’ll forgive us for,” he says, almost under his breath.

You can tell he wants to tell me whatever it is that’s getting to him. But if it’s not about his deciding to stay, I’m not up for it. Not with everything else. “Michael do not, under any circumstances, add to the hell I’m in right now. If something bad is going to happen, then let it happen when it does. I will totally, completely, utterly fall apart if I have anything else on my shoulders before this party starts. Do you understand?”

He nods. “Just one thing. Just remember this, okay.”

“What?” I snap, remembering Jake said something like this as well.

“I didn’t know,” he says, mysteriously saying everything and nothing at once. “Everyone else, they knew about today. But I didn’t. I only found out last night. I’ve been trying to decide what to do about it, but there isn’t any way for me…”

“Too much information!” I shout. “I got it. You didn’t know. I’ll remember that. Now, do me a favor and go call Dr. Garcia to find out if Anna has permission to be released for the afternoon. The number is by the phone in the kitchen, and she said she’d tell me this morning. If so, I need to…”

“She’s coming,” he says.

“How do you know?” I ask, immediately suspicious.

“I was around when Bea arranged for a special driver to pick her up,” he says.

“She’s alright, then?” I ask, wondering if my healing might have helped after all. The queasy feeling in my gut must be dedicated to her, at least in part, because hearing the news eases it a bit. That, plus the relief of knowing both the call and picking Anna up can be taken off my “to do” list. Thought he idea of a special driver seems out of the blue.

“More than alright,” he says with a mild sneer, again like he knows something.

“That is great news. I’m glad she’ll get out of there, if only for an afternoon. You must be too. This is what we wanted, right?”

He doesn’t answer. I’ll choose to ignore that, for now, as well. Later, I have a feeling I’ll try to remember every single clue I’m avoiding now. I glance at the clock, calculating the time gone by and the added time given I don’t have to drive. Still impossible.

“You don’t have to steam those,” Sally says as she rounds the corner of the laundry room, started at the mess of plastic and linen, then looking at me like I’m crazy to be playing Cinderella at this late hour.

“You want to?” I ask her as I hand over a stubborn plastic bag.

“First, there’s a little zip tab here to open the package,” she says, showing me something I really ought to have seen, which makes the opening job a thousand times easier. “And then we just throw them in the dryer with a clean wet towel for about five minutes a load. The rest of the wrinkles will work themselves out through gravity on the chair. With our super sized tumblers, it can be done in four loads, max. And yes, I’ll be glad to help you. Leave the chairs to me. You have other things to be doing, don’t you?”

Never, ever in my life did I want to kiss the feet of someone more. And Sally, of all people. I swear there are practically tears of gratitude in my eyes. I just nod, hand her the bags, the mess, everything. “Thank you.”

Michael follows me into the kitchen. I still don’t want to hear what he has to say. Even more, say what I must. Good-bye. I can’t say it in the middle of the party. I’ll get too upset in front of too many people. It’s better if he just goes when his ride comes. So if I’m going to say it, it’s now or never.

He seems to know it, too, because he’s looking around the room, like he doesn’t know what to do.

“You’ll be back,” I say, more of a statement than a question, but really it is a question.

“The day I turn eighteen,” he assures, “if they’ll have me. They might not. It depends, they said.”

“They said? Who? When?” This, I want to know. If it involves Michael coming back, I have to know.

“Last night. I saw Bea, Python…Jake too. He’s pretty happy about your choosing him. Pretty nervous, too, for today.”

I feel bad for choosing Jake, but only because of what it has done to Michael. I don’t want to talk about that either. “Your Aunt Helene scares everyone too much. I don’t know why you let her run you all around like this. I’ve never gotten why.”

“After today, you will understand a lot more,” he says flatly.

Again the pit of my stomach turns…“And what about you? Aren’t you afraid of her? Of what she will do if she finds out you are going to learn magic, even if it is from someone else?”

Michael just stares at me, looking really, really sad. “I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about you. She’s going to see you today, Mayden. All I can say is, try to be ready for anything.”

“That’s the only thing I can be ready for,” I say. “I have no idea what is playing out. It’s meant to be that way, though, I have a feeling.”

Michael laughs, showing those beautiful, bountiful white teeth. “You are good, Mayden. Better than you know. You’ll do fine. Really. I know you will. You have to. For the family.”

With that, he pulls me near, starts to kiss me and then, as if remembering our last kiss, hugs me instead. “I’ll miss you,” he says.

I nod, unable to say anything, especially goodbye. Just come back, Michael. Just come back. He lets go and returns to the laundry room.

I take a deep breath and will myself to turn to my list of things to do, trying to think of anything but him leaving. Puff pastries, I suppose, are next. Puff pastries and falling apart, not because the party might flop, or Helene might hate me, but because the family—MY family—is being torn apart. And I don’t know what to do.       

Bea bustles in as if on cue, quickly tying her apron and looking almost half her age. I rather doubt she’s interested in impressing anyone, especially the guest of honor, but you never know. Maybe there is some witchy showmanship in store for us.

“Alright then, where are we?” she asks.

Together we run down the long list of things yet to do, divvy them up, and assign some general guidelines as to when things should be starting to be served when. All business, but there’s something going on, under the surface. Something big, like Bigfoot at the edge of the woods, or the Lockness monster waiting to rear it’s ugly head from the waters.

“I suppose it is time we talk about our guest of honor,” she says, eyeing me warily, waiting for my response.

Why now? After all this time of not talking about her? Why can’t you even say her name?

“Okay,” I say.

“Well then,’ Bea says, sounding more like a businesswoman  than a shapeshifting hag, “she will arrive a bit after the other guests. We’ll have a special seating for her, I thought on that small hill just behind the pool. There is some nice shade there and people can approach her, but won’t stay too long.”

What is she, the queen? I guess so. With her money and position, they probably will treat her like they treat Dad when he’s the top dog someplace. Like they are dying to be found important in her eyes, and wanting something she can give, but probably won’t. I doubt anyone on the list is a real friend she’ll be glad to see. Just a hunch, but she doesn’t seem the friend type.

“She’ll have Jack and Sam with her,” Bea says, “as well as Dorothy and Craig.”

“And they are…?” I ask, stunned that this is the first I’ve heard of any of these names. They are not even on the guest list.

“Jack and Sam are her greyhounds. Large and trained to be fierce, but only if commanded so. She doesn’t go anywhere without them. Dorothy and Craig are a different sort of hound. She calls them assistants. They protect her, all of them. She wouldn’t be willing to be exposed here without them.”

I don’t know why, but I’m thinking this is something they might have been kind enough to tell me about before right now—if only so that I could have arranged for doggie water bowls or something. And what about the fact that Scottie would have been roaming around? I guess she’ll stay tight in my room. I half wonder if the hounds are shapeshifters, too. But really, I don’t want to know. There is so, so much I don’t want to know just yet.

“You should stay back until everyone has been up the hill to see her,” Bea continues, cautious with her words. “Then, it will be your turn to approach her. You’ll do so alone.”

The image makes my heart stop. I swear, a full two or three beats worth of nothing but dreaded air. “You make her sound like royalty or something,” I finally say, hiding pure and utter terror behind a thin, thin veil of sarcasm.

“You’ll see,” is all Bea says in return.

“So at what point,” I dare ask, “do you think she’ll figure out you’re here? And Anna, and Jake, and Michael? All together?”

Bea gives me another look, up and down, like the day we first met. Assessing me, trying to see who I am and what I can take.

“She already knows,” Bea says.

“What? How do you know that?” I ask, or rather demand.

All along, I’ve been expecting some explosive moment, the moment when she realizes everyone who has been hiding from her is in one place. The utter climax of her surprise party… and she already knows?

Bea hesitates, looking like she’s about to deliver fateful news; news that could change everything. I sense I’m about to learn that thing—that one pivotal thing—I keep trying to avoid hearing.

She hesitates again, then looks out the window as she speaks. “Helene planned the party, Mayden.”

And…? “I don’t get it,” I respond when Bea goes no further.

This? This is the great lie everyone is worried about? Okay. Big deal. She wanted a party and got us to throw one. So what?

“No, you wouldn’t yet,” she agrees. “It takes time for things like this to sink in. But you will. Forgive us—forgive us all our sweet and beautiful Mayden—when at last you do.”