Chapter 3 #2
He laughed then kissed me on the cheek. “I’m so glad you made it this year.”
“Me, too. My schedule finally… y’know. Uh, Leora seems happy?”
“Yeah, it’s a good year for her. I’ll have to tell Leo. You know he wants us to move to Boston?”
I blinked at him. “What? You can’t move! You live here.”
“That’s how moving works, Pandora,” Dad said, teasing me despite the flicker of sadness in his eyes.
Ugh. Leo was so selfish. What would my parents do without their best friends living next door?
“Hello, Pandora,” Philip said.
“Oh, hey, Philip,” I said.
And that was the end of our conversation.
Philip is always around, but never quite there.
He’s an old family friend, so I should have been nicer, but I am convinced that the only reason he gets invited early to the lobster bake is that his gift helps set the stage.
He can lift boulders as if they were pebbles, like some weird wan Superman.
He can’t lift anything else heavy, but it is still pretty amazing.
He probably made the fire-pit in two minutes.
And despite being utterly drab, he’s built gorgeous stone sculptures across the island in the style of the artist Andy Goldsworthy, which tourists marvel at every summer.
Unfortunately, they get covered in snow during the winter, so no one comes to see them then.
I left the corn and potatoes and headed up the path, through the sea roses, toward the terrace made of giant slabs of granite that Philip had built while the neighbors and Leora were away. Seeing Philip toss granite around would’ve crushed their normal minds.
Though not literally—Philip is big on health and safety.
However, witnessing that kind of inexplicable magic is more than a normal mind can comprehend.
If they’re lucky, they lie to themselves about what they saw.
If not, they end up with a crushing migraine.
And too much exposure can cause lasting brain damage.
As I neared the terrace, I heard the tinkle of a piano playing.
The easy twang of stand-up bass answered, seamlessly creating a light and celebratory tune.
Gifted musicians. I tried not to resent them, though I’ve spent years learning the flute and piano and they merely touch an instrument and play beautifully.
I tucked my squeaky wagon beside the house and took a breath of salt air and steaming lobster. I’d forgotten how much I missed a good lobster bake. Screw the magic and bring on the woodland cider. I was going to have a blast and cross off Magical Moment #3. I just needed a drink or two.
I headed into the mix of early guests, milling around, leaving dishes on the buffet table and bottles of booze at the makeshift bar.
More people arrived, bringing flower arrangements and games for the kids.
Dennis mixed drinks while Chef Sheila unveiled a tray of handmade cheese puffs that paired perfectly with my first Fae Fizz of the evening.
I drifted onto the terrace and almost bumped into a woman standing beside a ficus tree festooned with origami lobsters.
“Oh!” I said. “Hattie! I didn’t see you there.”
“Pandora Voss.” She tittered like she’d had a few already. “I’m right here!”
Hattie is a sweet dumpling of a woman in her late sixties, with a round face and bright, nearsighted eyes. She wears knitted hats with so many twigs and leaves woven into them that she looks like she’s walking around with a bird’s nest on her head.
“You’re all grown up,” she told me.
“Almost thirty,” I said.
“Growth is inevitable,” she murmured to the potted plant in her arms. “Spread your branches, my lovely one.”
“Oh, I will,” I promised, toasting her with my nearly empty glass.
Like Dad, Hattie’s gift involves plants.
Though while Dad is great at gardening, Hattie communicates with flora.
I’ve never been sure what goldenrod and ferns have to say for themselves, but Hattie seems to enjoy herself.
And apparently she’s carried that same potted plant around since she was a teenager in New York City, like, fifty years ago.
She claims it called her name in a greenhouse at the Botanical Garden.
She reminds me of one of those women who dote on their Chihuahua.
She probably has twenty different-colored baskets, bags, and straps to carry the plant around with her everywhere.
“And how’s…” I gestured toward her pet plant. As a little kid I’d pestered Hattie to name it, but she’d just fed me ginger snaps and told me that plants don’t need names. “…This evening?”
“Oh, in fine fettle!” she said, with a shy smile. “Very fine, what a night for the lobster bake. Even the seagrass is happily swaying along.”
“That’s nice.”
She peeped at me. “You know, Pandora, sometimes a midnight ocean swim can spark your gift.”
“Or pneumonia,” I said.
“No, no!” She giggled to her plant. “You need to find your gift. If you don’t, you won’t ever flower.”
I didn’t snap at her, because snapping at Hattie would be like shoving a toddler. I just smiled and said I’d keep that in mind and headed back toward the bar.
Won’t ever flower. Can’t anyone in this town of weirdos admit that that vast majority of people flower just fine without a gift?
The most brilliant painters are normals, along with singers and parents and doctors and history teachers, too!
Nobody needs a gift. I’ll flower just fine on my own, thank you very much.
I’d started on my second elixir-spiked mojito when Deja bellowed my name from across the terrace. Then her mom bellowed at her not to bellow, and Shrig corrected their mother’s grammar, and their father bellowed about the corn.
So yeah, the Shrigleys had arrived.
Gabe showed up a few minutes later, and the four of us claimed a picnic table.
There were about fifty guests on the terrace and the beach, laughing and drinking and doing frankly horrible things to lobsters.
Sheila and Jamar were having a claw-eating competition.
I got Dennis to pour me another drink, as it didn’t seem like the right time to ask Jamar for a lucid dreaming adventure.
“Any luck last night?” Dennis asked.
“Uh, well Gabe came home with me and—”
“From the elixirs, Pandora! From the elixirs I gave you.”
“You mean the ones you spiked my drinks with.”
“Exactly!” he said, unapologetically. “Did you feel anything?”
“Other than resentment?”
He gave a hearty chuckle. “That’s okay, we’ve got all summer. It’s definitely going to happen.”
“Ha,” I said, instead of “Mind your own Dames-damned business!”
I knew he meant well, but c’mon. I’d barely stepped foot on the island and pushy locals were already “helping” me get the gift I didn’t want.
They refused to believe that I didn’t care.
Hell, even Shrig had quietly confided that he was keeping an eye out for any edibles that might help spark my gift.
I brought my drink back to the blanket where Deja, Gabe, and Shrig were watching the sunset. Except they weren’t watching the sunset, they were watching an airshow. Apparently, Trevor Alistair, a kid I’d babysat when he was an adorably plump nine-month-old, had discovered his gift with birds.
“They’re bobolinks,” Gabe told me, as we watched the flock form wild aerial patterns at Trevor’s request. “They migrate to the island from South America every year.”
The bobolinks were small birds, who looked they had blond crewcuts and wore black tuxedos.
They dove and spun in a breathtaking routine.
The jazz trio shifted into “Puttin’ on the Ritz” and Carla from the music store in town sang along, her voice raspy and warm.
Fireflies illuminated the night like a thousand stars, summoned by Dad’s insect-gift friend, and Philip juggled huge rocks for the kids on the beach.
It was so magical that it brought tears of wonder to my eyes.
How could I have missed this for so many years just to avoid Leo?
That jerk ruined everything. It wasn’t even the magic that made it all so special, it was sitting here with family and friends, enjoying food and drink and this precious island.
I live in Boston most of the year, but Beane will always be home.
I know the ocean currents here, the saltwater slush in the winter, and the shimmering tide pools of summer.
I know a dozen paths through the warm, welcoming woods. This is my place, these are my people.
Then I caught sight of Leo’s mom standing on the terrace, frowning toward the beach.
Toward Philip. Her mind couldn’t parse him throwing boulders around, so I had no idea what she thought she was seeing.
She looked lonely standing there—and I was about to keep her company, but Leonard beat me to it, and swept her back to the party.
She laughed when he put a hand on her waist and spun her to the music.
I watched them for a moment, then I wandered away from the crowd down the beach.
The night turned darker and cooler as the waves rippled and the party sounds faded to a comforting hum.
It reminded me of bedtime when I was a kid, listening to happy Inn guests settle into their rooms. I loved that feeling.
Observing from the outside, but feeling like an insider.
I guessed I’d keep that childhood memory.
I’d keep this one, too, though I wouldn’t recall exactly what kind of community I’d been a part of, which made me feel nostalgic for something I hadn’t yet lost. Time to return to the party, before I became too sentimental.
I was about to turn around when I spotted the normal neighbors from next door. Three generations strolled along the beach toward the party, wearing preppy polos and seersucker shorts, striped sweaters and linen dresses.
“Are those drones?” the grandpa asked, peering above the faerie-kin bacchanal. “I’ve never seen birds do that. They must be drones, right?”
“I’ve never seen drones do that,” the grandson said.
You’d think after hundreds of years of hiding our abilities from normals, we’d have some kind of secret code or alarm.
They can’t see the magic as it really is, but that doesn’t mean they don’t get suspicious or alarmed.
Not only are we protecting them, we are protecting ourselves.
Let’s be real. If normals knew what we were, they’d bring back witch hanging—or, even worse, set us aside for research purposes.
I turned and raced along the beach, and when I got close enough to the party I started calling, “Normals! Normals! There’s normals coming!”
We don’t have a secret alarm, but we do spring into action fairly quickly. The bobolinks flew away, the fireflies dimmed their lights. Philip lowered his rocks and Leonard and Mom headed toward the normals, bringing them a tray of Sheila’s ice-cream sandwiches.
I watched from the patio, breathless from my beach run, as the music trio struck up a new song and Carla crooned a comforting melody.
This much magic in one place would upset normal minds, even Leora’s, and she’s as acclimated as anyone without a gift could possibly be.
We didn’t want to hurt anyone. Or attract too much attention.
“Drones?” I heard Leonard say.
“We definitely saw drones,” Mrs. Morrison said. “I’ve never seen so many in one place.”
“Neither have we,” Mom told them. “We were surprised, but… you know kids and their toys.”
“Spoiled,” Grandpa Morrison said.
Leonard convinced them that the fireflies had been sparklers, then Mom laid a blanket on the beach for them as Dennis brought vodka cocktails. The bug guy even sent some mosquitos their way for verisimilitude.
I thought about what they missed, what I’d likely miss next year, then returned to my friends and watched the ocean swallow the final rays of the sun.
Gabe put an arm around me.
“What a night, huh?” I said.
He glanced at me. “So magical.”
“Yeah. There’s more to life than gifts, but…” I shrugged. “I am going to miss the magic.”
“Only you won’t,” Gabe told me. “Neither of us will, because our normal brains will forget it all.”
The grief in his voice made me a little sad and I didn’t want this moment ruined for either of us.
“You have plenty of time, Gabe. And we’re already so lucky.
We have each other, we have our friends and families.
We have jobs we love. We have childhood memories of Beane that…
” I squeezed his hand. “Even without magic, growing up here was magical. You’ll find your gift, but even if you don’t, you’ll still be amazing.
You and me, we don’t need any other gift. ”