Chapter 1 #5
“Or, I could make a Vietnamese-French-Cuban fusion banh mi Cubano sandwich with ham, pork belly, pickled vegetables, and melted cheese on the baguette. The question is…” Talula leaned forward, baiting her trap for a positive social interaction.
“What kind of cheese would tie all of the cuisines together?”
The older woman paused. A beat later, Mrs. Bochart’s eyes lit up.
Hah! Talula thought gleefully. Got you!
But whatever Mrs. Bochart was going to say was cut off by a sickly-sweet voice.
“Hello, Mrs. Bochart!” called Kristen Richards, Pine Hollow First Presbyterian Church Choir’s most prominent soloist and Talula’s most prominent archnemesis since eleventh grade.
Mrs. Bochart swiveled toward the young woman, her voice warm. “Hello, Kristen sweetheart, can I get anything for you?”
“Just the usual, Mrs. Bochart,” Kristen cooed in the voice she had used to get out of detention and speeding tickets. Talula hated that voice.
Years ago, Kristen had been Talula’s first kiss. First so-infatuated-can’t-think-straight high school romance. First…well, there were a lot of firsts before Kristen decided some things were more important than secretly hooking up with Talula. Like her chance at homecoming queen.
“Of course, sweetie,” Mrs. Bochart said, filling a small box with bread and assorted pastries. She daintily placed two buns in a separate bag. “Here, try these new breakfast buns, on the house.”
“You’re just too sweet. That cinnamon smell is amazing!”
“Actually,” Mrs. Bochart said, “these are a little different from my normal recipe. Only a dash of cinnamon and a heap of—”
“Cardamom,” Talula finished.
Kristen and Mrs. Bochart jerked. But Talula couldn’t help it; she’d only seen cardamom-spiced pastries on her food-obsessed social media feeds. “Kind of like kardemummabullar, the Swedish cinnamon rolls made with cardamom instead of cinnamon. Is that where you got the idea?”
“Oh, honey,” Kristen sneered prettily, “I know you hardly ever talk to people, but can’t you tell when you’re not invited into a conversation?”
Embarrassed heat prickled at Talula’s cheeks. She opened her mouth to respond, but Mrs. Bochart shoved the bag of baked goods into her arms.
“Thank you for your business! Next customer!”
Talula took the hint (and her baked goods). “See you next week, Mrs. Bochart!”
She hopped on her bike and pedaled out of the market, somewhat victorious.
Despite the usual unpleasantness with Mrs. Bochart and Kristen, it’d been a good morning at the market.
Talula was proud of herself for not faltering in the face of the baker’s prickliness and Kristen’s mean-girl attitude.
Plus, she couldn’t believe how close she’d gotten to having an actual conversation with Mrs. Bochart. Maybe it was the lip balm that did it.
Talula pedaled harder, feeling the wind rush through her hair, the lingering warmth of summer on her skin, the thunder of her heart.
She felt lifted by her ride, by the morning, by the autumn air, by the magic of the lip balm.
For the second time that day, Talula reached for her power, channeling a different side of her elemental sorcery.
Lift, Talula thought. Lift.
Magic shivered under her skin, expanding invisibly outward. Talula felt air slip under the wheels of her bike, raising her an inch off the ground—
An obnoxious truck roared a few feet away from Talula’s left. She yelped, veered too sharply, and crashed into a shrub.
“Watch out, Dorothy, here comes the witch!” the driver shouted.
Talula could hear the shrieking laughter of the truck’s passengers as they sped away.
She untangled herself from the bike and out of the bushes, heart pounding.
Before Lightning McAsshole had driven by, Talula was sure she’d felt a connection to her air affinity, almost levitating her bike.
But had she just imagined the lifting? Or was it just a post–farmers’ market hallucination?
The market.
Panicked, Talula turned to check her bike basket.
Quiet, cold despair flooded her heart. Her market purchases were strewn all over the road.
Strawberries were a red smear on the concrete, Romanesco broccoli smashed, eggs shattered, and bread crumbled on the dirty street.
They’d been beautiful things, grown and made by people who were as passionate about food as Talula was.
People who smiled when they saw her coming, who made Talula feel like herself and enough every Saturday morning at market time.
Now those beautiful things were ruined. All because Talula couldn’t go a whole day without being reminded that she didn’t belong to the human world. Or her magical one.
For a moment, Talula couldn’t move. She just stared.
When tears blurred her vision, she squared her shoulders and took a sharp breath.
She salvaged what she could and moved some of the mess off to the side where, she hoped, birds and rabbits and other hungry creatures could enjoy the scraps.
She walked her bike to the Blue Moon. She didn’t reach for her air affinity again.
Let’s be honest, Talula thought darkly. Dorothy has nothing to worry about.