Cruel Spell and a Cruel Joke

Author’s note: this story is a prequel to, and uses the same characters as ‘Can You?’ (kind of) and ‘A Recipe for Disaster’. This story can be understood on its own, but you might want to read ‘a Recipe for Disaster’ first to gain better understanding! Enjoy!

I trace my fingers across the intricately carved wood. Why are coffins so pretty? This one is made of smooth, shiny redwood, engraved with images of frolicking animals and a young lady casting a spell. 

The young lady symbolizes my mother, I guess. Now I want to smack the coffin-carver. It seems like a cruel joke, having an image of my mom, alive, on her own coffin.

I stare at the closed coffin, holding back the tears threatening to slide down my cheeks. My eyes are swimming but I’m not going to give into my emotions. Not just because if I do, it’s not certain I’ll be able to control the magic emerging from my feelings, but also because I can’t cry. I won’t cry.

Mom is dead. I can barely believe it. A month ago, she was alive and well. Then, Mom tried to perform a spell. Spells are tricky—they’re much harder than doing plain old magic, but also more convenient once you master them.

Mom is—was—amazing at spells, but even skilled magicians screw up. What was supposed to be a harmless spell to conjure up candy, ‘renilayla’, was mispronounced as ‘remilayla’.

Mispronouncing spells backfires on you.

But ‘remilayla’ is a spell. An illegal spell. The killing spell.

Mom was performing the spell in front of a glass door. Which was a big mistake. The mispronounced spell bounced off the mirror and hit her Mom square in her chest. 

So now, here I am. After the funeral of Ariana Draanen, I’m allowed to have the room to myself for a couple minutes to say goodbye.

Mom’s been dead for weeks, but only now is her funeral. I hate funerals—I mean, I only attend ones for people I care about, which automatically makes them heart-wrenchingly sad. The name Margarita Draanen has only been in three guest books, ever.

I sigh and push my long, brown-with-red-parts hair of my face as I lean down and kiss the coffin. Kissing wood is weird but kissing a dead person is weirder, so this’ll have to do.

I slip out of the funeral room and speed-walk down the hallway. I hate funeral buildings. They smell sickly sweet—even worse than hospital’s smells. 

I dislike hospitals, but funeral places are even worse. In hospitals, people can have their last day of life or their first day of life. For some, the day at the hospital is one of their happiest days, and for others, not so happy of times. At least half of those situations are good…attending a funeral isn't happy at all.

Still, there’s a slim chance Mom’ll be fine. The spell bounced off something, meaning it got less powerful. Doctors have figured out that for a month after somebody died from a reflected spell, they aren’t 100% dead yet.

That means, for a month, there’s a chance to bring back said person. Doctors have been working on engineering a spell for this cause for a while now, and Dr. Brooke thinks they're about to make a breakthrough.

So…maybe Mom’ll be back.

But for now, she’s dead.

Actually, a deceased mother isn’t my only problem.

See, mispronouncing spells is kinda embarrassing. At Enchanted Academy, when a spell blows up in somebody’s face, they’re an immediate laughing stock for eternity.

Unless the spell literally blows up in their face—in which case, they get around a week of pity before the teasing beginnings.

Even worse, the embarrassment can stick through generations. My best friend, Rosalee, is still teased occasionally for her grandfather accidentally exploding his cat fifty years ago.

I’m fourteen, and yet most of my classmates have the maturity of toddlers. The word ‘serious’ literally doesn’t exist, and while senses of humor are very common, empathy’s more rare. Cats dying, humans dying—people will be goaded no matter what.

I’m the daughter of a screw-up—a dead screw-up, but a screw-up nonetheless. It’s been a month since Mom’s embarrassing death, and I haven’t yet been teased, remarkably.

I give myself a month. 

A month until the teasing begins.

Yup, I bet I have a month.

It turns out, I don’t even have a week.

*

It’s been five days since the funeral—it’s Friday. As soon as I walk into Enchanted Academy, I hear murmurs and giggles.

I duck my head down and focus on my boots clacking against the tiles. I trot to my first class, Water Skills. I’m a bit early, so I wait outside the door.

A moment later, Rosalee strides up to me. “Hey, Margarita.”

“Hi,” I say. “Do you notice something…different?”

I scan my surroundings, where clusters of kids are scattered around the halls. Most are whispering amongst one another, occasionally pointing at me and snorting. There’s definitely been a shift in the mood.

“Yeah,” Rosalee says, her blond hair swishing as she swivels her head. “I betcha today’s the day—you’ll start being teased. Sorry, Mara, but it’s been long enough since your mom’s death.”

I bite my lip. “Okay.”

“I’ve got to go to the bathroom. Be right back, m’kay?”

I nod, and Rosalee walks off.

Barely five seconds later, Carter Creed and his band of idiots swagger up to me. Carter’s a short blond-haired boy who loves insulting people. He’s pretty smart, but his followers are…not. 

“Hey, Margarita,” Carter says, smiling.

I shoot him a look. “What?” 

“Donald here has something to tell you.” 

He gestures behind him, and another boy steps up. Donald Black, a brown-haired, green-eyed dumbo who’s very tall and very…ugh. “Why did the chicken cross the road?”

If Enchanted Academy’s anime, question marks would be flashing above my head. I don’t know, and I don’t care. But I’m interested to see how this one would end… “Why?” 

“To get to the screw-up’s house. Now, knock-knock.”

I roll my eyes. I know how this jeer ends. But I specialize in taking burns and firing the flames back at the person—so this’ll be fun. “Who’s there?” I say.

“The chicken!” Donald exclaims.

All the boys, including Carter, crack up.

I laugh too, then say, “And I take it you’re the chicken?”

“Well…yes. Actually, no. Um…yeah.”

“Seems fitting. You’re a coward.”

“What?” Donald gasps. “No!”

“Yup,” I smirk. I fashion my arms into wings: “Buck-buck-buck! I’m a chicken!”

 Donald’s expression crumbles. “I’m not a coward, Margarita.”

“Mmhmm,” I say. “You were too scared to finish your corndog for lunch yesterday!” Strange, I know, but I had a plan.

“I was full!” Donald protests.

I give him a knowing glance. “Chicken.”

Donald glares then races down the hallway. He hollers, “I’M COMING FOR YOU, CORNDOG!” I grin, knowing my plan has succeeded. A day-old corndog (that used to be in the trash) is about to gulped down by a guy who’s way too easy to trick.

I flash a smile at Carter and his goons and walk into Water Skills just as the bell rings behind me.

*

 All throughout first period, I’m peppered with insults. Some are clever, some are not, and most I deflect by turning them on the teen who insulted me. 

I glance at the clock. It’s a quarter till nine, which is the end of Water Skills. Ms. Schmidt is currently explaining how to fashion water into ice sculptures in less than a second.

“Hey, Mara!” Jack whispers.

I stare at the boy. “What?”

“Your mom is really bad at magic. It runs in the family, apparently.”

I scowl at him. “Oh, that wasn’t even funny!”

*

 “Margarita!”

I whip my head around, trying to find the owner of the voice interrupting Mr. McDavitt’s droning on and on. It’s the third period—Potions. Nobody else seems to notice the voice, but then I hear:

“Pssst! Mara!”

I sigh and I peer behind my back. It’s a girl, Ava. Her black hair is twisted into a bun sitting aloof on her head, and her lip-glossed mouth is curled into a smile.

“What?” I groan.

“The ‘80s called. They want their skills back.”

I glare. “Oh, and the 1880s called. They want their insult back.”

The last thing I see of Ava is her mouth dropping open, before I turn back around and continue listening to Mr. McDavitt’s lesson.

*

“Ugh,” I moan as I hear the bell ring, signaling the end of recess. “Seriously?”

Rosalee, who’s swinging on the monkey bars next to me, also groans. “Dang it. C’mon, let’s go in.”   

We start migrating towards the doors when Carter walks up to me. “Margarita?”

I ignore him and Rosalee and I keep going.

Carter follows us. “Margaritaaaaa….”

I start speed-walking, but Carter matches my pace. “Mara!”

“What?” I snap. “I don’t care, Carter! I DO NOT care about whatever insult is about to fly out of your mouth!”

Rosalee creeps away, leaving me to glare at Carter on the empty playground.

“Actually, I wasn’t here to tease you.”

“You’re not?” I squint.

A small smile appears on Carter’s face. “Yup. So…I know we don’t know each other that well, but—”

“Spit it out.”

“—are you single?” Carter blurts.

I blink. And blink again. I’m resisting cracking up right now… seriously, HA! I mean, I know that at age fourteen, it’s not unusual for a couple teens in my grade to have girlfriends and boyfriends, but I sure don’t. 

I have a feeling Carter is about to ask me out or something, which is…weird. Plus, ‘are you single?’ sounds like something a middle-aged woman would ask at a grocery store, not something a teenage boy who knows very well I’m ‘single’ would say.  

Anyways, this is strange, but in a funny way. I’m glad Carter isn’t here to tease me—and boy, am I in luck. We’re about to have a very awkward conversation, I can tell, but I’m going to make Carter regret ever walking up to me.

I bat my eyes at him. “No, I’m plural.”

Carter frowns. “I mean, are you free on Saturday?”

“Actually, I’m rather expensive that day.”

“W-well…well—” Carter sputters.

I smile. “Yes?”

“Are you open on Saturday?”

“No, I’m closed on Saturday, sorry.”

“Y-you know what I mean.”

“Hmm, I guess so,” I say. “Well, yes, I guess I’m open on Saturday.”

“Umm…do you wanna catch a movie?”

“I’ve heard they’re rather hard to chase down, actually.”

Okay, I’m really about to break. This is hilarious! Carter’s saying all the wrong things, meaning whatever's flying out if his mouth is perfect for me to turn on him. 

 “Margarita,” Carter says slowly, “do you want to watch a movie with me on Saturday?”

“There’s a chance,” I say.

Carter nods eagerly. “What chance?”

“Count the stars in the sky.”

“Yes!” he hollers, pumping a fist up. (Wow, Carter, way to play it cool.) Then he squints up at the clear sapphire sky, not a star in sight. “Wait, it’s daytime.”

“Exactly,” I deadpan. “Bye-bye, Carter.”

I start to prance off but he calls, “Mara! Can I at least have your number?”

I stop, turn, and smile sweetly. “Of course,” I say as I take the pen and paper from his clammy hands. I grin as I scribble down:

9-1-1.

That’s the number you’ll need to call if you ever ask for my number again.

I cap the pen and, without breaking eye contact, hand it and the paper to Carter. I smirk as I walk into the building, leaving a confused dumbo behind to realize I’m not the one for him.

*

I’m still inwardly laughing by the time sixth period rolls around—the last class of the day. Today was pretty fun—I was teased dozens of times, but it wasn’t all that bad. Oh, and Carter set a world record for Most Hilarious Fail—in the Margarita World Records, anyways.

I eye the clock at the front of the room.

Tick, tock.

Tick, tock. 

Tick, tock.

Just another minute until school lets out—YES! 

A million years later, the shrill sound of the bell greets my ears. I grin and dash into the hallway, which is just starting to fill up.

My brown-red hair swings in my face as I jog out of the building. I’m about to meet Rosalee at the bus when I hear—

“Margarita!”

I don’t recognize the voice, but that has to be bad. I’m frowning as I turn around, only to see a girl running up to me. She has brown hair brushed into two pigtails, her blue eyes shining in the sunlight. A smattering of freckles is thrown across her nose, a smile painted onto her lips. She looks fifteen or sixteen.

“Who are you, and why are you here?” I say.

She pouts. “I’m Kiki.”

“And…” I prompt.

“I’m here to tell you…HA! Your mama was so bad at spells that squirrels were laughing at her.” I mentally added the strange insult to my Burn List. “Honestly, what happened has gotta tell you something: Ariana is such a failure, she died!”

That hit home. This wasn’t just about Mom mispronouncing a spell. Kiki just brought up my mother’s death. Another cruel joke, just like the coffin, but Kiki is trying to hurt me.

“What the heck?” I holler. “You’re so rude! My mom’s in a coffin and you’re joking about it?!”

“Well, yeah. Besides, she’s out of the coffin.”

“Huh?” I say, remembering how Kiki had said Ariana is a failure—present tense. “What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you hear?”

“No,” I say slowly. “What?”

“People aren’t that insensitive, Margarita. We got the news this morning, but apparently you didn’t. Your mom died, but she isn’t dead. The doctors found the counter spell.”