A Picture of Magic

        “Come on, take the photo! I can only hold the muscles for so long!” Peter barked at Braxton. Peter was standing straight up, shirtless, eyes piercing into the camera, flexing his biceps. He had his arms outstretched at an almost ninety-degree angle, hands meeting with palms open facing upwards. A fireball was located approximately an inch above the palms, perfectly circular, about six inches in diameter. Peter began shaking from the strain of sustaining the fireball for so long.

               “I got it!” Braxton shouted the words Peter had been waiting to hear. Peter felt relief that he no longer had to flex his muscles to sustain the magic. His arms and back felt relieved at no longer being under the strain of producing a magic spell. Peter took a second to catch his breath while Braxton inquired “You wanna see the pic?”

               “Might as well,” Peter responded in a voice making clear that he just wanted to get this picture done with and posted on his Instagram already. He was not in the mood to take another picture no matter how bad this take was.

“Here you go!” Braxton turned the phone slightly to Peter to show the picture Braxton snapped. Braxton stood next to Peter, both ogling the picture on the iPhone screen. “You know,” Braxton murmured, “the way the light is hitting the right side of your hair is creating a lighting issue that is blocking…”

“It’s fine!” Peter interjected. Braxton, of course, was such an avid photographer that he petitioned the high school to start a photography club. As such, every picture he ever took had to be just perfect. It annoyed the subjects of his photographs to no end the unceasing amount of takes Braxton shot.

Braxton spoke softly. “Alright, as long as you don’t associate my name with this photograph.” Peter readily agreed and held the phone close to his face to post the picture on Instagram. He used hashtags such as “#magic”, “#wizard”, and “#fireball” to draw attention to the post. Who else is posting on here that they can do real magic? This will surely get me all the girls. Why date a football player when you can go out with a guy who can literally create fire?

The post went live on Instagram. Peter handed the phone back to Braxton, put his Los Angeles Rams t-shirt back on, and the two went their separate ways after a quick “Thank you” from Peter. Peter went into the driver’s seat of his car, turned on the Metallica song “Master of Puppets” and began to drive home. He grinned at the thought of all the ladies who would be messaging him. The phone continually buzzed in his pocket. He began to accelerate the vehicle to get home quicker. Who’s messaging me? Will I get a date tonight?  

Peter finally arrived home a couple minutes later. He parked his car on the curb in front of his house, bolted towards the front door, ignoring the footpath to the entrance, and cut through the grass. Peter swung open the door, the force nearly shaking it off its hinges. Peter sprinted towards the stairs to go to his room and examine his phone’s notifications in private. Peter made it halfway up the stairs before hearing the one thing that could stop him: his mother, Esther’s voice.

“PETER ISAIAH NGUYEN! Come down here this instant!” Esther’s voice shrieked from the office room in a way that he knew that if it was between what his mother was going to do to him and eternal damnation, eternal damnation seemed like a swell alternative. The adrenaline began pumping in his veins, yet he immediately and instinctively pivoted, then strode down the stairs to get to where she was calling from. His feet barely touched the stairs or any other ground on the way to his mom. The only thing in his mind worse than heeding the call was not heeding the call. He arrived in milliseconds that felt like minutes to the sight of his mom seated in her black leather office chair, staring at her computer screen, unmoving.

“What is this?” Esther stated, coldly, angrily, but not yelling. She did not turn her head to Peter. Peter could see over her shoulder that it was the photo that he had just posted on Instagram.

“Oh this! A simple Photoshop trick of course!” Peter replied in a high-pitched, nervous tone.

“Do you really want to lie to me?” Esther turned her head and looked straight in his eyes and furrowed hers. Peter knew he never really could lie to his mom. She was able to use her magic skills to read his mind and tell when he was lying to her. It was a trick she used often as he grew up when he blamed his sister, Phoebe, for some mess he created, but she rarely used it now because, as she told Peter, she does not want to know what is going on inside a teenage boy’s mind. Peter’s skills had not developed to the level where he was able to penetrate the psyche, much to Peter’s chagrin. But in this case, she didn’t need to use the spell to enter his mind; Peter’s heavy breathing and quick blinking eyes were a dead giveaway.

“Luckily for you, people are thinking your lie is the truth.” Peter looked at the screen and saw several comments asking for Photoshop advice. Peter thought about how there must be some private message to him from a girl commenting on his amazing skills. He made a mental note to check Esther continued as Peter stepped a couple steps back, “Peter, all those years your father and I trained you in the Arts, what was the number one rule?”

Peter had to stop his eyes from rolling and passively stated in a rote matter “Never use your magic unless you or others are in grave danger.”

Esther’s mouth betrayed a wry smile, proud that some of her teachings stuck in his head. She quickly maintained her stoicism and sighed. “Peter, you know that if your powers are made known, darker elements can easily find you and take advantage of you. Remember, your grandfather had to flee during the war because dark forces were following him after he used his powers to heal his town after a napalm attack.”

“I know Grandpa’s story! But what’s the point of even having these skills if I can’t use them?” Peter whined, almost yelling, but just able to control his emotions just enough to not yell at his mother.

“Why do people learn karate when they don’t beat people up on the street? Why do people set up security cameras if they aren’t robbed every night? It's because when you do need it, you will be glad to have it! It doesn’t hurt you if you have a skill you don’t always use, but it can hurt you if you don’t have the skill when you need it.” Esther spoke in a sagely voice, just as she did during his various classes growing up teaching him the Arts.  

Peter sighed. “I know,” he spoke in a dejected voice like a kid who was told that vegetables were good for him and that was why they needed to be eaten before dessert. “I will take down the picture.”

Esther turned back to her computer, continuing to scroll Instagram as to procrastinate on her own work. A dejected Peter sauntered upstairs with his shoulders slumped down. Peter’s face stared at the ground the entire time up, he pawed at the open bedroom door behind him with just enough force to make it close, and then he threw himself on his bed.

“What is the point of having these powers if I can’t use them?” he silently muttered to himself, head in pillow, ready to sob with frustration. He knew his mother was right. He had gotten himself suspended from school for a week when he got into a fight over some lunch money in junior high and lit a trash can on fire when he missed the bully. He also managed to get the derisive nickname “Waterboy” in sixth grade after he pulled a prank involving creating a Slip ‘N Slide on the schoolyard. He had to move schools after that saga. There was also the time the Bible Camp counselors thought he was possessed by the devil when he was creating water from his hands. People just do not really understand. But these weren’t school administrators, junior high boys, or religious zealots who would view his Instagram; these were classmates, kids his age. And a little fireball isn’t hurting anyone else. But, he knew that his mom would stalk his Instagram to make sure the picture was taken down.

Peter pulled out his phone and opened the Instagram app. He noticed that there were notifications for private messages. Could this be a message I’ve been waiting for? He opened the notifications and his heart dropped. They were all either spam messages about his car’s warranty or various people impressed with his Photoshop skills.

“GAH!” Peter cried out in frustration. How could it be that no girls were interested? How could these fools think it was photo editing? I’m a real-life Avenger and these people want to see the movies! Peter then noticed a feature in the Instagram app: Instagram Live. His brain started thinking. He then pulled out his phone and messaged Braxton: “First plan failed. But I have another one. Meet me at the park. 7 PM.” He received a confirmation from Braxton almost immediately to meet at that time.

As the evening sun fell on the two teenage boys at the park, Peter explained the plan. He was going to have Braxton do an Instagram Live stream of him pulling off a fireball. No one can claim it was just photo editing now. The duo waited until darkness came so that the sun would not interfere with lighting.

As the sun finally set on the park’s well-maintained grass and surrounding hillsides with dry chapparal, Braxton asked the questions that should have occurred to the duo earlier: “Is this going to work? With how windy it is? You sure you don’t want to do some other spell? You can do water, right?” The park was suffocated by the hot, dry, Southern California winds known as the Santa Ana winds. Any trash not put in trash cans was immediately spread across the park for the squirrels to consume. Trash cans had to be chained to tables and benches just to keep the winds from knocking them over. The duo had to use their arms to shield their faces from the pounding gusts.

“You know water doesn’t show up well on camera! Plus, it's going to look so awesome just seeing a glowing orb in the dim light. You do photography. You know that’s awesome!” Peter retorted, his voice getting higher with anticipation with his photography vision.

“Alright,” Braxton stated with a deadpan expression. “Let's do this.” Braxton pulled out his phone and pointed it at Peter. “Ready?”

“Let’s go!” Peter shouted in a voice as if he was a football player getting pumped up for a game. Braxton held up three fingers, counting down each one, the last finger put down was the middle finger. Peter then spoke in a manner as if trying to emulate a talk show host, “Hello ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between…but especially the ladies, this is your boy, Peter Nguyen.” Peter then winked. If anyone in the area heard a sonic boom at that time, it was potentially from how fast Braxton's eyes were rolling at Peter’s attempts to be suave.

Peter then continued, “Before I start, it sure is hot in here.” Peter then took off his Kobe Bryant T-shirt and winked again. He tried flexing, but his body was that of a track star, not a football player, so there were minimal changes to his pectoral and bicep muscles. He didn’t notice and winked again. “It has come to my attention that a lot of you don’t realize you are dealing with a real-life Dr. Strange right now.” It's miraculous that Braxton’s eyes didn’t pop out of their sockets given how quickly and frequently his eyes were rolling.

Peter pressed on, “Let me show you.” He then flexed his arms and chest again, putting his hands in the same position as in the previous Instagram post. He grunted. Braxton couldn’t help but think how hilarious it would be if Peter had flatulence during this process, but Braxton’s juvenile comedic thought was not to come true. But steadily, a fireball grew, eventually becoming the size of his palms. Peter looked at the camera with the excitement of success, his mouth open with wonder. “See? This is not photoshop. This is live! This is…”

At that moment a gust of wind pushed the fireball off Peter’s palms, into the nearby brush. The brush ignited instantly. A spark from one brush lit another brush lit another brush like a set of dominoes. The duo stood still in shock wondering what was going on for the next thirty seconds, Braxton recording the whole event on Instagram Live. Within that 30-second period, the wind had pushed the fire to cover a 10-foot by 10-foot area where every piece of brush in the area was on fire.

Braxton snapped out of his hypnosis. “PETER!” he barked, “We need to do something!” Braxton hesitated in calling the emergency line. He didn’t want to get in trouble for this reckless behavior and he knew Peter also had the ability to manipulate water like he could with fire. Peter put his arms together again to create a water ball, but all that came from his hands was a trickle, like a crimped hose.

“The air’s too dry! I can’t create water!” Peter shrieked in panic. At that moment, a firetruck emerged from the parking lot with a team of firefighters rushing by Peter and Braxton, ignoring them to put out the fire. Peter and Braxton counted their blessings and began to run until there was a shout: “You two! Stop!”

Peter and Braxton slowly turned around and met the gaze of a uniformed Los Angeles County Sheriff. “What do you two think you’re doing?” the sheriff stated in a strong, authoritative matter with a hint of a Texan accent. Even with his shades, the duo could tell the sheriff was giving them a cold glare that made them freeze in their tracks.  

Braxton panicked and blurted out “It wasn’t arson! It was a special effect we were using for our Instagram live gone wrong.” Peter glared at Braxton, nonverbally asking Braxton what the hell he was doing. Braxton clearly was not paying attention that day in the civics courses where the right against self-incrimination was discussed.

“That’s up to the arson investigators to sort out boys. I’m going to go back to my car and call dispatch to see what to do with you. If you don’t stay here, well, let’s just say that we officers know where you live and we will treat it as an admission of guilt for, what did you say? Oh yea, arson.” He spoke as if he didn’t buy the boys’ story one bit, but the officer turned around and robotically walked to the Dodge Charger with the sheriff’s logo on it.

The officer sat in the car, pulled the handheld radio in his car to his face, and spoke into the transmitter, “This is Officer Mullins. What do you want me to do with the wizard boy and his friend?”

Through the radio, a staticky, echoing voice hissed “The boy’s powers are clearly weak. He is no threat to us and cannot help us.”

“I respect your decision Almighty One, but maybe if we can train him, mold him, he can help us take over this realm.”

“He is too impulsive. He will sink the plan with his indiscretion. But keep an eye on him. Do not eliminate him. He may grow to be useful yet.”

“Thy will be done, oh Almighty One.” The officer bowed to the radio and exited the vehicle.

He approached the boys in the same robotic matter, “It is your lucky day boys. It just came over dispatch that they found no accelerants or signs of arson. I can book you on failure to show caution during a Red Flag Fire Warning, but well, I was young once, and boys will be boys. But if you do this again,” the officer made a gesture with his pointer finger across his throat, “you hear me?” The boys, grateful to just get out of there thanked the officer and drove home in their separate cars.

Peter was still feeling the exhilaration of getting off scot-free when he walked in the door. The TV was blaring the news from the family room, with the reporter stating “Fire officials in Saugus are crediting the County’s new initiative for fire protection near the parks from preventing a 10 by 10 fire from spreading further. Firefighters took minutes to put out the fire. No cause has been determined, but arson has been ruled out.”

Almost immediately as the report concluded, Peter heard a banshee-esque “PETER ISAIAH NGUYEN!” coming from the family room. His jubilation ended and turned to nerves encompassing his entire body. He knew he would no longer be getting off scot-free.