Crushes, Books, and Magic

      This is the place to be and no one else knows it. I hide behind isles of jars. Macon can see me if he dares to look up. His eyes are fixed on a set of century old chess pieces, greened by age.

           “I know you’re there.”

           My breath stalls as I straighten to creep into the light. “You’re busy. I didn’t think you’d notice.”

           “It’s hard to miss someone staring at you. Need anything?”

           “Well,” I step forward. “I was sort of hoping you could lend me that book you spoke of in class today. Professor Harry said it was a fantastic read, when found.”

           He examines me at last and with care. “What are you going on about? I recommend a lot of books in that class. Not that anyone ever cares.”

           “I care,” I cough out with an immediately regrettable eagerness. “I mean, I just really enjoy a good read and I don’t know how to explain it, but when you started talking about the different prophets that contributed to that anthology, I felt this need to mull over them. For myself.”

           Each word propels my feet one step closer to the glass counter of oddities that separates us. Turtle shells and crystal infant shaped teacups cast desperate glitters of light across the unfinished concrete floor from inside and I wish to exchange places with them, housed beneath his nose for later inspection. Macon shifts back, his bar stool jostling on two legs until balanced on all fours farther from me. “I can’t. It no longer appears here so; you will have to look for it elsewhere.”

           My brow furrows, “What do you mean, why not?”

           “It was the wicked ones, they did it. They cast a curse that none of the Primrose Works should survive outside the shelves of Destination Z, the bookstore out North.”

           I speak in hurried, hushed tones. “That’s illegal, right? It has to be. No one has the right to dictate when or where a book should appear. It’s their right to flow through time and space after a proper read, at will.”

           Macon waffles and his consternation bleeds into the shake of his head. “That is how I feel, yes. But no, it is not illegal. At least, not anymore.”

           I look outside, as though I can discern when this change in law occurred on the bus stop bench across the street, sitting in plain view. “More and more, it feels like we are going backwards. Back to the old days when kings and queens held high magical regents in their gilded cages, tearing away all of the power on the folds of time from the masses so that they, and only they would prosper.”

           “It’s definitely a step in that direction.”

           “For sure.”

           Macon stands in so sudden a manner that I fly back, transported too close to a rack of randy paperbacks. My disheveled feathers ruffled further; I want so much to hate the cute turn of his lopsided mouth but fail. His artful manipulation of those plain lines on his face sticks to me like grease clings to unventilated space when frying food. I wear his way on my person all day.

           “How come you never speak like this in class?” he asks.

           “What?”

           He fumbles to remove the unruly smile he no doubt meant to conceal. “I mean, you just always sit there. You know, looking at people. Looking at me. Which, to be honest is a little disconcerting. You never contribute to course discussions.”

           The acorn bell above the front door chimes but no one appears. At least, that is what I think until I notice faint imprints of fresh snowfall that darken the grey floor in opaque puddles. Macon looks down, unperturbed.

           “That’s just eddy. But yeah, so why don’t you speak?”

           “Whose Eddy?”

           “He’s just a friend. Will you answer?”

           I stifle a huff that yearns to punctuate my displeasure with this particular turn in conversation. Crushes are such fickle things. If the person of your affection ignores you, it hurts. If they acknowledge you, it can hurt too as you are left to decide to communicate with them or remain silent, unengaged, and lonely. “Because everyone acts like I’m not there.”

           “How do you mean?”

           “I am not one of you and anytime I am at the academy, it is abundantly clear that I am indeed the odd person out. People speak over my hellos, check their phones when I ask questions, and literally step on me frequently because they ‘didn’t see me there.’ It was a big deal for me, convincing my family to allow me to attend. But now I wish I would have stayed where I was at, where people saw me.”

           “I see you.”

           I am frozen by these three words like the delicate snowflakes on the floor, likely to melt in wake of this display of warmth. This is the first time that we have sustained actual eye contact, his large black pupils’ little mirrors of me. I grow larger in them when he suddenly jumps off his stool and over the counter. “I’m sorry, we’re kind of weary of newcomers.”

           Mind in pause, I stare and stare until his anxious gaze relaxes.

           “I’m sorry I creeped you out,” I finally say.

           “No, you didn’t. I mean, you did. But hey, it’s okay. I’d like to know why you are always staring at–”

           Emboldened, I offer, “Because I like you.”

           “Oh.”

           This smile comes with ease and with permanence. I smile too.

           “How would you feel about helping me find that book, Macon?”

           He looks at Eddy’s evaporating steps and nods. “Yeah, he’s got this. You’re going to need the help of a Source Scouter and I know just the cat. Would you like to go now, Sonya?”

           “You know my name?”

           Macon turns to retrieve pen and paper on the display behind him and jots a quick note which he leaves on the counter. When he turns to me, his cheeks are lightly flushed, and his smirk is worried into a pucker. “We all do, Sonya.”