“To teach me to drive?”
Snow fiddles with the brake. “Yeah.”
“No. You’ve met Daphne. She hardly uses magic for anything.”
“But you could use magic to drive?”
“I suppose, but then you wouldn’t learn.” I nudge him with my elbow. “Go on, James Dean, start it up.”
“Just turn the key?”
“Yeah, and give it some gas.”
He turns the key, and the car lurches forward and dies. I catch myself on the dashboard. “Good.”
“That wasn’t good, Baz.”
“It was fine,” I say. “It’s normal. I should have double-checked that we were in neutral. Try again: Clutch. Neutral. Ignition. Accelerator.”
The car starts fine this time. Simon revs the engine and looks at me, laughing with delight.
I give him a moment to enjoy it. “We’re going to move now. This is where it gets tricky.”
“It’s already tricky.”
“You’re going to keep the clutch in, change into first, then gently press the accelerator as you ease up on the clutch.”
He shakes his head, like I’m talking nonsense.
“The clutch allows you to switch gears,” I say. “And you need to be in gear to move forward. The accelerator makes you go.”
“So clutch, then first—” His hand wobbles, but he gets there. “—then accelerator.” We jolt forward.
“Excellent.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah … but we’re gonna hit that mailbox.”
Simon looks up from the gear stick. “What do I do?!”
“Steer away.”
“Oh. Right.” He jerks the wheel. “Agh. Sorry.”
“It’s fine. You’re doing really well.”
“Why are you being so nice to me? Back when I was genuinely good at things, you were never this nice. But now that I’m fucking up—”
“You’re just learning. Keep steering.”
“Right, right. Just down the street?”
“Just down the street.”
“Get your wand out,” he says.
“Why?”
“Worst-case scenario.”
“We won’t need it.” I put my hand on his shoulder. Every muscle in his torso is clenched. “You’re going a bit faster now—”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine—just, can you feel it? It wants to change up.”
“What does?”
“The engine. It’s straining.”
“Oh, right. Yeah. So I—”
He changes smoothly into second.
“Crowley, that was excellent, Snow.”
“Let me try—” And he’s in third. Which is too fast for a residential neighbourhood, but well done, all the same.
“Smashing, Simon. You’re a natural.”
“That was okay?”
“Yeah, very.”
“It’s easier when I don’t think.”
“As you’ve often told me.”
“Baz?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s a car—there’s a car! I don’t know how to stop!”
12
PENELOPE
Micah’s mother answers the door, and she seems confused to see me. Which makes sense. I do live in London.
“Mrs. Cordero,” I say, “hello.”
“Penelope … it’s so good to see you. Micah didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“Oh, it’s sort of a surprise,” I say. “It all came together really quickly. Is he here?”
“Yeah, come in, of course.”
I step into their house. I love this house. I stayed in the spare bedroom when I came to see Micah two summers ago. All the rooms are huge, and only the bedrooms and bathrooms (there are four bathrooms) have doors. And everything—all the walls and furniture and the two dozen kitchen cabinets—is in peaceful shades of cream and tan.
There are at least three tan leather sofas.
There are two beige sitting rooms.
There’s wall-to-wall carpeting exactly the shade of porridge.
Ugh, it’s so comforting. My house is every colour, none of them planned. And our furniture is whatever colour it was when my father spotted it at a yard sale. Also, our house has stuff everywhere. Micah’s family must have stuff somewhere, but you never see it. The only things on the coffee tables (how many coffee tables are there? easily nine) are cream-coloured vases with cream-coloured flowers and tan, marble lamps.
“I’ll just—” Mrs. Cordero looks nervous. She must know Micah and I have been arguing. “I’ll go get Micah.”
I sit on one of the leather sofas, and a cream-coloured Pomeranian wanders up to me.
Micah’s parents are both magicians, which isn’t always true in America. They have no standards for these things here, and some magicians go their entire lives without meeting a mage who isn’t a relative. When magicians hook up with Normals, their kids usually have magic, but not always, and most people believe that diluted mages aren’t as powerful. But that might be because they get less training. There’s almost no scholarship on the matter, Mum says.
Micah thinks English magicians get too hung up on magic. “My family uses magic,” he says, “but it’s just part of our identity.”
Utter nonsense. If you can speak with magic, you are a magician first and foremost—bother the rest of it.
Micah’s parents both work for health insurance companies. They use their magic mostly at home, for housework.
The Pomeranian is trying to jump into my lap, but she’s too small. I pick her up because I feel sorry for her, not because I feel like holding a dog.
I really think this is all going to be okay. If Micah and I can just talk face-to-face. The last time I was here, everything clicked. We felt like a real couple for the first time.
“Penelope?”
“Micah!” I stand up, bringing the dog with me. Micah!
“Penny. What are you doing here?” He isn’t smiling. I wish he was smiling.
“I told you I was coming.”
“And I told you that you shouldn’t.”
“But I was going to be here anyway—”
“California isn’t here.”
“You said we needed to talk, Micah. And I agreed. We should talk.”
“I’ve been saying that for six months, Penny, and you’ve been putting me off.”
“I haven’t—”
Micah’s arms are folded. He looks so different from the last time I saw him. He’s growing one of those awful moustache/chin-beard combos. When was the last time we Skyped?
“Micah? I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t want me here. I’m your girlfriend.”
He looks like I’ve just said something ridiculous. (Something like, “I’m going to grow a moustache/chin-beard thingy, what do you think?”) “Penelope … we’ve hardly talked in a year.”
“Because we’re both busy.”
“And we talked even less the year before that.”