Francesca Palmer is the witchy best friend of my dreams. She’s tall and lanky with sporadic sprinkles smattered across her ivory skin and chin-length box-dyed black hair and has recently announced that she has decided to “shed” the label bisexual in favor of pansexual. She absolutely wafts confidence, but then she opens her mouth and you realize she’s just like the rest of us—floundering and constantly in search of some guarantee that everything is going to be okay. Her self-assurance can be a little intimidating at times, but I’ve always respected the way she looks like she knows exactly where she’s going, even when she’s just as lost as everyone else.
We met on my first day at North Glenwood Elementary, when I moved from Minneapolis to live with Grandma Lou, which happened to be on Halloween. We were in third grade, and she and Matt sat down at my lunch table. I was dressed as Sailor Moon, Matt was a Pokémon, and Ches was dressed as Severus Snape. For seven-year-olds, I think our taste was pretty exquisite. Ches asked why I looked so blue, and when I couldn’t give an answer because of the tears I was holding back, she offered me her Merrymaking Elixir, which turned out to be grape juice. But it worked, at least until the end of the school day. That night we went trick-or-treating, and our bond was solidified over our shared love of blue Tootsie Pops.
“Matt came over last night. He made me watch some awful Swedish movie that Kenji mentioned on their date.”
“I saw his car in the driveway on my way home from the rescue,” I say, my voice almost too small to hear.
She chuffs. “You should’ve just come over! You always do this.”
“Always do what?”
“Wait around for someone to invite you. You’re our best friend. You need no invitation, Faith.”
Hearing her say so out loud has me feeling foolish for even thinking otherwise yesterday, but I can’t let go of the feeling that I’m the third wheel sometimes. I shake my head. “It’s silly. I just don’t ever want to intrude if you two want to hang out on your own.”
We pass under the tent where the rescue is located. Dr. Bryner and a few other volunteers are talking over barking dogs to potential volunteers while Kit, a curvy white lady with a passion for all things retro, tries to explain to an inquisitive little girl with light brown pigtails and grabby hands that not even nice dogs like to be tugged on.
“Our friendship,” Ches says, “is your friendship.”
I squeeze her hand. “Thanks.”
“But listen, I can only stick around for an hour or two. I’ve got to get home to work on that AP Chem paper.”
“That’s not even due for another month.”
“Faith, not all of us can pull a twelve-page paper out of our asses the night before and still manage to ruin the curve for the whole class, okay?”
I grin sheepishly. Nothing feeds me like procrastination and a deadline. I’m not a perfect student, but I’m quick on my feet and I’m clever, so I don’t want to say school is a cakewalk, but I don’t find it as challenging as some people either. “Fine. Go see what Kit needs over there, and I’ll check in with Dr. B. And put that T-shirt on over your clothes at least!”
Carley is waiting for me in her crate. “It’s a big day, missy! You want to go on the leash? Maybe make some googly eyes at potential adopters?” I reach down to put her leash on, but she plants herself on the floor of her crate, whining at me and making eyes at her sometimes crate neighbor and partner in crime, Bumble. “All right, all right. I’ll take you both out. Come on, Bumble.”
In front of our tent, I walk back and forth. Bumble pulls me forward while Carley pulls me back. “Hi!” I call out to passersby. “Are you interested in fostering or maybe even giving a forever home to one of our rescue pups? They’re all spayed or neutered and completely vaccinated. For fosters, we cover the expense of food and medical bills.”
A few people take cards and some even stop to give Carley and Bumble a head scratch or two before moving on to the row of games at the far side of the fairgrounds.
“No joy like the joy of fostering!” I call out cheerfully.
“Give me all the dogs!” says a haughty voice.
I turn around to find Matt in a Delgado & Sons Bakery T-shirt. I should’ve recognized his Cruella de Vil voice. “Hey, you! I thought your dad’s booth was short-staffed today.”
“Benny finally showed up, so Dad cut me loose for a few minutes to take a break.”
Matt’s family runs the funnel-cake booth every year, and their funnel cake is more than deep-fried dough. It’s a religious experience. Call me when your county fair serves a prize-winning bananas Foster Nutella funnel cake. Their family bakery, run by his dad and uncles, is a local chain and a staple here in Glenwood.
I clip Bumble’s and Carley’s leashes to the dog-walking belt Dr. Bryner outfitted me with so I can give Matt a proper hug.
Matthew Delgado and I are basically the exact same body type. The only differences are his brown skin thanks to his Puerto Rican roots and our, well, differing equipment. But to be totally honest, we’ve been known to share clothes from time to time, and it pains me to admit this, but he looks better in my skinny jeans than I do. I love Ches, but Matt and I exist on the same wavelength in a way that Ches and I don’t. We’re both pop culture nerds who aren’t afraid to love the things we love. Ches isn’t afraid either, but the things she loves are usually medieval fairy tales and feminist think pieces about Wiccan culture. It’s the perfect mix, though. Matt meets me where I am and Ches expands my horizons.
“But for real,” says Matt, “I had to come over here and see if you really got Ches to wear that pastel T-shirt.” He holds his hand above his brow to block the sun. “And holy shit. Will you look at that? Our own little witchy Easter egg,” he says loud enough for her to hear.
Ches checks to see that Kit’s back is turned before she gives him the finger.
My body tugs to the left as Bumble pulls impatiently at his leash. “Hang on, buddy,” I tell him. “Oh my God. We haven’t even talked about the season finale of The Grove.”
Matt’s face screws up into a grimace. “I am not happy about how things played out. And are we just going to ignore the fact that Reese is supposed to be a Seer and would have totally known that Parker wasn’t actually dead?”
“Oh, whatever. You’re just pissed because your prediction—” Bumble tugs more violently, causing me to stumble. I grab the leash to pull him back. “Easy there.” I turn back to Matt. “Like I was saying—”
But I don’t get to finish, because now sweet Bumble, the dog who spends all day waiting for belly rubs and treats and who wouldn’t hurt a butterfly, is pulling me with such strength that I have to run to keep up and we’re leaving poor Carley in the dust, practically dragging her behind.
“Bumble!” I shout. “Bumble! What the heck has gotten into you?”
“Faith!” shouts Matt as he runs after me. “This better count as my workout for the year! Someone tell Coach Grant so he’ll get off my ass for once.”
As I’m dodging in and out of the crowd, trying not to lose my pants, I unclip poor Carley’s leash. “Matt! Catch Carley!”