“You’re so lucky, Lana,” says Todd. “Schools snatch up minorities like wildfire. Once they see you’re a Puerto Rican girl, your grades won’t matter. But hey, if you need any help with that essay, you know you can ask whenever.”
I hide my clenched fists behind my back, but I smile like I’ve trained myself for the past twelve years. “Thanks, Todd.” The worst thing about being Puerto Rican with Todd as my relative is how often he reminds me I’m not like him. He acts like I’m family and a foreigner at the same time. As if it wasn’t already hard to abandon my country against my will, in this new one I have to endure condescending remarks from someone who shares my blood.
I sigh in relief when Mom takes us back to her Buick. Todd’s arm is melting into Samira’s back. Her laugh is two octaves too high to seem genuine, but she’s giving me that “Don’t you worry about me” look, so I keep my mouth shut. Todd slides into the back seat with her.
“Birthday Mode is officially on, ladies!” he says. “Let’s hit it!”
I buckle up and take a quick peek at my phone. Papi is still MIA.
Samira’s advice cocoons me while I suck in a shaky breath. I should focus on the plan. Phase one is almost over. Today I still might become Puerto Rico’s Runner.
I just have to survive the Boy King first.
SAMIRA’S RED COROLLA HIDES IN PLAIN SIGHT IN THE WAXBYRNE PARKING lot, six rows to the left of Mom’s Buick. Samira slips me her keys while Mom and Todd lead the way. I hide the keys in my jeans’ pocket. Samira quickens her pace to join a boring conversation about cravat patterns.
We head toward a grass-covered plot in the shape of a hexagon. We’re smack dab in between the Naples Pier and Third Street South, where the only thing more stifling than the midday sun is the bustle at the Regular shops and restaurants. The Ritz-Carlton is a twenty-five-minute drive up north. It’s 11:00 a.m. right now. I can totally make it on time.
A set of marble doors juts out of the grass. Waxbyrne’s entrance is similar to the stairs that lead to a subway station. And much like a subway station, our destination is down. Magic keeps the store’s underground network intact. It also prevents flooding and makes sure no harm is caused to sea life. I don’t know why Waxbyrne is underground, or why the entrance is shaped like a hexagon, but there are stranger things in the world.
Mom turns to Todd. “Will the birthday boy do the honors?”
Todd pretty much floats toward the doors. “It’ll be my pleasure.”
Ugh, he’s acting like he’s never been to Waxbyrne. Regulars aren’t allowed into the shop on our own, but Todd’s wizard friends have brought him a billion times, though he’s never taken part in their private wand-making tour.
Todd reads the two buttons on the side panels. One is engraved with the word ENTRANCE while the other includes the International Symbol of Access for shoppers with movement disabilities. The doors are enchanted to reveal a different entrance depending on which button a shopper presses. He jams the first button a little too hard.
Once the doors open from the inside, a gust of peppermint bark scent wraps all around me.
This is the best part about Waxbyrne. It smells like winter-season candy.
“Ladies first,” Todd says to Samira, waving her forward.
“Why, thank you.” Samira hooks an arm around mine.
We make our way down the steps together. Everything, even the walls, is built from the whitest marble. Not a single scratch or smudge on anything.
I’m halfway down when a witch’s voice booms from invisible loudspeakers.
“Welcome to Waxbyrne, the world’s premier wand shop! My name is Madame Waxbyrne, renowned wandmaker and owner of the greatest magical store in history. Whatever your magical skill level may be, we here at Waxbyrne have just the wand for you!”
Madame Waxbyrne’s message plays on an endless loop.
In the entrance hall, the scent of peppermint bark hits harder. I take a deep breath, wishing I could lick the air. The receptionist’s counter is dead ahead, with an elderly witch standing behind it and a younger wizard guarding the next set of doors.
The wall on the right is unadorned except for a gigantic logo that reads WAXBYRNE, a cursive script underlined with a thick brushstroke. That’s supposed to be Madame Waxbyrne’s own handwriting. Not that she’s here to corroborate it. Waxbyrne is a chain of wand shops all over the world. It’s the only business with an official license to sell wands from the International Bureau of Magical Matters, but that doesn’t stop wannabes from cropping up in the streets.
“Who the hell wants to watch this?” Todd glares at one of the TVs mounted on the left wall. Each is tuned to a different channel. Mostly reality shows, but Todd’s watching ESPN.
The camera pans to the same lean, black-haired boy whom I have as my phone’s wallpaper.
I press a hand to my chest. “Takeshi …”
It’s a rerun of the “Disappearance of Takeshi Endo” 30 for 30 episode. The footage is from 2015. Outside the IBF building in Tokyo, twenty kids smile up at Takeshi. He wears jeans and a white jacket with the Japanese flag emblazoned on the front.
Hikaru, the white Akarui dragon, is also smiling. His ivory feathered wings are tucked to his sides. Whenever he nods, the shorter crimson feathers atop his head ruffle a bit. He even pretends to blow kisses at Takeshi to make the kids laugh. Takeshi wraps up his speech to fervent applause, then the video cuts to him and Hikaru facing an off-camera interviewer.
“What do you hope these children will learn today?” the reporter asks in English.
Takeshi keeps rubbing Hikaru’s chin. “The importance of compassion,” he says in his gentle, kind voice. “It’s like my late father used to say: ‘We can make the choice to do good in this world, and no matter how impossible it seems, that’s the right choice.’”
Todd sneers. “Focusing on this dragon vermin makes me sick.”
I flinch. “What did you call Hikaru?”
Todd gazes down at me like I’m vermin, too. “My magical-history teacher’s right. Mister Thompson says dragons and their riders have this … attitude. They think they’re above us. And those Dragon Knight morons actually worship them.” He shakes his head. “I don’t care how long they’ve been here or how powerful they are. They’re the worst.”
Red bursts of light explode all around me. I can’t smell peppermint bark anymore. I can’t see anyone other than the wannabe wizard in his stupid Aster Prep cardigan. “You’re confusing the Sire with every other dragon. Educate yourself before you run your mouth.”
“Lana,” Mom says. “Don’t speak to your cousin like that.”
I curse under my breath. Of course she’d think I’m the problem. No one can mess with her precious, Harvard-bound nephew. It hurts to know Mom will never support my Blazewrath dream, but knowing she’d rather take Todd’s side than mine is the last twist of the knife.
I’m about to talk back to Mom when Samira snatches my wrists.
“Oh, look! The counter!” She drags me forward. While Mom’s warning glare follows, Samira whispers, “Listen to me. You are not killing Todd Anderson today.”
“He called Hikaru vermin,” I whisper back with a growl.