I’m going to meet Stalker, put the smack down, and be done with this detour.
I rock in the swing while I wait. I came straight from the game, so I’m still wearing my Poms uniform under JLHS-branded warm-up pants and team jacket. My hair (still lavender) is up in the standard high ponytail.
The night is cool, dark, and still. There’s a half-moon, a nearby streetlight, and crickets to keep me company. Fourteen seconds of that reverie is enough for me. I pull out my phone and check on the meet-cute video. It’s up to ninety-six shares.
There’s a crunch nearby, and my head pops up. Stalker is backlit by the streetlight—a lanky guy, about six feet tall. I can’t see his face. Without taking my eyes off him, I put the phone away and clutch the pepper spray in my pocket, finger on the trigger.
He takes another step, and I launch out of the swing, facing him, pepper spray out at arm’s length. Just as fast, he whips out his own spray can, aimed at my face.
I growl, “This is law-enforcement strength.”
“Mine is for grizzly bears.”
He takes the step that brings him into the light. Disheveled curls. Glasses. A T-shirt that says DAMN IT, JIM, I’M A DOCTOR, NOT A MIRACLE WORKER. It’s Carmen’s goofy admirer—the one I actually thought was cute—the kid sporting the flip phone in the courtyard when I got that ridiculous bibbidi bobbidi boo text.
“YOU!” I shout the accusation. “You…” Words fail me.
“Noah.” He looks cocky in a way unique to dorks—like he just leveled up in Dungeons & Dragons.
Neither of us has lowered our pepper spray. My arm muscles start to burn a little, mostly because Coach had us do a hundred push-ups yesterday. But the lactic acid in my arms is nothing compared to the fury coursing through my veins. I’m so freaking mad. All my plans for levelheaded diplomacy go out the window. I mean, I’ve never done anything to this guy. I was rooting for him. I feel betrayed. I launch a vicious nudge at him: Hit yourself in the face. But I’m way too upset, and it shoots off into space or somewhere. I’m left with both hands tingling and nothing to show for it.
I hiss, “What the hell is your problem?!”
“My problem? You are unbelievable. I can’t even—” He ends with a single Ha.
I finish the sentence for him: “Can’t stop being a creepy little turd goblin for no reason?”
He laughs—something between surprise, mirth, and anger. “That is the first time I’ve been called that.” He edges to the side, possibly preparing for a left-flank assault.
“Seriously? Because you seem like the kind of guy that would get that a lot.” I swivel just enough to keep him directly in my sights. My arm is really burning now.
He runs his free hand through his mangy hair. “This is getting us nowhere. I’ll lower my weapon if you lower yours.”
I hesitate. “Fine.”
“Okay. On three?”
I shrug, like, I don’t care either way. My arm feels like Jell-O flambé.
He says, “One, two, three,” and we both slowly lower our pepper spray. Sweet relief. But I don’t take my finger off the trigger. I try another nudge: Drop the weapon. It does nothing but spread the pins and needles all the way up my arms. I’m still too mad.
I smack my thighs to wake my hands up. “Okay. Let’s get this over with. What the fffff—”
“Just shut up and listen. Here’s my list of demands.” He pulls a piece of notebook paper out of his pocket, unfolds it, and reads, “Number one, stop messing with people’s lives.”
“Okay,” I snap, “I don’t know where you’re getting your intel. But let’s get something straight. I don’t mess with people’s lives. I grant wishes. I make people happy.”
“You manipulate people for fun. You’re criminally insane.”
“I’m criminally insane? Only one of us has blackmailing, cyberbullying, and stalking on their rap sheet. You’re a freaking wacko.”
He jerks his arm up, but not faster than me. So we’re back to square one, staring down each other’s pepper spray dispensers.
He grinds out, “It’s not called ‘stalking’ if you’re the good guy. It’s called ‘staking out a perp.’ ”
I laugh incredulously. “Oh my gosh. You actually think you’re Captain America.”
“And you actually think you’re a magical, wish-granting fairy.”
’Cuz I am. We glare at each other in silence for a long moment. He blinks first.
He takes a deep breath, looks toward his outstretched hand, and says more calmly, “Can we de-escalate this, please?”
I tilt my head to the side in tacit compliance, and our arms hover down to neutral again.
I match his calm tone. “Okay, Captain Stalker. Seriously. What’s this about? The people on your list are happy. Why would you want to mess with them?”
He is inexplicably angered by that totally reasonable question. “The people on that list are brainwashed sheep. They were happy before, and they were real. You assimilate people like the Borg Queen.”
I don’t know what that means, and I don’t actually care. What I’m really wondering is how much he knows about my magic. How do I defend myself without giving anything away? I hesitate. “That’s not true. I only help people get what they tell me they want.”
“LIAR!” He jabs his notebook paper in my face. “Holly never would have told you she wanted to be arm candy for that mouth breather.”
Aaaaah. Holly Butterman. One of my headache clients. She spent all her time blending into the background and trying not to cast a shadow. Then last year I glimpsed her at prom with Kade Kassab—JLHS star cornerback—dancing in the center of a human sea of deep-green envy. A few well-timed encounters, a little nudge at the opportune time… They’ve been a couple ever since.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“You have a crush on Holly Butterman. That’s what this is about.”
“Not a crush. We were friends. Maybe more than friends. I was taking Holly to junior prom. It took me months to work up the courage to ask her. Then I see the two of you talking in the auditorium, and the next day she tells me it’s off.” His shoulders slump a fraction.
Argh, sympathy. Remorse. It sucks that helping one person broke someone else’s heart. I feel genuinely bad about it. But current events require a stiff upper lip. I tap into my “I’m not a therapist but I play one on TV” voice. “What makes you think those events are connected?”
He goes rigid again and sneers, “Come on. People like you don’t hang out with people like Holly… like she was before.” He continues, sounding rather self-satisfied in a bad-guy-monologue type of way. “I’ve spent five months looking for patterns. Other people this has happened to. It’s amazing that I’m the first one to notice, actually. It’s so obvious once you know what you’re looking for. The sudden change of fortunes. A moment in the spotlight. The meteoric rise to popularity. You, always one or two degrees separated from it all.”
Popularity? That’s all he thinks this is about? Reconciliations, romance, dreams come true. I do it all. I’m transforming lives up in here, punk.