Home > Glimpsed(2)

Glimpsed(2)
Author: G.F. Miller

Scarlett loves breaking news. She loves it so hard. Especially if she’s the one who’s breaking it. I think she has FOMO on behalf of the entire Jack London High School student body.

Meanwhile, Gwen puts her phone in her lap and starts slow clapping. The rest of us join in, and the applause gains momentum. Coach touches her pen to her clipboard before she waves her hand for us to cut it out so she can make her end-of-tryouts speech.

“Thank you, ladies. You’ve all worked really hard this weekend, and you should be proud of that. Unfortunately, we only have spots for four of you. The roster will be posted on the gym door tomorrow morning.”

As soon as Coach stops talking, the bleachers erupt with chatter like a science project volcano. It’s all predictable trivialities—love your earrings… did you see the Fresh Prince reboot… so much homework… who gives a test on a Monday… blah, blah, blah. A few people have a long enough attention span to talk about the tryout, but mostly everybody’s already over it.

I spend 3.8 minutes dutifully chatting everybody up before making my way out of the gym. Carmen is waiting for me outside the double doors, amid a few other lingering hopefuls. I want to go in for a full-on hug-and-squeal, but for the sake of propriety, I make it a purposefully awkward “Um, good job in there. I’m sure Coach is going to pick you. Carmen, right?”

She bounces on her toes, sweat still gleaming on her exposed skin, a victorious “whoop” poised on her lips. I need to create a space cushion before she blows our practically strangers cover story.

But impressively, she manages to limit herself to a loaded “Thanks, Charity. For everything.” She makes a you know what I mean face. So not subtle. Then she leans in conspiratorially, which is even worse, and whispers, “How did you stall Coach after I texted you about the flat tire?”

I draw my eyebrows together in feigned confusion. “What are you talking about? You texted me?” I glance at my phone like it’s been misbehaving and, when I look back up, give the tiniest shake of my head. We don’t know each other.

Carmen backs up, searching my face. I assume she’s looking for a sign—did we really have a phone fail, or is this more subterfuge? I give away nothing. She’ll have to draw her own conclusions about what happened here today.

None of my Cindies know about the glimpses or the nudges. All they need to know is that they got their wish. No use complicating things by oversharing about the magic.

Let’s be real: the wow-factor of my magic is basically zero. My powers seem pretty underwhelming most of the time. But I do appreciate their subtlety. Nudges are much easier to hide than, say, turning rats into horses or flying around in a red cape. Ever lost your sunglasses and then it turned out they were on your head? Sent your phone into lockdown because you messed up your password so many times? Tripped over your own feet? Wandered around a parking lot looking for your car? I’m not saying you were fairy godmothered. But I’m not saying you weren’t.

Carmen looks like she wants to ask more questions, but I nudge the words out of her head. Then, with buzzing fingers, I pretend to check my phone as a few of the other hopefuls pass by in a clump, nervously jabbering to each other about how they think they did. They exchange a few “good jobs” and “see you Mondays” with Carmen as they pass.

And now we’re at the part of Carmen’s story where I fade into the background. It’s bittersweet. In some other reality we could have been good friends—we’ll both be on the Poms squad, and she’s got a huge heart.

But I’m not her friend. I’m her fairy godmother. My Cindy’s transformation is complete, and she no longer needs me. We both have to move on now. With one last farewell finger wiggle and a “See you around,” I stride away, careful to project carefree confidence.

 

* * *

 


I pour my post-wish endorphin rush into making pasta primavera and bruschetta for dinner. My mom comes home from San Diego tonight. I expect her around seven. By 6:58, the table is set, dinner is ready, and there’s nothing left to do but wait.

And wait.

We live in the Inland Empire of Southern California—that’s all the towns without a coast and no more than the average silicon. It’s a two-hour drive from San Diego. Every few minutes, I do a mental calculation: If she left at seven, she’ll be here any minute.…

The pasta gets cold and waxy-looking.

If she left at seven thirty, she’ll be here any minute.…

The bruschetta begins to shrivel around the edges.

When I get tired of watching the food decompose, I wander to my bathroom and dye my hair mulberry. It’s bright enough to celebrate today’s triumphs, but with a deep-purple undertone that feels right.

Two years ago, out of boredom, I dyed my blah brown hair for the first time. Peacock blue. It inspired a ninety-second conversation in which my mom was looking up from her computer the entire time. I believe her exact words were “Exploring your inner mermaid, Charity?”

I accepted that for the huge compliment it was. Mom is the executive director of the Marine Conservation Coalition, so she spends every waking moment thinking about ocean life.

When I sent a peacock-blue-haired selfie to my sister, Hope, I got the fastest text back in recent memory: Nice. Bernice loves it.

Bernice is an elephant. Hope is in vet school and has spent the past three summers in Thailand giving trauma care to elephants with PTSD. I’m not kidding. That’s a thing.

But who am I to judge? I’m a fairy godmother with a whole closet full of hair dye. And that’s a thing too.

Fairy godmothering has been passed through the women in my family for generations, but it skips around like freckles or red hair. My grandmother has the magic. I have it. My mom and sister don’t. But being a fairy godmother isn’t just about magic. It’s about a deep need to fix things. It’s a calling.

Here’s the deal: If somebody’s worthy—and if there’s something they long for with their whole heart—then the Universe puts me on the case. I get a glimpse of the Happily Ever After moment downloaded directly to my brain. And then my job is to make sure all the stars align in their favor, to grant the wish they maybe didn’t even know they had.

At least, that’s what I pieced together from the family history passed down from my grandmother, a bunch of crusty fairy tales, and my own experience. I grew up on the stories of my ancestresses back in Europe granting wishes, solving problems, kicking butt, and taking names.

I had my first glimpse when I was twelve, the day after I got my period for the first time. That was a beast of a week, let me tell you. I mean, Memom had kind of explained about the glimpses, and Hope clued me in about the girl stuff. But nothing really prepares you, you know? Mom was on a whale-watching trip with some major donors. By the time she got back, Memom had already helped me deal, and it seemed kinda late to bring it up.

Okay, full disclosure: I tried to bring it up, but she kept changing the subject back to the whales and how majestic they are. So I decided, screw it, she doesn’t get to know. Ever since, we’ve been doing this dance where we both skirt around anything bordering on wishes, glimpses, nudges, or fairy godmothers. Maybe if she ever talked to Memom, she’d get the deets from her. As it is, we’re stuck in this weird “don’t ask, don’t tell” loop. Anyway, it’s been six years—it doesn’t even bother me anymore.

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