Page 76 of How (Not) to Conjure a Boyfriend
Kaitlynn tips the third bag over and heaps of individually wrapped candies scatter the table. So much sugar.
“What the…?” I gasp. She always does this. “Why?”
“The better question is why not?” Kaitlynn shrugs, picking up a plastic sleeve of Smarties and dumping the entire packet in her mouth.
“Isn’tthatsort of why not?” I squint.
“Nah,” she says, crunching down on the chalky bits.
The day our metabolisms slow down, we’re both screwed. Enjoy it while I’m young, right? I pick out a Twix and unwrap it as I go back to the kitchen counter.
“You going to make the margaritas first?” I ask.
“Yep.” Kaitlynn breaks open the strawberries. “You’rereallygoing to forget those boys tonight!”
“Oh my gods, Kaity!” I huff. I’d managed not to think of either of them for the past hour, but now their gray eyes are plastered in my mind again. “Not helping! And the drinks are virgin, not alcoholic!”
“Duh.” She rolls her eyes. “Doesn’t mean we can’t act like it!”
“The blender’s in—”
“I know where it’s at.” Kaitlynn grins at me.
I close my eyes for a brief moment, letting the music sink in, hoping it’ll fill up some of those areas where their faces are still trying to pop into view. I need a calm night. Not more stress. Especially since I’m going to have to listen to death metal in a bit. Kaity’s been into it lately. A whole lot. Like it’s scary, but she loves it, and like a good friend I let her make the list.
Tonight’s goal is simple. Bake one cake each, make frozen virgin margaritas, blare music, then watchPractical Magicwhile we devour our creations. I’m also going to send half of mine home with Kaitlynn for her mom. And no boys. No talk of them. No thinking about them. Just us and our food.
“Your mom around?” Kaitlynn asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “She’s in her room.”
“Ah,” Kaitlynn says, switching off the blender and setting it in the freezer. She comes over and settles to my right in front of heringredients, picks up her directions, and starts rearranging her bowls.
“Of course,” I groan, gesturing at the bowls. I swear she only does it because she knows I like them a certain way.
“Duh,” she says, and we both laugh.
“Fine, let’s get to baking,” I tell her. “First you’ll—”
Kaitlynn puts a finger up, a spoon in her other hand.
“Tsk, tsk,” she utters. “I know what I’m doing.”
I shrug doubtfully as she picks up the jar of peanut butter and dunks the spoon inside. It comes out with a huge gooey dollop. She looks at me with the happiest grin and licks the spoon clean.
“That’s how you start.” She nods affirmatively.
“Chef’s privilege.” I shake my head, but I’m smiling anyway. “Just do your thing and try not to burn my house down. And clean that spoon before you start.”
* * *
“You realize this movie is ten years older than we are, right?” Kaitlynn slouches on the sofa next to me.
“And?” I shrug. Sure, it’s not new, but it’s aged like a fine wine. At least that’s what I hear Mom say.
Why else would the opening credits be playing on my television right now? Maybe most of my generation hasn’t seen it, but it’s one of Mom’s favorites, so we used to watch it together. It’s also one of the things that sparked my interest in witchcraft. It wasn’t the main thing, I think that was my civics project freshman year. It sort of soured my take on religion and put me on the path to spirituality and witchcraft.
“It’s old!” Kaitlynn complains. She’d never been fond of it, but I still make her watch it when I get the chance. “Likesoooold.”
