Page 9 of Everything She Does Is Magic

The wall behind the register is covered in dozens of ceramics we’ve painted over the years. There is a collection of fairies my mom’s been adding to since she was a teen. There are plates my dad has done with different landscapes, because he’s really good at painting trees and he never misses an opportunity to show it off. There are seasonal pieces from my grandmother that we put out every Halloween—ceramic pumpkins, ghosts, and cats that are older than I am. All of it is better than the break time craft I did in thirty minutes during last spring’s Paintapalooza.

“I made that,” I tell her.

“I figured,” she says, in such a casual but knowing way that my mind continues racing, undoing ten months of English silence and French conjugations, searching for gaps when we’ve somehow communicated without words. More than once tonight she’s mentioned things about me that I’d never have expected her to notice.

Taking in the wall of ceramics, I try to look past all the obviously better creations and find my gnome worth noting. I painted little hearts on his stocking cap. Did his sweater in a checkered pattern. He’s very sweet, but he’s nothing special. How could she possibly know he was mine?

There’s not a lot I understand about this moment, but there’s one thing I know for sure—Anya Doyle did not come here to learn the French homework. She didn’t come here to take my art class either. But shedoesprovide the perfect distraction from what my parents have done.

“We have a late arrival,” I tell my parents. “My friend from school, Anya.”

“Friend?”Grace makes no effort to hide her skepticism.

“Yeah, you know Anya,” I say, giving Grace a littlejust go with itglare.

Grace plays along to the extent she can, which is to say the right things with the look of a startled deer watching headlights inch closer, incapable of moving out of the line of fire. “Hey, girl! Glad to have you.”

“Hi,” Anya says back flatly.

It’s not supposed to be funny, but it makes me laugh all the same. She’s just so herself, even when it makes other people uncomfortable. I can’t help but find it endearing.

“We don’t allow late arrivals,” my dad reminds me, once again using the same smile he tried to have me paint onto my own face earlier.

I place Anya in front of a blank canvas at the end of the middle row of painters. “Surely we can make an exception for the newest member of Fableview’s Fall Planning Committee. She came here tonight to tell me she wanted to join.”

My parents swap their skepticism for open enthusiasm.

“How fantastic!” Mom says. “We can always use extra helping hands around town! Welcome, Anya!”

“I’ll explain in a bit,” I whisper into Anya’s ear. This close to her, I smell herbs I associate with Witches of Fableview, the metaphysical shop the Blake family owns down the street. I don’t know the herbs’ names, but they are scents that make me think of magic. If it were real, it would smell like this—an earthy, consuming potion of petals and oils.

Returning to my canvas, I slide back into the role of Darcy the art teacher, no comment made about my parents’ earlier announcement. There’s nothing more to say on the matter. At least, not now. I can’t involve the tourists in my personal drama. Not during peak season.

Anya catches up fast, painting her background and speckling it with stars. When we move on to adding in the trees, she watches me with unwavering focus. It’s…intense to be the subject of her attention. She doesn’t make any faces to urge me forward. No friendly smiles when I attempt my little jokes. No thoughtful nods of appreciation when I demonstrate how to stipple the brush for greenery.

My toes grip my shoes, fighting to keep blood from rushing to my cheeks. This is just how she is. Even when Madame Poncik pairs us up to conjugate verbs together, she is like this. It’s not personal.

By the time we’re adding the actual witch to the painting, I’ve almost adjusted to the way it feels to have her watch me. I like the challenge of it, the way it makes me consider my every movement in a way I normally wouldn’t.

Grace has grabbed my arm no less than four times—a reminder that we will be having aconversationabout this as soon as we’re done with our shift. At present, all is calm.

Until Anya raises her hand.

“What about the dog?” she asks.

The painters crane their necks, peering at her in the back. I think of the time Madame Poncik forced her to stand up and readLe Petit Princeout loud. Her shoulders had rounded forward as her eyes burned holes into the pages, yet she’d read with flawless accented French, not only technically correct but filled with emotion too.

She does not like this kind of attention. Yet she’s offered herself up.

For me.

“The basset hound,” she adds, like maybe I haven’t understood her. “I just, I notice that you’re dressed exactly like the witch in the painting.” Everyone has stilled their paintbrushes. Even the tourists seem to sense how rare this moment is. “So are we going to add the dog that looks like her?” She points to Grace, who does a bashfulwho me?bat of her hand, embracing the attention.

“That’s not part of the paint—” my mom starts.

“We can,” I interrupt. If someone as normally reserved as Anya Doyle can take a leap of faith, I can take one right back. “Grace, will you grab the basset hound version from the back?”

Grace—torn between disobeying my parents and getting to share the basset hound story she created—takes a step forward, then immediately steps back.