Page 10 of Everything She Does Is Magic

“Never mind,” I say. My mom exhales an audible sigh of relief. “I’ll get it.” I head for our supply closet, and my mom and dad follow, the three of us closing ourselves inside without more than a foot to spare.

“You can’t teach that,” my mom whispers, putting her hand in front of the rack of witch paintings, blocking me from reaching for it.

“The artists have already put in a background and scenery,” my dad adds, like that’s the real reason.

“Anya asked for it,” I say.

“She seems lovely, but we’re not bringing out a brand-new painting for someone who couldn’t even get the start time right.”

“Please,” I beg.

“No,” Dad says firmly.

For some reason, tears threaten to surface. It’s not about this painting, I know. But also, it kind of is. They’re making such a big deal about this very small thing when surely it’s a bigger deal to tell me that I’m going to run this whole art shopnext year. If they can’t handle this change to the painting, they’ll never accept the news that I want to go to college out of state.

It bothers me that they’ve never once asked me if I want something different. They just assume I’ll stay here after high school, because it’s what they did when they were my age, and they expect me to be their spitting image in every way.

The shop has always been called Pam’s Paints. My grandma named it for my mom when she opened it, thrusting this legacy upon my mom as a baby. Grandma and Grandpa used up almost all the money they had to make this dream of having an art shop happen. They had to move into the condo above this building because it was all they could afford at the time, and it made it easy to spend every waking minute here, thinking up ways to keep not just the shop but our entire town afloat. They’re the ones who started the Fableview Fall Planning Committee.Within a few years, they’d turned our once floundering town into a genuine Halloween empire.

My dad grew up here too, taking art classes from my grandma and, eventually, from my mom. That’s how they fell in love. Right here in this shop.

Neither of them knows a world outside of Fableview—outside of Pam’s Paints, even. And they don’t want to. Which is why they can’t imagine one for me either.

I am their precious baby girl. Their greatest hope. The child they waited so long to have, and the only person they’ll ever trust with our family’s work.

This is who I was born to be.

“Okay,” I say to them, forcing myself to smile.

They give me a joint hug. “We love you,” they say in unison.

“I know,” I tell them. “I love you too.”

I return to my spot in front of the painters. With my biggest, brightest smile, I apologize for the misunderstanding about the dog, and I continue teaching the class as planned.

Eventually, my parents retreat upstairs.

When we finish the painting, I hope Anya will just leave. Everything I said to her outside seems mortifying now. Why did I ramble about not wanting to own the art shop next year?

Shedoesn’tleave. In fact, she waits out every single enthusiastic tourist, even the ones who stick around to take pictures with me beside their paintings. She stays in her seat, staring at her completed canvas until it’s only me, her, and Grace left in the shop.

Grace is, of course, allergic to normalizing this. With every paintbrush she rinses off, she makes a show of smacking it as loud as she can against the edge of the sink. If we were in a restaurant,Grace would be turning over every chair around Anya to make a point. She’d be mopping the floor and asking Anya to pick up her feet so she could get under them.

“Is everything okay?” I finally ask Anya, unable to withstand another moment of this silent showdown.

Her natural expression is already downturned, but she’s frowning even harder than usual, her face a perfect portrait of disappointment. How could she possibly care enough to think I’ve let her down by not painting the basset hound?

And why doIcare?

“The planning committee,” she says.

Embarrassment steals all my cool. I projected an entire tortured inner monologue onto her reason for hanging around when really she’s just waiting for me to explain myself.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. Heat burns my face. “My parents hate late arrivals, but they love getting new committee members. It was the only way they’d let you join the class.”

“I see.” She stands up, her posture so rigid, she could balance a stack of books on her head.

“But if you want to join, we’d really appreciate it,” I add before she can flee. “We have weekly meetings at city hall. The next one is tomorrow after school. There’s no pressure to come. But it’s at five, if you can make it.”