Page 23 of Everything She Does Is Magic

“This morning,” Piper tells her. “We havea lotto catch up on.” She gives a meaningful look at Anya, who diverts her gaze by arranging my face painting supplies.

She’s started putting the brushes in order from thinnest to thickest. It’s a really sweet gesture. Something I’d planned to do myself but hadn’t gotten around to yet. It’s very cute.

She’svery cute.

My internal panic button goes off, repeatingOh my godwith increased urgency. Anya does have a brooding mysteriousness.But there is also this thoughtfulness about her. The measured actions, like arranging my brushes the way I would. Her eyes have this half-open thing about them where she’s always looking a little skeptical or sleepy. And she’s got a downturned mouth. I used to think it was because she was always a little sad. But she’s not. She’s just selective with her trust. Her joy. When something rare infects her with it, it’s like watching the string lights turn on for the first night of October, sparkling and wonderful.

The rest of Grace’s family arrives. Maddie sees Anya and gives her a big squeeze. Anya is bewildered at first, unprepared for the affection.

But then it happens. The string light effect. She glows from top to bottom, hugging Maddie back.

“Are you getting your face painted?” Anya asks.

“I don’t think so,” Maddie says.

“Yes, she is,” Mrs.Manalo interjects. She looks to Maddie. “That’s why we came over here.”

“But I don’t want to anymore,” Maddie protests, tears already welling.

“We can do whatever you want,” I say, squatting down so I can get on Maddie’s level. My parents have always encouraged me to do this with young kids. So they see me as an equal. “But it’s also okay if you don’t want to.”

Maddie shifts from foot to foot.

“She told me this morning she wanted to be a butterfly,” Mrs.Manalo offers up. She has a bag slung over her shoulder and a tired look on her face. “I don’t know what changed.”

“No, I didn’t!” Maddie protests. The tears start spilling over. “I don’t like butterflies.”

“I told you, you don’t have to like only scary things,” Grace says. “You can like butterflies too. Like me. I love reptiles and glitter. It’s a family tradition at this point. And Darcy’sreallygood at painting. She can make you into whatever kind of butterfly you want.”

She’s as good at convincing Maddie to do things as she is at convincing me. It must be her perfect big-sister voice—confident but also gentle. You trust what she’s saying, which makes you want to trust yourself.

“Even a scary one,” I add, even though I’m not sure what that would look like.

“I don’t like butterflies!” Maddie insists. With this doubling down, her face has gone from red to purple. The tears turn into choking sobs as she repeats her insistence that she never, not once, mentioned wanting to be a butterfly.

Kyle flees the scene, mumbling something about needing a turkey leg. Piper slinks off too, as is her way, never really holding to one person or place for very long.

“She definitely did,” Claire says. She always finds a way to escalate the trouble. “It’s fine if you changed your mind, but you for sure said it.”

“We can paint you into anything you want, Maddie,” I remind her.

This situation has certainly taken the attention away from Anya and me, but I’m not sure that it’s any less stressful.

“Sometimes I get embarrassed when I’m the only one doing something,” Anya says. Her voice is so quiet that it takes a second for all of us to realize she’s talking to the group. “But I’d feel a lot better about getting my face painted if you did it too.”

Maddie looks up from the ground. Her eyes, wrung red and watery, widen.

“I was thinking about being a butterfly too,” Anya continues. “Do you think that’s a good idea? I’m not sure I can pull it off. I only wear black. I’m kind of scared other people will think I look really silly with a butterfly on my face. They probably think I should have spiders there. Maybe we could be butterflies together? That would really help me.”

Maddie doesn’t even hesitate when she says, “Okay.” Her tears stop completely, and she plops into the open chair, her tiny legs swinging as she waits for me to begin.

The rest of the Manalo family is stunned into silence.

“I’m great at butterflies,” I tell Maddie, dampening my pastel watercolors. “What color should we make yours?”

“Pink,” she says emphatically.

I turn to Anya and my breath hitches. Suddenly I can’t remember how to be calm around her. There’s this tingling, uncapturable feeling inside me. I’m a butterfly too.