Page 54 of Everything She Does Is Magic

“Darcy’s grounded,” she says.

Grace continues walking, and I have no choice but to follow. “Why are we in the middle of a cornfield on our way to the secret back entrance of this carnival if she’s not going to see what we do?”

“Patience, Doyle. Please.”

The cornstalks finally flatten out, and we come up against a fence. Beyond it are huge overhead lights, like the kind they use at football games, illuminating the clearing. We can’t see much from where we are, facing the back of what looks to be a fun-house maze, but we can hear the faint hum of waltzing carnival music. Grace continues leading me around the fence, weaving us in and out of the corn like we’re dodging invisible lasers.

“Why do you know how to do this?” I ask her. When she doesn’t answer, I take out the walkie and try again. “Manalo, this is Doyle. Paging you for an explanation.”

“Parker showed me last year,” she walkies back. “They didn’t want to pay the entrance fee.”

“The famed Parker Holt. A rebel. Will I ever meet them?”

“Maybe,” Grace says, but not into the walkie. She looks back to tell me, and it’s small but somehow significant.

We reach a corner of the fence with a gap wide enough to walk through it sideways. Grace gives me another look, making sure I’m appreciating how well she’s navigated us to this point. She tosses her backpack in first, then we step through, weaving in and out of the crowd until we reach a large tent with a ramshackle wooden sign at the opening—the wordsHaunted Housesprayed atop it in ominous red paint. There are red handprints smeared across the tent, and a special effect smoke puffing around the entrance.

“It already looks pretty cool,” I admit. From the way Graceand Darcy spoke about this, I expected to find something cutesier. But this is sufficiently creepy, if not particularly detailed. It’s visibly a tent, not a house, for one. But all in all, it’s still effective, especially set against the cornstalks.

“Yeah, and then you get inside, and the Kellers are covered in bedsheets pretending to be a married ghost couple, and they follow you around for a few rooms saying ‘Boo,’ and it gets a little less appealing,” Grace says. “Though they’ve decided to ground themselves with Darcy. So Mr.and Mrs.Holtzenberg are fillingin.”

“Kyle’s parents are running this?” I’ve learned enough Fableview town history to process how significant this is. Monumental, really.

Grace smiles. “See? Youdounderstand why we couldn’t cancel.”

“Our mission isn’t to make this better anymore, is it?” I ask. “We’ll be making it worse?”

“Doyle, youarea little sinister, after all,” she says with a grin. “No, we’re still going to make it better. But if the town doesn’t like it, they’ll think it’s the Holtzenbergs’ fault, and we’ll keep our identities disguised. If they do like it, we can come forward as the creators. Or we can just bask in the private glory of knowing we’ve made a sufficiently scary upgrade to the haunted house. Either way, we’re safe to really go for it.”

All this way and we haven’t discussed the plan. When Grace doesn’t move, I suspect she doesn’t actually have one. She’s figured me, plus magic, plus this tent would somehow alchemize into a functioning setup.

There are about a dozen things I could tell her that would let her down in this moment. I could use my magic to patch up thehole at the edge of the tent, tattered from years of wear. That’s not the kind of power that’s going to shake up this town. But Grace has gone through all this trouble to help me without anything for her to gain from it. She has no motive outside of wanting Darcy to be happy. And, I guess, wanting me to be happy. So I don’t tell her all the things I can’t do.

Instead I look at her with a smile and say into my walkie, “Manalo, it’s time to begin our first run-through of the haunted house. Copy that?”

“Copy that,” she says.

We walk into the tent.

27

Darcy

If my parents didn’t want me to sneak out every once in a while, they wouldn’t have given me the bedroom with the balcony. This used to be my mom’s room when she lived here with my grandparents, and I know for certain she did her fair share of dashing off into the night, because the first time I ever tried it myself, there were obvious spaces for my hands and feet to go, ledges and jutting rocks placed in the exact spots you’d need when making your way to the ground. Which is why, even after our sentimental evening of bonding, I don’t feel bad about doing this. If anything, it’s another proud tradition I’m carrying on—a continuation of my mother’s legacy.

And frankly, I’m not missing my last Friday at the haunted carnival.

I have no transportation other than my old bike, chained up to a rack at the end of our alley. It’s been so long since I’ve ridden it that it no longer stands on its own. It’s dusty and dirt-coveredfrom spending countless undignified months on its side. The tires are so low on air that they’re squishy to the touch.

“Please,” I say, like the bike is sentient. In this town, maybe it is. “Just one ride. That’s all I need.”

I’m not even off the cobblestones of Fableview Boulevard when the back tire blows out. It’s as loud as a firework and just as shocking. I panic, worried one of my neighbors is going to come out and see me, and my gentle grounding will become something much more intense.

A car drives down the boulevard, and it’s all I can do to stay looking forward as I wheel my bike beside me, hoping it’s not someone I know. Perhaps a tourist has come through to enjoy the twinkle lights.

“Darce?” Of course it’s not a tourist—it’s Kyle Holtzenberg, who is developing a supernatural talent for always being everywhere I don’t want him to be.

“Hey, Kyle,” I say, not making eye contact, wheeling my bike forward.