Page 57 of Everything She Does Is Magic

“Sorry,” Grace says, holding the snake. “That’s not for this.”

Hidden in the shadows behind the tent, we change our clothes, pulling the scratchy polyester dresses over our heads.

“I’ve never seen you in yellow before,” Grace says.

“Memorize it,” I tell her. “Because it will never happen again.”

Grace smears fake blood onto my face. I drag bloody handprints across her dress.

We practice our plan as best we can. It’s very hard with the limited space we have, not to mention the lack of an audience. The only way to really know if we will be successful is to try it when it counts.

We’ve memorized the haunted house’s layout, and we make our way to the side with the skeleton bedroom. There’s a tear at the bottom of the tent, not unlike several others I’ve noticed on our walk-throughs.

Closing my eyes, putting my hand on the small tear, I let every stress and worry of the past month bear down on me. Instead of mending together, the tough, sturdy fabric of the tentbegins ripping apart, a jagged opening stretching upward until it’s tall enough for us to pass through.

Grace pats me on the back. “That wascool.”

Even though it’s a silly gesture, it does make me feel a little proud of myself. There is something freeing about exploring this other side of my magic. None of my lessons have ever focused on breaking things instead of fixing them.

Inside the tent, we set up as fast as possible, then crouch in the corner of the bedroom.

“Are you ready?” I whisper to Grace, hearing the soft rumbles of laughter and screams from a group in the distance.

“I’m nervous,” she says back. It’s the first sign of weakness she’s shown since we started this, and even in the low light of this tent’s fake bedroom, I can spot an unfamiliar worry in hereyes.

A plan is different when it’s in the talking stage. Everything seems exciting. Daring. Now the reality is here, and what we’re attempting is bold. Dramatic. And risky.

The incoming group is only a room away, letting out fake high-pitched shrieks for the clown dummy, then laughing at each other. They sound like high school students, and it spikes my adrenaline to an all-time high. Our first audience will be a group of teenage boys.

The bedroom door creaks open, and Grace doesn’t move into position. We can’tbothbe nervous. We can’t both second-guess ourselves.

“C’mon,” I whisper. “Let’s show the world your dark, gothic soul.”

It’s quick, but it’s enough. Grace goes to her designated spot.

Our skeleton friend does his part first, sitting up in bed, prompting another round of fake screams from the boys.

Grace seizes my wrist. She yells, in something sort of like a British accent but notquite, “No, please, no!” while thrashing on the ground.

I assume my position, looming behind her. I have the vines in my hand, and I bring them over her head until they land in front of her neck. We’ve got the flashlights positioned on us to make sure everything is bright enough to see. The blue gels make it look appropriately moody.

I pretend to choke Grace with the vines. We’re dressed kind of old-timey, like we’re from the 1800s, but if a teen soap opera with a limited budget and no fear of historical inaccuracy dressed us. It might matter to someone, but if Grace has taught me anything, it’s that commitment is all that’s required to pull off a unique ensemble.

“Lady Marbles,” Grace cries, still using her quasi-British accent. “Release me at once.”

“Never!” I pull the vines tighter, knowing Grace’s hands on them are preventing me from doing any actual harm. The boys are watching us silently, not yet sure what to make of this spectacle. The pressure of their judgment heightens my nerves. That would be a bad thing under any other circumstance. Right now, for what I need to do next, it’s exactly right.

Grace is faced out toward them, her back pressed into mine, the vines against her throat as she makes coughing, choking sounds. “Please,” she begs, her voice hoarse.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I picture the hot breath of the worst summer day, a sticky July afternoon that would smother out any plant unlucky enough to be in direct sunlight. I picture everyunkind thought these boys are probably having about how silly and immature this whole thing is.

Magic pulses through me—that wiry, jagged feeling I get when I have too much of it, pooling in my hands like how sweat builds when I’m nervous.

The vines begin tocrackle. Spark.

For a moment, they’re actually on fire.

When Grace startles, it severs my connection to my magic, and the fire snuffs out immediately. The vines turn to dust, as we initially planned, crumbling into nothing.