Who Needs Magic? Read Online Free Page A

Sunglasses Man and I watch as Tink reads a text and then types a reply. She taps her foot as she types, her frosty toenail polish firing off little flecks of reflected sunlight. The sun glints off her headband. This girl really is too sparkly—I expect Sunglasses Man to come alive and push those designer shades all the way up to block the rays. Tink puts the phone away, takes the lime stick out of her mouth and taps it against her teeth, deep in sparkly thought.
    I should go up to her. Now is my chance. But what do I say? It’s not like “how to greet a fellow f.g.” is in the rule book anywhere. Partly because there
is
no rule book and partly because Dad told me there
aren’t
any f.g.s except him and me. Of course, he initially thought I wasn’t one either, and he was wrong about that too.
    Suddenly I feel nervous, but why? What am I afraid of?
Tinker Bell?
I force myself to walk up to her. She raises her head and shields her eyes with her hand as I approach. “Oh, hey,” she says. Her tone is one-quarter surprised, one-quarter curious and one-half wary. “Did you find an angel?”
    “No. Something else.”
    “Really?” She sits up straight, eyes wide,
all
curious now. I lower the zipper at the top of my boot and pull out the chopstick. “Why are you hiding it in there?” She lowers her voice. “Did you steal it? You didn’t have to do that. I can pay for it.”
    “It’s mine. This is where I carry it. I’m one too.”
    “One what?”
    “You know.” I wave the chopstick in the air and then point it at her. “You fixed my boot.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice has now gone as frosty as her nail polish.
    Striding up behind Tinker Bell, a woman with moussed hair and lots of chunky gold jewelry bats at a crease of dirt that zigzags above the knee of her bright white slacks. “Watch,” I tell Tink. The woman has stopped to retrieve a bleach pen from her power purse. While she’s involved in screwing off the top of the pen, I clamp down on the chopstick and focus—because unlike Tinker Bell, über-f.g.,
I
still have to concentrate. Now that she’s got the cap off, the lady leans down to attack the stain, pen poised—and frowns. The stain is gone. She glances at the other leg, as if the dirt might have migrated, but that leg is as blindingly bright as the first. The woman shrugs, laughs to herself, returns the pen to her bag and saunters off, problem solved.
    Or rather, wish granted. I blow on the end of the chopstick like I’m a sheriff in an old western movie and returnthe chopstick to its boot pocket. As I straighten up, I’m thrown off-balance by two arms grabbing me, squeezing me in a ribs-crunching bear hug. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. I can’t believe it! It’s true, isn’t it? It is! Oh my God!” I flex my arms and she finally lets go. “You have to tell me everything! Are you in disguise? I’ve never heard of a”—she lowers her voice to a whisper—“you know”—then back to regular volume—“who dressed like you.” She whirls the lime stick in a big oval loop to take in my black boots, black tights, black minidress and black neckband, stopping before she gets to my long black hair. “But then, the only other ones I know about are my mom and my grandma.” She claps her hands together and her eyes gleam. “I can’t wait to tell my mom I’ve met another one, and my age too! She’ll flip out.”
    “So will my dad.”
    “Your dad?”
    “It’s a long story.…”

    A little while later, Ariella Patterson, f.g., and I are sitting cross-legged on the grass at the far edge of the mini-lawn, away from the stage and the tiny toddling dancers, eating ice cream and talking about magic wands and fairy godmothers like we’re kindergartners during story time. But what we’re talking about isn’t made up. It’s real. And we’re living it. Ariella is the perfect name for her. Very Tinker Bell—like. Even sitting, she flutters