A Lion in a Flower Field

The main lobby was too small a space for so many kids. Mira squeezed past her classmates and burst through the main entrance of the school. Crisp air punched her in the jaw; maybe she should’ve taken Magic’s advice in the morning and brought a scarf with her. It would’ve surely been a nice barrier against the cold.

Skittering down the marble steps and pushing her way past kids and parents, she muttered barely audible apologies as she made her way down. Excitement filled stories filled Mira’s ears as she passed.

“We got to see the other rooms today!” squealed a young girl, jumping up and down. Her red hair, pleated into one long braid, swung around like a weighted club, nearly smacking Mira on the arm. “I sang really good, too!” The child didn’t seem to notice, nor did her parents, so Mira continued her way down the steps and rounded the corner into the alley.

Like he’d told her at lunch, Magic was waiting in the depths of the shadowy corridor. His hood was down now, sprinkles of sunlight catching the metallic blue of his headphones and she feared that she may have missed him in the dark if not for that.

Mira was hoping to see him with Mabel in his lap, expecting her arrival. She wasn’t sure if she was expecting him to be glad, or relieved, or annoyed by the school day when she got there, but when she finally got a good look at him, her stomach dropped.

Magic was huddled into himself, knees tucked to his chest. His arms, nestled in the space between his thighs and chest, were fidgeting with something out of her line of sight. Parts of his face were hidden by the black sheaf of his hair and Mabel, though Mira could hear her mewling, was nowhere to be found.

“Magic?” she called.

Nothing.

She put the microphone up against her lips, speaking directly into its cushion. “Magic?” she repeated.

Nothing.

Mira frowned. Perhaps he had his headphones turned off?

Testing the theory, she rattled a nearby trash bin and tossed it onto the floor; the vibration from the clattering objects jolted her brother into the present. His head jerked back, accompanied by a panicked cry.

“It’s me, Magic,” Mira said, sidestepping past old crates stained with animal waste. He couldn’t hear her, she knew this, but the habit remained. “It’s just me. It’s okay.” Finally, she squatted in front of him, taking up his field of vision. He stared at her, eyes wide like a frightened animal. Magic didn’t look hurt, but his eyes were vacant and far away.

Physically, he was present.

Mentally, Magic was elsewhere.

Mira placed a hand on his knee, the touch feather-light so as not to agitate his sensitivity. “It’s me.”

Magic said nothing. He did nothing. He didn’t nod, didn’t acknowledge her in any way. He just looked back down at his feet, hands mechanically moving up and down. A yowl rang along the walls of the alley and it was then that Mira realized, as she shifted her stance, that the tabby was pinned to Magic’s chest, locked in place by his arms and legs. The sheer pressure he was applying against Mabel’s body was causing her so much pain that she was writhing for freedom. In his dissociative haze, Magic simply didn’t notice.

The tabby reached her tiny paws out, a desperate plea for help. Mira gently took one of them, using her other hand to displace one of the drivers off his ears. He flinched.

“Mags,” she said gently, “you need to let go of Mabel. You’re holding her really tight.”

A harsh set of tremors overcame him, but yielded no verbal response.

“Magic,” she said again, now placing both her hands on his shoulders, hardening her tone, “you’re squishing Mabel. You need to let her go.”

The words processed late; Magic’s reaction was delayed and when it finally caught up with him, the realization of everything seemed to hit at once. In a fluid motion, he slid further into the depths of the alley and tossed Mabel away. Mira reached and caught the yowling tabby like an incoming football, pressing the animal against her chest and bracing the incoming fearful scratches to her face and hands as Magic curled himself back up. Once Mabel was sufficiently calmed from the ordeal, Mira placed the cat down and approached her brother, who was sobbing through his rigors.

“I didn’t mean to,” he cried. “Stars, I promise I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry, it wasn’t on purpose—”

“Woah, woah, woah, take a breather, Mags. I’m not angry at you and Mabel’s okay. She’s—”

“I didn’t mean to! I wanted to hold her; I needed to—”

Mira snagged his arms by the jacket sleeves, shaking him back and forth until he looked at her. He froze. “Mags, listen to me. Mabel is fine. Look at her. Really, properly look at her. She’s okay. She wasn't hurt, she was just really uncomfortable. You just have to be a little bit more careful next time, that’s all.”

Magic snagged the loose denim of his jeans. His eyes found Mabel who tilted her head, front paws neatly tucked beneath her. The tabby stretched forward and, with a gentle stride, nestled her way back into Magic’s lap. His hold was gentler this time, but still solid; he hugged Mabel as though she were the only stable entity in the alley and stroked through her fur with his nails, murmuring repetitive apologies against the back of the animal’s head.

Sitting and watching him come down from this was painful, a tiny needle poking holes into Mira’s chest. Aside from the soothing pets along Mabel’s back, Magic was eerily still. Something wasn’t sitting right about this flare-up, Mira thought. He seemed okay at lunch despite his snappy behavior at the end of it, but she didn’t think that alone would be enough to cause him this much anguish over the course of a day.

“Did your classes go okay?” she asked, settling on this.

Magic stonewalled her. His only focus was on the cat in his arms, as though Mira wasn’t sitting beside him, trying to help calm him down.

If only he would let her help, they could work together. Figure out a solution to work through it all. But that was always easier said than done when the person you were helping didn't like being helped.

Her attention went to Mabel, who purred loudly at the attention. Magic seemed fairly interested in the cat at the moment, so she kept the conversation there. “Does holding Mabel like that help calm you down?”

Magic shrugged.

Okay. Better than nothing. “You want to sit with Mabel for a few more minutes so you can get your thoughts together?”

He nodded.

She didn’t push the topic further. Mira sat beside him in silence, flipping through her books to give her brother the space he requested of her. It was hell to go through. Every inch of her wanted to solve the problem, wanted to nudge and prod and sift through questions to search for their answers, but she knew there was no point in pushing Magic that way when he was this upset.

So she occupied herself. She picked at her nails, scratched the parts of Mabel’s face she could reach without bumping into her brother, every now and again sneaking a glance at his face to see if he’d returned from whatever far gone state he was stuck in.

Each time she looked, there was no change. He didn’t move, didn’t shift his gaze to look at her, though they scanned the ground repeatedly from side to side. Even with Mabel’s comfort, it didn’t seem like it was enough to pull him back.

It wasn’t, that is, until the tabby squirmed and sat up on her hind legs to lick the base of Magic’s chin. He flinched with a gasp as though someone sprayed him with ice water, blinking rapidly as Mabel continued this, alternating between pawing at his jacket, licking his face and purring against his chest.

The tension in his posture faded and a smile twitched on Mira’s face. She had to give credit where it was due. Magic could deny it all he wanted, but Mabel excelled at being a support animal.

“There were lots of kids,” Magic finally replied, his voice a reluctant whisper.

Mira leaned forward. “Did they hurt you?” she asked, copying his tone.

“No.”

“Did they say anything to you?”

“No.”

“Did they do anything to you?”

“No.”

“I’m trying to understand, Mags,” she murmured. “What about the other kids is making you so upset?”

Magic pressed his lips together, taking a sharp breath through his nose. He motioned with his chin in the direction of the alley’s entrance. Every now and again, a child—one of the elementary kids—would run past it, followed by a laughing parent, a younger sibling latched at the leg.

Parents, she realized. Moms and dads picking their kids up from school. Lifting them onto their shoulders. Asking about their day.

Now she knew what had gotten Magic so upset. He was focused on the children walking hand-in-hand with their fathers.

Jealousy pricked at her in a way she didn’t expect. Mira was confident she’d gotten over that long ago, but maybe it wasn’t as far forgotten as she’d hoped. She empathized with that pain. It sucked; it was painful to know that her family dynamic was different from her friends from as early as age five or six. Janie was adopted by a couple who were still together and happy. Thalia’s parents, divorced they may be, were functional for her sake.

And where was Mira’s father?

Asleep on the couch beside a bottle of liquor.

The knowledge of her father’s illness shamed her to her core.

It was everything she wanted, to have a family like her friends. A mother. Maybe siblings. Anything to make her less different from her peers. But when her friends left school at a reasonable hour, Mira was left to sit on the school steps, picking at her nails, completing homework. Sometimes she napped with her teachers as makeshift pillows until Magic’s parents picked her up and walked her home.

The embarrassment and anger she felt at being tossed aside for a drink nurtured the budding fear in her heart that, one day, she’d be stranded there if her father died of his disease.

Amelia had explained it that way when she picked her up from school once. “He didn’t forget, Mirabel,” she’d said, brushing Mira’s hair out of her face. She’d been stranded at the school for three hours until the staff called Amelia to pick her up and sobbed in the woman’s arms when she’d arrived. “He’s ill.”

Ill. Unwell.

Addicted, Mira would later learn.

A word that would make all the difference when she got older.

As a child, she struggled to understand the concept. Mira vividly remembered rummaging through her father’s liquor cabinets on the night of her ninth birthday when he’d fallen asleep after drinking to figure out what was so special about it. What was so amazing about it that Benji would forget about her in favor of liquid the color of blood?

The daylane had burned on the way down. It made her head spin and her stomach hurt. It made her want to vomit. She gagged, spat it back into the bottle, a mixture of screams and sobs bubbling from her mouth. Mira had never touched it since and started hiding the key to the cabinet from that day on.

Without warning, the feeling returned, sickly sweet on her breath, dry and gag inducing on her stomach.

Harsh sniffling brought Mira back to her senses.

She turned to find Magic with his head against his knees, stifling what sounded like a pained moan of distress. Mabel’s head was tucked beneath his chin and in addition to her loud, motor-like purrs, came Magic’s coughs and whimpers.

He couldn’t bottle it anymore.

He reached his limit.

Mira sighed, closing her eyes briefly before tapping Magic on the shoulder. Now he snapped at attention, heterochromatic eyes bloodshot and glossy. Tears silently strolled down his face, staining his glasses; they made shiny track marks that ran over the faded freckles on his skin. His cheekbones and nose—which had started to run—were rosy, his long black hair falling from its bun to stick to his face.

She removed the headphones from his head completely, handling them as though they were glass. Magic didn’t say anything—not anything she could comprehend, anyway—but he tightened his hold on Mabel, who meowed a little in surprise.

His grip tensed as Mira reached to separate the tabby from him. “Stop,” he whimpered. “Stop—”

“Hand her over, Mags,” Mira whispered, wrenching the cat free. “It’s okay. Give Mabel to me.”

“Stop—”

“You’re okay.”

By the time Mabel was securely cradled in Mira’s arms, Magic’s tremors returned, this time with such intensity that even the fabrics of his jacket seemed to vibrate. She placed the cat on the floor, giving her a small pet on the head before, sitting back on her heels, she took Magic by the shoulders and dragged him into a hug.

He stiffened beneath her touch, shoulder blades drawn together, his elbow against her stomach rigid. The tension in his body was palpable and despite this, Magic didn’t pull away, didn’t yell or swat or slap at her. He just stayed there, frozen in her hold. As if he knew, in this moment, that he needed the support and would suffer through the panic when it arrived.

Mira sat with him silently, gathering her words as she brushed back loose strands of her brother’s hair like she used to do when they were smaller. Sometimes it helped to calm him down from these kinds of flare-ups. She wasn’t sure if it would be successful now, but it was worth a try. Mira hugged him a little tighter.

“You tell me when to step away,” she said, resting her temple atop his head, “but I want you to know that I’ve been here before, too. I get it. Being in school and making friends made me wish I had a mother like the rest of them. I still do. I always will. It’s just not the hand of cards I was dealt.

“Your cards are similar to mine. I know you miss him. I know it isn’t fair—trust me, Magic, I know. It never will be and you have every right to be upset. But he’d be so proud of you. More than you know. Let it out, Mags. You’re okay.”

A heavy, unsettling silence settled between them. Magic was so quiet that, for a minute, Mira thought maybe he’d passed out from the sensation of touch. But he was still tense as a wooden plank, which meant he was still awake and conscious.

Then came the hiccups and Magic broke down.

He snagged the sides of her jacket—she felt it tighten on her arms—and buried his face into her shoulder, sobbing against her. Mira adjusted herself so that she could wrap her arms around him more securely. Magic’s blubbering was near unintelligible but there was one phrase he repeated over and over again, a desperate plea, a mantra.

“I miss him,” he sobbed. “I miss him so much!”

“I know,” she murmured. “I know you do. And I’m sorry, Mags, truly.”

Words tumbled out of his mouth like a breaking dam as Magic removed his hands from her jacket and jammed them between his face and glasses. “It would’ve made him so unhappy to know,” he went on, his breathing hitching. “Everything was so wrong! It was wrong!”

“What are you being so hard on yourself for? It’s the first day, Magic. The first day doesn’t go right for everyone all the time—”

“Everything was wrong! Class was wrong, school was wrong—even the stupid scarf is wrong; it’s not done yet and it’s so far behind. I couldn’t finish it in time and if I brought it like that—Stars, he’d be so disappointed and upset with it! I’m so stupid. It was a stupid idea and a waste of time!”

Mira shook her head. How could he say any of these things and truly believe the words coming out of his mouth? It baffled her. “That’s not true, Mags. You did good today, and the scarf isn’t a failure. It’s not a stupid idea and you’re by no means stupid for making it.”

Magic traded his repeated sobs for a strangled groan that gurgled behind his mouth, like he was desperately trying to contain his emotions, keep himself in check, a teapot with barely enough of a spout to let steam loose. No words were making it out of him anymore, that much Mira was certain. But as Magic’s fit continued, his muscles took on a new rigidity and tension as the noises morphed into something more frustrated: a cross between a pained moan and an irritated growl that gradually rose in pitch.

It wasn’t until he cried out and Mira smelled metal that she found the need to investigate.

She seized his hands immediately; her fingers clamped hard around Magic’s wrists despite his resistance, yanking his arms back and flailing them around. Mira wrestled with him until their fingers entwined and she pressed down on his palms which were hot already, slick with blood that was heavy in the air and softened the jagged calluses and raised welts that arced along the base of Magic’s palms.

These were not the gentle, focused hands of a tailor, smooth or soft.

No, these hands belonged to someone who lived his life at war with himself.

In the background, Mabel’s mewing grew louder, interrupted every now and again by a sharp hiss; Mira was almost positive it was because of Magic’s outburst that the stray was backing away, uncertain of what distance she wanted to keep.

And for good reason because restraining Magic’s hands made him restless. He bucked back and kicked out his feet, a furious bull shaking off its rider. Mira held his legs down with her knees and, when that wasn’t enough, she took his hands and bracketed his face with them, pushing against his skull. The combined touch of his hands and face, along with the restraint of his feet, would drive him into a panic, Mira realized, which was never a good thing.

But it would be easier for her to speak with him frozen than crying.

The strangled scream lodged in Magic’s throat returned, his fingers pawing uselessly at her knuckles, the compulsion to scratch, dig, tear, still hardwired into his limbs. He tossed his head back again and Mira held him steady, pushing against his temples with his palms.

“Stop,” she whispered as he attempted it a second time. Mabel meowed loudly as if she were offering a belated word of caution. “Stop—Magic, you’re flaring. Take a breath. A deep breath. Nod your head if you hear me and understand.”

Through tears and gasps, he did.

“Good. I’m going to give you a hug because I think you need one right now, but I also want you to mimic my breathing. I think it might help you. Got it?”

Magic nodded.

“When you think you’re okay, tell me and I’ll back off.”

He nodded again and Mira adjusted her hold on him, shifting to a more proper hug. The band of his headphones, situated around Magic’s neck, pushed painfully against her face, the feeling worse with each movement Magic made to compensate for his shuddered breathing.

To keep herself busy, Mira continued what she had been doing before his outburst; she brushed his hair back and weaved small braids as Magic copied her exaggerated breathing to regulate himself.

How long they’d been sitting there, huddled against the cold bricks of the alleyway with Mabel as their only company, Mira wasn’t sure. To be honest, she didn’t much care; if Magic needed her to, she would’ve stayed there all day.

The hair braiding stopped when a hitch in Magic’s breathing forced his lungs to panic. He was wheezing now, grinding his forehead against Mira’s collarbone—she tried not to buckle from the pain, but she didn’t have to worry about it long. Magic went from stiff to shaking, anxiety betraying his desperate need for comfort.

Eventually, Magic shook his head with a groan, just barely able to gasp out the word, “Fire.”

Mira released him and shuffled back to provide him space. Magic crawled away on his knees and forearms—the pain in his hands was probably setting in now that adrenaline had run its course. He went back to curling himself up, knees to his chest though he cradled his hands, keeping them close to his body.

The tabby began to meow excessively and Mira watched as the stray cut curious glances between her and her brother. Mabel approached and bumped her head against Magic’s leg, continuing to scream for attention. It took him a minute to process, but he slowly unraveled, crossed his legs like a pretzel, and carefully dragged the tabby into his lap.

Again, Mabel’s presence was a buffer, a blanket over the past and a segue into a hopefully less destructive conversation. Mira scratched the tabby’s face, opening her mouth to ask a question she was already pretty sure she’d had the answer to. “Is Bennett’s incomplete scarf stressing you out?”

Magic glanced at her, his hazel eye bloodshot, the skin around it swollen, before he turned back to the cat, cradling Mabel to bury his face in her pelt. “Kinda,” he whispered.

Finally, she thought. Progress. “What about it is stressing you out?”

“Materials.”

“Not the right ones?”

“Not enough.”

“We can borrow stuff from Miss Flannise—she told me today that you were a little in awe of how much sewing stuff she had lying around the classroom.”

“It’s not just the scarf, Mira.”

“Then tell me, Magic. I can’t do anything to help if you don’t.”

Magic took a deep breath, his hold on Mabel tightening a little. New tears rolled down his cheeks and rubbed at his eyes from beneath his frames. With an aggravated groan, he gripped his glasses by the bridge and threw them off his face. For a moment, Mira thought he was going to further the attack and couldn’t help the relief she felt when he just went back to crying, skin glowing from sweat, snot and tears in the dying sun.

“It’s everything,” he squeaked, ignoring Mabel’s obsessive licking of his face. “It’s everything. Mom used to ask me every year if I wanted to go to school. Dad, too. Every year I said no. Every year I stayed home. I didn’t notice until three years ago that Mom had stopped asking me that question. And every year in September she’d get that stupid, soft looking frown on her face and I knew that she was disappointed. They both were.

“It was such a simple request. All they wanted was for me to go to school so I could make friends. Because maybe, if I made friends, I could go outside and talk with people and be social and do things like not be so fucking terrified to open the door when someone knocked—”

“Magic,” Mira whispered, debating on whether to put a hand on his shoulder or give him another hug.

“They just wanted me to have a life outside of the house like everyone else. And I thought this year I could. I really did, Mira, I thought I’d have everything, so that I could, but … ”

“Mags—”

“Mira, I can’t do it!”

The words echoed off the alley walls, reverberating into the abyss. Mabel paused in her demands for affection and Mira scooted a little bit away, unnerved by the sheer force behind his scream. He was looking at her now—his green and hazel eyes a little off to the left of her as if searching for focus even though his glasses were on the ground nearby.

Magic went on with the force of an exploding bomb, red in the face, oblivious to the cat’s tentative nudges against his trembling arm and Mira had neither the heart nor the courage to interrupt or distract him.

“I can’t speak in any of my classes,” Magic shrieked. “The only thing I hear in the silence of my headphones is my own fucking heartbeat in my ears! Just thinking about talking to anyone puts knots in my stomach and I am surrounded by a shit ton of kids who can laugh with each other, make jokes, and answer simple questions—basic questions!” He turned his sobs back into his palms. Mabel yowled mournfully—Mira couldn’t tell if it was because the stray was sympathizing with Magic’s pain or because she was upset at the lack of pets she was receiving.

“Do you know?” her brother continued, his tone harsh, emphatic, and—worst of all—accusing. “Do you know that they skip my name for attendance because I can’t reply to it? That the teachers tried to make me answer questions all day and then stopped looking at me when they realized I couldn’t? That it felt like I wasn’t there at all?

“Do you know how much it hurts—no, don’t bother. Don’t answer that. You wouldn’t know. You don’t deal with this. Meanwhile, I can’t even make eye contact with a classmate or my teachers without my head pounding so hard it gives me a migraine. I can’t do this. I can’t do this, Mira.” The defeat in his voice as he placed his face back into his hands broke her heart. “I just want to be left alone. Some son I am. I can’t make good on any of my promises—Stars, it was the one thing my parents wanted from me—that Dad wanted from me and I can’t even fucking do that! It’s so stupid. I hate it, I—”

Mira couldn’t take it anymore.

She lunged forward and bracketed Magic’s face in her hands, roughly tearing it away from his palms to force eye contact. “Listen to me!” she hissed. Magic mewled and thrashed like a startled horse, desperate to flee. Mabel yowled and leapt away from the chaos. Mira pressed harder against his skull until he froze, staring at her with that frightened, deer-like expression on his face, pupils dilated, breathing ragged.

She hated torturing him like this, using his anxiety against him, but it was the only way she could get him to sit still. And she needed him to understand. “You’re here now, though, aren’t you? Answer me, Magic, I want to hear you speak.”

He swallowed hard, elbows tucked against his sides, fingers flexing and curling repeatedly. “Yes.”

“I suggested this to you but you chose to do this on your own, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You made it to the end of the school day, didn’t you?”

Magic cringed. Her question must have struck a nerve, because his eyes squeezed shut and he attempted to pull away, tossing his head from side to side. “Fire,” he rasped.

Don’t start, Mags. “Magic, listen to me—”

“Fire, Mira!”

“You made it through the school day, didn’t you?”

He scrambled, looking desperately for the cat that was no longer in his lap. In his distress, he kicked out a leg. “No,” he sputtered. “No. Not enough—Mira, fire!”

All she heard was denial. Mira pushed harder against his face again. Magic’s sporadic movement stopped in exchange for violent rigors; he was breathing so rapidly through his nose that he was starting to wheeze.

I’m sorry, she thought, watching his muscles tense. “Shortcomings and everything aside, did you walk into that building and come back out of it at the end of the day?”

A tremor passed through him. “Yes.”

“Then you’ve done enough; more than, I’d argue. Magic, you’re beating yourself up for something out of your control. Amelia is proud of you for doing this. So is my dad, so am I, and so is Bennett. You’ve done enough. Stop.” Mira let him go and Magic shuffled away, coughing and hacking. “The way you’re going on now isn’t fair to you or your achievements. You can’t fixate on bad shit like that because it ruins all the good. Understand?”

Magic was silent, clutching onto his denim jeans until his breathing evened. “Yeah. But I want—I want to make them both … happy.”

“I know. It’s written all over your face and that’s normal. I’d be more shocked if you didn’t. Honoring a promise to a family member like that is hard. And, if it’s any consolation to you, Bennett’s memory is honored. At the bakery.”

He perked up, eyes wavering back and forth to find hers. Clearly his lack of proper eyewear was messing with his vision if he could barely look at her straight. Mira approached, watching something flicker in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Sometimes Dad catches himself waiting for Bennett to swing by the bakery like he used to. Whenever that happens, he lights a candle in the window as his own way of remembering.”

Magic was silent for a long while, his irregular breathing the only noise in the alley. A tiny furrow formed between his brows and the whisper he let out sank her heart into her stomach. “Benji remembers my dad’s shift?”

Mira picked up the discarded glasses and handed them over. “Of course he does. They were best friends, Mags.” The question, though, implied something deeper. She felt her brows scrunch up a little. “Do…you not remember Bennett, Magic?”

He put his glasses back on slowly as though in remorse for throwing them away. His shoulders were round and his body got smaller, curling into himself once more. Mabel had been watching from a distance; sensing the shift in mood, she approached, tail swaying back and forth as she settled between the two of them, allowing space for double the attention.

“Not really,” Magic murmured, stroking the tabby’s face. “Every day I feel like I remember less and less. Mom sometimes says stuff about things they used to do. I just nod my head. I don’t want to upset her by looking confused. The small moments … they don’t exist for me. And I want to remember them—I do. That’s why I make the scarves … ”

Someone may as well have taken a hammer to her heart and shattered it.

For three years, Magic had been sewing together mementos to remember his father. Mira assumed it was just a matter of coping with his grief. She hadn’t thought to ask if there was more to it than that—partly out of fear of upsetting him. “Time passes, Mags. You can’t remember everything, that’s just not possible.”

“But—”

“Magic,” she growled, feeling guilty as his posture stiffened, “look at me and really listen. I know this isn’t easy for you. I told you as much before school started. But I will happily bear this burden with you—my father, too. You do not have to go through these emotions by yourself. Got it?”

He nodded.

“Now, for the scarf, we can ask Miss Flannise if we can take some of her extra fabrics so you have stuff to sew into your project. I’ll even sit with you at home while I do my homework. We could have Mabel come if Amelia isn’t against having a cat around.”

“Okay.”

“When do you want it finished?”

“I dunno. It was supposed to be finished for his birthday … Lousy job I did with that.”

“Don’t focus on the misstep, Mags, focus on the progress. Set a new date.”

Magic shook his head, humming to himself with one hand clutching his glasses. “I don’t know what day. School is gonna make it hard. At home it was easier. Besides, I don’t have other days in mind.”

Mira doubted that. Especially considering that there was one relevant day they could use. “What about the anniversary in December, Mags? Will you and Amelia see him then?”

She spotted a muscle twitch in his jaw as he flinched, head briefly jerking to one side. Magic was blinking so much that, for a minute, Mira was prepared to think the worst. But he flicked his hands out at the wrist and waved Mabel away, adjusting his headphones back over his ears with a deep breath. “Yeah. I—Mom and I will … We’ll both—we’ll be there. To see him. We can do that. For the—for that.”

Still not comfortable talking about it, but it’s progress. “Good.” Mira gave a final pat on the head to Mabel, who stood up and stretched, while she and Magic got their bearings together in the evening light. “It’ll be better suited for him in the cold, anyway. And maybe, when the Art Club starts, we can work on it there, too!”

Magic sighed, slipping his arms through the straps on his backpack. “Do you ever work in anything other than extremes?”

Mira scoffed. She spread her feet a little more than shoulder width apart and planted her fists against her hips in an exaggerated hero’s pose. She lifted her chin and snuck a peek at her brother who was laughing at the absurdity of her pose. Mira felt her face break out into a grin. She missed that sound, rare as it was. “Well,” she said with mock affront, “when it comes to producing the best work possible, I aim for excellence.”

09 - 15 - 0046

mom got me this notebook the other day. benji kept her on the phone. i think mira tattled on me because mom said that journals are a good way to store feelings. not that I know how to do that. but she bought it. so I can try.

i don’t really know why i have this. or what it'll do for me.

i don’t know where i’ll keep this, either. unless mister flicker guards it. he guards a lot of things. and if it wasn’t so babyish to bring him with me every day, i would. but the kids laugh at me enough as it is. i don’t want to give them another reason to.

m.c.

(are you supposed to sign everything you write?)