differ, but he continued, “It’s also the only use of power that’s been officially designated neutral—neither natural nor unnatural.”
Officially? I wondered who decided that sort of thing, the “Ministry of Magic”? I felt far too silly to ask that, however. I looked around at the concrete. There wasn’t a tree in sight. A piece of litter, a torn plastic shopping bag, got caught in an updraft and spiraled lazily into the air.
“You see,” Devon said, his eyes following the bag’s strange, slow-motion dance. “The bag is plastic, the essence of something unnatural, fake. But it’s the wind that moves it, plays with it.”
The bag dropped suddenly to the ground when the breeze shifted. There was something eerie about it, that was certain. But was it magic? Jack had told me that I’d been seeing magic my whole life, but had been told not to talk about it. In effect, I’d been trained not to see, not to believe.
The bag skittered along the ground. Like some kind of strange, urban animal, it scooted behind the corner of the building, out of sight.
I decided there was definitely something creepy and weird about all this. I would keep an open mind.
The three of us had been hanging back, giving Jones and Nana room to talk. All at once, Jones turned in our direction and beckoned us closer. “Nana’s going to read the entrails.”
We gathered around the Dumpster expectantly. Nana cut a striking figure in her puffy down coat. Her skinny legs stuck out beneath the filthy gray ball like the stick on cotton candy. She wore clingy, black leggings that accented her knobby knees, and disappeared into mismatched boots: one cowboy-style, the other a fake fur–covered Ugg.
I held the lid of my latte close to my nose to ward off the rather ripe combination of the garbage and Nana. We stood in a loose circle, with the two uniformed cops on either side of the old woman.
Devon, who stood between Stone and me, shoved his hands in his pants pockets. It was the first time I noticed that he was the only one of us without a coat. He only had on his college sweatshirt. I shivered on his behalf and took a warming sip of my drink.
Nana seemed to have commandeered Jones’s peppermint mocha, as she was taking large gulps of it as she crouched over her army pack. She was digging through it, looking for something. All the while she was muttering to herself. I only caught the odd word: “maleficium,” “water lily,” and “highway patrol.”
Finally, she pulled out a single tennis shoe. After downing the last of the coffee, she handed the cup back to Jones. He looked at it for a second, as though disappointed to have sacrificed all of it, and then tossed it over his shoulder into the Dumpster.
Nana smoothed a matted lock away from her face and held the shoe out before us with great reverence. It was a large, white running shoe, looked like it might be a man’s by the size of it. It looked huge in her thin, bony fingers. It was a Nike; I recognized the black swoosh.
Nana’s body started to sway, though somehow she keptthe shoe held out in front of her, perfectly still. The movement was mesmerizing, and I found myself moving unconsciously to the same rhythm. She began to speak. Instead of a spooky, echoing voice, she croaked: “Okay, Great Powers, so where’d the guy go, huh?”
I, for one, was disappointed at the lack of rhyming.
She threw the shoe into the middle of our circle. It hit the asphalt with an unceremonious
thunk.
Everyone’s eyes were wide, even Devon’s, as we waited for something to happen.
The shoe lay there.
No one said anything for the longest time. The wind hissed around the edges of the building and through the empty parking lot. I started to wonder if I’d missed something. I glanced around the circle. Everyone waited.
Then, apparently responding to some silent cue, Nana shuffled over to look down at the shoe. She circled this way, then that. She bent closely and seemed to study the laces,
Officially? I wondered who decided that sort of thing, the “Ministry of Magic”? I felt far too silly to ask that, however. I looked around at the concrete. There wasn’t a tree in sight. A piece of litter, a torn plastic shopping bag, got caught in an updraft and spiraled lazily into the air.
“You see,” Devon said, his eyes following the bag’s strange, slow-motion dance. “The bag is plastic, the essence of something unnatural, fake. But it’s the wind that moves it, plays with it.”
The bag dropped suddenly to the ground when the breeze shifted. There was something eerie about it, that was certain. But was it magic? Jack had told me that I’d been seeing magic my whole life, but had been told not to talk about it. In effect, I’d been trained not to see, not to believe.
The bag skittered along the ground. Like some kind of strange, urban animal, it scooted behind the corner of the building, out of sight.
I decided there was definitely something creepy and weird about all this. I would keep an open mind.
The three of us had been hanging back, giving Jones and Nana room to talk. All at once, Jones turned in our direction and beckoned us closer. “Nana’s going to read the entrails.”
We gathered around the Dumpster expectantly. Nana cut a striking figure in her puffy down coat. Her skinny legs stuck out beneath the filthy gray ball like the stick on cotton candy. She wore clingy, black leggings that accented her knobby knees, and disappeared into mismatched boots: one cowboy-style, the other a fake fur–covered Ugg.
I held the lid of my latte close to my nose to ward off the rather ripe combination of the garbage and Nana. We stood in a loose circle, with the two uniformed cops on either side of the old woman.
Devon, who stood between Stone and me, shoved his hands in his pants pockets. It was the first time I noticed that he was the only one of us without a coat. He only had on his college sweatshirt. I shivered on his behalf and took a warming sip of my drink.
Nana seemed to have commandeered Jones’s peppermint mocha, as she was taking large gulps of it as she crouched over her army pack. She was digging through it, looking for something. All the while she was muttering to herself. I only caught the odd word: “maleficium,” “water lily,” and “highway patrol.”
Finally, she pulled out a single tennis shoe. After downing the last of the coffee, she handed the cup back to Jones. He looked at it for a second, as though disappointed to have sacrificed all of it, and then tossed it over his shoulder into the Dumpster.
Nana smoothed a matted lock away from her face and held the shoe out before us with great reverence. It was a large, white running shoe, looked like it might be a man’s by the size of it. It looked huge in her thin, bony fingers. It was a Nike; I recognized the black swoosh.
Nana’s body started to sway, though somehow she keptthe shoe held out in front of her, perfectly still. The movement was mesmerizing, and I found myself moving unconsciously to the same rhythm. She began to speak. Instead of a spooky, echoing voice, she croaked: “Okay, Great Powers, so where’d the guy go, huh?”
I, for one, was disappointed at the lack of rhyming.
She threw the shoe into the middle of our circle. It hit the asphalt with an unceremonious
thunk.
Everyone’s eyes were wide, even Devon’s, as we waited for something to happen.
The shoe lay there.
No one said anything for the longest time. The wind hissed around the edges of the building and through the empty parking lot. I started to wonder if I’d missed something. I glanced around the circle. Everyone waited.
Then, apparently responding to some silent cue, Nana shuffled over to look down at the shoe. She circled this way, then that. She bent closely and seemed to study the laces,
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