sure
how
I’ll prove it, since I still don’t know what I’m doing, but I know the power’s not latent or dormant or suppressed or oppressed. It’s
there
.
“I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to tell you.”
“I understand,” I tell him. “You want to be the only fairy godmother in the world. Well, too late. You’re not.” I pick up my half-finished stir-fry and walk out.
I carry my plate into the den and turn on the TV. The couch is too stiff to curl up on, though, and it’s obvious Hank never eats in here either, with the white carpet and crystal-clean glass coffee table. The stir-fry’s cold now and it’s lost its taste and there’s nothing on TV I want to watch.
I flick around for a bit and then settle on an old movie that takes place in some medieval forest, with knights riding into battle on armored horses. It’s all dingy greens and grays, made when they liked movies to look ugly because that was more “real.”
Near the end, there’s a big speech about fighting the odds and overcoming obstacles. It’s the usual trite Hollywood garbage about not giving up and believing in yourself, but because the actors have those smart-sounding British accents, it’s hard not to be inspired. It’s like the captain (or top knight or king or whoever it is) is talking to me—and it’s exactly the encouragement I need.
Hank’s another obstacle to overcome, that’s all. Like the handsome knights in their rebellion against their troll-faced enemies, I’m not giving up.
The next morning’s Saturday and Hank suggests breakfast out, trying to make up for shooting me down at dinner. I throw him off balance a little by agreeing right away. Copying the knights from the movie, I’ve decided ona sneak attack. I’ll pretend I’ve surrendered—and then hit him with all I’ve got.
We drive to a bakery/café, which, as I predict, is yet another “made in Santa’s workshop” place, with artfully arranged baskets of bread loaves behind the counter, so gorgeous they look like they belong in an art gallery. The display cases rise above my head, filled with shelves of glistening strawberry tarts, pinwheels of pistachio biscotti, gigantic muffins, tiny chocolate cream puffs and a dizzying multitude of cookies, croissants and scones, all shimmering in a glowing amber light, like the reflection of treasure-chest gold on a pirate’s face.
There’s a blackboard with all the breakfast items listed in pink and green and orange and yellow, with chalk illustrations up and down the sides. It’s a little too flowers-and-bunnies for me, but I admire the effort.
The place is crowded, even though it’s only nine in the morning, and while we wait in line to order, I scope the crowd for a possible wish. I’ve brought my charcoal pencil with me, since it brought me luck before. It probably looks a little weird to be holding a pencil in a café, but whatever.
I’ve already tried a couple of times. When we were parking, I noticed the lady behind us scrounging around in her purse for money for the meter. I willed her a quarter but it must not have worked, since she ended up asking Hank if he had change for a dollar. Then, as we were going in, a little girl at one of the outside tables was whining to her mother that she wanted sprinkles on her waffles. I wavedthe pencil at her plate, but no sprinkles appeared, not even tiny imploded ones.
Those were just warm-ups, though. I’m ready now. When I see one of the café workers behind the counter try to grab a poppy seed loaf that’s an inch out of reach, I casually raise the pencil and point it his way.
Nothing happens.
I’m not feeling it. Not like yesterday. I can’t even seem to remember what the feeling was. Somehow I knew exactly what to do—but now I don’t know anything. Maybe Hank’s right, and it was only a coincidence. Maybe one of Shaggy’s friends pelted him with a hot apple pie from a gourmet vending machine in the cafeteria. Maybe
how
I’ll prove it, since I still don’t know what I’m doing, but I know the power’s not latent or dormant or suppressed or oppressed. It’s
there
.
“I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to tell you.”
“I understand,” I tell him. “You want to be the only fairy godmother in the world. Well, too late. You’re not.” I pick up my half-finished stir-fry and walk out.
I carry my plate into the den and turn on the TV. The couch is too stiff to curl up on, though, and it’s obvious Hank never eats in here either, with the white carpet and crystal-clean glass coffee table. The stir-fry’s cold now and it’s lost its taste and there’s nothing on TV I want to watch.
I flick around for a bit and then settle on an old movie that takes place in some medieval forest, with knights riding into battle on armored horses. It’s all dingy greens and grays, made when they liked movies to look ugly because that was more “real.”
Near the end, there’s a big speech about fighting the odds and overcoming obstacles. It’s the usual trite Hollywood garbage about not giving up and believing in yourself, but because the actors have those smart-sounding British accents, it’s hard not to be inspired. It’s like the captain (or top knight or king or whoever it is) is talking to me—and it’s exactly the encouragement I need.
Hank’s another obstacle to overcome, that’s all. Like the handsome knights in their rebellion against their troll-faced enemies, I’m not giving up.
The next morning’s Saturday and Hank suggests breakfast out, trying to make up for shooting me down at dinner. I throw him off balance a little by agreeing right away. Copying the knights from the movie, I’ve decided ona sneak attack. I’ll pretend I’ve surrendered—and then hit him with all I’ve got.
We drive to a bakery/café, which, as I predict, is yet another “made in Santa’s workshop” place, with artfully arranged baskets of bread loaves behind the counter, so gorgeous they look like they belong in an art gallery. The display cases rise above my head, filled with shelves of glistening strawberry tarts, pinwheels of pistachio biscotti, gigantic muffins, tiny chocolate cream puffs and a dizzying multitude of cookies, croissants and scones, all shimmering in a glowing amber light, like the reflection of treasure-chest gold on a pirate’s face.
There’s a blackboard with all the breakfast items listed in pink and green and orange and yellow, with chalk illustrations up and down the sides. It’s a little too flowers-and-bunnies for me, but I admire the effort.
The place is crowded, even though it’s only nine in the morning, and while we wait in line to order, I scope the crowd for a possible wish. I’ve brought my charcoal pencil with me, since it brought me luck before. It probably looks a little weird to be holding a pencil in a café, but whatever.
I’ve already tried a couple of times. When we were parking, I noticed the lady behind us scrounging around in her purse for money for the meter. I willed her a quarter but it must not have worked, since she ended up asking Hank if he had change for a dollar. Then, as we were going in, a little girl at one of the outside tables was whining to her mother that she wanted sprinkles on her waffles. I wavedthe pencil at her plate, but no sprinkles appeared, not even tiny imploded ones.
Those were just warm-ups, though. I’m ready now. When I see one of the café workers behind the counter try to grab a poppy seed loaf that’s an inch out of reach, I casually raise the pencil and point it his way.
Nothing happens.
I’m not feeling it. Not like yesterday. I can’t even seem to remember what the feeling was. Somehow I knew exactly what to do—but now I don’t know anything. Maybe Hank’s right, and it was only a coincidence. Maybe one of Shaggy’s friends pelted him with a hot apple pie from a gourmet vending machine in the cafeteria. Maybe
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