4
Before I can take one step toward the great destiny I burn to claim as mine—wham!—the door bangs open and a funnel cloud whirls out.
I duck behind Hi-Ho Silver and peer through the windows. What the hell?
The eerie, greenish cloud twirls across the roundabout, a miniature twister the size of a child blasting dust, gravel, and dry leaves from its meandering path. Leafy streamers of the willow oaks sweep back like green hair on a bevy of tree ladies.
The blast tips my Mustang onto two wheels, fore and aft, nearly overturning twenty-five hundred pounds of aerodynamic style on my head. I shove my shoulder against the driver’s side door and push with all the strength weightlifting has buffed me up with. As if that’ll do any good. I clutch the side-view mirror with my right hand, shield my eyes from flying debris with my left.
Now a dog–a barrel-chested, long-limbed, smooth-coated black beast the size of a Shetland pony–lopes out and leaps at the funnel cloud, barking, snarling, snapping tyrannosaurus fangs.
I recognize the breed: Great Dane. Don’t get me wrong, I love dogs. I just don’t trust a leaping, snarling dog the size of a Shetland pony. I consider climbing in my Mustang, then dismiss that idea. What if Hi-Ho Silver overturns with me trapped inside?
Now a scowling woman strides out after dog and storm. She wears black jeans like a second skin, an embroidered peasant blouse, and high heels of a red patent-leather so shiny the shoes sparkle. A mane of silver-streaked sable spills to her waist. She brandishes a mason jar and the screw-top lid.
I recognize the label at once: 365 Organic Pasta Sauce. My sauce of choice. A sauce I’ve driven ten miles from Buckeye Heights to Oakley Falls for because Buckeye Heights, to its shame, has no Whole Foods.
Well, all right! We’ve got something in common, this fierce lady and me, and I’ve learned a vitally important statistic about my new neighborhood. Somewhere–closer than ten miles, I’m hoping–a Whole Foods eagerly awaits my swipe of Aunt MasterCard.
“Senor, get down,” the woman commands, but the beast keeps leaping and snarling and snapping. She shouts, “SENOR, GET DOWN. SIT! OR NO PARTY FOR YOU TONIGHT.”
The Great Dane meekly drops on his haunches, doggy adoration for his mistress shining in his big, brown eyes. A tongue the size of a dish towel lolls between the fangs. Senor wears a red cotton paisley kerchief and the hefty silver chain-links of a serious choke collar. Which, I’m guessing, is de rigueur canine attire in Berkeley.
The woman shakes her finger at the funnel cloud and holds up the jar. “Get back in there, you little shit.”
The funnel cloud playfully circles the roundabout, stirring up another blast of dust, gravel, and dry leaves.
The woman chases after it, tapping the jar with her long, scarlet fingernail. Tap tap, tappety, tap tap tap. “Dorothy Gale, don’t make me tell you twice.”
It’s a spell, has to be, the tapping of her fingernail. I want to jump in the jar myself.
The funnel cloud whirls up to the mouth of the jar and shudders, whirls away and whirls back. Then dives in, tornadic apex first.
Talk about a tempest in a teapot. I mean, a pasta sauce jar.
The woman claps on the lid and screws it tight. She shakes her finger at the imprisoned funnel cloud, which spits angry little bolts of lightning. “Now you behave.”
My Mustang rights itself, landing on all four wheels with a resounding thump. As for me, I still crouch next to the driver’s side door, clutching the side-view mirror, peering through the windows.
She finally notices me. “Hello over there. Dorothy Gale has been so naughty today. You all right, miss?”
“Excellent, thanks.” I stand up and calm my pounding heart. What’s a little funnel cloud?
“Good, I’m glad.” Her dark, sardonic eyes appraise me, then turn to Hi-Ho Silver. She takes her time looking at the license plate which, in the way of my home state, is embossed with the name of the county where my mother registered the car: Buckeye Heights. “You’re a long way from home. Just visiting or looking to stay?”
“Oh, I’m staying. I’m starting a new life and I’m hoping to stay here.”
“I don’t know if any apartments are available. We tenants at the Garden of Abracadabra tend to stay a long time. A long, long time.”
“Actually, I’m looking for an apartment and the job.”
“Hah, the job.” Her sardonic eyes soften. “Poor old Stanley. Always so grumpy. Some people are just like that, I guess. He’s the one you want. You’ll find him in Number One. Senor and I live down the hall. Come on, I’ll show you the way.”
“Thanks, you’re very kind.”
“Don’t mention it. I am Esmeralda Tormenta.”
“I’m Abby Teller.”
Her eyes widen with alarm. Her olive complexion turns pale. She pulls a Cross on a silver chain out of the neckline of her blouse and eyes my license plate again.
Senor growls, spit dripping off his lip.
“Abby Teller of Buckeye Heights?”
She doesn’t need a crystal ball to scry that. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Next I suppose you’re going to tell me your father was Jorge Teller, your mother Alice Teller?”
“That’s right.” She’s spooking me. And annoying me. “How do you know my parents’ names?”
“Well! Abby Teller is famous. Everyone in the World of Magic has heard of Abby Teller.” She backs away, never taking her eyes off me. As if I’m dangerous.
Senor lifts his lip, baring his fangs.
I feel the same way about her and her dog. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. Abby Teller is dead.”
I laugh out loud. “What?”
“Abby Teller has been dead for years.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“I don’t think so. Abby Teller from Buckeye Heights died as a child of eight.”
“No, you really are mistaken. My father died when I was eight, not me.”
“Everyone knows Abby Teller died as a child by her father’s side.”
I’m not just spooked and annoyed, I’m getting angry. Confused and angry. Is she mocking me? But why? Every day since his death, I’ve missed the sunshine of Papa’s love. How dare she add insult to injury?
On her deathbed my mother told me secrets I’d never known my whole life. Family secrets. Terrible secrets. An awful thought strikes me now: did she tell me everything?
Why would this stranger fabricate such a strange story?
I take a deep breath. I need this job, need this apartment, need this paycheck. I need to start school, need to master my power. I need all these things tonight. Right now. Whatever it takes.
Okay, so smile.
“As you can see, I’m not dead.” When she brandishes her Cross, I add, “Or, uh, undead.” I press my left hand on my amulet. “I swear on the Eye of Horus, I am Abby Teller of Buckeye Heights and I am well and truly alive.”
Esmeralda peers at me. “You wear the Eye of Horus?”
The silver amulet smolders in the hollow of my throat. The arch of an eyebrow, the stylized eye, the curvilinear slashes, all set inside a silver triangle.
“My father left it to me years ago. And I further swear I’ve driven all the way from Buckeye Heights to study Real Magic at the Berkeley College of Magical Arts and Crafts.”
My mention of the college changes everything.
Esmeralda gasps. A little gasp, true, but an expression of awe and respect, just the same. “The people at the college, they know who you are?”
“I applied online, they accepted me the same day. Yes, they know who I am. I’m hoping to start my first class tomorrow afternoon, if I can scare up the tuition. Esmeralda, I’ve got to land that job. Will you still show me the way?”
********
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