Everything She Does Is Magic

1

Darcy

“As the legend goes, on Halloween night, in the thick of the forest, where the trees make the shape of a Trinity knot and when the clock hovers between eleven and twelve, you can look up in the clearing and see a witch on her broomstick.”

The tourists watch me with intense interest, tracking my every flick and flourish.

“Only the luckiest among us are privileged with this view,” I continue, dropping my voice into the lowest part of my register. “The moon must be full, or the witch won’t be visible. Not to human eyes, at least. But she’s always there, every Hallows’ Eve, sprinkling another year of good fortune atop our little town of Fable­view.”

Scattered flecks of golden glitter shimmer out of my hands and into the air. I do a dramatic swoosh with my cape, throwing it over the blank art canvas beside me. When the cape settles again at my ankles, the canvas has been transformed. There is now a painting of a witch flying over the forest, sprinkling magic dust onto the trees, exactly as I described her. She looks like me—­long black cape covering her body, low-­heeled boots on her feet, and blond waves flowing out from beneath her pointy hat.

My audience applauds as I strum my fingers together in delight, pretending this transformation is the work of my magical powers, not a practical stunt my parents taught me when I started teaching some of the art classes here at Pam’s Paints.

The easel is spring-­loaded. When my cape covers it, I knock off the blank canvas and press a button to bring up the finished art piece. If anyone listens closely, they can hear the sproing of the completed painting’s appearance. It’s not fancy, and it’s not supposed to be. We rely on simple practical effects that can be executed multiple times a month.

Pam’s Paints sits smack-­dab in the middle of Fable­view Boulevard—­a cobblestoned road that’s used less for driving and more for outdoor festivals and parades. Tourists come here because they want to experience a piece of our town’s charm. Fable­view is known for our commitment to all things mystical, particularly witches. Saying “real witches” live here is a huge part of our town’s lore. That’s what draws tourists to us every October, and it’s why our local businesses commit to Halloween at the level we do.

And sure, my fellow residents love to tell tales of things that have happened here that might seem unexplainable, maybe even magical. I’ve been known to share a few of these stories myself when they help set the right mood for the tourists. I’ll talk about the summer afternoon a strange fog settled over the boulevard for almost an hour and then evaporated. Or the time a murder of crows gathered along the power line at exactly midnight and started to sing. Not caw but sing.

These stories make our town feel special. They make tourists want to visit again and again. But when it comes down to it, I know there’s a logical explanation behind these occurrences, even when I haven’t yet figured out what it is. Just like with me and this painting—­there’s always a catch.

Not everyone in Fable­view is a skeptic. Some residents really believe our town has witches. Probably because it’s what they’ve grown up hearing, and every corner of Fable­view looks like a place a “real witch” might want to live.

The truth is, that witchy, whimsical feeling is because of my parents and me. We’re in charge of decorating the town square every fall. We host the Halloween paint nights and themed events throughout October. We encourage everyone to wear costumes all month long. We make the real magic around here.

“Tonight we pay honor to this witch of good fortune, known to us as Darcy,” I say to my painters, winking.

Darcy is my name. It’s always more fun to make them think that I’m the witch I speak of, even though it doesn’t make any sense. Sense is the enemy of wonder, as my dad is so fond of reminding me. My grandma created the original version of this painting over forty-­five years ago. At the time, the witch in the painting was named and modeled after her. Then it was modeled after my mom. It still is anytime she teaches this particular class. Some tourists go their whole lives believing a witch named Pam blesses our town each Hallows’ Eve.

Pam.

Just as the classic legends foretold.

“With every stroke of our brushes, we paint her as she wants to be remembered—­as a beacon of hope and a protector of Fable­view,” I finish.

For as ridiculous as these tall tales are, the magic is in the making. It doesn’t matter if what I say isn’t true. My enjoyment is real. And so is our commitment to making the entire month of October an unforgettable spectacle for everyone who comes through our town.

My best friend, Grace, heads my way, sticking out her elbow to knock over a can full of paintbrushes. “Anya Doyle just walked by again,” she hisses through her teeth, gesturing for me to bend down and clean up the mess with her. “That’s the fourth time in the last ten minutes.”

“Maybe she’s enjoying an evening stroll on the boulevard?” I say. “Lost in the beauty of the moment? I did put up new twinkle lights yesterday.”

“Does Anya Doyle seem like the type of girl who gets lost in the beauty of the moment?” Grace asks. The question isn’t for me. It’s a setup for her to answer, so I let the silence swell until she finishes her thought. “Of course not. She’s sinister. I think she’s a witch. With dark magic.”

“Please,” I say. “You think everyone might be a witch. You told me last month you thought I was a witch because I passed that pop quiz in math.”

“And I stand by that. Understanding math is magical. But this is different. Anya’s a real witch.”

“Okay, then why am I the one in the pointy hat and cloak?”

She rolls her eyes.

Grace Manalo is the most dramatic person I have ever known. That’s a high bar to clear in a town where every resident treats October like a monthlong costume contest complete with daily whimsical side quests. But Grace is a lot like her current makeup—­bold in a way that few other people would ever attempt, much less pull off. She is the living embodiment of lavender glitter eye shadow and iridescent lip gloss. She started working at Pam’s Paints with me last year. While she doesn’t have a natural knack for the artistic element of the job like I do, she’s very good at capturing the vibe. She even got herself a complementary costume for our witchy paint nights.

A person who knows her less might assume she’d want to also be a witch, but Grace fears us dressing alike the way other people fear snakes or the dark. Her individuality complex is so severe that most nights before school, she sends me a picture of her outfit for the following day. She wants to be sure we’re not wearing the same thing, as if I’ve ever once owned a pair of hand-­bleached oversized jeans and thought to pair them with a baby doll tee covered in pictures of lizards.

Tonight she is costumed as a basset hound, and she’s created an entire backstory around it. Basset hounds have an incredible sense of smell, and in Grace’s head canon, the dog is the scout who guides the witch to the Trinity knot, capable of recognizing the correct location by the smell of the tree sap. A few weeks ago, Grace and I collaborated on a version of the witch painting that featured the dog. We wanted to teach it that way tonight, but my mom couldn’t bring herself to commit to the change.

“She lives with her aunt in that creepy purple Victorian house on Maple Lane,” Grace says. “You can’t tell me that’s not a witch’s house.”

“Everything here looks that way,” I say.

“Yeah, but her aunt stalks around town the same way Anya does.” Grace brushes her flopping dog ears out of her face with a heaving sigh, the fluffy fabric sticking to the gloss on her lips. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re the ones who used their magic to unleash the toads in the bookstore.”

“That was a prank, not an act of magic.” I stand up and return the brushes to the shelf. “We’ll start with painting our canvases a deep blue,” I announce to the class, showing them which acrylic to select, then squeezing it onto my palette. “Go ahead and grab the big brush that’s sitting next to your canvas. We’re going to make long, broad strokes. Just like this.”

A lot of our customers are adults. In every other area of my life, they are supposed to be the ones teaching me. But here I get to lead. They don’t know I’m seventeen, or if they do, no one makes a fuss about it. Not when they get to leave with their own Fable­view painting that may or may not be of me, the supposed witch of good fortune, keeping our town prosperous and safe all year long.

This is what I will miss the most if I ever get the chance to actually leave Fable­view—­the permission to be powerful without any other box needing to be checked.

“Anya’s looking in the window right now,” Grace tells me as she grins at our audience with an expression that’s giving this building is on fire more than so excited to help you make your one-­of-­a-­kind Fable­view souvenir.

My eyes stay on my canvas as I drag my paintbrush back and forth. “What’s she doing?”

“She’s looking at you,” Grace tells me.

“No she’s not. Or maybe she’s familiar with the long-­forgotten witch and basset hound legend, and she can’t believe we’re finally bringing it the representation it deserves.”

“Do something specific,” Grace commands.

“No.”

Grace taps my painting hand. “I need to track her eye movements.”

Despite my best interests, there has always been something about Grace that pushes me to be bolder. If she can move through the world as a glitter-­encrusted basset hound who is known for being obsessed with reptiles, I can dance like no one’s watching or whatever.

“Yahtzee!” I shout, tossing my hands up into triumphant fists as I take a large, lunging step to the right.

Our painters give a collective gasp of surprise. Grace startles like I’ve thrown something. Refusing to explain myself, I continue to paint the blue background until Grace tells me if the plan worked. This is not my burden to bear.

“Okay, she’s definitely watching you,” Grace confirms. A hot lash of adrenaline singes my core. “What if she’s, like, obsessed with you?”

“Anya Doyle is not obsessed with me,” I challenge as another lash, faster than the last one, almost knocks me over with its intensity.

“Yeah,” Grace says. “You’re right.”

It doesn’t bother me that Grace agrees, despite having pitched the idea exactly two seconds ago. Whatever makes the hairs prick up on the back of my neck must be an unrelated phenomenon.

“It’s probably nice to have no one in this town really know you. I’d be a brooding mystery too if anyone who lives here would let me,” I say.

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Okay, no, I have no idea how to brood, and I’d probably be very bad at it, but it would be cool to make a single decision about my life that didn’t have to get run by the Fable­view Fall Planning Committee.” Redirecting my attention to my painters, I raise my voice to the clear, confident tone I’ve grown accustomed to using in this setting. “We’re not chasing perfection here. A good painting is about feeling. Give the blue whatever emotion you want it to possess. After all, art is its own form of magic. No matter how closely you follow our design, this painting will still be your own original creation.”