by Em Harriett

Day has small magic.

He knows the second before the tea kettle whistles and reads at twice his grade level. Every summer, he maps the freckles that grace his cheeks with the accuracy of a navigator.

But magic is abnormal. Day’s parents snapped at him the day he mentioned it three years past and said it was something silly, something foolish, something no sensible child possessed or flaunted. Magic wasn’t real.

So Day hides his small magic in his palms, his pockets, and his backpack, never letting it slip—for eyes are ever-watching, even those he cannot see.

Sometimes the eyes are his teachers: Mr. Longo, Ms. Smith, and Mrs. Young, kind on the surface but worried under their breath.

Sometimes the eyes are his friends: Kenny, Abby, and Joshua, faces Day’s barely known, come with the territory of a new address.

Sometimes the eyes are the cameras: flip phones and Polaroids and shopping malls, watchers that could catch his magic if it slipped.

More often than not, the eyes are his parents.

Day hides his magic from them especially.

At school, he crafts a cloaking spell so no one looks at him too closely. Come spring, the ruse will need constant upkeep, but for now Day shields himself from awkward questions and glances he pretends he cannot see.

One morning, Mrs. Young sends Day to a new office.

He follows directions through the administrative wing and has to knock three times before his knuckles make a sound. The woman who answers ushers Day to a padded chair and says her name is Ms. Mitchell, that she’s a guidance counselor, that he isn’t in trouble and she only wants to talk.

Day is reticent that first meeting. He hides his magic, using it only to heighten his hearing and cling to Ms. Mitchell’s words. She asks to see him during sixth period for the rest of the week, just to chat.

Day does not know what to think. His magic is small magic, not big enough to detect lies or misplaced truths. He says he’ll mull it over, and Ms. Mitchell’s smile warms him like the sun.

Day takes a handful of candy on the way out and stashes the sealed packets in his locker.

***

He forgets to cast his silence spell when he comes home.

Ms. Mitchell’s name slips at dinner. Day’s mother looks at him with eyes that pin him to his chair. His father’s face turns to stone.

“You don’t need a guidance counselor,” Day’s mother says. “What are those teachers doing at your new school? They’re supposed to teach, not tell us how to raise our own kid.”

“Don’t speak to that woman again,” Day’s father orders. “You’re already on track to attend Clinton High and Sierra Nevada College. You don’t need her academic advice.”

“We know what’s best for you,” Day’s mother insists.

Day nods. He casts his silence spell and does not speak for the rest of the night. His small magic flutters in his chest, beating at the bars.

***

Day meets Ms. Mitchell the rest of the week. He speaks—slow at first, then faster and faster—and when he mentions his small magic Ms. Mitchell only asks to learn more.

So Day shows her. He casts memory charms and sight spells, able to draw an entire diagram from memory and read a poster’s fine print from across the room. He mentions his cloaking spell, but when Ms. Mitchell asks its function, Day tugs his sleeves over his wrists and shuts his mouth.

Two weeks later, Day lies awake at midnight.

An idea dawns in his mind. It would take time, preparation, and more than a handful of spells, but he is desperate for the chance.

He learns Ms. Mitchell’s proper name and checks the school’s staff page in the media center. He finds a mailing address and casts a memorization spell, reading the lines until they brand the back of his eyelids. He copies convoluted lines from MapQuest onto homework his parents forgot to confiscate.

The hardest part is the food.

For two more weeks, Day watches his parents’ patterns with spells that sharpen his eyes. He learns his father counts chocolate squares but not cereal bars, that his mother only opens the cookie sleeve partway. Day hides what he can risk in plastic baggies in the bushes. He memorizes the pattern of trimmed leaves until he knows he can find it in the dark.

When the night comes, Day bundles clothes into his backpack and leaves his Nokia phone in his pillowcase. He has no wallet, but his backpack’s inner pocket is padded with foraged coins muffled by socks.

The hallway is silent. Day counts his father’s snores and times his steps around the creakiest stairs. He navigates the dark kitchen with a recollection spell. He reaches for the back door’s latch—

Light floods down the stairs.

“Day?” his mother calls. “Is that you?”

Day’s heart panics. He ducks into a cabinet and folds his legs around a stand mixer, tugs the door shut, but a sliver of kitchen tile peers through a gap near his sneakers. Day cups his small magic around his mouth and stifles his breath.

The stairs creak. Slippers slap the kitchen tiles.

An ankle passes under the cabinet door.

Day’s heart stops, eyes pinned on his mother’s feet. He channels small magic through his veins, urging his mother to turn away, to summon a spell that makes him less than nothing in her eyes.

After too tense a silence, his mother mutters under her breath and recedes. Day only leaves the cabinet when he hears the upstairs floorboards moan.

On silent steps Day reaches the back door. He casts his silence spell upon his fingertips and flicks the lock.

“Day?” his mother shouts from upstairs.

Day is out the door and into the night before his mother can reach the stairs.

***

The city smells of salt and exhaust. Day runs until his throat burns and then checks his map under the orange glow of a streetlight.

He finds the house at the end of a cul-de-sac. It’s small, its door painted bright yellow, and lamplight lingers at a second-story window. The concrete porch is solid under Day’s feet.

He knocks.

His knuckles shake. He can barely make a sound, and so he breathes deep and tries again, working up courage as his bones brush the painted wood.

Light floods the foyer as footsteps approach the door. Ms. Mitchell appears in pajamas, her hair a wild mess, and it takes her a moment to place him.

“Day?” she asks. She looks from him to the empty street, searching for parents who did not find him. “What are you doing here? How did you find my address?”

Day holds up the map. Ms. Mitchell peers at the pen marks.

“Why are you here?” she adds. “It’s after ten; shouldn’t you be home with your parents?”

Day sheds his cloaking spell and holds his arms for Ms. Mitchell to see.

She swallows a gasp. Day does not meet her eyes.

“Christ…” Ms. Mitchell murmurs. “Day, I… Alright, let’s—let’s figure this out. One thing at a time. Come inside, come out of the dark, let me make you some cocoa…”

Day nods. He follows Ms. Mitchell into the light, and when the door shuts behind him he does not flinch.

Photo by Roma Kaiuk🇺🇦 on Unsplash