Page 75 of Magic for Nothing

“You make an excellent point.” Sam turned into the Target parking lot. “Our mission awaits.”

“Let’s do this.”

Sam shopped like a man who’d been going on supply runs since the day he was old enough to get his license: quickly, efficiently, and with a refreshing lack of screwing around. It probably helped that Targets only have, like, five floor plans, which means that even if you’ve never been to a specific store before, familiarity with the chain will make it easy to navigate. He picked up detergent, shampoo, conditioner, and enough ramen to constitute a health hazard anywhere else in the world. I looked at him quizzically at the last. He shrugged.

“Everybody eats it, so it makes a good filler food between meals. Haven’t you wound up in the mess tent when it wasn’t officially lunch?”

“New girl,” I reminded him. “I try to avoid the mess tent unless you or Emery will be there, because I still don’t have much to talk about with anyone else. I’m getting there. It’s going to take me a little while.”

“We’ve got time,” he said, and smiled, and everything was fine. Except for the worm of guilt twisting in my gut, and the heat in my fingertips, because we didn’t have time. The Covenant was coming. I’d allowed myself a night to play and just be a girl, out with a boy, enjoying the world, but that didn’t change the fact that time was running out for me—and if I didn’t find a way to stop what was coming, it was running out for Sam, too.

After Target came Costco, where we bought tubs of condiments and canned meat and so much toilet paper that the clerk looked at us like we were planning some sort of nefarious tissue escapade. Sam showed all his teeth when he smiled, which didn’t seem to calm her any, and I barely managed to keep my laughter in check. The back of the truck was starting to look like a target for local thieves, and Sam took more and more time securing everything with rope and tarp and bungee cords. A van would have made more sense for this sort of outing but less sense for the carnival. There are always compromises in the real world.

At the craft store, he parked where he could see the truck from the store windows and helped me wander the aisles, picking up wood glue and Popsicle sticks and nontoxic paint and a few little pieces of “fairy furniture” from the floral department, which were intended for flower arrangements, but would be perfect for Aeslin mice.

(The sort of people who build “fairy gardens” would be unhappy if they managed to attract real fairies. There are lots of different creatures humans have called “fairies” across the years, and the only thing they all have in common is the way they’ll hurt people if given half a chance.)

The clerk at the craft store didn’t bat an eye at my assortment of things. She probably saw stranger on a daily basis, which is part of why I like craft stores so much. There’s always someone there who outweirds you. It really takes the pressure off.

We were almost to the door when I stopped, eyes fixed on the bulletin board where local crafters peddled their wares. It wasn’t just crafters: there was also a section for local events, farmer’s markets and yard sales and pet adoptions. And one big, largely black flyer advertising a no-holds-barred match between two teams I’d never heard of before. That didn’t matter. What mattered were the words “flat track roller derby” and “hell on wheels” and “one night only.” The words that read like home. The words that should have been above my name, encouraging people to come and watch my friends throwing themselves into the wind, knowing they would never hit the ground.

For the most part, I’d been keeping myself too busy to really stop and think about my situation. In that moment, looking at that flyer, I ran out of momentum, and the homesickness flooded in, washing everything else away.

“Roller derby, huh?” said Sam. “You a fan?”

“Huh?” I tore my eyes away from the poster, turning to face him. I managed to nod. “Yeah. I like roller derby.”

“You know, I’ve never actually been to a match? Is that what they’re called, matches?”

“Games.”

“Okay. Still never been.” He glanced at the flyer. “It’s tonight. The show’s closed because of the rain. We could go.”

The words echoed in my ears. We could go. Or I could stay home and keep trying to find a solution to the situation I found myself in. But that wasn’t going to help, was it? I’d just be sitting alone, not coming up with anything. I’ve always thought better when I thought at the track. The sound of heads bouncing off the track is remarkably good at shaking things out of my own skull.

It couldn’t hurt anything. There was nothing left to hurt.

“Please?” I asked, the word coming out meek and eager and hungry, like a child on Christmas morning, asking to open just one present.

Sam beamed. “It’s a date.”

It took an hour to get back to the carnival and unload the truck. The rain resumed twice during that time, but that was what umbrellas and extra hands were for: as soon as we pulled into the bone yard, all the people who knew we’d been on a supply run were there to rush us, helping us get everything out and distributing it where it belonged. Ramen was apparently serious business with these people.

Sam kissed me before he went to tell his grandmother we were back, and he didn’t seem to care who saw him do it: the carnies who saw the quick, glancing gesture grinned at me, some approvingly, others leering, but all apparently unbothered. Gossip spreads fast in a show like this. When everyone lives in everyone else’s back pocket, that sort of thing is a form of currency. Without it, how would anyone know who it was safe to tease?

Mindy and Mork accepted my offerings of paint, glue, and tiny chairs as their due, scurrying off with them after shouting “HAIL” an appropriate number of times. The Aeslin model of religion involves a lot of gifts from the gods. This created the temporary privacy I required to get ready.

When I’d packed to run away to the Covenant, I hadn’t been allowed to take anything that might indicate a geographical tie to Portland. Confusing the issue, however, had been considered perfectly fine. I had derby shirts with logos ranging from Helsinki, Finland, to Cardiff, Wales, with a few smaller American and Canadian leagues in the mix to keep things as unclear as possible. I picked out a bright orange-and-black Buenos Aires Tarantellatulas tank top, pairing it with a black pleated skirt and a pair of fishnet tights. Sure, it was a team no one would have ever heard of, but the illustration was of a girl on skates with a tarantula tattoo; I was pretty sure this crowd would get the idea.

My hair was too faded for my tastes—it would have been better freshly hennaed, bright and blazing and perfect. I compensated with orange-and-black makeup to match my shirt, blew my reflection a kiss, and grabbed my umbrella before ploughing back into the bone yard, heading for the truck as fast as my legs would carry me.

Sam was already there. His eyes widened at the sight of my outfit, and when I was close enough he said in a strangled voice, “Wow. Staying tense enough to look human all night is not going to be a problem.”

“Is that supposed to be flattering?”

“Yes,” he said, with a firm nod. “It is extremely flattering. Nothing more flattering has ever been said in the history of mankind.”

“In that case, thank you.” I leaned up to kiss his cheek. My lipstick was heavy-duty enough to leave no marks behind. “Let’s get our derby on.”