Don't Expect Magic by Kathy McCullough

Author:Kathy McCullough [McCullough, Kathy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Legends; Myths; Fables, Family, Juvenile Fiction, General, Fantasy, Fiction
ISBN: 9780375898914
Google: LcvkSk__dRQC
Amazon: B004NNUYGK
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2011-11-07T18:30:00+00:00

chapter eight

Something’s wrong. This dizzy, wobbly, “I need to vomit” feeling I have doesn’t fit the whole mythical magical f.g. picture. Once I figured out it was Flynn’s wish, I thought the yearning would ease up a little, but instead it’s gotten worse. I don’t remember any fairy-tale illustrations that show the fairy godmother’s face turning green. No movie or TV fairy godmother ever looked like Cinderella’s wish made them want to heave. They’re confident and cheerful and knowing—not nauseous.

Hank said I might get it wrong if I rushed it, and I’ve been operating at siren-blaring-ambulance speed up to now. I bet my f.g. antenna is totally bent out of shape and is picking up all these random signals that are being flung at me and mixing them up into a big jumble. Maybe it’s not Flynn’s wish I sensed—it’s everybody’s. The girls I spied on in the hall and the French snobs, plus the Hello Kitties, and who knows who else. That’s what’s making me want to stick my finger down my throat. That’s got to be it.

“Nope. That’s the feeling exactly.” Hank wheels his cart to the olive bar and grabs a plastic container. We’re in the superstore of grocery markets. It’s so big, it’s practically its own country. Actually, it’s a continent of random real countries, scaled way down. Instead of buildings and cars, there are tamale stands and tapas stalls and sushi stations.

“You’re not listening. I’m telling you, I feel like I want to barf all over these olives.” Nearby customers back away with worried looks.

“Let’s keep it down, Delaney. Okay?”

“No. It’s driving me crazy. I want to get it out, but it’s trapped there, churning around in my stomach.” Hank pushes past me to add some tiny raisinlike black olives to his collection. “You need to tell me how to turn it off.” Hank snaps a lid on his olives, ignoring my agony. I’d like to slap the olives out of his hand, but I’m too weak from my warped f.g. affliction.

“It’s unpleasant for a reason,” he says. “If it felt good, you wouldn’t be driven to help. You can’t ‘turn it off,’ or will it away, or outrun it. You could go to China and ten years from now you’d still feel it.” He sets the olives in the cart and wheels toward the six-mile-long deli counter.

“But you said it would take a couple of years before I’d get a client. My empathy meter or whatever isn’t developed yet. I’ve hardly done any small wishes.” I haven’t done any small wishes, actually, but I don’t have time for that lecture. I get a brain flash. “Maybe I have the flu.”

Hank gives me a once-over. He holds out a hand to feel my forehead like I’m three years old, and I push his arm away. “You’re not sick. I agree with you, though. It’s happened faster than usual, but it’s always easier to tap into someone’s emotional wavelength if it’s a person you care about.”

“I don’t care about Flynn.

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