“Well,” I say again.

She makes a sound that is probably technically a laugh. When she speaks again, her voice sounds defeated. “You’re stunned. Okay, I get it. I’ve vented. Thank you for listening. Go back and do your interesting little magic things, and don’t worry about me. I’m really fine. Just a bored spoiled brat, that’s me.”

“Mom, wait—”

But it’s no use. Now she’s back to being Brisk Mom, the one who used to make us clean our rooms on Saturday morning before we could watch cartoons. “No, no more. Anyway, you’re at work, so I’ll let you go now. Just . . . wanted a nice little chat. Maybe someday you’ll really explain what you do. I can take it, you know. I’m open to magic. Might even need a little for myself. But you take care. I love you.”

“Mom?” I say again, but she’s already hung up.

I wander back to the Frippery, and because I’m a hopeless oversharer, I flop down on one of the beanbags and tell Lola and Kat and the Amazings about my meat loaf–making mama and that she’s saying she’s done with putting up with her life as it now stands. They make sympathetic noises about how my mom is probably just going through a little bad spell, and that she’ll be okay, which is what I think, too.

And then, now actually high on oversharing, I tell them all about how I might be pregnant, and that I’ve been googling symptoms of pregnancy, and already I think I have at least three of them. Including some very nice shine to my hair, even if I do say so myself. And yesterday I was craving a chicken taco with sour cream, which I hardly ever want.

“You should start taking folic acid like immediately,” says Kat.

Ariana eases herself right side up and looks at me, squinting a bit. “Your hair does look phenomenal,” she says. “My friend Janelle just found out she’s for sure pregnant, and her hair is, like, gorgeous. Really super shiny.”

Charmaine says, “Ariana! You’re not supposed to be telling people!”

“I can tell people because Janelle is telling everyone. Besides which, Marnie doesn’t even know Janelle.” She looks at me. “It was supposed to be a big secret because Janelle is in our grade, and so when she first found out, there was a lot of drama around what to do about it, but now she’s decided to keep the baby and she’s even super excited about it. I think she’s crazy, frankly, but she’s got all that mystical stuff going on—you know, bringer of new life and all that. She says she feels like a goddess.”

Lola clears her throat. “Well, Marnie dear, how is Patrick feeling about you and him having a baby?”

“Possibly having a baby,” I say. “It’s definitely not anything official.”

“Have you taken a pregnancy test yet?” she asks kindly.

“Oh! Oh, no. It’s waaay too soon for that.”

“Oh,” she says. She lifts her eyebrows.

“Yeah, it’s just since Monday,” I tell her. “Four days ago. Not that pregnant yet. Even if I am. You know.”

“I see,” she says kindly and looks down at her knitting again, probably embarrassed for me.

“This is a very premature announcement,” I say, clearing my throat. “A lot of people probably would have kept quiet about it at this stage.”

Kat says, “Say! Not to change the subject or anything, but did that woman with the kid ever come back? The one from the other day? Remember? She was from Great Britain, and she so wanted to talk to you.”

“Nope,” I say. “Can’t say that I talked to anybody like that this week.”

“Weird. She seemed so downtrodden. It was like nobody ever needed a matchmaker more. I was sure she’d come back.”

“Well,” I say. “She didn’t.”

When I look up, all of them are looking at me with pity in their eyes. Like maybe I’m hopelessly misguided or something.

And here we are: there’s been a little shift in the atmospheric conditions. Nothing really, really major, you see, but before long, I spill my cup of tea and my favorite mug breaks, and then later, Lola’s knitting unravels when she puts it down. The Wi-Fi goes down, and the cash register stops working. A customer comes in and complains that some flowers she bought last week aren’t still fresh, like she would have expected.

CHAPTER SEVEN

MARNIE

All the way home on the subway, I try different techniques to keep myself from feeling bad. It’s like there’s a dark mood hovering over me, waiting to settle into my bones and tissues. Maybe it’s hearing about my mom’s unhappiness, or maybe it’s talking about the might-be pregnancy with my Frippery friends and realizing how much I want this to be true and how sad I’m going to be if my one-time-only condom breakage didn’t miraculously lead to a pregnancy.

Or maybe—although I hate to admit it—maybe sometimes there can be a mood heading for you, and you have to simply stand there and face it down.

Blix would say to make friends with it, not to fight it. She’d say moods have something they’re trying to tell us, and to let them come over you and settle into you, unflinching. That’s what she did with her cancer, I’ve heard. Which is a much harder thing to do than simply avoiding a bad mood. She didn’t go in for all those warrior metaphors about fighting cancer, not Blix. She did some spells to suggest it might leave her, but when the cancer gave her a sign that it was staying and that this was the end of her life, she didn’t fight anymore. She lovingly gave her tumor the name Cassandra and meditated on the fact that eighty-six years might be the life span she was allotted here on this Earth, and that death was simply a change of address anyway, and she was ready for some new digs.

Anyway, just in case there was something I could do to head it off, before I left Best Buds, I took a peek in Blix’s book of spells. For good measure, I put some eucalyptus leaves and rose petals in a little silk sachet and tucked it into my bra. A little protection spell. Couldn’t hurt.

I text Patrick when I get off the subway and am turning onto our street.

Almost home, I write. Any interest in a chicken from Paco’s for dinner?

The three dots show up like he’s writing to me, but then they disappear.

I wait. Nothing for a long time, and then they show up once again.

And disappear again.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, I think. Is he so upset about this baby talk business that he can’t even send a proper text? I cross the street and go into Paco’s and grab a chicken from the rotisserie oven. Paco is in the back, so Dunbar rings it up and gives me a smile.

“Paco wants me to tell you that if you need more food tonight, we can bring some over,” he says. He has a funny look on his face. (Of course he does because everything is a little weird today.)

“No, this will be fine, I’m sure,” I tell him.

It’s seven thirty when I get back outside, and the sky is looking threatening. The last rays of the sun are breaking through some fairly ominous clouds. The weather is in a mood, too.

I’ll go home, I think, and I’ll try not to bring up babies or condom breakages or teacher conferences. I’ll be chill. Patrick and I might have enough time to eat the chicken up on the rooftop before the storm hits. Maybe I’ll phone my mom later and see if she’s really okay. This day needs to shuffle on out of here. I should go to bed early, call an end to it.