When We Were Magic Sarah Gailey (each kindness read aloud .TXT) 📖

so early,” Nico whines. He’s not wrong—it’s way too early, and I’m exhausted anyway. Which is weird, because every night, I’ve been sleeping deeply—but it feels like I’ve barely rested at all. It’s not bad dreams, either. I’ve been scared of nightmares since Josh died, but I haven’t had any.

In fact, I realize, I haven’t had any dreams at all.

That can’t be right, I think—but I can’t remember the last time I dreamed, not since prom, and something behind my navel twists with dread. That can’t be right, I think again.

“Yeah, well, that’s too bad,” Dad says to Nico, checking the expiration date on a yogurt he dug out of the back of the fridge. He scratches the long stubble on his face, which is apparently the beginning of an attempt at a beard. None of us have acknowledged it yet. “I gotta drop you guys off in time for my eight-o’clock conference call.”

“Why can’t we just walk, though?” Nico asks. He and Dad are staring at each other with identical stubborn expressions, and they look uncannily alike. “I’m gonna get to school like an hour before class starts—”

“And I’m gonna get to school fifteen minutes before that,” I say, nudging him. “We can deal for one day, Nic.” He looks at me. I shake off my worry about the dreams and try to make my face significant.

Dad’s acting like he’s dropping us off for no reason, but I saw him and Pop talking this morning before Pop headed out to a client meeting. Pop’s eyebrows were a low furrow across the bridge of his nose. They were looking at each other the same way that they looked at each other last night, when Josh’s face was on the news. “Just go with it,” I mutter to Nico.

He scowls at me, but there’s a question in his eyes. I glance over at Dad and back, giving a quick shake of my head. Nico sighs elaborately and slouches off to his bedroom to put too much gel in his already-sticking-up hair.

“I know it’s not convenient,” Dad says behind me. I turn around to see him putting mayonnaise on a slice of wheat bread. “But I just … would rather drive you kids today.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “It’ll be nice to have some time with everyone before class starts.”

“Yeah?” Dad slices thick chunks of leftover ham and layers them on the bread. His voice is way too casual. “Who are you going to be seeing?”

“Uh, probably … the whole gang?” I venture. “Although Maryam probably won’t show up until a few minutes before the bell—why?”

“No reason. Just want to know what’s going on in your life.”

There’s not a chance I’m going to tell him that. “You’re being weird,” I say, but I lean across the kitchen counter to kiss his stubbly cheek. “You’re a weirdo.”

“Yeah, well. That’s what dads are for,” he says. “Go get your backpack. We’re leaving in five.”

I go to grab my backpack from my room. My phone buzzes in my pocket—I have about thirty new notifications, all messages. Iris is stressing about something, as usual. I skim the group chat for context, but it doesn’t really make sense. Marcelina is talking about how she can’t forget something, but I can’t tell what she’s referring to. I figure I’ll ask her at school, or else someone else will understand what she means and I’ll ask them.

I pause before I walk out of my bedroom. I briefly consider grabbing the other backpack—the one that’s under the farthest corner of my bed—but I don’t know how I’d explain two backpacks to Dad. When the time is right, I tell myself. I don’t stick around long enough to let myself wonder when that might be.

When I get back to the kitchen, there are two brown bags sitting on the counter. One of them says “Nico!” in blue Sharpie; the other one has “Alexis!” scrawled across it.

“What’s this?” I call out, even though it’s totally obvious what “this” is. At the same time, Nico barrels out of his bedroom, headphones draped around his neck, backpack swinging from one shoulder.

“What’s what?” he asks, and then he stops short next to me.

I sniff the air. “Why do you smell like Pop?”

He flushes. “Meredith didn’t like the way my cologne smelled, so I’m trying his. Are those … lunches?”

I peer into the bag with my name on it. There’s a ham sandwich, a banana, and a granola bar. Nico shows me his—he has the dubious yogurt instead of the granola bar.

“Why is Dad packing us lunches? He’s never packed us lunches before.”

“Just take it,” I whisper. “You’ll hurt his feelings if you don’t.”

Nico shoves the bag into his backpack. He looks indignant. “I know,” he mutters. “I’m not a total idiot.”

“Hey,” I start to say—but he’s already gone, walking out to the garage to wait for Dad in the car. I sigh and drop my own bag lunch into my backpack. I catch Dad doing his tie in the hall mirror. I give him a hug, a long one.

“What’s this for?” he asks.

“Just … thanks for the lunch,” I say. He rests his scratchy chin on top of my head and gives me an extra squeeze, and I know that my life is better than I’ll ever deserve. Because of my friends. Because of my brother. Because of my dads.

I wish there was some way for me to be good enough for them.

When I get to school, almost no one is there. I walk to my locker to drop off my sad bag lunch, and I don’t see a single person on my way. The school feels so liminal when it’s empty—there are scuff marks on the linoleum but no sneakers leaving new ones. Rows of empty desks in every dark classroom I pass. Half the lights in the halls are still turned off. There’s gum everywhere. I get distracted by how haunted and strange the school is, and I almost walk right by the