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

the pillow off my face. “You know this thing doesn’t actually muffle you that much, right?”

“Oh, um. Sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t realize. Hey, that was fast.” I scramble up to a sitting position and sit with my back against the wall, my legs stretched across the mattress. “Is Nico off the hook?”

“Far from it,” Pop says with a wry shake of his head. “But Dad took over so I could come talk to you. Once we heard the wailing, we figured we should probably divide our efforts. And I thought you might want this back.” He lifts his arm, and I realize for the first time that he’s got my bag.

“Thanks.” I grab the bag and drop it on the pillows next to me, trying to get that exposed J facedown. I want to shove the whole thing back under the bed, but that would look suspicious. Or maybe not doing it looks suspicious? I don’t know what to do with my hands.

“So, we need to talk.” Pop leans against the wall next to the doorframe with his hands in his pockets. He ducks his head, giving himself a little double chin. He’s staring at the bag. I resist the urge to push it behind the pillows. “You’re not in any trouble,” he says quickly, probably seeing the blood drain from my face. “But Dad and I are worried about you.”

“What? Why?” My palms tingle with a bloom of sweat. Worried is way worse than mad. “What’s going on?”

“You’re not yourself lately. Skipping classes was one thing, but shouting at your brother? What’s that about?” He shakes his head. “You know we’re not—”

“—not a shouting family, I know.” I can’t keep the annoyance out of my voice. Maybe I’m not trying very hard. Pop’s eyebrows unify at the interruption, but he doesn’t stop me. “You didn’t see what he was doing, though, Pop. He was under my bed.”

“It’s not just about yelling, bug,” he says gently. “You’ve been giving everyone a whole lot of bad attitude lately. Not just Nico. Me and Dad, too. What’s that about?”

Oh, great. So this is a you’re-a-huge-jerk-and-nobody-likes-you talk. I clench my jaw. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m not trying to beat up on you here.”

“Could have fooled me,” I mutter.

“I just want to know what’s going on with you. This behavior isn’t like you at all—”

“Well, maybe you just think that because you don’t know me.” I let my hands drop to my sides, and one of them lands on the bag with the heart in it. “You think I’m not being myself because you have no idea who I am!” Pop takes a deep calming breath of his own, and for some reason, it infuriates me. The words pour out before I can stop them, my volume creeping up with every word. “You think I’m still some little kid that you can control, but I’m not, and I haven’t been for a long time! And I’m dealing with all of this shit on my own and you have no idea what it’s like, okay?! You have no idea.”

My cheeks and palms are both burning. When I touch my face, my fingers come away wet. I tuck my hands under my thighs just in case they’re glowing. They feel like they are, and for the hundredth time, I wish that I could see my own magic. I dig my fingernails into my palms hard.

I’m losing control.

Shit.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” I whisper.

“Oh, sweetie,” he says, and then he’s sitting next to me with his arm around my shoulder. He’s soft, and his ratty old sweater feels the same way it did when I was little. “I can’t understand what’s going on if you don’t tell me. But I want to understand. I really do.”

I want to lean on him and cry like a kid. I want to. But it just doesn’t feel right. I shake my head, sitting up stiffly, and he takes his arm off my shoulder. I wonder if I hurt his feelings by not wanting the hug. I wonder if I’m just destined to hurt everyone around me. I clench my fists even harder, and try to focus on the pain so I don’t lose control and ruin everything.

“It’s just that I can’t be who you want me to be, okay? That’s not who I am anymore,” I tell him.

“Okay,” Pop says.

“I’m—wait, what?”

“I said okay,” he repeats. “I believe you. But I want to know who you are. Your dad does too. Hell, I bet Nico even wants to know who you are, even if he doesn’t really know how to show it.” He shifts away so he can look at me, and maybe also to give me a little space. “Look, kiddo. Sorry, not ‘kiddo,’ I should stop calling you that.” My chest hurts. I don’t want him to stop calling me that. “Alexis. Whatever it is that you feel like you can’t tell us … I can’t force you to trust me, but I’m here to listen, okay? And no matter what’s going on, I’ll love you. I promise.”

I look at my kneecaps, my nightstand, the pattern on my bedspread. Anywhere but at him. I take a few more deep breaths. I’m going to do something stupid. “Are you sure?” I whisper.

He hesitates. “Have I ever told you about what it was like when I came out to my mom?”

I shake my head. Grandma died when I was too little to remember her, and Pop barely ever talks about her.

“I wasn’t that much younger than you are now,” he says. “I felt a lot of the things you’re feeling—like I wasn’t the person who she thought I was. Like I was lying to her, but also like it was her fault that I couldn’t tell her the truth.”

I open my mouth to say that I don’t think it’s his fault I can’t tell him, but then I close it. Because he’s right. I do think it’s his fault.