The day before she told me about her impending retirement from the road, an agent offered me representation. He’d seen my opener for Evie’s tour and promised he could turn me into a headliner. Ten months later, he had proved true to his word. Here I was, twenty-one and minutes away from my embryonic performance.
“I have a lot riding on this,” I said. No one had approved of my decision to drop out of school. When I told Jack the news, she had asked why I couldn’t choose a less embarrassing career. Lisa, my supposed bastion of support, had confronted me on three separate occasions, arguing that my magic should wait until I had my degree. You’re going to need something to fall back on when this goes south, she’d said, then quickly corrected the “when” to an “if.” We hadn’t spoken since. I didn’t even bother with Sir or Mother.
“You can always go back to school,” Evie said. “Opportunities like this don’t come along often.”
Exactly. What was I doing despairing about college when I was knocking on the door of my first real shot? I finally had the chance to effect change, to help others like me who’d had harrowing childhoods. Billions of people around the world were drowning in the wide-ranging fears that came with being human, with the pain of living. I could lessen that load for them, alleviate said fears. All they had to do was let me in and listen.
Many, perhaps even most, would dismiss me. They would say I was nothing more than a magician, a charlatan, a witch. Let them sneer. Their pain would find no salve.
I still must have looked nervous, because Evie leaned in. “A word of advice.” She shook her mop of black hair. “You need a mantra.”
She sat back, self-satisfied, as though she’d told me where the Ark of the Covenant was.
“What?” I checked my watch. Evie was better known for sage cleansing than sage wisdom.
“You come up with a saying to build you up, you know, grow your confidence. Then you repeat it over and over, I’m talking an hour every day, until you believe it. Anytime you’re low, boom”—she snapped her fingers—“you summon that phrase.”
Intrigued, I asked, “What’s yours?”
She mocked an affronted expression. “Bad luck to share your mantra.”
I checked my watch again.
She took the hint this time. “All right.” She returned her feather, sage bundle, and lighter to the folds of her dress. “I better get going. I’ll be right there in the front row, cheering you on the whole time.” She patted my shoulder. “You’ve worked your tush off, kiddo. Enjoy it.”
Then she was gone.
I checked my reflection and took a deep breath. I’d practiced this routine thousands of times. It was impeccable, revolutionary. No one I knew of had done anything like it. I thought about my potential, the number of lives waiting to be changed beyond the stage. I wouldn’t let them down. A sureness washed over me: I am goddamn invincible.
I liked the sound of that. I pushed my shoulders back and lifted my chin. Most days I didn’t feel six feet tall. Today I would own every inch.
I am goddamn invincible.
I strode toward the stage, waited in the wings, and glanced down at the new tattoo on the inside of my left wrist, written in white ink. You couldn’t see the single word carved there unless you were searching for it. I rubbed the letters.
I am goddamn invincible.
The announcer boomed over the sound system. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us tonight at the Luke Gillespie Theater.”
I am goddamn invincible.
He told the audience to put their hands together. My legs carried me forward to center stage. I stared at my old friend, the spotlight, and waited for the applause to die down. I gazed at my new pupils, eager to compel them.
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Madame Fearless.”
13
Natalie
JANUARY 8, 2020
I SWALLOW, THROAT dry. “What’s her name?”
Georgina’s and April’s eyes meet across the table. “I don’t want to gossip about her.” April scratches her neck. “All we’re saying is some people here get carried away.”
Georgina seems disappointed, like she’d relish a roast. “You’ll know her when you see her. She has a crazy gleam in her eye.”
April scowls at Georgina, who shrugs.
What has Wisewood done to Kit? To the little sister who always let me sing the girl parts of Disney songs, who knew when to crack a joke and when to hold my hand?
I’m almost positive they’re talking about her and not surprised they don’t recognize me as her sister. While Kit has long blond hair, mine is dark brown. Her face is round with apple cheeks where mine is long with sharp angles. My eyes are brown; hers are green. We don’t even look related, let alone like sisters. She takes after our father. I take after Mom.