Page 2 of Spell Ya Later

Laura cringes, running her hand through her hair as if to check it’s still blonde. “We could go out after?”

“When have I ever, and I meanever, wanted to go out?”

“Please?”

Oh no. Not the puppy dog eyes. Why am I never able to say no to the puppy dog eyes?

“Maybe.”

“You’ll have so much fun, Hazel, I promise!”

Yes, Laura, being your designated driver while men fall over themselves just to be noticed by you is my idea of a fun time. Sign me up!

The best part is the constant reminder that I’m practically a spinster at the ripe old age of twenty-five. But it’s pretty hard to find a boyfriend when you’re simultaneously parenting your sister and being smothered by your mother.

“GIRLS!” Mom calls from downstairs. “Come down and help me finish setting up!”

Laura practically dances out of my room like a little wood nymph or some shit. Standing up, I collect my colored pencils and put them away in the antique desk in the corner. It’s not my style in the least, but mom insists I keep it since it matches the bed and dresser. And whatever she wants, she gets. Was I allowed to go to college? No, Hazel, you’re not ready. You can’t leave Laura. Was I allowed to get a job? No, Hazel, what if someone finds out you’re a witch? Was I allowed to move out? Well, at that point I didn’t have anywhere to go and no money to my name. My mother weaponized the hell out of my father’s death and she did a damn good job of it. I’m lucky she lets me volunteer for the art class.

I turn off the light and walk down the worn wooden staircase. The old Victorian house groans and creaks beneath my feet. Not even carpets muffle the noises of the home. At this point, I swear it’s sentient.

“Set the table, please.” Mom pushes the silver into my hands. We only bring out the fancy stuff once a month when Grandma comes for dinner. Not that Grandma is impressed by that sort of thing. She’s not impressed by bullshit, and for that I am thankful.

Despite knowing it’s bullshit, I follow orders like the obedient daughter I am. The obedient soldier. I place the silverware on the delicate lace place settings and light thecandles in the middle of the dark wood table. According to Grandma, this table has been in our family for generations. I swear I saw a furniture store sticker underneath it.

The family portrait stares at me from above the fireplace. It’s an imposing beast of a painting, commissioned by some old friend of my grandmother’s when I was a child. My grandmother sits in a regal high-backed armchair of royal purple, reveling in her place as matriarch of the family. My mother and I stand behind her on opposite sides...symbolic in its own way. Laura, only six or seven at the time, sits on the floor. Despite it being a painting, Laura’s eyes almost dance as if she’s begging to be allowed to go play.

My father insisted the portrait should feature the women of the family when my mother tried to include him. Looking at it now, I wish she’d fought harder.

I wish she’d done a lot of things differently.

“Where are my girls?” Grandma’s voice travels through the home as if magically amplified. Knowing her, it is.

I double-check the table before making my way to the kitchen. It’s a partially renovated chef’s dream. Admittedly one of the largest rooms in the old house, the cabinets and island are a rich mahogany wood. The countertops are a smooth complementary marble that my father personally installed right before...

. . . before.

With my first step, I’m immediately smacked in the nose by the scent of butternut squash, garlic, and rosemary. And bread. Delicious, flaky, made-from-scratch bread. My mother is a lot of things—not all good—but an excellent cook is top of that list.

“Grandma!” Laura is wrapped immediately in a belly-crushing hug. Laura’s always been Grandma’s favorite, probably because Laura is everyone’s favorite. She’s bubbly, sweet, justa smidge sarcastically spicy, and gorgeous—who wouldn’t love her?

Mom’s standing at the stove, stirring the soup. I note her silence and her tense shoulders. If it were up to her, we’d never speak to Grandma again. I have no idea what happened between them, but it was around the same time my father died. The same time my mother stopped using magic.

The same time my sister and I were forbidden from using our powers.

“Where are your thoughts, dear?” Grandma lays a hand on my shoulder, dragging me back to reality. I turn to her, her bright blue eyes pulling me in first as they always do. They’re like two liquid pools, bright and unblinking as she stares into each and every thought I’ve ever had.

“Hi, Grandma,” I reply, avoiding her question. I hug her, her curly silver hair brushing against my face with her familiar scent. I always think of her when I smell lavender and smoke.

As we pull away, her gaze roams me with a sympathetic touch. She knows something is wrong. Joke’s on her though, something has been wrong for years.

“Mother,” Mom says from where she remains at the stove. Not a muscle has moved.

“Sarah,” Grandma replies.

Lovely, so the icy one-word conversations are starting early tonight. Maybe going out with Laura is a good idea. If anything, it gives us an excuse to leave early.

“Dinner is almost ready,” Mom says.