Bad Magic Ch. 04

I stuck close to Jake as we followed the invisible lines between the university faculty buildings.

I was still adding the finishing touches to my walk. After some trial and error, I finally felt comfortable with the natural sway of my hips. They rocked side to side like a bell, the motion causing my short skirt to gently bob up and down. I could feel a thousand eyes glued to me, anticipating a quick pantie reveal. Would I tease them with it?

Up top, my sports bra muted most of my new breasts jiggle. There was still a little bounce, but it was manageable.

I looked over at Jake. He was in his own little world. I wondered what people thought when they saw us together, friends? A couple? It wouldn't be a stretch to assume so. He was after all, a varsity all-star athlete and I, a perky cheerleader.

"Perfect patio weather," Jake sighed. "You sure you don't want to swing by the varsity pub for a quick pitcher? My treat."

"No," I replied.

He looked wounded.

It's not you he's asking, I reminded myself. He's asking Amber.

We cut through the heart of the campus into an open field. Every blade of grass was finely cut, infused with a rich forest green.

We passed by a few students stretched out on the grass reading. One was napping, his baseball cap tucked over his eyes. Several others had formed a loose circle and were tossing a frisbee back and forth.

How nice it must be, I thought, to not have a worry in the world. I couldn't think of a single time where I had done something similar. Every day, I woke up, got dressed, rushed to class, then, afterwards, locked myself in a tiny windowless study room and poured over the lecture notes, terrified that I might have missed some small detail which might bring my entire grade crashing down on top of me. There was never enough time for anything else.

At home, it was the same old tired routine. Even when Jen had her rowdy guests over, I'd hide in my room, turn the light off, put my headphones on and mindlessly stare at my laptop's swampy dull glow like an introverted moth.

I hadn't signed up for any fan clubs, study groups, social committees or student organizations. I was a ghost. As far as the university was concerned I was just another nine digit number that could write a check.

Was it worth it? What memories would I have when all of this was over?

I hooked my arm around Jake's elbow.

"You know what... why not. Lets do it."

"Really?" he replied, surprised.

"Yea, why not. Plus, I'm starving. I can't remember the last time I ate."

He didn't pull away, his arm remained locked in place.

"Cool. I'll order a couple of appetizers. They have the best mozzarella sticks in the city, super gooey."

His smile pulled me into his inner orbit. I caught his scent again, like summer breeze during a long weekend.

"Sounds good," I replied, omitting the fact that I'd forgotten to buy any groceries that week.

We changed course, and headed towards the universities old stadium. As we walked, I rested my other hand on his arm, it was wound tight like thick rope. I should be jealous, I thought, I'd never had more than a whisper of a muscle in my entire body, not that I was unhealthy. I had a quality that was best described as "new, still in box." Yes, I'd spent most of my life on a shelf, but at least my joints hadn't been pulverized into dust.

I smiled and wondered what people thought of us when they saw us now, a couple? Did he mind? Was he even aware of how we must look, or were cheerleaders always hanging off his arm, and if they were... I wanted names.

A few minutes later, we were at the old stadium.

"There it is, and it's still standing," Jake said as if he was speaking of a lost acquaintance. "It's a shame they're going to knock it down."

He wasn't wrong. From what I'd picked up in the universities student newspaper, they were planning to tear it down during the summer break and replace it with a modern sports plex. There'd been some petitions, threats of a protest, but all had eventually fizzled out - not that I cared, I'd never been to a single game.

"Well that... sucks. Will it be finished by the fall?" I asked.

"Not even close. If I'm lucky, it'll be done by my senior year."

There was a hint of sadness in his voice, why? The stadium was a run down old relic. Why wouldn't he want it replaced?

We walked past the closed ticket booth, the sign barely visible through the faded yellow glass, then under a crumpling stone archway, through the black iron gates to the open field. The bleachers looked like the twisted remains of a fallen utility tower.

"To your right," Jake instructed.

I turned and looked. There was a hidden set of concrete stairs behind another rusted gate.

"Technically it's open to the public, but not many people know about it, so it's normally just an old haunt for varsity players," he said as he opened the gate.

"After you."

I passed through and he followed. I could feel his eyes on me. Was all of this just an excuse to look up my skirt?

Half way up the steps I looked back over my shoulder and caught him red handed. He tried to quickly look away, but his flush red cheeks betrayed him.

"Remind me again, what's on the menu?"

He smiled, blocking a host of thoughts he knew better than to say out loud.

I turned and climbed the remaining stairs and stepped onto a small concrete perch. There was a sign for the varsity pub hung above an old red door surrounded by framed photographs. I looked closer. The photos stretched back in time, through digital, to film, color and finally black and white. Some pictures were of the crowds, and others of the heroes of past championships. I often forgot how far back the history of the university stretched. Entire generations had passed through this institution with their own dreams. Had they succeeded, failed, or been swept up by the harsh tides of history?

"Recognize anyone?" Jake asked.

"What, no. I don't think my family tree ever branched off into the sports. You?" I asked.

"No... no there's no one there I'd know."

That was odd, I thought. He didn't even look.

He walked over to the door and opened it.

"Shall we?"

I walked through. The air was thicker than outside. I couldn't quite pin point the smell, ash trays, spilt beer and a damp mop. It reminded me of a basement, full of old furniture left to sit and ferment.

The pub looked like the show floor of a roadside antique shop. I saw a flickering neon sign from a brewery that I was pretty sure no longer existed. There were painted tin signs of pin-up girls from one of the great wars, which one? It was hard to say. Was that a... it was, an old unplugged cigarette machine was in the back corner. Were they even still legal?

The carpets were the color of worn pool table felt, the stained wood floor ground down. There were three ceiling fans, only two worked.

"Good afternoon, table for two?"

Who'd said that?

I looked around, surprised to discover a waitress had been patiently standing in front of me the entire time.

"Yes please, on the patio, if there's room," Jake chimed in quickly.

She smiled at him, and grabbed two menus. "Right this way," she said and gave me the slightest side eye.

Great, I thought, she thinks I'm either drunk or an idiot.

We wove between the empty wooden tables, through open metal shutters to a small deck which overlooked the field. There were four tables with umbrellas, all of which were unoccupied.

"Take your pick," The waitress said.

"Any preference?" Jake asked.

"Ah... no," I replied.

He choose the one in the middle.

I sank down into the steel chair, the thin plastic bands wrapped around the frame sagging under my weight.

The waitress set down the two menus.

"Can I start you off with something to drink?" she asked.

"A pitcher of the pub pilsner and two orders of mozzarella sticks and I think we're good, right?"

Again he looked to me for an answer, which, as I fought against the sinking chair, was a challenge.

"Ah... yea, sure," I replied.

Idiot, I thought, she definitely thinks I'm an idiot.

She smiled again and was gone.

After some fidgeting I finally found a spot between two of the plastic bands and the metal frame that held me up. It wasn't comfortable, but at least I wasn't being swallowed up by the chair.

Jake did not appear to be struggling at all with his chair. In fact, he looked quite comfortable.

"Isn't that amazing," he said, leaning back.

"What?" I asked?"

"That smell."

Smell? What smell, I thought. The old cigarettes baked into the concrete? The acid oozing out of the deteriorating old plastic? What was he talking about?

"Ah..." I said, grasping for the correct answer.

"Oh... sorry," he said. "I meant the grass."

"The grass? You can smell it all the way up here?" I asked.

"Yea, you can't?"

"hmmm..."

"It's alright. I think it's hardwired into my brain. I bet I could smell it from a mile away. It's a shame..."

"A shame?" I asked.

He stared out across the field drawn to a distant horizon only he saw.

"Yea. They're going to rip it up, toss it all and replace it with the fake stuff. I get it. It's expensive, difficult to maintain, often unreliable and bruises easily. But it's... it's real, you know?"

"I suppose..." I replied, having never really given it much thought.

"Did you grow up around a lot of... grass?" I asked.

Great, now he's going to think I'm an idiot too, I thought.

"In every direction," he replied. "I spent most of my summers on our high school football field. I used to help cut it. They even gave me a school credit for it."

I laughed. "You're joking right?"

"Nope, true story. Our custodian was like... a hundred years old and the lawnmower that was pieced together from old tracker parts was about the same age. They were constantly breaking down - both the custodian and the lawnmower, often leaving me stuck using an old rusted hand mower to finish the job. I swear, half of my weight training was just pushing that dumb thing up and down the field."

I laughed again, picturing him pushing the tiny mower, lost in an vast ocean of thick green grass.

"Don't laugh," he teased. "It was hard work."

"Sorry," I said.

"It's alright. To be honest. I kinda miss it."

"Really?" I asked.

"Yea. Any time I smell gasoline and freshly cut grass, I get a little homesick."

"Where are you from again?" I asked, implying I'd asked before, which I'm sure I hadn't.

"A small town about four hours from here that no one has ever heard of. We have everything you could possibly need... as long as you're not big on selection. There's one post office, one pizzeria, one convenience store and one high school. In fact, it was the same high school my parents went too... and I think my grandparents too."

"You're here on a scholarship, right?" I asked.

"I am, it's from a local granary."

"A what?" I asked.

"The big silos full of grain... it's not important. they pitched in and offered half of a sports scholarship. The rest was matched by our church's bake sale."

"You're... you're joking right?" I asked.

"Nope. I ate half my weight in short bread that day."

I sat back and studied him. Was I wrong about him? I hated to be wrong about anything. Math dealt in absolutes. When you started to doubt the integrity of your values, the whole house of cards starts to fall down. I'd always assumed he was a rich brat from a big city. How could I have been so easily fooled?

Jake reached down, dug through his backpack, and pulled out the magical book.

"I know... I know, hear me out..." he said.

My skin felt like scale when I saw it. It was the wrench that had gummed up the works and flipped my entire life upside down. It wasn't just what it had done, but what it hadn't done... yet. Who knows, a slip of the tongue and we might accidently summon a mini black hole... or worse.

He placed it on the table. I stared at it, half expecting it to sprout teeth and lounge at me.

"Studying for an exam?" The waitress asked as she set down the pitcher of beer.

She should be warned, I thought. That creepy old book is concentrated evil, flee mortal, flee while you still can!

"Ah, yea," Jake replied and took one of the glasses. "We figured it be easier with a few... study aids"

"Well good luck," she said smiling. "I'll be back in a few with your order."

"Thanks," Jake said and started to fill the glass. "Here," he said, offering it to me. "You look like you could use it."

He was right, I could. I wasn't much of a drinker, but right now I'd gladly accept anything if it would dial back my anxiety from an eleven to something more manageable, like a five.

He poured himself a glass and held it up.

"Cheers."

I did likewise, but the words failed me. I took a sip. Good lord, I thought as I almost choked on it. Was gasoline an ingredient? My tongue went numb and my eyes started to water.

I took another sip - better, and another, much better.

"It takes some getting used too," Jake said, smiling. He set the drink down, and placed his hand on the book.

"Alright, are you ready?"

I nodded meekly.

He opened it. The cover pulled back like the jaws of a leathery python. There wasn't a title page, or a table of contents, why would there be? It just threw you right in, page after page of bizarre manic gibberish.

Where was the pattern? There had to be one, some clue that unlocked the whole tangled mess. It was infuriating. I was, after all, a mathematician, ideally suited to crack this code. And yet, I was stumped.

Jake gently pushed the book towards me. My natural instinct was pure revulsion. I stared at the words, terrified that if I even uttered them in my mind, they might detonate like a grenade. What a horrible shock that would be for our poor waitress. The only table she had, and one of her patrons had exploded.

Why was I so scared? It was just a stupid book, one I'd already browsed through. What was the problem?

I reached out, touched the page with the tips of my fingers, It felt like a stretched plastic bag. I read the words again, or tried too. They bled into each other, with no signs of any coherent structure or intent. It was like the transcript from a mad fever dream.

"You know what, that one kinda reminds me of one of our plays," Jake said.

"Your what?" I asked.

"Our plays, from our play book. look..." he pointed at one of illustrations.

"This is the defensive line. It pushes up and to the right, opening up a pocket for the receiver."

Defense line, pocket? I looked down at the book and tried to see it through his eyes. He was right, there was something there, something written in a language I didn't understand - sports.

I turned the page.

"That's a reverse fake-out," he said.

I turned the page again.

"Blind, double back, a classic."

I looked up at him.

"What kind of play would you use to reverse..." I was at a loss of words.

"Yardage?" he asked.

"Yea, that."

"Well, none. I mean, why would you?"

My heart sank. It was over, I'd lost, doomed to be stuck like this forever. How was I ever going to explain it to my parents? Maybe they'd always secretly wanted a daughter instead of a son. Would I have to replace my drivers license? The idea of standing in one of those dreadful lines again was worse than spending the rest of my life as a girl.

"But, if there was one, it would probably look like that."

While I had been contemplating my fate, Jake had flipped to a new page.

I looked down at the illustration. What was he talking about? It was just a bunch of random scribbles and a... oh.

Everything snapped into place, and I saw what he saw, a powerful force being pushed back, reversed. Could it be the anti-spell?

"Who's hungry?"

I leapt at the sound and looked up. It was the waitress, returning with our food order. She set down two plates of deep fried mozzarella sticks.

"Is there anything else I can get for you, another pitcher?" she asked.

I stared at her, unable to process the question.

"No, thank you. I think we're good," Jake replied.

She smiled, turned and left. Jake picked up one of the cheese sticks, dipped it in the small dish of tomato sauce and took a bite.

"So good," he whispered. "Try one, they're delicious."

I looked down at the plate of cheese sticks in front of me. They were still sizzling, the batter, deep fried and golden. My stomach started to whine, bitter that it was still running on fumes.

I picked one up and took a bite.

"Well?" he asked.

"You're right, best in the city," I replied.

"See, I told you!"

I smiled, touched by his enthusiasm. I wanted to savor it, not just the cheese stick, no, the moment. There was something sweet about it, even in light of everything that had happened, it still felt special. I tried to soak up everything, take in every detail, except one... the book, that stupid book. I looked back down at it again.

"Do you think... do you think it'll work?" Jake said in a hushed voice.

"I don't know. I think so... maybe. but I don't want to try it here... just in case."

"Right, of course," Jake said, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

I felt it as well, why? This was a good thing, right?

We ate the remaining cheese sticks and talked. Whatever thoughts that were brooding in Jake's mind, he kept to himself. He waved the waitress down.

"All set?" she asked.

"Yes, just the bill please."

She pulled out a small tablet from her apron, pushed a few buttons and printed out a receipt. She tore it off and handed it to him.

"Successful study session?" She asked, glancing down at the book.

"Hopefully," Jake replied, pulling his wallet out from his back pocket.

While she waited, the waitress glanced over at me and smiled pleasantly. I picked up on something subtle, faint, on a frequency I wasn't familiar with... she thinks we're on a date, I thought, and why wouldn't she. Here he is, my boyfriend paying for our meal... boyfriend, the word had a strange ring to it, one I'd never thought of before.

I looked over at Jake again. He was rummaging through his wallet. He pulled out a wad of bills, all small denominations, checked the bill, found the right amount and placed them down on top of the receipt.

"Keep the change," he said.

She smiled, took the small pile of cash and left.

He turned his attention back to me.

"All set?" he asked.

I nodded.

We stood up, left the old stadium and continued on our way. I walked beside him, fighting the urge to slip my arm under his elbow again. It was getting late, the last few remaining classes were wrapping up and the university was starting to empty out.

There was a slight chill in the air. The sun was perched high above a small cluster of pink clouds ready to dive behind the horizon.

We passed the admissions building and reached the front gate. Two stone monuments marked the boundary. A residential street branched off in both directions, our house was to the right, about five minutes from the gate, depending on your phones playlist. There was a gentle slope to the sidewalk, the quiet road rising and falling like a rolling wave. There were deep gray veins cut into the old concrete sidewalk. A thick canopy of oak leaves above us bloated out the last of the dying sun.

It was easy to spot which houses were occupied by home owners and which were being squatted in by tenants. A great deal of pride was taken by home owners. The paint still looked wet. The windows were lined with a chorus of brightly colored flowers, the lawn pampered like a beloved pet.

The rentals were less elaborate, bricks, mortar, plastic garbage bins, gravel and weeds. Ours was no exception. Half of the exterior was hidden behind a thick block of shrubbery. The driveway was tucked in beside it which lead to a stone stairwell with sagging metal railings. I was the only one of us who owned a car, which was parked at the end of the driveway. It was an ugly thing, sickly and rusted, but still worked.