Jolene

I hang up the phone and walk back to the dining table, which is inundated with homework from fourth graders. I sigh knowing that it was going to take me the rest of the evening to finish grading them. Regretting turning Jonathan down, I get back to marking the pages with red ink. Gradually I lose my focus and I think about the conversation I had earlier with Sebastian.

I’m looking forward to seeing him next Friday. He is knew in town or at least still new to me even though he’s been around for about a couple of months. Spellbound Cove doesn’t usually have new residents. People come and go for vacation or some other business, but someone coming in to live in town is rare. Granted, from what others have told me, he might not stay, but I’m eager to find out.

Not much happens here, yet it’s a great place to live. It’s quiet and safe, we all know each other too. Maybe too well. The ocean is nearby and provides recreation and relaxation. All the necessities are in the main part of town and there is a resourceful library. Plus, and I try not to think of it too much, Spellbound Cove runs on magic.

A little known fact in the Outside world. It’s a secret preserved by the people, for everyone’s benefit. As far as I know, the magic is inherited by generations of families who have lived here. But for some reason, mines don’t work as well as everyone else’s and only I know that. I keep hoping it will work again.

I slump over the paperwork, and try not to chuckle at the wrong answer someone’s written. I cross it out; nope, Washington D.C. is not the name of the first president, but it’s close. I guess I’m going to have to revisit some of the curriculum to make sure they have the right answers. If these kids are going to go out to the Outside, they need to have the same education as the Outsiders do.

When the founding people appointed the first principal after building the Lydia Smith K-12, they decided that the curriculum needed to match what the other schools were teaching. They didn’t want their children and their children’s children to be caught up in some kind of trouble where they couldn’t enter college because they didn’t know their stuff.

I head to the kitchen to get myself something to drink. I find my homemade kombucha in the fridge and pour myself a glass. Grimacing from the carbonation, I look out the window. A sliver of sunset peeks through the Ponderosa pines. Wishing I could sit out back, I return to my work. If only I can use my magic to grade this homework.

I mostly gave up using my magic. I would spend much of my time undoing the mistakes it would make. It was exhausting and demeaning. As a teen I noticed that the magic wasn’t maturing like I was told it would. I kept making mistakes and I figured eventually it would get better, yet fifteen years going and it’s still defective.

No one knows, not even Jonathan, who is my close friend. We grew up together. I watched his magic get better, while mines struggled. I began resenting him and it was such a relief when I left for college and traveled. I wanted to stay in Europe or India or South America, to avoid having to face not being able to use my magic. Yet, I missed home.

I missed the smell of the Spellbound Cove sea. It smells different to me, a mix of nostalgia and salt. I missed the library where I used to study and watch the characters pop out of the books. It was both distracting and amusing. I missed the memories, the ones where I grew up in a house with a mother and father who had over active imaginations. I also missed Jonathan, even though I was angry with myself for doing so.

Sometimes I think about leaving, but I always end up with the same questions: where would I go and how would I curb my homesickness. I know I can’t leave Spellbound Cove, anymore than I can change the smell of the ocean or the magic that keeps this town alive.

The kombucha fizz builds up in my nose as I swallow the last bit of it. I look at the phone wondering if I can somehow finish up in time to go to Jonathan. The wall clock reads, close to seven. There are still dishes to do and the last load of laundry. I sigh knowing that I won’t make it.

The anger clouds my focus. Words on the page, blend and distort. It was all unfair and I had trouble dealing with it most days. This was one of them. I sit back and a memory comes to me of my father. I was working on a project for school and it fell apart - literally. I think I was nine years old. My dad had snuck into my bedroom and I didn’t notice him.

I remember him saying ‘Hey Kiddo’ and I didn’t want to acknowledge because I knew the tears would come if I did. He placed a warm hand on my shoulder and said he understood why I was angry and he knew of a way to make me feel better. He made me close my eyes and think about a kite. I saw a red kite with streamers attached to it. Then he said imagine you are the kite.

I was soaring above the trees and into the clouds. Geese flew by me and honked their greetings. My house was below me, I waved believing that my parents could see me from such great heights. It was peaceful and beautiful. My anger had gone and I was able to finish my project with the help of my dad.

Coming back from the memory, my eyes were closed and I don’t remember when I did that. My heart swell with how much my parents cared and supported me. Sometimes I feel like I let them down, not being able to use my magic. Yet, I know they loved me no matter what.

I wipe away my tears, catching them before they land on the papers. There are a few more pages left. I nibble on my marker as my gaze lands on a pile of library books. I haven’t touched the pile and they’re probably getting close to being overdue. I laugh to myself, as I think about what kind of teacher doesn’t return her library books.

As I look at the books, I read the titles: The History of Magic and Experimental Science, Buckland’s Complete Book of Witchcraft, and The Book of Spells. I’m a bit skeptical, yet I’m desperate. I make a promise to myself and my parents that I would figure out why my magic doesn’t work and how to get it back.

I gather the graded papers and shove them into the portfolio. I look at the time again; almost eight o’clock. Grabbing my glass with kombucha residue, I head to the kitchen to do the dishes. I decide to leave the laundry for tomorrow since I believe I still have a few pieces of clothing that I can wear for school. It’s time to call it a night.