October 15th, 2011

I learned to cast a spell the same night I learned to make what Marge called the strongest cup of coffee this side of the Chattahoochee. I was fifteen, and Marge was anywhere between 60 and 100 years old. You could never quite tell with her, like most of the witches I’d met. 

“Oh, honey, my mama can’t have made a cup this kickin’ and rumor had it she was part dragon!” 

Magnolia’s was empty, the fluorescents buzzing like mosquitoes; it smelled like fried food, and I knew that I would go to school reeking of french fry grease and maple syrup. It was somewhere around four in the morning – too late for the bar-patrons to be in sopping up their drunkenness with pancakes, but too early for the truckers to be shoveling biscuits and gravy into their mouths before hitting the road again.  

“Don’t go filling that young thing’s head with crap like dragons,” Morris grumbled from behind the grill. Marge rolled her eyes and flicked her fingers towards Morris, whose hash browns were instantly engulfed in a purple flame. 

“Dammit, woman, that was gonna be my breakfast!” Morris scowled. I snorted into my coffee cup. 

“That’ll teach you to bad mouth dragons,” Marge said, more to herself than to anyone else. She caught me smirking and winked. “Maggie, do this ol’ gal a favor and make some coffee. If I’m gonna last behind this counter six more hours I’m gonna need a kick where the sun don’t shine”. 

It was the middle of October and as I stood behind the counter I could just see the horizon turning light through Magnolia’s window. The movements I went through were almost entirely automatic; Magnolia was my twin, I grew up coloring on the sticky linoleum counters, playing underneath the booths, sneaking French fries when I thought no one was looking. I knew the cabinets and stoves better than I knew my own body. I was just about to put the pot on when I felt Marge looking at me. 

“What?” 

“Don’t forget the kick,” she said, all raised eyebrows and old Southern sass. “I know I didn’t stay up half the night teaching you just for you to make me a boring-old cup of coffee.” 

She turned right back around to wipe the counters, ignoring me. I knew what she meant: magic. Morris was hunched over one of the booths, eating his hash browns with his eyes on my hand, but he looked away when I met his eyes. 

I picked up the filter-wrapped coffee grounds and held the tiny bundle between my hands, pressing my palms together more and more tightly. C’mon, work. I was seconds away from giving up – the force of pushing my hands against each other was making my shoulders ache -- when I felt a sudden warmth begin to build up from between my hands. A bead of sweat formed on my upper lip, and I swiped it away with my tongue, equal parts focused and irritated at my own discomfort. The warmth quickly became a heat and the heat became a burn, like when I was six and put my hand down on a burning-hot griddle; but just as the pain became unbearable, it was gone, and I pulled my hands apart as quickly as possible. 

“Well done,” Marge said. Her sincerity caught me off guard – Marge was either spitfire-angry or pure undiluted snark, give or take a tablespoon of ‘tough love’. Now, though, her voice was soft, genuine. My breath felt raspy in my lungs, thick like molasses, scratchy like bonfire smoke. I looked at my palms, expecting to see vicious burns or welts, or at least a redness, but they were as unscathed as before. 

“You get used to it,” Marge’s voice was right behind me, and when I turned she took one of my shaking hands in her wrinkled ones. She put my fingertips on her palm. 

“They’re so warm.” 

“Witches’ callouses,” she smiled, and her dark eyes crinkled up like a jack-o-lanterns, “Your mama had ‘em too. They’re tradition.” 

I swallowed, but my mouth was sandpaper-dry and my emotion clenched my throat like a vice grip. I looked down at my own palms again, and immediately closed them into tight fists, feeling the heat of the callouses, the surging of magic just below my skin. Marge stared at me, expression unreadable. Outside, the sky was the palest blue, and as if on cue a large semi-truck pulled into the diner’s gravel parking lot. Marge smiled at me before turning towards the kitchen.

“Morris! Get your lazy ass up and fire up the griddle, we got a customer!” 

I sat in the booth, staring at my hands in a trance and sipping my ‘coffee with a kick’ until the bus came. By the time I stood to leave, ratty backpack and unfinished science homework in tow, Magnolia’s was packed. Marge handed me a foil-wrapped biscuit – the payment we gave Hank for picking me up at Magnolia’s instead of a normal residential area – and sent me on my way. 

That was the first day I used magic. Little did I know that in three years, my magic would kill someone. 

. . .

It’s too hot and too cold; the sky is July-blue but there’s something like sleet falling from the sky and everytime it hits my bare arms I can’t tell if it burns with heat or stings with cold. 

I have to blink in triplet speed before my vision goes from foggy to clearish. I'm in front of Magnolia’s, right in front of the red door but this doesn’t make any sense because it’s gotta be noon but no one’s inside and there are no cars in the parking lot? 

“Dad?” my voice comes out bubbly, like I’m yelling underwater. I swear I see movement through the windows, behind the counter at the register counting money. “Dad!” 

Whatever’s inside looks at me. Everything goes black. I hear Marge half-sobbing, half-pleading. 

“Please, please for the love of God just answer your phone, Maggie.” 

. . .

December 1st, 2017

I wake up fitfully; the bedsheets are sweat soaked and they stick to my skin even though I’m stripped down to just my underwear. The window’s cracked and I can just barely make out flecks of snow against the dark shape of the alley wall. I feel like I just ran up and down the stairs ten times. 

It takes all my effort to roll out of bed; my pulse pounding against my head like a bad hangover and my throat is sandpaper-dry. The other side of the bed is empty which means I’ve slept in later than I meant to. George blinks disdainfully at me from the windowsill, her body pressed up against the glass. 

I put one hand on her back and the other flat against the window, which instantly fogs up from the heat of my skin. George’s tail flicks in my direction and I glare at her. 

“What, I’m hot,” I snap. Georgie responds with an uncaring mew that screams don’t kid yourself, babe. 

I put on the thinnest tank top I own and walk into the kitchen, the sounds of Lex munching away on a bowl of off-brand Cheerios and flipping through the newspaper somehow louder than usual. 

He looks up at me from the kitchen table, a hint of a smile quirks on his lips. “Morning, lazy.” 

“It’s 9:30, that’s not late.” The response comes out harsher than I mean it to. Or, not harsh enough, because Lex doesn’t lay off. 

“For you it is, Miss-Up-At-The-Crack-Of-Dawn.”

I grimace at the coffee maker because I don’t want to be a bitch to Lex this early in the morning. Deep breath, in and out. By the time I take a seat at the table, Lex is looking at me warily, a spoon of forgotten cereal halfway to his mouth. I offer a tight smile. It’s not his fault you’re cranky.

Lex decides against continuing conversation and instead passes me the crossword, and I feel a surge of admiration despite my grumpiness. That admiration may be due in part to the fact that Lex has finished his cereal, or my fresh cup of coffee, or both, but the guilt sets in all the same. 

“Seven letters for ‘Comprehensive, as a report’?” My voice is all scratchy from sleep, ugly sounding in the silence. 

“In Depth,” Lex responds curtly before adding, “Who’s Marge?” 

The coffee catches in my throat, making me cough. “What?” 

Lex is looking squarely at me, gaze fixed. “Last night when I got back you were having a nightmare, kept saying the name Marge.” He looks worried. 

“And?” I shrug. 

“Well, who’s Marge?” 

“No one. I mean, really, I don’t know anyone named Marge.” I look back down at the crossword, trying to seem relaxed even though I can practically taste my heart in my throat. “Sorry if I freaked you out, though.” 

“Mags, c’mon, I was just worried is all.” 

“Well, don’t, I’m fine. Like I said, don’t know a Marge,” I smile at Lex, looking at the point just between his eyes. He smirks, the same sideways grin that made me give him a drink “on the house” a year ago. 

“I always hated that name, sounds ugly to me.” 

“Really?” I snap, voice a little shrilly, “I think it sounds beautiful.” 

Lex’s eyebrows shoot up into his bangs and I instantly deflate. “I’m sorry, I’m in a rotten mood.” 

“Any reason?” 

“Not sure,” I murmur into my coffee cup, “I think I might be getting sick.” 

Lex reaches over and presses the back of his hand to my forehead before I can stop him.

“What are you doing?” But before I can swat his hand away he pulls it back, eyes wide and concerned. 

“Babe, you’re on fire!” 

“You know I run a little hot,” I squirm away from the table, but Lex follows me into the kitchen. 

“You’re not just a little hot – , I know there must be a thermometer around here somewhere –” 

“Lex!” I half yell, and Lex freezes. “Jesus, I said I was fine, can’t you just leave it alone for once?” 

Lex doesn’t move, hands up by his side, palms open in an act of surrender that makes me hate myself and hate him at the same time. I turn away, facing the coffee maker again, trying to imagine that I’m angry at the appliance instead of everything else. 

“Just…go to work. I’m fine.” 

My reflection is warped in the chrome, all dark hair and dark eyes and smudgy freckles. I scrunch my face up, trying to make myself as ugly as possible, trying to do anything but look at Lex. I stay in a staring match with my funhouse-self until I hear Lex’s loud footsteps followed by the slam of the front door. Ugh. Guilt and frustration are mingling in my stomach in a wholly-unpleasant way, and I can’t quite shake off whatever nightmare I had. What did I dream about?

The landline rings and I nearly go flying of my own skin. I’m already jumpy this morning and I don’t remember the last time anyone called our landline. I’m waiting for it to go to voicemail when my palms burn read hot. 

“Ow!” I can barely hear my own voice over the rush of my own pounding heart in my ears. I look at my hands, shaky but otherwise unmarked, to the phone, still ringing, and with a few shaky breaths, I walk over to the phone and bring it to my ear. 

“H-hello?” 

“Maggie! Thank the Lord you answered.” 

Marge’s voice is a punch to the gut and I find myself sinking to the floor. 

“Uh.” Is all I can manage out, but Marge either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. 

“Maggie, you need to come home.” 

“I’m not going back. This is my home now.” 

The words are ugly lies stinging my throat, but I say them like they’re the only truth in the world. For a second, Marge is silent, and I pray she’ll just hangup. But then she speaks again. 

“Maggie, your dad’s missing. He’s been missing for a week. We need your help.” 

I throw the phone, hurl it at the cabinets, scared by Marge and myself and how, despite six years, I still have not managed to shake my old life. I can hear Marge’s voice, tinny and staticky through the phone. 

“Maggie? Honey, please answer.” 

I grab the phone, press it hard against my ear and muster rage from my stomach; my palms are burning again but I don’t care. 

“Don’t call here again,” I hiss, and then I slam the phone back into the receiver. The plastic where I’d gripped it is warped, slightly melted. I stare at it and cry, and cry, and cry. 

December 6th, 2017

When I was little, winter mornings were my favorite time to be in Magnolia’s; the first cold morning, specifically, when the dew froze leaving everything a little glittery. It was the closest I could get to snow growing up, so when it came I was giddy. 

The first morning I’m back in Magnolia’s, so many years later, is one of these mornings. 

“Hiya, sugar,” Marge is behind me like a shadow – so quiet I didn’t know she’d arrived, but even after all this time I’m not caught off guard. The diner is dimly lit, and I didn’t bother turning on the heat. Everything feels kind of cold anyways. Marge seems to know, because she’s come armed with a thick knit blanket and a Georgia Tech sweatshirt. The blanket was mom’s own creation; I can tell from the chunky, uneven pattern. The sweatshirt’s dads; it smells like cigarettes and cloves. 

“Coffee?” She asks me. 

“Already made a pot.” 

“With a kick?” 

My mouth opens but a hollow sound comes out. I can practically feel Marge’s disappointed eyes on my neck, and I pull the blanket more tightly around me. I can sense Marge’s hands flat over the coffee pot, hear a quiet incantation and feel the small burst of magic coming from around the room as it’s channelled into the brew. 

I want to hold my breath. 

I want to run out the door and run until I’m back in New York with un-magicked-overpriced coffee and diners run by cranky Greek men instead of old Southern witches

But instead, I let Marge push a dusty mug into my hands, feel the heat of the cup against the callouses I’d worked so hard to build up and been so willing to shed. I take a sip. 

It’s delicious.