The Geek's Guide to Wizarding Mastery

Chapter 1

1

Monsters poured out the windows that surrounded Times Square. Dark angels with glistening black wings stretched their shadows across the afternoon sky. A ruby red-scaled dragon climbed onto the perch reserved for the New Year’s Eve ball drop. Women and children fled as flames licked the sidewalk. There was no help to be seen, no savior to conquer the savage beasts destroying the best tourist trap man had ever created. But as the horde with their gleaming black armor and talons that dragged along the ground, dripping with sizzling ooze, streamed out of the hotel lobby, one boy among the throng was brave enough to stand up and fight. One boy to―

“Ouch!” I choked as something caught me hard around the neck, yanking me backwards.

“Sweetie”―an older black woman had me by the back of the hoodie and was dragging me back onto the sidewalk―“I don’t know what you’re daydreaming about, but you’re about to get yourself killed. And no one wants to see a scrawny little white boy smeared on the street. You better watch out.” Shaking her head, she walked away, shopping bag in tow.

“Thank you!” I called after her, rubbing the sore part of my neck and muttering under my breath, “I’m not that scrawny,” as she disappeared into the crowd.

“I don’t know how scrawny you think you’re not”―Devon patted my shoulder―“but you still can’t stand up to a cab. Seriously, man, you shouldn’t be allowed to cross the street. That’s, what, three times some old lady has saved your a*s this month?”

Devon was right. Old ladies were my guardian angels in New York. I think they formed a league when I was little. The Keep Bryant Jameson Adams Alive League. They’d done pretty well so far. I mean, I had made it to sixteen without ever riding in an ambulance. I don’t know why they couldn’t have formed a Get Bryant Jameson Adams a Girlfriend League, or I’d even take a Make Bryant Jameson Adams Mysteriously Cool League.

But, beggars, choosers…whatever. I duly acknowledged my begrudging gratitude for the growing bruise on my neck and got on with my afternoon.

We crossed the street, and Devon chose our post for the next few hours. We sat at one of the café tables in the middle of what used to be Broadway before they blocked the road off so tourists could spend their money without worrying about little things like people needing to drive anywhere that might actually matter.

Devon took off his coat and draped it over the back of his chair. He struck a casual pose, turning his face to the sun. “How do I look?”

“Ridiculous,” I muttered.

“Don’t be jealous of my swagger.” Devon twinkled.

He looked like one of those male models plastered on the buildings, glowering down on us.

“Saying ‘swagger’ automatically makes you ridiculous. And why do we have to come here anyway? We’re New Yorkers. It’s our obligation to avoid Times Square like our lives depend on it.”

“With the way you walk, yours might.” Devon winked at a group of girls passing by, sending them all into fits of giggles.

That was Devon’s game. Go to Times Square looking like a stereotypical New Yorker―head to toe in black, sleek shoes no sane person would ever want to walk in, requisite coffee in hand―then flirt with all the tourist girls. On a bad day, he’d get winks and giggles. On a good day, he’d ditch me and strut away with a girl on each arm, ready to be their personal tour guide.

I tried my best not to be jealous. After all, it wasn’t Devon’s fault he was born a naturally muscular, racially ambiguous chick magnet. He couldn’t be blamed for that any more than I could be blamed for being a pale string bean with scrawny arms and plain brown hair. I wish I had been born with red hair. Then at least I could blame my pastiness on being a ginger.

I pulled a book out of my school bag. Just because I was lounging in Times Square with Devon didn’t mean I needed to watch his attempts at becoming the teen demigod of New York.

“Doing homework isn’t cool, Bry.” Devon slid the book away from me.

“Neither is failing history.”

“Failing is counterproductive,” Devon said, giving a slight nod to a passing woman.

“Aw come on, man.” I pulled the book onto my lap. “That one was pushing thirty.”

“And I just made her day.” Devon smiled, sinking back into his well-practiced casualness.

It took two hours for Devon to get his fill of smiling and winking. I finished all my homework before he decided he wasn’t going to get lucky that day.

“You know, no one makes you come with me,” Devon said as we walked home, interrupting me as I tried to keep my mind on watching for cars.

“Ah”―I shook my head―“but then when one of those out-of-towners you pick up turns out to be a―”

“Harpy?” Devon raised one black eyebrow.

“I was going to say serial killer,” I growled, “but harpy works fine. Mythical cause or not, if you go missing, I want to be able to identify which girl you wandered away with so I can help the cops find your body.”

“Thanks?”

“I want you to have a proper funeral.” I shrugged. “I mean, that’s what friends are for, right?”

“Make sure there’s plenty of girls crying around my casket, and you’ve got it covered.” Devon smacked me on the back and grinned as I failed to hide that he had made me stumble.

“Tomorrow is pizza and game night at Le Chateau?” Devon asked as we stopped at my door.

“Sure thing.” I put the outside door key in the lock. “See you in Chem.”

Devon waved goodnight and kept walking. Having a best friend that cool sucked. But when he’s your only real friend, you can’t be too picky.

The outside door banged shut behind me with its familiar creak. Before I could get out the key for the inside door, Mrs. Fortner, the super’s wife, waddled out, cramming herself into the tiny safety space between the corridor and the streets of Manhattan.

“Hello, Bryant,” she said in her thick accent as her giant boobs knocked into my arms. “Getting home late again? Your mama will worry.”

“She knew I was going to stay out,” I grunted as Mrs. Fortner squished me into the fake marble wall.

“Mamas always worry.” Mrs. Fortner pushed herself past me toward the exit.

I just managed to catch the inside door with my foot and scurried into the hall, escaping before Mrs. Fortner could pin me in for a talk on why mamas are always right.

The hallways smelled like the same stale Chinese food they had for the last thirteen years. It probably smelled like old takeout before that, too, but we hadn’t moved in until then, so I couldn’t say for sure.

I ran up the grooved stairs, which matched the fake marble walls, two at a time until I reached the top floor. A fifth floor walk-up might not seem too glamorous, but it was home. And at least my mom had always been able to make rent.

The door flew open as I reached the landing, and my mother’s head appeared. I inherited her dark brown eyes and brown hair. On her, the colors looked beautiful and gentle. On me, they looked like someone had spread dog poop on my head.

“Hey, Mom,” I called up, knowing exactly how the conversation would go. “School was good. Devon didn’t get murdered by a Scandinavian spy masquerading as a hottie tourist. Yes, I finished my homework, and whatever you already made for dinner sounds perfect.”

As soon as I reached the door, she pulled me into a hug, ruffling my hair. “Very funny, sir. And we need to get―”

“My hair cut. I know, Mom.” I walked through the door, tossing my bag onto the nearest chair, which scared Mrs. Mops, sending her skidding under the kitchen table crammed into the corner of the living room. The apartment smelled like lasagna and cake. My two favorite things. Not a good sign.

“Anything else fun or interesting happen today?” my mom asked as she crawled under the table to coo to the shaggy, gray, obese cat, comforting it after my faux pas.

I debated telling her about almost getting hit by another car. But I already had the daydreaming lecture memorized, so I didn’t really see the point.

It’s not that Mom thought daydreaming was bad. That would have been really rich coming from a lady sitting under a table talking to a cat. No, she believed in directed daydreaming, like writing books or drawing or being an actor. Things I’m not good at. I might have walked around thinking about dragons bursting into school and freeing all us helpless students from boredom, but I wasn’t going to go writing a book about it. I already had it bad enough. I didn’t need to be designated any more the artsy kid than I already had been. Especially since I don’t actually have any artistic talent.

I turned to go to my room.

“Oh, sweetie,” my mom said, at her most suspiciously casual, “I know you have a lot of schoolwork, but I volunteered you for the set crew for Pippin.”

“Mom, I hate―”

“Hate is a strong word, sir.” She slinked out from under the table and toward the oven. “Besides, you need to be more involved, and Elizabeth will be there, too. She’s in the show, so maybe you could talk to her, ask her out for coffee.”

“Not gonna happen, Mom.” I shook my head, stifling a sigh. “Never gonna happen.”

I walked into my room and closed the door behind me, resting my forehead against the cold, smooth wood.

I don’t know what’s worst―having a mom who runs the drama department at your school, having a mom who reads you well enough to know which girl you’ve been crushing on for the last three years, or having a mom who’s cool enough to try and set you up with said girl and delusional enough to think this beautiful and perfect girl would ever give you the time of day without the threat of a nuclear apocalypse looming over her head.

Whichever way it landed, I was going to be stuck holding a paint brush and trying not to look like a total a*s in front of Elizabeth.

“Why, why, why?” I groaned, punctuating each why with a thump of my forehead.

“Sweetie,” Mom’s gentle voice came from the living room, “if you bang your head against the door, you’ll end up with a flat forehead.”

“Thanks, Mom.”