The Geek's Guide to Wizarding Mastery

Chapter 4

4

To be honest with you, I didn’t actually think about the phone that night. By the time I got home and past the mom monster, I had completely forgotten about its existence. And I don’t mean like, Ahh! My mom sprouted tentacles from her head and tried to feed me to a God from the underworld! We’re still in the part of my life that was completely boring and normal. What I mean by mom monster is whenever I get home from Dad’s, Mom gets all clingy for the rest of the night. Like she needs to prove that even though she can’t dump ungodly amounts of money into my college fund in a questionable way, she still loves me and I should keep living with her in Hell’s Kitchen instead of moving to Central Park West. Not that living on Central Park West was ever really an option. I mean, I’m sixteen, but I’m still a minor. And it would kill my mom if I tried it.

So, I let her stuff me full of even more food and talk about all the things we used to do together when I was little and make plans for family bonding time for the weekend. Which in this case meant me painting sets for hours while she directed at the school. Not really my idea of fun, but whatever.

I didn’t really think about the phone again until the next day after school when I was elbow deep in a failed art project.

Our school had a giant set shop next to the stage, which was one of the big perks for our theater program. We used to have students build sets in school with like Stage Craft class and all that. And I really do mean all of that in past tense. The set shop is not so much there anymore. Unless you count a smoldering hole in the wall as a set shop. But at least it was a nice set shop while it lasted.

My mom was doing her thing with the students on stage. Elizabeth was the lead. I mean, of course she was. She was perfect and brilliant and freakishly talented… and perfect.

While I was reduced to painting a giant ring of fire onto a set piece, trying to make it look like the flames hadn’t been designed by a four-year-old. As I said before, I’m not good at painting.

Something weird was going on onstage. But I was too deep in my pre-school art to pay attention. I’d be watching the show all weekend anyway, so I didn’t really need to see a cleaning rehearsal.

Mom called a five, and soon I heard quiet crying and that firm yet comforting tone she always used with hysterical actors.

I swung around. Sure enough, in the far corner, Mom had her hands on Elizabeth’s shoulders, talking her off the ledge. Not a real one.

I turned back to my painting. Why did Elizabeth have to look so freaking appealing even when she cried? Not that I’d be caught dead staring. I mean, you don’t get much creepier than that. But what if there was something I could do? What if she needed money to pay a loan shark? I could find a way to outsmart the shark and corner him in an alley. I mean really, getting the money would probably be easier. But if I had to find a way to sneak into a loan shark's office under an overpass in the Meatpacking District―

A tap on my shoulder made me drop my brush, leaving a big splotch of orange in the middle of the red flames. I cursed, and Mom stage-whispered, “Bryant Jameson Adams, not in school.”

Fine, but did she have to use my full name?

“Sorry, Mom,” I said before noticing the still-soggy Elizabeth and immediately growing tongue-tied.

“Elizabeth, you know Bryant,” my mother said, not bothering to ask if I knew Elizabeth.

The girl of my dreams nodded. “Hey, Bryant.”

“Elizabeth is in your Pre-Calc class,” my mom said.

“Really?” I ran a hand through my hair, trying to play it cool, before realizing my hand was covered in orange paint, which was now in my hair.

“I sit next to you,” Elizabeth said. “I have all year.”

“Oh, right, yeah you do.”

My mom raised an eyebrow at me. “Elizabeth.” Mom gestured for her to step forward.

“So,” my one-and-only began, “your mom says you’re top of our math class.”

I shot my mom a quick glare. Why did she have to make me look like more of a geek than I already managed all on my own?

“I shouldn’t even be taking that class. I’m not a math person.” Elizabeth shook her head. “My dad made me do it. He said I couldn’t do art all the time. But I have a C in the class, and if I don’t get an A on the test on Tuesday, the school is going to pull me out of the show.”

“Oh.” I nodded.

Tears started to stream down Elizabeth’s cheeks again. “I’m trying, I really am, but I don’t get it. And your mom said maybe you could help?” Elizabeth’s porcelain face turned pink. “You could tutor me this weekend during tech?”

I gawked at her, wanting to say, Hell, I’ll take the test for you if it will make you smile at me. Or even, I promise I will find a way for you to ace that test. But she was standing there all pretty, and words seemed too hard.

“Bryant?” my mom said.

“Uhh, yeah.” I stumbled over the words. “I can help. Let me see your homework and tests and then I can figure out―”

“Thank you!” Elizabeth threw her arms around my neck. Her arms. Around my neck. Just to repeat for clarity.

“Take a minute, and then come back onstage,” Mom said quietly, winking as she walked away.

“You have no idea how much this show means to me,” Elizabeth sighed, stepping back.

I should have hugged her back, but I couldn’t figure out how arms were supposed to work, and my hands were covered in paint anyway.

“It’s okay.” I tried to sound as though spending time teaching her math wasn’t going to be the best thing that had ever happened in my life.

“Maybe we can meet right after rehearsal tonight?” she asked. “I mean, if you have time.”

“I can work it out,” I said.

Devon would just have to return the phone on his own. I didn’t think he would mind under the circumstances. But as soon as I thought about it, my pocket started to ring.

It wasn’t a normal ringtone. It sounded like a song I had never heard before but somehow knew the melody of. I froze for a minute. What if the vampire guy was calling his phone?

I pulled it from my pocket with my less painty hand.

But as soon as it saw the light, the ringing stopped.

“Sorry. I made you miss a call,” Elizabeth said.

“Not even my phone.” I pushed the button on the bottom to try and see the caller ID. But when I held my thumb to it, the phone unlocked.

“I thought you said it wasn’t your phone.” Elizabeth frowned.

“It’s not.”

I studied the home screen, trying to go to the missed calls section, but there was no phone icon. Or email icon. There were no weird little games with jewels or freaky llamas.

Only tiny little symbols I had never seen before. One looked like an old book, one like fire, a dragon, and some weird stuff I couldn’t begin to venture a guess on.

“Huh,” I muttered.

“What?” Elizabeth leaned over to look at the phone. Her hair smelled like sunshine.

“I, umm, the OS is weird.” I tapped the fire button, stupidly thinking it might be some sort of emergency call button. A picture of flames appeared on the screen, along with a level bar.

“Is it a game?” Elizabeth asked.

“Maybe.” I slid my finger along the bar, making it tip to one side. The flames started to crackle.

“Weird game,” Elizabeth said. “Is the phone making that smell?”

She was right. It had started to smell like smoke. And the crackling didn’t sound like it was coming from the phone. And it was getting hot. Really hot.

I looked down at the flat I had been painting with grade school style fire just in time to see it burst into real flames.

“Oh, God!” Elizabeth leapt back.

“It’s okay,” I shouted, sprinting for the fire extinguisher by the stage door and popping the pin like a boss. She stood behind me while I pointed the foam at the base of the flames, calmly sweeping the tube back and forth. It wasn’t as good as fighting a dragon, but it was almost like showing off. My years of battling my mother’s kitchen fires had finally come in handy.

The only problem was the fire wasn’t going out. It was like it was eating the foam, feeding on it to make itself grow.

“We need to get out.” I grabbed Elizabeth’s hand, towing her toward the stage and pulling the little fire lever on my way past. Instantly, red lights flashed and sirens started to beep.

“Everybody out!” I shouted over the din. “There’s a fire in the shop!”

People screamed, running for the door.

“Bryant! Come on!” Cool under literal fire, Mom herded students toward the door, ordering them to leave their bags. “Bryant, go!” She yanked on her stage manager, who was trying to save the lighting board, and dragged him toward the exit.

I pulled Elizabeth along, her hand clasped tightly in mine. Once we broke out onto the sidewalk, the sirens of the fire trucks blared at us as they sped toward the school.

But over the sirens and the screaming, I still heard Elizabeth when she turned to me with panic in her eyes.

“How?”