Page 73 of Echoes of the Banshee

“That’s how you knew,” he says and then scoops up the last bite.

“Next year bring more friends,” I supply helpfully.

“Or buy a smaller cake!” Mavrik protests.

“Where’s the fun in that.” Zair smiles then slowly bends down and grabs something from his backpack, a bag from the student store.

Mavrik’s jaw is slack as he opens the bag and pulls out a school brand athletic set. By the look on Mavrik’s face you’d think it was custom made for him.

When I present my own poorly wrapped gift he tightens his hand on the shirt before accepting it with shaky hands. A graphing calculator.

“Thank you both so much. Truly.”

“Happy birthday Mavrik.”

Zair

I Saw the Spine, and It Opened Up My Eyes

I’m beyond full as I lay in my bed. I know I’m going to regret the half a cake I ate during my game tomorrow. Thea told me she’d come watch me play. I need to be rested if I’m going to impress her.

Soccer wouldn’t impress her.

Footsteps I recognize sound in the hallway and I hope they’re going across the hall, but no. They knock. I ignore it. They knock again.

“I can smell that you’re in there,” Dylan calls through the door.

“That’s creepy,” I call back. Slowly, I climb out of bed and unlock the door. Benson and Dylan come inside and shut it behind them as they sit down.

“You’re not answering your phone,” Benson says.

“What if I was with someone?” I challenge.

“You don’t have sex the night before matches,” Dylan points out. “And I smelled for Thea on the stairs.”

“I’m not sleeping with Thea,” I tell them pointedly.

“Why not?” Dylan asks taking a seat on my desk. “And don’t give me your BS I don’t touch witches lie, because you touch her.”

He wouldn’t understand.

“I don’t like her.” My chest tightens painfully at the lie.

“I smell bullshit,” Dylan jokes. “You ditched the party to study with her.”

“Actually we ate an entire birthday cake.” I smile at the memory and pat my bulging stomach proudly. “You guys like Thea, right?”

“We would be having a different intervention if we didn’t.”

“But you’re not attracted to her.”

“You don’t like her because she isn’t pretty enough?” Benson asks, appalled. I said that wrong. But whatever.

“She’s plenty pretty for the right guy,” I tell them. “But that’s not me.”

As much as I wish that it was.

“You witches are seriously shallow,” Benson snaps. “Rejecting a woman because she isn’t the most beautiful woman in the world.”