Magic in the Mix (7 page)

“Oh, Grandma,” Molly gasped. She stumbled toward the small figure, spilling words as she went. “Grandma, what am I supposed to—”

Grandma May took a step backward, lifting a
hand to ward Molly off. “Don't!” she cried. “Don't come in!”

But it was too late. Miri and Molly were already stepping over the threshold when they heard her words. There was a shudder, as though every dimension that held them turned, individually, in a separate direction. “Grandma!” Molly cried, straining to reach her grandmother's hand. “No! Not yet!”

“Well, okay, if you say so,” said Mom. She stopped in the hall, a laundry basket in her hands, eyeing her daughters questioningly. “But the boys got fake blood all over their jeans, so I'm doing a load.” She glanced at the kitten in Miri's arms. “You fed her, didn't you?”

Miri looked down, surprised. She didn't know how or when she'd managed to pick up Cookie. She nodded.

Her mother frowned. “Are you all right? You both look a little pale.”

“We're fine,” croaked Miri. She cleared her throat. “We're great.”

Molly nodded woodenly.

Mom wasn't satisfied. “You sound hoarse, too,” she said. “Do you want some tea?”

“Sure. Tea,” Miri said, and her mother went toward the kitchen. Without a word, Molly backed up to the wall and slid downward. Miri watched her in silence. After a moment, she set Cookie into her sister's lap and watched as the kitten kneaded Molly's leg into a suitable resting place. Molly stared straight ahead, unmoving.

Miri let out a long breath. “That was your dad, wasn't it?”

Molly nodded.

“And then there was this other guy, he was all olden—” Ray paused to swallow, and Robbie took over enthusiastically.

“And he says something all heroic, like ‘Victory or heaven awaits us, boys!' and then we're supposed to run across the field after him.”

“I did!” said Ray through a huge wad of pasta.

“So did I,” protested Robbie.

“
Pssht
,” sneered Ray. “You were like, ‘After
you
, my dear Alphonse.' And—oh, man”—he turned gleefully to their father—“did you see the guy who got blown up?”

Miri looked up from her plate. “For real?”

Ray rolled his eyes. “Don't be derpy. It was a
reenactment! Duh! But he had blood pellets or something, and, whoa, it looked like half his brains were falling out!”

Mom glanced worriedly at Nell and Nora. “Did you learn
any
history at all?” she asked.

Robbie looked at Ray and frowned. “It was the Battle of Cedar Creek,” he said. “Right?”

“Sheridan,” mumbled Molly without knowing she had done so.

Her brothers turned on her, outraged. “How do you know that?” demanded Ray.

She looked up, startled. “What? Oh. I was guessing. Am I right?”

Robbie scowled at her, and, not to be entirely upstaged, Ray added, “Mr. Emory was him. General Sheridan. He rode a horse and everything, and when this other guy said we had to retreat, he came up with his sword out and totally screamed”—Ray's screech made them all jump—“‘If you love your country, come up to the front! Come up to the front, dammit!'” He grinned at his mother. “Hey, it's historic swearing.”

Robbie guffawed. “Yeah, there was this guy, he said this one I never heard before—”

“That's not exactly the kind of history I was hoping for,” interrupted their mother. “What happened after Mr. Emory screamed?”

“Oh,” said Ray with his mouth full, “we turned around and ran back and fought the gray guys.”

“You didn't fight for real, did you?” asked Miri. It sounded terrible, this reenactment thing.

Robbie shook his head. “Mostly we'd sort of run at each other and then a gray guy would say, ‘I got you, you're dead,' and I'd say ‘No way,' and run in the other direction.”

“But anyway,” continued Ray. “We won.”

“Mommy got us ice cream,” said Nell.

“Mr. Emory said we could keep the uniforms until next week. There's another one next Saturday,” said Ray.

Mom and Dad exchanged looks. “You liked it that much?” asked Dad.

“Sure,” said Ray. “It's hecka fun.”

“Why?” asked Mom.

“It's like a video game,” he explained.

Steamy and flushed from her shower, Miri came into the bedroom she shared with Molly. It was small,
their room, and cozy, wallpapered with a pattern of pink roses. Molly and Miri had decided, at the beginning of their twinhood, that they were going to be neat and tidy. They were going to put things away where they belonged. They were going to be organized and artistic at the same time. Their room was going to look like a magazine room. That had lasted about a week and a half. It was funny, Miri thought. Most people, if they had to bet, would guess that she, Miri, the dreamier, less practical one, would be the messier of the two. But she wasn't. Miri liked to make arrangements and setups. Her collection of sea glass, for instance, was laid out in a spiral of colors: green, white, brown, blue, and, at the center, the extremely rare red. It glowed in the light, and the prettiness of it made Miri happy. Molly cared less about how things looked. Every once in a while, she would go on an organizing spree, but most of the time, she was focused on completing projects, on getting things done, and if that meant sweeping everything from the desk onto the floor to make more room, that was what she would do.

Now, standing at her dresser, Miri absently put some hair clips back into their tiny drawer and gave Molly a quick sideways glance. There she was, at the
desk, bent over a book. Homework. Miri got into her pj's and brushed her hair. Putting on her glasses, she leaned into the mirror, fingering the rhododendron scrape on her forehead. It was long and crooked and purplish. It would be a great scar, Miri thought. She could say she'd received it in a duel. “Hey, Molly, you think I'm going to get a scar?”

Molly twitched. “What?”

“Sorry,” said Miri, subdued. “Never mind.” She watched Molly's reflection, her stillness, her unblinking eyes. Slowly, Miri continued to brush her hair, watching. Molly didn't move. “What homework are you doing?” she asked.

“What? Oh. Math,” said Molly.

Miri frowned. “Pretty weird that you've got your Spanish book in front of you then.”

Molly looked down at her book. “Oh.”

There was a long silence.

Miri tried again. “How'd you know about that Meridan guy?”

After a moment, Molly frowned. “What?”

“That guy. Come up if you love your country,” said Miri. “The general. You know.”

“Sheridan,” said Molly, still not looking up. “It's
from before. The Civil War was still a big deal in 1935. Everyone knew that stuff. There were still people around who'd been in it.”

Ugh. Before. So much for changing the subject. Miri decided to go for it, “Molly, what're you thinking? I mean, I know you're worrying, because—because I know, but there's nothing you can
do
.” She frowned at the back of Molly's head. “Even if we could go back, through the kitchen door like today, what would you do? I mean, there's no way for you to stop it or fix—” She broke off. It occurred to her that there
was
one way to fix it. Maudie would remain alive if Molly were never born. Miri glanced incredulously at the back of Molly's head. “You're not thinking that you shouldn't be born, are you?”

Molly shifted in her chair.

“Molly, that's totally crazy. You can't stop yourself from existing, because you
do
exist, so you have to exist.” Miri realized she was arguing herself into a corner, but she kept going. “You can't just subtract yourself from the world. You're already here!”

Molly said softly, “I wasn't always here. You know that. I was added. I could be subtracted.”

“No, you couldn't!”

“Magic is just a way of setting things right,” Molly continued as if Miri hadn't spoken. “Why would magic have sent us back to 1918 today unless I'm supposed to save Maudie?”

“That wouldn't be setting anything right!” Miri yelled. “That wouldn't make anything better! That would make things a lot, lot worse!”

“Not for Maudie. Not for my dad,” said Molly.

“What're you going to do, kidnap her and take her away so she never meets him?” Molly looked quickly away, out the window, and Miri realized that her guess had come fairly close to the truth. “You can't! That's crazy!” she snapped, rubbing at the tears that were leaking out from under her glasses.

Molly turned to look at her, and Miri saw her bite her lip. “I guess you're right,” she said. “You're probably right. It's a stupid idea.” She blinked. “Don't worry about it.”

Miri swiped at her cheeks angrily. “Don't worry about it, she says. Don't worry that you want to go back in time and stop yourself from being born. Okay, I won't worry about it. I'll just think about other important things like, like”—she looked
around the room wildly—“like where my pink socks are, because I really, really care about my pink socks!” She was ranting—she knew she was, but she couldn't seem to stop.

“They're under your mattress.”

“No, they aren't!” huffed Miri.

“Yes, they are. I've been looking at them for weeks,” Molly said.

“Well! You should have told me!” yelled Miri. She marched to the bunk bed and haughtily reached under her mattress. Just as Molly said, her socks were wedged between the mattress and the boards that held her bunk up. “
Humph!
” she sniffed, yanking them out.

“Don't be mad,” Molly begged. “Come on, Miri, please?”

Miri paused uncertainly. She knew she was only mad so she wouldn't have to be sad and scared. She glanced at her sister. “You're not going to do it, right?”

Molly shook her head. “It was a stupid idea,” she repeated.

Miri peered at her. She couldn't tell whether Molly was telling the truth or saying what she thought Miri wanted to hear. It was unlike Molly to change
her mind so easily, to be so un-stubborn. “Molly,” she began, “come on. Tell me. What are you going to do?”

Molly's eyes slid away from hers. “I told you. I'm not going to do anything.” There was a pause. “Let's just go to bed.”

Miri watched her, feeling excluded. It was a feeling she knew well; it was what she'd felt before, for years, when she was the sole only between two sets of twins. It was hungry, this feeling, and it hurt, and she had been free of it since Molly had come to live in her time. But here it was again: the lonely feeling of caring more than the other person did. “Fine,” she said slowly.

“It's been a long day,” Molly said, turning away.

At the beginning of it, I was happy, thought Miri. I thought we both were. But maybe it was just me. She didn't say it. In silence, she climbed the ladder to her bed and turned off the light. In the dark, she craned her neck to find the moon in the round window. It wasn't there. “We can switch bunks if you want,” Miri offered. “It's okay with me.”

Molly's voice came after a moment. “That's all right,” she said. “It's fine the way it is.”

“Okay. If you're sure,” said Miri. She stared into the empty black, wishing, for the first time in her life, that there were no such thing as magic.

Unsleeping. That's what it should be called, Miri thought. Unsleeping—when your mind refuses to stop thinking. Beneath her came the sound of Molly shifting restlessly. Unsleeping.

Kicking free of her hot sheets, Miri found her glasses and looked at the clock. It was only eleven thirty. So many hours to go.

Below, Molly's bed creaked as she sat up. “I can't sleep,” she said.

“Me neither.”

“I'm going to go find Mom.”

“Me too.”

They slid out of bed and went down their narrow stairway. The big house was quiet, but reassuring lamplight glowed in the living room. Their mother looked up from her book as they entered. “Can't sleep?”