Thursday, November 17, 2022

New York, 1947

I sat at my desk, rolling a pen with my thumb and forefinger. Next to me, my little sister slept, cocooned in a quilt. I should be asleep too. Instead, I combed through my research paper, finding all the instances where I mentioned the Temporal Arts’ ability to de-age paper. 

I had only a few more sentences left to fix. Then all would be fine, and I would be admitted into the Society. 

So why did I feel like something inside me was suffocating?

I let out a soft sigh and pattered over to the closet. I fished behind a hat box until my fingers found what I wanted. I unfurled the tattered report card from fifth grade. 

I’d clutched this report card—all A’s—the night Father had left for good, but I hadn’t shown it to him for fear of his dark look. I didn’t realize it would be the last time I’d see him. He’d gone through cycles of disappearing and returning home for years before finally leaving for good. 

I still didn’t know the reason he left. Either Mother didn’t know herself, or she refused to tell me. All I remembered were the pockets of joy he brought while at home, showing me how to make shadow puppets with my hands or astounding me with his magic. And, of course, the dark gaps when he was gone. 

Magic bled from my fingertips, lightening the paper, darkening the ink, and making it look as new as the day it had first been handed to me. The same de-aging the Society wanted me to lie about. 

After Father left, it felt like my heart had been cleaved in two. I wished I could go back and show him that report card, show him that I’d improved my grades and gotten all A’s, just like he had wanted. 

I wished I could tell him that the Dickinson Society of New York Mages offered me a place in their ranks. 

Because then, just maybe, I’d be worth enough for him to stay. 

Tears slipped down my cheeks, and I pressed my lips together to keep from making a sound and waking my sister. I folded the piece of paper and plunged it back into the closet. 

That’s what this was all about. Not studying the Temporal Arts or making more for my family, though those were both things I wanted. This was about proving to myself that my father had been wrong to leave me. 

But no matter what I did, I’d still be the girl crouched over thick books in the library, reading Clark. L. Johnstone’s words and hoping that if she mastered them, she would matter enough for her father to come home. 

I dashed away the tears and returned to my desk. The partially “corrected” paper lay in a pile at the center. What if some other young girl read my paper, thinking she’d found a haven, only to be let down by lies?

Becoming a member in the society wouldn’t bring my father back.

I placed the cap back on my pen and turned out the light.