No. Not now. I take a few deep breaths.
“Are you all right?” he asks, his voice full of a particular kind of masculine concern. Not paternal and certainly not brotherly, but somethin’ I know I’d never feel from another girl.
No. Honestly, I am not all right. Sometimes—some very unlucky times—I get these special headaches.
Everybody gets a headache once in a while. You just take an aspirin or two and go about your business. Not these kinda headaches. They’re rare, but they’re bad news. Part of me not bein’ normal is my ability to do strange things. Like make the ground shake or knock down an oak tree on unsuspecting bigots. For some cockeyed reason they call it Jubilation. It ain’t the typical kinda jubilation, though. Not the definition you’d find in Webster’s. It’s a catchall word for the spooky magic shit that runs in my family. The headaches are almost like a warning bell that lets me know I’m about to do something dramatic. Something I probably can’t control and probably won’t remember.
Took me forever to figure out what brings ’em on. I think I finally know. Fear, anger, and desire. Sounds simple, right? Sounds like if I know that much, I oughta be able to prevent ’em, right? I wish.
Typically, this is how it goes: the pain starts behind my eyes, then gradually moves to the base of my skull, and then… then I black out. And time passes like I’ve been in a coma, but in a coma where my body does things that my mind chooses to hide from me.
The first time it got dangerous, I was just about to turn twelve. I scratched this girl’s face so hard she bled. This is what I’ve been told. I have no memory of ever doing such a thing. I did see dried blood under my nails later on, so it must’ve happened. I came outta my daze in the church basement alone with my mother, and that’s when she informed me that puberty would mean a helluva lot more for me than the birds and the damn bees.
But it’s not a hopeless plight. When a bad headache starts, there are two ways I can prevent a blackout. 1) I can nullify it by forcing my mind to focus all of its attention on neutral images. A tomato plant. Hanging laundry. A pair of scissors. Or 2) when it’s too far gone for neutralizing, if I make myself vomit, it goes away. I hope number one works, cuz I certainly can’t do number two right now.
In the midst of my anxiety, somethin’ troubling has just occurred to me. With the Pritchards and that fallin’ tree? Not only did the headache come so fast I didn’t have time to react to it, I was conscious the entire time. I think my powers are evolving, and I can’t imagine that’s a good thing.
“Evvie? You need to sit down?” Clay asks.
I catch sight of the grill and think to myself, Grill. Charcoal. Metal. Spatula. Grill. Tryin’ like hell to go neutral. I start to feel like I’m fading and know my time is running out. I take a step backward, preparing to run, but Clay holds me steady, pulling me even closer, and I’m terrified I’m about to throw up all over him. But I get lost in those eyes of his, and something changes in me. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he squeezes me a little tighter.
And I don’t puke. I don’t black out. I’m here and present, and I feel good.
At that moment a large ball of flame erupts from the grill up into the air with a loud roar. A few people scream and holler, and then it’s gone in a blink. Everybody blames Leon cuz he was the one closest to it when it blew, and he swears he didn’t do a thing. Anne Marie throws salt over the hot coals. Bernadette informs her that baking soda is best, and they bicker about it, but there’s nothing left for them to fight over. All that remains is a shallow flame. I laugh to myself, nervously. I know I did that, and I know it could’ve been a lot worse.
“This party’s goin’ bananas,” Clay jokes.
I look up at him, and despite the chaos around us, we share our own secret laugh. My headache’s gone. I wonder if Clay has something to do with that.
Fear, anger, desire. Maybe cuz my desire has a real flesh-and-blood destination right now that makes me stronger. Wish I could ask Grammie Atti. She’d know, but she and Mama aren’t speakin’, and I don’t think she’s ever liked me much anyway. Don’t help that she’s terrifying.
“What you thinkin’?” Clay asks.
I smile at him and shake my head. “Nothin’ really. Just enjoyin’ the song.”
We start to sway at the same moment. I ignore the perspiration making our skins stick together and focus on the lyric that tells the truth: I only have eyes for him. I lean into his upper chest. Now he takes a breath, a short breath, like he can’t quite keep up with his own breathing. I feel his heart beating like a baby bird’s against my cheek. And I ain’t worried about accidental magic. I ain’t worried about a thing. Everything is fine. Everything is perfect.
3
Juneteenth
LATER IT’S JUST A FEW of us left. The sun’s been down for ages, and we sit around shootin’ the shit. Because he’s got class, Clay’s next to me, but not with his arm around me, tryna show off or nothin’. A few times he brushes my hand by “accident.” The third time he does it, we look at each other, and he raises an eyebrow. I just grin and turn my attention back to whoever’s talking at the moment. That’s about when
