Chapter 2: Chapter 2

The magic shop was a few blocks from where I'd seen the fight. Walking there had given me tunnel vision, though I wasn't in denial of the possibility that the policewoman had actually done a number on me.

Still, I was outside the shop, pacing back and forth from across the street, probably looking like a madman, so I stopped and stared.

A swinging sign hung over the door, almost like there would be an old tavern, with the name Misty’s Magical Menagerie curved over a magical blue spark. 

The front window shelves were filled with so much stuff I couldn't see inside, and when I got closer, I saw rows of magical things—hats and clothing. Regular practical magic stuff, like magic cards, which just looked normal, but I was under no assumption of it.

And in the bottom corner, a selection of vintage games. Playstation 3 ones next to the SNES—as if they were from the same era.

It made me feel old. I remembered playing Metal Gear Solid 4 when it came out, and there it was. Vintage.

I opened the door to a ding and found the room smelling of herbs and dust and a faintly odd electrical smell. There was a warmth to it too. 

Is that the smell of magic, I wondered, or is this place in serious need of an inspection?

Rows of stuff lined the walls, much as it did the window. They went way higher than I expected. There were sweets in one row. Magical gobstoppers that never stopped stopping, whatever that meant.

There was an ‘endless’ banana that grows bigger the more you bite it, ‘perfect for a bachelorette party!’. There was also a row of books, all vintage looking, with the clear sign below it: Sorry, Chosen only. 

A long ladder ran across it like the library in Beauty and The Beast. Below the counter was a glass case full of extremely rare video games. Some were Japanese imports, and some were still in their packaging. 

Behind the counter, nobody was to be seen. So I whistled and looked around some more. On the other side of the wall was a bunch of clothing accessories. Watches, suspenders, all the stuff wizards liked to wear.

As I was browsing, I looked up at a reflective mirror in the corner of the room, which pointed to the counter showing behind it. A woman was sitting, looking up from her Gameboy, scowling at me.

Her eyes looking up like that, distorted in the circular mirror, gave me a bit of a fright.

"Hey," I said, walking forward to the counter.

She sat up a bit, and her no longer distorted face gave me a different kind of fright with her black lipstick. At her neck, a white collar folded over a black crop top sweater, revealing her toned—yet slightly chubby, because she was sitting down—belly.

It was cute, but I tried not to stare too much. Considering the daggers this girl was giving me, I thought she might rip my eyes out.

Speaking of eyes, hers were striking. They were insanely reflective of everything in the room, like mirrors. It gave the impression of white, then purple, then adding hints of bright yellow—

"Yes?" She interrupted my thought in a monotone voice, telling me I was bothering her. 

I put my hands in my pockets and walked to the video game section. 

"You know," I said, "when I heard you sold video games, I wondered why, because most game shops closed down because of the internet. Now I see you got all this awesome vintage stuff." I picked up TMNT for the NES and whistled again. "Been a while since I played this."

"Mmhmm," she said, picking up her Gameboy again and turning the sound up as if it would drown out my annoying her.

"You know," I said, "I completed the water level."

I was trying to goad her into saying something like, 'Bs, no, you didn't. Nobody did.'

Instead, she said, "That's lovely. Are you gonna buy it?" 

I put it down.

"Good," she said.

"I might've," I replied. "Is this how you talk to all your customers?"

"Only the ones who aren't here to buy something. I've got a boyfriend, you know."

I chuckled. 

She was perceptive, but not clairvoyant. 

I was stalling, though. The more I avoided bringing up my reason for being there, the more I avoided the crushing disappointment.

"I'm not here to pick up girls," I said.

She scoffed, wiping her ebony black hair behind her ear.

"I figured you were a pickup artist. I guess gaslighting is part of the process now."

She did turn the music down on her Gameboy, so I thought that was progress.

I tried not to roll my eyes at her usage of the term gaslighting, firstly because it was a key indicator that she was one of those people—difficult. Though I didn't need to be Sherlock to have already figured that out.

Secondly, because:

"Lying isn't gaslighting," I said. "You can't just throw around words meaninglessly, and besides—" I paused to see her raised eyebrows as she placed her Gameboy down and sat forward to stare at me.

"Besides?" she challenged me.

"Pick-up artists tend to dress like that, don't they?" I indicated all the Victorian stuff on the wall. "They don't dress like...'' I was going to bring up my casual clothes, but then I realized I was in my interview clothes, and they were disheveled. 

Maybe she thought having the blazer folded over my arm was a part of the getup. My flair. 

"If you're gonna keep doing that," she said, picking up the Gameboy, "I'm gonna ask you to leave."

"Doing what?" 

"Not finishing your sentences. Is it some tactic to make me hang on your every word? It's not working."

"So..." I tested, "if I stop doing it, you'll let me stay."

She grunted, "No, go away," and turned the sound up on her Gameboy again. 

Just ask about the magic test, you idiot, I scolded myself. Get it over with.

The nerves overwhelmed me so much that I found teasing the ice queen a much more attractive endeavor.

"So, do you like The Smiths?"

"Are you for real?" she snapped. "Are you trying to have some 500 Days of Summer moment with me? So what if we both like The Smiths? That doesn't mean we're soulmates. Did you seriously not notice the whole point of the movie?"

I said nothing, turning away to the games again. She had both Sonic 3 and Sonic and Knuckles cartridges, which could be attached to make it a new game. Warm memories flooded me of playing it as a kid.

"Besides, you probably still like Morrissey," she said. 

"Pfft," I said. "Johnny Marr all the way." 

I had barely listened to The Smiths. I hadn't listened to Johnny Marr's music at all. I preferred American music mostly. I did know people thought very well of Marr, though. 

"Hmm," she said, this time a bit more inquisitive. 

Aside from her rough exterior, I thought she was probably bored as hell and enjoyed the distraction from monotony, even if I was annoying. 

I knew a thing or two about retail monotony.

Quickly, I pulled out my phone and searched: Johnny Marr news.

Subtly as I could, I drew from the first headline to say, "I watched The Killers play This Charming Man with Marr the other day," I said. "You know, I'm not much into them, but the singer really nailed that song. They ain't easy to sing." 

"Yeah," she said—neither positively nor negatively. 

From her, it was probably akin to a smile. 

This was it, I thought. I’ve won her over. Now is the perfect time.

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"Listen, Misty, was it?"

Instantly, she squinted at me, seeing through my efforts.

I paused.

"Out with it," she spat, black-lipsticked mouth snarling.

"I didn't come here to talk about videogames," I said, "or The Smiths."

She tapped a black fingernail against the desk, cocking her head in annoyance. 

"I..." I hesitated. 

Nerves flooded me. It was maybe the most-nerve racked I'd ever felt, like when trying to hit on girls when I was younger, only times a thousand.

"I want to get tested," I said.

"Clinic’s that way," she replied instantly. "Though I can happily give you something to ease the itching. My stuff is cheaper than a prescription."

"No, magic! I want to get tested for magic."

She raised her eyebrows and stood up, putting both hands on her hips. I tried not to look at the piercing in her belly button nor how her tight black jean shorts hugged her generous hips. 

"That’s not funny," she said. "Though, the idea of you in an undersized school uniform is hilarious."

The academy didn’t even start teaching you until you were eighteen. They just tested you once you hit puberty. Still, I liked her joke.

"Glasses and all," I replied. 

She laughed up to the ceiling, though it was mocking. "I knew you were a pickup artist."

"How does trying to hit on a girl make me a pickup artist? Maybe I just thought you were cute."

She looked me up and down. "You're a square. Guys like you don’t go for girls like me. Oh, I get it!"

"Do you, now?"

"Yeah," she said. "You were some jock asshole. Picked on all the nerds, emos, and such while secretly jacking off to your fetish-fantasy about the goth girl. And now? You're projecting that on me and want to live it out for real, now that your football friends can't mock you for it."

"You couldn’t be more wrong," I said. 

About all of it, in fact. I was never a jock. I only had my growth spurt later in teenagehood. 

I continued, "For one thing. How would I know all that stuff about games if I was?"

"Probably because…" She hesitated.

"You're the one prescribing outdated tropes. You get all that from John Hughes movies, or what?"

"So, you were a jock that played video games," she replied. "Not that outlandish."

I took a step forward. "Test me for magic."

"No," she said, crossing her arms and looking away.

"Why not?"

"You can go to the academy for that."

"I don’t want to go to the academy."

"Why?"

"Fuck the academy."

At that, she turned her head back and squinted at me. "Sounds like something a narc would say."

"The academy," I began, taking a breath, "is full of try-hard weirdos who all think they’re cool with their dumb clothing and crappy quips between attacks. Fuck the academy."

"Still sound like a narc. What’s next? Gonna ask if I know a cool place to score some weeds, maaaan?"

"And you sound like a shut-in that gets all her life information from movies. Nobody says narc anymore."

She crossed her arms. "That's rude."

Admittedly, it was, but it wasn't as bad as some of the stuff she had said to me. Still, I had been the one to disturb her.

"Fuck the academy," I repeated. "They rejected me when I was a kid, and...I just think they might've been wrong."

"How? Why would they reject you if you could do magic? Were you this much of an asshole then too?"

It was a sensitive subject. She could insult me all she wanted before, but that little vulnerability I had displayed made me feel wide open. I didn't feel like playing this game anymore.

"Look, I didn't mean to disturb you. You've got an awesome shop. I just..." I reached into my blazer pocket—a last-ditch effort. 

I leaned on the counter to write my number.

"I told you," she said, "I've got a boyfriend."

I doubted it.

"I'm not trying to pick you up," I replied. "I'm going to leave you be. But if you, I don't know, manage to figure out a way to test me—" 

Suddenly, a flash of sparks damn near singed my eyelashes off. 

I took a step back, my heart racing.

The sparks reflected in her eyes, making her look like a mad woman as the edges of her hair began to stand on edge.

"Get out," she said. "I'm not falling for it. You're obviously a secret agent trying to get me to slip up."

Threatening an Unchosen with magic was probably as much of a crime as testing me for it. 

And I didn't dare ask, Am I a pick-up artist or a secret agent? Which one is it, then?

"I just want to get tested," I said, determined as I stepped forward towards the sparks.

They angrily grew in her hand, wild and untamed. It turned from white to hot pink. I'd never been so scared of pink before, especially as it contrasted crazily with the black of her attire.

"Test me," I said, my heart trying to beat out of my chest. I could already feel the hairs on my arm standing up as goose pimples spread all over them.

"You’ve tested my patience long enough," she replied. "Get out."

The fury in her eyes was absolute, and I didn't want to test it. 

I had already come afoul of one magic woman today.

I had gotten my answer, so I made to leave, not before taking one look backward to see her picking up the note with my number on it, scrunching it up, and throwing it presumably to a waste paper bin. 

The door jingled on my exit.

The sky was gloomier than it had ever been.

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