The routine continued through the next two and a half weeks before the start of school.

Magic agreed to continue practicing his schedule at earlier hours of the day to avoid running into the children. Word of their travels to the school spread fast; Mira recognized several of her peers taunting them from their porches or throwing sticks in their direction—which she retaliated by picking up stones and launching them back. Satisfaction buzzed in her veins watching the other high schoolers scatter like birds at the sight of a rock flying at them.

As if in response to their troubles, Chrome had been blessed with a week’s worth of rain. It was much appreciated considering the dry season and it had been far too long since a rainstorm had washed away the savage heat and replaced it with something far more bearable.

On those days, she entertained her brother by splashing grainy water and mud in his direction, inviting him to do so back. Magic rarely entertained her antics; he was always perfectly content to watch her flounder about and make a fool of herself, even when they were younger. But when her brother picked up a mound of mud once during the storm and hurled it at her shoulder, Mira went home that day with her coat and hair dirtied with mire and a grin on her face at the expense of her father’s near heart attack from the shock of it.

She could only imagine what Amelia’s reaction was to her son coming home with a similar earthy feature to his clothes.

The trips to the school started off with a confident streak after that. Magic stood a little straighter, finally surpassing Mira in height with his slouch less pronounced. But when the days counted down from August to September and the weather began to shift to a more bitter chill, Magic reverted to silence. She found herself taking up the bulk of the conversation during their walk while his fidgeting and temper were worse than she’d seen them in weeks.

Once, she recalled knocking on his front door only to find him red-eyed, puffy-faced, and irritable. He’d shoved past her, slamming the door behind him, effectively cutting off the chatter she assumed was coming from Amelia. It was rare to see him this frustrated with his mother for him to walk out in the middle of her speaking, but what drew Mira’s attention the most wasn’t his attitude—she was used to his moods. It was the limp in his right leg, the freshly wrapped gauze around his palms.

“What happened?” she’d asked, her pace slow to keep up with and allow him space. “You look like you hurt yourself.”

“Nothing,” he’d replied, his voice a snarl.

“If that’s what you want me to believe.”

“I don’t want to talk about it—I can’t talk about it. I don’t know how. Just don’t ask me anything, Mirabellis, please I really just … I’m tired.”

Normally, she would’ve pressed. Would’ve prodded and poked an answer out of him through the use of her many questions. But the plea in Magic’s eyes was enough to stop her in her tracks and, instead, only offer the availability of her assistance.

To her relief, Mabel’s presence provided a good outlet for Magic when they arrived at the school each morning. The tabby allowed herself to be cradled and doted on, crawling into their laps and offering a buffer between fear and anxiety provided the two of them fed her first.

Mira considered telling her brother that they should get the tabby approved by the school board as a form of support to keep him calm throughout his classes until it occurred to her that Magic would blatantly refuse the offer out of fear of being a larger target. Then, there was the matter of the cat herself; Mira couldn’t count on Mabel, a stray cat, to sit still for an entire school day and not get him in trouble by hissing or clawing at other students.

She was capable of trusting many things.

The tabby was not one of them.

But her friends were.

Four days before the start of the school year, Mira got a hold of three very specific people. Her two friends, Janie and Thalia who she’d known since elementary school, and Calliope, a girl she’d known since her freshman year. With each, she briefed them on Magic’s presence—which they knew about already—as well as his schedule and teachers before making one simple request: helping to keep him safe throughout the school year.

Janie had agreed with little questions asked (even through her skepticism), Thalia had a strange number of them (Mira wasn’t shocked), and Callie vaguely acknowledged the request (which irritated her beyond belief), but with this, she still had decent hopes for the start of the year.

Mira rose early that first day, messy bed hastily made and her backpack already prepped from the night before. Using the dull orange light from the street lamps near her window, she eyed her outfit in the mirror, blue sweater and neatly pressed denim jeans, while she scrunched her curls so that they sat neatly at her shoulders.

She kicked on her shoes, tapping the toes of her right foot against the carpet of her room.

You will succeed, she told herself in the mirror. By any means necessary.

Her father was tossing pans onto the marble counter by the time she got down the stairs and onto the main level. The sun still hadn’t gotten anywhere close to rising, and there was still time left before her departure, so she twirled on her toes and grabbed her apron.

Benji raised a brow, tossing a slab of dough on the kitchen island. “You’re up early,” he said with a barely contained yawn. “What’s the occasion?”

“School,” she replied, tying the cloth around her waist. “Figured I’d rise before dawn. Hype myself up about it—and since I’m up early, I figured I’d help you roll some dough.”

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

A laugh sounded from behind her. “Ah,” he said. “I see.” Mira glanced at him from over her shoulder to watch him look up at her. The bread dough he was molding was coated in flour. In fact, Benji’s entire apron was dirtied with the stuff and it speckled parts of his face and glasses. “I take it you’re ready for your last first day of school in this town ever?”

“Don’t say it like that.” Mira picked up a slab of dough from beneath the counter, cool and sticky beneath her palms. Dribbling it back and forth, she plopped it onto the marble with a satisfying thud. “When you say it like that it sounds less exciting.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you hated school.”

“I do. Sometimes. But I’m trying to make it sound better than it is because I damn well know I won’t want to repeat this year twice.”

“You won’t? Or Magic?”

“I don’t think Magic wants to relieve any part of his life where he’s surrounded by people. I think he’d rather curl up in a hole somewhere. Can you get me a half a cup of water, Dad? I think I used too much flour with the dough.”

Benji ran the tap behind her. Mira turned as her father tossed a used towel over his shoulder, wiping sweat from his brow and walked in her direction with the filled measuring cup. He looked a lot older than forty-three when he was covered in flour that accentuated his crow’s feet and the creases in his forehead. Had it not been for the brightness in his blue and brown eyes, Mira would’ve pinned him for being much older.

He pressed a small kiss to the top of her head. “Let me take care of the dough, Bella,” he said, handling the dough. “You’ve done more than your fair share for the morning.”

Mira gaped at him, indignant. “Am I not doing enough with the dough? It’s the flour, isn’t it? Should I have rolled it out more before I—”

“No, no, Bella, it’s not about the bread. Heavens, the fact that you even managed to roll out one lump of dough is good enough. It’s more about the fact that you should be worried about getting your materials ready for school.”

“Ah. That.”

“Yes. That.”

“I’m already packed, though. I did it before I went to bed.”

Benji picked up the paste from the counter, stretching it into a long, snake-like shape. “Why so early? Class doesn’t start until seven-thirty.”

“I know that. It isn’t me that I’m benefitting by getting there that early.”

Her father paused with a raised brow. Using his arm, Benji pushed the thick, rectangular glasses higher up his nose, rubbing at his skin. The silence was unnerving her and even as her father took the rolled dough and slid it into the brick oven, metal scraping against stone, Mira felt the weight of it settle on her shoulders and in her chest. “Does he know?” Benji finally asked. “About the early wake time?”

“He should. I mentioned it a few days ago and I was going to remind him yesterday, but …” Her voice softened, a curl twirling anxiously around one of her flour-coated fingers. Magic hadn’t answered a single phone call in days. Neither had his mother. The lack of communication was enough to drive her mad and she wondered, silently, if her brother had backed out of everything altogether.

Mira looked for consolation in her father’s eyes, but the squint in them affirmed that he had similar concerns—concerns that neither of them had the confidence to speak into existence. For once, she wished Benji would lie to her. Give her some kind of hope that, maybe, she was overreacting. Overthinking about something that couldn’t possibly go wrong.

“Right,” was all he said, wiping his hands on the towel. Then, he tossed the rag down, draping it over the display cases. “If that’s the case, you may want to get walking now in case he didn’t get the memo. Just make sure you change your outfit before you leave.”

Mira unraveled the apron’s tie, one hand resting on the hanger. “Why? My outfit’s fine. It’ll keep me warm while it’s dark out.”

“Not what I was talking about.”

“Dad, it’s fine, I promise—”

“Is it?” he challenged.

“It is,” she affirmed.

“Have you looked at the mess you made of it?”

Before Mira came down the steps, primed and ready for the day, her outfit had been meticulously washed, dried, and pressed with not a single crease or spec of dirt on it. The sweater was a gift from her Aunt Melina during the Light Festival this year, fresh off the market from the capital and all the rage for girls her age. Mira cherished the clothes; she wore it for every important occasion that required her to dress up.

Now she looked as though she’d stepped into a blizzard.

Flour dusted every inch of the midnight blue fabrics of her sweater where the apron hadn’t covered. A dusting fell over the denim of her jeans and smudges of handprints streaked down her sides. Something like guilt rumbled restlessly in her gut. Aunt Melina would be so disappointed.

“And this is why you help me on the weekends when we open up later,” Benji said with a laugh. He took her by the shoulders and gave her a side hug. Mira simply pouted. “You’re not awake enough to prep the dough at nearly five-thirty in the morning. Go swap into a pair of cleaner clothes. I’ll run it through the basins to wash so it’ll be cleaned for tomorrow. Hopefully, Magic will be awake at this forsaken hour.”

“He will be,” Mira replied, hope dwindling as she spoke. “We agreed on it.”

“Alright then. Just, stay here for a minute before you swap out and bolt. Look at me.”

Leaning against him as Benji rubbed his glasses free of flour, she spotted the beads of sweat congregating like stars on his forehead, little bumps along his nose that shone from the neon lights of the bakery. Flour mingled with it, clouding the perspiration like fog. Even with his attempts to wipe the water away, Mira found it hard to take him seriously. For a minute, she almost laughed, only deciding against it when she spotted the pensive frown on his face.

Charred wood from his fingers invaded her sense of smell and suddenly she felt glad to change her outfit. The residue wasn’t something she’d want lingering around when she met up with Magic later.

“Be smart, alright?” Benji said, staring at her with a suffocating intensity in his blue and brown eyes.

“I will,” Mira replied, feeling like a small child.

“I know you have a zero tolerance for anyone who looks at you, or Magic, or your friends the wrong way, but be smart about how you handle it.”

“I will.”

“He’s a nervous kid with a more nervous mother.”

“I know.”

“Don’t pick fights you can’t win, Mirabellis.”

“I know—”

“Look the other way when you can and only, only throw your punches—”

“As a last resort,” Mira finished. “I know, Dad.”

“Lastly,” Benji went on, a crooked smile on his face at her interruption, “keep him safe—though, I don’t think I need to tell you that bit. The two o’ you have been attached at the hip for years like you were born twins.” She laughed at that and he tightened the hug. “Keep him out of trouble.”

She kept silent, dizzy and lightheaded. They were heavy, his words. But not the kind of fuzzy and warm weight like one would get from a blanket while curled on a sofa with a warm mug of cocoa. No, this weight was suffocating, a pressure that made breathing hard. Still, Mira nodded her head, returned her fathers hug and shot up the steps like a bullet from a gun.

Purpose and responsibility buzzed through her limbs, commingling with anxiety and fear and, through the noise, hope.

She had to have that for everyone’s sake, and she’d carry it on her back if she had to.