“The mushroom was fine. We did it right.” His tone leaves no room for argument, but still, he scans the directions again.
“Maybe it’s the violin,” he says. “Can you think of anything more personal to Paige?”
“This is her prized possession. There’s nothing better in the world.”
“Then I don’t get it,” he says. “It doesn’t make sense.” He continues to examine his note and mumble to himself, while I sit in silence, feeling dead inside. We’re back to square one. The realization that we might not ever find Paige makes tears prick my eyes. I should never have gotten Paige involved. Never asked for her help. It was selfish. Unbelievably selfish and awful and—
“I know someone we can talk to,” Bishop finally says.
I skip out of school after homeroom the next day. I’ve figured out that if I make it to roll call, then I won’t trigger the automated message to my house that I’ve missed class. Sure, someone will eventually call home personally and Aunt Penny will catch on that I haven’t really been going to school, but it buys me some time. And that’s all I need right now.
As I slip outside I try not to think about the mountains of homework I’m behind on and the upcoming math test that I’m going to epically fail. I have to shield my eyes from the glaring morning sun to scan the school property for Bishop. From literally a mile away, across the huge expanse of lawn, I spot his Mustang, pulled up to the curb. It’s hard to miss, with the bright yellow racing stripe across the body of the cherry-red muscle car.
I make a dash across the lawn, lest someone notice I’m fleeing and try to stop me. Bishop guns the engine as I near. I make throat-cutting gestures at him, but that only makes him laugh. I swing open the door and fall into the bucket seat, ducking my head low while Bishop peels away.
He pumps a fist out the window. “See you in our dust, suckas!”
“Would you stop it? This is serious.” I can’t help but laugh as I sit up, though. Dude could make crocheting doilies fun.
“So where are we going?” I ask, looking out the window as we zip past the palm trees that line the road.
“Venice Beach.”
I scrunch up my face.
“It’s where the Black Market is,” Bishop says. “A street market for magic.”
“At the boardwalk?”
“Yep.” He turns up the volume on the radio so that an eighties punk-rock song blasts through the speakers. He sings along absently while we merge into the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the freeway.
It’s hotter than usual for so early in the morning, and the sun beats down through the windshield. By the time we get to Venice Beach and Bishop parks, my legs are stuck to the leather seats and it’s actually painful to get out of the car.
But Venice Beach doesn’t disappoint. The ocean is impossibly blue, and the beach stretches for miles, white-as-snow sand crammed with so many people that they look like ants converging on a three-day-old half-eaten cookie. The boardwalk itself is just as busy, swarming with people in various states of undress, skateboarders and cyclists darting through the foot traffic. Vibrant blue, green, and pink low-roofed shops and booths face the water, filling up every possible square inch of retail space. The guitar riffs and drumbeats of street performers filter down from the market, and seagulls caw and circle overhead, periodically diving low to snatch at food or crap on someone’s head. The scent of deep-fried food and suntan lotion hangs heavy in the air.
“This way,” Bishop says, hooking his arm through mine. We hike over to the boardwalk. Before long we’re dodging Jesus prophets and skateboarders, weaving through a crowd gathered around a guy swallowing fire and another walking on six-foot-high stilts. An outsider might be convinced this is a magic market, but not me.
I stop. A few beats later, Bishop notices I’m not following him and turns around.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“I don’t see a magic market here.” I don’t worry that I said it out loud and people might have heard. It’d hardly make me the weirdest person here today.
“That’s right,” he says, grinning, so his eyes crinkle up adorably at the corners. I get the distinct feeling I’m missing something. I look around, but the scene is the same as moments before.
Bishop comes up behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. His chest presses into my back as he leans down to speak into my ear.
“What do you see?” he asks. His lips graze my skin and a flash of heat involuntarily shoots down into my stomach.
I clear my throat. “Uh, I see a man who probably shouldn’t be wearing a Speedo.” He says nothing, so I continue. “I see a lot of overpriced souvenirs, a lot of mindless commercialism…um, a lot of palm trees?”
“Close your eyes,” he says. I huff and do as he says. “Now repeat after me. Videre, videre, videre.”
“Videre, videre, videre,” I repeat.
“Now look again. And this time, really look.”
I open my eyes. An entire row of booths has sprung up across from the existing, familiar ones, creating a narrow street market.
If I thought this place was weird before…
A woman walks past me, her hair so long it drags like a veil on the littered pavement. Four little people dressed in period clothing chant around a bonfire in the street that sends curls of smoke and dust into the sky. A bald man wearing absolutely not a stitch of clothing presses long needles into his stomach like no one’s watching—which they aren’t—and a woman walks past with an owl perched on her shoulder, muttering to herself in a clipped accent. The smell of exotic spices and farm animals fills my nose.