“Will you do this for her, and for us?” Ernesto said.
Laurence thought for a moment they were going to ask him to agree that his hands would turn into fins if he didn’t help keep Patricia’s ego under control. But for this promise, just a vague “I’ll do my best” seemed to suffice. Kawashima slapped him on the shoulder and everybody repeated a few times how nice it had been to meet him. Laurence felt his gorge rising. Someone guided him to a small toilet in the far corner of the absinthe bar, and he crouched over it for a good fifteen minutes until his stomach was empty.
Taylor and Patricia took Laurence for vegan donuts over on Valencia Street. His head was split in half and he was seeing spots. Taylor whispered something in Laurence’s ear and he felt a bit more even-keel, plus coffee and ibuprofen helped too. “You did good,” Taylor told him. “You were in the frickin lion’s den and you were as cool as cream cheese.”
“It just pisses me off,” Patricia said. “They think I’m some kind of egomaniac, when all I want to do is make croissants and get on with my life. And they can’t just ask Laurence to keep his trap shut, without putting a spell on him?”
The full weight of it hit Laurence then: They’d put a spell on him. A curse, really. If he spoke a word about magic or magicians to anybody, he would never speak again. He knew in his sore guts that this was a fact. Of course, there was no way to test, except the hard way. He stared at his thumbs, pivoting on the oaken table. What if he had to text people instead of talking to them, for the rest of his life?
“It’s not like that,” Taylor said to Patricia. “You should be grateful that you have people worrying about you. Ever since you moved here to Sucka Free, you’ve been.… overcompensating. I feel bad about Siberia too, but we have to move on.”
“Okay,” Laurence said. “So now I am apparently under a…” He looked around the coffee place twice, trying to figure out if anyone was within earshot. “I am going to be facing certain constraints about what I can say to people who weren’t in that bookstore tonight. So that means you can explain to me, right? You can tell me how this works. I’m just curious, is all.”
“Sounds fair.” Taylor handed him a second donut.
“Yeah, okay,” Patricia said. “But not here. Maybe this weekend, we can go for a walk in the park. I remember how much you like the outdoors.”
Laurence shuddered, which was probably a sign that he was starting to feel like himself again.
20
PATRICIA FELT JITTERY about throwing her first ever dinner party, because part of her clung to the fantasy of being someone who gathered cool people around her. A doyenne, someone who held witty salons. She cleaned the apartment for hours, made a playlist, and baked bread and bundt cake. Her roommates Deedee and Racheline made their famous “passive-aggressive lasagna,” and Taylor showed up with shiny pants and a bowl of mixed greens. Kevin arrived in a deep cerulean waistcoat that matched the ribbon tying back his dreads, and he had brought weird cheeses. Patricia’s bread filled the marigold kitchenette with a yeasty warmth, and she took a deep breath. She was a grown-up. She had this.
While Patricia served the salad, Kevin told Deedee and Racheline about the psychology of dog walking. (Some of the times Kevin had tried to sneak out after sleeping with Patricia, he’d run into her roommates, still half-awake on the couch. They’d started calling him Mr. No-Overnight, although not to his face.)
Deedee was talking about her ska band’s latest gig, in which as usual the blue-haired, wiry singer exuded so much raw Kathleen Hanna-esque sexuality, nobody would ever guess that she identified as asexual.
Just as Patricia was fetching the bread, Taylor glanced around and said this was a nice apartment. Too bad Patricia might have to move to Portland soon.
“What?” Patricia dropped her mitt on the floor. She was standing by the open oven, so she felt frozen on one side and red hot on the other.
“Oh,” Taylor leaned back, hands raised. “I thought you knew. They’re thinking of sending you to Portland.”
“Who is ‘they’?” Kevin blinked.
“Forget I said anything. I was talking out of school.” Taylor’s smile had vanished, replaced with wide eyes and a clenched jaw. This was so like Taylor: They were so closed off you could barely tell what they were thinking most of the time, but then they would toss out these bombs just to see everyone jump.
Patricia seized the bread with her bare hands. Let it burn her. “This is bullshit. They can’t make me move to Portland.” In Portland, all the young witches lived in one group house, with a curfew, and a few older witches supervised them.
“When were you going to tell me you were moving to Portland?” Kevin said.
“I’m not,” Patricia said, choking and coughing.