•••

Peneloper chews on Mr. Heavensley's words as though they are bubblegum. Granted, they don't taste as good or come with as many clever jokes, but she munches on them never-the-less. With the figurative taste lingering on her tongue, and the words themselves scenting the air with the fantastical, she debates dismissing these claims, as others might do.

It's the sensible way to be, but, as she is without that part of her brain that encourages critical thinking (due in part to a deeply underfunded and eroded education system), she accepts his words with ease, allowing this story to progress.

Peneloper's always had a niggling suspicion she wasn't like other people. Microwaves hated her, always sparking, smoking and failing to work properly when she was around. A few times, they'd coerced her into feeding them metal forks, which had landed Peneloper in a heap of trouble, not to mention with her cookie privileges revoked for weeks.  

And even more convincing, there'd been the times when purple had shot from her fingertips, though those memories remain obscured. She only has a vague notion it occurred, no concrete details. Memory is fickle like that.

Having a magical destiny is not out of the realm of possibility. In fact, though it seemed impossible, given that Peneloper lives in a world made of impossibility, the likeliness then seemed possible. Probable, even.

Magic she is, she decides. Though,  what kind? And what can she do to harness this magic? Are others in town equally as magical? With enough questions to swell a mind and make brainy soft-serve ooze out one's ears, Peneloper faces Mr. Heavensley, takes a deep breath, and readies herself to segue. She will ask him to explain. 

 •That's Just the Way it is •

"There's no time for explanations," Crispen replied, as if prompted, though Peneloper was pretty sure, this time, she'd kept her thoughts inside her head. With a flick of his wrist, Crispen opened his parasol, putting it over both their heads to shield them from the relentless onslaught of rain. He stared at her for a second, digging his toe into the asphalt, before extending a hand. "I'll answer what I can but be selective about what you ask." His eyes pleaded with her to be kind. "If you give voice to all your questions, I'm afraid we'd remain here until you turned into a skeleton and that's precisely what I'm trying to prevent."

She jumped down from the rock, spurning Crispen's outstretched hand. He frowned slightly at her rejection, but soon enough, stuffed his hand inside his jeans' pocket and seemed to forget it ever occurred. "You're a mind reader, then? Is that your brand of magic?"

Peneloper, already drenched and not wanting to go full-blown drowned, took up his offer of parasol, settling into an uncomfortable distance wherein elbows brushed against one another. Peneloper remained overly aware, her walking partner, pointedly oblivious. Each new touch of fabric reminded Peneloper of their proximity causing electricity to skate across her skin. She wished this had been real electricity, its purpose twofold. One, it could have zapped Mr. Heavensley into giving her more space and two, it could have sizzled some of those annoying raindrops.

Crispen chuckled. "Reading minds is but a part of my magic, but I'm glad I can do it. Experiencing your thoughts, real time, is quite refreshing."

She harrumphed and folded her arms across her chest much as she had seen Carmichelle do in the past year and a half. "My thoughts are not for your amusement. Why don't you magic up some discretion and keep out of my head?"

"I'd like to, post-haste, dear lady, but we have prior engagements that require our attention." He pointed down the lane, toward Mulberry and Main.

Peneloper shot into the air. "Ivory gobbits! School!"

Again, Crispen's laughter raked across her mind, reminding her of the way Miss Laddie made shapes in her garden's gravel all in the pursuit of Zen perfection. "Ah, yes, school. How unfortunate, or I'd tell you all you need to know."

She arched her brow. "You claim to be an open book, willing to provide answers to any questions I deem appropriate to ask, yet your very manner is shrouded in mystery. In that regard, you are anything but an open book. Perhaps one closed, under lock and key, and kept on the highest shelf in the library so as to be impossible to reach."

Crispen smirked, and then began walking. To keep dry, Peneloper begrudgingly walked beside him, matching his gait, two steps for every one of his. "Impossible only by those who lack the imagination to secure me."

Peneloper considered this. "Implying what exactly?"

He shrugged. "There is nothing that we can't obtain. Not when we were born with the wings to fly."

"Not every bird that has wings can fly," she countered, prompting Crispen's smile to spread across his face like melted margarine. 

"But you can. You just had your wings clipped when you were younger. Given the right push out of the nest, and I'm sure you'll soar higher and farther than any of us."

Peneloper nudged him in the shoulder as they took a shortcut through Abernathy Castor's backyard, though the man hated anyone impressing upon his kind nature to soil a lawn so green it sparkled like an emerald at high noon, but considering they were short on time, there was little choice. "I take it all this bird talk is coded language referencing magic and our abilities to wield it." He shook his head. "Who can fly, Mr. Heavensley, and who among us is destined to stay grounded?"

Crispen plucked a leaf as they passed under a gilded maple. "Point at someone."

Peneloper glanced around. The streets were mostly abandoned - anyone who could drive, did, and those who didn't, hustled for rides with those who had the coveted license. Then, Peneloper caught sight of Mrs. Brokkin—the oldest woman in Potter Oaks by twenty years—rocking on her porch, shawl wrapped around her shoulders, crocheting needles in her lap. Her head lulled to one side, eyes closed. 

She pointed. "What of Mrs. Brokkin? She sells her family farm's fruits and vegetables down on Main, but I've never seen her awake. Most of her relatives have gone on to bigger towns of slightly more consequence so how does her produce find her stand? Don't tell me it stocks itself."

Crispen shook his head, as the old woman snored, her rocking chair creaking as they walked past. He narrowed his gaze, before smiling. "Normal." His nose crinkled. "Smells like yarn and linen. Tilled soil. Moth balls and contentedness." The corner of his mouth upturned slightly. "Probably why she can sleep so soundly."

Peneloper frowned. Crispen leaned in. "Has the best-tasting peaches ever," his gaze flitted toward the red-brick school in the distance, "or so the crows tell me. I'm more a nectarine man myself."

She stopped dead in her tracks. A fruit preference given while he was in the middle of revealing the world's biggest secret? Magic was real, she was magic in some capacity and yet he wove his love of nectarines into the conversation as though that information was as pertinent as anything else. Her eyes, once widened with astonishment, narrowed with cynical disbelieving. "Is this all a joke to you? Are you messing with me?"

"I told you I'd tell you. Miss Auttsley, I've not shown myself, my true self, to you." His words hung in the air, as water resistant as the coat Peneloper conjured in her dreams. It seemed the very world knew of their importance, and decided it was best to let them alone. "It was no accident or whim. You need to hear what I've to tell you."

"And why's that?"

"You'll end up dead, otherwise. And for those birds who do not master flight, death, I'm afraid, is a far more permanent predicament."

Heavy words indeed, though none heavier than Peneloper's hoodie soaked through with about a lake's worth of rainfall. Dead. Her. Death, a rarely anticipated guest to all teen-kind, and yet it was there, ever-present, just a whisper away.

Reach for it, and it'll snatch you up. Step wrong, and you'll fall into its embrace. But death actively coming for her? Things like that only happened in movies and books.

"And life," Crispen said, responding to her thoughts, "often, imitates art."

Peneloper paused, the rain making quick work of the few spots that had begun to dry thanks to Crispen's perfect, parasol placement. "What is it that threatens my existence and has seen to it you fly into my town and speak of certain doom?" He clenched the handle of his parasol and looked at the ground, specifically, at a river of rain as it ran toward the storm drain ferrying the last few remaining leaves of overhead oaks. "I ask honestly, and you respond honestly," she said. "Remember?"

Crispen sighed. "Yes, of course." More rain snaked toward the drain. Finally, in a voice almost drowned by the storm, Crispen said, "A Refracted."

Peneloper raised an eyebrow like a bird raised its wing to fly. "And what is a refracted?"

"A creature of the Refracted."

"Ah," Peneloper said, channeling that Auttsley-brand sarcasm, hers by birthright. "That clears everything up."

Crispen's brow furrowed. "He is—"

The trill of the first bell rang out, signaling that all available butts ought to be in their assigned seats. Peneloper's heart sank knowing her butt was a short trek away from getting sent to Principal Gale's office. She knew there'd be no chance of slinking into the back doors of the school unseen, of sneaking through the hallways, stopping off at her locker and walking into class unnoticed. Mr. Howell, Potter Oaks High resident bloodhound, would sniff out her delinquency a mile away.

She could envision it. Him, setting down his morning hotdog, running his greasy fingers over a wrinkled lapel—smearing ketchup and mustard down his front—only to storm the corridor to arrest her as soon as Peneloper stepped onto school grounds. In a matter of seconds, he'd have whisked her to the principal's office without due process because the governing principles of the Old West were alive and well in high schools everywhere.

Peneloper's shoulders sank as she and Crispen marched toward the inevitable. She hummed a dirge, as such a melancholic tune seemed an appropriate way to usher her end.

"Is Mr. Howell really that bad?" Crispen asked. Peneloper stopped humming. "I have Miss Markle and she—"

"—happens to be one of your biggest fans."

Crispen did not deny this as the truth, for even if he did, the way Miss Markle beamed at him, and praised everything he did, down to the elegant way he raised his hand in class, or sought passage to the restroom, left no mistake of her fondness for Potter Oak's latest addition.

"I think I'd rather meet Death," Peneloper said honestly. "At least he'd have something worth saying."

"He's actually..." Crispen scratched his chin. "Very subdued. Not one for conversations of great length."

"Neither am I," she replied. "I guess Death and I will get along just fine."

"Nep—"

Peneloper paused, the word reverberating in her head, knocking aside all previous thought.

Nep. You were given the power to create. Nep, let's visit the stars. I love you, Nep.

She whirled on Crispen, eyes narrowed. "How do you know that name?" Her voice, all arsenic and boiling rage, sounded downright motherly.

Crispen shrugged. "Isn't it your nickname?

Peneloper glowered as her foot grazed the sidewalk leading into school. "Most people would think Penny a suitable nickname. Or Nell, Nellie. Nells, even. But not...that."

"I'm not most people."

"Clearly," she said, sweeping past him. In her hurry, she caught his scent, one of drenched foliage and autumn musk. Earthy and spiced. Admittedly, not the worst way to smell.

Crispen stilled, his parasol sagging over his head as the rain continued to fall. He looked dismal, his features tight and linear, or perhaps he was stunning then -- Peneloper always was a poor judge of character -- Crispen all glistening angles and tormented eyes before her.

She much thought he looked like a watercolor, one whose paint had run exposing the artist's mistakes to a new world of scrutiny. "Nep—" he said again.

"Don't you dare call me by a name you have not earned," Peneloper snapped, fire and brimstone sizzling in her gaze. Without fear of Mr. Howell, or Death for that matter, which in hindsight should have been held in higher regard, she allowed the school to swallow her whole.

Nep. A father's nickname for an eldest daughter, whispered into ears too scared of the night to find sleep, softly spoken and often followed by 'I love yous' when the feeling to do so felt right, or wrong because a father's love knew no bounds.

Nep. Uttered when angry, or disappointed, or when a father's failings allowed for his daughter to get into a fight with a microwave and sorrys were in order, served up post-bedtime with secret star-gazing and ice creams.

Nep. A name that couldn't be uttered by the dead, no matter how hard one wished it otherwise.

"Miss Auttsley."

Peneloper stiffened her grasp around her book bag strap as Mr. Howell stepped out from the shadow, mustard stain on his breast pocket, maroon tie as crooked as his glasses. She didn't smile, for what was the point? She knew what came next. Dirges only ended when both feet landed in the grave.

"Do you know what time it is?" he hissed, eyes black and beady. Insect-like would best describe them, though that would be insulting to all insect kind.

"Would that change the outcome of our little exchange?"

Mr. Howell straightened, and in a strangely vicious way, thrust his gut toward Peneloper. She blanched, unprepared for such roundness and girth to be thrown her way indiscriminately. "If you know the outcome, I wonder, why is it you didn't try harder to come to class on time?"

"Early classes aren't important," Peneloper said, matter-of-factly. "Homeroom's of no consequence and everyone knows you don't really start to absorb knowledge," she resisted the urge to do air quotes around the word, "until after lunch."

A tomato-red flush ripened across Mr. Howell's face. "And if that person is you, Miss Auttsley, you refuse to learn anything at any time of day."

"If you know me so well, Mr. Howell, I wonder why it is you spend so much time asking pointless questions?"

"Miss Auttsley—" Howell's jowls shook with anger, as through clenched teeth, he forced the last nail into her coffin. She sighed. "The principal's office, now."

Lacking in fight, and having it be too early to flee, Peneloper forwent any thought of escape, and resigned herself to the two-minute walk to Principal Gale's office, while Crispen Heavensley consumed her thoughts.