Brittany Bends Read Free Page A

Larson says, “told me about—you know—your special circumstances.”
    I frown at her. I’m not sure what special circumstances she means, although she did lower her voice. That, in the sideways speak of this strange town, sometimes means that the person who is talking doesn’t want anyone else to overhear the “sensitive” subject being raised.
    “Um,” I say, feeling a blush start to warm my neck, “what, exactly, did Mom say?”
    “Oh, you know. How she gave you up and then your family situation…well, you know…wasn’t ideal, and so she brought you back here.”
    That blush climbed up my face and down my chest at the same time. I went from being too cold to being embarrassingly hot. (Or maybe that isn’t why I was embarrassed at all.)
    “She’s a good woman, your mom,” Mrs. Larson says. “She also said you were brought up overseas, and you don’t know a lot about the US, but you’re a quick study.”
    “Oh.” I can’t manage much more than that.
    “She didn’t tell me, though, that you’re the spitting image of her at that same age. Your mom was the great beauty of our high school, doncha know, and she could’ve had any man, but that Karl Johnson, he had his eye on her. If it weren’t for the scheming of that Ava, his first wife—well, I’m not supposed to speak ill of the dead. But your mom and Karl, they were meant for each other. They were prom king and queen, you know. I’ll bet she never told you that.”
    “She didn’t,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. I know about prom king and queen, partly because of the movie Carrie (both versions) and partly because of Never Been Kissed, one of my favorite movies of all time. Yes, I’m a romantic. Yes, my sisters tease me about it. (Yes, I miss them.)
    “Well, they were, and oh, they were perfect together,” Mrs. Larson says, still talking about Mom and Karl. “But that’s neither here nor there. Your mom asked me to give you an interview, nothing more, and I’m going to do that, even though I’m doing all the talking. So, let’s head to my office, shall we?”
    She turns around and weaves through the boxes. They’re all labeled, and none of them are really big, so I figure they’re going to supply the store rather than be the boxes that the store wants to sell outside of town.
    But what do I know? I hadn’t really had to deal with stores much at all until I moved here. At Mount Olympus, I could wave my hand and conjure anything I want.
    Megan, my counselor (yes, I have a counselor, and yes, she’s magic—kinda. Another long-story-short), she says that the ability to do magic from such a young age was corrupting me and Crystal and Tiff, and it’s good for us to live without it. Yeah, maybe, but that doesn’t stop me from missing it.
    Particularly now, when I’d use the magic to help me figure out how to deal with all the people and strangeness in Superior, Wisconsin.
    Or maybe even in this building.
    Mrs. Larson skirts around the last pile of boxes and goes into this tiny room in the back.
    A plywood door separates it from the main part of the building (and yes, I know what plywood is, thanks to projects my siblings here are working on). Inside, the fluorescent lights are even brighter, making everything this kind of squinchy gray color.
    There’s a metal desk that is too wide for the room (in my opinion), a big desk chair behind it, some cabinets that match, a trashy orange couch that looks even more uncomfortable than the couch at the Johnson Family Manse (which is what Karl calls their house), and one bright orange chair that looks like it was once a part of a kitchen set.
    Mrs. Larson almost sits in the big desk chair, then seems to think the better of it. She grabs a yellow legal pad, rounds the desk, and waves her hand at the orange chair.
    “Have a seat, Brittany,” she says, and it sounds friendly, not like a command at all. (And it’s really nice to hear someone use my full name.)
    “Thanks.” I