Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77293 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77293 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
I still remember my parents’ reaction to my first foray into magic—my first flame up—vividly. When I called my mother into the room and she saw how I had “decorated” her new dress—(which she spent hours sewing, by the way)—she didn’t get upset or think that I had ruined it. Instead, her face broke into this huge, sunny smile and she grabbed me and hugged me as hard as she could.
“Oh, Avery!” she gushed. “It’s beautiful! I am so proud of you! And you did this all with your own magic?”
“My very own,” I said proudly, reveling in her praise. “I thought it was too plain, so I decided to fix it.”
“You certainly did!” my mother exclaimed. She walked around and around the dressmaker’s dummy, examining the dress from every angle and praising all the different details. Then she called my father. “Harold—come look what our son did!”
My father ambled into the room and stopped short when he saw the now-colorful little black dress that my mom was so proudly displaying. I’ll never forget his reaction—which couldn’t have been more different from my mom’s.
He stopped dead in the middle of the room, his eyes fixed on the dress.
“Avery did that?” he asked, in a strange, flat voice. “With magic? His magic?”
“Yes—isn’t it wonderful?” my mother gushed. “And so young too! Our son is amazingly talented!”
“Shit…” My father’s mouth twisted itself into a disgusted sneer. “I knew it,” he said, his voice low and harsh and filled with disappointment. “I fucking knew it.”
“Harold!” my mother exclaimed. “Language!”
“How can you care about language at a time like this?” my father roared. He stabbed a finger at the newly-decorated dress. “Look at that! Just look at it! I always knew there was something wrong with him and this just proves it!”
“It doesn’t prove anything except that he’s immensely magically gifted!” my mother snapped back. “You were the one who was afraid Avery might take after me and be a Null. But just look! Look at the intricacy of the pattern—the amazing detail! It would take weeks or months of hand-embroidery to do that kind of work—and Avery did it in a few minutes! Plus, think of the imagination and creativity that went into it! It’s a work of art!”
“It’s a disgrace,” my father said bitterly. “It’s woman’s magic.”
“Magic does not have to be gendered,” my mother said hotly. (Though to be honest, it usually is. You don’t often see warlocks magically embroidering dresses or witches doing spells to help an oil rig pump faster or whatever it is oil rigs do.)
“I knew it,” my father said again, giving me that disgusted look, which I have never forgotten. “He’d rather play with dolls than throw a baseball with me. And he’s always in the kitchen, baking cookies with you instead of going outside and digging in the dirt like other boys his age. I knew he was a damn fag—“
“Harold James Connor don’t you dare say that ugly, hateful word in my house!” My mother’s voice was low but so filled with rage and warning it had the intensity of a shout.
My father glared at her.
“I’ll say what I want! It’s true and you know it!”
“I don’t care!” my mother shouted back “And you shouldn’t either!”
My father’s face was so red by this time he looked like a pickled beet. He shot a murderous look at my mother and then he turned that same, ugly look on me.
Now lest you think my parents fought all the time, they didn’t. I grew up in a very quiet, functional household with lots of positive reinforcement. Granted, most of that positivity was from my mom, but my dad wasn’t cruel or abusive when it came to me—just quiet and somewhat withdrawn. This was the first time I had ever seen him look so disgusted and angry and all those negative emotions were directed at me—at what I had done.
I burst into tears.
“Now just look what you’ve done!” My mother rushed to comfort me, taking me in her arms and holding me close. “It’s all right, Avery,” she whispered in my ear. “Your magic is beautiful and you are wonderful and smart and talented and I love you!” I told you she believed in positive reinforcement.
But all the positive reinforcement in the world couldn’t make up for my dad’s angry words and the way he had looked at me. I remembered thinking—for the first time—that something was wrong with me and I couldn’t stop crying.
My father left—storming out of the house in an uncharacteristic rage that was all the more frightening because it was so unusual for him. He didn’t come back for dinner either—also unusual because my mom is a pretty good cook. (She taught me everything she knows, which really comes in handy at Nocturne Academy, where the food can be somewhat lacking at times.)