I wished for a bow and arrow.
I wished for my parents to be happy, always.
I wished to find that one person who would understand me forever.
I wished to become something great.
I wished to become someone special.
I wished that people would remember my name because I would be good and kind.
I wished for Derek Michen to kiss my face off (that one was when I was nine years old and was absolutely positive he was the love of my life. He did kiss me two weeks later, but then he also kissed Jessica, David, Megan, Rhonda, and Robert. Derek turned out to be a bit of a whore).
At no point did I wish to be magic.
Sure, I had gypsy blood in me.
Sure, I had northern blood in me.
But fuck all if I knew anything about magic.
So imagine my surprise when I was running from a group of older kids after having recovered a bag of cloth they’d stolen from Mrs. Kirkpatrick (a kindly old woman who lived next door and had even less than we did), when I turned down a blind alley that dead-ended into a brick wall and promptly whirled around and caused said group of teenage miscreants to turn to stone.
Awkward. To say the least.
“Oh crap,” I said as I saw there was nowhere else to run. I was eleven years old, still scrawny as all fuck. I had great big expressive dark eyes that I’d inherited from my mother that I’d used to get myself out of more than a few situations, but I didn’t think the bigger kids would appreciate my full-on patented Look-How-Precious-Sam-Is look. Adults were charmed by it. Girls swooned over it. Some boys did too.
Stupid motherfucking teenagers who stole from old ladies weren’t affected by it at all.
“He’s down here!” one of them shouted.
I heard the beat of many feet pounding the ground behind me, and I thought to myself, Well, I really wish this wasn’t happening. So I turned around, ready to accept my fate (most likely either a severe ass-kicking or murder; either way it would hurt like a bitch). As I turned, something flickered across my vision, a bright green something that reminded me of spring grass and trees swaying in a summer breeze. There was this sharp pull deep in my brain and I took a stuttering step backward, and that’s when the group of eleven teenage assholes turned to stone with a loud crack that shook the alley and caused pigeons to screech and take flight.
I said, “Hey.”
Like, full-on stone. Their leader, a delightfully repugnant fifteen-year-old named Nox, stood in the front, his face frozen into an angry snarl, paused midstep, left arm stretched out front, right arm swung back.
I said, “Huh.”
Of course, people had heard the commotion and poured into the alley.
I said quite loudly, “I didn’t do it!”
One of the castle guards that I knew quite well said, “Of course you’re here, Sam,” followed by what sounded like a long-suffering sigh that dragged out for at least thirty seconds because he was a big fat drama queen.
“I don’t even know what happened!”
“Uh-huh. You don’t know what caused these dickholes to be turned to stone after they were chasing you.”
“Honest!” And then I gave him the Look-How-Precious-Sam-Is at one-hundred-percent wattage and he melted right in front of me.
“That’s not going to work this time,” he said.
Well, almost melted.
“Shit,” I muttered, dropping the look. “Pete, I swear, I don’t even know what happened here. They stole stuff from Mrs. Kirkpatrick and she’s old and it’s not fair because she’s so nice and I just wanted to help her.” I sniffled as I tried to stop the tears from falling. I was very scared because I thought I was going to get arrested and thrown into the dungeon where I’d have to eat rats and poop in a bucket.
“Ah hell, Sam. Don’t cry.”