Present Tense #8
Summary:
Christmas is a festive time of year, one filled with food, family and tradition—Dixon Penn’s ideal holiday. Too bad Spellcrafters don’t celebrate Christmas.
Dixon’s parents have always been strict about their no-present rule, reluctant to entrap anyone in an “endless cycle of reciprocal obligation.”
Yuri Volnikov was not raised in the Craft, but Dixon has made sure he understands that for Spellcrafters, Christmas presents are verboten.
No gifts. None. Nada. And everyone is on the same page in regards to presents….
Or are they?
The ABCs of Spellcraft is a series filled with bad jokes and good magic, where MM Romance meets Paranormal Cozy. A perky hero, a brooding love interest, and delightfully twisty-turny stories that never end up quite where you’d expect. The books are best read in order, so be sure to start at the beginning with Quill Me Now.
This holiday short is set after What the Frack? and contains series spoilers.
Brownie Points #9
Summary:As a Scrivener and a Seer, Dixon and Yuri possess many talents. Baking is not one of them.
But when a mysterious malady grips Yuri, the two of them must bargain, bluff, and bake their way through Pinyin Bay to find a cure.
Dixon is none too confident in the kitchen, but he'll stop at nothing if it means finding a cure for his grown man friend. Even if that means getting his hands dirty in the flour bin.
Yuri, naturally, makes a terrible patient, and their home remedy attempts are half-baked at best. Can he dredge up the patience to figure out what lies behind his bizarre affliction?
The ABCs of Spellcraft is a series filled with bad jokes and good magic, where M/M romance meets paranormal cozy. A perky hero, a brooding love interest, and delightfully twisty-turny stories that never end up quite where you'd expect.
Summary:
They say a picture's worth a thousand words. But once in a while, you really hit pay dirt.
Yuri is no stranger to pigment and brush, so he can't help but be curious when he reads about a rare piece of art discovered in Pinyin Bay—a Shul Cadfur painting rumored to be worth a million dollars. And the painting soon turns up on his doorstep in the hands of his Boardwalk buddy, Drew Draws, who's desperate to have his find authenticated.
If only the reclusive Cadfur had signed the canvas.
Fortunately, Dixon loves to sign things—whether or not the name he's signing is his own. All he needs is a good look at the artist's signature. Not only has Cadfur himself mysteriously disappeared, but even his signature proves more elusory than a wolverine in witness protection.
The situation is so convoluted, one might even suspect Spellcraft is involved.
Can Dixon and Yuri square away the painting before the art appraiser gets there? Or will the million dollars dry up like an open tube of paint?
Summary:
Uncle Fonzo has always been cagey about what his duties as Hand of the Penn family actually entail. Dixon figures they mainly involve playing poker with other middle-aged Scriveners, while Yuri suspects there are semi-legal dealings under the poker table as well.
Whatever his typical responsibilities might be, Fonzo’s got his hands full with a new grandchild on the way. So when he’s tasked by the head of circuit to find Pinyin Bay’s next mayor, he passes on the burden—er, opportunity—to his favorite nephew.
No problem! Dixon doesn’t know much about Handless politics, but he’s sure he’s acquainted with plenty of folks who’d make a fine public official (meaning, someone who won’t obstruct Scrivener interests.) But when he and Yuri get to know the potential candidates a bit better, they discover each one is stranger than the last.
Can the boys find a Scrivener-friendly mayor before time runs out? Or will the worst possible candidate in Pinyin Bay win simply by default?
The ABCs of Spellcraft is a series filled with bad jokes and good magic, where M/M romance meets paranormal cozy. A perky hero, a brooding love interest, and delightfully twisty-turny stories that never end up quite where you’d expect.
Original Review January 2021:
Oh my gosh, Dixon Penn at Christmas? Talk about a character that was made for the holiday. In the world of magic you'd think conjuring up the perfect Christmas gift would be easy peasy but then again when did Dixon and Yuri ever do anything easy and without a few mishaps?
Present Tense is short, sweet, adorable, funny, and the way both Dixon and Yuri are left scrambling to come up with last minute gifts for the other is priceless. I don't want to say "predictable" because let's face it, when you are dealing with Dixon and Yuri(especially Dixon) nothing is predictable, nothing is certain other than their love for each other but you know Present Tense is going to end in HEA for the pair, so in that regard I know some might use the term but not me. As so often with great stories, the fun isn't in the ending but how they get there and this Christmas short is no different.
If you've been reading ABCs of Spellcraft as it's been written than you'll definitely want to read this holiday gem, if not . . . well what are you waiting for? Short, long, in-between, this series is brilliant and the characters are just so darn loveable you can't help but smile.
Brownie Points #9
Original Review August 2021:
When I first started The ABCs of Spellcraft I knew right away it was going to be special. Dixon and Yuri are just plain fun! What I didn't expect was it to be one of my favorite series and I definitely look forward to their new adventures.
Speaking of their adventures, Brownie Points starts a new story arc in their journey and it's wonderful. The blending of magic, mystery, humor, family, friendship, and love is pure reading gold. I won't go into too many details but with spellcrafts possibly going wonky, Yuri's skin reaction, Dixon's desire to unravel the cause, and of course Dixon's family . . . well Jordan Castillo Price brings an all around great package to the party.
I've said all along that ABCs of Spellcraft remind me of the old movie serials of the 30s and 40s my parents collect as well as the audiobook versions having a quality of the old radio shows that I collect of the same era. This still rings true for me but it also combines the magical humor of Bewitched and the zany madcappery(and yes I know that's not a real word but I think it's very Dixon-ish) of I Love Lucy but also a hint of The Thin Man's Nick and Nora Charles chemistry between Dixon and Yuri as they trace their way around the spellcraft maze of what went wrong and who wrote what.
If you are new to this Spellcraft universe Jordan Castillo Price has created and wondering if you need to start at the beginning, my answer is "yes". Each arc ties up nicely and each entry has it's own little mysterious wonky-ness going on but if for no other reason than to watch Dixon and Yuri's journey evolve, I can't imagine not reading this series as it was written. The author calls it "cozy paranormal", I didn't even know that was a thing until I discovered this series but however you define it, I call it entertaining that sucked me from the getgo and left me hungering for more.
Forging Ahead #10
Original Review October 2021:
Dixon and Yuri just keep getting better and better. Their connection and chemistry is stronger with each new entry in this amazingly fun, clever, and entertaining series. How two people can find themselves in the middle of such adventures is equal parts zany and adorable. Dixon may be a trouble magnet but Yuri can stand his ground when it comes to trouble too.
In Forging Ahead, the author jumps right into the zany-pool from the first page as Dixon finds himself at the Creature Feature Talent Show, what could possibly go wrong? Well I won't spoil it but lets just say he is in fine form. As always I find I loved every word of this ABCs of Spellcraft entry but what really grabbed my attention was it appears to be the first time Yuri really feels part of the Penn family not just someone they tolerate as Dixon's partner.
I find it safe to say that each entry has a certain level of Lucy/Ethel mischief but Forging Ahead really captures that comedic chemistry, not just between Dixon and Yuri but between all of the characters. As much as I laugh at each of the previous stories, there was just something that I can't quite find the right words for in Forging that gave it an extra special layer of hilarity.
I don't wish to spoil so I'll end there but I will add that if you are new to ABCs of Spellcraft, I definitely recommend reading in order. Each installment has it's own spellcrafting hi-jinkery but the relationships are ongoing and some even have elements that overflow into the next. Would you be lost if you started in the middle? Not really but I think there would be more than a few moments of "wonder what's behind that comment?" or "that sounds like an interesting scenario, wonder what brought that up?". Dixon and Yuri's adventurous journey is not one to be missed.
Mayor May Not #11
Original Review November 2021:
Original Review November 2021:
I have loved this series from the very first entry, Quill Me Now and not to give anything away but there are a few elements that make Dixon and Yuri recall that first meeting and the situation surrounding it. Not spoiling anything of the plot aside, I just want to add that this pair of unique and intriguing gentlemen never fails to delight and Mayor May Not is no exception. Tack on a baby on the way, a mayoral(as if you couldn't tell from the title) election, a new Hand-job up for grabs(and yes that is what Dixon's parents call it and frankly I'm laughing too much to try and go into details), and Uncle Fonzo asking Dixon and Yuri to find a proper mayor candidate and what you have is a recipe for . . . well for fun.
As with the previous entry, Forging Ahead, Yuri further finds himself a true part of the Penn family. Truth is he probably has been for a very long time but it's just been the last couple of installments that he begins to feel it and I found that element quite heartwarming and gave an extra level of depth to the story and their journey together. There has never been doubt that Dixon and Yuri were in love but seeing the family chemistry deepen adds so much to the enjoyment.
As another story arc comes to a close in The ABCs of Spellcraft in the most deliciously way that only the brilliant Jordan Castillo Price could create, I am already anxiously awaiting the next round of mischief the men find themselves facing.
RATING:
Present Tense #8
1
DIXON
Winter. It’s the time of year when frost etches pretty pictures on your windows and the world outside is nestled in a soft white blanket. A time when you get to snuggle up in your mismatched mittens, and no one comments on how many hot chocolates you’ve had—if you don’t start acting too hyper, anyhow.
I’ve always had a fondness for winter. And since there was snow on the ground and a nip in the air back when I first met Yuri, now I love it even more.
December is also traditionally a lucrative time for my people. While it’s widely known that Spellcraft has no business in politics or religion, nowadays Christmas is pretty secular. And who wouldn’t want to impress their special someone with a bespoke piece of Crafting?
My family had been working hard these past few weeks, and if my dad had his druthers, Practical Penn would be open on Christmas Eve to snag those last-minute shoppers. But our official Seer had negotiated Christmas Eve as one of his annual days off, and we didn’t dare break his contract by letting Yuri fill his shoes. Or wield his paintbrush, since shoes don’t really have anything to do with Spellcraft. And Rufus Clahd has unusually small feet.
Speaking of feet—there was still a bit of snow clinging to my shoes. I stomped it off on the welcome mat in my parents’ vestibule, then hung up my winter coat on the nearby coat tree. It was actually more like an alien life form than a tree, with a giant ball of winter coats up top that took up half the room. I’m not sure it was even possible to dig down to the innermost layers anymore. But if you did, you’d probably find something so old it had come back in style again. Maybe more than once.
My mother hustled in as I was draping my coat over the top of the coat-ball. Once my hands were free, she enveloped me in a big, squishy hug, and greeted me with, “Where’s Yuri?”
I adored the way she loved him as much as I did. “Picking up dinner.”
“That’s generous of him—but he really didn’t need to. We’ve got plenty of leftovers in the fridge.”
“What can I say? He insisted.” I steered Mom into the living room where my dad was clicking through channels from his favorite recliner. I gave him a kiss on the top of the head, then said, “You guys’ve both been working so hard lately, might as well let us pamper you.”
Mom settled into her chair with considerable arranging and re-arranging of her bulk—not unlike the way my cockatoo friend, Meringue, fastidiously fluffs her feathers as she’s settling onto her perch. “Just so it’s understood this isn’t a Christmas present.”
“Don’t worry, Mom, it’s not. He just wanted to do something nice.”
“Yuri might be a Seer, but he wasn’t raised in the Craft.”
“Trust me—I’m awesome at explaining our traditions. And Yuri knows. No gifts.”
Mom was skeptical. “Because there’s nothing less meaningful than being trapped into an endless cycle of reciprocal obligation with the people you’re supposed to love.”
“That’s just what I said.” Actually, it was more like, Spellcrafters don’t do Christmas presents. Same difference. “I think Yuri actually seemed pretty relieved.”
Dad paused in his channel-changing, looked at my mom and said, “Speaking of traditions, you told Dixon about the Magi…right?”
Normally, I would’ve presumed this was some kind of setup for a cheesy joke—except that my mother stopped rearranging herself and said, “I thought you did.”
“Magi?” I said. “As in the story about the guy who sold his pocket watch and the girl who cut off her hair?”
“As in the three wise men,” my mother said testily.
“That sounds kind of…biblical.” I could’ve sworn my mother thought the Bible was full of baloney. Speaking of which, I hoped Yuri remembered to grab us a nice relish tray, since I was feeling a mite peckish.
“I’m sure it’s all just superstition,” Dad said.
Mom gave him her patented single-squinty-eyeball look. “And since when does superstition stop a Spellcrafter from doing something? Everyone knows superstition is just the poor cousin of luck. The way my parents explained it to me, the Magi were the first Seer and Scrivener.”
I supposed legends had to start somewhere. “But aren’t there supposed to be three Magi?”
“The third guy was their customer,” Mom said. Huh, lucky him. I wonder if they Crafted a way for his camel to go faster…or at least not spit so much. “The Magi didn’t turn up for every single one of their messiah’s birthdays bearing gifts…just the first one. And so, it’s Scrivener tradition to surprise your partner with a small gift on your first Christmas together.”
“In fact,” my father said, “it’s bad luck if you don’t.”
“And you’re just telling me this now?”
Mom looked somewhat chagrined. “We meant to say something. You know how crazy it’s been at the shop.”
“And now I’ve got nothing for Yuri!” I scrambled to recall if I’d seen any stores open on our way over, but all I could think of was the car wash with the big inflatable noodle-guy flailing around in the parking lot. Was a premium car wash a good gift? Maybe for some people. But if I ran the pickup truck through the high-powered water jets, I’d likely blast off the rust that was holding on the fender. “It’s too late to shop online, and all the local stores are closed.”
“How about the gas station?” Mom suggested. “The one by the highway to Strangeberg is open twenty-four-seven.”
Dad set down the remote, pried himself from the recliner and dusted his hands together. “Before Dixon tries to figure out how to make an air freshener and a bag of pork rinds look festive, I suggest he take a gander at The Stash.”
The Stash was Dad’s collection of assorted useable objects that just needed a little TLC to bring them back to their former glory. In theory, it was a great resource for someone looking to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon tinkering at the workbench. But in reality, my father just can’t stand seeing anything of potential value being thrown away…and he likes gathering things a lot more than he likes fixing them. I wasn’t quite sure how much longer I could count on the supermarket keeping Yuri busy—but since those places are more cutthroat on Christmas Eve than a roller derby, I hoped I could head down to the basement and find some random item that would pass for a thoughtful gift.
Unfortunately, the current state of The Stash was less than encouraging. You’ve seen organizing shows where a stack of plastic bins makes a roomful of stuff miraculously fit onto a closet shelf? This wasn’t like that. At all. Cheap plastic storage containers teetered in tall stacks, and because they were all from some no-name bargain bin, most of them were cracked or warped, and none of them quite fit together.
Still, an invitation from my father to go through The Stash was not to be taken lightly. With Mom always hinting that she’d take great pleasure in throwing it all away, over the years he’d grown protective. But as I rifled through bin after cracked plastic bin, I wasn’t so sure there was anything there worth protecting. Jewelry—not even the good stuff, with its faux gemstones and plastic pearls scattered like ball bearings in the bottoms of the containers. Weird kitchen gadgets you might buy on TV when insomnia struck. Kitschy little statuettes that needed a touch-up to their paint job. And while I did know my way around a paintbrush—I’ve always been fond of flourishing—I strongly suspected Yuri was the wrong audience for the big-eyed baby statuettes and chubby-cheeked cherubs. He’s none too keen on looking at an inanimate object only to find it looking back.
“Aha!” my father said. “This looks promising.”
Too bad that exclamation could only work so many times. And since I couldn’t really see Yuri being particularly enthused over a broken foot massager or a promotional backscratcher, it took me a moment to realize precisely what had been plucked from the teetering stack. “Dad…is that what I think it is?”
“No clue. I’m still trying to get the top open.”
“That box you’re holding…it’s my favorite box!”
Dad looked skeptical. “It’s just your average cardboard box, Dixon.”
“You say average like it’s a bad thing—but just look at it. Not too big, not too small, not too flimsy, and not too thick. In short, it’s an absolutely perfect box. I thought it was long gone, smashed flat in some far distant recycling bin. But here it is!” I took it from his unresisting hands with a happy sigh. “In all its boxy glory.”
“And even better, if you look inside, you might find something for Yuri.”
After a few tries, the old cellophane tape yielded to my thumbnail, and with great eagerness, I pulled open the flap. And inside was….
Another box.
Not a cardboard box, but a wooden box. A fancy wooden box—very sturdy. Very solid. And very elaborate. My breath caught as I held it up to the fluorescent light and said, “What’s this?”
“Dunno. Open it and see.”
When I popped the seal, a smell wafted out that was mostly dust, but something else, too. Oranges. Cloves. And beneath it all…cedar. I opened the lid to a bunch of wood shavings. “I hope there wasn’t originally a hamster in here.”
“Potpourri,” my father said decisively. “All the rage in the eighties. You’d be hard-pressed to find a bathroom without it.”
I gave the box a dubious shake. The smell of mingled spices tickled my senses.
Dad said, “That lid’s awfully plain, though, don’t you think? Maybe you’re holding it upside down.”
I flipped it over and discovered he was right. The actual lid was very decorative. Unfortunately, there was a word etched within the carvings. A very unfortunate word.
Poopourri.
My heart sank. “Well, that’s a shame. I was just thinking Yuri would actually like this. But he’s never once laughed at an American pun. Not in my presence, at least.”
“Maybe he’s just never found the right one.” Dad eyed the lettering. “Though as jokes go, this one’s not so hot. But take a look at the etching. It’s pretty shallow. You could add some flourishes with a wood burner and turn the word into a decorative design.”
I’d only ever seen my father use the wood burning tool to singe our name onto our patio furniture in case any of our neighbors ever decided to appropriate it—which they never did—but it seemed straightforward enough. I’m no artist. Not like Yuri, with his ability to evoke a morning mist with a swipe of a half-cleaned brush or a distant horizon with a single horizontal stroke. But all Scriveners receive extensive calligraphy training, so decorative elements like cartouches and ornaments were certainly in my calligraphic vocabulary. As I considered the shape and position of the current lettering, the bowls and stems of the letters shifted in my mind’s eye to become the twigs and fruits of an elaborate bouquet of holly. Seasonal, yet secular.
In other words, perfect!
Brownie Points #9
1
Dixon
My mother always says, show me a person who doesn’t like free stuff, and I’ll show you a big, fat liar. Me, personally? I love a good freebie. Absolutely adore them. And so the annual Shop the Bay trade show was my favorite event of the year.
Shop the Bay was not a public event. It was only open to retail stores looking for wholesale goods. But Practical Penn was a retail store… technically. Maybe my office in the back of the shop was more of a repository for loud amphibians, and maybe the last work Yuri did was change a lightbulb no one else could reach, but Yuri and I were Practical Penn employees.
Technically.
And that was good enough for me.
The Bayside Convention Center stretched out before us like a glimmering sea of possibility. While it’s true that the giveaways were all printed with some random business logo, most of the time you could scrape it off… or at least put a sticker over it. There were key fobs. There were water bottles. There were squishy little foam balls that purportedly provide some sort of stress relief. But best of all… there were pens.
You might think that a guy who’s trained his whole life to wield a specialized writing implement— a magical hand-cut quill— would turn his nose up at a cheap, disposable pen. But I love making marks on paper, whether or not those marks harness the power of Spellcraft. And it’s always fun to put a new pen through its paces and really see what it can do. I’d managed to gather up every pen in sight, from felt tip to ballpoint.
Yuri, meanwhile, appeared to be in the market for things like emery boards and back-scratchers and dinky little magnetic calendars with dates so small you could barely see them. Yuri has the predilections of someone at least two and a half times his age. Whether this was the result of growing up in Russia or his natural bent of personality, I couldn’t say. I just knew it was adorable.
We’d drifted apart— me to a table with pens that had multicolored ink, Yuri to a podiatrist’s booth. It was getting late. My pockets bristled with so many pens that my pants gave off a plasticky brreeeet with every step I took, and we’d still need to figure out what to do for dinner. Yes, there was still some take-and-bake pizza in the fridge. But after a couple of days, those slices are more like a doorstop than a dinner. Speaking of which….
“Say, Yuri.” I sidled up to him so I didn’t have to shout over the crowd and pitched my voice flirtily. “Is that a doorstop in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
He blinked. “It is promotional doorstop.”
Such a cutie.
I was about to nudge Yuri toward the parking lot when he suddenly stiffened. Not in a doorstop kind of way, either. More like a predator with something vulnerable and tasty in its sights. I tried to follow his gaze as best I could, but saw nothing but the backs of a bunch of heads. I went up on tiptoe and still saw nothing. I was about to give up and ask, when the crowd parted and it hit me: the alluring smell of chocolate.
I don’t have a major sweet tooth— not like Yuri— but the smell was so enticing, so good, I half-expected it to turn into a cartoon hand beckoning us forward. We weren’t the only ones to notice. While the Shop the Bay was thinning out and some of the vendors were even starting to pack up for the day, the crowd around Bruno’s Brownies was more of a mob scene.
But crowds have a way of making room for Yuri. Often punctuated by sort of “oof” sound you’d make when an elbow connected with your ribs.
As we elbowed our way toward the front, I found a big brute of guy hacking a sheet of brownies into cubes and dealing them onto tiny paper plates. He wore an apron embroidered with the name Bruno— a normal-sized apron, I presume, but on his burly frame it looked more like a front-facing thong. Not only did he have the physique of a grizzly prepping for hibernation, but he was just as hirsute. I come from a long line of hairy guys— though I’m told I’m more of an otter than a bear cub— and even I was impressed by Bruno’s follicles. Chest hair bulged from the neck of his shirt. His forearm hair was more of a pelt. His beard was thick enough to merit its own hairnet. But despite all his fur, the thing that struck me the most about Bruno was his eyes. Small and sweet, blinking as though he’d just woken up from a long winter’s nap… and completely overwhelmed by the bloodthirsty mob demanding his treats.
“One per customer,” the frazzled baker entreated, though if anyone heeded his pleas, it was only because they were shoved out of the way before they could help themselves to seconds.
As fast as Bruno could put those brownie samples out, they disappeared. And when a voice over the loudspeakers announced that Shop the Bay would be closing in ten minutes, the mob grew even more frantic.
At his side, a tiny woman in a chef coat two sizes too big was doling out the paper plates as fast as he could fill them. Her blondish hair was in a sloppy ponytail on top of her head, though maybe it had started the day more contained and just ended up looking messy. Despite the fact that she came off like a kid playing dress-up, she had the cheerful confidence of an adult as she worked the crowd. “Bruno’s brownies are made only from the finest ingredients, from fair-trade chocolate, to organic flour, to locally sourced cream, butter and honey. Your customers will really taste the difference!”
Maybe so… if you could manage to get your hands on one.
The brownies were going alarmingly fast, and the people within reach of Yuri’s elbows were falling like bowling pins. But when a girl of about seven or eight popped up in front of him, Yuri somehow stayed his elbow mid-jab. The kid was clearly into the color pink. Little pink T-shirt. Little pink baseball cap. Little pink jeans with a glitzy silver belt. And a little pink tongue that poked out at Yuri as she snatched up the last brownie and darted away, blowing raspberries. “Better luck next time, Chubby!”
“You’re better off without the brownies, if you ask me,” declared a desperate voice from over my shoulder. “Sweets are terrible for your blood sugar and your teeth.”
I turned and found a tall beanpole of a guy watching the crowd cruise past his stall. His shop was Herb’s Herbs and Veggies, according to the big, pumpkin-shaped sign. Why was it that only the second H was silent? Unless Yuri was pronouncing the word… but he’d picked up a lot of his pronunciation from British TV. Anyway, Herb still had plenty of samples to give away— but no takers. And now that he’d caught my eye, he seemed really invested in engaging my attention.
Herb was a middle-aged guy with a long, wispy ponytail and a tie-dyed shirt. But he wasn’t one of those relaxed hippies you see sprawled in the corner of a coffee shop nursing a single soy latte. He was the sort who’d earnestly thrust a clipboard in your face to get you to sign a petition for some cause or another.
And in this case, the cause was produce.
“Most people know tomatoes are actually a fruit,” he informed me, “but did you know their classification as a vegetable was for taxation purposes? As if something as glorious as a plant can be governed!”
“Er… can’t say that I did.”
“Did you know that in the seventeenth century, carrots were originally purple, but were bred to be orange?”
“Oh. How about that?”
“And did you know the apples you buy in the supermarket can be as much as a year old?” Don’t get me wrong— I love it when someone’s passionate about advocating for their cause. I’ve just never found vegetables particularly appealing unless they were covered in a bright orange blanket of cheese.
“Fascinating…” I started edging away. “But, wow, would you look at the time?”
The thing about tall people is that they take really big strides on their long, gangly legs, and before I could blend back into the brownie hubbub, Herb was shoving a little paper cup into my hand. A cup filled with something that looked suspiciously like wood chips.
“Herb’s herbs and veggies are grown right here in Pinyin Bay, not shipped from halfway across the world. I use a special, year-round hydroponic growing system I developed myself. And they’re preserved using time-tested, all-natural methods like brine and fermentation and sunshine. Don’t settle for anything less!”
“Indeed I won’t,” I assured him brightly, then dodged around a chubby guy with brownie residue clinging to the corners of his mouth, and finally made my getaway.
The mob was only just starting to thin, but Yuri’s shaved head is easy to spot. I checked in with him to see if the brownie folks had put out more product while I was being waylaid by Herb, but unfortunately, Bruno and his bubbly assistant were packing up shop with no more brownie samples to be had. It looked like we were out of luck— at least until I noticed a smug-looking guy threading through the crowd in the opposite direction, holding not one tiny paper plate aloft, but two.
No fair!
Instinctively, I called out, “Say, is that the Pinyin Bay Perch?” When Two-Brownie Guy paused to look, I made a grab. Thanks to my otter-like reflexes, I came away with half of his ill-gotten gains… and left a cup of dried veggie chips in its place.
The brownie was halfway to my mouth when I turned back and saw Yuri gazing forlornly at the now-empty brownie table. As good as the goodie might smell (and it smelled really good) I could hardly keep it for myself. Shielding my prize with my body, I sidled up to Yuri, jostled him playfully with my shoulder, and said, “Gee, what a shame we didn’t find this booth sooner. And now the samples are all gone.” I waggled my eyebrows at him and whipped out the brownie cube with a flourish. “All except… this one!”
It was a big one, too.
Yuri’s expression transformed from disappointment to glee— well, as close to glee as Yuri gets, but by now I can read him pretty darn well. He snatched the brownie from my hand as if it might disappear and shoved it in his mouth. But just as he was about to bite down, he said, “Should we split it?” That’s what I understood through the brownie and the sexy Russian accent, anyhow.
I patted Yuri on his bulging bicep. That handsome hunk of man-meat has had a hard life. He’s guarded and suspicious and even a tad bit pessimistic, and I think that’s what makes it especially satisfying to see him really enjoy himself. Even outside the bedroom. “You eat the whole thing, Yuri. I’m sure it can’t be any sweeter than watching you enjoy it.”
That declaration brought a blush to Yuri’s cheeks… but he wasn’t too embarrassed to scarf down the entire brownie in two bites.
Satisfied, I turned to the table. There was nothing left but a few crumbs, a scattering a paper plates… and a business card.
Bruno’s Brownerie
Bruno Baer, Proprietor
Wholesale Orders Only
I tucked the card into my pocket, wheels turning. “My parents’ shop might not be in food service, but the strip mall is zoned for restaurants— Practical Penn even shares an entire wall with the pizza place— so technically, we should be able to place a wholesale order. How many brownies do you suppose that would entail? A gross? Isn’t that a funny unit of measurement, considering that those brownies are anything but gross? I wonder how it came to be that the word for ‘twelve dozen’ and ‘completely disgusting’ is the same— probably a major case of buyer’s remorse was at the root of it. And how confusing is it for you when English words have two entirely different meanings?”
“Everything about your language is confusing,” Yuri said, though the words weren’t as harsh as they might have been, given that they were thick with brownie. His cheeks went an even brighter red.
I could count the number of times I’ve made Yuri blush on one hand and still have enough fingers leftover for tiddlywinks, so I really did my best not to stare, so as not to make him feel too self-conscious. And yet, the sight of him looking all flushed sent my thoughts spiraling down a much more lascivious route. I gave his massive arm another firm pat, then went up on tiptoe and purred in his ear, “Homophones might be confusing, but I know a vocabulary that the two of us speak loud and clear.” I took Yuri’s face in both hands (with the intent of adding the word “naked” to avoid any potential ambiguity) when I realized his cheeks were unnaturally hot to the touch.
And even as I watched, the blush resolved itself into two clusters of bright red spots.
Forging Ahead #10
1
Dixon
What is talent? Is it something you’re born with, a skill that just comes naturally? Or is it the result of hours of practice—of focus and interest and keen self-discipline?
Maybe it’s a bit of each.
I was born a Spellcrafter, though that birthright was followed by years of training. I’m not sure if it was nature or nurture that made my failed quilling ceremony sting so badly. I suspect that despite the lack of a quill, some part of me knew that not only was I indeed a legitimate Spellcrafter—but a talented one.
Though I don’t suppose animals have so much ego and backstory wrapped up in their success.
I’d spotted the ad for Creature Feature Talent Show in the Pinyin Bay Journal as I was perusing the latest juicy exposé. You wouldn’t think a city the size of Pinyin Bay had quite so many secrets and scandals. But now that my friend Charlotte (of the tinfoil hat fame) was their top investigative reporter, all sorts of shocking secrets were being uncovered.
And some of them were even true.
It was tempting to read more about the famous painting someone had uncovered in the back of their garage…but like so many of Charlotte’s articles, it was light on speculation and heavy on dry facts, so my eyes kept drifting to the little ad instead.
Does your four-legged friend perform tricks? Can they carry a tune—or even speak a word?
The presumption that all pets had four legs was awfully mammalist. Meringue could do all those things and more. She knew several words, in fact. Insulting words…but words nonetheless. Her singing was melodic, her dancing was hypnotic, and her tornado siren imitation never failed to send us scurrying down to the basement.
Show me a dog who could do all that—and pluck a magical quill from its own pinfeathers.
I didn’t think so.
Yuri is just as appreciative of Meringue’s talents as I am. He may claim he feeds her just to give her something to do with her beak other than squawking…but given that he’ll dispense a peanut every time Meringue calls out, “Nom nom!” I’d say she had him wrapped around her little finger…er, wing. So, Yuri would undoubtedly believe in Meringue, however, he’s still an artist. And as such, he can be particularly sensitive to the criticism of others, especially when they hold themselves up as arbiters of taste.
Judgers gonna judge, I always say…but since Yuri would only look at me funny and question the grammar, I’d decided it was best to spare him the anxiety of entering Meringue in a talent show. Not by not-doing it, of course—but by sneaking out the door with the bird in my messenger bag while Yuri was in the shower. There was a thousand-dollar prize on the line, and with Uncle Fonzo’s lady-friend in the “family way,” we’d need that money.
Auditions for the Creature Feature Talent Show were being held in a big tent outside the scratch ’n dent grocery outlet where they sold expiring perishables, discontinued flavors, and unlabeled cans. It’s in an oddball part of town, pretty far off the beaten track. Since my mom is one of their top customers, and since I’m a loyal son who was often roped into helping with the shopping, I found my way there, no problem. Despite the relative obscurity of the locale, though, it seemed like half of Pinyin Bay had turned out in hopes that their family pet might break into show business.
The parking lot was overflowing. There were dogs. There were cats. There was even a miniature pony. But I was the only one with a bird, so I had high hopes that Meringue would make a big impression.
Until I ran into Rufus Clahd, anyhow.
Rufus has a really weird afro. Sometimes you can gaze into it and see the shapes of other things, like you’d do staring at clouds—but with hair. He was also the Seer who’d worked at my family’s shop ever since I could remember…if by “worked” you mean “napped on the Murphy bed in his office.” But since Yuri has confirmed that painting Seens is actually pretty tiring, I supposed I should cut our official Seer some slack.
As long as you didn’t mess with his stuff, he was a pretty chill guy. If there was a weird angle to come at a given situation, Rufus always managed to find it. So he hadn’t brought a dog or a cat or even a miniature pony…but something in a very small covered cage. The thing about Rufus is that you can never quite tell what he’ll do next—and whether it’ll be genius or nonsense. While I knew darned well I should just ignore him and get on with winning the show...of course I had to see what was in that cage.
“Hey, Rufus,” I said casually. “Whatcha got there?”
“A breakfast sandwich from the gas station on the corner. I do believe they use a different sausage than the food truck by the shop.”
“Er…the other hand.”
“Ah, yes!” he said cheerfully, blowing out a few soggy biscuit crumbs. “Why, this delightful creature is truly one of nature’s miracles. Behold!” He shoved the sandwich in his mouth, plucked off the cover, and swooped the small plastic box right under my nose. “The chameleon.”
The lizard was clinging to a small plastic branch. Despite the fact that Rufus was swinging it all around, it managed to stay so still it looked as fake as the decorations…except the way its nearest eye was swiveling all around.
Had I encountered this particular chameleon before, I wondered? My parents’ Spellcraft shop was full of random exotic pets we’d inherited from Precious Greetings. “Did that critter come from Practical Penn?”
“I presume it came from an egg.”
“And you’re sure it’s a chameleon? None of the creatures at Practical Penn camouflage themselves.”
“It’s a common fallacy that chameleons try to mimic their environments, but when excited, they do indeed change color. I can’t imagine a more inspiring companion for an artist.”
“Absolutely,” I said, hoping I sounded sincere. Referring to the Seens he painted as art was a stretch. But since their main purpose was to power a Crafting, they didn’t need to look like much. Which was good. Because they didn’t much resemble anything at all.
As Rufus meandered off, trailing crumbs, a woman’s voice called out, “Dixon? Is that you?”
I peered into the crowd and found not one more familiar face, but two. And they were one another’s spitting image.
Pansy and Violet Strange are identical twins who are no longer completely identical, thanks to a misfired bit of Spellcraft that left one of Violet’s eyes an unnatural shade of purple. While I couldn’t see their irises from across the parking lot, I did note that the sisters weren’t dressed the same. Violet was pursuing a career as a fetish model, and Pansy had aspirations of being a professional baton-twirler. So, I figured Violet was in jeans and a T-shirt while Pansy was the one in the majorette getup…unless it was Violet in costume, catering to a highly specific kink.
Thankfully not. Once I was in range, I saw the twin covered in gold braid had two brown eyes.
“Hey, Dixon—where’s your grown man friend?” Violet called over as she tried to wrangle something large and furry out of her tiny hatchback.
“Back at the apartment…doing something, ah…Russian—say, is that a large dog or a small bear?”
The creature in question flopped out of the back seat in a flurry of slobber. Its tail whomped back and forth hard enough to bruise, and it peed ecstatically the moment its feet hit the ground.
Violet and Pansy both gave an identical wince. “That’s Cosmos,” Pansy said.
With a sigh, Violet added, “He’s kind of excitable.”
Pansy pulled a slobbery baton out of the car. “But I’m sure he’ll calm down by the time we get in front of the judges. We’ve been practicing our act all week.”
Uh oh. It had never occurred to me to practice any sort of routine. Hopefully Meringue could win over the judges by just being her charming self.
The dog was on one of those spring-loaded leashes that reels out from a plastic holder. As Violet attempted to unwind the leash from her left foot, Pansy shook the spit off her baton and said, “Cosmos, speak!”
The dog flopped onto its side, grinning maniacally, and thrashed Violet’s foot with his tail.
“I’m sure he’ll do great!” I said with lots and lots of enthusiasm, and went to take my place in line.
I’ve never been much good at waiting, but luckily there were all sorts of interesting people to talk to. Unfortunately, upon learning that I was a Spellcrafter, several of them demanded I Craft something on the spot to ensure they passed the audition. By the time the long line crept forward enough to get us through the door, there were only a few available spots in the show, but at least a dozen requests for Craftings.
Maybe I should’ve shown up with a bunch of Seens in my bag instead of a big sassy cockatoo. There’d be way better odds of making a profit. But if I had, the judges would be deprived of Meringue’s dulcet voice!
As if she could sense me thinking about her, Meringue began to stir. What’s the expression—are your ears burning? Birds didn’t have ears. Just ear-holes. Though Meringue sure made good use of hers when she heard Yuri muttering to himself in Russian. This was a family-friendly event, so hopefully none of the judges were Russian expats. I was craning my neck to see if any of them looked particularly Slavic when my view was blocked by a broad expanse of polyester shirt tucked into Sansabelt slacks, and the whole ensemble topped with a fur-collared vest. “Ladin Silver?” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“With a thousand smackeroos at stake? Auditioning for the talent show, of course!”
Darn. I was hoping he’d finagled his way into a stint as a judge, since we Spellcrafters always look out for our own. Unless we’re competing for the same prize—in which case, may the craftiest man win. But Ladin didn’t have a pet with him. Hopefully his tendency to bend the rules would knock him out of the competition and leave me one step closer to the big payout.
The line had inched forward so we were now inside the tent, nearing the judges’ table. Unlike reality show judges, this particular trio didn’t laugh or roll their eyes or stand up and insult people. They just scribbled on their clipboards, and called out, “Thank you, next!” approximately thirty seconds into every act, as a bunch of disappointed hopefuls shuffled out the door.
Somewhere behind me, I heard Violet and/or Pansy saying, “Cosmos—sit. Cosmos? Cosmos! Sit!”
Ahead of me—having cut the line, though I couldn’t exactly prove it—Ladin rocked expectantly on the balls of his feet. And then his gaze shifted slyly back to me. “You did know this was an animal act,” he said, “didn’t you?”
“I could say the same to you.” I’d been playing coy, keeping an ace up my sleeve—or a bird in my bag—hoping to outmaneuver a guy who, for his size, was surprisingly maneuverable. But before I got too smug, my bag took it upon itself to make an announcement.
“Nom nom!”
I patted down my pockets in search of a peanut and came up with nothing but a lip balm and half an eraser. “Not right now,” I whispered into the bag.
“Nom nom!”
“Just as soon as we’re done here, we’ll swing by the store and—”
“Nom nom!”
For an animal with a brain the size of a Raisinette, Meringue is pretty darned smart. Unfortunately, she’d never quite grasped the concept of delayed gratification. (Then again, neither had my cousin. But Sabina could be distracted with compliments about her hair, whereas Meringue simply took such observations as her due.)
I lifted the flap of my bag and found a beady little bird-eye giving me a reproachful look. How that cockatoo manages such a wide range of expressions without being able to smile or frown or waggle a pair of eyebrows, I’ll never know. But since it was clear I’d never appease her without coughing up a peanut, I decided to try and distract her instead by whispering, “Night-night.”
This is what I told her at the end of a long day as I covered her cage with a sheet so she could settle in for the evening. Hopefully the darkness of my messenger bag would be enough to convince her to keep quiet until it was our turn in front of the judges…though there may have been some grumbling in Russian as I closed the bag again.
Before I knew it, Ladin Silver was mounting the stage, which creaked alarmingly under his ponderous weight. Like so many Spellcrafters who use the gift of gab to secure their clientele, Ladin is a natural showman. And when he addressed the judges, he laid that salesmanship on really thick. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve seen many a furry friend today—cats, dogs, and even an intrepid goat.”
Actually, I was pretty sure that had been a Dalmatian in a goat costume. But a rustling sound in my bag sidetracked me before I could comment on it. It was a papery sort of rustle. A fine papery sort of rustle. The kind of rustle you’d hear when you clean out the paper shredder. That didn’t make any sense, though. I wasn’t carrying any shredded paper in my bag.
Though I was carrying around a piece of…uh oh.
I make a big impression.
The Crafting was meant for the painfully shy salesman who’d helped us get a great deal on a slightly used writing desk. But I had the sinking feeling that I’d need to go back to the drawing board before I swung by the furniture store. Unless the papery thing Meringue had gotten hold of was my shopping list instead....
Onstage, Ladin produced a miniature piano—where on earth had he been hiding that?—and declared, “Anyone can traipse into a pet shop and buy an animal. But it takes a special kind of brilliance to tame a creature from the wild.”
As I lifted the flap of my bag to see exactly how shredded the contents might be, Ladin’s fur collar sprang to squirrelly life as he chose that exact moment to brandish a peanut....
And my bag exploded in a cloud of Spellcraft shreds and feathers.
“Nom nom!” Meringue cried triumphantly as she dive-bombed the stage. How a cockatoo can smell a peanut at thirty yards without a nose I’ll never know. Bits of set Spellcraft rained down on my head, ensuring that I was the one who’d make the “big impression.” Meanwhile, Ladin Silver was surprisingly calm about the burst of exclaiming white feathers hurtling toward him…however, his fur collar most definitely was not. The semi-tamed squirrel bolted right down his leg, across the stage, and into the crowd.
“Cosmos, stay!” one of the twins cried.
Ladin might be calm—Cosmos, though, was anything but. The dog gave a bellow and was off like a shot. And while Violet had the wherewithal to hold on tight, there was a heck of a lot of leash wound up in that holder. It spooled out like fishing line, whipping back and forth through the crowd in the dog’s wake.
If only Ladin thought to let go of the peanut. Spellcrafters are notoriously…frugal. Instead of relinquishing the treat, Ladin spun in a circle, protecting it with his massive body. Meringue was coming at him from every which direction, though, and Ladin hardly stood a chance.
But the squirrel? Apparently semi-tame rodents have pretty good survival instincts. The squirrel quickly determined that while Meringue was only after the peanut, Cosmos was another story. It knew enough to put both distance and roadblocks between him and the perceived threat…which meant weaving in and out of the legs of the crowd: contestants, animals, and judges. And Cosmos was hot on its furry little heels.
The leash lashed back and forth, smacking into the lizard cage in Rufus Clahd’s hands. The top popped off, spinning high into the air, while the chameleon, startled, scrambled up Rufus’s arm and across his shoulders, changing colors all the while. By the time he scooted down Rufus’s pant leg, the swivel-eyed lizard had gone from a boring, solid green, to a scintillating stripey pattern of blacks, yellows and reds. And while it might be scientifically accurate that he wasn’t deliberately camouflaging himself by trying to mimic his surroundings, the floor of the tent was a surprisingly good match.
Rufus dropped to the ground so fast I thought he’d fainted, at least until he started commando-crawling through the squealing crowd in pursuit of his chameleon. Meanwhile, the squirrel was desperate for some camouflage of its own, and it must’ve mistaken the Seer’s afro for a small, mobile tree—or maybe a convenient crawling bush. It flung itself at the hair, but Rufus is pretty hard to shock. He took it all in stride, crawling after his lizard with the squirrel clinging to him like an avant-garde hat.
Up on the stage, Meringue was bound and determined to get her claws on that peanut. As tiny, off-kilter piano notes chimed under the onslaught of her impressive black beak, the holder Violet was gripping ran out of leash, and the line snapped taut. Violet’s heels were dug in hard, and Cosmos had some incredible momentum, but something had to give. That “something” was everything in between them. Things went flying every which way. People, animals, tables and chairs.
And judges.
As the fur, feathers and Spellcraft shreds settled, a stunned silence fell over the tent as everyone tried to figure out how they’d ended up on the floor. (Except Rufus, who’d sprung back up with a squirrel on his head and a chameleon in his arms.)
The silence was broken by the repetitive plink of a single piano key.
Time for damage control. I hopped up onto the stage and said, “Jingle Bells! You all heard it—the first seven notes, anyhow. Let’s all give a big round of applause to Meringue, the Caroling Cockatoo!”
Those judges who’d seemed so bored a moment ago were suddenly a lot more engaged. Unfortunately, they were also pretty angry. Not a single person clapped, either—unless the hearty smack of Cosmos’s tail against the floor counted as applause.
When a stray peck landed on Ladin’s thumb, he juggled to keep hold of his tiny piano—and peanuts scattered everywhere. Meringue happily launched off in pursuit of her nom-noms as a couple of determined-looking folks in security windbreakers strode my way.
A single peanut rolled toward me, coming to rest against my shoe. I scooped it up, grabbed my bird…and shot the security guards my most conciliatory smile while I beat a hasty retreat.
Mayor or Not #11
1
Dixon
Who can resist a piping hot churro straight from the deep fryer? Or a golden brown, deep-fried funnel cake? Or a melty, chocolatey fried Snickers bar? Or a thick, chewy slab of fried dough covered in frosting and cinnamon and colorful candy sprinkles? Not me.
And judging by the fact that he was currently covered in powdered sugar, not Yuri.
A-dorable.
“Say, Yuri,” I ventured, as the mineral-seaweed scent of the water cut through the olfactory wall of fried food. “Isn’t it funny that of the million and one places each of us could be, we both ended up in Pinyin Bay?”
He scowled as if to say, Hardly funny when I was lured here against my will and bound by Spellcraft to serve a Handless tyrant…but he didn’t go so far as to actually speak the words. Because while that might’ve been technically true, no one would argue that things had totally turned out for the best.
It was the perfect day for a fundraiser. The Pinyin Bay boardwalk creaked beneath our feet. Though it was still patchy in some places and completely blown up in others, with any luck, repairs could begin soon. And in the meantime, no one complained about our festivities spilling out into the asphalt lot of the municipal salt pile. I worked my hand into the crook of Yuri’s elbow, enjoying the bulge of his biceps in a way that never got old, then gave his arm a squeeze and said, “Even the boardwalk will be back to normal before you know it.”
Yuri eyed the crowd. “I am not so sure. Turnout is not as good as we had hoped.”
“Really?” I took a better look around. “Come to think of it, there was an awful lot of elbow room at the urinal—”
“We live ten minutes away, could you not have waited?”
“Anyhoo, Drew’s going to be phenomenally upset if we don’t make our numbers.”
Drew Draws was the driving force behind the Rebuild the Boardwalk Extravaganza…if by driving, you meant blustering around with lots of big hand gestures in a glittery visor and lamenting that a creative’s work is never done. Drew had been selling tourist caricatures from a stall on the boardwalk for more than twenty years, though late last summer we discovered there was more to his talent than just making his subjects’ hair look big.
Of course, Yuri and I helped wherever we could. Yuri with Seer advice, and me insisting on adding the word Extravaganza to his fundraiser’s title—because who doesn’t love an extravaganza?
Through nippy fall days and long winter nights, Drew had split his time between learning the Seer craft and making the extravaganza a reality. He’d been planning to use the big event to announce his “retirement” from caricature and become a full-fledged Seer. It was perfect timing. He could make the announcement when he turned over a big novelty check to the contractors who’d won the bid to restore the boardwalk to its former glory…or at least its former garish kitschiness. That check couldn’t be paltry, though, not when the numbers would be big enough for everyone to see—even in the blurry, weirdly-framed shots they published in the Pinyin Bay Journal.
The fundraiser had been months in the making. If it flopped, we’d never hear the end of it. Not because we were personally responsible, but because the new Seer spent so much time with my uncle, and the attic floor isn’t very well insulated. And Drew can be pretty darned loud when he gets excited.
“Word of mouth is what we need,” I decided.
“Where else would words come from?” Yuri wondered. “Or do I really want to know?”
“Just another charming expression in English. It means we need to get these people hyped up so they let all their friends know how much fun they’re having.” I grabbed the nearest stranger, a sunburned guy wearing socks with sandals, and asked, “Isn’t this the coolest extravaganza you’ve ever attended?”
The great thing about questions is that they’re not just for finding answers. In this case, I was hoping to help this guy realize exactly how much fun he was having. I knew for a fact there hadn’t been an “extravaganza” in Pinyin Bay’s recorded history (I’d even looked it up!). So, even if he was just having an okay time—by sheer default, Rebuild the Boardwalk would still be the coolest.
Strangers usually agree with me—especially when I startle them—but instead of just saying whatever it might take to disengage, the pink-nosed guy took in all the festivities and said, “The games are rigged, the food is cold, and the only ride is the Ferris wheel. And I could ride that anytime.”
“There’s a bouncy castle right over there.”
“With a weight limit of a hundred pounds. I’d hardly call this an extravaganza. A fair, maybe. Or even a festivity. But extravaganza is really pushing it.”
Far be it from me to get involved in a discussion about vocabulary with someone so pedantic. I knew full well how important it was to be accurate with my word choices. How could I not, with all the vocabulary Spellcraft tutors had drilled into my young, impressionable brain?
Turning away, I scoped out a woman in big sunglasses and bright pink lip gloss. She probably had a whole bunch of friends on Friendlike! Plus, she was tiny enough that she could hop around in the bouncy castle if the mood took her. I plastered on a big, non-threatening smile, trotted up to her, and said, “Could there possibly be a more perfect day for an extravaganza?”
Hooking a finger over the arm of her sunglasses, the woman slid them down her nose, scanned the bay, and said with a shrug, “I guess it’s fine.”
There’s just no pleasing some people! But there were dozens of folks milling listlessly around…or maybe they were just relaxed. Surely there’d be a potential influencer somewhere in the crowd. It was just a matter of finding someone suitably enthused to take my message to the people—
“Dixon Penn!” boomed a familiar voice, startling me so badly I nearly ended up wearing Yuri’s funnel cake. Ladin Silver peeled out from behind a concession stand belly-first, brandishing a Technicolor snow cone in each hand. I was hardly surprised to see him there, as Ladin had a particular knack for games of chance. Rumor has it his old trailer was raided for suspicion of illegal gambling—stoat racing, to be exact—but he’s never confirmed or denied that allegation.
“Just the person I wanted to see!” Ladin boomed at me.
“Wow. Uh…really?”
“Hasn’t Drew Draws been spending all his free time over at your uncle’s place?”
It was no secret among the circuit that Uncle Fonzo was training a new Seer. In fact, it was pretty big news within our Spellcraft circuit. “That’s right.”
“Good. Then you’re sure to run into him at some point. Hold this.” He shoved a snow cone at me, and reflexively, my hand came up to grab the paper holder. The ball of ice on top was a bright green so electric it couldn’t possibly be found in nature, and it smelled like a confusing melange of coconut and oregano. Once Ladin had a free hand, he dug an envelope out from his Sansabelt slacks and thrust it toward me. I grabbed it as reflexively as I’d grabbed the snow cone. “See that Drew gets this.” He patted me on the head with a sticky palm. “There’s a good boy.”
I gave back the green snow cone and he ambled off, pausing every few steps to lick one, then the other, until eventually he meandered behind the listlessly capering Pinyin Bay Perch, and I lost sight of him.
Yuri scowled down at the envelope in my hands. “What is it?”
“Maybe it’s a bribe. Local businesses donated all kinds of interesting stuff for the big raffle—and you know how easy it is to rig those things.” I held the envelope up to the light, but unfortunately the paper was too thick for me to see though. “What do you suppose the going rate might be to fix a local raffle? There were some really cute curtain rods in one of the gift baskets—”
“We only have one window,” Yuri reminded me. “And it has shutters.”
I tucked the envelope into my messenger bag. “True. But things are always better when they’re free.”
“But it is not free if a bribe is involved.”
I was about to say we’d have to agree to disagree when we came upon the bandstand. Normally, this was where Pinyin Bay Elementary held their graduation ceremony and the civic orchestra played rousing marches on the Fourth of July. The crowd was thicker here, and everyone was abuzz.
I craned my neck to see what they were all so excited about, but the guy in front of me was particularly tall.
But not taller than my grown man friend.
“Hot dog eating contest?” Yuri said incredulously.
“Only in America!” I declared. While that probably wasn’t the case…I was sure he’d been thinking it. And I never like to disagree with him for long.
“Excuse me…pardon me,” I said as I squeezed my way to the front of the crowd, while Yuri strode in behind me with significantly more force and fewer apologies. I’d never seen a real, live competitive eating event, and I had so many questions. Were the hot dogs boiled or grilled? How much mustard was involved? And could anyone actually say the word wiener without tittering?
I was nearly to the edge of the bandstand when someone snapped, “Watch it, buddy, I’m standing here,” and I found myself elbow to elbow with my cousin.
“Sabina!” I said enthusiastically. And, “Vano…” less so. He’d been stuck to my cousin like glue ever since he put her in the family way. While I was used to having him around nowadays, he still managed to outdo me at every turn. Granted, I’d really upped my flourishing game lately in the face of such stiff competition. What stuck in my craw was the fact that Vano was anything but competitive. Currently, he was fanning Sabina with a map from the tourism kiosk, and he was going at it so earnestly that he’d worked up a sweat…which made his hair fall into an effortlessly attractive tousle.
Of course it did.
Self-consciously, I smoothed the sides of my hair and checked for any wayward strays. I supposed that the important thing was that Vano was willing to take the brunt of my cousin’s mood swings. I’ve heard that some women get a certain glow about them when they’re pregnant. Sabina’s glow was more of a glower.
“Where’ve you guys been?” my cousin said. “This sun is brutal. I need Yuri to cast a shadow.”
Without missing a beat, Yuri glanced up at the sky and positioned himself to block the sun from landing directly on her.
I said, “It seems like you’ve been pregnant forever. How much longer until the baby is due?”
Sabina shrugged. “Hard to say. Depends on whether I got knocked up on the davenport, or under the boardwalk, or in the back of the Buick.”
Vano smiled to himself. “I still say it was on the circular staircase in the solarium at Nana’s house.”
“Forget I asked,” I said weakly.
“Can the doctors not give you a due date?” Yuri wondered.
“Doctor!” Sabina scoffed. “Who has time for all the ridiculous hoops a doctor would make me jump through? Tests and sonograms and prenatal vitamins and whatnot. It’s all just a racket to pad their bills.”
Beneath the burgeoning sunburn on his nose, Yuri went pale. “I thought Americans had programs for things like this. What about insurance?”
“Insurance is a sucker’s bet,” Sabina said dismissively.
I patted Yuri on the arm. “It’s fine. There’s a midwife in our circuit who handles these sorts of things.”
Yuri narrowed his eyes at my cousin. “And when was the last time you saw this midwife?”
“I’ve been meaning to get around to it. But things have been so busy, what with the new Seer and the festival….”
“Extravaganza,” I reminded her.
Ignoring me, Sabina grabbed the brochure out of Vano’s hands and began fanning herself harder. “I’ve had all I can take of this weather. If they don’t start the contest soon, I’ll need to forfeit.”
“Hold on,” I said. “You entered?”
“Drew needed more bodies to make it look good, so he waived my entry fee. I figured, free hot dogs, why not?”
Who doesn’t love a good hot dog? Other than a vegetarian. And probably a pig…although they do say pigs are notoriously omnivorous. At any rate, even though hot dogs were as American as apple pie and sky-high health insurance, Yuri—who can be surprisingly picky—was happy to demolish half a pack at a sitting.
Sabina fanned herself harder as some helpers wheeled a groaning covered cart onto the bandstand to some hoots and cheers from the swelling crowd. Through the ancient, crackly PA system, Drew’s voice announced: “Folks, our big event will start in five minutes. Now it’s time for the contestants to gather backstage.”
I expected my cousin to waddle toward the starting gate at full speed, but surprisingly enough, she turned on her heel and started pushing through the crowd in the opposite direction. “Sabina!” I called out. “Where ya going?”
“Can’t you smell that?” she demanded. I smelled nothing but the ambient marine funk of the bay. “Hot dog water! Gross! It’s enough to make me hurl!”
The crowd in front of her thinned out in a real hurry.
“But wait,” I said, “what about your spot in the eating contest?”
“One of you will have to fill it. I’m outta here.”
Saturday Series Spotlight
Audiobook Collection Reviews
Author and artist Jordan Castillo Price is the owner of JCP Books LLC. Her paranormal thrillers are colored by her time in the midwest, from inner city Chicago, to small town Wisconsin, to liberal Madison.
Jordan is best known as the author of the PsyCop series, an unfolding tale of paranormal mystery and suspense starring Victor Bayne, a gay medium who's plagued by ghostly visitations. Also check out her new series, Mnevermind, where memories are made...one client at a time.
With her education in fine arts and practical experience as a graphic designer, Jordan set out to create high quality ebooks with lavish cover art, quality editing and gripping content. The result is JCP Books, offering stories you'll want to read again and again.
Present Tense #8
Forging Ahead #10
Mayor May Not #11
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