“But they always do it in music videos”—he yanks at the other side—“and Bond films.”
I’m exhausted and sunburnt and starving. And about to walk into a shopping mall full of potential blood donors. One single upside of the convertible is that I can’t really smell Simon and Penny when we’re on the road.…
Though I’m well accustomed to how they both smell when I’m thirsty. Simon smells like the kitchen after you pop popcorn and melt butter. There’s a singe to it, with a round, yellow, fatty feeling that sticks to the roof of your mouth. Bunce is sharper and sweeter—vinegar and treacle. She skinned her knee once, and my sinuses burned for hours.
They probably wouldn’t like it if they knew I’ve thought about how they’d taste, but I justreallybelieve I’m doing them service enough by not actually draining them. By not actually draininganyone.I am so thirsty right now, but I can’t do any hunting till the sun sets. So instead I’ll go and have dinner in a shopping mall, and everyone will live.
“Come on, Snow,” I say. “The cheesecake awaits.” Bunce is already inside. She went straight into the restaurant, as soon as we parked the car.
“We can’t just leave the top down,” he says. “Can you magic it up?”
“Sure, I’ve got a dozen convertible-repair spells.”
“Good.”
“I’mjoking.There’s not a spell for everything—did you forget them mentioning that every day at Watford?”
Simon climbs out of the car. “Yeah, I really wish I would’ve paid more attention at magic school—maybe I could havebeensomebody.” I can hear the resentment in his voice, but when he turns to me, he starts to laugh.
“What.”
He looks away from me, covering his mouth.
“What are you laughing at.”
He looks down, but waves his hand at me. “You—your—”
I refuse to look down at myself. “My what, Snow?”
“Your hair.”
I refuse to touch my hair.
“You look like that guy, with the wig—” He mimes playing the piano. “Duh, duh, duh, duhhh.”
“Beethoven?”
“I don’t know his name. With the big wig. There was a film about him.”
“Mozart. You’re saying I look like Mozart.”
“You’ve got to look, Baz, it’s a scream.”
I will not look. I turn towards the mall. I assume Snow follows.
I look like Mozart. I look like I’m in one of those hair metal bands. (I also look deeply, strangely sunburnt, but I don’t want to risk making that worse with magic.) I point my wand at my hair and cast,“Tidy up!”When that doesn’t do it, I dip my head in the sink.
Fortunately I have the Cheesecake Factory men’s room to myself.
I’d wanted to find a real restaurant for dinner. Surely, Des Moines, Iowa, has real restaurants. But Simon wanted something he’d heard of, something “famously American.” Once he spotted the Cheesecake Factory sign, there was no more discussion.
By the time I leave the loo, I still look like I’m in an ’80s band—but something less metal. Bucks Fizz or Wham!. (My mum was a fiend for Wham!.)
I find Snow and Bunce in a giant vinyl booth. Simon is hogging the breadbasket and paging through a menu so lengthy, it’s spiral-bound. Penny is sitting across from him; I’ve seen zombies with more spirit.
“This menu’s staggering,” Simon says. “There’s a whole page of taco salads. They’ve got macaroni and cheese, regular or fried. And every kind of chicken—look,orange chicken.”
I sit next to him. “What’s orange chicken?”
