Chapter 1
Coco
The morning I start my dream job, my mom calls to remind me of something: She’s forgotten I exist.
“Brittany just hit one million YouTube subscribers,” she gushes about my sister while I sit on the roadside in my Camry, the engine idling.
“That’s fantastic.”
I try to match her enthusiasm, but all I can think is, it’s the first day of my new job and Mom has forgotten about the details of my life—again.
“We’re throwing a big party for her Saturday. I need you to bring the potato salad.” That’s me, the potato salad daughter. “How do you make it so good?”
“Pickles,” I remind her, deflating.
My family likes the crunchy pickles.
“Great. Talk soon!”
She hangs up, leaving me with a hole in the pit of my stomach.
And that’s when all hell breaks loose.
Okay, I’m exaggerating.
But itiswhen my hands decide to act like living sparklers. Painful pops of magic flicker from the tips of my fingers.
“Ouch! No!”
To stop the fire, I pop my fingers into my mouth. The taste of pennies zings on my tongue, and my throbbing fingers smart for a second before the power fizzles out.
Here’s the thing no one tells you about living in a town that recently reclaimed its magic: Sometimes it comes backinyou. And while everyone’s cool with unicorns and piggycorns (pigs with unicorn horns) prancing around, they’re not so keen on humans with magic.
Surprisingly, that’s where the townsfolk draw the line.
I tap the GPS screen until the stupid thing comes back to life and nose my Camry onto the two-lane highway that runs out of Mystic Meadows, Georgia—my hometown.
The landscape blooms on both sides with green meadows, rolling hills, tall pines. And running over them all, standing out like an accent pillow in a perfect living room, are ley lines.
These are rivers of power that shimmer like gold. They snake over the earth, crisscrossing one another and tumbling on top of rocks, down hills, and weaving around trees.
As I pass a glowing thread of power dancing alongside the road, my phone rings.
It’s Mom again! This time she’s calling because she remembered, for sure. I clear my throat like I’m preparing to give my Oscar acceptance speech.
“Hey! Did you forget something?”
“Did you get your grandmother’s engagement ring sized yet?”
I glance down at my left hand to the antique emerald-and-diamond ring that fits loosely on my finger. It was a gift from my grandmother and swivels every time I move, so I’m having it sized for my right hand—my non-engagement, single hand.
“I’m dropping it off at the jeweler’s today.”
“Great. Can’t wait to see how it fits you.” There’s a pause. “Honey, is something wrong?”
Worse than being forgotten is coaxing someone into remembering you. So I say, “Nope. I’m all good.”
“Well, see you soon. Bye!”
