Sniffling, my ex-employee takes the envelope and shakes it. “Is there candy inside?” she asks, her tone hopeful.
“It’s your payment, Mandy. You can use the cash to pay rent or buy a month’s supply of chocolate. I recommend paying rent first. It’s easier to seduce meals from a guy than to get him to lodge you for free.”
Mandy’s bottom lip puffs out, showcasing her disagreement. I realize I may have underestimated how much chocolate she needs per meal.
“How about this,” I try again. “Keep treading water until I get access to the money in Grandma’s estate. Then I can send you more money, plus instructions for returning the other deposits to customers.”
“Where am I supposed to tread water?” asks Mandy. “The bay is freezing.”
For her sake, I hope Mandy someday learns the business of metaphors. I smile at the pixie. I’m going to miss her. And Bulan too. It’s a good thing I’ll have Jane—all the companion a normal girl like me needs.
Besides, our apartment has a “No Pets” policy. I assume that extends to severed heads.
“Sabby,” Bulan says from behind his knit curtain, “do you really think it’s a good idea to leave Mandy with so much responsibility?”
“She’s a smart pixie. She can do this. Look, she’s wearing glasses now.”
“Thanks, Sabby.” Said pixie bursts into tears anew. “I’ll always treasure your kind words.”
“I’m sorry your life has led you to believe I’m kind,” I say comfortingly.
“Don’t be fooled, Sabby. That pair of fused-together monocles is just part of Mandy’s librarian costume—” Bulan is saying when his voice is interrupted by a loudly arriving train.
It doesn’t whistle, exactly. But all the same, it hails me. I give Mandy and Bulan one final, tight-lipped smile and a farewell salute, then close my eyes and inhale the train station’s sweet, sweet scent of burnt oil and grime. This time, when I move forward and toe the yellow line, I don’t melt into a puddle. Or falter. Or think about how nice it might’ve been if I were still able to attend that Halloween party with Hanry, wearing the yet-unopened couples costume he’d purchased for the occasion. Why would I do any of that? I’m free now, a free bird. But not an eagle or a phoenix or anything noteworthy. I’m more like… a pigeon.
And the moment I’m back in New York, I’ll be back to living my best pigeon-y life. The best life anyone could live—100 percent paranormal-free. No drama, no excitement, no surprises.
Nothing but freedom.
20FREEDOM, SWEET FREEDOM
NIGHT HAS FALLEN BY THEtime I make it to the quiet(ish) and safe(ish) neighborhood of Turtle Bay. Of course, this being New York City, the beautiful humanity here is gearing up to party instead of winding down. Like an awkward salmon unwilling to push upstream, I hang back at the entrance to the Lexington Avenue station and observe them: gray and beige sweaters and black blazers and neutral hair colors, solids and designers and knockoff designers. Sure, here and there, people wear bright-colored and eye-offending clothes, like parrots. What matters is this: not a single person appears to be a witch, or like they’re trying to be one. Halloween means little to anyone here but a party trick. A couple of people are overconfident with the cologne, but on the whole, the masses smell showered. And not like they cleansed themselves in a mugwort bath filled with rune stones and crystals, either. Like they used tap water. And generic, store-bought shampoos.
I release the breath I’ve been holding for weeks.
Armored by a frankly unsettling calm, I head to the apartment. More familiar glories meet me there. Behold! A Target lamp on the entry table. A mass-produced canvas of abstract “modern art” above a gray, pilling sofa. In my bedroom, I draw my hands lovingly over my prepackaged bedding set, not even 100 percent cotton fill, because nothing needs to betoonice. The normalcy is the luxury. The sweet, delicious taste of vanilla.
“Sammy?”
I pan from our half kitchen and living room to the open door leading to the bedroom opposite mine. A room that is technically a large closet. Visible within is the most wonderful creature I’ve ever met, Jane Doe, sitting cross-legged on her single bed. A claw clip holds back her off-blond hair. She’s in matching cotton sweats. Her phone is propped against a pillow, the screen turned to a video call. A man is on the other end. She waves at me.
I let out a longer sigh of relief than I did at the station. Then I shout, “Jane!” and run forward to greet her with a hug.
She hugs me loosely. “I’ve missed you, Sammy!”
I draw back, unable to stop smiling in spite of her repeated mistake.
“It’s actually Sabby, remember? With ab. I had a cold when I started using the nickname. I wanted to go by ‘Sammy,’ but my nose was clogged, so everyone heard it wrong.”
“That’s a little weird,” says Jane.
“Which is why Sammy’s fine too,” I say really fast, hugging her again. Because this is everything I’ve ever wanted. My life. My normal normalnormallife.
And yet, as I unpack my bags and we catch up, and she reintroduces me to her boyfriend as Sammy on the video chat, my chest gets uncomfortably tight. And no, it’s not my sports bra. It’s something else, some unnamable thing that makes me feel like I’m being squeezed between two fingers. Like a pimple.
After I’m done unpacking, and I’ve showered, I lie at last on my medium-firm mattress with the lights turned out. I try to fall asleep.
I don’t know why, but it takes quite a long time.
