Lia and Beckett's Abracadabra , livre ebook

PUBLISHER S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-1-4197-5344-2 eISBN 9781647002466
Text copyright 2022 Amy Noelle Parks
Title page illustration 2022 Andi Poretti
Book design by Deena Fleming
Published in 2022 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
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This one s for my girls almighty, Chloe and Sophie
One
In our mailbox, I find a postcard from my missing grandmother and a sonnet from my boyfriend. Only one is addressed to me.
I m standing on the doorstep reading the poem when Camden s car fishtails into our driveway. He pops out, leaving the car running, which is not like him. This boy says eco-conscious more often than I reapply lip gloss.
Tell me you didn t open that, he says, rushing toward me.
I hold up my hand like a crossing guard, because I don t want him any closer. I did. And we re done here. Unless you want to hand-deliver it to your muse?
Camden winces and brings his fist to his mouth. He s so cute, and a little twist of pain flashes in my stomach. We haven t been together long enough for it to be my heart, but I thought we were headed in that direction.
A couple months ago, I helped Camden bring up his chemistry grade with Grandma s haunted house trick. You turn all the things you need to memorize into vivid images that you picture in a Gothic-style mansion. Using this system, Grandma can memorize a deck of cards in less than an hour. It took me a week.
The haunted house thing worked for Camden, and when he aced his test, he took me out to celebrate. Since then, we ve spent most weekends together, and I ve lost a bobby pin or two-although nothing of importance-in the back seat of his car.
It was just a daydream. I never intended anyone to see it. He comes up the steps to stand in front of me. You know what you re like. Can you blame me for one little fantasy about someone more serious?
Yes. I can. This whole situation is ridiculous, but my throat tightens the way it does when I cry. I d sort of thought that Camden, with his eco causes and scruffy shoes and homework dates, took me more seriously than his predecessors. If he didn t, what was the point of all that boredom?
I hit back because I don t want to give him the satisfaction of my tears. Maybe don t call me silly when you re the one rhyming elocution with pollution. This was not the most disturbing part of the poem, but it s all I m willing to say out loud. Years of therapy will not undo this.
Camden puts a hand out, but I yank my arm away.
I wrote one for you too. That s what I meant to put in the mailbox. He holds out a folded square of paper. Do you want it?
OK. I m a little tempted. I haven t had so many poems written for me that I can afford to reject them out of hand, but there s not a lot of dignity to salvage here, so I m going to take what I can get.
It s over, Camden, I say before turning to go inside.
He grabs for the door. Lia! You can t take that in there.
Oh yes, I can. I push the door shut, but he shoves it open and follows me in.
Be reasonable, he says, and I shoot him an outraged look.
Mom comes out of her office. Hey, Lia. Camden. How s it going?
Camden looks at his shoes. Hi, Mrs. Sawyer. His face is bright red. As it should be.
Camden and I broke up. He is no longer welcome here.
Mom s eyes widen. What happened?
Do you want to tell her, or should I?
You wouldn t.
You want to bet? Two days ago, you told me you couldn t stop thinking about me. You said every single day you d give me a new reason to stay together. Good plan. Terrible execution.
Volume, Lia, Mom says, and I glare at her. I swear I was eight years old before I realized my given name wasn t Volume Lia.
The piano goes silent. I m so used to hearing Emma play, I didn t realize she was home until the music stopped.
What s going on? she says, coming out of the living room.
My boyfriend wrote a romantic poem about Mom.
Lia! Camden shouts.
I want to see! Emma says at the same time.
About me?
To her credit, Mom is horrified. She and I don t have the smoothest relationship, but she s never been one of these mothers who dresses like a teenager and flirts with our boyfriends. She s a lawyer who consults for environmental organizations and mostly works from home. Today, she s wearing leggings and an oversize T-shirt that says S TOP THE F RACKING M ADNESS .
Her hair, which falls straight to her shoulders, is the same indeterminate shade of beige that grows out of my head, although every eight weeks I return mine to the golden color I was born with. (I don t think of this as dyeing my hair. I am a heritage blonde.)
From what I gathered in his poem, Camden s fascination stems less from her appearance (a small consolation on the weirdness front) than from her intellect (ouch).
I hold out the poem to Mom. Would you like it? Camden makes a grab for it, but I vanish it into my sleeve.
Mom shakes her head rapidly back and forth and steps back into her office, shutting the French doors. The lock clicks and the blinds close. A better person might feel sorry for Camden, but I can t quite manage it.
You re really not giving it back?
No. Consider it insurance. Come up with some flattering reason we broke up, stay away, and no one will ever see it.
Except me, obviously, Emma says.
Well, yes, except Emma.
Lia, Camden says.
You re lucky this is as bad as it gets.
The frustration on his face slowly morphs into embarrassment. I am sorry.
I nod and he leaves.
Wow, Emma says. You were super tough.
That s when I cry.
Emma pulls me upstairs to my room and lies down next to me until I stop. It doesn t take all that long. I was maybe more interested in the idea of Camden than the reality of him. And maybe not even the idea of Camden, but the idea of me as a girl who could attract a boy like him. Because I thought Camden was not the sort of guy to fall for someone silly.
Upside I guess I was right about that.
Emma kisses my forehead and wipes away the last of my tears. She is two years older and perfect. And not knowing-her-makes-you-feel-inadequate perfect, but truly perfect. This year was hard without her.
She chose Oberlin for college so she could get a music degree while double-majoring in something meaningful (environmental studies) because my parents insisted. Grandma thought she should ignore them and go to Juilliard, but rebellion is not Em s way.
Thinking about Grandma makes me remember the postcard. Can I show you something?
Please. I m dying to read it.
That s not what I meant, but here. I fish the poem out of my sleeve and hand it to her.
That sleight was nice, by the way. I didn t catch it.
Emma s sweet, but truth is, it was clumsy. Grandma would have called me out if she d seen it-even mid-breakup. I ve gotten sloppy over these last two months. Camden wasn t all that interested in my magic.
This is awful, Emma says, looking up from the poem. And not just because it s about Mom.
I know. He has no imagination. Which, believe me, I am plenty grateful for right now.
But you stayed with him almost two months. That s like a personal best. Looking at this, I can t understand why.
I figured dull wasn t so bad after Liey McLiarface. Plus, I say with a pointed look, Mom liked him.
Emma laughs. Well, if you didn t want to show me the poem, then what?
I hold up the postcard for her, letting her see the picture of the donkey before flipping it over. The message, written in the purple ink Grandma always uses, says It started with this.
Emma takes it out of my hands and studies both sides. When did it come?
Today.
The postmark s from two days ago.
I know. What do you think it means?
Emma shrugs. A few weeks ago, our grandmother took an Alaskan cruise and disappeared. The cruise line insists an accident was impossible but can t explain what happened. Everyone believes this is some stunt of hers. It wouldn t be out of character: Two years ago she vanished, and the memory is still fresh. She resurfaced after three weeks with a face-lift and pink hair.
Most of the time I m sure the same thing is happening again, but sometimes, late at night, I m afraid I m the only one who loves her enough to worry. Mom and Emma see Grandma Matilda as a cautionary tale, but for me, she s more #goals.
Emma began piano at age five and has always divided her time equally between practicing and schoolwork. Mom, for all her environmental activism, spends most days alone, working through scientific reports and government regulations. Dad is an actuary.
This is the royal flush of boring jobs. Actuaries make insane amounts of money calculating risks for investment firms and insurance companies because so few people have the stamina for the mind-numbing, soul-sucking nature of the work. (In fairness, Dad would probably explain his job differently.)
The only thing Mom and Dad really understand about me is my aptitude for math. Their love language is enrolling me in gifted programs, and they re sending me off to another one as soon as