June shrugs. “So go be magical. It’s a choice.”

Maybe she’s right. I started to, didn’t I? When I took those classes. I feel so pouty. I am just a muggle. A beige bitch muggle. It’s a sad day in Helena Land.

Before we part ways, I hug her big. “I’m going to talk to Della,” I tell her. “Try to make things right.”

She won’t look at me. And that’s when you know June has more to say.

“Sometimes you can’t. Just be okay with that, all right?”

“Sure, June. Sure.”

But Della and I had worked through puberty together. When she started cheerleading junior year and made new friends, we worked through that. And when I started dating Louis from the debate team, and didn’t see her as often, we worked through that. And when we had our first serious fight about the way she had changed, we worked through that. And when we had nothing in common anymore, we worked through that. We work through things. That’s us.

All the way home I’m thinking about what June said. How much of this is my fault. What could I have done differently? I am not good at flirting. I don’t try to flirt. Had I flirted with Kit in front of Della and not known I was doing it? If I’ve done something wrong, I want to own it. I’ve tried to be friendly to him, aloof. But, that dream … it made me different. And if I were to be really, really honest with myself, I’d say that the dream affected my ability to forgive Neil. All of a sudden I had ideas about things being better. About my loneliness being gone.

I call Della as soon as I get home. I have it all planned out—everything I’m going to say. She picks up on the third ring. There’s a lot of noise and shuffling in the background.

“Hello? Dells?”

I hold the phone away from my ear, and I’m about to hang up when I hear it. A long moan, heavy breathing.

“Della?” I say.

Della answers, but its Kit’s name she says, followed by a series of yelps. I hang up quickly and feel heat climb my face. She must have accidentally answered while they were having sex. Oh God. I cover my face with my hands. I’m scarred for life.

I feel something else too. What is it? I push it away and go open a bottle of wine. I don’t even bother to get a glass; I drink straight from the bottle. The wine hits the back of my throat, and I treat it like water. So classy. I wish I had something stronger—like that bourbon Neil used to bring over on special occasions. Five sips and you felt like you were made of fire and courage. I needed courage. I was a wimp.

She calls me later that night as I’m climbing into bed.

“Hey, sorry I missed your call.” Her voice is flat. Dry. I’m still loopy from the bottle of wine I drank.

“Oh. No problem.”

There is a long pause, which makes me wonder if she’s waiting for me to say something about what happened. Does she know? And then I feel like the dumbest fuck. Of course she knows. Because she didn’t miss the call. She did it on purpose.

My voice is colder than it would have been without the realization.

“Just calling to check in. Haven’t spoken to you since the BBQ. You were acting weird.”

“Everything is fine,” she says. “Same as always.”

I nod. Well then.

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay,” she says. “Bye then.”

She hangs up first.

That is it, isn’t it? She has nothing to say to me, and I have nothing to say to her. It hurts.

“Hos before bros!” I yell at the phone. But it’s too late. A bro came, and both the hos are in turmoil.

“Fuck you, Kit Isley,” I say under my breath. But I don’t mean it, and Della already has that covered. The saddest part is I don’t have anyone to talk to about this. Normally, I’d talk to Della. Kit. Kit is the one I really want to talk to. Ha! She’s right, isn’t she?

I take out my phone, hold it above my head, and snap a picture. I call it, The Muggle Loses a Friend.

I don’t talk to Kit or Della for a month. That’s thirty days of isolation from a person I’ve never gone without, and also, a person I don’t want to go without. I’m mostly depressed about it, but I keep myself busy with work and the new art classes I’m taking. Be magical, June said. So, I’m trying. I just want to earn my wand. Martin and Marshall from work talk me into going to the Broward County Fair. To even out the girl/boy score I ask June to come. Martin is stout and red-haired. He fancies himself a wine connoisseur and likes to make the rest of us feel inferior. I swear to God, even his voice changes when he’s lecturing us on the delicate skins of pinot grapes. I sink lower into my seat because I don’t know which grapes those are. The red ones? Martin’s favorite movie is Sideways with Paul Giamatti. I see the similarities. Marshall, on the other hand, is Puerto Rican and bitterly confused as to why his parents would name him Marshall when his brothers are named Roberto, Diego and Juan Carlos. He suffers from a self-professed identity crisis. I like them both very much, though June thinks they’re weird. Which says a lot. We spend the night wandering from ride to ride as Martin educates us on the difference between Pinot Gris and Pinot Grigio. (Answer: They're made from the same grape, but Pinot Gris is produced in France, while Pinot Grigio derives from Italy.) I’m half-interested and keep asking him questions. The boys take a bathroom/food break, and June grabs my arm, digging her nails into my skin.

“He keeps asking me if I’m interested in moving to China,” she hisses. She glances at Marshall, who is waiting in line for a funnel cake. “I think he’s trying to wife me.”