Breaking Magic

I meet El for lunch just outside the dining hall.

“How did Thaumaturgy go?” she asks me, trying to sound casual but not quite pulling it off.

I shrug. “Oh, you know,” I hedge, “about the same as usual.”

El narrows her eyes at me, but doesn't press any harder. She knows that if anything really bad happened, I'd tell her, and that otherwise it must have just been the regular shit show it usually was and that I'd rather not spend the entire lunch break dissecting exactly where I went wrong.

El used to make me do that in sophomore year, as if rehashing every painful moment of my failed spells would somehow result in a sudden flash of understanding as to where I was going wrong. But all it ever actually did was reinforce how different, how incompatible my magic is with everyone else's. El has since given up, though I'm sure she has theories and potential experiments she's bursting to try if I just gave her the opportunity.

We head into the dining hall and slide into the lunch line. Some kids, especially the younger ones, bring lunches from home, but since St. Bosco's is a private school for the wizardly inclined, the quality of the school food is pretty good. And since the lunches are free too thanks to a few big shot alumni donors, most of the students choose to eat the school food.

It's pizza today, and I grab three slices of the veggie and two of the ham and pineapple. There is a choice of fruit salad or a house salad past the pizzas and I grab a bowl of each, plus a carton of milk and a glass of water. It's an effort to get to a table without spilling anything on my tray, but somehow I manage it. El sits across from me, two pieces of pepperoni and a house salad the only things on her tray, and she watches me with an expression of mild disgust as I inhale the first three slices of my pizza.

“It won't kill you to breathe in between bites, you know,” she says.

“Breathing slows me down,” I reply, or at least I try to, but it comes out as garbled mush through my full mouth.

“Have you cast any spells since breakfast?” she asks, eying me suspiciously. I shake my head no, pause, then make a so-so sign with my hand. I hadn't managed to get the invisibility spell down all the way, but I supposed I had made it work a little.

“Well, you must have been letting off waves of magic if you're already so hungry,” she says with conviction, starting on her own salad.

El has a theory that I'm always so thin, and so hungry, because I'm always burning through my magic at a higher rate than most people, and it takes a lot of energy to keep that up. Maybe she's right, but I didn't always get a lot to eat in foster care, and I still managed to freeze the entire boy's bathroom in middle school into a solid block of ice once, so it isn't as though the power of my magic suffers if I don’t eat as much.

“I've had four classes with Felix Roth so far,” I tell her.

“Yikes,” El sympathizes. “That's like your worst nightmare.”

“My worst nightmare is showing up to Meditation class and realizing I'm naked,” I correct her. Then I pause and think about it for a moment, and amend, “but yeah, Felix is there in the dream mocking me, so I guess you're pretty much right.”

“Well, you have Magic in the Media next, right? I highly doubt Felix will be taking that class too, so you'll at least have a break from him for the next fifty minutes.”

“Yeah, he's probably taking Advanced Council Politics or something,” I say bitterly. Felix Roth's parents aren't members of the Council themselves, but they’re powerful backers of it thanks in part to their wealthy socio-economic status. Felix's political career in the magical world was practically mapped out for him, whereas my future couldn't have been more uncertain if I was using a Magic 8 Ball to make all my decisions for me.

“I've only got 2nd and 3rd periods with him, and I'm already sick of his stupid, pretentious face. I don't know how you're going to survive the rest of year.”

“Gee, thanks El, that makes me feel so much better. You always seem to know just what to say.”

She flicks a crouton at me, which I try to dodge but fail.



Magic in the Media starts off strong, and gives me hope that I'll have at least one other class apart from Astrology to look forward to. The teacher, Mrs. Johnson, assigns us homework right away, but it isn't due until the end of the week and sounds almost fun: compare magic systems from any two books, movies, or video games, and then discuss what, if anything, they have in common with real magic. If this class continues to be an excuse to watch Lord of the Rings and read Brandon Sanderson novels, then I could really get behind this.

It was already better than last year, when I had chosen to take Household Magic as my elective, thinking that perhaps I could learn a few really simple cleaning or mending spells, which wouldn't be hard to master and could make my daily life that much easier.

I had been horribly wrong, and it turned out a spell for darning socks was just as hard for me as turning invisible, which was so humiliating that I switched over to art only a month into the year.

It sucked, because there are other electives that sound really interesting—Botanical Magic, Healing, Wards and Defense—but I’m stuck with the mundane crap that you can find at any mundane high school because I just can't control my magic.

I can't help but feel that it’s unfair, so insanely unfair that I find out I'm special, that I am magical and that there is a wonderful secret world of magic that I get to be whisked away to... only to find that I still don't fit in, that my magic is broken and wrong and useless at best, and actively dangerous at worst.

Meditation is the last class of the day. It's one of the few classes that you only have to take until you're considered proficient in it, so by senior year, most students have dropped it and take on a second elective. A few, like El, chose to continue to take it, simply for practice or because they enjoy how relaxing it can be. That means that the few seniors who remain are mixed in with the remaining junior class.

In junior and senior year, Meditation is 6th period, and everyone in your year who is still taking it has it together. This means that I get to sit cross legged on the gym floor next to El, but also that Felix is only about fifteen feet away from me. Apparently he, like El, had chosen to keep Meditation on his schedule, even though he probably could have dropped it with a “proficient” grade in 9th grade.

The teacher tells us to scatter and begin, so he can wander around the little clumps of students and offer corrections and advice individually. I take a spot in a far corner of the gym, and the rest of the entire class, except El, subtly gravitates to the other end of the huge room, as far away from me as possible.

Meditation is everything I'm not good at about magic. The goal of the class is to let out a stream of formless magic through your wand, increasing and decreasing the flow on command to demonstrate control over intensity. It's this control that makes the difference between lighting a match, and starting a forest fire. Since I have little to no control over how much magic I put into a spell, and since I can hardly channel even a trickle through my wand, the past three years of Meditation classes alternated between me standing like an idiot with a pathetically sparking wand, and blasting a hole through the bleachers.

Today, fortunately, seems to be a “standing there like an idiot with a pathetically sparking wand” day, which is embarrassing but loads better than blowing holes through bleachers.

Everyone else has their eyes closed and are letting waves of unstructured magic flow through their bodies, down their arms and out their wands until the air is filled with the gentle tingle of loose magic that feels like tiny electric shocks when it touches your bare skin. I stand in my corner with my wand clenched in my fist, the tip of it crackling and spitting so it looks like I’m holding a Fourth of July sparkler.

The teacher eventually wanders over in my direction, but only after making two full rounds among the rest of the class, until he can't pretend to avoid me any longer.

“Mr. Wolfe,” Mr. Wong says with a sigh, looking like a defeated warrior as he approaches. “What is the problem today?”

“I don't know,” I say, my face red from equal parts effort and shame. “I just can't...” I give another futile push, and there is a sharp crack and a bright white burst of light from my wand. It doesn't actually do anything, but everyone in the room jumps, heads swiveling to look in my direction to see if they need to start taking cover.

Mr. Wong stops shielding his head with his arms when it's clear he hasn't been blown to bits. “You're trying to force it, Mr. Wolfe. Magic shouldn't be forced, it needs too be led, guided gently, cajoled. You're not pushing a boulder up a hill, you're letting a boulder run down the hill, relying on gravity to pull it. Do you understand?”

“No,” I say honestly. Not even a little bit.

“Well... just keep working on it,” he advises, and he moves on, back to the crowd of teenagers on the other side of the room.

“He doesn't even bother trying to teach you anymore, does he?” El comments disapprovingly.

I shrug, letting my wand hand fall to my side. “I can't blame him. After this long, I'm pretty sure I'm not ever going to get it.”

“How are sessions with Mr. Donovan going?” she asks.

I glance over at Mr. Wong's retreating back. We're not supposed to talk during Meditation class, instead focusing completely and utterly on the flow of our magic; but apparently since I'm a hopeless case and El is only taking the class because she wants to, he doesn't feel the need to make sure we're working hard rather than chit chatting.

“Better, sort of,” I say. “When it's just me and him, I can almost get it right. But the minute I'm in class and there are other people watching me, I just freak out and lose control.”

“But that's good though!” El replies cheerfully, slapping me on the back so hard I almost lose my balance. “That's just like having stage fright or something. If you can just figure out how to control it alone, then you'll be fine! Then you'll just have to work on getting over your fear of public magicking!”

“Yeah,” I agree, doubtfully. “You're probably right.”

But I know it won't be that easy.



I wait with El in the parking lot until her mom picks her and her siblings up. El has her license, but the Fuentes only have the one car so her mom still has to drop them off and pick them up every day.

I watch the minivan drive away while a tide of students flows past me, all heading to their own cars, or to the special bus that only picked up St. Bosco's kids.

I watch Felix Roth getting into one of his friend's convertible, the top rolled down to take advantage of the warm weather, his hair blown back from his angular face as they speed off out of the parking lot and down the road.

A whole year ahead of me, five out of six classes. Five hours a day in which to humiliate myself in front of Felix Roth, and only reinforce his belief that I don't belong in the world of magic.

When I head back inside the main hall, Ms. Cross is waiting for me.

“Ah, Adam, I was hoping to find you,” the headmistress says, smiling at me. “Come to my office.”

I follow Ms. Cross up the central staircase, and in the direction of her familiar office.

Ms. Cross is really the principle of St. Bosco's, but back in the 1800s the position had been called “headmaster” or “headmistress”, and the school has continued to hold onto the title even while the rest of America moved on.

Once in her office, she sits in her big leather armchair behind her desk and motions for me to take the chair across from her. I do, and grab a handful of the starbursts she keeps in a bowl at the edge of her desk.

“How was your first day of senior year?” she asks conversationally.

I shrug, chewing on a yellow starburst, keeping all of the yellows and the pinks and discarding the rest back into the bowl. “It was okay, I guess.”

“Do you like your classes so far? Your teachers?” She's watching me carefully, and I know she's reading into my every answer, and the things that I say with my expressions and body language, not just my words.

“I think I'm going to like Astrology, and Magic in Media. Contemporary Magical History seems alright, and English Lit will probably be hard, but I can get by I guess.”

I know that Ms. Cross notices that I left out Thaumaturgy and Meditation, but by now she is fully aware of my feelings on those particular subjects.

“I've instructed your Contemporary Magical History teacher to leave you out of the subject,” she says, and I feel a flush across my cheeks.

Of course, I'm as contemporary as magical history gets, and my mere existence is so bound up in politics and the magical society that I should have realized that the subject of me, and what I mean to the magical world, might come up.

“Oh... uh, thanks,” I reply, awkwardly.

Ms. Cross leans back in her chair and folds her hands on her desk, inspecting me intently with her grey eyes. “You've made good progress since the beginning of the summer, Adam. You've come very far working with Mr. Donovan, and you have improved a thousandfold since you first came to St. Bosco's. I know that what you have been attempting to do here hasn't been easy, but I couldn't be more proud of your progress and your determination.”

I look down at the pink and yellow candies in my hands, unable to meet her eyes.

Ms. Cross was the one who found me, who had heard on the evening news about the 16 year old boy who was on trial for the disappearance of his most recent foster father. I don't know exactly what it was that made her think I might be special, that I might have magic, but she did, and she came to see me in holding.

I just wanted him to go away, I remember telling the strange woman with stormy eyes and a severe bun, confused and afraid and only guilty of wishing someone out of existence. I just told him to go away, and... he did.

My then-foster father had miraculously reappeared just a day later, confused and without any memory of the last few weeks, but alive and well. It was determined that he had had some kind of emotional break down and had skipped town, wandering back when he had returned to his normal state of mind. I was released, and then, unexpectedly, I didn't exist in the foster system anymore.

Ms. Cross had taken me away, brought me to St. Bosco's, and explained that what I could do was magic, and that it was vitally important that I learn to control it before anything else terrible happened.

“I was able to pull your foster father back into existence,” she had told me seriously, “but that is only because I am remarkably powerful. If you had, say, blown him up or set him on fire, he would have been dead and gone, and no amount of magic could have gotten him back.” So it was a matter of safety, of mine and others', that I learn to harness my magic as soon as possible.

I am an anomaly in the magical world. Magic is genetic, inherited, passed down from parent to child, so it isn't like it can just turn up unexpectedly and non-magical parents wind up with a magical child with no idea of what to do with them. And the magical community is tightly knit—it has to be, since there are so few of us. There are adopted and orphaned kids in our community of course, but they go to orphanages and foster homes run by other magicians. Every child is accounted for, even the unwanted ones. No one slips through the cracks, not ever.

Except for me.

As far as I understand it, my mother ran away for some reason, left the magic community years ago. It happens from time to time, just often enough that it isn't even clear who she was—Wolfe appears to have been a fake name. What made my case different was that she died when I was still little, before I had learned anything about controlling my magic. She was on her own, completely separated from any other magicians, and I was suddenly alone, left in the care of mundane, non-magical society

And that is what led to me being the most dangerous person in the magical world.

Ms. Cross had taken me under her wing, had given me a chance when half of the rest of the Council wanted me stripped of my magic and returned to the mundane world. She believed in me when no one else did, she continues to fight for me and my rights and my future, because she believes I can be fixed.

I can't look at her, because with every passing day, I become more and more convinced that she's wrong.

“I have some plans thought out—just tentative plans, nothing needs to be decided now—but some plans thought out for what you can do after graduation, Adam,” she continues.

My head snaps up, and my mind is racing. I’ve been avoiding thinking about what my future after graduation might hold. There was no way in hell that I’ll be able to get into one of the other magical universities in the US, like half of my classmates are already planning on. I can't do anything, my magic is crap and I'm not much good at mundane subjects either—my math grade makes me positive I don't have a future as an accountant. I have been half expecting to wind up as a janitor or something, hoping that maybe Ms. Cross would let me stay on so I can mop St. Bosco's floors until I reach retirement age.

“After graduation?” I repeat, uncertainly. “Like what?”

“You've made good progress since first coming here, that's true. You have much better control, and since the gazebo incident you haven't lost control in a major way again.”

I wince at the memory.

“Unfortunately, you still seem to be struggling with wielding your wand. Mr. Donovan tells me that you can manage most simple spells fairly well without a wand, about fifty percent of the time. Unfortunately, the more you use wandless magic, the less contained your magic seems to become, and the more prone you become to casting spells without intentionally meaning to. But when you use your wand, your success rate drops to only ten or fifteen percent, and the strength is often so weak that it leaves you overflowing with an excess amount of magic—which also leads you to casting spells without intentionally meaning to.”

I shift awkwardly in my seat, all my shortcomings laid out so blatantly.

“I have been speaking to Mr. Donovan about it, and we agree that wandless magic is perhaps your best opportunity to gain control over your power.”

“But... no one does wandless magic,” I say.

“Not many people, not anymore,” says Ms. Cross. “In the past, outside of Europe, most magic was done wandlessly, and much of it without spoken spells or incantations as well. Nowadays wand use pervades most countries and cultures, the same way cars and television and Nike shoes do. But there are still cultures out there who choose to perform magic the old way, the way their ancestors did. Unfortunately, many of these groups are distant, or the only remaining traditional practitioners are elderly, or don't have the resources to take on your... unique situation. However, Mr. Garcia met an old traditional Maya healer in Yucatan while visiting some family earlier this summer. He spoke to her about you, and she expressed an interest in meeting you, perhaps working with you once she got a feel for the condition of your magic. You took Spanish as your language, is that correct?”

I nod, my mind spinning with the implications of what she's telling me. “Just... just two years though, I can't speak it much.”

“She only speaks Spanish and Maya, but if you are seriously interested in this opportunity, Mr. Garcia could always accompany you until you were settled in. Of course, I won't ask for you to make any decisions now. It is just something for you to think about, you have the rest of the school year. Your other option is to repeat senior year here—you don't have to look like that, Mr. Wolfe, you won't be failing senior year. I would simply keep you enrolled for an extra year so you can continue to work and improve. You wouldn't have to take any academic classes of course, only practical magic courses. Thaumaturgy, Meditation, perhaps give Household Magic another try... and you would be working extensively one-on-one with Mr. Donovan and myself in lieu of other classes.”

I slump in my chair, unable to respond.

Be abandoned in a foreign country for Merlin knows how long, or repeat senior year, enduring yet another year of all the classes I hate the most while all my friends, everyone I know, gets to move on with their lives?

It was like being asked to choose between death, or a slow and painful death.

“As I said, there is no need to make a decision now,” Ms. Cross says again. “Perhaps another option will present itself before the end of the year. But it is important Adam, that we have a plan for you after graduation, whatever it may be. The Council is becoming increasingly concerned now that you are so close to graduation.”

“They're afraid of me being set free?” I say, my head filling with the sudden image of myself as an untamed tiger, St. Bosco's my cage—for now.

“They are worried that you do not yet possess adequate control to leave the supervision of school,” Ms. Cross amends gently. “And... they do fear the amount of power you have access to, that is true.” She hesitates, as if she wants to say something else, but can't decide whether or not she should.

“You'll... you'll learn about this this year in Contemporary Magical History, and you may have already heard a bit about it from your friends or their parents, or have seen it on the news. So I suppose it would be best if you had all the information yourself, and heard it from me.”

“What information?” I say slowly, afraid now, because Ms. Cross rarely ever seems doubtful or concerned. She's always composed, certain of herself and of her control of the world around her.

“The MRF—that is, the Magician's Revolution Front, has gained a certain degree of traction in the last few years.”

“I've heard about them,” I say uncertainly, trying to dredge up memories of news reports you could only tune in to by casting the right spell at one of the dead channels on TV. “They're a rebel group that opposes the Council, right?” At this particular moment, I can't say that I blame them.

“That's correct. They were founded in the late 1990s, out of the bones of many previous anti-Council groups that had come before them. They feel as though the Council does not have the right to act as a governing body for all Magicians, at least not in its current form. Some of their claims are valid. The Council is largely made up of older, wealthier families, and there is certainly an unfair degree of nepotism in elections. And the fact that the Council is so small concerns the members of the MRF, that a group of only thirteen magicians cannot accurately speak for all American Magicdom. They also believe that the Council, that no magician, should have the right to strip the magic from another living person, no matter the circumstances.”

“They don't sound too bad to me,” I mutter.

“In recent years, however, their views have been becoming increasingly extreme,” she continued as if I hadn't spoken. “They claim that no one has the right to set laws governing the use of magic, or punish offenders of those laws. That magic is in intrinsic part of of all magicians, and that punishing the use of it is as abhorrent to universal rights as outlawing breathing or eating. They advocate for freedom in all things magic, which unfortunately includes using magic for violent and hurtful purposes.”

“So like... murdering a person with a knife would be illegal, but murdering someone with magic wouldn't be?” I ask.

Ms. Cross nods grimly. “Yes. Many among them argue that it ought to fall to individuals to police themselves, to exact punishment on those who wrong them. They are under the belief that human nature can keeps itself under control, without interference from a governing body.”

It sounds like an idealistic concept, but I think back to history classes I've had where I learned about endless blood feuds between Vikings and Saxons that destroyed generations of families in endless, bloody cycles of vengeance.

“And,” Ms. Cross adds, “they do not believe that magicians should answer to mundane laws either. So while murdering a person with a knife, to use your example, is indeed illegal by mundane laws and anyone, magician or not, is liable to be punished under those laws, the MRF holds the belief that magicians are above the ruling of mundanes. This belief comes dangerously close to older policies of subjugation, and agendas to cull the non-magical population that certain factions of magicians around the world and throughout history have possessed, and often acted upon.

“Nowadays, with modern technology, a magician uprising could never realistically happen. The mundanes have guns and armies, and while we would have guns and magic, we don't have the necessary numbers to create an army that could conquer the mundane world. And if we were to lose, that would mean that we have revealed ourselves to the world, and we would risk capture, imprisonment, and experimentation. The MRF don't think of it like that, however. They are convinced that with our efforts combined, the magical world has enough power to overcome the mundane one and put us in a position of power. They feel that currently, we live beneath the heels of the mundanes, not alongside them as most magicians see it. They seek total political revolution, and they are under the assumption that the way to achieve that is to overthrow the Council. They believe that without the Council's control, the rest of the magical population would quickly learn to see things their way, and support a coup.

“I have little love for the Council myself. I am a Reformer. I feel that the Council needs a serious overhaul to continue to continue to keep the magical world safe and strong. And ever since you have come under my care, those beliefs of mine have only strengthened. I see how the Council fears you, fears what you are capable of, and I have heard their own suggestions about what to do with you, and I see that there is no compassion there, no consideration for the individual, only the whole. Only themselves, if truth be told.

“And that brings me to the point of this tangent. The MRF know about you, Adam. Everyone in the magical world does, but they are as interested in you as the Council is afraid of you. In fact, the Council fears you because of the MRF's interest. The MRF sees you as the perfect weapon. You're power is uncontainable, your magic is wild and unique. And, most importantly, you have reason to hate the Council. They would seek to convince you to join their efforts, to fight for them, to help them overthrow the Council once and for all. The Council of course knows this, and that is why they treat you the way they do, why they threaten to strip you of your magic if you can't gain control of it. They are terrified of you falling into the hands of the MRF and coming after them, and are prepared to do whatever they can to stop that from happening. Of course, in their fear, they have only succeeded in making you feel isolated and hunted, at the risk of turning you right into the arms of the MRF who would be only too happy to promise you revenge on those who would seek to do you harm.”

Ms. Cross finally falls silent, allowing me a minute for all this information to sink in.

I already knew some of it, about how the Council is planning on stripping me of my magic if I prove to be too dangerous to handle, about how they think I might become a super villain intent on taking down the government.

I had no idea though that there is a specific group they already feared, a group that knows who am I and wants me to join them. I didn't realize that the Council's fears are so based in reality, not just paranoia.

“Are... are the MRF going to try to kidnap me or something?” I ask Ms. Cross.

She hesitates, which frightens me more than anything. “It's doubtful.”

“But possible?”

“Possible,” she admits grudgingly. “But unlikely, at least right now. Their numbers are growing, but not enough that they could attempt a coup now, and bringing you over to their side so obviously, whether or not you were willing, would only make the Council respond with extreme force. The MRF won't want to risk that until they know they can withstand a direct assault. At this point in time, I think it more likely that they may send someone to try to talk you into joining of your own free will, to share their ideals with you in a way that entices you into their forces.

“Now Adam, I am not your mother. I am not your government either. I can't tell you that you can't join the MRF if given the choice. But I can tell you that I do not agree with their tactics, and that I believe that they would not be afraid to resort to force to get you to join their ranks. As things are now, I can stand as a barrier between you and the Council, and while you are here at school I can do my best to keep you out of reach of the MRF. But you will be eighteen in a month, Adam, and free to do whatever you will after you graduate.

“Remaining here to continue your study post-graduation would keep you under my protection. Going to Mexico would remove you from the interest of both the Council and the MRF, and possibly offer you the best chance you will have to learn how to harness your magic. I know this is all overwhelming, and a terrible thing to have to tell you on your first day back to school. But I want you to have all the information. This is your life, and I want you to be able to make the decision you think is right for you. If you want to know my personal opinion, I will tell you, but I would prefer for you to think this over for a while yourself and consider both options fully before we discuss this again. Do you agree?”

I nod without saying anything. What could I say?

Ms. Cross gets up from her chair and leads me out of her office. I still hold a handful of starbursts, half forgotten in a loose grip.

“Don't forget to have dinner tonight,” the headmistress advises. “You're looking thin.”

I mumble something, a “yes, ma'am” or something like it, and shuffle down the hallway, my head still spinning.