•••

Peneloper gets up that Friday in good spirits, determined more than ever to explain the inexplicable existence of Crispen Heavensley. She's removed herself from bed, refusing the temptation to monologue in front of her mirror-thwarting the trappings of her genre with ease-and has thrown on the nearest pair of jeans and t-shirt.

She feeds crumpled, incomplete assignments to her book bag, hoping the bag to be of the devouring sort (of which it is not) before grabbing her doorknob at the behest of a mother's screeching. She does not brush her hair or put on makeup. In her opinion, extra time is best utilized shirking responsibility or writing stories, the latter of which she is passionate about.

Plush carpeting from the hallway molds to her feet as she shuffles past three doors - a shared bathroom, her mother's bedroom, closed tight, her sister's, slightly ajar, and screaming of Pepto Bismol pink. Such a glimpse upsets her stomach.

Finally, Peneloper makes it to the steps, wherein she fidgets with the wrinkles of her shirt (a fruitless endeavor always) and, taking them one at a time, ambles into the next chapter.

•Jesus He Knows Me•

Her sister, Carmichelle, sat at the kitchen table, texting her friends between inhales of cocoa puffs. Mother Auttsley lounged in the living room sipping on a mug of coffee in the sanctuary that was the dimly lit den. No one was to disturb her, as distraction-free mornings were observed in the Auttsley household as others might observe the Sabbath.

Peneloper went for the cupboard, grabbed the half-empty box of Captain Crunch from the pantry, scooped up a clean bowl, avoided all unpleasant altercation with the microwave, and headed toward the table.

She took a seat opposite her sister, who had not stopped typing away since Peneloper's big toe had touched down on first square of checked linoleum. After pouring herself breakfast, Peneloper pushed the bowl aside, waiting for her Captain Crunch to morph into Captain Sog and placed her head in her hand.

Perhaps it was the blur of this movement that caught Carmichelle's attention, or she was waiting for a response and found she had nothing better to do without it, but whatever had or hadn't happened, prompted  the youngest Auttsley to say, "Nells, how's the Captain?"

The sound of Carmichelle's voice, neither shrill, whiny or glum, came as a surprise to Peneloper, but was a welcomed one, as Carmichelle had recently turned thirteen and obtained a cellphone, and conversing among the pair had grown stale and fleeting. Her time was not unlimited, however, and Carmichelle made certain to remind Peneloper of that with an irritated thump of foot against floor.

Peneloper took up her spoon, dug it into her mush of purple cereal, and replied, "Stormholden's good, Car. The Scarlet Reef has him all up in arms."

"Oh!" The youngest Auttsley's eyes blazed with genuine intrigue. A ball of pride lodged itself in Peneloper's throat. Quickly, she swallowed it down along with another heap of soggy cereal though she was glad a story of hers could inspire such fandom, even if it were a fandom of one. "I love The Scarlet Reef! I hope she and Cap end up together. When will I get to read the latest?"

"When I finish revisions and post it to Fic Hub. If it's in your library, you'll get the notification."

Carmichelle rolled her eyes. "I get like hundreds of notifies all the time." She got up from her seat and gathered her phone. "You'll let me know in person, right?" 

Peneloper nodded as one of Captain Crunch's berries burst into ash on her tongue. Carmichelle leaned over, nose wrinkled as she eyed the sludgy state of Peneloper's breakfast. "Just remember to knock first."

"Because you don't want any disruptions as you solidify plans for world domination with Paisley, Parris, and Pom?" Peneloper prodded.

Carmichelle shrugged, then turning so she faced the darkened den where Mother Auttsley slumbered, undisturbed, yelled, "At least you get it. A girl needs her privacy."

"A girl can have her privacy when she moves out of my house," came the grizzled response. Carmichelle whirled around, fingers at the keyboard of her phone, punching away at the keys, punishing them for merely existing, as she related in real-time what her mother had just said and the injustice of it all, before storming back upstairs. 

And it was with a huff and a puff, Peneloper thought, eyeing her sister's abandoned cereal, cocoa puffs and milk merging into a thick, grayish paste, that Carmichelle blew the house down. 

The Auttsley family breakfast concluded, house intact. Soon after, Carmichelle emerged from her room, pleasantly blushed and smiling, any trace of annoyance smoothed over by a thick coating of foundation. She skipped to the door where best friend, Paisley Patterson, waited in a matching crop top and pearlescent toile skirt.

Had Mother Auttsley been paying attention, she would have shredded that ensemble for the exposed belly button, and short skirt length, but these days, she didn't much seem to care what her children did, and Carmichelle was all too happy to take advantage.

Mother Auttsley left shortly after, emerging from the living room while grumbling about that day's work. She lumbered toward the garage-the weight of the world carried on slim, almost skeletal shoulders-grabbed the keys off the hook, clutched her briefcase, and headed out.

Peneloper left last, as the doom clock hadn't quite struck school apocalypse yet, so she leaned back in her chair, sipped on her cup of orange juice, and enjoyed a second helping of soggy cereal.

Eventually, it came time for her to leave, so she tossed her dishes, alongside Carmichelle's bowl and Mother Auttsley's mug, into the sink, grabbed her book bag and notebook, and moved toward the front door.

For some reason that day, Peneloper looked back. She never looked back. But something compelled her neck to crane, and her gaze landed on the spot she'd always actively tried to ignore. The kitchen table's forth chair. The empty one, turned away from the others, banished to a corner of the kitchen. It was dusty and dull and scratches ran the length of its arms. She used to be able to recall where each scratch had come from, but now she barely remembered. 

Come to think of it, she barely remembered him. He was little more than a faint outline, seated in that chair, smelling of chocolate and tobacco. A hazy recollection, crudely drawn from a mishmash of experiences. She remembered his name, however, and the way her mother avoided saying it at all costs. 

A piece of furniture. Never in her life had she imagined it a source of pain. 

For the good of the family, she hoped her mother would make good on her promise and toss it to the curb. 

Wrenching the door open, Peneloper stepped into the outdoors. She was immediately pelted by the rain. Unsurprising, since Crispen's arrival all it ever seemed to do was rain. He had probably bent the weather into obeying his will, as one of his greatest pleasures seemed to be splashing through puddles and one couldn't very well do that with dry surroundings and empty holes.

 She shivered, her teeth rattling around in her head, the chill cutting through her flimsy hoodie, the rain misting her cheeks and eyelashes. 

Miserable already, and it wasn't even eight yet; there ought to be a rule, good dispositions couldn't be disrupted until one past noon. That would have been far more acceptable. Oh well. Hands shoved in her pockets, making that same squelching sound that her socks now emitted with every step, she trudged, begrudgingly, toward the worst place in the world - high school. 

Her trek was short and rain-soaked. She stepped off Melbourne and onto Chestnut, swerving to avoid the myriad of potholes dappling the road. She paused underneath the big maple at the corner of Miss Laddie's garden, and watched curiously as the tree seemed to shiver every time a breeze blew. A few strips of bark on its trunk curled into a #relatable frown. 

 Back leaned against the tree, she typed a quick message to Chant, and waited, eager to avoid what was inevitable.  A school of fish in a pond on her left parted the water with long, elegant tail fins. Occasionally, one would breach the surface and open its mouth, before rejoining the group.

Peneloper checked her phone. Again and again, until her fingers turned red, and started losing feeling. At five after eight, she realized her waiting had been for naught: Chantham Luric was late. It is important to impress upon the reader, that Chantham Luric was never late - so was his nature at having been first born to a family of strict order and in possession of several clocks, all which predicted the time down to the millionth milli-second. But on this Friday, a day when most arrived early as they eagerly awaited the sweat pants, boxed wines, and Netflix of Friday evenings, he had been late.

Finally, she received a reply: I'm sick.

And so will I be, Peneloper thought, If I condemn myself to this weather much longer.

Grumbling, she stood. As she did, she noted a most peculiar sensation, and no, it wasn't the tingle of first love or the inkling of a budding ailment. The rain no longer barraged her with mortar round after round of its wet and cold.

Something obscured Miss Laddie's pond. A pair of sneakers, polished, which for sneakers was quite odd, and strung with new laces, untied and being dragged behind by rivers of rainwater. Both attached to a spindly pair of legs with slender calves and knobby knees which connected to a boxy torso. A yellow Walkman clipped at the waist, headphones slung around a thin, milk-white neck.

"It's good finally meet like this, Miss Auttsley."

She stumbled back, as she looked into eyes of polished coal set in a complexion that would make a ghost seem tan by comparison, blond hair slicked back by, if Peneloper's nose smelled correctly, a potent heap of hair grease.

"Mr. Heavensley." She curtsied. "If you planned on making me swoon," she inched away from him, because his closeness, and the feeling of his expired breath, warm and grazing her cheeks, had her heart reacting in all sorts of wrong ways, "I hate to inform you but your attempt has proven futile. I find there's nothing to fancy in the way you look."

His lips curled into a smile. Peneloper's heart, now beyond her control, cocooned and reemerged a butterfly, fluttering against her rib cage. The unwanted dissent between her head and her chest coaxed a frown to her face as she had never suffered it before. "Ah," he continued. "But there is something you fancy regarding what I am."

She gasped. He smiled and under its radiance, Peneloper's lone heart butterfly multiplied into hundreds, thousands of wings pounding against her insides. How had he known? She thought she'd come across rather indifferent when any conversation veered toward the topic of Heavensley. Perhaps her acting wasn't as good as she'd believed it to be. Perhaps, that's why she always lost at cards when she played against Chant.

Heavensley leaned in, closing the gap between them further. "But the kicker, Miss Auttsley, is that what I am," he whispered, "is what you are. Your pursuit of me is because you sense a kinship between us you can't quite place a finger on. Is that not so?"

To settle the unsettling that had taken up residence inside herself, and to steal a moment to collect herself, Peneloper climbed atop the rock, the rain hitting her hard, as she was no longer shielded by the umbrella Crispen had provided. Having attained such a bird's-eye advantage, Peneloper saw the umbrella wasn't an umbrella at all - it was a lacy, southern-belle all-black parasol.

Crispen took a step back, closed the parasol and stuck it under the crook of his elbow.

Peneloper straightened, desiring to look dignified, though she knew it a lost cause. "What is it you are? What is it I am?"

Crispen smiled and said simply, "Magic."

One word and she knew it to be true.