Still Thursday, January 17th...but much later...
Dad was kind enough to drive me to the Irving's house tonight, and thankfully, he did not grill me too much about what Ivy and I were planning to do. Homework seemed to satisfy him, and it wasn't really a lie. We were going to be doing "work," at Ivy's "home." Semantics, really.
When we got there, Dad complimented me on my boots, and I, in turn, complimented him on his beard, which, truthfully, suits him. He rubbed his chin and said, yeah, I kinda like it, although Misty says it's a little scratchy. That was my cue to get out of the car. I mean, I'm happy for my father and his fledgling love affair, but I don't need the visuals, thank you very much.
Ivy met me by the garden gate. (Doesn't that just sound so thoroughly romantic? Meeting by the garden gate? Like we'd just stepped out of some Dickensian novel or something.) Anyway, she held her index finger to her lips in the universal "shhhhhh" gesture and motioned for me to follow her up the stairs that led to the room over the garage. Like the pathetic sheep that I am, I did so.
The room was nothing special. All that was up there was a couch, a throw rug, and an old dresser with most of the knobs missing that Ivy's dad keeps surgical masks and gloves in. But Ivy had certainly worked her magic. The blinds were all closed, there were several candles burning in the centre of the floor, and a diffuser bubbled away on the dresser, the sweet scent of roses and patchouli filling the air around us. She had also brought up an old school CD player and was playing some new age instrumental music that she'd borrowed from the clinic's waiting room. It wasn't too bad; pan flutes and harps mostly, with occasional birdsong and dolphin noises thrown in for added tranquility.
Ivy held a candle in her hands and asked me if I was ready. Ready for what, I asked, and she said, for the spell work, idiot. (I really wish she wouldn't call me an idiot so much, although truthfully, I think it's more of a bad habit than an actual reflection of her feelings toward me.) I did, however, tell her that I felt we should speak more respectfully to each other before we called up dead spirits or aligned our chakras or ate newt's tails or whatever it was we were going to be doing. At that point, Ivy just rolled her eyes and said that maybe it was best if I didn't talk at all during this ritual.
I sat down on the floor on one side of the candles, and Ivy sat down on the other. Then she told me to place my hands in hers, which of course, I happily did. Her hands were warm and soft and I as I am observant by nature, I noticed right away that her nails were painted a light pink with small squirrel decals carefully placed in the centre of each one.
She then told me to shut my eyes and imagine myself on top of a mountain, bare chested and muscled, astride a majestic black horse. She said this image would reprogram my subconscious mind into believing I am truly powerful. I said fine, but asked her if I could substitute a motorcycle for the horse, because they kind of freaked me out, and I also told her I would feel more powerful wearing a nice shirt, rather than being on top of a mountain (which was bound to be windy) with nothing on. Whatever, Myles, she said.
So, with my eyes closed, and my hands in Ivy's, I focused on my "power image" while she chanted the following:
A potent spell from an ancient book
A spell to transform Myles Cook
From a boy who fears the world at large
To a boy who never fails to take charge
No longer will this boy be lame
This spell will put him in the game
No more shall Myles hide his power
This magic ignites right now in this hour!
I was about to take exception with the wording of Ivy's spell, as I really don't feel I am "lame," or "afraid of the world," but before I could get in a word, Ivy squeezed my hands and said I should start feeling more powerful and confident almost immediately. And here's the thing. I sort of did. I sat there, my hands in Ivy's, watching the candlelight throw soft shadows across her face, and I suddenly got this compelling urge to lean across the space between us and kiss her. So, I did. Just like that. And she most definitely kissed me back. It was even better than the New Year's kiss, and after it was over she looked at me and said, well, that was one powerful spell, huh, Myles?
All I know is that when Dad came to pick me up, he said I looked like "the cat who got the cream." Pretty sure that's some kind of weird old-guy euphemism, because, well, it's my dad, but I smiled, regardless.
I don't know about spells or magic, but I do feel more substantial than I did this morning. I sure hope my subconscious mind got the memo.
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THE PECULIAR LANGUAGE OF LLAMASHumor
* A Wattpad Editors' Pick (Spring /2019) * *NOW UPDATED EVERY WEDNESDAY* Fourteen-year-old Myles is having a rough time. Not only has his mother run off with her female yoga instructor, but his dad has moved the two of them to a remote island to liv...