Practically Magic

05: MATTERS OF THE HEART END IN SORROW

The aunts don't have a lot of rules. Like most legal guardians, they require us to attend school and pursue our passions. My sister and I have light chores, such as tending the garden, feeding the cats, and doing the dishes. Sometimes they'll ask us to help out in the family store—Bewitched. But mostly we spend our time assisting them in bottling homemade shampoos, lotions, and skin care products.

That is where the similarities end between normal guardians and the aunts.

Homework is to be done when we feel like it.

Some days "dinner" is hot cocoa and Lucky Charms or apple pie a la mode.

For the Sabbats, we eat a stew called Scarlet Fever, creatively coined by Aunty Fran for its chunky red tomatoes. And every blood moon they wake us up for midnight margaritas (because teenage drinking is fine as long as you're under the watchful eye of drunken aunts).

Those chores previously mentioned should only be carried out with spells, so we're not as grumpy about it.

When we were younger, Ginger and I would stay up until the wee morning hours, playing Pirates and Mermaids. Instead of badgering us to go to bed, the aunts joined in the fun, helping expand our sheet fort in the attic.

And what kid wouldn't love star gazing? On warmer nights, we'd drag our sleeping bags out onto the third level balcony and blink up at the glittery sky as Aunt Bridgett told one constellation story after the next.

For the most part, I wouldn't trade my childhood for the world. I'm sure Ginger feels the same. But there are many moments, like now, I wish Mom and Dad were still here. When I wish life was just stupidly normal. After all, their deaths were because of the family curse. And it is also the sole reason Ginger has this unhealthy obsession with vampires.

Everyone copes with grief their own way and I certainly can't judge. But Ginger's logic seems to run something like this: losing people sucks, so I'll join a community of people that are incapable of dying.

Her problem lies in one teeny tiny factor. The peternatural don't mix. Each society has its own set of rules and point of view of living within a human-dominated world. Therefore the wolves stick to their woods. The fey supposedly frolic in a glamored forest. Those with fishtails don't just fall in love with those with fangs. And those with fangs never take a wolf into their bloodied chambers.

So a witch and a vampire? No one will support it.

A wolf and a witch? It's just not natural, despite how cute Grant may be.

Deep in thought, I follow my sister down the hall and to the kitchen. We step into my aunt's oasis of warm oak painted walls, festering plant life on the window sill, a small circular table at the center, and a quaint burning stove original to the house.

Aunt Frances is pouring her purplish concoction into four glasses, her frizzy red hair in a high ponytail, and her cheeks flushed. With her trademark red lipstick and a cat apron strung around her curvy hips, I'm reminded how much younger she is than Aunt Bridgett. They have a ten year age difference since our mother was the second-born daughter.