the witch kids

one

"Richie got turned to a slug by the court on Salem," Magnus spoke, levitating her coffee with a finger as she checked her email, "they only turned him back to steal his shit."

The handball court on Kingston Street was a wasteland, where all the witch kids cast their spells and followed you with wary eyes, dark nails and bursts of light, a pop and fizzle. I always walked the other way, kept my head turned on my way to campus, to avoid their gaze. That's just how it is now. Witch kids were everywhere.

"Do you know them?"

She laughed. "I'm not a witch kid, Ulrich. I'm a kid who's a witch. There's a difference."

"Explain."

A pause was her answer. "What about you, one-four?"

One four was fourteen, or N, the fourteenth letter of the alphabet. Normal. From Magnus, one-four was a term of endearment. From the others, not so much.

Most states had banned spellcasting, and with nowhere to go, every magical creature moved to Queens, apartments littered with color, strings of ivy, and, occasionally, dark tendrils of shadow. The culture came as fast as the magic did. Other humans either hated it, or adored it. For me, it depended on who I was talking to.

"I'm not trying to get jumped." I grabbed my own coffee with no magical flair.

"My sauce is your defense," she said, gesturing to her face.

I shrugged. "They can't resist the sauce."

"Exactly," she dropped the cup to take a sip, "And you live on Salem. They'll like you."

Kingston Avenue was Salem now, since most witch kids lived in the stacked apartments, the threshold of government housing. My family watched as humans moved away, a modern white flight, to avoid the cultural wave. I'd seen them in every day life, doing laundry, getting mail, little witch babies and toddlers. I'd seen kids my age, too, but stayed away from that handball court across the street.

"No weakness," one barked as I stared through the chain-link fence, a burst of light as he shadowboxed. Magnus gestured for me to wait when we arrived. I followed anyway.

No weakness.

"Haven't seen you around," a girl spoke, levitating the tiny handball as she looked Magnus up and down, "Where you from?"

She seemed to be the leader of the group with an aesthetic to match - close-shaved hair, earrings draped around her pointed ears, nearly covered by her fisherman beanie. Despite her shoes seeming new, her jacket and joggers were worn. The rest of the crew, two men, two women, horsed around, bored. One snapped his fingers to light a blunt.

"Columbia," Magnus spoke, tilting her head towards the respective street.

The stranger hummed. Her friends flicked their eyes back and forth between the girls. "What's your name?"

"Magnus."

"That's the witchiest name I've ever heard," a group member spoke, smoke billowing from his nose, a cannabis dragon.They erupted in laughter. Magnus tensed her shoulders.

"I'm October," the girl spoke before locking eyes with me. Her smile dropped. "Who's the one-four?"

"He ain't one-four."

"You think I'm fucking stupid?" she glared at me, "Where you from?"

"Salem," I spoke, voice less steady than I thought. A few of the children behind October frowned, like they were trying to think if they'd seen me around before. Nobody would lie about being from Salem. At least, nobody smart. I could see it becoming the toughest street in the city. A status symbol.