Free Don't Expect Magic by Kathy McCullough Page B

reality, officially approved by Posh. I had no choice but to accept that I was truly the daughter of a fairy godfather.
    What Posh refused to believe was that I hadn’t inherited the f.g. gene. Despite my moment of doubt before I fell asleep last night, and my French-fry-fueled dreams, this was the one thing I knew for a fact: I am so
not
the fairy godmother type.
    “But you
have
to be one, Delaney. It doesn’t make sense otherwise.” Great. Now I was living in a world where being a fairy-tale creature with the power to grant wishes was more logical than
not
being one.
    “I have no idea how to turn pumpkins into carriages, Posh. Or mice into horses. I don’t know what anybody’s wish is, and I don’t care.”
    “Maybe the ability’s atrophied, from lack of use.”
    “Whatever. It’s not there.”
    “You have to find out for sure. It’s your scientific and spiritual duty.” Then I had to hear her sermon about how “all living things are obligated to fulfill the destiny imbued in them by Nature.” This was like when they decided to give away goldfish at the school fair freshman year and Posh launched this big protest, because Nature had not intended fish to be put on display in plastic bags and then transferred to glass prisons. She guilted her father into building an actual freshwater pond in their backyard for all the goldfish to live in. After the fish died, within liketwo weeks, the pond fulfilled
its
destiny by being concreted over and made into a pool.
    Before I hung up, I made Posh swear not to tell her mom about Hank’s big secret. Hank would deny it, and her parents wouldn’t believe it anyway, so it’d be
me
who ended up looking crazy and desperate. In return, Posh made me promise that I would find out if I had the f.g. DNA after all. I said I’d try, but I already know that Nature has given me a pass. I’ll let a couple of days go by and then tell her the answer is no.
    “… one compound into another. You can’t change an element, however—that can only be done by a nuclear reaction.…”
    So why am I still thinking about it? Why do all these annoying questions keep popping up in my head? “
Am
I one?” “
Should
I try to find out?” “What happens if the answer is yes?”
    “… you need to supply ‘activation’ energy to start the reaction.…”
    Maybe sketching will get my mind off it. I reach into my backpack for my charcoal pencil, but it’s not there. As I search through the pockets, I feel a tap on my arm. It’s Flynn, at the desk next to me. He nods to the front of the room, where Mr. McElroy waits, one eyebrow raised. “I don’t think you’ll find the answer in there, Ms. Collins.” How did he know I was looking for answers? Don’t tell me Mr. McElroy’s a fairy godfather too. I can’t take my lifegetting any more bizarre. “I’ll repeat the question: In an endothermic reaction, is heat given off or absorbed?”
    Oh thank God, he’s just talking about chemistry. Not that I care about endothermic anything. I have bigger issues on my mind. I might as well take a guess, though, since I have a fifty-fifty chance. “Absorbed.”
    Both of Mr. McElroy’s eyebrows go up, then settle back down in nonexpression mode. “That’s correct.” Mr. McElroy goes back to colliding reactants and breaking atom bonds, so I’m free to finish the flying boots from yesterday. I guess I’ll have to sketch in pen for now. It’s not ideal, but I can always start over later. As I add feathers to the wings, the boots start to look familiar. Oh no—they’re the wings from my dream. Forget it. I slash a big X through the whole page.
    “Since there are no volunteers, why don’t you demonstrate for us, Ms. Collins?” Great. The harassment hasn’t ended. It’s not fair that I’m constantly singled out like this. Flynn shrugs like “I tried.” How did he try?
He
could’ve volunteered.
    On my way to the front of the room, I glance at the board to see if I can figure out what