Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men - By Regan Wolfrom Page 0,27

Haiti who got better after, like, twenty years.”

“What about you?” sayra asked. “Are you okay?”

I felt the power of Marinette, the knowledge of thousands of years of magic from lands I’d never seen. I felt her speak to me, in thoughts more than words. My mistress could be cruel, she told me; she wasn’t going to hide the truth from me. But she’d given me her power to do what I felt was right, and she’d honor my decisions. I’d never felt so empowered.

And I was pretty hungry, and looking forward to a corner booth at cousins with the worst basketball team in Upstate New York.

I still hadn’t decided whether or not Cadance would be invited; I assume she’d probably have Sheriff’s deputies to talk to or whatever.

“Amanda,” sayra said. “Did you hear me? Are you okay?”

I smiled. “I’m doing fine,” I said. “I’m pretty sure this’ll work for me.”

Gnome on Girl on Gnome: A Love Story

DESPITE HER best intentions, Marguerite Frunklin had never been in love before. She’d been in lust, as had all the girls back home in Ohio when they’d first found out James Franco was studying for a PhD in English, but love was something magical and mysterious to her. It was something she’d been forced to cobble together in her mind with a soulful blend of romantic passages from Twilight and Fifty Shades of Gray; from what she’d seen so far, she was pretty sure true love involved at least a limited degree of emotional abuse and dumb and pretty girls taking orders from extraordinarily attractive jackasses.

Marguerite knew she was pretty enough, but she was never sure she could fake being that stupid.

“It’s not like you had any boyfriends back in Ohio,” her brother Bradley said as they stood along the Avenue in the old town of Sintra. They were waiting for one girl or another of his.

“You’re a jerk,” she said. “You used to be a lot less of one back in Ohio.”

He grinned. “I also had braces and a lazy eye. Luckily I didn’t have to bring those with me to Portugal. Things change, French Fry.”

“Let’s not play the nickname game. We all have a past, Bradizzle.”

He punched her on the shoulder; he’d probably meant it to be lighter.

Two of the local guys were walking toward them; Diogo and Netuno, both dressed in soccer shirts and giving her a look.

She still felt like she was back in high school, standing by the lockers and being evaluated.

“They like you,” Bradley said.

“Sure they do.”

“They do. I’ll tell ya, French Fry, if I was worried you’d ever close the deal with one of these guys, I’d have to start kicking a lot more asses.”

“Shut up.”

Marguerite silently prayed that the boys would find some distraction before they reached her. She felt nervous enough to vomit.

“Boa tarde,” Diogo said with a smile.

She knew he was talking to her, but she pretended it was all meant for Bradley. She slowly looked down at her feet.

“You are going?” Diogo asked.

“Yes, I have to go,” Marguerite said. “We need to get home.”

“He’s asking if you’re going to his party, dumbass,” Bradley said.

“Tell him no.”

“Tell him yourself.”

Diogo started to laugh. “You should go,” he said. “It will be fun.”

“I can’t,” she said.

“Why not?” Bradley asked.

“You know why not.”

“No... I can’t say I do.” He wasn’t going to help.

“I have to study.”

“It’s Friday night. No one has to study.”

“I do,” she said.

Bradley grinned. “No... I’m pretty sure you don’t have anything to study.”

“Then you can go,” Diogo said.

“I can’t,” she said.

“You work too hard.”

“I know. I... I need to go now.”

She waved awkwardly and turned to leave.

“She’s shy,” Bradley said. “You may have to give her a few glasses of ginja to get her to... uh... open up.”

Marguerite prayed to God that no one else caught the joke Bradley was going for. Since English was their second language...

“It’s a joke,” Bradley said. “You guys are supposed to laugh. I’m saying that you should get my sister drunk, Diogo.”

Diogo and Netuno looked confused but they laughed, Diogo a little too heartily.

Marguerite could feel her face blushing.

“She’s blushing, guys,” Bradley said. “You know what that means...”

Marguerite couldn’t take it; she couldn’t stay to defend herself. Bradley would have kept on her like he always did, until she was in tears and everyone else was pointing and laughing.

Marguerite ran home and picked a fight with her father instead. It was his fault they were there, anyway.

Maybe in Ohio, Marguerite thought as she lay on her bed.