Wayward Son - Rainbow Rowell Page 0,4

cup. “But I don’t fit in any better anywhere else.”

It was like she’d pulled the feeling right out of my heart. I could have kissed her. (I still wish sometimes that I wanted to.) (That would feel like an answer to … the question of me. Then I could say, “Oh, that’s who I am. That’s why I’ve been so confused.”)

“Same,” I said.

The next time a party moved on without us, Ginger and I left and got tacos.

And the next time, we skipped the party and went straight to tacos.

We still felt strange and lost, I think, but it was good to be strange and lost together.

It was good to be lost with a friend.

Ginger’s phone chimes, reminding me that she isn’t lost anymore.

She picks it up and grins, which means Josh, and starts texting him back. I eat my avocado toast.

My phone vibrates. I take it out of my bag, then groan. Penny has finally cracked how to get me to reply to her:

“Agatha! We’re coming to see you! On holiday!”

“What?” I text back. “When?” And then—I should have said this first—“NO.”

“In two weeks!” Penny sends. “YES.”

“Penelope, no. I won’t be home.” It’s true. Ginger and I are going to the Burning Lad Festival.

“You’re lying,” Penny replies.

“Ahhhh!” Ginger is saying. It turns into “Ahhhh-gatha!”

I look up. Ginger is shaking her phone at me like it’s a lottery ticket.

“What?”

“Josh got us into that NowNext retreat!”

“Ginger, nooo.…”

“He said he’d cover our room and everything.” Josh is 32. He invented something that lets you use your phone as a thermometer. Or he was on a team that invented it. Anyway. He’s always covering something. The room, the check, the concert. Ginger never gets over it.

“Ginger, we’re going to Burning Lad that week!”

“We can go to Burning Lad next year; the desert will still be there.”

“And Josh won’t?”

She frowns at me. “You know how exclusive this retreat is.”

I stir my tea. “Not really.…”

“Only vested members get to bring guests. And usually only one guest. I begged Josh to get you in, too.”

“Ginger…”

“Agatha—” She pauses to bite her bottom lip and squish up her nose, like she’s about to tell me something big. “—I think I’m going to level up. At the retreat. And I really want you to be there.”

Crowley, of course. Level up. Josh and his friends are obsessed with “levelling up” and “maximizing potential.” If you suggest brunch, they’ll be like, “Let’s change the world instead!”

“Let’s climb a mountain!” “Let’s get VIP seats for the U2 concert!”

NowNext is their social club. It’s like Weight Watchers for rich men. They go to meetings and take turns saying how “activated” they are. I’ve gone to a few meetings with Ginger; they were mostly a bore. (Though there are always first-rate nibbles.) At the end of every meeting, the vested members go into a locked room and do their secret handshake or whatever.

Ginger can’t believe her luck with Josh. He’s successful, he’s ambitious, he’s fit.

(“My last boyfriend was a barista, Agatha!”

“You are also a barista, Ginger. That’s how you met.”)

She doesn’t know what Josh sees in her. I’m a little worried that he doesn’t see anything in her. That all he sees is what there is to see. That she’s young, that she’s beautiful. That she looks good on his arm.

But what do I know? Maybe they’re good for each other. They both seem to like talking about phytonutrients. And, like, meridian tapping. And Ginger really does seem at least 80 per cent activated these days.

I don’t think I’ll ever level up.

But if that’s what Ginger wants, I guess I can go along for it. She’s the best friend I’ve made here. She’ll be my friend even if I’m only ever 15 per cent activated (and less than 15 per cent magic). I sigh. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Ginger squeals. “Yes! It’s going to be so good!”

My phone vibrates, and I look down at it. Penelope, again:

“I’m going to call you, so we can discuss details.”

I slip the phone into my purse without replying.

5

BAZ

We’re meeting at the airport, and Snow’s already there when I arrive. At first I don’t recognize him—or it’s more like I recognize him from another time. He’s wearing jeans and Agatha’s old Watford Lacrosse sweatshirt. (I need to casually leave one of my old football shirts at his flat; he’ll wear anything he finds on the floor.) The sweatshirt is slit down the back for his wings, but there’s nothing there. Really nothing. Other spells only hide Simon’s wings; you can still