Page 7 of Go Luck Yourself
A sharp cry pops from within the room.
“JESUS FUCKING SHITE—”
Time stretches in a weird pause as I nonchalantly walk a few feet back towards the desks. I get to a bookshelf and duck against it as the knob is twisting, and everyone seated is looking at the room. Someone is already shushing.
The door heaves inward, shoving against the tinsel, until he manages to get it open enough that he can stumble out—along with a waterfall, a deluge, awhole ass bunchof bright blue tinsel.
The study hub goes utterly still.
The guy stands there, arms out helplessly, looking like the Swamp Thing from the Cambridge lagoon. I can’t even see his face, he’s so covered.
I’m proud to say that I’m not the first one to laugh.
That honor goes to energy-drink-in-my-blood guy, who cackles and yanks out his phone and records, and soon the whole study hub is busting up and filming this guy getting pranked.
I pull out my phone and hit record as he removes a handful of tinsel from his face. His eyes snap around at the laughing students and he looks more irritated than embarrassed as he bobs his head in ayeah, have a laugh at my expenseway.
His gaze locks on my phone.
I lower it and give him a cheesy grin.
He’ll probably blame it on some kind of confetti bomb. I don’t care. Let him know it was me though. I want this credit.
Don’t mess with my study room, asshole.
His face dissolves into a withering glare and he flips me off.
If I’d known it was that easy to vanquish this squatter from my study room, I’d have tinseled him weeks ago.
The guy digs his stuff out of the piles of glittery mess and stompsoff, leaving a trail of shimmering blue in his wake. I watch him go from where I’m leaning on a bookshelf, and as he gets to the stairs, he glances back, meets my eyes again, and grimaces.
I waggle my fingers at him, my princely upbringing channeled into that fuck-you cordiality.
He disappears down the stairs.
I do feel bad for whatever janitorial staff will have to deal with this mess, so after I magic away the tinsel from the room and finish my paper—in peace and quiet, theluxury—I follow that guy’s path through the library and make the rest of the tinsel vanish when no one’s looking. The trail takes me down into the main stacks, weaving among shelves dedicated to—art history? That makes sense. The beanie. The designer tank. That rancid expensive cologne. He’d definitely be in something as pompous as art history.
As I get rid of the final evidence of my first nefarious magic act, I can see why Coal got so into it; I feel a hell of a lot better than I did earlier.
At least until I do a calculation of how much magic I used to create all that tinsel and make it vanish.
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t worry about magic use. We’ve always had enough,morethan enough, and that was kind of our problem.
But now…
I honestly don’t know how much magic we can spare for stupid shit.
My chest gets too hot, ribs tensing in a crush of shame.
See, this is why Ithink things through.
COAL
If one were to, say, fill a room with tinsel as retaliation in a totally justified study room war;
how much magic would that use and would that magic be within acceptable limits?
COAL
