I was that audience last night, even though I was on the stage. I craved their secrets, and even after spending all night on websites explaining magicians’ tricks, I’ve got nothing. Beyond what’s humanly possible rings in my ears. That’s why I always thought what I held was a piece of a fantasy. A story Mom was writing that blended fiction into her life. Mom always showed me how she did her tricks if I asked. There was always an explanation. I move to the other one I’m looking for. The page is white and crisp, from one of the newer-looking journals.

The craving to use it is so intense sometimes. Even doing silly little birthday parties, it builds up until my blood is boiling and I think I might explode from it. I want to let it loose—do something truly impossible for those screaming children, even if it’s just disappear the family cat and make it reappear in a tree and then back again. I need that rush of true awe, but not more than I need my family. I can’t risk it. No matter how miserable I feel.

Nonsense. That’s all it was to me, but now my skin tingles with unease. Blood boiling. Didn’t I feel that last night on the stage? Vampires exist, so why not magic? I used to ask myself that question a lot after she died because I needed to believe in something besides horrible creatures that could kill you in the night.

But when she was alive, Mom always made sure I didn’t believe in it.

She even got mad at me once when I said I wanted real magic. She told me I couldn’t have it—not that it didn’t exist, but that I couldn’t have it.

My skin tingles as I pull a quarter from my pocket and hold it against the tender flesh of my palm. Maybe I could push it through. I shake my head and drop the quarter on the bed. I’m being ridiculous. There’s a reason I stopped looking at these journal entries—I always let myself get carried away.

What I really want is illusion. I want what should have been my birthright: a place on a stage with the best magicians in the world. I want the buzz I felt last night—that’s where the magic is. I need to go back. Xander told me to come back.

Deb hollers from downstairs that breakfast is ready. I was so lost in what was and what might be that I forgot what day it is.

Saturday mornings are for pancakes.

The better foster places all have something—taco Tuesday, Friday pizza night, Saturday game night. But in some places, every night is take-care-of-yourself night.

Deb does pancakes.