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Your Magic School Admittance Letter Never Arrives

by Maya Prasad

SPRING

The admittance letters to the various magical universities have been rolling in, and your friends are celebrating. But yours never arrives. Your parents are Very Disappointed.

“It’s not about talent,” your mother insists. “You simply don’t apply yourself.”

“Perhaps if you spent less time playing hoverball and goofing off with your friends,” your father says, “you could have taken a harder course load. You could have taken that MTAN practice class. Well, I suppose you can apply again next year.”

Next year, indeed. When your younger sister will probably show you up with scads of acceptances.

You nod meekly, not mentioning the hours you spent alone in your room with your wand after hoverball practice and on weekends. In truth, your purported laziness is less humiliating than admitting you never possessed enough magic in the first place.

---

SUMMER

Your uncle invites you to work in his garage. He never put much stock into book learning anyway, which is a welcome relief. Under your uncle’s tutelage, you attempt small mechanical magics, the types of magic that are plentiful and do not require a degree.

You pull out the innards of a clock and grease the gears with enchanted milkweed lubricant. You repair a calling mirror with a bit of bottled fairy dust and an energizing bunny charm. You compose a rousing xylophone ditty that coaxes stubborn kitchen appliances into singing.

The blender, in particular, has a stellar voice. Throaty and velvety and utterly gorgeous.

Before working in the garage, you’d thought you’d focus on one of the more creative magics: perhaps storytelling witchcraft or philosophical thaumaturgy. But working with your hands on practical applications is rather satisfying, you must admit.

---

EARLY FALL

A boy comes in one day, a boy with floppy hair and a pompous curl to his lips. He’s wearing the uniform for one of the seven Ivy Tower universities that eschewed your application, and his messenger bag bursts with spellbooks and scrolls for mages-in-training.

You think you might choke on your jealousy and, suddenly, everything you learned from your uncle doesn’t feel like nearly enough.

The boy pats the sleek Swift Carriage he alighted from. “Needs a tune-up. The motor panics and screeches at the slightest breeze. Think you can handle it?”

Swifties are the latest in individual transport, though mage-lift trains are faster and more economical, the practical choice for most students. He must be from an affluent family, then. You eye the pretty little angel wings affixed to each side of the carriage. Well, they should be pretty, but right now they appear a tad wilted and sad.

You wipe your face with greasy hands, and nod. “Fill out this form.”

“I need it by Friday, okay?”

You glance at the work ledger. “It may take longer.”

He narrows his eyes. “Friday, or I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

Your uncle wouldn’t allow some spoiled rich kid to dictate such terms, but you acquiesce anyway. Upon closer inspection, you notice his texts focus on magical engineering. You think maybe he should repair it himself if he’s so brilliant. Then again, the engineering mages in the Ivy Towers don’t deal in grease, only theory and blueprints.

The boy looks you over curiously. “How old are you, anyhow?”

“Eighteen,” you mumble.

“Not going to university?” he asks.

You snort. “Not interested.”

It’s a bald-faced lie, but, well, it could be true. He doesn’t know you applied to all the Ivy Towers and many lesser institutions, besides.

“Anything else?” You stare at the boy defiantly.

He shrugs and sails out the door with barely a glance back.

When your uncle returns, he whistles at the Swiftie. “Sleek little thing. Should we take her out for a spin?”

Your eyes widen at the thought of sitting inside such luxury. “We can do that?”

“We gotta test it to see what’s broken, yeah?”

---

The boy from the Ivy Towers returns early Friday morning. “Well, did you figure out what was wrong with it?”

You pop the hood, which contains a fish tank. A delicate ecosystem powers the Swiftie’s engine. Ignition crabs skitter over flint to start the motor. The coral is home to iridescent fish producing the necessary hover gas as they shimmy along. The stabilizing shrimp scavenge and clean engine excess, and the smog-reducing algae burp happily.

“The screeching of the motor was due to nitro off-gassing,” you explain. “It took me a while to figure out why, but I finally realized a piece of coral had broken and it affected everything. My uncle told me to utilize a regrowth rap, but none of the pre-bottled ones worked. Luckily, we have a blender with a great voice . . .”

The boy barely glances at the tank. “Uh huh. Ooh! You replaced the wing feathers! Nice!”

“Fresh Taronian dove feathers,” you say proudly. The baritone dishwasher you recently repaired drew the dove in question to the garage. Singing kitchen appliances have more uses than one might think. “Go on, take it for a test spin. Then you can settle the bill.”

He offers his spellbooks as collateral; they are indeed quite valuable. You watch him glide off into puffy blue skies, idly flipping through one of the tomes he left behind. It’s beautiful, with velvety pages and full-color illustrations. Worlds of knowledge locked inside.

Though you don’t intend to get sucked into the text, the mechanics of mage-lift trains turns out to be more interesting than you expect. The calculations involved are quite difficult, but this text breaks them down in a way you think you could understand, given enough time.

The boy clears his throat. “Don’t tell me you follow any of that gobbledygook.”

You look up at him in astonishment. You hadn’t even noticed him return with the Swiftie. And now he’s caught you snooping through his texts.

“Just thought the pictures were pretty,” you say.

He runs a hand through his hair. “The maths. I never knew magic required quite so much! I’m certain I’m going to flunk that class.”

It’s the first time he hasn’t sounded haughty.

You close the intriguing tome and shove it back toward him. “They admitted you for a reason. It’ll be a challenge, but I’m sure you’ll do fine.” You half expect him to tell you off, as you clearly know nothing about the pressures of university.

Yet he only shrugs. “I hope you’re right.”

You tilt your head toward the Swiftie. “Was everything satisfactory?”

“What?” He stuffs the spellbooks back in his bag. “Oh yes, it’s smooth sailing now. Whatever you did worked.”

You pegged him as the type to tip poorly, if at all, but he surprises you with three extra silver nobles.

When he’s gone, you feel a little melancholy. He’s the type of boy you might have befriended at the Ivy Towers. Might have bantered with. Or perhaps you would have been bitter rivals. Now you’ll never know.

As if sensing your mood, the blender with the stellar voice belts out an old blues tune. The baritone dishwasher harmonizes. And you return to polishing a vintage radio that can predict the weather and hoverball scores.

---

LATE FALL

It’s autumn break for students, and the university district is blessedly quiet. You usually avoid the area, but today you venture in for some early winter solstice shopping. Fiery-colored leaves swirl about lazily, and the boutiques are full of delightful whimsies.

You’ve plenty of money for gifts this year, as you’ve made a decent income from your uncle’s garage. Your arms laden with bags full of truth-hearing earrings and perfuming plants and a tie that attracts warm weather, you step into a tea shop for a rest.

The tea witch recommends an exquisite rosy-colored brew, served with a plate of fresh scones. “The need-to-find tea is one of my favorites. Take the first three sips slowly, allow it to linger on your tongue, and exhale through your mouth. The tea will take care of the rest.”

You’re not certain what you need to find, but despite the months passing by, you still feel a sense of wistfulness, a sense of missing out on what might have been, if only you’d received an admittance letter.

When you take the first sip and exhale, as the tea witch instructed, a rosy O comes out like a smoke ring. Each sip produces another, and you realize they’re leading you to another wing of the sprawling tea house. There, a tall bookshelf teems with used books. Books with broken spines and tattered pages and chocolate stains. Only, these books pop in and out of the shelf, materializing and dematerializing with crackling sounds.

A girl about your age reaches for a mystery novel by a popular author, but before she can grab it, it pops out of existence. “Shoot. I’ve been trying to snag that title for a while, but it always goes quickly.”

“Where does it go?” you ask.

She gives you a quizzical look. “You’ve truly never seen a Fleetfooted Book Exchange before?”

You shake your head. “Nope.”

She tuts. “A wood fairy enchantment. The books rotate through sister shelves so people from all over the realm have access.”

“Do you have to pay anything?”

“It’s gratis. Grab anything you want. Donate books you no longer require. It all works out in the end.”

The wood fairies truly had the right idea with this. You scan the shelves while the girl makes a couple of other selections. And then you see it shimmer in: a large, beautiful tome. You snatch it before it can fade away because you know in a heartbeat, without even fully reading the title, that this is the book for you.

It’s the magical engineering text you perused while the boy tested out his repaired Swiftie. The tome with the calculations required for mage-lift trains. This copy is in great condition, and you wonder why it’s here at all. It looks nearly new, and it could surely be sold back to the university for a princely sum.

---

What you don’t know is that the boy did indeed find the class too difficult. He studied late into the night, yet the numbers flummoxed him utterly. Though he’s capable of performing the exam spells at a rudimentary level, the professor expects precision that may only be acquired through a deep understanding of the mathematics behind it.

In a fit of frustration, the boy had tossed the book into the waste bin and dropped the class. Magical engineering will not be his specialization after all, and he has a meeting scheduled with his advisor after the break to discuss alternate academic paths.

His roommate, tutting at the waste, dropped the text off at the Fleetfooted Book Exchange in the dormitory common area only moments ago. Lingering, the conscientious roommate spots a lovely graphic novel on the shelf. The story thoroughly enraptures him with the wonders of sky island foraging, and he proceeds to miss his train home. Though his mum will be disappointed, there’s another this evening. He thinks he might alter his specialization as well.

---

WINTER

It gets dark so early, but the streets are merry with winter solstice décor. Your uncle throws his annual holiday party at the garage for old friends, relatives, and loyal customers. It’s an eccentric bunch with plenty of wild tales and questionable advice. An aunt your parents long ago stopped speaking to tells you about the healing powers of the fish she’s studying in the polar regions. Your uncle’s oldest friend with the limp from the war regales you with his card tricks, which only work thirty-two percent of the time. And the spindly old lady who lives with thirteen cats thanks you for fixing her dishwasher. “His voice is better than ever!”

Though the dishwasher has returned to its home, you’ve gathered an entire band of kitchen appliances to provide entertainment. Toasters, coffee makers, electric kettles and more combine their talents, and the guests cut a rug (atop a rug) till late into the night.

By then, your uncle has had too much pink punch, and starts bragging about you.

“You know, I never put much stock in book learnin’,” he drawls, “but this one here has been squirreling away studying strange maths, and I have to say, the results are impressive.”

He pats you heartily on the back, and everyone wants to know what spells you’ve mastered with your gift for numerology. You gather everyone together to stand atop the same blue Navratan rug you’d all been shimmying and twirling upon moments ago. The spell is rather basic; the trick is in the calculations.

The party guests do not fail to act suitably impressed as the rug levitates with everyone atop it. After a month of concentrated study, your lifting spell has been perfected. The rug sweeps out the garage door and into the frigid evening. Luckily, your uncle is wearing that warm-weather tie you gifted him, drawing cozy drafts up from the South.

There wasn’t room for the entire band of kitchen appliances, but the toaster bangs out a good one. Below, the city gleams with possibilities. The river running through it sparkles in the starlight, and a blue sprite hanging onto the crescent moon waves at you as your party drifts by.

Your aunt kisses your forehead, leaving a smudge of lipstick, and the veteran drops all his trick cards, which pick themselves back up, and the cat lady morphs into her black feline form, purring in the dark of the night. And you think you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

You didn’t need that magic school admittance letter to get here after all.