Spells for Lost Things

Prologue

Willow

FERNWEH (noun): A German word that means farsickness, best understood as the opposite of homesickness. A longing for far-off places, in particular those you haven’t seen yet. In my case, a chronic, all-consuming, near-debilitating condition causing frequent feelings of panic, claustrophobia, and general distress. Alleviated only by actual travel and obsessive travel research, or by hanging out in my bedroom, which is basically a large travel collage.

See also: wanderlust, although much more intense.

See also: Willow Haverford (me).

See also: excellent way to ignore the fact that although I definitely have a place to live, I most definitely do not have a place where I belong. It turns out that home and belonging aren’t necessarily the same thing.

Mason

ASTROPHILE (noun): An individual who is excessively fond of (possibly obsessed with) the study of stars and other celestial phenomena occurring outside of the earth’s atmosphere. Typically an amateur, the astrophile may employ tools such as an observation notebook (logbook containing records of night-sky observations), binoculars, and, if they’re lucky, a telescope. Not to be confused with an astrologer, a person who uses the stars to tell the future and is the exact opposite of what I do.

See also: stargazer, which is what my foster care worker wrongly called me at my last placement meeting. I don’t gaze. I study. I sketch. I take notes.

See also: Mason Greer (me).

See also: excellent distraction from the fact that I have zero control over my life here on planet Earth and that the one person I truly belong with has been out of my reach since I was barely a preteen.

Willow

The day I finish high school, I’m packing everything I care about, boarding a plane to London, and never looking back.

Unless, of course, I decide to start out in Prague. Or Rome. Or Dubai. I hear Edinburgh is deliciously moody in the summertime, and the powdery white beaches of Mykonos are capable of dissolving every worry you’ve ever had. Lucky for me, the destination isn’t really the game changer here—what’s important is the plan. The moment the final bell rings on my final day at my LA prep school, I’ll walk (okay, sprint) out the door, fly down all thirty steps, launch myself into a cab, and head straight to the airport for my international flight to Istanbul.

Or Tokyo.

Possibly Sydney?

The important part is that I’m gone. Out of here and away from everything, my before life simply one of my many stops on my journey as a globetrotter.

My wanderlust started with my trip to Paris the summer between ninth and tenth grade. The official reason for my visit was to keep my cousin Beatrice company while her dad worked on a new film project and her mom taught summer classes. The real reason was my insides had been torn in two.

Six months before, on my last day of Christmas break, my parents had taken me to our favorite Chinese restaurant, a dim little spot with greasy menus and the best sweet and sour pork in Brooklyn. The server had just brought our drink orders when my mom said quietly, We have something we need to tell you. I looked up and noticed the way they were leaning away from each other, and I knew.

Families splitting are like earthquakes. Yes, they are happening every day all over the world, but that doesn’t make them any less shocking when they happen to you.

It took less than a month for my parents to divide our life up, and a little under five months for the divorce to be finalized. As far as I could tell, they didn’t fight against or for each other; they simply ended, their marriage dissolving as easily as a sugar cube in hot tea, a part of me dissolving with it.

I think the aspect that stunned me most was how quickly my mom and dad moved into their post-divorce lives. It was like they had both been building up energy for years, ready for the moment when they could take off down the runway. My mom’s luxury event–planning company suddenly became an enormous success that eventually resulted in her taking on a new business partner named Drew and relocating to Los Angeles, taking me (reluctantly) with her. I thought when we moved to LA that Mom and I would find a groove, start living out our mother-daughter dreams together, but all that seemed to happen was she got busier and busier.

Back home in Brooklyn, my dad started dating Chloe, a graphic designer he’d worked with for a few years. They were engaged and pregnant with triplets (yes, triplets) within ten months.

I’d like to say I handled all of this with grace, but the fact is, ages fourteen and fifteen were not my finest moments.

I yelled. I threw things. One night I went out with friends and didn’t come home until four in the morning. Worst of all, I stopped caring about everything. My parents’ divorce felt physical, like a giant, hungry monster had taken up residence in center of my chest, devouring everything that used to make me happy. I had a hard time eating, thinking, staying interested in anything, really. My grades dipped, and I stopped calling friends on weekends, or playing tennis, or combing through thrift shops on my way home from school. I felt lost and disoriented, shuffling from home to home, neither of them feeling right.

Like with most problems, Paris was the answer.

It was my mom’s idea that I go stay with my (sort-of) cousin Beatrice. Our dads are technically ex-stepbrothers, but I’m claiming her because not only is she my best friend, she’s easily my most favorite person on earth. Part of it is her exceptionally fantastic worldliness: she’s lived in five countries, and when you ask her how many languages she’s fluent in, she shrugs and says something impossibly cool like, Depends on what your definition of fluent is. She knows how to navigate the Métro, how to order café crème at tiny Parisian cafes, how to talk intimidating-looking bouncers into letting you into clubs, and how to pair ratty sneakers with rumpled dresses and still manage to look très chic. Even her name is glossy and beautiful-sounding, pronounced Bay-uh-treece, or Bay-uh, for short.

I, on the other hand, was an absolute disaster in Paris. I asked for ice in my soda and kept forgetting to say "Bonjour!" when I walked into shops. I got off on the wrong Métro stop at least once a day, and smiled at people for no good reason. One day while Bea was busy at an appointment, I showed up at the Louvre without a prior reservation (mon Dieu!).

What I’m trying to say is, I had never felt so out of place. And I loved every minute of it.

Ever since our final family dinner at the Chinese restaurant, I’d been stumbling around in a kind of stupor, wondering desperately if I’d ever feel like I fit in anywhere ever again. At my mom’s, I was one more detail to manage in her overly busy life. In my dad’s burgeoning new family, I was literally in the way.

But in Paris? I reveled in my displacement. I was a misfit on purpose. I showed up with no idea who I was, and the City of Lights said, No problem. We’ve been welcoming random American weirdos for decades now. Have you checked out the Quartier Latin? Pas de problème! I’ll give you directions.

When I say I dove into everything Paris had to offer, what I mean is I ran to the deep end and cannonballed in. During the day, I devoured the city, a reluctant Bea in tow. I dragged her to sprawling parks and gardens, museums, cluttered book stalls by the Seine, towering cathedrals, and every sunny café I could find. At night we went out with her friends to clubs and cinemas and delightfully smoky cafes. I loved every day of that trip so much that at night when I had the covers pulled up under my chin, I had to put my hand to my chest to be sure that my heart hadn’t fallen out of my body. And it wasn’t only the twisty roads and twinkly bridges and heavenly smelling crepe stands that captured me. No. In every single one of those adventures, I saw something life-changing.

Possibility.

More specifically, the possibility of one day feeling at home again. I’d boarded the plane to visit Bea’s family feeling about as rooted as a tumbleweed, but in the unfamiliar streets of Paris, the ground had steadied under my feet. So what if I barely saw my mom anymore, and even when I did, she still felt a million miles away? So what if my dad’s new family had filled up our old apartment, my bedroom now a nursery, every square inch crammed with unfamiliar things? So what if I no longer belonged anywhere? So what? There was an entire world out there.

As Saint Augustine of Hippo said: The world is a book, and those who do not travel only read one page. Well, I’m going to read every page I can. One of those pages is going to tell me the answer to where I belong. My home is out there.

All I have to do is find it.

Mason

Back in the Middle Ages, people believed that the stars governed our lives. They thought that the planets controlled our destinies, caused illnesses, managed our luck, all of it. Some people still believe it. My mom was one of those people; probably still is. She read her horoscope religiously, and even when things were going really badly for us, she always thought that our luck was about to change, which didn’t make sense, because our life was basically a rotating dumpster fire of broken relationships and lost jobs. It wasn’t the stars controlling our lives; it was her addiction.

On the days when she was around and lucid enough to be out of bed, she checked her horoscope first thing and she’d call me over to read me mine. Her zodiac sign was Pisces, which she said was the reason for her always being so overly trusting and attention-seeking. I had my own theories, but I knew enough to not share those with her. I’m a Sagittarius, which she said makes me naturally idealistic, and my ruling planet is Jupiter, which means I’m lucky.

Again, no comment from me.

Our horoscopes always said vague things that could apply to anyone, things like Ambition can be a strong force for good, but be sure to keep it in check or Your physical surroundings have a powerful effect on your well-being, but my mom treated them like powerful directives from the Universe, a love letter sent directly to her. After she finished reading, we’d spend twenty minutes straightening whatever apartment we were crashing in, or trying to figure out how ambition was leading her off-course, before she’d get a phone call from a boyfriend or a dealer, sometimes both, and she’d close herself back in her room.

One morning I woke up to her shaking my shoulder. It was early, which meant she hadn’t ever gone to bed, and her eyes were wide and too bright. Mason, read this, she said, shoving her phone into my hand. Her web browser was opened to her favorite site, My Horoscope Daily, and she’d pulled up the Capricorn page. The webpage was glowing purple in my half-dark bedroom, and I had to rub my eyes a few times for the words to become clear. Signs come in threes. Watch for them.

She leaned in closer. You see? All we need to do is keep our eyes open. We’ll see the signs. Three of them.

I had no idea what she was talking about, so I mumbled a Cool, Mom, assuming she’d forget all about it, but the three thing stuck. From then on, everywhere we went she looked for three. We chose motel rooms based on whether or not the room number was divisible by three, she turned down streets with threes, she listened for three birdcalls before leaving the house in the morning, every time we went to the grocery store for toothpaste or boxes of cereal, she made sure she bought three of them. One summer we moved to Maine because three people had mentioned it in the course of a month.

The problem was that I had never seen anything that looked legitimately like a sign, let alone three.

The last time she talked to me about signs was at a supervised visit at a park in Boston. I’d been in and out of foster care for four years by then, and my mom looked worse than I’d ever seen her. She was painfully thin, and I could tell she was having a hard time sitting still on the bench. I knew she was itching for a cigarette and I wished they’d let her go have one. She kept calling me baby and trying to smooth my hair, which I hated, and she kept telling me she was getting her life back together, that it was going to be me and her soon. She’d dropped out of a bunch of rehab programs already and I knew the state wouldn’t let me go back with her unless she got sober for at least a year and had her own apartment. I remember being annoyed with everything that day—my mom, the system, how long all of this was taking, even the dumb jokes she kept telling me that were making me laugh. How was it possible to be so frustrated with someone and still love them so much?

When our time was up, my mom cupped her hand under my chin and smiled at me, and maybe it’s just my brain trying to make our last moment together pleasant, but I like to think we had a nice moment. She’d said, Remember, baby, we belong together. It will all work out for us. Keep watching for the signs; they’ll come in threes. And then she walked to her car, her hand already reaching into her back pocket for a pack of cigarettes, her long black hair streaked orange with bleach. As she opened the car door, I caught sight of her tattoo, a pink pearl and shell she’d gotten in honor of her absolute favorite thing: mermaids.

Of course, I had no idea that this would be the last time I’d see her for years, but looking back at what I wrote in my star log that night, I wonder if I at least suspected it.

June 5. Too much light pollution to see anything but Sirius A.

A star went missing yesterday. It was in a galaxy seventy-five million light-years away, and definitely memorable—giant, hot, and crystal blue. Scientists have been watching it for decades now, but recently someone went to look for it and it had vanished.

But giant stars don’t quietly vanish. They explode themselves into massive supernovas that outshine everything around them until they collapse into a black hole. The bigger the star, the bigger the show. No one would have missed this one exploding.

There are some theories—maybe it dimmed slowly and then some space dust hid it from view? Or maybe it wasn’t a star at all but light coming from another supernova? I can’t stop thinking about it. Stars this big and bright don’t simply disappear.

That was the last time I saw her. After years of incarcerations and rehabs and homelessness, she suddenly went dark, vanished into the atmosphere without a trace. But that’s not how giant stars work, and unlike the crystal-blue star, she left instructions. Remember, baby, we belong together. It will all work out for us. Keep watching for the signs; they’ll come in threes. That’s the thing I hang on to. One day we’ll be back together and my life will make sense again.

Until then, I keep my eyes on the stars.

– 1 –

Willow

I don’t mean to be dramatic, but me floating facedown on a half-deflated pool float shaped like a piece of pizza feels like an apt representation of my current mental state.

Dramatic? Unmoored? A tiny bit ridiculous?

Yes, yes, and definitely yes.

I roll over onto my back—an act that takes considerable effort due to the deflated-pizza situation—and stare up into the sunshine. LA is not cooperating with this moment of angst. If anything, it’s more beautiful than normal. The sky is almost hyperpigmented blue, and my mom’s new fountain bubbles cheerfully from the lawn. I can hear her speaking to her team through the open window, and her voice is its usual calm timbre, which is one of her superpowers. Mary Haverford never breaks under pressure.

Except for last night? Our conversation had definitely cracked her otherwise impenetrable surface, and I’m still trying to figure out why.

It had all been going so well. I had my entire speech prepared. Even Bea said it was flawless. All I had to do was explain to my mom the many reasons why it would be a great idea to move in with Bea to complete my senior year at the international school where her dad teaches film part-time. The reasons were as follows: cultural experience, relatively affordable (because I have a built-in host family plus a tuition discount from Bea’s dad, it would actually cost less than my LA prep school), time with family, and an interesting experience to write about in college essays.

I thought I was batting a thousand.

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when it went completely off the rails. Was it when I uttered the words senior year abroad? Or was it leaving home early? Because she’d looked stunned. Stricken, almost. And then hurt. That was the part that surprised me the most, because I honestly thought she’d be relieved. With me in Paris, she could focus 100 percent of her time on her work as opposed to her regular 99 percent.

My mom and her business partner, Drew, have their entire staff assembled in our dining room for a meeting, and her voice floats from the open window. A strong contingency plan is crucial for this event. There are a lot of moving parts, and I can’t risk damaging this relationship.

She clearly isn’t worried about damaging our relationship. Why had my mom looked so petrified when I told her my idea? Is it because me going to Paris wasn’t her idea, and therefore she can’t micromanage it?

I look longingly toward the pool chair where my phone is perched. I want to talk all this through with Bea, but she is in an intensive ballet program this summer, practicing her arabesques and fouetté turns while being yelled at by a variety of terrifying ballet headmistresses. That means it will probably be another hour before I can expect to hear from her, and I am literally counting down the seconds.

Bea will know what to do. She always does. My pizza float bumps up against the wall and I push off with my feet, launching myself into the deep end. If I’m going to feel this adrift, I may as well be this adrift.

Mom’s voice again. … we have to leave absolutely nothing to chance….

I sigh and flop forward onto the pizza slice so my arms and legs can drag in the water. This is the problem. My mom has no tolerance for leaving things to chance, whereas I am in a constant state of wanting to take chances.

Last night had only highlighted the realization that had been creeping up on me for the past year or so. My mom and I are so different, we may as well be existing on separate continents, and no matter how much I want to pretend that isn’t painful, it is. A part of me had thought that once we arrived in LA, we’d build a mother-daughter relationship like the one Bea has with her mom, but two years in I only feel farther from her.

Maybe that’s part of my wanderlust. Once I’m out in the world, there will be a physical reason for the distance between my mom and me. Maybe then it won’t hurt so much?

WILLLLLOOOOOOOOWWWW!

I hear them before I see them. The back door of the house flies open and Drew’s son, Noah, and an unidentified number of Noah’s preteen friends all sprint out onto the pool deck. Ever since Mom installed the pool, Noah and his friends have been a permanent fixture in my life. They are obnoxious, loud, and wherever they go, the heady scent of Axe body spray follows.

I don’t even have time to take cover.

The boys catapult into the pool, and I immediately lose custody of the pizza float, which—okay. Fine. But before I can fully recover, one of them starts shooting me with a Super Soaker, and another does a backflip off the diving board, somehow managing to land directly on top of my head while another attempts to swipe my sunglasses.

Argggh—Noah, call off your goons! I yell, then I swim for my life, making my way to the side where my phone rests, and send a text to Bea as I pull myself out of the water. SOS.

Noah swims up next to me, churning his legs to keep his head above water. Willow, did you get my text about going out with me on Friday? He grins, showing off a glistening mouth of braces, and the hooligans closest to him break out into a series of hoots. I have to give him props for his bravery. And persistence. This is the third time he’s asked me out this month.

I sigh and set down my phone. "Noah, I’d be happy to go to the movie with you but not on a date. You’re twelve."

Two soggy eyebrows go up, and he does his best to give me a suave look. Thirteen next summer. You’re only three years older than me.

You have to admire that kind of misplaced confidence. He goes to the same prep school as me, which means Drew is paying an astonishing amount of money for these lackluster math skills.

You’re twelve and I’ll be seventeen in three weeks. We’re five years apart. I try to keep my voice gentle—because rejection sucks no matter how old you are—but I’m beginning to lose patience.

So I’ll take that as a maybe, Noah says, flashing me a shiny braces-laden smile.

You’ll take that as a no, I say sternly. "You’re too young. Besides, I don’t even date people my age."

He tilts his head to the side, smacking his left ear. Why not?

Because high school relationships are stupid, limiting, and distracting. Because I don’t believe in the whole Cinderella thing. Because why would I spend my time falling for someone when I plan to take off the moment I can?

I point to the deep end of the pool. Could you look for my earring at the bottom? I think it fell off earlier.

He takes the bait, splashing me in his rush. I throw a towel around myself and sink back into the lawn chair, settling my sunglasses over my eyes. The sun beats down on me as Mom’s words from last night pound my brain. Willow, now is not the time for travel. It’s time to get ready for college. Have you read through the college prep books I left on your dresser?

I did read the books. The problem is that none of them have any tips for what to do if the mere thought of one more year of awkward silences between you and your mother makes you feel like you’re sitting in the center of a hornet’s nest.

The situation got so critical that I made the desperate move of texting my dad for backup. But all he responded with was a heart emoji and a quick Talk soon.

Not holding my breath on that one. Although my dad is the one much more likely to be up for me taking the unconventional route, at the moment he is also up to his literal eyeballs in toddlers. Any offspring that is not attempting to swallow small objects at all hours of the day naturally gets pushed to the bottom of the list, and even when he does remember to call me, he’s so exhausted, he can barely form full sentences. Which I get. People obviously have lives.

My phone begins to ring, snapping me back to the pool, where the boys now appear to be engaging in ritualistic hazing. When I see the name on the screen, I sigh in relief. Finally. I hit answer on the video call. Night, Bea.

Morning, Willow, she says. As transcontinental best friends, it’s our customary greeting. She’s sitting on the balcony of her family’s apartment. Behind her is the city spread out so dark and glittery, it makes the edges of my heart ache.

For a moment I consider not telling her, but of course Bea, being Bea, immediately homes in on my actual mood. What’s wrong with your face? she demands.

Nothing is wrong with my face, I say, doing my best to not be offended. Bea can be very blunt. This is the way it looks. How was ballet?

Willow, something’s wrong, she insists. Your eyes are squinty and you’re fake smiling. What is it? Is your dad not answering your calls again?

This is literally the only thing I can’t stand about Bea. Anytime I try to hide The Feelings, she insists on dragging The Feelings out. My dad and his family are spending a month in Australia visiting Chloe’s grandmother, who is not doing very well. No, I was not invited. Yes, that’s completely fine. I mean, yes, I was supposed to spend most of my summer with them, and Melbourne is high on my list, but those tickets were expensive.

I shrug, trying my best to look nonchalant. I haven’t been able to talk to him in like a week, but that’s because the time change threw them off. The real problem is that I’m being hit on by prepubescent boys. Noah has given up on my nonexistent earring and is now attempting a backflip off the diving board.

Her right eyebrow manages to climb a fraction or two higher. Willow?

I exhale. Fine. Mom and I talked last night. About our idea.

Ahh! She lets out a little scream, then gets closer to the screen, her face a bright, beaming circle as she bounces excitedly. "La vache! Last night was the night, wasn’t it? No wonder you’re acting so coy with me, I forgot to ask how it went. What did she think? Did she think our idea was brilliant?"

I grip the phone a little tighter. Well… that’s one way to put it.

Bea completely misses my tone, taking off at a full gallop. Mom and I have it all worked out. We’ll share a room, and you can drive to school with us. I leave school early every day for ballet, but you can take the bus home. You can spend Christmas with us, or maybe we’ll all go to spend time with your dad—

Bea, I say, but she doesn’t notice. Once Bea gets going, momentum seems to take over.

Applications are due in only a week, but if you need more time, my mom can get the principal to make an exception. You’ll need an essay and to send your transcript. Do you think you should come a week or two before? And are you okay with sharing a bedroom with me?

My stomach is cannonballing like the preteens in the pool because Bea sounds as excited as I was and now I have to tell her the terrible news. Bea! My tone finally catches her attention. I take a deep breath. Bea, she won’t let me go.

Her mouth opens slightly. What?

My mom said no. My words hang heavy in the humid air.

But why would she say no? It’s all planned. We’ve arranged everything. When she’s impatient, her French accent gets a bit stronger.

My stomach is churning. I pull my knees into my chest, try to breathe. She said I need to be focusing on college.

But… what does that have to do with anything? You can focus on college here.

I hug my knees in tighter. That’s what I told her.

And? Bea says.

My miserable face must say it all.

"Merde, she whispers. Her brows furrow, and we’re silent for a moment. Do you want my mom to call yours? She might be able to give her another perspective. She loves it when her students have experience in other countries."

Bea’s mom is a writing teacher at a small university in Paris, so in theory she might be of help, but after the force—nay, intensity—of my mom’s reaction last night, I know for a fact it will do nothing. My best option is to appeal to my dad, but how am I going to do that when I can’t even get him to call me back?

Before I can stop it, my eyes prickle with tears, which Bea of course notices. Willow, it will be okay. Really. Maybe…

Her expression falls and I’m instantly flooded with guilt. I hate the idea of my bad mood transferring to her, so I quickly shift gears. Enough about me. How’s Julia?

Julia is Bea’s on-again-off-again girlfriend, and I can typically count on bringing her up to wipe out whatever other topic I’m attempting to avoid. But not today.

Willow, you can talk to me about tough things too, you know, she says, her eyes big and insistent. "You don’t always have to pretend that everything is fine. I’m here for you."

A puddle has formed around me, a slight breeze cooling my skin. Part of me wants to tell Bea the real reason I want to leave home early is the woman currently discussing the likelihood of rain at the charity event she’s hosting: We’ll need all tents on hand. Plan B has to be flawless.

Bea is watching me carefully now. Willow… is there something else? Are you okay?

As usual, she’s seen right to my center, and my throat goes tight. But explaining the giant mess that is my head to anyone, even Bea, feels impossible. I shut my eyes behind my sunglasses again and an image emerges of our old Brooklyn apartment, my mom, my dad, and me squished in the tiny breakfast nook arguing over Scrabble. The truth is, I haven’t felt grounded or settled or at home since the day my mom and I moved out. Which is ridiculous. I have a perfectly lovely home. Two of them. But I miss feeling at home.

I’ve tried to explain my need to travel to Bea, but every time I do, my words fall flat. I’ve read so many articles and blog posts by other people who experience intense wanderlust, the constant feeling of the world tugging them by the arm. But sometimes I wonder if what I’m feeling is in a different category entirely. It feels less like a desire than a need. Like if I don’t get out there and find my place, I’m going to drift out into nothingness, attached