FF (November 2012) Q. Kelly - Love's Spell

Ava Van Dorn doesn’t believe in magic, but she believes in possibilities. So, she figures trying a love spell her grandmother left her won’t hurt. Worst case: her life will stay the same. Best case: her fellow second-grade teacher James Friedlander will fall in love with her, and they’ll live happily ever after.

Except…oops!

Ava accidentally places the spell on her principal, Libby Lubbock. Libby is wrestling with her own issues in the love department, namely the fact that she’s deciding whether to give her ex a second chance after the ex cheated. Libby is beginning to think she’s the type who is better off single.

The spell can be undone, but it requires Ava and Libby getting to know each other better. Lots better. Libby agrees to the undo because no way does she want to fall in love with Ava if she can help it. However, perhaps the last paragraph in a letter Ava's grandmother wrote is right: “Why all these crazy steps? My great-great grandmother, the witch, strongly believed that things happen for a reason. This time with the ‘wrong person’ will help determine if the wrong person might be the right person, after all.”

Can Libby and Ava cast a love spell that has nothing to do with abracadabra magic and everything to do with the magic of true love?

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Sample

CHAPTER ONE AVA’S TURN

I didn’t believe in magic, especially the type of magic necessitating a mixture of eye of newt, sheep gut, thistles of grass, slime of toad, wart of wench, that gross stuff. Yet here I was, about to try a magic spell. Why the heck not? The spell wasn’t nasty, and trying never hurt. Besides, I did believe in hope. In possibilities.
Worst case: my life would stay the same. Best case: James Friedlander would fall in love with me, and we’d live happily ever after.
“Wish me luck, Grandma,” I muttered, lifting my gaze to the ceiling. My grandmother, Harriet Bynes, died last year and left me the spell. She wouldn’t have done that if she believed the spell was bogus.
Alas, Grandma did not beam benevolently at me from above. A brownish water spot did. It welcomed me when I started at Leviston Elementary three years ago. You’d think someone would’ve gotten rid of it by now, but no. Instead, the spot had expanded in all directions and acquired a certain level of blobness. I called it Bob. You know, Bob the Blob. Blobby Bob.
I pasted on a smile and peeked into James’s classroom. He sat at his desk—probably marking papers. “Hey,” I called.
James looked up and flashed his trademark dimpled smile. “Hey!” Normally, his smile and his voice caused my knees to go weak. Not now. Not when anxiety threatened to shut my stomach down. Escaping into my own classroom, next to James’s, would be easy. Too easy. A coward’s way out. Students had gone home fifteen minutes ago, and the time to cast the spell was now or never. I willed my jumbling nerves to straighten, but they rocked and knotted more. In a way, I enjoyed the sensation—the feel of a giddy adventure to come.
“What’s up?” James asked, and I stepped into the classroom. James and I were Leviston Elementary School’s second-grade teachers. He was incredible with kids, the best teacher I had met—better than even myself. It took me a while to get used to a man teaching such young kids, but no creepy aura surrounded James. His wife died a few years ago, and emotion still choked James’s voice when he talked about her. He was a man who would treat the woman he loved right.
Plus, the guy defined drop-dead gorgeous. Sandy blond hair, twinkling green eyes, a smooth, white smile showcasing dimples. Gym workouts and running kept his thirty-five-year-old body hot and humming. I’d treated him to dinner and a movie twice last school year. Not dates. Not technically. They couldn’t be because I suggested them, paid for everything and got nary a kiss for my efforts. Yeah, sue me. I’m old-fashioned. I like someone to woo me, to court me, to pay for me.
No wooing occurred. I didn’t interest James—apparently.
“Just checking up,” I said. “You know. The email. You doing okay?”
James rolled his eyes. “I refuse to let Louise Avery get to me. We met for one minute last week. One! If she wants to base that kind of decision on such a short meeting, that’s her loss.”
“Good for you. It really is her loss. Harley’s, rather.” School policy dictated placing twins in separate classrooms, but earlier that day, Mrs. Louise Avery, mother of Haley and Harley, had shot off an email to James, me and our principal, Libby Lubbock: I’m uncomfortable with a man teaching my seven-year-old daughter. Let’s talk about placing Harley with Haley.
“I have a surprise,” I said. “Hope it cheers you up.”
James beamed. “You’re the best.”
Now for the spell. It was quite simple. All I had to do at this point was recite the words: I want this person to fall in love with me, o gods, please have this person fall in love with me forever and ever. I could say the words out loud or mentally. Didn’t matter. Then I had to touch the person of my desire in the next minute—before I touched anyone else. Before anyone else touched me.
I proffered my surprise, a package of Reese’s Cups. “Ta-da!” I stepped forth and ran through the words in my head: I want this person to fall in love with me, o gods, please have this person fall in love with me forever and ever.
CLICK CLACK! Tight, smart high heels sounded behind me, and the principal, Libby Lubbock, swept into the classroom.
“Perfect! You’re both here,” Libby said. “We need to talk about Louise Avery and set up a meeting.” Libby’s arm brushed my arm, a slight brush of her skin against mine. My brain whirred. Blared. Big time. Libby gliding past me, our arms touching, the…
My legs wobbled. No. Oh no. Not Libby.
I rushed over to James and jammed the candy into his hand. I didn’t care if the touch was obvious. Please, please! Spell gods, whoever you are, I’m touching James now! This man, not Libby, is the person I want to fall in love with me. Listen! Listen!

*****

When I got home, my cat, Mrs. Purr, non-greeted me. All Mrs. Purr does is sleep, eat and poop. Forget about greeting. Yeah, I love that fleabag.
“Oh, Mrs. Purr,” I moaned, scooping the plump twelve-year-old tuxedo cat into my arms. “Good thing I don’t believe in magic, huh?” I carried the cat into my bedroom and set her on the bed. Grandma left me not just the spell, but also her beloved Mrs. Purr. Out loud, I hated the cat’s name. I would never name a pet Mrs. Purr! Secretly, I loved it. Tacky beyond belief. In other words, typical Grandma.
I opened the bottom drawer of my nightstand and shoved aside a few self-pleasure toys. Yeah, sue me again. I masturbate.
Okay, confession time. I’ve never had an orgasm with someone else. Alone, yes, sure. Easily. No problem. But when I’m with someone, my mind clamps up. My body, too. I can’t let go. I worry about stuff like: Should I touch him here now? Should I kiss him now? Is he having fun? Once, I had a boyfriend who loved going down on me. Mostly, I worried about if his jaw was getting tired and why the sensations didn’t feel all that great. After five to ten minutes, I faked orgasm.
Yeah, sue me a third time. I fake in bed.
I drew out the letter explaining the spell. I read and re-read the instructions, hoping a simpler “undo” element would somehow appear. Nope. Same words as always, same convoluted undo method:

My dear Ava,
You always wondered how your grandfather and I had such a happy marriage. Luck, I told you. Luck and hard work. That’s partially true, but what I could never reveal is that there’s more. Much more. My great-great grandmother was a witch. She left a love spell to my grandmother, who in turn left it to me. The spell only works if the person who previously enacted it is dead, so you see how skipping two or three generations at a time serves it well.
You and I never talked about magic, and I doubt you believe in it. In fact, I’m not sure I do, except for this one spell. Your grandfather couldn’t be bothered to pay one iota of attention to me.
Until the spell.
It works, my dear. It certainly does work.
You have so much love to give, and yet your heart keeps getting broken. Here is the spell to remedy all that.
Above all, remember: Choose carefully and kindly. This is a person who will truly be in love with you. You’d do well to not break up any marriages. Karma’ll get you.
The morning of the day you wish to conduct the spell, you must either bathe or shower. Doesn’t matter, but get wet all over to purify your body. Sometime in the next twelve hours, get near the person you wish to spend your life with. Say these words (can be in your head or aloud): “I want this person to fall in love with me, o gods, please have this person fall in love with me forever and ever.”
Then touch the person within sixty seconds. Has to be skin to skin. Touching his clothes doesn’t count. The quantity or quality of the touch is a nonissue as long as some part of your skin touches some part of his skin. Be careful, for if another person happens by and touches you first…
The wrong person will fall in love with you. More on this later.
The spell takes one week to go into effect. So, one week exactly after you touch the person, he will fall head over heels in love with you.
I wish you the best of luck, my dear. If, for some reason, you wish not to use this spell and want to give it to someone else, you must give it to a woman of our blood. Otherwise, it won’t work. Alternatively, if you decide this spell is best never used again, I trust your judgment in burning these instructions and leaving this secret forever in the past.
I hope you don’t, though. This can be a gift of happiness through a long line of our women.
I love you, Ava Elizabeth Van Dorn. Live long, live happily and prosper.
Find the love of your life.

Fondly,
Grandmother Harriet

P.S. If the wrong person touches you or you accidentally touch the wrong person, the spell can be undone. You will then have ONE MORE TRY. Only that one more shot, so be careful.
Steps to undo the spell: ACT QUICKLY! Remember that the spell takes one week to go into effect. After it is in effect, IT CANNOT BE UNDONE.
First, you and the wrong person must set aside a block of alone time—at least twelve uninterrupted hours that include nighttime/sleeping time. First, you’ll exchange gifts. You give him an item of sentimental value to you, and vice versa. This is a forever exchange.
Afterward, you and the wrong person spend the night together. This doesn’t mean sex, though that can happen. It simply means you sleep in the same bed together. In the morning, awaken, get naked if you’re not already, get in water for purification (bath or shower) and kiss while reciting in BOTH your heads: “I want the spell broken, o gods, please break this spell forever and ever.”
Obviously, you must have the wrong person’s cooperation.
Why all these crazy steps? My great-great grandmother, the witch, strongly believed that things happen for a reason. This time with the “wrong person” will help determine if the wrong person might be the right person, after all.
Other undo and reverse spells will not work.

“Mrrrrow!” Mrs. Purr.
“Yeah, yeah. Be right with you.” I folded the instructions, shoved them back into the drawer, and changed out of my school clothes. Today was a Thursday, the second day of school with students. It’d passed in a whirlwind, both because of the chaos of kids and because of my nervousness about the spell. The spell I had spectacularly screwed up.
Mrs. Purr followed me into the kitchen, where I kept her food and water. Both bowls were half full, but Mrs. Purr was a picky cat. Freshness was important to her. I dumped her old water and added new, cold water. I also emptied the cat food into its larger container and scooped a new bowlful.
Mrs. Purr got to eating and drinking happily, and I flopped onto the couch.
Libby.
Freaking Libby Lubbock, of all people!
I could no longer avoid thinking about her. To say we had a checkered history might be an understatement. Okay, maybe not. Our history was something thousands of other pairs had in common. In high school, we were friends. Not best friends, but okayish friends. More of friends of friends, and we hung out in groups. However, we almost always sat together. Almost always had our legs touching. Our hands touching, even if just a little. We laughed a bit harder at each other’s jokes than at other people’s jokes.
Then one night, Libby came to my house. She said she liked me. More than liked me. She’d fallen in love with me, and she asked if I liked her back.
Well, hell. What was I supposed to say? I was seventeen years old, had all this new information to process, and my poor, addled brain wasn’t up to the task. However, my body knew I liked being with her and touching her. So, I replied: “Y-yes.”
Her eyes lit up. She tried to kiss me, and when my brain did catch up, I pushed her away in the middle of our kiss. I called her a lesbian. A dyke. A whore. A freak.
Our friendship was over. Libby stopped hanging out with the group.
I suppose surprise, confusion, stupidity and youth are decent excuses, but still. Fast forward twenty years, and these high school days lingered like trip wire between me and Libby. Unspoken, invisible, always there.
There—last year when I realized who she was, this new principal with the blond hair and blue-green eyes. There when she realized who I was, there when she extended her hand and said: “I’m Libby Lubbock,” and I replied: “I’m Ava Van Dorn. I teach second-grade. Nice to meet you,” and we played strangers in front of all these people.
There—in our silent exchange: We’ll pretend and not speak of it.
There—every time in a staff meeting when I watched her instead of the person speaking at the moment. There when she caught me watching her. There in the subsequent, slight narrowing of her eyes, there in the way I quickly diverted my gaze.
There—in the way we e-mailed when possible rather than meet in person.
There—in our brisk and abrupt conversations when we did meet in person.
There—in the way the two of us were never alone with each other in the break room.
There—because I didn’t have the stones to apologize for calling her a dyke, a freak and a whore.
Her mouth had been on mine. My tongue had been on hers. And then my mouth and tongue hurt her inexcusably. But hell if we would ever admit it.
Or maybe I was projecting my thoughts, my insecurities onto her. Maybe she’d moved on long ago, and no true need existed for me to apologize.
Libby’s face was lean, thin, her jawline well defined. All the roundness from high school, both on her face and body, had disappeared. The principal was a good-looking woman: long blond hair she usually kept in a bun, wire-rimmed glasses, overly professional attire always. Maybe Libby had turned out to be a lesbian. Or not. I had no idea and doubted any of the teachers did. Libby kept a practiced distance between herself and us. She was a stickler for rules and fairness. She showed me no disdain or hostility. No genuine warmth, either. She treated me the same as she treated the other teachers: crisp, cool and professional all the way. Working under Libby required adjustments that carried a lot of unspoken communication, but it was what it was. At least Libby was consistent. No surprises with her.
Until now. Until the momentum of Libby’s steps caused her arm to brush mine.
Libby Lubbock in love with me in one week? Not just that, but in love with me…again?
My stomach tightened. How could this be happening? How could I hurt her like this a second time? Did the universe hate us or something?
Rrrring!
Rrrring!
The display on my cellphone showed that my best friend, fifth-grade teacher Kimberly Noyans, was calling. We started at Leviston the same year and had been thick as thieves since.
“Hey, Kimmie,” I said.
“How did it go?” Kimmie’s question came in a rush of breathless excitement. She was thirty years old and married her sweetheart right out of high school. They had three kids ages eight, six and four. Kimmie professed to love Brian, her husband, but I could tell no spark remained in their m