When We Were Magic by Sarah Gailey (best books to read non fiction TXT) 📕

weirdly sweet, and I can’t tell if I love it or hate it. I hold it up and give Maryam a what-the-hell-is-this face.

“Cucumber strawberry mint iced tea, I think?” She shrugs. “I don’t know, my dad’s been on a Pinterest binge lately. He told me to have you try the tea so I could report back. He thinks I’m being ‘unfairly critical of his efforts.’ ” She drums her fingers on the steering wheel, fidgets with her earrings.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Last night he made miniature quiches in a muffin tin and I told him my opinion.”

“How’d they turn out?”

She gives me a look. “Wet.”

I offer a sympathetic grimace. Maryam’s dad has been on a journey into the world of creative cooking for a few years now. Sometimes he succeeds. Other times he has what he calls “learning experiences.” Lately he’s been doing a lot of “learning.” I sip the tea again. “It’s … good, I think? It’s different. It’s good.”

“I’ll tell him you said so,” she says grimly. She turns into the school parking lot, which is already crowded with minivans and SUVs. She pulls into a space, cracks the windows, and turns the car off. She flips down the mirror on the driver’s side, pursing her lips at her reflection. “I can’t decide what to do. I was almost late coming to get you because I kept putting different colors of liner on and then deciding they were wrong.”

“Want help?” I ask, and she tugs at her earring again, considering her reflection.

“Mmmmm … yes,” she says, and I nod. We both unbuckle our seat belts and turn to face each other. I settle my tea in the cupholder and hold out both hands. Maryam rests her fingertips on mine and lets out a long, slow breath. She closes her eyes. “I feel lost,” she starts, and then she’s off. It’s something we’ve done for years, since our shared drama class where the teacher made us do all these bonding, trust-fall types of exercises. I think the teacher secretly wanted to be a guidance counselor. None of us came out of the class wanting to be thespians, but it was a good class. It taught us how to listen to each other.

I can’t give Maryam advice on how she should do her makeup—that would be like Nico trying to give soccer tips to Mia Hamm—but I can listen while she figures things out for herself. She talks about the different colors she tried, and how they all felt too juvenile, too trendy, too pop-star. She talks about how everything looks the same after a while. She talks about how worried she is for all of us, that this thing we’re trying to do will break us or change us into people we don’t want to be. She talks about trying to find a new line so her brows will feel interesting, and feeling stuck in the same looks she’s been exploring for years. Maryam isn’t telling me what she wants her face to look like—she’s telling me how she feels now, and how she wants to feel when her makeup is on.

After a few minutes, she lets out another big breath and she opens her eyes. I sit quietly, keeping my face as neutral as possible. She looks at me for a long time, then nods. “Okay,” she says. “I think I know what I’m gonna do.” She smiles at me, and as she does, magic washes across her face like the glow from a flashlight. This is Maryam’s magic: subtle and suffusive and luminous. Her lips go dark, plummy, and a gradient of grays spread over her eyelids. Her brows fill in, sculpted and long, higher and thinner than usual. By the time she’s finished, she looks like an older version of herself—regal. Imperious. She doesn’t check her work in the rearview mirror; instead, she looks at me. “What do you think?”

“Brilliant.”

She smiles, a tucked-in kind of smile that gives her deep dimples. “I know.”

The swim meet is already in full gear by the time we walk into the pool complex. It’s open-air, but surrounded by high concrete walls so that people can’t get drunk and sneak in and make out in the pool at night. The pool is enormous and blue-bottomed, with long strings of white buoys separating the water into lanes. The crowd is a sea of swim caps and sun hats, goggles and sunglasses. A long line snakes away from the tiny concession stand, where a student volunteer is selling Costco snacks and off-brand sodas to the families of the competitors.

Maryam and I climb all the way to the top of the bleachers, where we won’t get splashed by swimmers or deafened by overzealous swim-moms shouting encouragement to their kids. We look for Roya in the crowd—it’s hard to tell the swimmers apart when they’re all wearing caps and goggles, but she always stands out. To me, at least.

“There,” I say, pointing, and Maryam stands up to wave. She flings both arms over her head and flails them around, trying to get Roya’s attention. I cup my hands around my mouth and shout “GOOOOOOOO ROYAAAAAAAAA,” and half of the people in the complex turn around to stare at us. It’s worth the dirty look I get from the swim-dad in front of me, just to see the way Roya’s head tips back as she laughs at us. We cheer until she does a strongwoman pose for our benefit, her arms flexed in different directions to show off her biceps and triceps, which are rippling from the grueling hours of extra practice she’s been through in the past few weeks.

The coach points at Maryam and me and gives us an over-the-sunglasses death glare. We shut up before our hollering gets Roya in trouble. Her smile doesn’t fade even as the coach leans in and says something to her—probably telling her to keep her head in the game and not let her weirdo friends distract her. She’s only