Outsider Among Sea Folk

Just as I was about to pass out, my awesome brother burst in—full of energy, wild-eyed—and poured some weird blue liquid down my throat. “You can’t just not eat! What if you starve? Don’t worry, I gave you this miracle stuff—you won’t need to eat for a hundred years.”

He was always the fixer, my brother. He kicked open the door, hair wild, and before I could even protest, he tipped a mason jar of bright blue goop down my throat. It tasted like cough syrup and regret. Yuck.

I wished I could faint, but my brother kept shaking me: “You happy now?” Happy, my foot!

He grinned like he’d just saved the world, but I felt queasier than ever. My head spun, and all I could do was glare at him through watery eyes. Seriously, I could’ve barfed on his shoes.

Dying wasn’t an option. My parents went straight to the local pastor and pulled some strings—like, “Don’t worry, even if she dies, we’ll find a way to bring her back.” Casual resurrection plans, no big deal.

They dragged me to the little white church on Main Street, cornered the pastor after Sunday service, and whispered about miracles and second chances. I sat in the pew, feeling like a lost cause. Maybe the stained glass would swallow me up.

Thanks, but no thanks!

I slumped lower, wishing the wooden bench would swallow me up. The stained glass windows threw rainbow patches on the floor, and I wondered if anyone else ever felt this out of place. Probably just me.

Forget it, I can’t just give up. Might as well put in some effort. If I’m stuck here, I should at least try.

I figured if I was stuck here, I might as well try to make something of it. Maybe there was a trick to fitting in, or at least surviving without going nuts. Fake it till you make it, right?

After six months of trying to learn magic, I could recite all the spells backward. But every time I tried them, it was a disaster. Nothing worked. Not even a spark.

I had flashcards taped to my wall, spellbooks under my pillow, and a notebook full of crossed-out incantations. My room smelled like burnt sage and melted crayons. Honestly, it was a disaster zone.

Dad scratched his head. “That can’t be right, can it?” He looked at me like maybe I was part of some cosmic prank.

He’d watch me wave my hands and mumble words, then duck when something fizzled or popped. “Maybe you’re just… unique,” he’d say, trying not to sound worried. Like, “Please don’t blow up the house.”

I asked, genuinely, “Am I just learning this wrong?” Maybe I was missing something obvious.

I wanted to believe it was just a matter of practice. Maybe I was missing a step. Maybe the words sounded different with a human tongue. Or maybe I was just hopeless.

Dad went silent, thinking. I looked at Mom, and she looked embarrassed too. “We sea folk are born knowing this stuff,” she said, fiddling with her necklace.

They exchanged a look, the kind parents do when they’re about to drop bad news. Mom fiddled with her necklace, Dad coughed into his hand. Uh-oh.

“Aren’t there any who learn it later?” I asked, all innocent, like maybe I’d found a loophole. Please?

“Nope!” they both said together.

Their answer was so quick it was almost funny. I felt like the punchline to a joke I didn’t get. Ha. Ha.

But they still helped me ask around, and finally figured it out: I didn’t have an inner core. So I couldn’t do magic. That’s it. No magic engine inside. Just me.

They called Aunt Ruth, messaged cousins up in Maine, even Skyped with Grandpa in Florida. The verdict was unanimous: no core, no magic. End of story. Thanks for playing.

Now I had a legit reason to quit—let it all burn!