Lia and Beckett's Abracadabra

by Amy Noelle Parks

Genres: YA Romance

Synopsis

A star-crossed YA rom-com that has the charm of Love and Gelato and the magic of Now You See Me

Seventeen-year-old Lia Sawyer is thrilled to get a mysterious invitation from her grandmother to compete in a stage magic contest—even though her parents object. But she’s going to be judged by a bunch of old-school magicians who think that because she’s a girl, her only magical talents lie in wearing sparkly dresses, providing distractions, and getting sawed, crushed, or stretched. And Lia can’t ask her grandmother for help because she’s disappeared, leaving behind only her best magic tricks, a few obscure clues, and an order to stay away from Blackwell boys, the latest generation of a rival magic family. Lia totally plans to follow her grandmother’s rule—until the cute boy she meets on the beach turns out to be Beckett Blackwell, son of the biggest old guard magical family there is. Witty and romantic, Lia and Beckett’s Abracadabra is a YA rom-com with a magical twist!

Release date: July 5, 2022

Publisher: Amulet Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

One

In our mailbox, I find a postcard from my missing grandmother and a sonnet from my boyfriend. Only one is addressed to me.

I’m standing on the doorstep reading the poem when Camden’s car fishtails into our driveway. He pops out, leaving the car running, which is not like him. This boy says “eco-conscious” more often than I reapply lip gloss.

“Tell me you didn’t open that,” he says, rushing toward me.

I hold up my hand like a crossing guard, because I don’t want him any closer. “I did. And we’re done here. Unless you want to hand-deliver it to your muse?”

Camden winces and brings his fist to his mouth. He’s so cute, and a little twist of pain flashes in my stomach. We haven’t been together long enough for it to be my heart, but I thought we were headed in that direction.

A couple months ago, I helped Camden bring up his chemistry grade with Grandma’s haunted house trick. You turn all the things you need to memorize into vivid images that you picture in a Gothic-style mansion. Using this system, Grandma can memorize a deck of cards in less than an hour. It took me a week.

The haunted house thing worked for Camden, and when he aced his test, he took me out to celebrate. Since then, we’ve spent most weekends together, and I’ve lost a bobby pin or two—although nothing of importance—in the back seat of his car.

“It was just a daydream. I never intended anyone to see it.” He comes up the steps to stand in front of me. “You know what you’re like. Can you blame me for one little fantasy about someone more serious?”

Yes. I can. This whole situation is ridiculous, but my throat tightens the way it does when I cry. I’d sort of thought that Camden, with his eco causes and scruffy shoes and homework dates, took me more seriously than his predecessors. If he didn’t, what was the point of all that boredom?

I hit back because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of my tears. “Maybe don’t call me silly when you’re the one rhyming ‘elocution’ with ‘pollution.’ ” This was not the most disturbing part of the poem, but it’s all I’m willing to say out loud. “Years of therapy will not undo this.”

Camden puts a hand out, but I yank my arm away.

“I wrote one for you too. That’s what I meant to put in the mailbox.” He holds out a folded square of paper. “Do you want it?”

OK. I’m a little tempted. I haven’t had so many poems written for me that I can afford to reject them out of hand, but there’s not a lot of dignity to salvage here, so I’m going to take what I can get.

“It’s over, Camden,” I say before turning to go inside.

He grabs for the door. “Lia! You can’t take that in there.”

“Oh yes, I can.” I push the door shut, but he shoves it open and follows me in.

“Be reasonable,” he says, and I shoot him an outraged look.

Mom comes out of her office. “Hey, Lia. Camden. How’s it going?”

Camden looks at his shoes. “Hi, Mrs. Sawyer.” His face is bright red. As it should be.

“Camden and I broke up. He is no longer welcome here.”

Mom’s eyes widen. “What happened?”

“Do you want to tell her, or should I?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You want to bet? Two days ago, you told me you couldn’t stop thinking about me. You said every single day you’d give me a new reason to stay together. Good plan. Terrible execution.”

“Volume, Lia,” Mom says, and I glare at her. I swear I was eight years old before I realized my given name wasn’t Volume Lia.

The piano goes silent. I’m so used to hearing Emma play, I didn’t realize she was home until the music stopped.

“What’s going on?” she says, coming out of the living room.

“My boyfriend wrote a romantic poem about Mom.”

“Lia!” Camden shouts.

“I want to see!” Emma says at the same time.

“About me?”

To her credit, Mom is horrified. She and I don’t have the smoothest relationship, but she’s never been one of these mothers who dresses like a teenager and flirts with our boyfriends. She’s a lawyer who consults for environmental organizations and mostly works from home. Today, she’s wearing leggings and an oversize T-shirt that says STOP THE FRACKING MADNESS.

Her hair, which falls straight to her shoulders, is the same indeterminate shade of beige that grows out of my head, although every eight weeks I return mine to the golden color I was born with. (I don’t think of this as dyeing my hair. I am a heritage blonde.)

From what I gathered in his poem, Camden’s fascination stems less from her appearance (a small consolation on the weirdness front) than from her intellect (ouch).

I hold out the poem to Mom. “Would you like it?” Camden makes a grab for it, but I vanish it into my sleeve.

Mom shakes her head rapidly back and forth and steps back into her office, shutting the French doors. The lock clicks and the blinds close. A better person might feel sorry for Camden, but I can’t quite manage it.

“You’re really not giving it back?”

“No. Consider it insurance. Come up with some flattering reason we broke up, stay away, and no one will ever see it.”

“Except me, obviously,” Emma says.

“Well, yes, except Emma.”

“Lia,” Camden says.

“You’re lucky this is as bad as it gets.”

The frustration on his face slowly morphs into embarrassment. “I am sorry.”

I nod and he leaves.

“Wow,” Emma says. “You were super tough.”

That’s when I cry.

Emma pulls me upstairs to my room and lies down next to me until I stop. It doesn’t take all that long. I was maybe more interested in the idea of Camden than the reality of him. And maybe not even the idea of Camden, but the idea of me as a girl who could attract a boy like him. Because I thought Camden was not the sort of guy to fall for someone silly.

Upside … I guess I was right about that.

Emma kisses my forehead and wipes away the last of my tears. She is two years older and perfect. And not knowing-her-makes-you-feel-inadequate perfect, but truly perfect. This year was hard without her.

She chose Oberlin for college so she could get a music degree while double-majoring in something meaningful (environmental studies) because my parents insisted. Grandma thought she should ignore them and go to Juilliard, but rebellion is not Em’s way.

Thinking about Grandma makes me remember the postcard. “Can I show you something?”

“Please. I’m dying to read it.”

“That’s not what I meant, but here.” I fish the poem out of my sleeve and hand it to her.

“That sleight was nice, by the way. I didn’t catch it.”

Emma’s sweet, but truth is, it was clumsy. Grandma would have called me out if she’d seen it—even mid-breakup. I’ve gotten sloppy over these last two months. Camden wasn’t all that interested in my magic.

“This is awful,” Emma says, looking up from the poem. “And not just because it’s about Mom.”

“I know. He has no imagination.” Which, believe me, I am plenty grateful for right now.

“But you stayed with him almost two months. That’s like a personal best. Looking at this, I can’t understand why.”

“I figured dull wasn’t so bad after Liey McLiarface. Plus,” I say with a pointed look, “Mom liked him.”

Emma laughs. “Well, if you didn’t want to show me the poem, then what?”

I hold up the postcard for her, letting her see the picture of the donkey before flipping it over. The message, written in the purple ink Grandma always uses, says It started with this.

Emma takes it out of my hands and studies both sides. “When did it come?”

“Today.”

“The postmark’s from two days ago.”

“I know. What do you think it means?”

Emma shrugs. A few weeks ago, our grandmother took an Alaskan cruise and disappeared. The cruise line insists an accident was impossible but can’t explain what happened. Everyone believes this is some stunt of hers. It wouldn’t be out of character: Two years ago she vanished, and the memory is still fresh. She resurfaced after three weeks with a face-lift and pink hair.

Most of the time I’m sure the same thing is happening again, but sometimes, late at night, I’m afraid I’m the only one who loves her enough to worry. Mom and Emma see Grandma Matilda as a cautionary tale, but for me, she’s more #goals.

Emma began piano at age five and has always divided her time equally between practicing and schoolwork. Mom, for all her environmental activism, spends most days alone, working through scientific reports and government regulations. Dad is an actuary.

This is the royal flush of boring jobs. Actuaries make insane amounts of money calculating risks for investment firms and insurance companies because so few people have the stamina for the mind-numbing, soul-sucking nature of the work. (In fairness, Dad would probably explain his job differently.)

The only thing Mom and Dad really understand about me is my aptitude for math. Their love language is enrolling me in gifted programs, and they’re sending me off to another one as soon as Emma leaves.

But I’m not looking forward to it. It’s not so much the work—that part’s OK—it’s the “fun.” Video game tournaments, binge-watching sci-fi, and trivia nights aren’t enough for me, and math camps never have night classes in tightrope walking.

Unlike everyone else in the family, Grandma Matilda—who left home at eighteen to become a magician’s assistant—gets me.

Got me?

No. She’s got to be OK.

I examine the back of the postcard again, searching for a secret message, but nothing leaps out.

The doorbell rings, and Emma, expecting it to be Camden, takes my hand. Mom calls, “Girls, can you come down?”

Puzzled, we look at each other and head downstairs.

Mom hugs me. “Are you OK?”

I nod.

“You know I never did anything to encourage him?”

“I do,” I assure her.

“OK. There are letters for you both. You have to sign.”

Emma and I exchange another confused look.

“They’re from Grandma,” Mom says, and I grin as relief sweeps over me. Mom shakes her head. “Fasten your seat belts.”

I rush toward the open door, and Emma follows. The man waiting there holds out a white-and-green envelope to each of us. I sign the little card, give it back to him, and look down at the letter. This must be the explanation I’ve been waiting for, but something about how official it is makes me nervous.

“Ready?” Emma says.

I turn to Mom. “You didn’t get one?”

She shakes her head. “You know Grandma.”

I do.

The letter is written in Grandma’s purple handwriting.

Darling Lia,

I have a little proposition for you: Spend the summer doing magic in Mirror Lake.

The Society celebrates its hundredth anniversary in August, and, truthfully, it could use a little attention. Which is where you and the other young people come in. I’ve set up a competition that should generate some outside interest. I promise to make it worth your time.

All my love,
Grandma Matilda

PS You were born to do this.
PPS Don’t forget what I told you about Blackwell boys.

This must be good news. Emma and I exchange letters. Only the first postscript is different. Hers says I’ll understand if piano is more important, but look out for Lia if you can.

Humph. I don’t need a babysitter.

Mom, who’s been reading over my shoulder, says, “You’re not doing this.”

She’s speaking to me, but Emma answers, “No. This tour’s too important. And if I back out now, I may never get another chance.” She looks at me. “But it’s only two weeks. I could meet you after.”

I squeeze her hand, because I may not need her, but I want her all the same.

“Lia. No,” Mom says. “You start Solstice next week. That could make a huge difference in the kinds of colleges you get accepted to, which will affect your whole life. Not to mention it’s a chance to make a commitment to something worthwhile. Something you have a real gift for.”

“Maybe I have a gift for this too?” I say, ignoring the “worthwhile” part. I reach into my back pocket and pull out an ace, showing the card to Mom and Emma before twirling my arm through the air like a flamenco dancer as I change it into a queen. Completely loyal, Em claps. I curtsy because I deserve it this time.

But Mom is unimpressed. “That’s not a gift that gets you anywhere. This fall you choose a college and maybe a major. It’s time to get serious about something that matters.”

Mom has a gift for wounding me, but I am used to being not-Emma. The truth is, I’m not the kind of person who gets serious about anything … or anyone. Camden and I only broke up thirty minutes ago, and I am well on my way to being over him. I have zero desire to stay here this summer and see if we can get back together.

“

Grandma needs me,” I say. I’m sure of this, at least. That’s why she sent me the postcard, even if we both got letters.

Although what she wants me to do about the donkey is a little unclear.

“Grandma’s not even there,” Mom says. When Grandma vanished, Aunt Julie moved into her house, and Mom knows she would have called right away if Grandma showed up.

“Please,” I say. I know I spend too much time on trivial things. Like riffle passes and trends in nail polish and the seventy-fifth digit of pi. And I know Mom wishes that instead I would devote myself to solving climate change or creating High Art or generating Important Knowledge. And maybe I will. Eventually. But I’m only seventeen. Is wanting to spend one summer on magic really so bad?

“Lia, you are not pulling out of one of the most prestigious math programs in the country for some ludicrous contest organized by your whack job grandmother. Dead or alive.”

“Mom!” I say, genuinely shocked. This is her mother, after all.

“Well, I’m sorry. But no.”

“You’re letting Emma go on that tour. That’s not work. And it’s not academic.” Emma gives me an injured look. It’s not nice to bring her into this.

“She’s learning to be a pianist, not a sideshow freak.”

This hurts more than I want to let on. “Why are you so against this?”

“I’d like you to do something with your life that isn’t completely ridiculous.”

“What if it’s only a little bit ridiculous?” I say, trying to make her smile.

We all look toward the garage when we hear the door opening. Mom sighs. “Let’s see what your dad has to say.”

When he comes in from the side hall, he says, “What’s up, ladies?”

“Camden wrote a sonnet about Mom, so Lia broke up with him,” Emma says.

“And Grandma Matilda sent us a certified invitation to come to Mirror Lake and do magic,” I add. “So she’s alive. But up to something.”

“And now Lia wants to run away to join the circus,” Mom finishes. “So, same old, same old,” he says and kisses my forehead.