Just A Snap

The next few days dissolved into a whirlwind of activity, a dizzying blur of shopping excursions and intense etiquette classes, leaving me with very little sleep. My grand plans to explore my mother's room, to unearth hidden treasures—love letters from my father, perhaps, a forgotten gift, anything that might offer a glimpse into who he was—had to be put on hold. There simply wasn't time. Our days were consumed not only with acquiring an entirely new wardrobe, but also with the meticulous selection of a dress for the upcoming fundraiser and an entirely new collection of clothes for when we went off to the Academy. The thought of that still made my stomach clench with a familiar knot of anxiety, but Grandma, with her unwavering calm, assured me over and over again that it would be okay. Her words were a soft balm, but the underlying fear persisted.

Farrah, on the other hand, was having the time of her life. She was way more invested in the shopping than I was, especially when it came to finding the perfect ensemble for the fundraiser. Grandad had explained that this year, the annual event was to be a grand ball of some sort, featuring a silent auction of precious items generously donated by the attending members. He also explained, with a gentle chuckle, that a fundraiser wasn't strictly necessary; the Morgana Academy was incredibly well-endowed, with parents and devoted alumni consistently pouring in substantial donations. The ball, he clarified, was apparently just a time-honored tradition, a way for the new students to mingle amongst their future classmates and begin to get to know one another without the usual pressures of a campus environment. It was supposed to be a relaxed introduction, a formal social gathering to ease us into our new lives.

Now, in the midst of pre-ball preparations, Farrah was currently trying to tame my mass of chocolate locks into some intricate, elaborate style she had seen in a glossy magazine. It was a valiant but futile effort. My thick, unruly hair, with its stubborn, wild curls, simply wouldn't cooperate. "Oh, come on!" she groaned, tugging gently but firmly. "How do you even deal with this on a daily basis? It's like trying to work my way through a freaking rose bush!" To her credit, she was at least able to meticulously brush out all the tangles, a feat that usually took me a good twenty minutes and a copious amount of conditioner. If it were up to me, I’d have left it just the way it is—a wild, natural mess—but Farrah insisted we had to make a good impression, had to try to fit in. A cynical laugh almost escaped me. I didn't actually plan on trying that hard, not truly, since I knew most, if not all, of these snobby kids would shun me the moment they found out what I really was. The thought was a bitter pill, a constant reminder of the precariousness of my existence.

She cursed under her breath once more, a low, frustrated growl, and I could tell she was on the brink of throwing something—a brush, a comb, perhaps even the magazine itself. Just then, Grandma walked in, taking in the chaotic scene with a quick, appraising glance, and made a strangled sound in the back of her throat. "Oh my, what are you two doing? We have less than an hour before guests start arriving!" Her voice was sharp, a rare note of genuine exasperation.

"I know, Nan," Farrah answered shamelessly, not even pausing in her futile battle with my hair. "So I was trying to take some of the load off and get our hair done, but Gen isn't cooperating."

"Hey!" I protested, gently rubbing my scalp, which felt tender from the relentless brushing. "All I've been doing is sitting here and wondering if I have any hair left on my head!" I added, "It feels like you've rooted it all out." At that, we both started going back and forth, a familiar, comfortable bickering session about who was right and who was wrong, the tension of the impending ball momentarily forgotten. Grandma, with a look that clearly stated she had no time for our childish squabble, simply snapped her fingers. The sound was soft, almost imperceptible, yet both Farrah and I immediately shut up, our mouths sealing together as if an invisible zipper had been pulled across our lips.

"There, that's better. Now stay still." Her voice was calm now, but laced with an undeniable authority. We did as she said, frozen in place, a silent agreement passing between Farrah and me. The unspoken threat of something worse than zipped lips hung in the air. Closing her eyes, I saw her lips moving quickly, a rapid, silent incantation, but no sound came out. I realized she was weaving a spell, a complex, intricate magic I couldn't comprehend. Just as quickly as she had started, she stopped, her fingers moving in rapid, almost fluid motions through the air around us.

That's when I felt it: a profound tingling sensation that spread through me, starting at my head and ending at my toes, as her powerful magic subtly coated me, transforming my appearance. I could tell Farrah also felt it because her eyes were rounded, wide with awe, as she looked down at her own hands, then at me. When her eyes landed on me, they got even bigger, if that was even possible, a comical expression of utter disbelief. Right before my eyes, I saw Farrah's wild strawberry-blonde hair comb itself, smooth and sleek, falling into an elegant, intricate updo. Simultaneously, her makeup seemed to apply itself, shimmering eyeshadow and perfectly lined lips appearing as if by an invisible artist. Then, blue tendrils of fabric began to piece themselves together on her body in wispy elegance, swirling and reforming until the beautiful, flowing dress she had spent an antagonizingly long time to choose now perfectly adorned her body. It took about a minute or two for the entire process to be over, and when it was, my friend stood before me, transformed into a veritable princess, a vision of refined grace.

Looking down at myself, I saw that I was also wearing my outfit for the evening, a stark contrast to Farrah's ethereal gown. Unlike her, I hadn't bought a traditional dress. No matter how many I'd tried on during our shopping excursions, they just weren't my style; they felt too restrictive, too formal, too... girly. I could tell Grandma had wanted me to go for a burgundy number, something that swooped low at the neckline and flowed elegantly over my legs, but it was just too much for me, too revealing, too overtly feminine for my comfort. That's why, when my eyes had landed on a plain black jumpsuit in the boutique, I hadn't wanted to get it initially, knowing Grandma would likely disapprove of its simplicity. But then, my gaze had landed on the one beside it, a glimmer of rebellion and self-expression sparking within me. It was a gold, flowy number that had no sleeves, instead connecting with a delicate clasp at the back of my neck, which left my entire back dramatically exposed. And I was right; when I tried it on, Grandma had loved it, the unexpected boldness appealing to her own sense of powerful style. Now, it draped elegantly over my frame, the fabric cool and smooth against my skin.

"Whoa!" Farrah seemed to be just as at a loss for words as I was, her own stunning transformation temporarily forgotten in the face of mine. She ran over to the floor-length mirror, turning from side to side, taking in her complete look, and I had to admit, Grandma did good work. The dress shimmered, the makeup was flawless, and her hair was a masterpiece. "Whoa," she said again, a soft, reverent whisper.

"Well, I hope that's not all you plan on saying tonight," Tilly teased, her voice light, a hint of pride in her eyes. "It's a big night for you both after all."

Spinning around, Farrah looked her dead in the eyes, her previous awe replaced by a fierce, delighted certainty. "That... was... amazing." She turned once more to ogle herself in the mirror, her head tilted, a self-satisfied smirk playing on her lips, and I couldn't help but laugh, a genuine, joyful sound that felt foreign but welcome.

"The process usually goes by much quicker, a blink of an eye, actually," Grandma explained, a hint of mischief in her voice. "But I thought you girls might like the theatrics." With that, she murmured a few words under her breath and snapped her fingers. In an instant, she was also transformed, her simple day dress replaced by a shimmering, elegant evening gown, diamonds glittering at her throat and wrists. She looked every inch the powerful, aristocratic witch she was.

Farrah did a double take, her jaw dropping, and then let out a squeal of pure excitement, practically vibrating with renewed energy. "I have to go make sure everything is in order," Grandma announced, her gaze already drifting towards the door, "especially with Joseph. God knows the man can't tie his tie without me. You two head downstairs to start greeting the guests as they come in." She turned on her heels and sauntered out the door, her movements fluid and graceful, leaving me alone with a giddy Farrah.

That's when reality hit, crashing down on me like a cold wave. All the excitement drained away, and my nerves kicked in with a vengeance. I was about to meet my peers. The ones who would either accept me or reject me when they found out what I was. My stomach churned, and I looked down at my suddenly sweaty palms, noticing my hands were shaking slightly. Ever attentive, Farrah, sensing my sudden shift, placed her warm hand in my cold and clammy one, her touch grounding. "It'll be fine, Gen," she murmured, her voice soft but firm. "It's only one night, a few hours. We just have to get through a few hours and then we can raid the pantry for the good stuff." I managed a watery smile at her, trying my best not to ruin my perfectly applied makeup that Grandma had spent no time at all doing. Squeezing her hand a bit tighter than I needed to, a silent acknowledgment of my fear, I let her lead the way downstairs, my heart hammering a mile a minute in my chest. Each step echoed the frantic beat, carrying me closer to an unknown fate.