In some Asian cultures, August 8 was considered a lucky day, the squaring of the lucky number 8. But for Cassie and her father, it was a black spot on the calendar, a number your eyes skipped over until you had to confront the horrifying reality of it. It was on an August 8 a decade ago that her mother -- her real mother, not Charlotte the pretender -- had kissed them on the forehead and left for work. But when she stepped out that door, it was as if she took a step into nothingness. She was never seen again.
The young Cassie hadn't really understood what happened. She had assumed that her mommy was simply away, on one of the business trips she occasionally went on, and enjoyed having her daddy all to herself. But by the time she had started school again, she had realized that something was wrong. From hushed downstairs conversations between her father and police officers, and then between her father and private investigators, she learned that even the grown-ups didn't know where Mommy was. If she had definitely died, Cassie would have probably understood it, even at that age. And abandonment would have hurt, but it would have been a stab in the front. But this strange vanishing defied the laws of reality, and plunged Cassie into a terrifying, groundless void.
Tumescent grief had grown slowly inside her, along with the realization that Mommy probably wasn't coming back. Eventually, she was pronounced legally dead, or legally divorced -- Cassie was never really sure of the details. Her father had gotten re-married to this terrible provincial woman and her demonic daughter, and moved them away from the city that he said reminded him of her. The pain of her mother's disappearance had slowly faded away, or at least been papered over with the minutia of everyday life and the exhilaration of love and sex.
But on August 8, it was harder to forget. The thing beneath the floorboards burst out and stared her in the face. Cassie and her father had never quite figured out what to do with the day. It was normal for families with dead members to visit graves on the anniversaries of their deaths, but her mother had no grave, and even if she did it would have been far away from this town. When she was younger, her father had taken her to the beach or the zoo and bought her whatever she wanted, but this had been excruciating. More recently they had gone to work or just lay around the house, letting that black thing consume them.
When Cassie woke up on this particular August 8, she was in a good mood. She had, after all, been distinctly oversexed as of late. Every day brought with it the distinct possibility of getting fucked by Devin or Rainey, or if she was willing to put up with things getting weird, Sara or Ms. Bright. And it was a sunny day, and she had just had a nice dream she couldn't quite remember. It was only when she was halfway through brushing her teeth that she remembered the date and all it meant to her.
Cassie went downstairs in a foul mood. The aftertaste of her toothpaste was like bile. Her father was at work over the stove, and there was a plate of French toast on the kitchen table. Her mood didn't lighten much.
"Hi sweetie," said Cassie's dad. "How are you feeling today?"
"Like crap," she said. "But hey, there are only—" She checked her watch. "Fifteen hours left until tomorrow. Shit, why did I wake up so early?"
"Sit down and eat," he said. "I've got a little surprise for you."
Cassie couldn't possibly think of a surprise that would make this day better. In fact, surprises were sort of part of the problem. She dug into her breakfast. The French toast was good, fluffy and sweet like always, but it tasted like ash in her mouth.
Mindy and Charlotte wandered down, presumably after finishing their evil plotting upstairs. "Sweet, a hot breakfast," said Mindy. "What's the occasion?"
Charlotte touched her daughter on the shoulder. "It's a... sensitive day for Cassie."
"She's on the rag?"
Charlotte whispered into Mindy's ear. The teenage blonde rolled her eyes. "Whatever. I've got to go to the mall today."
After breakfast, Cassie looked up at her dad, ready to collect whatever lame surprise he had planned. She hoped this wouldn't be like the year where he took her miniature golfing. Nothing like tiny windmills to assuage your grief.
"Look under your plate."
So it was going to be a scavenger hunt. Cassie dutifully lifted her plate and found a red envelope pressed under it. The sketches of mermaids across the envelope gave the sender away. "Leigha!"
"We actually got it in the mail yesterday," her father said. "But we thought it would cheer you up a bit right now."
Cassie was actually a bit miffed about having her mail withheld, but was more interested in word from Leigha than anything else. She ripped open the envelope and headed up the stairs. "Thanks!" she shouted over her shoulders. She liked to read Leigha's letters in private, mostly because she had a tendency to touch herself afterwards.
The two of them had kept in touch through text messages and IMs, of course. The letters were a weird tradition from the time when Leigha's moms had refused to buy her a phone. It felt like a fuller way of communicating, a way of devoting their attention to each other that they just couldn't get by idly texting each other at work.
Leigha wrote in an intentionally elaborate longhand. The corners of the paper were decorated with drawings of fantastic creates and elfin women. Her letters looked like something you would find at the front of a fantasy novel, and Cassie loved it. Forgetting the day and what it symbolized, she lay on her bed and began to read.
My dearest Cassandra,
I have been a bit lax in writing to you -- not for lack of material, but simply for lack of time. My parents have been busy with selling the camp, while I am preparing for university in the fall. This has caused us all to be a bit snippy with each other, but I do not like to write to you about unpleasant things.
So here are some more pleasant things: I met a lovely young woman in my quilting circle. Yes, one of my old lady interests has lead to love. Or at least lust. Her name is Josephine and she has purple (purple!) hair and wiry glasses. Oh, and cute little breasts, although she likes to hide them under her sweaters. I befriended her by discussing our shared interest in a certain series of horse-centric fantasy novels. Yes, Josephine loves all of the things you laugh at me for. But don't be too jealous -- she has execrable taste in music.
After a couple meetings she went back to our house with me and, as they say in the movies, one thing lead to another. I finally got those baggy clothes off her to reveal her skinny, dark body beneath. She was wet but embarrassed. She said that she was a virgin. I told her that she was beautiful and that I would be gentle with her. She said that she was unsure about losing her virginity to a girl she had just met a few weeks ago. I told her that she wasn't losing anything, and that everybody had a first time. I'm good with girls like that.
We made out for a while until Josephine was comfortable. She even slipped her little panties off herself. I went down on her with relish, licking her pretty little pussy until she was calling my name. She must have orgasmed three or four times. And then she flipped me onto my back, tore off my pants, and gave it her all. She was a natural! It was pretty remarkable to look at shy little Josephine, now with her violet hair messed up and a wild look in her eyes, diving into my cunt with abandon. Reader, I came.
(It was my first time with a black girl too, which feels sort of uncouth to point out. I suppose our camp's demographic was pretty narrow.)
Since then, Josephine and I have been thick as thieves. She spends half her time at my house in various states of undress. We've talked of seducing another woman from the knitting circle -- perhaps cynical twenty-something Alana?
See what you've made me do, sweet Cassandra? I just start going on and on about my love life... well, I know you enjoy it.
It's not all sapphic love here. I've been steadily working at the novel, but I'm afraid one of my most beloved characters is going to have to be cut. Her story arc simply isn't working. And poor Macavity recently took ill, but the vet gave us some pills, and she looks to be on the road to a full recovery.
I hope you are surviving, and enjoying the little enchantment I put on you when we last met. You're drowning in fresh new girlfriends, aren't you? Girls who always though they were straight? You will have to write me with all the details. There's nothing quite so lovely as kissing and telling.
Yours truly, Leah.
Sometimes Cassie thought that these letters were just practice for Leah's future career as world-famous erotica author. She was certainly better than the only current world-famous erotica author, purple prose and all. Her description of her encounter with Josephine was positively restrained compared to some of her previous letters.
Still, it sent a shiver through Cassie. Maybe Leah could introduce her to this new friend when they next met, whenever it was. And then they could all have fun together. Cassie's hand, already in her pants, idly strummed her clit.
The last paragraph caught her attention. Surely Leah couldn't believe that her weird little spellbook that she had found in the back of a women's bookstore had actually worked? There was no way to magic yourself into getting laid. Although, come to think of it, she had been having sex with a lot of women lately, and women she wouldn't have normally thought about in that way. Like her previously-platonic friend Rainey, or her teacher Claudia. And then there was the way Dawn and Sara had pressed themselves onto her, seemingly desperate beyond rational desire.
Wait, could this magic thing actually be real?
