Far left, second aisle, a red sign with thick white letters informs shoppers this is the science fiction and fantasy section. Dingy yellow slat walls bear new releases, and the distinct bouquet of stale popcorn intermingles with freshly cleaned decaying carpet. My brother, sister, and I must each pick a movie before the Witch strafes the store from exasperation. This is our Friday night ritual.
It typically goes as follows:
The Witch arrives home from work, deep shadows underscoring her eyes. Her voice is pitched higher than it naturally rests; she is weary from weaving protective spells for her clients. We wait by the door, our coats and shoes on, ready. The Witch never bothers to say hello to the Bear before we leave—better he stays in his cave a little longer.
Next, we pile into the black hatchback with the broken air conditioner and wait for the Witch to break the silence—if we give her a headache, the night is over.
We spend half an hour in the video store, and I shepherd my siblings to their respective aisles. My brother likes Japanese cartoons, and my sister appreciates anything Barbie. We are not to ask for popcorn, the microwaveable kind is waiting in our pantry. Besides, we will eat Happy Meals; we eat at McDonald’s every Friday night. We come when the Witch calls us, smile pleasantly for the clerk, David, who works these nights and thank him as we shuffle out in a single-file line, ducklings in a tidy row.
Miniature burgers in hand and giddy with relief, we discuss what we chose and playfully argue whose movie will play first (it is always mine–the oldest gets dibs). The Witch is relaxed enough by now to join the chatter, and we call for the Bear to come upstairs (always more than once, he never attends the first call), set up our dinner trays and crowd in front of the living room TV. The Bear growls to keep our voices down, but after a few bites, he transforms into a man again, the work-placed hex he is under falling away from his eyes.
I live for this pattern, memorizing every line of my script, practicing my blocking, and reminding my siblings how not to mar the perfect night.
I am very good at this.

However, tonight the Witch is late. She is already yelling at us before she opens the car door. As we drive, I glance at the other two in warning, and my sister sticks out her tongue. The Witch bellyaches about her boss and his goddamn demands, and I nod whenever our eyes meet. We trickle from the car when she parks, and I whisper a charm, “please, please, please.”
We flow into the store, and I usher Kayla and Nathan to their aisles. The Witch’s cell phone performs its electronic jingle as I lope toward the fantasy aisle. I know it has to be the Bear—he must be ravenous by now.
“I’m still in Rogers Video, Cliff,” Mom spits out, her voice rising from the store’s centre.
I quickly pick up Alice in Wonderland, a favourite I borrow when I know Mom will slice our browsing time. As I collect Kayla and Nathan, I whisper the charm again. Nathan’s eyes are wide, Pokémon: The First Movie in hand, while Kayla can’t choose between Barbie in Rapunzel and Barbie in The Nutcracker. I tap her on the shoulder and give her a meaningful look, but she swats me away.
I pull her arm. “Come on, don’t ruin it.”
Kayla rolls her eyes, and I grit my teeth.
“I know how to get her off our backs,” she counters loftily.
Sure she does. Kayla is scuffling more these days. When will she realize it is easier to submit than to argue? That Mom can’t help her rough days?
“We’ll be heading to McDonald’s now. No, I’m NOT,” Mom’s voice ascends another octave, “going to two places, Cliff. Figure out what you want from McDonald’s. No, the kids look forward to it. Stop being an asshole.”
I thrust Barbie in the Nutcracker at Kayla, and she hollers, “Sarah pushed me!”
Slamming a clammy palm over her mouth, I retaliate, “We’re ready, Mom.”
Kayla licks my palm, and disgusted, I release her.
“No, we’re not!” Kayla’s voice is almost as loud as Mom’s, and Nathan has glassy eyes.
I look over my shoulder, my head turning in slow motion, just like in the movies. Mom has found us. Her hard eyes narrow, and she covers the receiver of her cell phone—a sign we are about to get it. Her shrill voice becomes a tremulous shriek as it soars above the aisles, and the world shakes. “Listen, your father is being a fucking idiot, and we need to get out of here. Choose your stupid movies already!”
My sister’s shoulders are set, ready for a fight, and my brother hides behind me. I am adept at tricky footwork, especially navigating between hostilities and tempers. I’ve been a skilled dancer since age five. Maybe I can smooth this over with carefully chosen words, my own spell.
It doesn’t matter. Kayla is ready to charge, to throw her entire self into this act, and I cannot stop her. Guilt floods my belly; doesn’t the oldest always get dibs?
Kayla’s smile quivers, and she is sticking out her bottom lip in preparation for the onslaught. She waves us away.
Snatching my brother’s video from him, I silently relinquish our tapes on the counter in a neat stack. As Nathan and I head for the door, I think of how sorry I feel for David.
Nathan squeezes my hand, and I press back; we will wait outside for the storm to ebb. When they reappear, my sister holds her head high. Her nose is ruddy, her face slicked with half-dried tears, but her beam rivals the Cheshire Cat’s smile. Her plastic Rogers Video bag contains both Barbie movies, the Pokémon movie, and Alice in Wonderland. Mom rubs her temples with her middle finger and thumb and sighs.
Somehow, Kayla took on the Witch and won.