Tara kept good magic in a jam jar on the bedside shelf in her room. She thought if she did, then nobody would notice the bad magic that followed her.
She filled the jar with flower petals and shiny stones and sprayed it with her mother's perfume. Lilies! the scent screamed. She left it out on the windowsill to catch sunlight, and out again at night to catch the stars. When her little brother laughed, she placed the jar near him to capture the sound, and when he cried, she hid the jar under blankets and pillows so it wouldn't take the noise.
People loved the good magic. Her parents beamed, her brother giggled, and people at church smiled when she passed, calling her a lovely little girl.
But some days, the magic ran out. She'd reach her hand into the jar and find her fingertips pressed against the cold, empty glass at the bottom. Those days, if she didn't find out in time, she'd be left to face the world with her own bad magic.
People would frown at her without knowing why. Biting insects would follow her, buzzing in her ears and stinging people around her. Her brother would be cranky, her parents would fight, and the sky would be cloudy and over-bright-- an ugly, gray light that hurt her eyes, forcing her to face the ground and watch her feet step between the cracks on the pavement.
Those days, those hollow and cold days that filled her mind with static and left her skin cracking and flaking like old paint, Tara sits by the stairs with her empty jar, hoping that some piece of good magic will fall inside so she could hide the bad magic again.