It's a Love Thing

by Cindy C. Bennett

  And I paid him back by going insane! Great!

  “I love you, Dad.” I launched myself at him, smothering him in a bear hug. Since he stood three inches shorter than me, it was pretty easy to do.

  “Pete, what’s wrong? Did something happen to your mother? Are you sure you’re not sick? Did you break something?”

  “No, Dad. I just—” I brushed away the tears that stung my eyes and grimaced. The fake burn still hurt. I grumbled an “Ouch,” before I could stop myself.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” He reached for my hand and tugged it toward him.

  “Good heavens, Peter? How did you burn your hand?”

  “Y-you can see the burn?” And I’m not crazy?

  “Of course I can. Do you think I’m blind?” Dad led me to the bathroom and rubbed first aid cream on the burn. The sting left immediately.

  “How did you do this?” he asked, replacing the cream in the medicine cabinet.

  Should I admit to having a six-inch faery in my room? I could show him the faery, unless she'd disappeared. Then he would have me committed without a doubt, even though I now knew I was sane. I think.

  I lied. Better safe than sorry. If she was still around, I’d tell my parents later. “I made pancakes for breakfast and touched the side of the pan.”

  “Well, be more—you were cooking?”

  He looked at me strangely. I tried not to be offended. “I’m not completely inept. I can cook, ya know.” I raised my chest proudly.

  “Yes, I never doubted you could. It’s just that I’ve never actually seen you cook, is all. You’re sort of a Spongy Crèmes kind of guy.”

  “If that’s how you feel, I’ll never let it happen again,” I said indignantly.

  My father laughed. “Okay. I apologize. Listen, I came home to get my black suit. Mom said you picked it up from the cleaners for her yesterday.”

  Oops! “I was supposed to, but I forgot. Sorry, Dad.”

  “That’s better. This is the son I know and love,” he teased. “I’ll pick it up on my way to the Sunny Hill cemetery. We have a service later today and I need to make sure everything is set.” He headed for the door, then stopped and turned back, his face now sober.

  “Two more things, son. One, I love you, too. And two, maybe you should stick to Spongy Crèmes until the hand heals,” he said with a wink.

  I ran up the stairs before the car pulled out of the driveway. There was a six-inch faery in my room, and I wanted some answers.

  *****

  “Alright, Tinker Bell. Explain again why exactly you’re here, and cut the crap about not knowing the whole reason. You and I both know that's a lie.”

  She flew off my dresser, her notebook and feather pen clattered to the floor. Out came the wand and she pointed it directly at my stomach. Well, I hoped it was my stomach. “I said DON’T CALL—”

  “Sorry.” I didn’t want to be zapped again. “I forgot. But in all seriousness, I can’t call you Tinkle either. Do you know what that means to humans?” I quickly explained the whole toilet thing and she cringed.

  “Fine, but Tinkanova-Marie is a mouthful, just so you know.”

  “Yeah, too much of a mouthful. How about something simple, like Faery?”

  “Would you like it if I called you Human?” she sneered. Good grief, the girl had a serious attitude problem.

  I thought for a minute, coming up with an idea. “How about …” I hesitated, afraid she would freak out and zap me again. “How about Tink, just plain Tink, as in Tinkanella-Mary,” I said, emphasizing the first four letters of her name.

  “Tinkanova-Marie,” she corrected. “I guess that would work.” She sounded tentative, but I didn't get zapped.

  “Good.” I dropped onto the bed before beginning my interrogation. “Why exactly are you here? And I want an honest answer, please.”

  “Your mother w . . ." She trailed off softly and I couldn't hear her.

  "Sorry. What did my mother do?" I leaned in closer.

  She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and blurted, "She wished on a star that . . . that you'd no longer be a geek."

  "Geek! I'm not a geek." My own mother thought I was a geek?

  My answer set her off. She flew wildly around the room, spinning and flipping in little circles, laughing. I folded my arms over my chest and waited for her little fit to end.

  After several minutes, she looked at me and stopped mid-flip. “Oh, I’m sorry. But you can’t be serious. I mean, look at you.” She waved her hand up and down my length as if it were obvious. I looked at my clothes. Maybe she had a point with the gray sweats, but the t-shirt was good. Okay, so there were two small ketchup stains on it, but they blended in with Naruto’s orange and blue jumpsuit. And the pea size hole sat clear at the bottom. Seriously, who looks at the bottom of a shirt anyway?

  “The thing is faded!” she said indignantly. “And there’s a cartoon on the front. Aren’t you a little old for cartoon shirts?”

  “This is a vintage Naruto shirt," I said, appalled by her ignorance. "It dates back to 2007, the first year he appeared in the Anime series. I’m lucky he’s not completely faded away.” These faeries lead a very sheltered life, I decided.

  “What is an Amine?” She had the audacity to look disgusted. The stinking faery didn’t even know who or what Naruto was, and she was disgusted? Now who’s the narrow-minded troll?

  “It’s Anime, not amine. He’s from the Japanese manga series.” She shook her head, still looking confused. I marched over to the corner of my room, shuffled through one of the thigh-high piles of manga until I found the latest issue with Naruto. “This is manga.” I opened the magazine and flipped through several pages showing her.

  “A comic book? You have two, three-foot stacks of comic books?”

  “Graphic novels. Comic books are for children,” I said uncomfortably.

  “And that,” she said, pointing to my manga, “is one of the reasons your mother is worried about you. Seriously, Pete, you can’t stay a boy forever. It’s time to grow up”

  Did she just call my manga childish? “What do you mean 'one of the reasons'?”

  “What sports do you play?”

  “Sports? So only jocks aren’t geeks in your book?”

  “Sorry, poor choice of words. What do you do for fun?” Before I could answer, she added, “Besides video games?”

  “You are a very rude little faery.” She didn’t even blink at my insult. Rude and nervy. “Would you mind telling me what exactly is wrong with video games?”

  “In moderation? Nothing. Eight hours a day? Everything.”

  “You’ve been spying on me?” I was outraged.

  “Not spying, doing research.”

  “Spying.” I looked at her, cocking an eyebrow, daring her to deny it. She didn’t. “There is nothing wrong with indulging in a good video game. It’s been proven to increase eye-hand coordination. It also improves with multi-tasking and helps build strategy skills. Anyway, it’s not like it’s going to kill me.”

  “That philosophy is wrong on so many levels I don’t know where to begin. In 2005, a twenty-eight year old man in South Korea collapsed and died after playing a video game for nearly fifty hours. In 1981, a nineteen-year-old died of a massive heart attack after excessive gaming, and the following year—"

  "Okay, it can kill, I get it. But those were people who spent a lot more time than me playing games."

  "Yes, but none of them started out playing that long, Pete. They worked their way up to it. Excessive gaming also leads to social isolation. When’s the last time you hung out with friends?”

  It took me a minute to remember. “Two weeks ago, my friend Bryan and I played an online game together.” He was at his house and I was at mine, I didn’t tell her that part. Besides, we text each other several times that day.

  She rolled her eyes. “You played here and he was at his house.”

  “How did . . . can you read minds?” I cringed, remembering all the thoughts I had about how
hot she was.

  “No. I told you, we've been monitoring you. Pete, video games limit your imaginative skills, they reward aggressive behavior, and they lead to obesity." I waved off her ridiculous statements.

  “Let’s dumb this down a little for you. What do you do besides play video games?” she asked.

  I had her there. “It just so happens I’m an avid reader.” How do you like that, Tinker Bell?

  “Manga doesn’t count.”

  “Says you!” I disliked the little gnat more and more with each passing second.

  “Says everyone!" She shook her head. The movement sent ripples through her hair, making it shimmer. "Okay, fine. What besides manga do you read?”

  “I’m reading Cricket on the Hearth.” I grinned triumphantly.

  “That’s great." The little imp smiled. "I’m sorry for my manga remark. So, what do you do for exercise?”

  I had to think about that one. True, I didn’t play sports. I never liked them, preferring more solitary physical activities. Mostly because the other kids made fun of the way I played, not being very coordinated and all.

  I did, however, have an outdoor sports video game I was great at. But since I knew what she thought of video games, I decided a broader reply would be best. “I’m good at kayaking, and bowling. I’m also pretty good at repelling.”

  “Oh, my mistake. Sorry. That’s wonderful. It gives us something to build on.”

  “Build on? Wait. You haven’t proven I’m a geek."

  "Well, true," she said, trying not to laugh. "But your mother did make the wish, so let's just go with it, for her sake. Sound good?"

  No. I'm not a geek. I'm a good looking, intelligent, high scoring video phenom, and an all-around cool guy. "Okay, fine."

  "Wonderful. This is going to be so much fun. First, we'll get you a mani-pedi, then—"

  "What's a mani . . . whatever you said?" I did not like the sound of that.

  She giggled. "Mani-pedi. It's a manicure and a pedicure. Just look at your hands, they're a mess, probably from all the gaming you do. And we won't even talk about those toes. Yuck!" She had the nerve to shudder.

  I wonder where my mom put that fly swatter.

  While I tried to remember, she pulled out her wand from her sleeve, and waved it around a few times. A small pink cell phone appeared, floating in front of her. She slipped it into her hand, and with her wand pointing at her throat she said, "Hello, my name is Pete Pancerella," in my voice. "I'd like to set up an appointment." She continued, laughing and joking with the receptionist. Of course, a complete stranger she's polite to, but to me? Not so much.

  I squirmed a little, tugging on my underwear. They must be from last summer also. I flopped onto the bed and accidently knocked a picture frame off the wall. I scooted it under the bed with my foot so I wouldn't step on it. It was one of my favorite pictures of me and dad all dressed for a day of fishing. I would hate to have it ruined.

  "All set for Thursday. That will give us a few days to work off some of the rough edges." She smiled as if she hadn't just insulted me.

  "I do not have rough edges, thank you very much. I am a well-mannered, well-behaved, classy guy."

  "Oh really? So, dropping onto a bed as if it were a swimming pool is well-mannered? Or were you referring to the kicking of a photo under the bed because you're too lazy to pick it up as well-behaved?"

  I'm going to walk to the store myself and buy a fly swatter, so help me.

  She narrowed her eyes and continued her unprovoked attack. "And can we really define classy as the passing of noxious gas while tugging a wedgie out of your butt crack?"

  Oops, didn't know she heard that.

  "As I was saying, this will give us a few days to work you over, ah, I mean, help you become more polished." Her fake slip didn't scare me. Seriously, how much working over could a six-inch faery do to a guy like me?

  *****

  “I don't understand why I have to take another shower. I just took one yesterday, remember?" I even had to put on a different t-shirt today. Obviously faeries don't have to do their own laundry, because if they did, they'd understand why you wear an outfit more than once. I did notice she had on a different dress today. This one was yellow and had sparkly things on it. I liked watching her fly across the room; it looked like flashing lights.

  "Most people bathe daily, Pete. Every other day at least." She shook her head, pity etching her brow.

  I ignored her. "When you left last night, you said we'd start lessons today. What kind of lessons? And why do I know I'm not going to like it?"

  "Open-minded people go further in life than close-minded people, Pete."

  I nodded so she'd stop the lecturing. Bored, I flopped onto my bed, waiting for the lesson to begin.

  The bed vanished.

  I landed hard on the floor amongst the junk I'd shoved under the bed at one point or another, my legs and arms flailing about in surprise. I looked at Tink. She stood smugly on my dresser, tapping her wand against her hand. She did it. She made my bed vanish.

  "Why?" was all I said.

  "One should never drop on furniture, Mr. Pancerella. I thought maybe if you dropped clear to the floor, you might remember that lesson a little easier."

  I got up, rubbing the now tender spot on my butt as I did. She waved her wand, my bed came back fully made.

  "Thanks," I smiled.

  "I did that to show you what a properly made bed looks like."

  "I know what a properly made bed looks like, Tink."

  "Oh? I've never seen it made during my visits. I just assumed you didn't know how."

  Good grief, she's one obnoxious faery.

  She made me practice sitting for two hours. Sitting on the couch, on the bed, on a chair, everywhere. My thighs ached. And when she finished torturing me with that, she made me practice walking.

  "No, no, no, Pete." She flew across the living room and hovered in front of me. "Shoulders back, hips tucked, not the other way around. You look like an ape walking this way." She dropped her head into her hands.

  "Well, they say we come from apes. Maybe I'm just a natural kind of guy."

  "They also say there are no such things as faeries, yet here I am."

  She had a point there. I tucked my butt under, pushed my shoulders back and tried again. It felt awkward, stupid, unnatural, and Tink loved it.

  "Yes! That's it. I knew you could do it. Practice for another hour and then you can take a break."

  "Wait," I dropped my shoulders and let my butt do whatever it wanted. "You want me to walk all supermodel-like for a whole hour?"

  "No, that would be ridiculous and a complete waste of time." She smiled and patted my arm with her tiny hand. I didn't feel a thing. If I hadn't watched her do it, I never would have known. "You'll have to do this for the rest of your life. I just want you to practice so that it becomes second nature to you."

  "The rest of . . . This is ridiculous. Why? Why do I have to do all this?"

  "Because your mother is worried about you. She's afraid no one will want to marry you and you'll live with her forever."

  "My mom wants me to move out? Am I really that hard to live with?" That hurt, a lot.

  "No, silly, she wants you to find happiness, like all mother's want for their children. She knows she won't live forever, Pete. She's concerned."

  "I'm only eighteen, it's not like I'm a forty year old man living in her basement, leaching off her."

  "Yet," Tink said.

  "Yet? What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

  "How many dates have you been on?"

  "This year?" I asked stalling for time.

  "Ever," she replied dryly.

  "Um, well, here's the thing. I'm pretty busy—"

  "Playing video games?"

  "Tink, I am captain of an online team. We ‘travel’," I made quote marks in the air when I said travel because all our travel we did over the internet, "the world, competing—"

  "Against other geeks who also have no li
fe. You're eighteen years old and have never been kissed. Pete, you've never been on a date. Don't you want to have your heart broken a few times?"

  "Yeah, there's a goal, get my heart broken. I'll add that to my bucket list first thing in the morning."

  "It's on my bucket list. A broken heart is a rite of passage. It's your first love, your first kiss. They say you never forget your first love."

  "And who exactly are 'they'?"

  "I can hardly wait for mine," she sighed, ignoring my astute question. "Don't you want to fall in love?" Tink asked.

  "Sure. I'm hoping to skip the whole broken heart thingy though, but yes, I'd like to fall in love."

  Out of nowhere, she began glowing brighter. I'd only been around her for a couple of days, but I knew what it meant when she did that. It meant she'd come up with a brilliant idea, at least she thought it brilliant. Yesterday I cleaned the entire kitchen for my mother. Yeah, brilliant. I sat down, carefully, and braced myself.

  "I think our goal should be for you to ask a girl out on a date. A real live date," she beamed, truly proud of her crazy plan.

  "A date? As in going out somewhere, and I have to pay?"

  "Yes. It's perfect. Who should we ask?"

  "We?" I jumped up and started pacing the floor, wondering if the AC had stopped working, because suddenly it felt hot. I went over to the thermostat and tapped it. Seventy degrees. I turned it down to sixty-eight.

  "Don't worry, I'll help you. I'll sit on your shoulder and tell you what to say, sort of like in Cyrano de Bergerac."

  "Sir who?"

  "Oh, for crying out loud, Pete! Read a book once in a while."

  She flitted around the room thinking out loud as she made a list of things we needed to do to get ready for my date. I sank, softly, onto the bed, and covered my ears with my hands, blocking out her sweet melodic voice.

  "Okay. First we need to get a haircut. Let's go."

  "We? Wait. When did I agree to this? My hair is just fine." I ran my fingers through the brown strands. Okay, it needed to be brushed a little, but it didn't need to be cut. "Forget it. I'm not going."