by JL Bryan
Chapter Eight
“Ireland?” Jason's mom asked. “That's a long way.”
“Too long,” Jason's dad said.
It was Saturday evening, and they were all in the living room, where Jason had just put the Malarkay contract on the coffee table for his parents to sign. Unfortunately, they hadn't rushed to sign it.
“I want to go to Ireland with Jason!” Katie said. She was in the corner, building a castle out of brightly colored Legos. Something about it reminded Jason of Faerie.
“Why do you want to go to Ireland, Katie?” Jason's mom asked.
“'Cause that's where the leprechauns live. They grant wishes.”
“There's no such thing as leprechauns, Katie,” Jason's dad said.
“There could be. Couldn't there, Jason?” Katie asked.
“Um, maybe.” Just a couple of months ago, he would have answered that with a definite “no.” But after dealing with fairies, goblins, elves, and dragons, Jason was ready to believe in just about anything. Maybe even Santa Claus, at this point.
“They want us to make an album,” Jason said, trying to bring the conversation back on-topic. “They can put it on all the radio stations, on TVTV, everywhere. And we get to play shows all over the world. Come on, you have to sign. I won't get another chance like this.”
“That's all the more reason to look carefully at this contract.” Jason's dad picked it up and flipped through.
“Mitch and Dred already read it,” Jason said. “On top of the signing bonus, we get fifteen points for our royalties—that's even better than what most bands get. It means fifteen percent of everything. CD sales, downloads, anything like movie soundtracks, commercials, merchandise...it's better than anything we could hope for.”
“It certainly takes a lot of pages to say that,” Jason's dad said.
“Well, those are the most important parts of the contract,” Jason said. “Everything else is just legal junk.”
“Then we need to get a lawyer to look it over. I'll call Buddy Simpson on Monday.”
“That's too late!” Jason said. “We each get a hundred thousand dollars if we sign by tomorrow.”
“That doesn't make any sense,” his dad said. “It sounds like he doesn't want you to look too closely at the contract.”
“Andrew Malarkay's one of those eccentric billionaires,” Jason said. “They do stuff like that.”
“I suppose rich people get bored,” Jason's mom said. “It must be boring, having other people do everything for you.”
“Right,” Jason said. “So can I please, please go make a record and become a rock star?”
“You're a little young for all this,” his dad said. “I'd be more comfortable if you finished high school before you start on any kind of career.”
“But that'll be forever,” Jason said.
“It's only a year,” his mom said. “I agree with your father. It's best if you wait.”
“Okay.” Jason was ready for this. He picked up his guitar and leaned back in the overstuffed chair. He strummed some chords. “But this could be huge. Millions of dollars. What would you guys do with a million dollars? Think about it. A million dollars.” He played more, entrancing them with the music.
“I tell you one thing,” his dad said, “I'd get that drainage problem in the back yard licked once and for all.”
“Ooh, I could open a little ceramics store downtown,” his mom said. “There are plenty of empty shops.”
“I could buy a real castle!” Katie said.
Jason found himself singing:
Mom and Dad, just sign the form,
Take the deal while it's still warm,
Don't wait, don't hesitate,
Tomorrow will be too late...
He continued playing while his dad flipped through the contract and signed the dozen or so spots that Cayce had highlighted in orange.
When his dad was done, Jason took back the contract.
“Thanks! You guys are the best,” he said, then he ran upstairs with the contract under his arm. In his room, he closed the door and started to call Mitch.
“Feel pretty good about yourself?” Grizlemor asked. He was reclining on Jason's bed, reading.
“What do you mean?”
“Tricking your parents like that.”
“Oh.” Jason did feel guilty, but also excited and giddy. “It's for the best. They'll see that. They'll be glad they agreed.”
“They just want what's best for you.”
“What could be better than this?” Jason waved the contract. “Malarkay's going to make it all happen for us.”
“In exchange for what?” Grizlemor asked.
“In exchange for making tons of money off our music.”
“You mean the fairies' music.”
“Whatever. Are you on my side or not?”
“I'm on my own side,” Grizlemor said. “And what you're doing is going to draw all kinds of attention. The fairies will find you.”
“And we'll fight them off, like last time,” Jason said.
“You were lucky. They underestimated how hard you would fight back. Next time, it'll be a swarm of Queensguard fairies with armor and swords. They'll approach you more carefully. They know to treat you like a threat instead of a nuisance. Get ready for that.”
“And how do we defeat them?” Jason asked.
Grizlemor snorted. “If I knew that, I'd be ruling Faerie, not slumming under your bed here.”
“I'm sure we can handle it,” Jason said. “I'm not giving the instruments back. We've come too far already.”
“Look at you,” Grizlemor said. “Slay one sugar-dragon and you become proud as a golden rooster. The world has a way of knocking us down when we think we're at the top.”
“Whatever,” Jason said.
“Now look at me,” Grizlemor said. “I used to have my own place, and I was a member in good standing of the Goblin Toastmasters. Now I'm squatting in the bedroom of a man-whelp, in a house that still smells like dullahan. I suppose things could get worse. I could be living in a sewer with two broken legs, for example.”
“If you don't like it here, you're free to leave,” Jason said. “I never invited you to move into my room in the first place.”
“And where would I go? I can't go back to Faerie. All I can do is try to protect my hairy green hide by keeping you out of fairy trouble.”
“Yeah, you did a great job last time,” Jason said. “Useful things you didn't say included: 'Hey, Jason, there's an elf with a unicorn outside,' and 'Yo, Jason, unicorns can turn into giant pink dragons, so watch out.'”
“They aren't always pink,” Grizlemor said. “I expected you to have some bit of common sense where unicorns and dragons are concerned.”
“Yeah, great.” Jason pulled an old suitcase out of his closet. “I assume you're coming to Ireland with us?”
“Naturally.”
“You're lucky we're taking a private jet. I'd hate to see what the TSA would do if I tried to smuggle a goblin onboard.”
Chapter Nine
Erin stood outside the door of her mother's studio, smelling the paint in the air. The studio was actually a garden shed, but they kept all their yard tools in the garage so her mom could paint out here.
Erin held the thick manila envelope in her hand. The contract inside had the power to change her life, but it could be a challenge convincing her mom to sign it. She would want to talk it over with Erin’s stepdad, Dave. Erin couldn't guess whether Dave would be happy to see Erin go or delighted at the chance to stop her from being happy.
She stepped inside.
Her mom stood at an easel, her face and her blond hair spattered and stained with seven colors of paint. Her green eyes burned with an otherworldly intensity as she painted.
Other paintings hung everywhere inside the shed. Her mom painted all kinds of strange things—monsters made of flowers, fantastical creatures, a headless ghost driving a black horse
-drawn carriage.
“Hey, Mom?” Erin asked. No reply, but it usually took a couple of tries. Erin walked around to stand next to her, facing the easel. “What are you painting?”
Erin jumped when she saw the dark, dramatic painting. It looked like a white horse jumping off a cliff—but the front half of it had morphed into a serpentine green dragon. Wings were sprouting from its sides.
“Oh, Erin!” Her mother set down the paintbrush and wiped blonde and gray hairs from her face. “Sorry. I was a little out of touch there.”
“I know. Is that a horse turning into a dragon?”
“Just something from a dream. What's up?”
Erin tapped the envelope nervously.
“The band got an offer,” Erin said.
“What band?” her mom asked.
“The one I’m in? The Assorted Zebras?”
“Oh, your band. You’re going to play somewhere?”
“No, I mean a big offer,” Erin said. “From Malarkay Records. They’re going to put us on radio and TV.”
“That sounds nice.” Her mom’s eyes drifted back toward the painting. Erin knew she wanted to get back to work.
“So, if you just sign this to give your permission...” Erin slid the contract out of the envelope.
“Permission for what?”
“For me to go make a record at their studio.”
“Where is their studio?”
“Dublin.”
Erin’s mom frowned.
“I don’t know, Erin,” she said. “That’s a few hours away.”
It took Erin a moment to figure out what she meant.
“Not Dublin, Minnesota, Mom. The one in Ireland.”
“Ireland! Out of the question.”
“Why? Our family’s Irish. Yours and...Dad’s...shouldn’t I go sometime?”
“It’s too expensive.”
“The record company is paying for everything. A private jet, even.”
Her mom’s forehead wrinkled. “Oh, no. This is too much. You can’t do all that, Erin. It’s not safe.”
“It’s safe! I’ll be with my friends, and the Malarkay people, too.”
“It’s too risky. Let’s see what Dave has to say.”
“Who cares what Dave says?” Erin asked. “You two barely talk anymore. I don’t even understand why you married him.”
“You’ll understand one day, Erin.”
“Please, Mom, this is really, really important to me.”
“You’re just too young to go running around other countries. Especially Ireland. That’s a place for you to avoid.”
“You act like it’s some dangerous country,” Erin said. “It’s not Iraq.”
“I just don’t want you to go. That’s final. And I’m sure Dave will agree with me.”
“I don’t care what Dave thinks.”
“Erin, let me work.” Her mom began mixing pigments together. “I don’t have time for this right now.”
“You never do.” Erin stalked away from the garden shed and into the house. She slammed the back door on the way inside.
“Don’t slam that door!” her stepfather shouted from the garage. Erin glanced in at him as she passed. Dave was a short man with a reedy voice and a beer gut. He stood over his train set, watching his HO-scale train whizz around the track, puffing smoke.
Dave spent most of his free time at home working on the train set, which was built on top of a ping-pong table covered in green felt. It took up an entire bay of the garage. It was supposed to look like a picture-perfect town from the 1950s—a movie theater advertising CREATURE FEATURE on its Art Deco marquee, an old-fashioned pharmacy, a barbershop with a rotating, battery-powered red-and-white pole. He usually played tapes by bands like The Coasters and The Platters. Dave had a real thing for the 1950s.
Dave eyed her carefully, in that cold and distant way he had toward her. “What are you doing, Erin? Something’s happening with you.”
“Believe me, nothing’s ever happening with me,” Erin said.
She hurried down the hall and closed the door to her room. Her eyes stung with tears, but she swallowed them back. Her mom had just casually forbidden the biggest chance she might ever get to make a living playing songs. And Dave was just an empty sack who never had much to say. It felt like the only people on her side were her friends from the band. And Zach.
Erin slid the contract out of the envelope and looked at all the little orange plastic tags showing where her mom was supposed to sign.
If she tried hard, she might be able to sway them with the fairy magic in her harmonica. She’d done it before, when they hadn’t wanted her to play at the Spoon and Cherry Festival in Minneapolis. But this was a much bigger choice than letting her play one night in the Cities.
On the other hand...Erin didn’t know how hard they would look for her if she left. Her mom was half-lost in her own world most of the time. And Dave obviously didn’t like her very much. She was going to be eighteen in a few months, anyway, and then nobody would be able to stop her.
Erin picked up a pen from the coffee mug full of them on her small desk. She’d faked her mom’s signature before—report cards, sick notes for school. This time, her hand shook badly as she filled in each blank line with her mother’s name: Maeve K. Vance.