“You have been very strong tonight, Lady Àibell.” The tension in her pale face eased slightly. The next words tumbled out before he could stop them. “And you are very beautiful.” Heat raced through him, and he was glad the shadows would hide his embarrassment.
Her voice was richer and lower than he’d expected. “You are very kind, milord. I will seek to be a dutiful wife.”
He could not see the color of her sad eyes, but no shadows could mask the fear. Their future hinged on this conversation. Maybe it was a momentary weakness or maybe it was no more than the rush of emotions he’d already experienced, but in that instant, he chose to take the risk he’d never taken. He made himself vulnerable.
“When we are alone, I would have you call me by my name.”
“Yes, Lord Tigano.”
“I wish for no titles between us.” He grabbed both her hands, awkward in the intimacy of the act. “A…a partnership,” he stuttered. “I already have plenty of servants.”
She studied his face quizzically before answering. Why was he so nervous? Did he desire her approval? He had stopped seeking such foolishness since his father had been killed. How could this woman he’d just met have such an effect on him?
Her deep voice was more steady when she finally responded. “You and I are not very alike, from what I hear. Please, I mean no disrespect. I made this choice to marry you freely, but I did it to save my family. I will give you all the heirs you desire, I will put on a face of happiness in front of others, and I will ensure that my family provides you with all the information you desire.”
His eyes widened. The surprise must have been clear even in the shadows of the trees, for she chuckled and added, “I know court politics, milord. I will do what I must to help House Tigano prosper.” She peered very intensely into his eyes, and he almost stepped back, realizing those large, sad eyes of his new wife had mesmerized him.
“Know this, however,” she continued. “My family and I will not murder for you, nor commit any form of treachery against the king, for he has redeemed us. Our refusal to commit any such acts when Lord Månefè came to us is what put us in this position, and we will risk even your good will to do so again. We may not have much, save the king’s and especially your generosity, but we do still have our honor.”
“More than any family in all the Sluagh Sidhe,” he murmured to himself, but she overheard.
“Yes, milord. We have not given in to the wretched obscenities of the court, we alone of all those who chose to follow the path of the Sluagh Sidhe.”
As Àibell spoke, he watched amazed as pride took hold of her. It was there, like a fierce lioness in her eyes and bearing, shoving the sadness to one side. He found himself wanting to harness this pride for his own use, to mold her to his will. At the same time, however, he was wildly attracted to it, and not daring to damage it, lest it be lost. Instinct warned him he could not have both, and he desperately desired the latter. If he was under an enchantment, he didn’t want it to end.
“I…I do not want you to change for my sake.” His voice had grown soft and husky as he struggled with his emotions. “I don’t want you to pretend.”
“Then take me home, Tigano. Only time will tell if this partnership is really what you want.”
Chapter 7
The Boy
Mr. Matthew’s sub, Mrs. Wiegand, led Miguel’s P.E. class onto the track the following morning. She was a tall, athletic woman with a long blond ponytail and a smile he instinctively warmed to. At the sight of the hurdles set up along one stretch, Burton Peña made some joke to his favorite crony, Mike Blunt, another boy gorilla. Miguel couldn’t hear the comment, but Blunt’s smirk and chortle smacked of disdain for the sub and the now-familiar rush of heat started to build in his gut.
No! he thought, his mind racing madly as he tried to stop it before it burst out again.
“You two!” Mrs. Wiegand said in a calm, firm tone, and he glanced at her, his torturous reverie broken. She was pointing at Mike and Burton. “Two laps. Now!”
Burton’s eyebrows merely rose, a disbelieving scowl on his face, and neither he nor Mike made a move.
Mrs. Wiegand did not raise her voice. Mr. Matthews would have been flustered by this time, but she seemed unflappable. The entire class fell silent.
“You will run two laps. You will not talk to each other. You may jump the hurdles if you like, but you will run your laps, and then you will return and learn how to do the hurdles properly.”
Mike rolled his eyes, shrugged his shoulders, and began to jog. Burton glared at Miguel as if blaming him for their punishment but followed.
“I said run, not jog!” This time, Mrs. Wiegand did raise her voice, and the two picked up their pace. Except for Burton’s other two sidekicks, the rest of the class visibly relaxed, smiles on most faces.
Miguel neither relaxed nor smiled. Instead, his eyes followed Burton rather than pay attention to the sub. A knot burrowed its way through his stomach. His nemesis avoided the hurdles, glancing at the class often. Or at him. There was nothing but spite in those glances, he was certain.
The rest of P.E. was enjoyable, however. Mrs. Wiegand’s instructions for how to properly approach the hurdles made sense and, by the end, he was floating over each with speed.
As they jogged towards the locker room, Javier grinned and said, “That’s the first time I’ve done something right in P.E. in forever.”
“It’s nice to have a teacher notice, isn’t it?”
“I wish I could hear what she’s telling Burton and Mike, though.”
He glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, the two were discussing something with the sub, Mike’s arms waving and Burton slouching. Mrs. Wiegand’s arms crossed her chest, clearly not accepting whatever excuse Mike was feeding her.
“I don’t like that scowl on Peña’s face,” he muttered.
Javier punched him lightly in the shoulder. “Dude! You’re the man, now. You don’t need to worry about those two anymore.”
He shrugged but wasn’t so certain. As they ran out of the heat of the Tucson sun, Miguel wondered what sort of trouble Burton was planning for him now.
♦ ♦ ♦
He wasn’t certain if Burton was responsible or not, but on Friday as P.E. ended, Mrs. Wiegand called him aside and handed him a light blue slip of paper and his stomach flipped. He tried to palm it before anyone noticed.
“Way to be, Martinez!” snickered the burly boy, who stood nearby, a satisfied sneer on his face.
He’d never received a blue slip before. Burton had—more than once—and the band director had once written one for Mike Blunt on the spot.
Burton deliberately strode past so that their shoulders smacked, and Miguel staggered.
He showered as slowly as he dared, a feeble attempt to delay the inevitable.
“What did you do?” Javier asked as they toweled off and he smiled wanly. It was a moment when he realized what a good friend he had. Everyone else was studiously avoiding him.
“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully, but his eyes rolled towards Burton just a few feet away, and Javier nodded.
“I expect they’ll kick you out of school, Martinez,” Burton announced loud enough for the entire locker room to hear, and every face finally turned to stare at him. “Attacking a teacher like you did.”
“He did no such thing!” Javier shouted, jumping off the bench with his shoe only half tied. Even Burton was taken aback by the skinny boy’s fervor. “You’re just an ass, Peña!”
Javier’s words echoed eerily and the tableau froze. As heat rose from Miguel’s gut towards his face, he could see everything with perfect clarity: his best friend slightly off balance and red faced; Burton’s eyes round with surprise but fists already balled; Mike snarling and stepping forward.
It was Javier’s actions that allowed him to force most of the heat back down, even though his stomach churned and bile tried to rise. Time returned, and he exhaled, relieved.
The three other b
oys staggered as if they’d been punched, however. Burton banged into Mike, and the two fell in a tangle. Javier stared first at the two then turned to him. His friend’s dark eyes gaped disbelievingly, and Miguel could see memories of the All Souls Procession swirling.
He bent over, tying his runners enough to not trip, grabbed his bag and the blue slip, and ran, not stopping until he reached the principal’s office. The tears welling in his eyes were as difficult to keep back as the heat in his gut had been. He hadn’t touched Mr. Matthews, but Burton was right. He hadn’t hurt Javier—not yet—but how long before he did?
Burton’s accusation still rang as he pulled open the metal door to the attendance office and stopped short. He barely saw Mrs. Romano at her desk. His parents were sitting there, his mom clutching his dad’s hand. Her face was as inscrutable as always, but his father’s was sad, and he slinked into the empty chair next to him. Lectures always came with that face.
He stared absently at the hand-drawn posters made by Mr. Estrada’s first graders. His dad squeezed his knee and he held still. He wanted his dad to hold him, but he didn’t want Mrs. Romano or anyone else to see him act like a baby. Mostly, he wanted this to be over.
Fortunately, it was not long before Mrs. Romano said, “Mr. and Mrs. Martinez? Mr. Sandoval will see you now. And you as well, Miguel.”
They stood as one. Mr. Sandoval’s door loomed at the end of the short hallway. Curiosity and dread made his stomach churn. Three years of middle school and he’d never been through that door. He imagined tools of torture hanging on the wall.
His father reached for the handle, but his mom put her hand out, clasping his chin, turning his face up towards hers. Her green eyes narrowed, but still sparkled brighter than any gem.
“Be truthful, honey. That is all we want from you.” He nodded, his stomach settling a bit. We love you no matter what. That is what she was saying. That’s what his dad had said by squeezing his knee. He took a deep breath as his father opened the door. Three steps into Mr. Sandoval’s office were all he could manage.
He could not recall anything about the principal’s office afterwards other than harsh sunlight silhouetting the two men who stood there. Mr. Sandoval, tall and stern, the perfect judge in his suit.
The other man might as well have been the devil himself. Dumpy Mr. Matthews glared back at him, his arms crossed and resting on his paunchy stomach, and his hair as badly combed over his bald spot as Miguel had ever seen. His face, however, was another matter. A wide piece of white tape held a swollen nose in place, and the skin beneath his eyes was puffy and nearly black.
Mr. Sandoval offered them seats in front of his desk. Everyone sat except Mr. Matthews, who hovered behind the principal like a fat vulture.
An Arizona Diamondbacks bobblehead stood on one corner of the desk, and he focused his eyes on it, not wanting to meet anyone’s gaze.
“Uhm, Mr. and Mrs. Martinez,” the principal began in his deep, friendly voice, although Miguel thought he could hear discomfort as well. “I’m sorry to say this, but it appears that your son attacked Mr. Matthews during class on Wednesday.”
Did I? he wondered, still studying the oversized head and red hat of the bobblehead. I didn’t do it on purpose, and I didn’t throw the balls. Or did I?
“You mean,” his father said, “My son punched him in the face?”
The principal shifted in his seat and Miguel finally looked up. Mr. Sandoval appeared uncomfortable.
“He seems to have deliberately thrown a ball into Mr. Matthew’s face that resulted in the injury you see.”
“Seems to?” his mother asked. She turned to him, her voice sharp. “Did you, Miguel? Did you throw a ball at your teacher?”
“No.” I didn’t throw one. But did I make the balls hit him?
Everyone’s eyes on him were as heavy as barbells. He stared at the bobblehead again.
“Have you interviewed any of the students, Mr. Sandoval?” His father’s voice was concerned, but he knew his dad believed him.
“Burton Peña and Michael Blunt.”
His mom slapped the desk and everyone jumped. Miguel’s eyes widened in surprise at her emotion, staring. Her face was nearly as red as her hair.
“Those two bullies? They’re your sources?”
It was the principal’s turn to blush and Miguel relaxed a bit.
“Well, I admit it’s a small sample, but their testimony corroborated Mr. Matthews’, and you can see his face…”
“Mr. Sandoval,” said his dad in a friendly, jovial tone that directly contrasted his mom’s. “It’s obvious an accident has happened, and I am very sorry about your nose, Mr. Matthews, but I know my son well enough to know he would never accost a teacher unless he was severely provoked.”
The P.E. teacher suddenly lurched forward a step, his arms gesticulating wildly and reminding Miguel of how Mr. Matthews had tried to defend himself.
“He made those balls hit me! There’s no other way it could’ve happened.” His voice sounded very odd, and Miguel’s stomach turned, knowing that it really was his own fault.
The principal turned. “Brian, didn’t you tell me that Miguel threw a ball at you? What other balls are you talking about?”
“I…I…uhm…He did it!” Mr. Matthews sounded flummoxed.
“Brian, I need to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Martinez alone. Would you excuse us, please?”
Mr. Matthews glared at them, especially Miguel, before storming out. Mr. Sandoval appeared quite abashed after the door shut.
“I assume we are done here?” his dad asked.
“Well, actually, I was going to tell you that your son was suspended for one week.”
“WHAT?” yelled Miguel and his mother together.
Mr. Sandoval raised a hand. “I think I owe you an apology. But I do need to ask Miguel a question. Son, did you or did you not throw a ball at Mr. Matthews and hit him in the face?”
His hesitation cost him dearly, but how could he answer honestly? I have great magical powers and made everyone’s balls hit him. He’s a lazy, sadistic teacher who deserved what he got.
“I…um…never had a ball.” There! That’s truth, he thought, but he noticed his mom’s green eyes narrowing suspiciously. Does she know?
“I see. Hmmm,” said Mr. Sandoval, his face creased with consternation.
“It sounds like,” his dad repeated, “we are done here.”
“Wait,” pleaded the principal, raising a hand. “I’m afraid I must do something. I have a teacher with a badly broken nose and witnesses who say Miguel was the culprit. I’m also certain that if I start interviewing more students, I’ll get conflicting reports. Can I offer a compromise?”
“Heavens, no!” his mom retorted, her voice sharp, angry, and commanding all at once. Even his dad appeared surprised by her vehemence. Miguel's conscience, however, pricked him.
“It’s okay, mom. Really.” His mom stared at him, and again her eyes narrowed.
“What are you suggesting?” his dad asked quickly.
“Just one day. Mr. Matthews is mollified and I end the investigation. Today is Friday, so you could do this on Monday.”
It was a lot less than he deserved, and he wanted to get out of here before his mom became any more suspicious.
“That sounds fair,” he blurted out. His dad and Mr. Sandoval glanced at each other, relief on their faces. He didn’t dare look at his mom. She was her taping her forefinger, clearly not satisfied.
Just keep quiet! he told himself.
“It doesn’t go on his record,” his dad countered, and the principal nodded, and both men sat back. His mom, on the other hand, stopped tapping her finger.
Oh, I’m in trouble now.
Chapter 8
The Boy
The rest of Friday was miserable.
School was awkward enough. Every eye seemed to follow him when he entered the crowded, noisy lunch room late. Javier and other band buddies squeezed around him, barely letting him wolf down a few bite
s before Algebra. Why did everyone seem to know he’d been to the principal’s office?
He peeked at the jock end of the cafeteria, his eyes locking on Burton’s gaze almost instantly. Peña put his hand to his forehead in the shape of an ‘L’ and smirked. Miguel glanced back down at his corned beef sandwich and sullenly refused to answer to anyone. He kept his head buried in his textbook during math, grateful he had no more classes with Burton.
To add to his misery, it was unseasonably hot for November, the scorching dry air feeling more like May, and the air-conditioned classrooms did little to alleviate his discomfort.
Before last period, he texted his mom, begging for a ride home so he could avoid the bus. Surprisingly, she texted him back, telling him to wait in the library until the busses left. As he climbed into the car, her demeanor was stern, but softened when he hugged her gratefully. The parking lot was almost empty, so he didn’t squirm when she kissed his forehead. Behind him, Isabel sucked on her pacifier, blissfully asleep in her car seat.
As they turned left out of the parking lot, he studied his mother. Her face had tightened again, and he was certain that whatever was happening to him was bothering her. He tried to study her surreptitiously, but she glanced over.
“What?” she asked. “You’re looking at me funny.”
He thought fast.
“Why do I look so different from Carlos and Isabel?”
She chuckled. “You mean, why don’t they have red hair and green eyes?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You sound jealous they didn’t inherit my looks.”
“They don’t look weird, mom.”
“And you and I do?”
“No! You don’t. You’re beautiful.” He slunk down as far as the seatbelt would let him. “I’m the one who doesn’t fit.”
A massive sigh hissed out of her lips. “Miguel Ciaran Martinez! Don’t speak such nonsense about yourself!”
“See! Even my name is weird. I can never say what the C stands for!”
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