But now, of course, things have changed. I could have talked to Christine’s main character, who has become a close friend of mine, about sparing your life. But we’ve really bonded over a mutual hatred for you, and we both agree Fiction will be a better place without you. On a side note, we also both love fresh tuna and knitting.
And so, we’ve decided to work together to ensure a painful and, like this letter, unnecessarily drawn-out death for you. You’re going to die.
I hope that clears things up for you (and You).
Hatefully yours,
GP, A
“Who’s You?” Randy asked from just above my shoulder. I jumped and smacked his nose—which wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been sticking into my business.
I shook my head, and I could almost hear her melodious voice saying the words.
You’re going to die. Suddenly, I was reminded of the penguin I’d met briefly in the coffee shop who’d said almost the same thing to me. I had been so unnerved at the time, but had somehow managed to put it out of my mind since then, passing it off as a mere Fictional coincidence, like the time Randy had accidentally worn plaid on Creative Inspiration’s Throw Paint on Plaid Day. Or was that irony? Dumb luck?
I crumpled the letter up into a ball in frustration and tossed it onto the coffee table, which still bore the mark of Gail’s last little note. Call it coincidence, irony, or just plain crap luck, but at that moment the little lump of paper, ink, and apparently some kind of gun powder exploded.
The table was reduced to smoke and flying splinters, many of which lodged in my hair and clothes. Where the table had been was an ugly black scorch on the rug, and several pictures had fallen from the walls, their glass scattered across the floor. A picture of Beth and me, which I’d hung up only days ago, was lying on its face, burning happily around its edges. Before I could so much as gibber about it, Randy was standing over the frame, drenching the smoldering picture with a fire extinguisher he’d conjured. The chemical smell of the extinguisher’s thick foam overpowered the smell of food and all of that smoke, and it made my eyes burn even more.
A moment later, Randy handed me the blackened picture. A piece of burning wood had cut through the back of the frame right into Beth’s face, and had burned a perfect hole where she’d been. But I was still there.
I was still here.
After a moment Randy muttered something about dinner burning and hurried off to the kitchen. I only realized I had been crying when a few warm tears splatted onto the picture in my hands.
Because of the burning, that’s all.
After Randy had taken dinner out of the oven, we carried the remains of the broken picture frames, the blue-and-green rug, and few larger remains of the coffee table down to the dumpster, and we opened the bedroom windows and doors to air the place out a bit. It still smelled like chemicals and smoke, though, so Randy and I ended up taking our dinner out onto the little landing by the front door. The space was too small for patio furniture or a nice little table or anything, but it was plenty large for the two of us. We sat down, backs to the wall of the apartment, and looked out over Fiction as night fell.
“Another explosion,” Randy remarked, as though commenting on the weather.
“Yep,” I agreed.
After that, we ate mostly in silence. We watched as our street and the streets beyond and beyond got quiet, and still, and ready to sleep. Just before we got up to go inside, we heard the first telltale screams and cries from Thriller several blocks away, where the night was just beginning. I thought of the first day I left the apartment on my own, and how Fiction had seemed so welcoming. It was all so happy, so quaint, and so normal. I sighed as I walked back inside, the smoke still hanging in the air, reminding me of everything I’d been through in just a day. I was suddenly exhausted.
“Goodnight, Randy,” I called as he put the dishes away.
“Goodnight, son,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Have you ever noticed how time speeds up when you most want it to slow down, and it seems to drag along when you are worried about being killed? Well, I noticed it, and it was beginning to wear on me over the next week. I spent every moment looking over my shoulder, which was not only uncomfortable but meant I was even clumsier than usual. Two days before Tabatha Christine’s character list was set to be released, I was backing into my Creatures of Fantasy class, casually trying to pretend that walking backward was just a new, cool character trait, when I ran smack into Professor Uk.
“GRRR!” he said. I responded with a noise a rubber ducky might make and took my seat meekly. Uk was certainly a great professor, but I still couldn’t shake the image of him ripping my head off.
I leaned back into my seat, rubbing my shoulders for warmth in the cold, dank room and willing the clock to speed up. I wanted to get home so I could ask Randy if he’d had any news. Since I’d learned not only that Gail was hell-bent on killing me but that the anonymous main character seemed to be as well, I’d developed a kind of unhealthy false hope that we might find out who he (or she) was and convince him (or her) to inspire Christine that I didn’t deserve to die. And if that failed, capture him (or her) and force his (or her) hand to some Plot Paper. It was all very straightforward really.
And so Randy worked night and day on trying to unearth a character list before the release date, but as the days passed and he still hadn’t come up with anything, I began to lose hope. I’d even started avoiding Jenny, leaving quickly after Conflict and not answering the door when she came looking for me. I hated doing it, and I hated myself for doing it, but I hated the thought of leaving her even more. I mean, if I were in her place, and she was killed . . .
The three Stereotypical Valley Girls, who sat nearest to me all turned in their chairs and glared. The Valley Girls were new to the genre—they’d all just transferred in from YA, apparently because even YA couldn’t stand them anymore.
“Hey, could you like tone down the internal monologue? You’re totally killing the vibe!” one of the girls said loudly, in a high, bubblegum voice. She tossed her blonde hair over her pink-clad shoulder and looked back to the front of the room glassily. Of the skin I could see on her (which was actually quite a lot), I noticed a slight, unnatural glow. When I looked at the other two girls, I realized that they were all sporting it, but they didn’t look like they were being written. In fact, if their vacant expressions were any indication, it didn’t seem like they had been written in years, and even then, they seemed to have been thrown together in a couple of lines.
I was just about to ask her what in the world was going on with her weird skin when she turned in her chair to whisper something to her neighbor and a large fleck of glowing powder fell from her arm like a scale. Beneath she was dull and gray and nondescript. What the—
“It’s Shiny Powder,” the girl said, turning in her chair once again, sending cracks along her heavily made-up arms and “shiny powder” snowing to the floor. If my internal monologue and my look of pure disgust were offensive, she was too dim to notice. “It’s like all the rage in YA. It makes you look like you’re being written again, and it burns like a thousand calories. Just be careful you don’t put it on your—”
Thankfully at that moment someone knocked on the classroom door, and I was spared hearing the rest of her astute advice by my own sheer paranoia.
I dived under my desk, scraping my hands and knees on the stone floor. When I dared open my eyes and look up, the door was ajar and Bob the Ficus was standing at the front of the room where Uk had been lecturing. It was hard to tell, what with his being a potted plant and all, but I’m pretty sure he was staring at me in surprise. The cakey Valley Girls were, anyway.
“Uh, hello, everybody,” Bob announced to the classroom as I scooted back into my seat. “As I am sure you all are aware, this Friday is the fifth annual OSD. Of course for your first OSD, you’ll have to go through the OAFDP, and toward the end of the evening, the OAGS. If you have any questions, please see
the colorful flyers that are being festively scattered about the school as we speak.”
Not a beat later, the door was thrown open completely, and to my horror in walked . . .
One of the Stereotypical Frat Boys. Who were you expecting?
Though I tried to avoid them, I’d seen the ten Stereotypical Frat Boys around campus a few times since the beginning of the year. They didn’t seem to recognize me from our initial introduction, but I could spot them easily. They always traveled in a pack; they always seemed to be harassing one of the Stereotypical Nerds; and they always wore khaki shorts, crisp polo shirts, baseball caps, and, of course, loafers, no matter the weather outside. Sure enough, this Frat Boy was wearing a pink polo shirt, sandy-colored khaki shorts, and, of course, loafers. Oddly, he was missing the hat.
“Take a flyer, FRESHMEN!” he screamed as he threw an armful of red, blue, green, and yellow papers into the air. He stood in dumb fascination as the flyers rained down onto the stone floor, and then, having done his part, he walked back to the door, nearly colliding with the frame. In the hall, I could hear his group of friends welcome him back with such relief and enthusiasm that it was as though he’d returned from the grave rather than a solitary venture into a classroom. He shouted something like, “Give me back my hat, dudes!” or “That girl has got some nice—”
Anyway, I wasn’t really listening. I had picked up a flyer and was busy reading something truly disturbing:
It’s that time of year again, students! Time to kick back, relax, and have some fun before we buckle down for exams!
This Friday at 9:00 pm, Fiction Academy will proudly host the fifth annual Obligatory School Dance. You’ll begin, of course, with the Obligatory Awkward Finding a Date Process, and end the evening with the Obligatory Awkward Good-bye Scene. Why? Because we are Fiction Academy, and what kind of college experience would we be portraying if not for a dance? Besides, it will be fun*!!!
*Fun! And also required. Failure to attend the OSD will result in expulsion from the Academy and some fairly brutal torture. Just kidding! (About the expulsion.)
I looked up to find Bob standing next to my desk, looking over my shoulder at the flyer, or perhaps he was looking at me, or perhaps he had drifted off to sleep. It really is hard to tell with the trees.
“Peter,” he whispered. The class seemed to recognize the need for a Private Moment between Bob and me, so Uk resumed the lesson, and everything beyond Bob grew fuzzy and indistinct.
“Look, I know you’re a little bit worried these days about the Assassination, but this is an Obligatory School Dance. The fine print there? They mean it, and if you ask me, you don’t need any more people wanting to kill you.”
“It says they’ll just torture you if you don’t show up,” I pointed out hopefully. Bob just shrugged (I think) and went on.
“You need to go to this dance, take your mind off probably being killed this next week, and have some fun! Lighten the mood a bit! All this talk about assassination—it’s gloomy. People don’t want gloom; they want romance, fun, adventure! Besides, I know a certain wizard who’d really like to go with you . . .”
I blinked a few times, trying to discern Bob’s expression. It looked pretty leafy.
“Bob, I’m flattered and all, but I . . . well, you’re not really my type.”
“I’m not talking about me; I’m talking about Jenny. Now I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but she seems pretty upset. She’s worried about you, Peter,” Bob said, patting my shoulder gently with a leafy branch. His leaves were surprisingly cool, soft, and detailed. When I looked closer, I could see their little green veins. He wasn’t nearly as clear as Jenny or Randy, but I wondered if he might be involved in a story, too—if not Tabatha Christine’s, perhaps some other book in the works Out There. Maybe a Fantasy with a talking plant, or a book on botany. You know, a minor character.
“Look, Peter, I’ve got to go—this Private Moment won’t last, and I’ve got to make sure Frat Boy 1 isn’t writing dirty words on the flyers again. Think about what I said about Jenny. I’ll see you,” he called, teetering from side to side along the edges of his pot until he’d rocked his way out of the room.
Just as he’d said, the Private Moment began to fade as soon as he was gone, and the scene around me came back into focus. The blurred lines and colors of the room resumed their clarity and Uk’s booming voice grew louder, like somebody was turning up the volume. And kept turning it up. And up.
“PETER!” Uk shouted from the front of the room.
As the shapes of students became clearer and clearer, I realized everybody was gathering their things and leaving. Uk apologized for the shift in tone, and in a much softer voice, he told me that class was out early due to the dangerous change in mood. Even as he said it, I noticed that everything felt much more lighthearted. The blue flames lighting the room no longer seemed cold and eerie, but fun and festive! The stone floors gleamed as though they’d recently been polished with Pine-Sol and a dash of hope. From the hall I could hear students whooping and hollering. Happy adjectives zoomed past the door, golden blurs, like swarms of bumblebees. I left the room, the noises and descriptions washing over me, falling into the folds of my clothing; and yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something I was supposed to be worried about. But then a big, fat, and rather reluctant OPTIMISM came wobbling through the air and clonked me squarely in the forehead. It broke up into letters and faded away a moment later, but it had already done its job. I forgot all about . . . well, whatever it was, and rushed down the hall, whooping and hollering right along with the other students. I didn’t have time for nagging feelings or “important” plot points; I had to find Jenny.
As I raced through the halls toward the exit, people and creatures alike were frantically pairing off, apparently taking this “find a date” thing seriously, and in several cases rather violently. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a fellow boy wizard, SD the Stunt Double, I think, kneeling on the hard stone floor on both knees. He was holding the hands of a spindly, pale wood nymph, gazing up at her imploringly. Beyond them, two young centaurs, one dark brown and one stark white, were shouting and pushing at one another as a beautiful, curvaceous young woman wearing all black leather and futuristic sunglasses looked on, seeming rather entertained. And just as I pushed open the main door to the building, I heard someone behind me shout, “To the death!” I whipped around and caught a glimpse of two furry hobbits rolling around on the floor, clearly fighting over a Ficus tree. Bob just shrugged (I think) in my direction and watched as the hobbits continued to pummel each other, hoping to win Bob’s affections.
Somewhat confused, I threw open the door and was nearly blinded by the sunlight filling the courtyard. It was a perfect day—the cool breeze whipped at my hair and pressed my shirt to my body. I was simply overcome with purpose and OPTIMISM, and my hands were tingling like mad. Then I spotted Jenny.
She was standing in the center of the courtyard, and she wasn’t alone. She was surrounded by a group of guys. Not just guys—vampires. YA vampires. YA Vampires are not dangerous in the sense that they’ll suck the life out of you like in the Classics, but they’re dangerous because they are youthful forever, attractive forever, and, rumor had it, could do other things for nearly as long. I was relieved to see that Jenny was looking around the group a little uncomfortably, and I figured she might need saving.
I’d love to tell you that I coolly and confidently strode over to them, broke through the circle of handsome yet mysterious vamps, and kissed her right on the lips, letting her and the rest of the world know how I felt once and for all. I’d love to say that as I did so, my hair blew across my forehead in that messily elegant way that only seems to happen in Romance and toothpaste adverts, but even with all of that OPTIMISM, I am just not that guy. And so, what happened was this: I was so surprised to see Jenny surrounded by a group of dreamy vampires that I coolly and confidently lost my footing and fell down the few steps from the building.
>
When I dared open my eyes a moment later, I saw Jenny peering down at me with her hands on her knees, chest heaving and face flushed.
“Hi, Jenny,” I said in the most casual, “this was all a part of my plan” voice I could muster. She reached out a hand and pulled me up. I glanced over and saw the group of vampires looking rather confused at the turn of events. Almost comically, the clear leader of the group, a vamp with enviously messy auburn hair, golden eyes, and a jawline that could cut glass, stepped forward and glared at me menacingly. He snapped his fingers in the air, and with that, he and his cronies stalked off, presumably to fight over another solitary girl.
“Jenny, I’m really sorry I’ve been avoiding you. It’s just . . . well, it looks like I might just die any day now and . . . I . . . didn’t want to desert you. I’m sorry,” I finished lamely. She was looking up at me with a sort of fierceness in her eyes that I’d only seen when she was really pissed. This wasn’t exactly the reaction I’d been hoping for.
“You were worried that I might be, what, mad at you for ditching me? By dying?! Peter, you’re not going to die, first of all; and second of all, if you were going to die, wouldn’t you think I’d want to spend all of that time left with you? If you’d known Beth was going to die before she did, wouldn’t you have wanted to spend every second you could with her?”
She had me there. I nodded glumly and held out my hand. She took it without a word. We were friends again.
“So about that dance . . .” I said as we started walking toward a bench along the edge of the square. Excited, heartbroken, and otherwise overly emotional students were starting to clear out, making their way to their next classes or, some, sneaking off into the forest with their new dates. “I wanted to ask you . . . Do you mind if I take Bob? I know it’s a little weird, but you know, I think he’s been a little lonely lately, being a minor character and all . . .”
Jenny punched me playfully (which actually kind of hurt), and we sat down on the bench. Before I knew it, we’d been sitting on the bench, just talking, for nearly four hours. Classes had come and gone, the sun was dipping behind the forest, and by the time we stood again, I was feeling more alive and tingly than I ever had in my series. Either this had been a Big Moment for Jenny and me, or I’d been sitting for so long my legs had fallen asleep. Whichever it was, I was having a little trouble on the path home, so Jenny wrapped her arm around me and helped me along the way. I didn’t mind at all.
The Fantastic Fable of Peter Able Page 13