Fairy Tale

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Fairy Tale Page 2

by Cyn Balog


  Eden says, "Scho­ol spi­rit is im­por­tant. Last ye­ar's cham­pi­ons­hip Ca­me was, li­ke, the gre­atest night of my li­fe. It was so fun."

  I el­bow her. "Ahem. Well, I ho­pe that will chan­ge next Fri­day."

  She thinks for a se­cond and then shrugs. "Oh, right. I can't wa­it."

  "My swe­et six­te­en," I exp­la­in to John. "Next Fri­day, Oc­to­ber fif­te­enth. It's go­ing to be re­al­ly big."

  He ra­ises his eyeb­rows. For so­me re­ason, guys just don't get the who­le swe­et-six­te­en thing. But mi­ne is go­ing to be one big-with-a-ca­pi­tal-5 party. Not li­ke a Su­per Swe­et Six­te­en on MTV (my pa­rents aren't ow­ners of a rap la­bel or anyt­hing), but pretty co­ol, sin­ce my fat­her was col­le­ge ro­om­ma­tes with the ma­na­ger of the Gre­en To­ad, a very exc­lu­si­ve res­ta­urant in the city. I’ve be­en plan­ning the event sin­ce Ap­ril, and it's all Eden and I ever talk abo­ut now.

  John do­esn't fe­el the ex­ci­te­ment. "So­unds co­ol."

  "It's at the To­ad!" Eden exc­la­ims.

  "You're in­vi­ted," I say. "Didn't you get the in­vi­te?"

  He lo­oks con­tu­sed. "Uh, I don't know."

  Huh. Boys. Wha­te­ver; it's still go­ing to be fan­tas­tic. "It's ac­tu­al­ly a jo­int birth­day party for me and Cam, sin­ce we're both tur­ning six­te­en," I tell him, nud­ging Cam, who is busy flic­king thro­ugh the pa­ges of mu­sic on the tab­le­top juke­box at our bo­oth. "Right?"

  Cam lo­oks at me. "Huh?"

  "I was just tal­king abo­ut our birth­day," I tell him.

  "What abo­ut it?"

  Hel­lo? Earth to Cam. "Our swe­et six­te­en?"

  He pur­ses his lips, he­si­ta­tes, and then says, "Oh. Ye­ah." Then he go­es back to flip­ping thro­ugh the mu­sic.

  Huh. To­tal­ly not the res­pon­se I was ex­pec­ting. Last ye­ar, when I bro­ught up the idea, he was in­to it. He sa­id he co­uldn't wa­it to put on a fancy su­it and ha­ve a re­al­ly swanky night just li­ke a prom. May­be the guys got to him. I me­an, wan­ting to ha­ve a swe­et six­te­en isn't exactly so­met­hing a fo­ot­ball pla­yer wo­uld ad­mit to.

  "What's wrong?" I say, sha­king him by the el­bow. I wrap my arm aro­und him and le­an in clo­se. He smells cle­an, li­ke so­ap and his bar­ber shop af­ters­ha­ve. "You okay?"

  He shrugs, then re­la­xes. "It may be a swe­et six­te­en for you, but for me, it's a studly six­te­en." He says this with a de­ep sexy vo­ice and, tho­ugh I'm not su­re how he ma­na­ges it, a comp­le­tely stra­ight fa­ce. Then he bre­aks in­to a grin.

  The ot­her guys la­ugh and I roll my eyes. "Oh, ex­cu­se me."

  Abruptly, his smi­le di­sap­pe­ars, and he shuf­fles in his se­at. "Hey, I've got to get up."

  "What's-" I be­gin, but he sli­des out of the bo­oth and scramb­les past the des­sert ca­se be­fo­re I ha­ve a chan­ce to get the "up?" part out. Okay, so may­be he just had a ma­j­or ur­ge to pee or so­met­hing.

  Scab and the guys be­gin to go on abo­ut the plans for the­ir next Ca­me. At le­ast, I think that's what they're do­ing, be­ca­use this is what I he­ar: "Blab­bity blah blah blah." It's so bo­ring, I'm su­pe­ra­wa­re of every pas­sing se­cond that Cam is go­ne. And we're tal­king many, many se­conds. Af­ter ro­ughly fif­te­en hund­red of them, I be­gin to won­der whet­her ter­ro­rists hi­j­ac­ked his uri­nal.

  By the ti­me the guys start to wri­te plays on the backs of nap­kins, I’ve had eno­ugh. I ta­ke anot­her sip of my milk sha­ke, stand up, and na­vi­ga­te aro­und the des­sert ca­se, to­ward the rest­ro­oms. I’m half­way the­re, at the cash re­gis­ter ne­ar the ent­ran­ce, when I lo­ok in­to the front ves­ti­bu­le and see Cam. He's stan­ding among the nic­kel-candy dis­pen­sers and free-news­pa­per racks. He has his hands sho­ved in his poc­kets and is sur­ve­ying a bul­le­tin bo­ard fil­led with want ads. He's sta­ring in­tently at one that says

  25 SCHOONER FOR SALE.

  What is go­ing on? Do­es he sud­denly want to be­co­me the Skip­per?

  I open my mo­uth to say so­met­hing to him, but be­fo­re I can, he turns, grabs my hand, and lo­oks in­tently at me. "You saw it, didn't you? That play?"

  "Ye­ah." The in­ten­sity in his eyes ma­kes the ha­ir on the back of my neck stand on end. "It was ama­zing. So?"

  "Ever­yo­ne ke­eps sa­ying that. Boo," he says, using his way-embar­ras­sing nick­na­me for me. In first gra­de I was a child of few words. One, ac­tu­al­ly. I fo­und that not only co­uld it be used as a frigh­te­ning tac­tic, but it was al­so ext­re­mely ef­fec­ti­ve as a qu­es­ti­on, a sta­te­ment, a cry of frust­ra­ti­on. Yes, I was we­ird. Le­ave it to Cam to bring up my long-lost we­ird­ness on a da­ily ba­sis.

  "Be­ca­use it was. Just ac­cept it. Wo­uld you li­ke me to fe­ed you gra­pes?"

  He gla­res at me.

  "Sorry. What's the big de­al? You sho­uld be happy."

  He ex­ha­les slowly. "I pro­bably wo­uld be. If I co­uld re­mem­ber any of it."

  Chapter Three

  MY PA­RENTS THINK they're so smart. Every ti­me I go out with Cam, the porch fur­ni­tu­re mi­ra­cu­lo­usly mo­ves three fe­et away from the si­de of the ho­use, so I ne­arly trip over it when I co­me ho­me. As most con­cer­ned pa­rents wo­uld, they le­ave the light on, but they al­so ar­ran­ge the me­tal gli­der and si­de tab­le so that they are in per­fect vi­ew from the ga­ra­ge win­dow. My dad has ma­in­ta­ined a stal­wart post from that win­dow for so long that he might as well set up a Bar­ca­lo­un­ger and mi­nif­rid­ge the­re. He thinks Cam and I don't know, des­pi­te the way the cur­ta­in in the win­dow do­es not­hing to dis­gu­ise his hefty sil­ho­u­et­te, and the way he says his go­od nights-comp­le­tely out of bre­ath af­ter high­ta­iling all fo­ur hund­red po­unds of his flesh up the sta­irs be­fo­re I can get in­si­de. On­ce, in the early days, I went in­to the ga­ra­ge at 11 p.m. to find him "fi­xing the lawn mo­wer" Cam had the bright idea a few ye­ars back of using the si­tu­ati­on to our ad­van­ta­ge ins­te­ad of bus­ting him, which wo­uld be way un­com­for­tab­le.

  And it wo­uld ha­ve wor­ked gre­at, if only Cam we­ren't the worst li­ar in the world.

  "Wow, it's fif­te­en mi­nu­tes past yo­ur cur­few, Morg," Cam says in this lo­ud vo­ice as we set­tle on­to the swing. "If only you hadn't He­im­lic­hed that po­or old lady' who was cho­king on the me­at lo­af, we wo­uld ha­ve be­en ho­me from our vo­lun­te­er work at the so­up kitc­hen on ti­me."

  "Yes!" I say, then sha­ke my he­ad at him and whis­per, "I lo­ve you, but you re­al­ly suck at this." My dad can't pos­sibly be­li­eve that I work at the so­up kitc­hen, the ASP­CA, the Le­ague of Wo­men Vo­ters, and Gre­en­pe­ace.

  Cam grabs me lon­gingly, li­ke he's go­ing to la­unch in­to the ste­ami­est ho­okup sin­ce The No­te­bo­ok, and then, when my fa­ce is an inch from his, gi­ves me a very ste­ri­le, grand­mot­herly peck on the che­ek. "Sorry."

  At ti­mes li­ke this, the "Is he re­al­ly mi­ne?" re­cor­ding plays lo­udest in my he­ad. He has the sexy bad-boy fa­ce, with dark skin, the black, in­ten­se eyes of an ani­mal on the hunt, and, sin­ce last ye­ar, a cons­tant spray of stub­ble on his jaw. That alo­ne ma­kes him easily the hot­test guy at scho­ol, but he's al­so got a wic­ked sen­se of hu­mor. And, to se­al the de­al, he's a to­tal swe­etie. My long, so­me­ti­mes frizzy chest­nut ha­ir; he­avy, dull brown eyes; pa­le comp­le­xi­on; strong pro­fi­le, with what my fat­her calls a pro­no­un­ced but I call a fre­akishly big no­se; and body, on the slen­der si­de but soft aro­und the ed­ges, ma­ke me just, ave­ra­ge; I've in­he­ri­ted my mot­her's Si­ci­li­an lo­oks. But we met when ma­king fri­ends was easy and ap­pe­aran­ces didn't mat­ter. If we hadn't known each ot­her all the­se ye­ars, I do­ubt he wo­uld ha­ve gi­ven me a se­cond lo­ok. />
  "So," I whis­per, put­ting my fe­et up and res­ting my back aga­inst his enor­mo­us sho­ul­der, "you don't re­mem­ber it, re­al­ly? Li­ke am­ne­sia?"

  He shrugs and wraps his arm aro­und me. "I re­mem­ber the hud­dle.

  The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back and the refs we­re pe­eling guys off me."

  You must ha­ve got­ten hit pretty hard," I tell him, matc­hing my palm aga­inst his. His hands are twi­ce the si­ze of mi­ne, and I can fe­el the cal­lu­ses be­ne­ath each fin­ger from his da­ily we­ight-lif­ting ses­si­ons. "You'll be fi­ne."

  "But I've ne­ver blac­ked out li­ke that be­fo­re."

  Boys. Such ba­bi­es. I push my back aga­inst him. He's two of me, so it's li­ke trying to mo­ve Mo­unt Eve­rest, "Is the­re anyt­hing, ot­her than yo­ur ass, you want me to kiss and ma­ke bet­ter?"

  He smi­les and pats his back­si­de. "You can't imp­ro­ve on this per­fec­ti­on:"

  I try to smack him, but he grabs my wrist and le­ans over me to kiss me. He gets the bot­tom of my che­ek, right ne­ar the tip of my chin, ins­te­ad of my mo­uth. Huh. Mis­sing the mark is to­tal­ly unc­ha­rac­te­ris­tic of Cam. "Hey: It's not­hing. Don't let it get to you," I growl at him.

  ''I'm not. I'm just ti­red," he says.

  "Okay, if you say so." Did I men­ti­on that Cam is a ter­rib­le li­ar?

  He le­ans over to kiss me on the fo­re­he­ad, sli­des his body out from be­hind me, and stands. Then he lo­udly says, "I ho­pe to see you to­mor­row, for our UNI­CEF me­eting."

  "Wha­te­ver," I sigh as he turns and he­ads off bet­we­en two ma­ni­cu­red bus­hes sur­ro­un­ding my porch. Cut­ting ac­ross my lawn is the qu­ic­kest way to his ho­use. The­re's a lit­tle path worn in­to the grass the­re; we've in­vo­lun­ta­rily cre­ated it af­ter ye­ars of vi­si­ting each ot­her. We co­uld both walk that ro­ute in our sle­ep.

  I he­ar my fat­her lum­be­ring up the sta­irs in­si­de my ho­use. I de­ci­de to gi­ve the old man a mi­nu­te's he­ad start, so I sit back, watc­hing a moth dan­ce in the porch light. I'm ex­pec­ting to he­ar the cre­aking of the Brow­nes' scre­en do­or, but it ne­ver co­mes.

  I stand up and walk to the ed­ge of the porch. It's get­ting chilly, so I pull my jac­ket aro­und my sho­ul­ders and push asi­de the branch of a Japa­ne­se map­le that's res­ting on the ra­iling. That's when I see Cam stan­ding all alo­ne, sta­ring up at the sky.

  I knew it. He's let­ting it get to him.

  Chapter Four

  AFTER A HE­ARTY Ne­ut­ro­ge­na scrub­bing and my da­ily ap­pli­ca­ti­on of Whi­test­rips (one's te­eth can ne­ver be too stra­ight or too whi­te), I turn off my bed­si­de lamp and sli­de un­der the co­vers… Mo­on­light slas­hes thro­ugh my win­dow and the open sha­des, pa­in­ting a tic-tac-toe bo­ard on the wall. Cam's bed­ro­om is ac­ross from mi­ne, and, tho­ugh his he­avy cur­ta­ins are drawn, they're rim­med in yel­low light. He's still awa­ke. This, from a guy who has be­en known to fall as­le­ep at the din­ner tab­le.

  I qu­ickly pick up the pho­ne and di­al his num­ber. Be­fo­re he can call out a gre­eting, I say, "Go to sle­ep."

  He la­ughs- and two se­conds la­ter; the cur­ta­in pulls back, and he ap­pe­ars in the win­dow. His fa­ce is dar­ke­ned, but I can tell he has his shirt off. Yum. "Stop spying on me."

  "Just wan­ted to catch a glimp­se of tho­se roc­kin' abs of yo­urs," I say. "Ooh, baby."

  He starts fle­xing his musc­les li­ke a body­bu­il­der, gi­ving me a pri­va­te show. If my pa­rents we­ren't on the ot­her si­de of the ho­use, I'd be ner­vo­us. Then I see him flop down on his bed, next to his lap­top. "I'm fi­ne. Just wo­und up from the Ca­me. Pro­bably go­ing to surf the porn si­tes now, may­be get myself a ma­il-order bri­de."

  "Ha­ve fun with that." I scrunch the pho­ne bet­we­en my ear and my sho­ul­der, then pull my dark ha­ir in­to a pony­ta­il. That's the bad thing abo­ut Cam's sen­se of hu­mor; he's al­ways dis­gu­ising his wor­ri­es with one-li­ners. "On se­cond tho­ught, go to bed. You can be such the og­re when you don't get eno­ugh sle­ep."

  He growls in­to the pho­ne, which ma­kes me la­ugh. "Okay, Boo. In a sec. One, two, three."

  "One, two, three," I say back, pul­ling the she­et up to my chin and flip­ping the pho­ne clo­sed.

  He jumps up and clo­ses the cur­ta­ins aga­in, but af­ter that, the light do­esn't go off. Af­ter anot­her mi­nu­te of lying on my si­de, si­lently wil­ling the ro­om to go dark, I throw off the co­vers and pull myself up on my el­bows. This calls for des­pe­ra­te me­asu­res. Cam might not want to know his fu­tu­re, but it do­esn't me­an that I can't ta­ke my own lit­tle sne­ak pe­ek. Just be­ca­use he blac­ked out on­ce do­esn't me­an he's des­ti­ned to be the su­bj­ect of the next epi­so­de of Ho­use. May­be I can find so­met­hing that will calm him down.

  And, okay, me too.

  I stumb­le over the je­ans I'd left bal­led up on the shag rug, grab my iPod, and tu­ne it to so­me En­ya. Then I sit cross-leg­ged on my bed and be­gin the ro­uti­ne I use to calm myself and help bring up my vi­si­ons.

  Clo­sing my eyes, I pic­tu­re wa­ter. Cle­ar, aqu­ama­ri­ne rip­ples from a swim­ming po­ol. I gu­ess I co­uld use any so­ot­hing backg­ro­und as a can­vas, but a swim­ming po­ol is what I've al­ways used. Then I say "Fluf­fer­nut­ter" over and over aga­in, un­til the syllab­les fall atop one anot­her: Re­al­ly, any word or phra­se wo­uld pro­bably do; it's just so­met­hing to cle­ar the mind. Just at the ti­me that "Fluf­fer­nut­ter" be­co­mes "luf­fer­fut­ter," I int­ro­du­ce the na­me of the su­bj­ect who­se fu­tu­re I want to see. Af­ter two or three mi­nu­tes, the wa­ves be­co­me gra­iny, and ima­ges be­gin to flo­at up to the sur­fa­ce. Fuzzy at first, they even­tu­al­ly cle­ar, and I can see the su­bj­ect just li­ke they're on TV. I've pre­dic­ted so many fu­tu­res that I've fo­und this met­hod works best for me. But I still ha­ven't got­ten all the kinks out. For one thing, the­re's no so­und in my vi­si­ons. I can't he­ar what pe­op­le are sa­ying. And, even wor­se, I can't cont­rol what po­int in the fu­tu­re my gift will ta­ke me to. It might be to­mor­row, or it might be fifty ye­ars from now. So­me­ti­mes I can scan the sur­ro­un­dings to catch a sign or so­met­hing in the backg­ro­und, but not al­ways.

  "Luf­ferf­luf­fer­nuf­fer…," I say, mas­sa­ging my temp­les and sta­ring at the co­ol, in­vi­ting wa­ter. "Show me Cam Brow­ne."

  The ima­ge of Cam's fa­ce flo­ats up. He's sit­ting on the co­mer of a sto­ol, hunc­hed over, el­bows on his kne­es. Comp­le­tely nor­mal- that is, un­til I see the lo­ok on his fa­ce. It lo­oks li­ke he swal­lo­wed am­mo­nia. In fif­te­en ye­ars I'd ne­ver re­ali­zed Cam's sexy fa­ci­al musc­les had such fle­xi­bi­lity to con­tort in­to so­met­hing that hi­de­o­us. A chill pecks at my sho­ul­ders. What co­uld be so wrong?

  The ca­me­ra pans back, and then I see he's sur­ro­un­ded by art. The most hor­ren­do­us pa­in­tings I've ever se­en. Whe­re is he-the Aca­demy of Fi­ne Arts for the Blind? And Cam has his T-shirt pul­led up to his arm­pits. Then I see myself, stan­ding be­hind him. What am I do­ing? Gi­ving him a mas­sa­ge? Li­ke that wo­uld ever hap­pen.

  That's when I no­ti­ce my exp­res­si­on. It's li­ke I just saw my grand­fat­her na­ked. I’m sta­ring at his back and cle­arly dis­gus­ted. And… are tho­se te­ars in my eyes? I ad­mit to be­ing a bit of a le­aky fa­ucet, but Cam's mus­cu­lar back, with the way it co­mes to a per­fect V over his tight wa­ist, usu­al­ly ma­kes me dro­ol li­ke a dog. So what abo­ut it co­uld ha­ve re­du­ced me to crying? A mon­go-zit?

  I scrunch my no­se and find myself snap­ping my he­ad over, wil­ling myself to switch vi­ew­po­ints, to pan be­hind his sho­ul­der so I can see what's up. That's anot­her bad thing abo­ut my gift. I ha­ve ab­so­lu­tely no c
ont­rol over what I can or can't see. So­me­one el­se is hol­ding the ca­me­ra, so at ti­mes it has a way of sho­wing eno­ugh to pi­que my cu­ri­osity, but not the who­le story. I fo­und it me­rely an­no­ying when it sho­wed Emily An­der­sen con­vul­sing at the sight of her PSAT sco­res yet wo­uldn't show ac­tu­al num­bers, but this is un­be­arab­le.

  The vi­si­on pops out of my he­ad, so I pull my earp­ho­nes down and open my eyes. Tos­sing my iPod asi­de, I be­ar-hug my pil­low and turn to­ward the win­dow. Cam's light is still on. I ima­gi­ne tel­ling Cam to­mor­row, "Don't worry, hon. I may not ha­ve dis­co­ve­red why you blac­ked out at the Ca­me yes­ter­day, but I did find out that you will so­on be the pro­ud ow­ner of a gross back pimp­le. Now, do­esn't that ma­ke you fe­el bet­ter?"

  I'm ne­arly as­le­ep by the ti­me it hits me. I sit up stra­ight in bed, and my en­ti­re body go­es cold.

  Chapter Five

  I FLIP ON the lights and call Eden on my cell. "Cam is dying," I cry out, be­fo­re she even says hel­lo. "Wha…?" a half-hu­man vo­ice co­mes back.

  "Wa­ke up. Did you he­ar me?"

  "Ye­ah, but…" A long gro­an. "It's two in the mor­ning!"

  I can't bre­at­he, be­ca­use my he­art is in my thro­at and it's cut­ting off my oxy­gen supply. "Did you he­ar me? He's dying. Dying."

  "To do what?"

 

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