Fairy Tale

by Cyn Balog

  "I do miss the be­a­uty of the fa­iry world, and this pla­ce is very dif­fe­rent and ugly, to me," he con­ce­des. "But they don't want me the­re any­mo­re. They want Ca­me­ron."

  "That's a ter­rib­le thing to do. To ste­al you from yo­ur pa­rents, then throw you away? Aren't you pis­sed?"

  His eyes nar­row, "Pis­sed?"

  "Angry. Up­set. They threw Cam away when they tho­ught he was no go­od, and now they're thro­wing you away," I col­lap­se back on­to the grass and sta­re up at the clo­uds aga­in, when I re­ali­ze I'm mo­re rat­tled by it than he is. "Don't you ca­re?"

  He shrugs. "I wasn't up­set when they cast me out be­ca­use I ne­ver re­al­ly felt li­ke I be­lon­ged the­re. I gu­ess I was ho­ping that I wo­uld fit in bet­ter he­re. But…

  From the pat­he­tic lo­ok on his fa­ce, I know what he is go­ing to say, and I know that he's right. "But you don't fit in he­re, eit­her."

  He nods. "Every­body lo­oks at me just li­ke they did the­re. I tho­ught it wo­uld be dif­fe­rent he­re be­ca­use I'm one of yo­ur kind. But it's not, and now I won­der if it was a mis­ta­ke, my co­ming he­re. At le­ast I un­ders­to­od how things wor­ked in Ot­her­world."

  Other­world. So that is the na­me of the world res­pon­sib­le for ta­king Cam away from me. The so­ur­ce of my wrath. Stu­pid world.

  When the first ra­ind­rop smacks me right bet­we­en the eyes, the ans­wer hits me. "Can't I re­ason with them?"

  "Par­don?" he asks po­li­tely, very much li­ke an old So­ut­hern lady.

  "They want Cam be­ca­use they think he's mo­re li­ke them, right?"

  "Right."

  "Well, it's ob­vi­o­us that they're wrong. I just ne­ed to exp­la­in things."

  "Er, Ca­me­ron is mo­re li­ke them. He is a fa­iry."

  "So? The­re are ot­her things to be­ing a fa­iry, I'm su­re, than just ha­ving wings. I me­an. Cam do­esn't fit the fa­iry mold at all. If I saw the two of you to­get­her, I wo­uld ins­tantly think you we­re the fa­iry. You ha­ve that da­inty fa­iry air go­ing for you. And you know the fa­iry ways. You sa­id yo­ur­self that you think it was a mis­ta­ke, co­ming he­re, and that you want to go back. Cam do­esn't."

  "I don't think it is pos­sib­le for me to go back the­re," he says, we­aving his long fin­gers to­get­her so tightly that his knobby knuck­les turn whi­te. "Cam is the only true he­ir, and they want him. They want me he­re. And it isn't wi­se to tell a fa­iry she's wrong."

  Wha­te­ver. Pip se­ems so we­ak and mild-man­ne­red that he wo­uldn't think it was wi­se to tell his own grand­mot­her she was wrong. "Who do I ne­ed to talk to? That Dawn chick?"

  He clo­ses his lips tightly. The­re are go­ose bumps on his pen­cil-li­ke arms, and his legs are tremb­ling in his too-tight tro­users. "Yes, she is Ca­me­ron's in­ten­ded."

  "Inten­ded?" My he­art pro­tests, be­ating hard aga­inst the wall of my chest. "Inten­ded" as in "inten­ded to be to­get­her fo­re­ver"? Li­ke we on­ce we­re? No­oo… that is so to­tal­ly wrong, on so many le­vels. "What do­es that me­an? I tho­ught she was his gu­ide."

  "For now, but when he is back in Ot­her­world, they will be mar­ri­ed."

  "Mar­ri­ed?" Now I re­al­ly can't bre­at­he. No, no, no, this can­not be hap­pe­ning. The­re is no way my boyf­ri­end is go­ing to many that half-invi­sib­le skank. I col­lect myself and say, "We'll just ha­ve to see abo­ut that. Whe­re can I find her?"

  I hadn't no­ti­ced that the ra­in had pic­ked up, and as I strug­gle to my fe­et, long whips of wet ha­ir slap my fa­ce. It oc­curs to me that the re­ason Dawn whop­ped me up­si­de the he­ad is be­ca­use she's je­alo­us, be­ca­use she re­ali­zes the­re's no way Cam wo­uld be with her, a gnat, when he co­uld ha­ve a re­al wo­man li­ke me. And I'm used to de­aling with pat­he­tic, je­alo­us girls. I do it every day. So what if this one has wings?

  He's up on his el­bows. "What are you go­ing to do?"

  "Not­hing. Just bitch-slap her back to wha­te­ver ot­her world she ca­me from. Cam is mi­ne."

  He fla­ils abo­ut on the grass li­ke a one-win­ged moth, then fi­nal­ly stag­gers to his fe­et. His on­ce-slic­ked-back ha­ir, dark with ra­in, is han­ging in his eyes, and as he blinks the wa­ter from them, for a se­cond he re­minds me of Cam on the si­de­li­nes du­ring a down­po­ur. "I… don't know if… you sho­uld…"

  "Spit it out. Whe­re is she?"

  I'm so busy shar­pe­ning my sword, thin­king of just the right words, that I don't re­ali­ze his che­eks ha­ve tur­ned the co­lor of the storm clo­uds.

  ''Right be­hind you."

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE FE­AR STARTS in my sto­mach. As the ting­les ra­di­ate to my fin­gers and to­es, I de­ci­de that may­be bitch-slap­ping her back to wha­te­ver ot­her world wo­uld pos­sibly-no, de­fi­ni­tely-be ta­ken as an in­sult. I'm in tro­ub­le.

  I turn aro­und, thin­king how war­ped my li­fe has be­co­me to ha­ve sunk to the le­vel of apo­lo­gi­zing to a glob of ha­ir fi­xa­ti­ve. Ins­te­ad, I co­me ne­arly no­se to no­se with a per­fect, glo­wingly cle­ar comp­le­xi­on that even all the Pro­ac­tiv-pus­hing ce­lebs wo­uld kill for. Gi­ant, al­mond-sha­ped blue eyes, sur­ro­un­ded al­most fully by an aura of lush pla­ti­num ha­ir, the stuff of Pan­te­ne com­mer­ci­als. Her cot­ton-candy lips are slightly par­ted, le­aking no emo­ti­on what­so­ever, but I can al­re­ady tell they're the kind that al­ways spe­ak sex, no mat­ter what she's sa­ying.

  This is my boyf­ri­end's "inten­ded."

  I fe­el the overw­hel­ming ne­ed to drown my he­ad in the ne­arest to­ilet.

  When she opens her mo­uth to spe­ak, I bra­ce myself for war. But she says, "You wan­ted to see me?" just as in­no­cently as a child.

  I ta­ke a step back and ins­pect her, ho­ping for an ass the si­ze of a Bu­ick or so­met­hing. Un­for­tu­na­tely, the­re's not­hing to det­ract from the per­fect-ten thing she has go­ing on. She's im­pos­sibly skinny, pro­bably in­to ne­ga­ti­ve si­zes. I pa­use on her je­ans-yes, re­al Se­ven je­ans. Not a dress spun from spi­der­webs or corn silk or wha­te­ver I'd be­en ex­pec­ting. And no po­inty sho­es with lit­tle bells on them; she's we­aring high bo­ots with three-inch he­els. She lo­oks comp­le­tely out of pla­ce on my front lawn, li­ke she sho­uld be pa­ra­ding down a run­way or sha­king her ass on a dan­ce flo­or with Pa­ris Hil­ton.

  "You're Dawn?" I ask do­ubt­ful­ly. "Whe­re are yo­ur wings?"

  "Sha­pe-shif­ting is easy for we of the Se­elie Co­urt, the most po­wer­ful fa­iri­es in all of Ot­her­world," she exp­la­ins, a lit­tle too sno­otily for my tas­te.

  Ah, sha­pe-shif­ting. Of co­ur­se. No­body can lo­ok that go­od na­tu­ral­ly. Out of all the hu­man forms she co­uld ta­ke on, com­mon sen­se wo­uld dic­ta­te cho­osing a sha­pe li­ke one of Ame­ri­ca's Next Top Mo­dels. I'm cer­ta­in that as far as fa­iri­es go, she pro­bably lo­oks li­ke a me­gat­roll.

  "Se­elie Co­urt?" I put my hands on my hips to show I'm not swa­yed by her "po­wer."

  Pip whis­pers in­to my ear, "The Se­elie Co­urt are the most be­ne­vo­lent fa­iri­es. They are kind and go­od to hu­mans."

  I whirl aro­und to him. "Oh, ye­ah, re­al­ly kind. Let's not for­get, she hit me."

  He shrugs. "Um. Usu­al­ly."

  I think for a mo­ment. "So, you're, li­ke, a fa­iry god­mot­her?"

  She nods, ple­ased with her­self.

  "Let me get this stra­ight. You are a fa­iry god­mot­her?" I ask, won­de­ring if the who­le mot­herly-and-chub­by thing was only so­met­hing Dis­ney in­ven­ted.

  "Si­len­ce, Dub­blef­lin­ger she says to me, then lo­oks at Pip. Dis­mis­sing me, just li­ke that. Wench.

  I lo­ok at Pip, who is fid­ge­ting. I don't think he has ma­de eye con­tact on­ce with Dawn. "What is a
Dub­blef­lin­ger?"

  He lo­oks at the gro­und. "I-I am not qu­ite su­re."

  "Li­ar," I hiss at him. I know it's so­met­hing bad. And if she thinks she can hurl in­sults at me, she'd bet­ter be pre­pa­red for the bitch-slap­ping of her yo­ung li­fe.

  She says to Pip, "The tra­ining has be­en go­ing well, but slowly, due to"-she gla­res at me-"so­me in­ter­rup­ti­ons. I am su­re he's just in shock. This is unu­su­al news, I sup­po­se. But I know he'll even­tu­al­ly co­me aro­und."

  "Hey, lo­ok." I snap my fin­gers in her fa­ce. "He's not co­ming aro­und. He do­esn't want to be a fa­iry."

  She rolls her eyes. "Of co­ur­se he do­es. He just do­esn't know eno­ugh abo­ut it yet, so he's af­ra­id. It is his birth­right to jo­in the Se­elie Co­urt."

  "What? No, you see, he's in lo­ve with me."

  She la­ughs as if I'm a child who just sa­id so­met­hing amu­sing but comp­le­tely mis­gu­ided. "That is ri­di­cu­lo­us. Fa­iri­es are not ca­pab­le of that. And he is mo­re im­por­tant than you can pos­sibly comp­re­hend. He shall be our king."

  "King?" I spit out. "You me­an, as in…" I try to find so­met­hing si­mi­lar, but my mind is comp­le­tely blank. "… king?"

  What do­es she know? Cam is very ge­ne­ro­us in sha­ring the last Chips Ahoy! in the tray and al­ways buys me pop com when we go to the mo­vi­es, but he do­esn't exactly fit the fa­iry god­mot­her mold. And, whi­le the idea of his be­ing king is well and go­od, Cam can't ru­le a who­le king­dom, sin­ce he can ba­rely ke­ep his own clo­set from smel­ling li­ke fe­et. "No, be­li­eve me, he do­esn't want to. He will ne­ver want to. So you can just pack up yo­ur bib­bity-bob­bity bags and get the hell…"

  My vo­ice tra­ils off when I re­ali­ze I'm, aga­in, cre­eping up the­re on the harsh-o-me­ter. That's pro­bably not a gre­at idea, con­si­de­ring she's Miss All-Po­wer­ful and everyt­hing.

  She smi­les at me, al­most warmly, and le­ans in. Her vo­ice is even, and swe­et: "Ca­me­ron is co­ming ho­me with me on his six­te­enth birth­day. If you in­ter­fe­re, what I did to you this mor­ning will fe­el li­ke a gent­le bre­eze, com­pa­red with what I will do."

  I ta­ke a step back and lo­ok at Pip. He may ha­ve just pe­ed his pants. And may­be he has go­od re­ason-if the fa­iry god­mot­her in Cin­de­rel­la co­uld turn mi­ce in­to hor­ses and an or­di­nary pump­kin in­to a pretty pim­ped-up ri­de, what co­uld this one do to me?

  So­met­hing tells me that li­fe as a hor­se wo­uld pro­bably not be all that won­der­ful.

  Kind and be­ne­vo­lent, my butt.

  She's sta­ring at me ex­pec­tantly, fin­ger on the trig­ger, re­ady to cast that spell over me sho­uld I say the wrong thing. Tho­ugh my he­art is crying ot­her things, my he­ad says. Shut up, Mor­gan. I am acu­tely awa­re now that the ra­in has so­aked me comp­le­tely, and as the chill over­ta­kes my body, one fact is ob­vi­o­us.

  I am go­ing to lo­se my boyf­ri­end. Fo­re­ver!

  Chapter Sixteen

  BEN &.JERRY'S S'mo­res ice cre­am is low-fat, but it de­fe­ats the pur­po­se when you swal­low an en­ti­re pint in one mo­uth­ful. But so what? My pe­ri­fect boyf­ri­end is a fa­iry, due to marry next month's Cos­mo co­ver, le­aving me he­re with a fa­ce full of worry zits and an ever-expan­ding wa­ist­li­ne. Even if I we­re in­te­res­ted in fin­ding a rep­la­ce­ment, the­re are no ot­her guys at Ste­vens that even com­pa­re. I might as well can­cel my Rally's mem­bers­hip and get a fre­qu­ent-di­ner card for Bur­ger King.

  I've mis­sed all of Ge­ne­ral Hos­pi­tal, so my fat­her fe­els it ne­ces­sary to gi­ve me the blow-by-blow of who's ha­ving who­se baby and which doc­tors en­ded up in bed to­get­her. As he's bab­bling on, my mot­her, thank­ful­ly, in­ter­rupts. "Are you su­re you don't want any me­at lo­af?"

  Obli­vi­o­us, I'd sco­oped the en­ti­re car­ton of B&J in­to my sa­lad bowl and dow­ned it be­fo­re her la­test cu­li­nary mas­ter­pi­ece had even co­me out of the oven. "Um sorry. I'm full."

  "I bet," she says, frow­ning at the dish, which is ca­ked in cho­co­la­te. She's Ita­li­an, so this is blasp­hemy. She told me on­ce that her mot­her cha­sed one of her past boyf­ri­ends out of the ho­use with a rol­ling pin for not li­king pot che­ese. Anot­her got slam­med aga­inst a wall for not be­ing ab­le to pro­no­un­ce ca­va­tel­li cor­rectly. In her fa­mily, the­re is no such thing as "full." And, sin­ce my fat­her tips the sca­les, he fits right in. Cam used to fit in, too; my mot­her wors­hip­ped his ap­pe­ti­te li­ke Eden wors­hips his fe­ats on the fi­eld. Tho­ugh he isn't ne­arly as big as my dad, his re­gu­lar wor­ko­uts le­ave him fa­mis­hed, so my mot­her wo­uld al­ways get a lit­tle we­ak in the kne­es whe­ne­ver I'd an­no­un­ce he'd be eating over, which was on­ce or twi­ce a we­ek. I can just re­mem­ber him smi­ling de­vi­lishly, as­king, "Mrs. Sparks, wo­uld you mind if I had thirds on tho­se ma­ni­cot­ti?" He even pro­no­un­ced it cor­rectly, monny GOT.

  But I gu­ess that won't be hap­pe­ning any­mo­re.

  My mot­her's words stop me be­fo­re I at­tempt to slash my wrists with the but­ter kni­fe. "Did you hap­pen to find out who that hand­so­me yo­ung man is?" she asks.

  "Who?" I rub my eye, then re­ali­ze she's tal­king abo­ut Pip. That stud. "Oh. Ye­ah."

  The­re's this long pa­use, and then my mot­her says, "Well?"

  I fi­gu­red my mot­her wo­uld ha­ve fo­und out by now, with her ama­zing abi­li­ti­es of per­cep­ti­on, which inc­lu­de pe­eking in ne­igh­bors' win­dows and pop­ping over to drop off so­me ma­il that was ac­ci­den­tal­ly de­li­ve­red to our ad­dress (tho­ugh the fact is that my mot­her just "acci­den­tal­ly" got our ma­il out of the wrong ma­il­box). I don't fe­el li­ke la­unc­hing in­to the who­le exp­la­na­ti­on, so I just say, "He's a co­usin, I think."

  My mot­her asks anot­her qu­es­ti­on, but I'm not lis­te­ning. From my se­at at the tab­le, I can see the win­dow to Cam's ro­om. The light switc­hes on just as my mot­her says, "Hon, you okay?"

  Cam is ho­me from prac­ti­ce.

  I jump from my se­at. "Fi­ne!" I sho­ut, a lit­tle too des­pe­ra­tely, then wi­pe my mo­uth with my nap­kin. "May I be ex­cu­sed?"

  We ne­ed to talk. If he re­al­ly, truly is go­ing to be le­aving me fo­re­ver on his six­te­enth birth­day, that gi­ves us only a we­ek. And I ha­ve no idea who I'll be then, be­ca­use I've ne­ver had to de­fi­ne myself wit­ho­ut him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I'VE AL­WAYS THO­UGHT Mr. and Ms. Brow­ne we­re from anot­her pla­net, be­ca­use they're just too per­fect Ms. Brow­ne is al­ways dres­sed in so­me smart, ac­ces­so­ri­zed out­fit that co­uld easily put her on the co­ver of Go­od Ho­use­ke­eping, and Mr. Brow­ne lo­oks li­ke a gra­ying mo­vie star. Re­al­ly, it's iro­nic that Cam is the one that isn't from this world.

  So I'm shoc­ked when the do­or swings open and a li­fe­less Mrs. Brow­ne stands the­re, lo­oking li­ke she hasn't slept in a we­ek. Her ha­ir is out of cont­rol, and her de­sig­ner clot­hes hang on her slum­ped sho­ul­ders, ma­king her lo­ok twi­ce her age. Usu­al­ly, she'll gre­et me with a peppy "Hi, Mor­gan de­ar!" but ins­te­ad, she bre­aks in­to te­ars, he­avy sobs that sha­ke her small body. She opens the scre­en do­or and pulls me in­to her arms and hugs me so clo­se I al­most throw up the ice cre­am I've just eaten. It's we­ird, be­ca­use I've known her fo­re­ver, and I think this is the first ti­me she's ac­tu­al­ly cri­ed in front of me. And hug­ged me. And ma­de me want to vo­mit.

  "So, I gu­ess you guys know abo­ut this," I say when she pulls back.

  Her lo­wer lip tremb­les. She can't bring her­self to spe­ak. I ex­ha­le with re­li­ef. At le­ast so­me­one el­se knows how I fe­el.

  Fi­nal­ly, she says, "It's ter­rib­le, isn't it?"

  I
nod. "How is Mr. Brow­ne?"

  "He wants to sue the hos­pi­tal. As if an­yo­ne wo­uld be­li­eve that fa­iri­es ca­me in the day our son was born and switc­hed him." She sighs. "He's ob­vi­o­usly not thin­king stra­ight. What we sho­uld be thin­king abo­ut is how to help our sons thro­ugh this."

  "Our sons." It so­unds stran­ge, but I knew Mrs. Brow­ne wo­uld be so dip­lo­ma­tic. "The­re has to be a way we can ke­ep Cam he­re."

  She lo­oks away, te­ars in her eyes, "I don't think the­re is. But if you think of so­met­hing, let me know." She gnaws on her bot­tom lip. "I can't be­li­eve Ca­me­ron will be go­ne in only a few days."

  She's abo­ut to start sob­bing aga­in, so I say, "Pip is yo­ur re­al son."

  "Yes. He has Mr. Brow­ne's la­ugh," she adds with a sad smi­le. "And that's anot­her thing en­ti­rely. To know that I co­uldn't be with him when he was gro­wing up… I as­ked him if they to­ok go­od ca­re of him in Ot­her­world, but the po­or child didn't want to talk abo­ut it."

  "Re­al­ly?" I ask, surp­ri­sed. I'd had a hard ti­me get­ting Pip to shut up abo­ut the fa­iri­es. "I'm su­re he do­esn't bla­me you."

  She nods ab­sently, then sha­kes her­self back in­to re­ality. She al­most so­unds li­ke the old Mrs. Brow­ne when she says, "I know you're not he­re to cry with me all night. Cam is ups­ta­irs."

  I'm clim­bing the sta­irs to his ro­om when his do­or opens a co­up­le of inc­hes. Cam sli­des out si­de­ways, then ca­re­ful­ly clo­ses the do­or, so that it ba­rely clicks be­hind him. He's start­led when he se­es me, but then re­la­xes. "Hey, you. I was just co­ming to see you."

  "You we­re?" I'm happy he didn't for­get all abo­ut me, which I tho­ught might hap­pen with the Blond Bombs­hell in the way. I po­int to his ro­om. "What's go­ing on in the­re?"

  He sighs. "Dawn has this fa­iry tu­to­ri­al thing go­ing on. She's a poc­ket-si­zed Hit­ler."

  I grin. Sa­me old Cam. Of co­ur­se he didn't for­get abo­ut me.