by Cyn Balog
"Thanks." He grins. "It's just that, fairies don't eat very much. They only eat one meal a day."
"Like dogs?" I don't know why, but that amuses me.
He says, "I have to say, this world is growing on me. I can go wherever I want."
"You can't in Otherworld?"
"Humans can't. They're not exactly welcome in certain places. And there are many rules humans must obey."
"Like?"
"Oh, you know. We can't look directly at a fairy. We have to step aside whenever one is coming toward us."
"Seriously? That's horrible," I say, which only makes me want to bitch-slap Dawn more. "I thought you said they were benevolent to humans."
"They are. Much of the time, they wouldn't bother me. But fairies like to play tricks on humans. Even the kind ones."
"Like, what kinds of tricks?" I ask.
He looks away, then back at me. His lips move, trying to form the words, except nothing comes out. I can tell he isn't interested in talking about it anymore, which makes me think of Mrs. Browne. She'd said he didn't want to talk about his time in Otherworld, which I'd thought was strange, since he talks endlessly about fairy lore in general. What about his past doesn't he want us to know?
"I think we were talking about weaknesses," I say.
"Yes. Right. I can't think of any."
I sigh. "Nothing?"
He takes a bite of his taco and scratches his head, deep in thought, as if he's really trying to help me. It's kind of cute, the faithful-pup routine. As he sits there, scanning the ceiling, I catch a glimpse of a bunch of senior girls leaving Forever 21.
Slumping down in my chair, I inspect him. Then I say, "You know what? I think I'm having a Gap attack. Let's go."
Chapter Twenty
I TAKE A gob of styling wax and work it through Pip's hair so that some of it's spiking in all directions like whipped peanut butter and just a bit is falling in his face. It's a big improvement over the slicked-back duck's backside. "Hello, Mr. GQ" I say, grinning at him through the mirror in the Brownes upstairs bathroom.
He looks uncertainly at his reflection and then meets my eyes in the mirror. "GQ?"
"It means you're hot." Which, though Pip's ego is in need of boosting, is not a lie. I’d spent a good chunk of the money I’d earned at my summer job on clothes for him. This particular outfit-dark denim jeans, black loafers, and a faded, untucked button-down-would not only put him on the planet, it would possibly qualify him for A-list status.
Mrs. Browne is thrilled. I guess she's happy to see her own flesh and blood looking normal, for once. "It's just amazing," she gushes, inspecting him from all angles.
"Thanks," Pip and I say in unison.
"Morgan, at least let me pay you back for all those clothes. I was planning on taking him shopping myself, once all this…" Her voice starts to falter. "… is over."
I'm about to say, "Don't worry about it," but she takes one look at Cam and rushes down the hallway, head down, hand clasped over her mouth. I hear a muffled sob before she slams the door to her bedroom.
Cam's face contorts. "She's taking it well."
"I see that. Should you go talk to her?"
"I'd make it worse. She cries every time she looks at me." He starts to gnaw on one of his calluses but then stops and stuffs his hands into his pockets. "But I guess I have that effect on women."
I muss up Pip's hair some more, then undo a button on his collar. "Perfection.”'
Cam nods at Pip. "Cool, man."
"I'm a genius."
"Whoa, Einstein. There was a lot of room for improvement," he points out.
I say to Pip, "Don't pay any attention to him. I deserve to be adored and thanked profusely. Now, go and put on the heather gray V-neck."
Pip nods and, loyally, scampers across the hall to his room, where the pile of blue Gap bags is lying in the center of his bed. We both stare after him for a minute, and then Cam takes a swig of his Coke.
"How is training going?" I ask, leaning against the bathroom sink. It's getting dark out, and Cam had only poked his head in five minutes ago. Prior to that, the door to his room had been closed, and when I pressed my ear against the door to listen, I couldn't hear a thing. I suppose any normal girl would be jealous of her boyfriend spending hours in a locked bedroom with Barbie, but I've convinced myself that that was only her human form and her true fairy form is decidedly wart-nosed.
“It's going." He sighs. He looks tired and weak, a complete 180 from just a few days ago.
"You look terrible. They're killing you. Why can't you tell them to back off?" I grumble. "Why can't you just say you don't want to go? You don't, do you?"
He bites his lip. "Shh. Of course. But-"
I lean over to wipe a shock of black hair out of his face, and that's when I notice a pink blob hovering over his head. "Yo, Tink," I growl at the air, "isn't there a rainbow somewhere that needs painting?"
The pink blob shivers, and floats into the darkness of the hallway.
"Look," he whispers, his face dark, "I don't have a choice."
"Why not? Because Dawn's always on your back?" I shake my head. "Just tell her to buzz off."
He looks up in the air, then back at me, astonished. "You really can see her."
I nod. "So?"
"So, that baffles me. Humans aren't supposed to see her."
"Well, maybe I'm an extraterrestrial. Or maybe she just sucks at fairy magic."
He flashes a warning look. "Remember what she did to you at school? Be nice. I told her not to touch you, but don't provoke her."
I clench my fists. "You sound like you're on her side."
"No. Listen. I'm not on her side, but I'm not against her, either. She's not evil. She's under orders to bring me back, whatever the costs. My father will kill her if she doesn't obey."
"But you're going to be king."
'I'm not king yet."
I can't believe he's defending the gnat that nearly beat the brains out of me two days ago. I'm about to launch into another argument, but my resolve falters when I look into his eyes. He looks beat. And he's told me before that the way he feels about me won't change. With or without Dawn in his life. "Fine. Sorry." I sigh, feeling bad for being a pest when he obviously has so much more on his mind. He could use a break. "What's our plan for tonight?"
"What?"
"It's Friday. We always go out on Friday."
"I've got a lot of work. They don't think I'm being serious."
"What about tomorrow?"
He takes in a long, slow breath and shakes his head. "Busy."
"This is our last weekend together!" I say, then bite my lip when I realize I'm treading back into pest status.
"I’m so sorry, Boo." Then he whispers, "But you know what we talked about. One, two, three. Always."
I nod. I can feel the tears brimming in my eyes. He reaches over to hug me, and when I pull him close, I whisper, "If we could think of a way out, would you do it?"
He pulls away and looks into my eyes. "Not if it puts you in danger. No way."
"But if it doesn't?"
His voice is
resolved. "Of course I would."
I turn and look across the hall, to where Pip is busy pulling the shirt over his head. And I can't help but notice these corded muscles on his upper aims, and gold light from the bedside lamp casting a glow on the curves of his chest. And what are those peeking out above his funky Gap jeans? Washboard abs? Wait. Did a Men’s Health model sneak in here when I wasn't looking?
Cam is speaking, but I only catch the end of it: "I promise."
I flip my head back to face him. "Um. What?"
"I said to let me work on it. I don't want you getting into any more trouble. You don't know what you're up against. Okay?"
"Uh. Okay." He takes my hand and squeezes it. For the first time I notice that his hands, which have always been covered with calluses from weight lifting, are completely smooth. Smooth, and somehow smaller. My hands don't seem to swim in his, like they used to.
The next time I look, Pip is pulling the sweater over his waist. He looks at me and raises his eyebrows, seeking approval.
"Nice," I sigh.
Cam drops my hand and looks at him, "Cool, but one thing." He takes a pair of shades from his shirt pocket and hands them to Pip. These aren't any ordinary shades; they're the ones I gave Cam last year for his birthday, and he wears them constantly. I used to joke to him that they upped his hotness factor by 1 million percent.
Pip inspects them, then puts them on and looks into the mirror again, with a grin.
And just the slightest bit of confidence.
And that's when I get the first hint that I'm in over my head.
Chapter Twenty-one
IN THE MORNING, I wake trembling from a dream I'd had.
Cam was holding me, tracing his fingers lightly up and down my back like he always does, as if writing a secret message there, and telling me he would never leave me. His voice was a whisper, but a hard one, tangled with worry. And just as I leaned in to kiss him, to take some of that worry away, I realized that it wasn't Cam. It was Pip. It was so real that when I woke, I could still feel the pressure of his lips on mine. His breath was so warm and sweet, and it made me hungry, wanting to meld our bodies together.
After I wash up, I spend a few minutes burying my face in my bath towel, convincing myself that it hadn't actually happened.
But maybe it will? Maybe it's not a dream, but a vision? Then I spend the next few minutes convincing myself I didn't enjoy it.
What the hell? We're talking about Pencil Box Pip, not a hunk of burning love. Unless, of course, you talk to my mom.
In spite of Cam's warnings, I'd vowed late last night, in between my warped dreams, that even if Dawn killed me, I was going to find a way to save him. Pip's ewl discourse hadn't been much help, so at 3 a.m. last night, I went online, reserving every book about fairy lore I could find from the Edison Public Library.
I throw my hair into a ponytail as I head down the stairs, but when I get to the kitchen, I realize something's off. My father is not wearing his white T-shirt and boxers, which is rare for a Saturday morning. That can only mean one thing: company. His familiar chair creaks and moans in protest as he stuffs an entire Boston cream doughnut into his mouth and exclaims, "But she actually was married to his brother!" to someone across the table from him. I figure he must have captured the paperboy or the lands caper. My father will try to carry on a conversation with anyone, even if they show no interest in being spoken to. Even if they're waving a gun in his face, telling him to shut up. But as I come farther into the room, I see our guests. It's Pip and Mrs. Browne. Pip has one hand in a box of Munchkins and is watching my father, rapt. Well, I think he's rapt, but I can't tell for sure, because he still has his sunglasses on.
His face turns toward me and this big, goofy grin spreads across it. I carefully pluck the shades off his nose. "You know these are just for outside, right?"
His eyes widen. He doesn't.
"That's okay. Why are you here?"
My father struggles to pull his belly out from under the kitchen table, "Oh, hi, Morgan. Our young neighbor and I were just discussing yesterday's General Hospitals
"Oh?"
Pip exclaims, "The city of Port Charles sounds interesting."
"You know it's not real."
He squints at me. He doesn't.
"So anyway, why are you here?" I repeat, louder.
His toothy, psychopathic grin hasn't disappeared yet. It totally defeats the purpose of the cool clothes he’s wearing. "I have come to be your escort," he says stiffly.
I stare at him. "My what?"
"Cameron said you shouldn't miss the appointment."
"Appointment?"
"There's to be a party next weekend?"
"Yeah, but…" I think for a moment and realize that my mom had scheduled the appointment with the Green Toad's events manager for this weekend. It was mainly just to iron out details as to what would be in the buffet line, what color napkins we'd use, et cetera. A week ago, I'd been so excited about it, spending many sleepless hours going back and forth on the tiniest details, like, mini quiches or bacon-wrapped scallops? Teal or silver? In all the commotion, I totally forgot. In fact, I don't care anymore. I have to go on a very important mission to free my boyfriend from a bunch of overrated mosquitoes. Plus, teal and silver are my colors, but either one would look bad with my destined-to-be-nightmarish complexion. "That's today?"
My mom comes in, fastening a gold stud to her ear. "Don't tell me you forgot!"
"I forgot."
She shakes her head and puts a hand on Mrs. Browne's shoulder. Marone! These kids! Can you believe she went on for days about this party, and she forgets?"
Mrs. Browne says nothing but gives me a look that says she completely understands. From the way she's shifting in her chair, I think a party is the last thing on her mind, too.
I shrug like the ungrateful brat my mother thinks I am.
"I think it's very nice for this young man to offer to come with us, especially since Cam is…" She looks at him. "Where did you say Cam is?"
Pip says simply, "Studying the fairy ways," as he stuffs an entire jelly doughnut in his face. It's like he and my father are in an eating contest.
When she looks at me, I explain, "It's an elective. I took creative writing instead."
Her questioning look slowly disintegrates, and she grabs her coat. "Well, that's fine. We need a man's opinion. Shall we be off?"
Reluctantly, I follow her out the door, contemplating that. Pip is human, so I guess he is more of a man than Cam is. But when I turn around, I see that this "manly specimen" has a gigantic blob of jelly on his upper lip.
And the irony of it is, in fairy logic, Cam's the one who doesn't belong here.
Chapter Twenty- two
I'VE ONLY BEEN to the city a handful of times, so as my mother navigates the streets, it appears like we're going in circles. Each building is taller than the next, bearing down on me, making it difficult to breathe. When we arrive at the Green Toad,
I want to sit down and bury my head between my knees. The lush decor-toads dancing on the walls, primitive cave drawings, and gigantic urns filled with tropical flowers of every color- something I once found funky and eclectic, now just bothers me. My mother begins to talk to a water-goblet filler as if he already knew who she is. As if my event isn't one of hundreds they put on every year. "Mom," I mumble, trying to hide my aggravation, since I know she's going to all this effort for me, "maybe we should talk to the lady we talked to on the phone?"
Luckily, before I can spear her with one of the tribal artifacts nearby, a pale, matronly lady with a huge mouth and way-too-red lipstick greets us and introduces herself as the receptionist. She leads us into another room, which is wallpapered with even more dancing frogs. Maybe it's because they're so happy, maybe it's because last time I was here, Cam pretended to be one and cracked me up doing a Kermit impersonation that sounded like Donald Duck, but all I can think about is getting out.
Instead, I sit in an overstuffed chair covered with fabric splashed with orange and green palm trees and stare down at a rainbow of napkin swatches while my mother babbles on. Something about how she hopes that the water fountain in the lobby, which isn't working today, will be fully operational by Friday. Mrs. Browne just sits there, a blank look on her face, as if she's at a funeral.
After another ten minutes, my mom finally turns to me and says, "Well?"
"Urn. What?"
'The napkins," she grumbles, jabbing her finger at the swatches.
Sighing, I say, "I give up. I have no decision.”'
My mother grinds her teeth. "You'd better have a decision.”'
Whenever I think about this party now, I think about doom. And it became so much more real the second we arrived in the city and walked through the huge, arched doors to the Green Toad. A month ago. Cam and I were at this very place, choosing songs we wanted the DJ to play, talking about what we'd wear, bursting with excitement. But now, there's a fifty-pound weight on my chest. The night of our sixteenth birthday is no longer party time. It's D-day.