Fairy Tale

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Fairy Tale Page 12

by Cyn Balog


  He picks at his shirt, "Just be­ca­use of the­se new clot­hes?"

  "You didn't ne­ed tho­se. You we­re fi­ne the way you we­re. I was just be­ing su­per­fi­ci­al."

  He le­ans back, and at that, mo­ment I see a hint of the bro­ad cur­ve of his chest be­hind his Gap tee. The­re are thick musc­les in his fo­re­arms that ri­val even Cam's, and I swe­ar they we­ren't the­re be­fo­re. When he says, "I lo­ok at it as do­ing my part, for true lo­ve," I al­most can't re­mem­ber who­se lo­ve he's tal­king abo­ut.

  When the­re's a knock on the do­or, I mumb­le a "ye­ah?" to­ward the hal­lway, ta­king for gran­ted that it's my mot­her de­li­ve­ring so­me freshly ma­de snacks.

  The do­or opens, and ins­te­ad, stan­ding the­re with her hands on her hips is my worst night­ma­re. Dawn has sha­pe-shif­ted in­to her mo­del form aga­in and is we­aring a patch­work-qu­ilt dress that she ma­na­ges to ma­ke lo­ok run­way chic ins­te­ad of Holly Hob­bie. She tos­ses a gla­re in Pip's di­rec­ti­on, and im­me­di­ately, he ten­ses and bows his he­ad in res­pect.

  I can't bre­at­he. How long has she be­en out the­re? Did she he­ar?

  "Oh, go­od," I say, put­ting on my bra­vest fa­ce and stan­ding so that I'm at eye le­vel wit­hi her. "To what do we owe the ple­asu­re?"

  If she had he­ard anyt­hing, she isn't let­ting on. Ins­te­ad, she smi­les swe­etly and po­ints at Pip. "I ne­ed that hu­man," she an­no­un­ces, as if he's a roll of to­ilet pa­per. "Ca­me­ron ne­eds one to prac­ti­ce on."

  I cross my arms over my chest. "To prac­ti­ce what, exactly?"

  Pip do­esn't se­em to ca­re. "Yes, right away," he says, scur­rying to his fe­et.

  I hold him back with my arm. "You're not go­ing to turn him in­to anyt­hing, are you?"

  She la­ughs. "If we do, we al­ways turn him back."

  I sha­ke my he­ad at her. I don't ca­re what Cam thinks. She is so, so evil. Then, I say, "He'll be with you in a mi­nu­te," and slam the do­or in her fa­ce.

  When I turn to Pip, his ears are red aga­in, as if his he­ad might exp­lo­de. "You sho­uldn't ha­ve…"

  "She'll get over it" I say, wa­ving the tho­ught of her away with my hand. "I just wan­ted to ask you… What you sa­id be­fo­re… abo­ut true lo­ve… Do you re­al­ly me­an it?"

  He nods.

  I study his fa­ce. He's comp­le­tely se­ri­o­us. "I don't know why you wo­uld ma­ke that sac­ri­fi­ce for me. Are you su­re?"

  He nods aga­in, mo­re firmly. "It's not a big sac­ri­fi­ce. I've li­ved the­re for six­te­en ye­ars."

  I don't know how he can think it, but I am glad he do­es. Be­ca­use he’s the key, my only ho­pe of ke­eping Cam with me. I ga­ve him so­me Gap clot­hes, and he’s gi­ving me this. Eit­her he's a to­tal suc­ker when it co­mes to ma­king bar­ga­ins, or the­re's so­met­hing to it that I'm mis­sing.

  “Thank you." I mo­ve next to him and ca­uti­o­usly wrap my arms aro­und him. It starts as an awk­ward hug, but as I press aga­inst him, fe­eling the musc­les of his anus aro­und my sho­ul­ders, his chest pres­sed aga­inst my body, I ha­ve a hard ti­me re­le­asing him. As I sit the­re with him on my pink shag car­pet, kno­wing the emb­ra­ce has go­ne on for too long to be me­rely fri­endly but unab­le to do

  anything abo­ut it, I no­ti­ce so­met­hing. A scent, ever so fa­int, but fa­mi­li­ar. The scent I'd ca­ught among the per­fu­med old la­di­es at the To­ad but had be­en unab­le to iden­tify. This ti­me, I re­cog­ni­ze it im­me­di­ately. A scent li­ke the wo­ods. And bar­bers­hop af­ters­ha­ve.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  THAT NIGHT, I go to sle­ep bit­ter and he­artb­ro­ken. Bit­ter be­ca­use I ha­ven't se­en Cam all day. He'd pro­mi­sed to co­me by af­ter din­ner but ne­ver sho­wed and then cal­led me at ni­ne to say he was too ti­red. And he­artb­ro­ken be­ca­use I long des­pe­ra­tely for the days be­fo­re this night­ma­re star­ted.

  I miss the old, easy­go­ing, self-assu­red Cam. This new ver­si­on ha­tes who he is and what he is be­co­ming, so much so that he can’t even dis­gu­ise tho­se fe­elings with jokes any­mo­re. When I told him that he sho­uld at le­ast co­me over for a lit­tle, that may­be we co­uld just crash and watch a lit­tle TV, he re­fu­sed, be­ca­use "I ne­ed a lot of rest to comp­le­te this trans­for­ma­ti­on in­to full fre­ak sta­tus."

  I climb in­to bed, thin­king abo­ut the party, and the plan to ke­ep him he­re, and won­de­ring what type of li­fe Cam will ha­ve in this world as a fa­iry. How small will he get? He's al­re­ady lost abo­ut six inc­hes and twenty po­unds, and-who knows, sin­ce I ha­ven't se­en him all day-he's pro­bably lost mo­re by now. I can’t very well pic­tu­re him pla­ying col­le­ge fo­ot­ball at a Big East scho­ol, li­ke he'd plan­ned. And how much will tho­se wings get in the way? He's al­ways tal­ked abo­ut eit­her be­ing a we­at­her­man or wor­king on Wall She­et. I can't ima­gi­ne him flying from pla­ce to pla­ce with a three-pi­ece su­it and bri­ef­ca­se.

  All his li­fe, Cam was the per­fect one. Everyt­hing ca­me easily to him. The news­pa­per sa­id it best: "Cam Brow­ne can do anyt­hing."

  But that was then. That was the old Cam.

  I’m not so su­re the new Cam will be ab­le to hand­le this.

  But he has to, be­ca­use I can’t hand­le li­fe wit­ho­ut him.

  I kick off the co­vers, pop in so­me mo­re En­ya, and sit cross-leg­ged on my bed, then clo­se my eyes. "Fluf­fer­nut­ter " I mur­mur.

  The­re's a pi­ece of stray ha­ir from my pony­ta­il tick­ling my no­se mud­dling my con­cent­ra­ti­on, so it ta­kes a whi­le be­fo­re I ac­tu­al­ly see the aqu­ama­ri­ne rip­ples of wa­ter in the po­ol. When I'm lost in them, I whis­per, "Show me Cam Brow­ne."

  The wa­ves turn fuzzy, and then…

  Not­hing.

  Comp­le­te black­ness.

  I sit the­re for a mo­ment, wa­iting, un­til I lo­se pa­ti­en­ce. "Show me Cam Brow­ne." I say, lo­uder.

  Eit­her my vi­si­on is of him han­ging out in a clo­set, or I got not­hing.

  "Ca­me­ron Brow­ne?" I ask, gi­ving the si­de of my he­ad a thwack. Ho­pe­less.

  I ta­ke a de­ep bre­ath. Must find my Zen.

  Re­la­xing, not comp­le­tely but just eno­ugh so that my he­art isn't po­un­ding out of my chest. I go back to my Fluf­fer­nut­ters. When the rip­ples ap­pe­ar, I say, "Show me Pip Mer­ri­we­at­her."

  The rip­ples part, the clo­uds cle­ar, and an ima­ge be­gins to co­me to light.

  Ye­ah, I still got it.

  But the ce­leb­ra­ti­on co­mes to a ra­pid halt when I en­ter the vi­si­on.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  MY DRE­AMS THAT night, aga­in, are fil­led with vi­si­ons of Cam and Pip. I'm in my bed. Cam is the­re, and on­ce aga­in, he’s kis­sing me, his we­ight pres­sing in­to me. His hands are tang­led in my ha­ir, wor­king thro­ugh it, and I fe­el his bre­ath on my skin as his ton­gue tra­ils down my neck. I sigh, clo­sing my eyes, be­ca­use it fe­els so ama­zing. When he pulls the straps of my tank top down aro­und my sho­ul­ders, his lips tra­iling ac­ross my col­lar­bo­ne, I can only think that I want him to ke­ep this go­ing, fo­re­ver. When I fi­nal­ly open my eyes and pe­er past my chin, I see a he­ad of pe­anut-but­ter -blond ha­ir, It isn't Cam, I tell myself. You know who it is. I know it is wrong.

  And yet, I don't tell him to stop.

  I wa­ke that mor­ning with my she­ets knot­ted aro­und my legs, fe­eling li­ke the worst girlf­ri­end on earth. I qu­ickly throw on so­me clot­hes and ra­ce downs­ta­irs and out the do­or be­fo­re my mot­her can po­se her "Oran­ge ju­ice?" qu­es­ti­on. I find Pip stan­ding at the li­ne bet­we­en our ho­uses, back­pack slung over both sho­ul­ders, ins­pec­ting eit­her the grass or his to­es. He's we­aring anot­her Gap spe­ci­al, this ti­me a
ho­oded swe­ats­hirt, baggy je­ans, and sne­akers, his to­ug­hest, most gangs­ta en­semb­le yet. It ser­ves to ma­ke him slightly mo­re thre­ate­ning than the Keds-we­aring Pip, but still very va­nil­la.

  And yet, when he lo­oks up and me­ets my eyes, I ha­ve to turn away. Is dre­am che­ating re­al­ly che­ating? No. I ha­ve dre­ams that I'm na­ked in scho­ol so­me­ti­mes, and that do­esn't me­an that I want to be na­ked. A dre­am abo­ut Pip do­esn't me­an I want him. Of co­ur­se, I can still fe­el his hands in my ha­ir, his bre­ath on my…

  Damn. Fo­cus, girl.

  I can­not be ha­ving the­se fe­elings. They're ri­di­cu­lo­us. Even tho­ugh he's ditc­hed the cords, he's still Pen­cil Box Pip. I ha­ve the most per­fect boyf­ri­end in this world, and in any ot­her world, for that mat­ter.

  Pip sen­ses my mi­nor men­tal bre­ak­down. How can he not? I bet I even smell gu­ilty. "Is the­re a prob­lem?" he asks.

  Cam is now­he­re in sight, and I'm glad. I can't fa­ce him.

  I ta­ke a de­ep bre­ath and men­tal­ly chant. Cam is my true lo­re, Cam is my true lo­re, Cam is my true lo­re, a few ti­mes. Then I for­ce myself back to the is­sue at hand, the re­al is­sue, the vi­si­on I'd had be­fo­re I'd go­ne to bed. "Ma­j­or. Last night, be­fo­re I went to sle­ep, I had a vi­si­on of you."

  He ra­ises his eyeb­rows. "Are you an enc­hant­ress?"

  "A what?" I wrink­le my no­se, but the truth is, "enchant­ress" so­unds kind of ni­ce. "Um, no. Just a psychic. I ha­ve vi­si­ons so­me­ti­mes."

  "Oh, I see. And yo­ur vi­si­on alar­med you?"

  To tell the truth, the vi­si­on I had be­fo­re bed was ta­me, even bo­ring, com­pa­red with what I ex­pe­ri­en­ced af­ter­ward, when I was as­le­ep. But I can't tell an­yo­ne abo­ut that dre­am, ever. Be­si­des, it was just a dre­am. No big de­al. The me­mory of it brings a ra­ins­torm of ting­les to my neck and arms, but I sha­ke them away and desc­ri­be the vi­si­on: "It was of you wal­king down our stre­et. In crunchy le­aves."

  He tilts his he­ad.

  "Le­aves that ha­ve fal­len? Get it?" A mo­ment pas­ses, and fi­nal­ly I say, "Do le­aves not fall in Ot­her­world?"

  He sha­kes his he­ad.

  "Oh. Well, le­aves die and fall off the tre­es he­re, be­fo­re win­ter."

  He lo­oks alar­med. "Hor­rib­le! Why?"

  "It has to do with the se­asons, I think, but the tre­es aren't de­ad, they're just…" I stop, sigh. I do not ne­ed to be pla­ying Bill Nye the Sci­en­ce Guy right now. "What I am sa­ying is, that do­esn't usu­al­ly hap­pen un­til the end of this month. Af­ter Oc­to­ber fif­te­enth…After our birth­day. So how co­uld you be he­re, wal­king on crunchy le­aves, when you are sup­po­sed to be the­re? "

  A light clicks on in his at­tic. "Ohhh."

  "Ye­ah. So so­met­hing must go wrong with this plan." I ta­ke a de­ep bre­ath and sta­re hard at the gro­und, trying to think of what co­uld pos­sibly be the kink. The plan se­emed so easy, so fo­olp­ro­of. All we had to do was ma­ke su­re Cam was in the… Oh no. Po­or Cam. "What am I go­ing to tell Cam? I told him everyt­hing wo­uld be fi­ne, and now…"

  Pip digs his hands in­to his poc­kets and says, "Is it pos­sib­le yo­ur vi­si­on is wrong?"

  "No, no, no. My vi­si­ons are ne­ver wrong. Ask an­yo­ne." So what co­uld go awry? Pip had ag­re­ed to go along with it, and so as long as the fa­iri­es didn't find out, we we­re cle­ar. But may­be they did. May­be they knew everyt­hing. They are such a nosy bunch of bugs. "May­be Dawn finds out."

  Of co­ur­se! Of co­ur­se she must ha­ve ca­ught wind of so­met­hing. That wo­uld exp­la­in everyt­hing.

  In fact, may­be she al­re­ady knows. May­be she's al­re­ady trying to toy with the plan. That wo­uld exp­la­in why I was ha­ving we­ird vi­si­ons of Pip. Dawns ma­gic is very po­wer­ful. She is cont­rol­ling my tho­ughts, trying to ma­ke me fall for Pip so that I will for­get abo­ut Cam fo­re­ver. She's get­ting in­to my dre­ams. Cam sa­id that she wo­uld do anyt­hing to re­mo­ve any bar­ri­er to de­li­ve­ring him to Ot­her­world.

  That ma­kes sen­se! I co­uld ne­ver re­al­ly ha­ve fe­elings for a guy li­ke Pen­cil Box Pip. That wo­uld be ri­di­cu­lo­us.

  Damn fa­iry ma­gic.

  Pip scratc­hes his chin. "Is it pos­sib­le the cur­rent co­ur­se of events co­uld be al­te­red, thus chan­ging the out­co­me?"

  "No, my vi­si­ons are al­ways right. Not­hing can chan­ge it. My vo­ice ri­ses in a glass-bre­aking cres­cen­do. I'm tremb­ling. "I me­an, if they're go­ing to find out any­way, the­re's re­al­ly not­hing we can do."

  Pip tri­es to put a hand on my sho­ul­der, but I sha­ke it off.

  "This is bad. Re­al­ly bad. It’s over. We might as well gi­ve up. We're do­ne for."

  Pip scratc­hes his chin. "Inte­res­ting."

  I wrap my arms aro­und my body' and sta­re at him, an­no­yed. “What do you me­an, 'inte­res­ting? How is our li­ves fal­ling apart in­te­res­ting?"

  He lo­oks at the gro­und. "Well, you just sa­id we sho­uld gi­ve up. So ba­si­cal­ly, you’ll be gu­aran­te­e­ing that yo­ur vi­si­on co­mes true."

  I scowl at him. "Well, what do you think I sho­uld do? Fight to ke­ep him he­re? If I do, I'll only lo­se in the end. My vi­si­on con­firms it."

  He gi­ves me a blank lo­ok. "Inte­res­ting."

  My scowl de­epens. "What?"

  "In Ot­her­world, fa­iri­es spend ye­ars le­ar­ning to cont­rol the ma­gi­cal po­wers they in­he­rit on the­ir six­te­enth birth­day. Be­ca­use if they can't cont­rol them, they'll be con­su­med by them."

  "And you’re sa­ying…," I say bit­terly.

  "You're let­ting yo­ur po­wers cont­rol you, ins­te­ad of the ot­her way aro­und."

  I think abo­ut Cam and how he ne­ver wan­ted to know his fu­tu­re. I'd al­ways tho­ught he was crazy, but he did ha­ve a po­int. He didn't want to know if they'd win the cham­pi­ons­hip last ye­ar, be­ca­use he was af­ra­id of co­as­ting, of fal­ling in­to a rut and not gi­ving it his all. And may­be, just kno­wing his fu­tu­re, he co­uld ha­ve chan­ged it. May­be, had he known, they wo­uldn't ha­ve won. May­be it is bet­ter not to know.

  I sigh. "So what are you sa­ying I sho­uld do?"

  "Abo­ut what?"

  I whirl aro­und and co­me fa­ce to fa­ce with Cam. Li­te­ral­ly. Be­fo­re, it was fa­ce to pec­to­rals. Now I co­uld lo­ok di­rectly in­to his eyes, if I we­ren't fe­eling so as­ha­med. Ins­te­ad, I find myself stud­ying my own flip-flops and a French pe­di­cu­re that's go­ne to hell over the past we­ekend. "Um, Pip and I ha­ve a pro­j­ect to do for class."

  Cam is fid­dling with his pants, trying to pull them up. I no­ti­ce he’s dug an ext­ra notch in­to his belt. He pulls his T-shirt over his wa­ist­band and gri­ma­ces in dis­gust. "For ge­ometry?"

  "Ye­ah," I mumb­le.

  He ins­pects me. "Why do you lo­ok li­ke you’re go­ing to hurl?"

  I say so­met­hing abo­ut it be­ing a hard pro­j­ect and bril­li­antly se­gue with, "But eno­ugh abo­ut that! How is everyt­hing go­ing with you?"

  He shrugs. "Fi­ne. Co­ol."

  I lo­ok up­ward, to­ward his pink ha­lo, and say, "What's up, Dawn?" The ha­lo shi­vers a lit­tle, then qu­ickly flo­ats off.

  "She ha­tes that you can see her," Cam whis­pers.

  I mut­ter, "It's not my fa­ult that her spell is de­fec­ti­ve."

  "Se­ri­o­usly, play ni­ce."

  "Wha­te­ver. Lis­ten, abo­ut what we tal­ked abo­ut…," I be­gin, re­ady to open up abo­ut my vi­si­on. Yes, he ne­eds to know if the plan will fa­il. He ne­eds to know that, des­pi­te our best ef­forts, we won't be to­get­her. But then I lo­ok him in the eyes, and they're bright and ho­pe­ful and full of lo­ve for me.

  "What's up?" he says, ca�
�su­al­ly. Re­la­xed. Mo­re li­ke the old Cam.

  No. I can't let him down. I won't be the one to let his ho­pes co­me cras­hing down. Not to­day.

  "No wor­ri­es," I fi­nal­ly say, for­cing a grin.

  "No wor­ri­es," he says, smi­ling the first re­al smi­le I've se­en in days.

  Pip's eyes are bo­ring in­to me, and right be­fo­re Cam sli­des his arm aro­und my sho­ul­ders and pulls me to­ward the scho­ol, I see him mo­uth the words "Don't gi­ve up."

  That's the worst. Now Cam's de­pen­ding on me to sa­ve him from Ot­her­world, when everyt­hing in­si­de me is tel­ling me it's im­pos­sib­le.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  I SLINK IN­TO ge­ometry class and sli­de in­to my cha­ir, mi­se­rab­le. He­re I was get­ting my ho­pes up-get­ting Cams ho­pes up-that it re­al­ly was pos­sib­le to sa­ve him from Ot­her­world, and now I know it can’t hap­pen. And yes, may­be Pip do­es ha­ve a po­int.

  May­be I sho­uldn't be let­ting my vi­si­ons cont­rol my ac­ti­ons. It wo­uld help if so­me of my vi­si­ons we­re a lit­tle off from ti­me to ti­me. But I've pre­dic­ted hund­reds of fu­tu­res, and I've ne­ver be­en wrong. Not on­ce.

  So­me­ti­mes this gift re­al­ly gets on my ner­ves.

  Eden is gig­gling at me. For no re­ason. She's unu­su­al­ly peppy to­day, which is dan­ge­ro­us, be­ca­use I'm unu­su­al­ly on the ver­ge of thro­wing punc­hes at anyt­hing that gets in my way. She tos­ses her ha­ir li­ke she's in a sham­poo com­mer­ci­al, then throws her arm over the back of the cha­ir and gi­ves me an open­mo­ut­hed grin.

  "What?" I snap.

  I didn't think it was pos­sib­le, but the grin gets wi­der. I can al­most see her ton­sils. "No­ti­ce anyt­hing dif­fe­rent?"

  I so do not want to be pla­ying gu­es­sing ga­mes right now. "You got per­ma­nent eye­li­ner?" I ven­tu­re half­he­ar­tedly.

  "Ew, you know I wo­uld ne­ver do that." She tos­ses her ha­ir aga­in, so that a co­up­le of red­dish strands land on my desk. Eden sheds wor­se than a Lab­ra­dor.

 

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