Fairy Tale

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Fairy Tale Page 14

by Cyn Balog


  He won’t lo­ok in­to my eyes, so I al­re­ady know the ans­wer. "I don't think I ha­ve a cho­ice."

  I know pe­op­le say that in cri­ti­cal ti­mes, the­ir en­ti­re li­fe flas­hes in front of the­ir eyes. At that se­cond, snip­pets of our re­la­ti­ons­hip gal­lop thro­ugh my mind-pla­ying Ga­me Boy with him on his hos­pi­tal bed for ho­urs on end when he was sick with asth­ma; watc­hing him throw back an en­ti­re car­ton of milk and pac­ka­ge of Ore­os every day af­ter scho­ol; my fifth-birth­day party, whe­re we ac­ci­den­tal­ly both ga­ve each ot­her a Sit 'n Spin; and last Christ­mas, when he got me an opal ring-my births­to­ne. The fa­iri­es ha­ve ob­vi­o­usly clo­uded his mind, be­ca­use he can’t pos­sibly be thin­king stra­ight if he wants all of that to co­me to an end. I drop my bag and walk over to him, put my arms aro­und his neck. His body fe­els small, we­ak, li­ke it co­uld crack apart. "You'll be mi­se­rab­le the­re."

  "I know. I’ll be mi­se­rab­le he­re, so what's the dif­fe­ren­ce?"

  "Me," I blurt out. "At le­ast he­re, you'll ha­ve me."

  He nods, a gle­am re­tur­ning to his eye. "You're right. I'm let­ting the guys get to me. Fo­ot­bal­ls not the only thing in li­fe." "Right."

  "The­re's lo­ads of things I can do be­si­des pla­ying fo­ot­ball." He stops, picks up my bag, and hefts it up on­to his sho­ul­der, and for the first ti­me, he has a bit of tro­ub­le with the we­ight. Then, his tor­tu­red vo­ice sighs, "I just ha­ve to fi­gu­re out what they are."

  Chapter Thirty-two

  THAT NIGHT, THE we­at­her is be­a­uti­ful, so I spend it on our front porch, sur­ro­un­ded by old co­pi­es of my mot­her's ma­ga­zi­nes, drin­king cin­na­mon tea and lo­oking up every so of­ten to see if Cam is aro­und. But his ho­use is comp­le­tely dark. As usu­al, he's in tra­ining. When I left him this af­ter­no­on, he'd men­ti­oned so­met­hing abo­ut ha­ving a first as­sign­ment. He was-no surp­ri­se-dre­ading it. I gu­ess that's why I am on a mis­si­on, go­ing thro­ugh che­esy, fe­el-go­od ar­tic­les from this su­per­mar­ket chec­ko­ut-ais­le rag. I'd re­mem­be­red se­e­ing a news story on te­le­vi­si­on a long ti­me ago abo­ut a sol­di­er who lost half his he­ad in Iraq. He co­uldn't do many things, but he dis­co­ve­red a pas­si­on for wor­king with kids. I re­mem­ber him tel­ling the ca­me­ra, "When I had my ac­ci­dent, I didn't think li­fe was worth li­ving. But now, my li­fe is so much mo­re ful­fil­ling than I ever ima­gi­ned " I got to thin­king, may­be that's what Cam ne­eds. A lit­tle bo­ost so that he can see that his li­fe isn't over. So I'm fin­ding sto­ri­es abo­ut pe­op­le who fa­ced ad­ver­sity and tri­ump­hed, put­ting them in­to a col­la­ge, with ho­pes it might lift his spi­rits.

  Li­ke my mom's sfog­li­atel­le, it's a long shot, but what kind of girlf­ri­end wo­uld I be if I didn't try?

  I flick a tiny in­sect off my fo­re­arm just as a vo­ice calls from the dark­ness be­yond the porch. "Hey, the­re!'' At first I think it's Cam, but the li­fe­less boy I saw this af­ter­no­on wo­uldn't ha­ve that energy in his vo­ice. It's only a se­cond be­fo­re Pip la­unc­hes him­self over a hed­ge and plants him­self on the gli­der, next to me. "What are you do­ing?"

  He's sit­ting just inc­hes from me, and I can see gol­den stub­ble on his chin. The lo­ok de­fi­ni­tely works. Why is it that a we­ek ago, he was not­hing but a baby-fa­ced lit­tle boy, and now he’s…

  Oh, right. Fa­iry ma­gic.

  "You're happy," I say, trying to avo­id lo­oking in­to his eyes. How can I be so happy to see him and so an­xi­o­us to ha­ve him le­ave at tlie sa­me ti­me?

  He swal­lows back his grin. "Sorry. Are things not go­od with Ca­me­ron?"

  "He's dep­res­sed. I'm cut­ting out ins­pi­ra­ti­onal sto­ri­es to che­er him up."

  'That's a ni­ce idea," he says, grab­bing a ma­ga­zi­ne from the stack. "I will help."

  He flips to a pa­ge, be­gins to re­ad, and sud­denly starts to pant, tur­ning red. Sha­king. I think he may be ha­ving con­vul­si­ons. "What?" I ask.

  He has te­ars stre­aming from his eyes. "Lis­ten to this," he says, re­ading from the ma­ga­zi­ne. "Two fish swim in­to a wall. One says to the ot­her, "Dam!…

  I am not su­re if he is la­ug­hing or dying. He po­unds the arm of the gli­der with his fist and fights to bre­at­he. All I can do is sta­re. Dawn has to be using her ma­gic to ma­ke him ir­re­sis­tib­le to the op­po­si­te sex; it is not physi­cal­ly pos­sib­le for a guy to be that la­me and still be a girl mag­net "Amu­sing," I say. "But not exactly ins­pi­ra­ti­onal."

  "Sorry." He qu­ickly qu­i­ets and starts to flip the pa­ges. I try to go back to my own ma­ga­zi­ne, but I can't help pe­eking at him every so of­ten. Even wit­ho­ut the ma­ke­over, he's an in­te­res­ting guy. He has a lo­ok of pu­re con­cent­ra­ti­on on his fa­ce-lips pur­sed, eyes fo­cu­sed-as if he re­al­ly wants to help with this pro­j­ect. It's swe­et, the way he is, so un­to­uc­hed by everyt­hing bad in this world, so na­ive and trus­ting. I can't be­li­eve I'd even tho­ught for a se­cond that he'd fall in lo­ve and ru­in the plan. Of co­ur­se he wo­uld ne­ver go back on his word. He's li­ke a child, and with child­ren, pro­mi­ses are pinky sworn, so­lemn, and unb­re­akab­le. They me­an so­met­hing.

  After a whi­le, he lo­oks up at me, tri­ump­hant. "I fo­und one. This guy lost both his arms in a mo­torcyc­le ac­ci­dent but still runs ma­rat­hons."

  Up un­til that mo­ment, I hadn't re­ali­zed I was sta­ring at him, open­mo­ut­hed, in a dre­am sta­te. I snap back to re­ality and fi­nal­ly cho­ke out, "Um. Ye­ah. Gre­at. Thanks."

  I pass him the scis­sors, and he be­gins to clip out the ar­tic­le. Every so of­ten, he stops and screws up his fa­ce. "I am won­de­ring if the­re is anyt­hing el­se I can do for him,'' he says tho­ught­ful­ly.

  Of co­ur­se he is. Sa­int Pip. "You're do­ing eno­ugh. Se­ri­o­usly. I don't know if I than­ked you for hel­ping to ke­ep us to­get­her… but thank you."

  "You and Cam ha­ve be­en very go­od to me, even when ot­hers we­re not. So I am happy to re­turn the fa­vor," he says.

  At that mo­ment, so­met­hing hits me. "But you are hu­man. You are ca­pab­le of lo­ve. And if you go to Ot­her­world…"

  He plays with the sle­eve of his shirt. "Ho­nestly, Mor­gan. I ha­ve gi­ven it tho­ught, and I'm not in­te­res­ted in that."

  "You aren't? How do you know?"

  "The­re se­ems to be qu­ite a lot of pa­in in­vol­ved.”

  "I can't deny that. So­me­ti­mes I think I’d be bet­ter off wit­ho­ut it." I mo­ti­on to­ward the ma­ga­zi­nes and grin. "So­me­ti­mes it’s a re­al pa­in in the ass."

  He shrugs. "Of co­ur­se, the way I see it, you’re both bet­ter pe­op­le be­ca­use of it. Right?"

  I think for a mo­ment. "Me, de­fi­ni­tely. Him? I don't know. I gu­ess."

  He sli­des the ar­tic­le in­to my pi­le. "Is that what you think?"

  "Well, ye­ah. Lo­ok at Cam. I me­an, he’s ama­zing. Everyt­hing he to­uc­hes turns to gold. You sa­id that Cam tho­ught I was bra­ve. That's only be­ca­use of him. In this world, I'm just… Cam's Girlf­ri­end. Or Free Psychic Re­ading Girl. I do­ubt half the pe­op­le who are co­ming to our party on Fri­day even know my na­me."

  He lo­oks back at the ma­ga­zi­ne and sighs. "I told you Cam was a chan­ge­ling. Do you know what a chan­ge­ling is?"

  I think for a mo­ment, back to when Pip ga­ve me the mind-blo­wing run­down on all things fey. "You sa­id he was sick."

  "Right. From the very be­gin­ning his brot­her, Azizl, was the stron­ger of the two sons. Mas­sif and the ro­yal co­urt as­su­med Azizl wo­uld even­tu­al­ly be king and Ca­me­ron wo­uld wit­her and die. So they cast him out of Ot­her­world. They ne­ver ex­pec­ted him to li­ve to re­ach his six­te­enth birth­day."

&nb
sp; "But he didn't die."

  Pip nods. "But he was sup­po­sed to. Why didn't he?"

  "I re­mem­ber, he had asth­ma. He was in the hos­pi­tal at le­ast on­ce a month. It was a hor­rib­le thing for a lit­tle kid to ha­ve to go thro­ugh. I re­mem­ber vi­si­ting him all the ti­me. I'd ma­ke him cards, and-" He's nod­ding at me as if he knows all this. I fi­nal­ly say, "Are you sa­ying he didn't die be­ca­use of me?"

  He shrugs. "I think you had a lot to do with it."

  "Re­al­ly?" I let that sink in for a mo­ment. It se­ems so ri­di­cu­lo­us that pla­ying a few ga­mes of Tet­ris with Cam co­uld ma­ke him well. "Even if that is true, ins­te­ad of than­king me, Mas­si­ve Jerk wants to ta­ke him from me."

  "His na­me is Mas­sif. But yes."

  I blow a strand of ha­ir out of my eyes. "At the mall, we ha­ve a sa­ying for that. 'No re­funds, no exc­han­ges. ' To­ugh luck."

  "I know it isn't fa­ir," he whis­pers. "And may­be if Azizl hadn't di­ed, Mas­sif wo­uldn't ca­re so much. But Ca­me­ron is now the only he­ir to Ot­her­world's thro­ne."

  "Cam wo­uld ma­ke a gre­at king," I ad­mit. But only if I co­uld be his qu­e­en.

  He checks his watch. "I must go. Will you be all right?" I nod, fe­eling a twin­ge of sad­ness that he can’t stay, but happy that he's lo­oking out for me. May­be it was Cam who told him to, but so­met­hing tells me that he wo­uld ha­ve do­ne it any­way.

  "Whe­re are you go­ing?"

  "I’m co­ur­ting a girl from our class. Li­ke you told me to." My sto­mach flip-flops.

  "Co­ur­ting? Oh re­al­ly?" I for­ce a smi­le. "Which girl?"

  He stands up, sha­kes down the legs of his je­ans. "Sa­ra Phil­lips." I bi­te my ton­gue so hard, I can tas­te the blo­od. Sa­ra Phil­lips, et­he­re­al he­ad che­er­le­ader. The word "per­fect" cons­tantly swirls aro­und her he­ad, along with furry car­to­on ani­mals and sin­ging birds. Scab has had a crush on her sin­ce our last fin­ger-pa­in­ting class, and I don't think she's da­ted an­yo­ne in our scho­ol, ever. In fact, the only guys she da­tes are col­le­ge ones, frat boys with Be­amers and Sig­ma Chi Wha­te­ver swe­ats­hirts. They co­me to the ga­mes in dro­ves to dro­ol over her matchs­tick legs in that cu­te lit­tle skirt.

  "She is she one of the girls who as­ked you to the party?" I spit out, the words tumb­ling over one anot­her in an in­comp­re­hen­sib­le he­ap.

  He nods.

  So let me get this stra­ight. Sa­ra as­ked him? The un­to­uc­hab­le Sa­ra Phil­lips li­kes Pip?

  Okay, so­me fa­iry ma­gic is de­fi­ni­tely at play he­re. The­re is no ot­her exp­la­na­ti­on. My fa­ce must be fro­zen in hor­ror, be­ca­use he says, "Why? Is she bad?"

  "Um, no. Not exactly. Just don't-" My mo­uth hangs open, con­temp­la­ting how-to fi­nish. "Don't gi­ve in and kiss her when she lo­oks at you with tho­se pat­he­tic doe eyes of hers"? "Don't fall for her"? "Don't be the ut­terly per­fect, swe­et guy you're be­en all this ti­me so that she falls for you''? Af­ter all, he's just "co­ur­ting." He's just do­ing exactly what I told him to do. And why sho­uldn't he? In anot­her few days he’ll be re­tur­ning to Ot­her­world, whe­re fal­ling in lo­ve isn't pos­sib­le. I sho­uld be en­co­ura­ging him to ha­ve as much fun in this world as he can. Fi­nal­ly, I swal­low and say, "Just ha­ve fun."

  "Su­re. Ha­ve a go­od night, Mor­gan," he says, hop­ping down the porch steps, ta­king all three at on­ce. And he di­sap­pe­ars in­to the dark­ness, le­aving me with a pi­le of ma­ga­zi­nes… a pi­le of ins­pi­ra­ti­on. And yet, why do I fe­el so unins­pi­red?

  Chapter Thirty-three

  ON TU­ES­DAY MOR­NING so­met­hing hap­pens that has ne­ver be­fo­re oc­cur­red in my li­fe on this earth. When I co­me downs­ta­irs, my mot­her is not stan­ding at the do­or to the kitc­hen-car­ton of Tro­pi­ca­na in hand. In fact, the ho­use is comp­le­tely de­vo­id of any bre­ak­fasty smel­ls-no eggs, no ba­con, no­ne of the ela­bo­ra­te mor­ning me­als my mot­her usu­al­ly co­oks and I ra­rely ha­ve ti­me to eat. Our Mr. Cof­fee isn't even bre­wing. Not that I was hungry, but I as­su­med this day wo­uld co­me only when my mot­her was de­ad and bu­ri­ed. So na­tu­ral­ly that wor­ri­es me.

  I'm trying to clo­se the front do­or whi­le si­mul­ta­ne­o­usly hol­ding a Pop-Tart bet­we­en my te­eth and stuf­fing my ge­ometry bo­ok in­to my back­pack, when I see her. She's sit­ting on the front steps in her typi­cal mor­ning at­ti­re of ho­use­co­at and slip­pers, a full trash bas­ket bet­we­en her fe­et. She lo­oks da­zed.

  "Ne­ed help with that?" I ask.

  She sha­kes her he­ad. "Hi, hon. No, I al­re­ady to­ok ca­re of it."

  I pe­er in­to the con­ta­iner. "It's full. Don't you want it at the curb?"

  She blinks as if wa­king from a dre­am. "Oh yes. I just…"

  "Are you okay?"

  "Yes. But the most ama­zing thing has hap­pe­ned," she says, her vo­ice so­un­ding anyt­hing but fi­ne. It so­unds fa­ra­way, lac­king in energy.

  I ha­ve to pry the trash can from her fin­gers. She do­esn't se­em to re­ali­ze she's hol­ding it in a whi­te-knuck­led de­ath grip. "What?"

  The sa­me soft vo­ice flo­ats up, ba­rely audib­le. "Mrs. Nel­son is brin­ging Gra­cie ho­me to­day."

  It's sad; the lit­tle ranch ac­ross the stre­et has be­en dark all we­ek. I lo­ok past the bus­hes, to­ward the blac­ke­ned win­dows, and say, "To ma­ke her mo­re com­for­tab­le in her last days?"

  She clo­ses her eyes. "She's fi­ne."

  I stand the­re for a mo­ment, not comp­re­hen­ding. "What do you me­an by fi­ne?"

  "Mrs. Nel­son sa­id that not only is the can­cer go­ne, but the doc­tors say it was li­ke it ne­ver exis­ted in the first pla­ce. If s comp­le­tely go­ne."

  "But… two days ago she only had a we­ek to li­ve, tops."

  "I know. It’s a mi­rac­le."

  "Yo­ur sfog­li­atel­le? "

  She lo­oks at me and nods. "What ot­her exp­la­na­ti­on co­uld the­re be?"

  "Swe­et. Well, I’m glad she's okay."

  "I think I sho­uld go in­to bu­si­ness with that re­ci­pe," she says, strug­gling to get to her fe­et. Lo­oking out ac­ross the lawn, she says, "Well, the­re's anot­her per­son who is back from the de­ad. I ha­ven't se­en Cam in ages."

  I whirl aro­und and catch Cam wa­iting at the li­ne bet­we­en our ho­uses. Grin­ning big. Sin­ce that's the first glo­ri­o­us grin I've se­en in a whi­le, it's ob­vi­o­us he got the col­la­ge of sto­ri­es I'd ma­de for him last night. Af­ter mid­night, I’d go­ne over and left it po­king out of his ma­il­box so that he'd see it first thing in the mor­ning.

  "He lo­oks well fed and he­althy, as usu­al," she says to me, po­king her he­ad aro­und the ivy trel­lis to get a bet­ter lo­ok at him.

  I sha­ke my he­ad in be­wil­der­ment. So, it's true. I'm the only one who can see the ears, the wings, the tiny sta­tu­re that Cam now has. I’m the only one who no­ti­ces the clo­ud of pink swir­ling aro­und his he­ad. Even my mot­her, who can de­tect a fleck of dust the se­cond it falls to our car­pet, can’t see it.

  "Well, tell him we miss him aro­und he­re. In­vi­te him to din­ner to­night. Pas­ta efa­gi­oli. His fa­vo­ri­te."

  "Everyt­hing you ma­ke is his fa­vo­ri­te" I ans­wer. His smi­le, from ac­ross the lawn, fe­els li­ke sun­light af­ter a long ra­in. "But I think he’s busy."

  "Sha­me. Well, one day next we­ek."

  I wa­ve go­odb­ye, thin­king that if all go­es right, one day next we­ek co­uld be a pos­si­bi­lity.

  As I ne­ar him, Cam, my king of the fa­iry world, lo­oks bet­ter and bet­ter. He lo­oks res­ted, mo­re li­ke the old Cam, des­pi­te the fact that he’s lost anot­her few inc­hes. I can see stra­ight over his he­ad.

  "Hey, Boo! One, two, three
" he says with a chuck­le, grab­bing my hand and pul­ling me to him.

  I find myself hunc­hing over to gi­ve him a kiss, and when he pulls me to him, it's awk­ward, li­ke sit­ting in a small, spindly, un­com­for­tab­le cha­ir that's in dan­ger of bre­aking un­der my we­ight. But I don't ca­re. He's smi­ling.

  "Sa­me to you. What's got­ten you so happy?'' I ask, pre­ten­ding I don't know.

  "My ma­il-order bri­de is pas­sing thro­ugh cus­toms as we spe­ak," he says, hol­ding my hand in his. "It's a go­od day."

  I punch him play­ful­ly, not as hard as I nor­mal­ly wo­uld, be­ca­use I'm af­ra­id he'll fall over. He's right; the who­le world se­ems brigh­ter. Now I won­der why I was tin­ged with con­cern at Pip ha­ving a da­te with Sa­ra. All of that se­ems so unim­por­tant right now. "Isn't Pip co­ming with us?" I ask af­ter we ta­ke a few steps to­ward scho­ol.

  "No. I ha­ven't se­en him sin­ce yes­ter­day"

  "What do you me­an?" I ask, fe­eling my tem­pe­ra­tu­re ri­se. "You me­an he didn't get back from his da­te last night?"

  He shrugs. "I ha­ve no idea. I was out la­te, too."

  Pa­nic sets in. "I me­an, I ho­pe he's okay. Our plan de­pends on it," I exp­la­in, ta­king a few cle­an­sing bre­aths.

  "He's fi­ne," Cam says.

  "How do you know?"

  "I told you, fa­iri­es ha­ve a he­igh­te­ned sen­se of everyt­hing aro­und them. For ins­tan­ce, I know you’re we­aring the red he­art thong."

  I pull away and wrap my arms aro­und me. "What?"

  "Are you?"

  I bi­te my lip. I can't re­mem­ber.

  He la­ughs. "I ha­ve no idea. It was just a gu­ess. But you sho­uld see yo­ur fa­ce."

 

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