Fairy Tale

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Fairy Tale Page 15

by Cyn Balog


  Blah. Guys may be im­ma­tu­re, but guy fa­iri­es gi­ve the word a who­le new me­aning.

  He wraps an arm aro­und me and squ­e­ezes. I re­mem­ber when his squ­e­ezes wo­uld re­ar­ran­ge my in­ter­nal or­gans, but this one is so light, I ba­rely fe­el it. He says so­met­hing re­as­su­ring and nuz­zles my ear so that it tick­les and I ha­ve to swat him away. And that's when I lo­ok up at Cam's ho­use, on­to the porch, and see it.

  The col­la­ge I ma­de. The oran­ge const­ruc­ti­on-pa­per co­ver is po­king out from the top of the ma­il­box, just as I had left it.

  I turn to him, con­fu­sed.

  And he’s happy… why?

  Chapter Thirty-four

  THE MYSTERY DO­ESN'T be­co­me any cle­arer by the ti­me we get to scho­ol. Cam won’t tell me why he has that grin plas­te­red on his fa­ce. I ven­tu­re that may­be he got his thro­wing arm back, or that per­haps Dawn has la­id off be­ing such the drill ser­ge­ant, but he just sha­kes his he­ad and says, "It's part of the fa­iry co­de. Con­fi­den­ti­al" which ma­kes me ha­te the fa­iry world even mo­re.

  'What? What? Tell me!" I whi­ne, kno­wing that he can’t ta­ke my pat­he­tic presc­ho­oler ro­uti­ne for mo­re than a few mi­nu­tes.

  He runs his fin­gers up and down my back, le­ans to­ward me so that our fo­re­he­ads are to­uc­hing, and says, "Re­mem­ber how we tal­ked abo­ut mo­ving on to the next thing?"

  I nod. "What? Ha­ve you fo­und yo­ur next thing?"

  But he just grins aga­in and re­fu­ses to say mo­re. Grr.

  When we part, I he­ad down to the mu­sic wing, to­ward my loc­ker. That's when I he­ar the yel­ling. Pe­op­le te­ar down the hall, past me. "Co­me on!" a shag­gy-ha­ired guy in a Be­as­tie Boys T-shirt yells to his fri­end, and then I he­ar a snip­pet of what so­unds li­ke "kic­king ass" and I know it's a fight. Few things can bring the ot­her­wi­se co­ma­to­se stu­dent body at Ste­vens to li­fe li­ke a go­od brawl, but they've ne­ver in­te­res­ted me. I walk at a le­isu­rely pa­ce, just ho­ping the­re's no blo­od on or sur­ro­un­ding my loc­ker, when I he­ar anot­her per­son sho­ut. I can just ma­ke out "In the gym" and "That new kid."

  New kid.

  Pip.

  I for­get abo­ut ma­king it to my loc­ker, abo­ut the wrath of Tan­ner. I find myself at the do­or­way to the gym, out of bre­ath, tho­ugh I can’t re­mem­ber run­ning the­re. The­re, in the cen­ter of the ro­om, is a ra­bid swarm of at le­ast fifty stu­dents, all chan­ting in rhythm, "Go! Go!"

  I’m el­bo­wed and punc­hed a do­zen ti­mes be­fo­re I fi­nal­ly ma­ke it to the cen­ter and see exactly what I'd fe­ared.

  The­re's a mo­ti­on­less body on the gro­und, in fe­tal po­si­ti­on, and Scab is on top of it, his full we­ight be­aring in­to it, pum­me­ling it with both his fists li­ke a jack­ham­mer. I know the body is Pips. Pip might ha­ve the strength to hit back, and even to win aga­inst a guy li­ke Scab, but he ne­ver wo­uld. I wish for a se­cond that Cam co­uld be he­re, to talk so­me sen­se in­to his best fri­end, but I know he’s on the ot­her si­de of the bu­il­ding. And so it’s all a blur when I for­ce my way in­to the cen­ter of the circ­le and scre­am for Scab to stop.

  My cry do­esn't bre­ak thro­ugh his de­li­ri­um. Ins­te­ad of obe­ying, he starts to kick Pip in the sto­mach, and Pip's body lurc­hes inc­hes ac­ross the hard­wo­od with every mo­ti­on.

  Cam wo­uld kill Scab if he la­id a hand on me, so I fe­el sa­fe go­ing in the­re, des­pi­te how cra­zed the guy lo­oks. With my go­od hand, I try to pull back on his arm, but I'm shoc­ked when he throws his sho­ul­der back, las­hing me in the fa­ce. The thun­der of the je­ering crowd and the be­ating of my he­art are muf­fled in my ears as I sli­de down to the hard sur­fa­ce of the gymna­si­um flo­or. I fe­el for my no­se, which is be­gin­ning to ac­he numbly, and when I bring my fin­gers in front of my eyes, they are co­ated in red.

  He is so go­ing to get it when Cam he­ars abo­ut this.

  And still, Scab do­esn't stop. The crowd grows lo­uder. The si­ze and vo­lu­me se­em to inc­re­ase along with the dra­ma, so the sight of my blo­od for­ming ne­at, ro­und drop­lets on the shiny wo­od flo­or has la­unc­hed them in­to a frenzy. Wi­ping my fa­ce with the back of my hand, I so­me­how get the ner­ve to throw myself be­hind Pip, and drag him a few fe­et away. "What the hell?" is all I can bark out.

  Scab lo­oks up, a bit of hu­man­ness re­tur­ning to his fa­ce, and for the first ti­me se­ems shoc­ked to see me ble­eding.

  "Is this be­ca­use of Sa­ra?" I yell at him, then pull Pip back and lo­ok at his fa­ce. He has a blo­ody lip, pro­bably from the first suc­ker punch Scab threw at him, but ot­her than that, I think I to­ok wor­se. He stirs and ma­kes it to his el­bows, a "What hap­pe­ned?" lo­ok on his fa­ce.

  Scab lo­oks down at him in dis­gust. "It's be­ca­use he’s a lo­ser."

  "How do you know that?" I ask, my vo­ice tremb­ling, tho­ugh I con­cent­ra­te on every word to ke­ep it even.

  Scab sha­kes his he­ad. "Obvi­o­us. He can’t even fight."

  Pip is rub­bing his ten­der jaw. I help him to his fe­et and see John Va­ughn stan­ding the­re, in his fo­ot­ball jer­sey, hol­ding a fo­ot­ball. "John," I say, po­in­ting out ac­ross the gym. "Go long."

  John lo­oks at me blankly, and I ha­ve to pry the fo­ot­ball from him with my blo­ody hands. "You he­ard me. Go!"

  He shrugs and he­ads out ac­ross the gym un­til he's ne­arly half a fi­elds length away. The crowd watc­hes-as do­es Scab, with a half-ti­red, half-still-dying-to-pum­mel-Pip lo­ok on his fa­ce.

  I hand Pip the ball and nod at him.

  He ba­rely has to put in any ef­fort. Des­pi­te the fact that he's crump­led and wo­ozy, he re­turns my nod, pulls the ball back be­hind his ear, and ro­bo­ti­cal­ly lets go. It sa­ils per­fectly in­to John's hands, as if he we­re pul­ling it to him with a mag­net.

  " Ob­vi­o­us, huh. Was that?" I ask Scab.

  Scab do­esn't ans­wer, just stands the­re li­ke the rest of the crowd. Mo­uth open, comp­le­tely si­lent.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  WHEN THE TE­AC­HERS ar­ri­ve, the mob qu­ickly dis­per­ses. A fa­culty mem­ber us­hers Scab to­ward the prin­ci­pal’s of­fi­ce, and in the midst of all the com­mo­ti­on, I'm ab­le to walk Pip to an al­co­ve be­hind the ble­ac­hers, to help him catch his bre­ath. He lo­oks at me gra­te­ful­ly, but the­re is a hol­low, dis­tant gla­ze in his eyes.

  I ta­ke the last re­ma­ining tis­sue from my bag, di­vi­de it, and of­fer one part to him. Then I dab the ot­her half ca­uti­o­usly over my no­se. "He's a jerk. He's had a crush on Sa­ra fo­re­ver. I sho­uld ha­ve war­ned you, but I didn't know he'd-"

  "That's all right." He is sta­ring at the slats of the ble­ac­hers ahe­ad of him, or at not­hing. His vo­ice is soft but very even.

  "I gu­ess you can't get back to Ot­her­world so­on eno­ugh now, right?" I say, mo­re lightly.

  A slow, sad smi­le dawns on his fa­ce. He turns to lo­ok at me, then gri­ma­ces, clenc­hing his si­de.

  "What?" I ask him. "It hurts?"

  "Not so bad. I was just thin­king."

  "Abo­ut?"

  "Abo­ut you. You don't think you 're bra­ve, and yet…"

  "Lis­ten, it's no big de­al. I've known Scab fo­re­ver. The only thing scary abo­ut him is the way he sho­vels fo­od in­to his mo­uth." I lo­ok down at his shirt, which is scuf­fed with black marks ne­ar his ribs, whe­re Scab had kic­ked him. "Oh, God. Do you think so­met­hing is bro­ken? Lift up yo­ur shirt. Let me see."

  "I'm fi­ne." He ta­kes a step back, pulls his shirt down over his wa­ist, very mo­destly.

  "Co­me on, don't be shy; let me see" I say, re­ac­hing for it. He tri­es to push my hand away but fi­nal­ly stops. I pull the fab­ric up, just to midc­hest, and see tho­
se abs I’d se­en last Fri­day, this ti­me clo­se-up. They re­al­ly are every bit as glo­ri­o­us as I’d re­mem­be­red. They're smat­te­red with a few purp­lish marks, but not­hing too hor­rib­le. And so­on, I'm to­uc­hing them, run­ning my fin­gers along his ribs, sa­ying, "Do­es this hurt? How abo­ut this?" and trying not to think of what I am do­ing in anyt­hing mo­re than a me­di­cal sen­se. He's bre­at­hing so he­avily, I fe­el it hot on my fo­re­he­ad, and I can al­most he­ar his he­art­be­at.

  "I gu­ess I'm go­ing to li­ve," he mur­murs, en­ding with a qu­ick la­ugh, and I re­ali­ze it's the first ti­me he ever at­temp­ted hu­mor with me. So, he's le­ar­ning. May­be last night's fa­bu­lo­us da­te with Sa­ra un­le­as­hed that in him.

  "Turn aro­und-let me check yo­ur back," I say, trying to for­ce him to whirl abo­ut, but he stands the­re, fe­et plan­ted. He's trying to pull down his shirt, but if he wo­uldn't throw punc­hes at Scab, he's de­fi­ni­tely not go­ing to put up re­sis­tan­ce with me. I easily twist him to the si­de and wrang­le up his bat­te­red Gap tee, and that's when I see them.

  Scars. Red slas­hes, cris­scros­sing his lo­wer back. And pro­bably fart­her up, but his shirt is co­ve­ring his sho­ul­der bla­des. Now they're just hard tracks, the skin shiny and thick aro­und the ed­ges, but when they we­re new, the pa­in must ha­ve be­en un­be­arab­le. Wor­se than anyt­hing I've felt in my li­fe­ti­me.

  "What are tho­se?"

  He skirts away from me and co­vers him­self, cle­arly hu­mi­li­ated. "It's not­hing. I'm fi­ne."

  "Pip, that do­esn't lo­ok fi­ne. That lo­oks hor­rib­le. What is that from? Did that hap­pen to you in Ot­her­world?"

  He lo­oks away, then tri­es to walk past me. "I ha­ve to get to class."

  I put my hand on his chest. "Not yet. Is this what they do to hu­mans in Ot­her­world?"

  "No." He se­ems ada­mant. "Well, not all of us."

  "So they did do this to you? Why?"

  He sighs, wi­pes his eyes with the back of his hand. It’s a mo­ment be­fo­re he says, "All right. I li­ed to you."

  My he­art catc­hes in my thro­at. "Abo­ut what?"

  "Abo­ut be­ing in lo­ve."

  "You sa­id you didn't know if you we­re ca­pab­le of that."

  "I'm not su­re I am now. Be­ca­use I was in lo­ve, on­ce. In Ot­her­world."

  "Oh," I say, won­de­ring how be­ing in lo­ve co­uld ha­ve got­ten him a do­zen red welts. I re­mem­ber the con­ver­sa­ti­on I’d had with him last night. He'd sa­id be­fo­re that he wasn't in­te­res­ted in lo­ve, be­ca­use it was too pa­in­ful. Yes, lo­ve can hurt, but this is a lit­tle crazy. "Was she a fa­iry?"

  He nods. "Per­haps it was mo­re li­ke in­fa­tu­ati­on than lo­ve. I gu­ess you co­uld say I wan­ted so des­pe­ra­tely to fit in with her kind.

  "I pro­mi­sed I wo­uld do anyt­hing for her. So when she ac­ci­den­tal­ly kil­led anot­her fa­iry, I to­ok the pu­nish­ment. I was al­re­ady an out­cast for be­ing hu­man, so I as­su­med it wo­uld be easi­er for me, and she was so fra­gi­le. I was in­car­ce­ra­ted for two of yo­ur ye­ars. It wasn't a ple­asant ex­pe­ri­en­ce."

  "They hurt you in pri­son?"

  "That wasn't so bad. But when I was re­le­ased, ne­arly every fa­iry who did spe­ak to me be­fo­re ne­ver spo­ke to me aga­in. Inc­lu­ding her." He clenc­hes his fists. "That was the worst part."

  By the ti­me he’s do­ne exp­la­ining, his eyes are wet, which ma­kes me fe­el gu­ilty, won­der why I’d bot­he­red to press him to tell the story.

  "As I've told you, fa­iri­es are not ca­pab­le of lo­ve. She wasn't. It's not her fa­ult. It's mi­ne for thin­king I co­uld chan­ge her."

  "That's hor­rib­le," I say, lo­oking down at the gro­und to stop the te­ars from flo­wing. And the worst thing of all is that he's go­ing to be he­aded back the­re in only three days' ti­me. Why wo­uld any per­son in the­ir right mind want to he­ad stra­ight back in­to the fi­re li­ke that? Co­uld he ac­tu­al­ly be that in­sa­ne?

  "You left Ot­her­world wil­lingly. You don't want to go back," I say, my vo­ice soft. "The only re­ason you're go­ing back is… be­ca­use of the plan? Be­ca­use of what I as­ked of you?"

  "It's be­ca­use I know what it's li­ke to lo­se so­me­one you lo­ve."

  "But if you go back, it will be even wor­se than be­fo­re you left." He po­ints to his swol­len jaw, dark purp­le in the sha­dows. "I'm not much bet­ter off he­re."

  "But you can be," I tell him, unab­le to stop the words from co­ming out of my mo­uth. "Don't you think you'd ha­ve a bet­ter chan­ce he­re? With ot­her hu­mans?"

  And, un­der that lo­gic, may­be Cam will ha­ve a bet­ter chan­ce of fit­ting in with ot­her fa­iri­es. But I re­fu­se to think abo­ut anyt­hing lo­gi­cal right now.

  "I can't let you… We can't go thro­ugh with this. I will ha­te myself fo­re­ver if I let that hap­pen to you."

  "Don't you want to be with Cam?"

  I sigh. "Mo­re than anyt­hing."

  "The­re's yo­ur ans­wer." He smi­les at me, re­as­su­ringly. "Don't worry abo­ut me. I will be fi­ne."

  So­me­how, I don't be­li­eve him. I say, "Is the­re a way we can ke­ep you both he­re?"

  "No. That wo­uld up­set the ba­lan­ce bet­we­en the two worlds " he says qu­ickly. "But, Mor­gan, I am fully pre­pa­red to do this for you

  "… for true lo­ve," I comp­le­te his sen­ten­ce.

  "Right. Be­ca­use when two pe­op­le lo­ve each ot­her, not­hing sho­uld stand in the­ir way."

  I mumb­le a thank-you. My che­eks fe­el hot, and I ha­ve to lo­ok away from his in­ten­se ga­ze. I find myself wis­hing he we­ren't such a swe­et­he­art. May­be that wo­uld ma­ke this fe­eling stop-this fe­eling li­ke the­re's a gi­ant se­am in my mid­dle, un­ra­ve­ling as my two hal­ves are pul­led furt­her apart.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  MY MOT­HER WAS to ta­ke the ti­me out from her busy fo­od-shop­ping sche­du­le in or­der to pick up the two ca­su­al­ti­es of the wrath of Ste­vens's big­gest de­fen­si­ve tack­le, but when the prin­ci­pal exp­la­ined that we we­re comp­le­tely in­no­cent in the mat­ter (as a bunch of on­lo­okers who so des­pe­ra­tely wan­ted a free psychic ses­si­on or an in­vi­te to my party co­uld at­test), she sof­te­ned and sa­id she wo­uld be right over af­ter she got the ice cre­am in­to the fre­ezer.

  So Scab was sus­pen­ded, and Pip and I ha­ve the day off to re­cu­pe­ra­te. Nur­se Je­an, an old lady who is ob­vi­o­usly a pa­ci­fist, con­si­de­ring the num­ber of ti­mes she ma­de "tsk, tsk" no­ises and sho­ok her he­ad with di­sap­pro­val, ga­ve Pip an ice pack for his swol­len jaw, whi­le I got a lit­tle Band-Aid for my no­se. It tur­ned out that it wasn't as bad as it had ap­pe­ared; it wasn't bro­ken, which sa­ved me anot­her ago­ni­zing trip to the emer­gency ro­om. Ins­te­ad, the jerk had scratc­hed me, from un­der one eye to just abo­ve my lip, with his la­me stud­ded bra­ce­let that he thinks ma­kes him ult­ra­to­ugh but ac­tu­al­ly ma­kes him lo­ok li­ke a gro­upie of one of tho­se eigh­ti­es ha­ir bands. I text Cam with the news of the fight, and it's fe­wer than ten se­conds be­fo­re he's stan­ding in the do­or­way of the nur­se's of­fi­ce, bre­at­hing hard.

  "Damn" is all he can say on­ce he's sur­ve­yed the da­ma­ge.

  "Ple­ase tell me that me­ans you're go­ing to kick his ass."

  "He's de­fi­ni­tely off my list," he says.

  "What list? The list of pe­op­le who­se as­ses you're not go­ing to kick?" I ask ho­pe­ful­ly.

  He sha­kes his he­ad. "Lo­ok at me. He out­we­ighs me by a hund­red po­unds."

  "Can’t you-I don't know-turn him in­to a to­ad?"

  "I can't use my ma­gic li­ke that. Not yet, any­way."

  Oh, right. Bum­mer.

  Nur­se Je­an po­k
es her he­ad be­hind the cur­ta­in and grins. "Oh, Mr. Brow­ne! I tho­ught that was you."

  Nur­se Je­an is, and pro­bably al­ways will be, in lo­ve with Cam. With all his mi­nor fo­ot­ball inj­uri­es, he vi­sits her cons­tantly, so I wo­uldn't be surp­ri­sed if he had her num­ber prog­ram­med in­to his cell pho­ne right next to mi­ne. He gi­ves her a se­mi­wa­ve, a lit­tle bash­ful.

  She steps back and ins­pects him. "Well, well, well. You lo­ok just gre­at. You must be fol­lo­wing that new di­et I ga­ve you. Yes? "

  He shrugs, and I find myself fas­ci­na­ted by the fact that even a tra­ined me­di­cal pro­fes­si­onal can’t no­ti­ce his ob­vi­o­us physi­cal chan­ges. Whi­le she ta­kes Cam ac­ross to dis­cuss the di­et, I le­an over to Pip. "Why can no­body see what's hap­pe­ning to him ex­cept me?"

  His eyes wi­den. "What do you me­an?"

  "Hel­lo? Among ot­her things, his ears are get­ting po­inty, and no­body's fre­aked out abo­ut it."

  "You can see that?"

  "Uh-huh. Can't you?"

  He gnaws ner­vo­usly on his fin­ger­na­il. "Mas­sif knew that Ca­me­ron wo­uld go thro­ugh cer­ta­in chan­ges be­fo­re he fully in­he­ri­ted his po­wers, so he put a spell over all hu­mans un­til his six­te­enth birth­day, to pro­tect him. He was af­ra­id that…"

  "I know. That we wo­uld disc­ri­mi­na­te aga­inst him the way they do hu­mans. The way they did you. Right?"

  He lo­oks wor­ri­ed. "Mor­gan. He put that spell on all hu­mans. You are not sup­po­sed to be ab­le to see the chan­ges."

  "Well, Mas­sif must ha­ve scre­wed up," I say. "I'm a psychic. I can see things lots of pe­op­le can't. I can even see Dawn when she's in­vi­sib­le."

  "I me­ant to ask you abo­ut that. You re­al­ly can?"

  I nod.

  His wor­ri­ed lo­ok melts in­to an une­asy smi­le. "So, you are an enc­hant­ress, af­ter all. In Ot­her­world, we gi­ve that na­me to any hu­man fe­ma­le with ma­gi­cal po­wers."

 

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