by Cyn Balog
"I guess." I return his smile, my cheeks starting to warm under the weight of his gaze. "Are you saying that if Cam did leave, humans wouldn't notice that, either?"
He nods. "That is a fairly simple spell for Massif. It will be like he never existed."
"But it doesn't sound so simple to me. Everyone loves him. They could never forget about him." I watch Nurse Jean talk to Cam about adding more protein to his diet for his "athletic and muscular body type" and doubt begins to creep in. "You mean, Mr. and Mrs. Browne, too?"
"Yes.”
"But how?" I can just imagine Cam’s bedroom miraculously changing into a sewing room overnight, and his image disintegrating from every photo I have of him, as if he never existed. It seems impossible.
"That is why I was sent here."
"You mean, you're supposed to take his place? And people won't notice that?" I ask incredulously.
"That is the plan."
"They really think that his own girlfriend, someone who's known him since birth, wouldn't notice the difference?" I ask indignantly, though uncertainty is creeping in. "They obviously don't know anything about love."
As soon as the words leave my mouth, it suddenly makes sense, why I've been having those confusing dreams involving Pip. Pip is Cam's replacement. Pip is meant to take his place, in everything.
Seamlessly. As Stevens's starting quarterback. As the Brownes' son. And as my boyfriend. It seems so impossible, and yet, I flash back to the dreams I've had, the confusion. If I could be fooled in my dreams, who's to say I wouldn't be fooled when awake?
"But what about enchantresses?" I blurt out. "I mean, what about people like me? Their spells don't work the same on me. Wouldn't I remember him?''
He shrugs. "Possibly. You might not remember everything, but there would be a chance."
I sink down onto the hard, square pillow on the cot and wonder how that would feel. Would remembering what I had lost make it harder to cope? Or would I be happy, knowing he was there, my own fairy godfather?
Pip catches my bemused expression and says, "But that's nothing to worry about."
"I know, I know. I was just thinking…in case the plan doesn't work…" I stop myself. "But if it does work, will I remember you?"
He thinks for a second. "I do not know, actually."
"I hope I do," I begin, but I catch myself when I realize that every time I think of Pip, I'll know that he's being tortured in Otherworld because of me. It probably serves me right.
"Have you tried envisioning the plan lately?"
I shake off the mental image of Pip being brutally whipped in Otherworld and say, "No. And I won't, I've sworn off envisioning for now. It was making me crazy. "
He smiles. "Taking control of your own destiny?"
"We'll see," I answer. After all, that's only possible when you know exactly what you want out of your life. And I thought I did, but now I'm not so sure.
Chapter Thirty-seven
I SHOULD HAVE known that my mother wouldn't drop everything and rush right over. It's a shopping trip we’re talking about, and she doesn't mess around where food is concerned. She shows up at two in the afternoon, after I explained three times to Nurse Jean that we only live three blocks away from the school and that it would be perfectly safe to let us out on our own. Nurse Jean, however, doesn't have the same love for me that she does for Cam. "Principals orders," she'd said all three times, though the last time her voice cracked in exasperation and she looked like she was searching for the nearest medical reference book to throw at me.
So by the time my mother shows up, I'm nearly in a coma from looking at the WHAT SMOKING DOES TO YOUR BODY poster on the wall and watching Pip sleep. His face is like that of a little child without a care in the world, despite the fact that he looks like the war wounded and is destined to be punished even more severely in Otherworld in only three days' time.
"Marone! Look at your face!" my mother cries when she parts the curtain. She throws her heavy leather bag on my cot, right on my feet, and puts a hand on Pips chin, inspecting his jaw.
"Ow, Morn," I say, sliding my feet out from under her purse and massaging them "You do want me to be able to walk out of here, don't you?"
She ignores me. "How in the world did you get into this mess? And three days before the party!"
"I know. Pictures ruined." I groan, remembering how she had squawked after I came home in an arm brace. "Life as we know it, over."
"I have some pancake makeup," she says, tilting my chin up to the fluorescent light. "It could work."
In the back of my mother's Honda SUV, Pip and I are quiet. But my mother and father both have a knack for saving the world from complete silence She hums along to her one and only, horribly overplayed Andrea Bocelli CD and, in between, peppers us with exciting stories about her trip to Shop Rite. "Turkey Hill was buy one gallon, get one free, so I thought we could have sundaes tonight." And, "The romaine was very wilted, so I had to get iceberg."
My mother invites Pip for dinner, since Cam has a second assignment tonight. I figure this is a good thing; if fairies obviously don't eat so well, it's only fitting that he have a really great meal on one of his last nights on Earth. "Just make sure you pronounce it pasta fazool " I whisper to him. "My mother has a thing with pronunciation."
He nods and then leans toward the front of the car. "Molte grazie, Signora Sparks. Mi piacerebbe visitare l’Italia un giorno di questi"
My mother perks up right away. "Prego, prego!" she bubbles.
What is she talking about? Isn't that a brand of pasta sauce that has been banned from our house? When she sees the way he gobbles up her pasta, I’ll be surprised if she doesn't offer to divorce Dad and move in with him right away. Meanwhile, Andrea Bocelli is moaning something about amore. I wait for Marlon Brando to appear and make me an offer I can't refuse. I stare at Pip, openmouthed, as he goes on conversing with my mom in a language I've never been interested in understanding.
Until now.
When we get home, my mother beams at him and pats his uninjured cheek. Then she says something in Italian to both of us, seemingly forgetting that I have no freaking clue what she is saying. I look at Pip, helpless.
"She wants us to wash up for dinner. It will be ready soon."
"Oh. Um, so, where did you learn Italian?"
He slings his backpack over his shoulder and takes mine from me before I can pull it out of the car. "We had to learn to speak all the languages."
All?'' I ask, doubtful. "So, like, Swahili?"
"Ndiyo," he says hurriedly, maybe to stop me from staring at him with an open mouth, like a freaky blowfish "Let's go inside. I am quite hungry."
At dinner, it's more Italian. My father minored in Italian in college when he was dating my mother, so he even interjects a word or two. I'm starting to feel like I’m the person who's new to the world, like I’m the
outcast. "Can we please speak English?" I finally say, as nicely as possible, so that Pip doesn't think I'm a total brat.
"I’m sorry, hon. But it isn't often I get to practice. And, Pip, you have flawless intonation." She bats her eyelashes at him and then returns to me. "How is the pasta?"
Pip doesn't seem to care about making a fool of himself in front of me. He says, "Fantastic!'' with his mouth full, a little elbow of pasta glued to his chin with sticky orange sauce. At times like this, I can really see what lures the girls in.
Speaking of which, his date with Sara had been in the back of my mind all day, but, with all that had happened today, I couldn't find a clever way to bring it up. Now seems as good a time as any. "So, Pip,'' I begin casually, "how did your date go last night?"
I must be able to pull off "casual,'' because he doesn't appear to detect anything strange. He simply wipes his mouth with a napkin and says, "Just fine. She is a great person."
I should have expected vagueness from Pip, the ultimate gentle man. I was hoping for something a little more informative: (a) places visited, (b) topics conversed about, (c) bodily fluids exchanged. Considering what I know about Pip, the answers to the above are probably: (a) the diner, (b) the weather, (c) zilch. But why does it still bug me? Why should I care about a guy who isn't even going to be around three days from now?
Maybe it’s because I know he’s my "replacement boyfriend." Like with a spare tire, even though I don't plan on using him, I don't want anyone else using him, either.
"You had a date!" my mother exclaims, as if Pip were her own child. "How nice."
My father leans back in his chair after polishing off his third plate, so that his shirt stretches over his big belly almost to the point of popping. "I want to hear about this fight. The other guy looks worse, right, Pipster?"
"Pipster"? Agh Why not give him a playful punch, ruffle his hair, and call him "son"? Many times during my life, I've been convinced my father wanted me to be a boy. Cam sort of filled the void, but, since he’s been gone, my father must be going through withdrawal.
Pip looks confused. "No, I don't believe so."
My father waits for him to elaborate and, when he doesn't, slinks back with disappointment. He was clearly hoping for something out of the soap operas.
Pip finishes four plates of pasta, something I don't think even my father could manage, and helps to clear and wash the dishes. My father joins in to help, allowing my mother to just sit there, something that we haven't allowed her to do since the Clinton administration. She can't stop giggling like a schoolgirl. Pip stands at the sink, towel draped over his shoulder, speaking more Italian, and I find myself wondering for the millionth time today how he acted with Sara when they were out together. Of course he was sweet and chivalrous, but did he act different because it was a date? Did he treat her nicer, give her extra special attention? Did he want to kiss her?
The thought puts a knot in my stomach. I mean, what difference does it make? Cam and I are together, and Pip’s going off to Otherworld. Replacement boyfriend not needed, thank you very much. That's the plan. Still, for some reason I swallow and gaze at him, willing him to look back at me so that we can share a knowing, secret glance. But he doesn't.
And only a second passes before I feel guilty for even wanting that.
Chapter Thirty-eight
AFTER SCHOOL ON Wednesday, Cam calls me over to his front porch to see his suit. He'd bought it especially for the party, and when he tried it on for the first time, I nearly melted, because he looked so fantastic. Now, standing there on his front porch, he looks kind of like a little kid trying on his daddy's work clothes.
"This looks pathetic." He groans. "I think I'll just let Pip wear it."
"But what will you wear?" I ask, sitting down on the steps.
He shrugs.
"It doesn't matter, anyway. Nobody can see how you’ve changed. They'll probably think you look amazing in it."
He flexes his knees and peers down at the fabric pooled at his feet. Not when I trip down the stairs and do a face-plant. These are too big."
"Ohhh-kay, so I am going to be wearing an evening gown, and you are going to be wearing ratty shorts?"
"I'll figure it out."
I eye him suspiciously. "The drill sergeant isn't going to stop you from going to this party, is she? Give you a last-minute assignment?"
"No." He looks out, across the street, and whispers, "The plan is still in effect. I have some tilings to do tomorrow night, but Til be good for Friday."
"Okay." I look down at my hands. "And everything's cool? She still thinks you're…"
He nods. "Yep."
My mind keeps flashing back to the scars on Pips back. "You haven't been having any second thoughts?"
He looks into my eyes. "No. Why?"
I try to appear as unconcerned as possible, even though all I can see are those horrible slashes. But no, if Cam is not having second thoughts, then I'm not, either. After all, he's the one giving up his throne for me, the poor commoner. "Nothing. So, are you going to miss the game tomorrow?"
"Yeah" His face stiffens. "There really isn't any point. Plus, I've got a lot of stuff to finish around here. "
"They'll probably lose big-time without you and Scab. I don't think I'll go, either."
He kicks the ground with his bare toe. "You heard that Pip is quarterback?"
I snap my eyes to meet his. I don't know why this surprises me. He is, after all, supposed to be Cam's replacement, not just on the field but in life. I haven't seen Pip since we walked to school together this morning, and when he left my side in the parking lot, a couple of A-list seniors from the football team surrounded him. At the moment, I'd thought it was strange, but I figured that maybe they just wanted a blow-by-blow of his fight with Scab. Pip is so mild-mannered and unassuming, but I knew the pass I’d made him throw would make the football team drool with envy. I hadn't imagined this, though. "That's crazy."
"Supposedly, he has one hell of an arm. Who knew?" He slips off the suit jacket and lays it over the back of a lounge chair, then loosens his tie. "John told me the guys got him to try out, and the coach wants him in."
"Wow, does he even know the rules?"
"He’ll learn fast. He's inside with Sara right now. She’ll teach him that… among other things, I am sure." He raises his eyebrows suggestively.
"They are? What does that mean?" I peer into his living room, until I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I look like a demented stalker. I should be happy that Pip and Sara are together for his last days on Earth, but instead, all I'm feeling is jealousy, like the girls who used to drool over Cam. Pathetic. "Pip told me he's supposed to be your replacement. In everything."
This news doesn't surprise him. "I know."
"He was supposed to take your place. As my boyfriend."
I watch for a reaction on his face. Jealousy. Anger. Anything. But there is none. This is clearly something
he has known for a while.
"You don't care?"
He looks at the ground, then back at me. "Maybe he was meant to be in my place all along," he says.
I clench my fists. "But he's not. And I love you."
He gives me a slow, sad smile and whispers, "I know, I love you, too. And I'm staying here, so what difference does it make?"
It's just a statement, not a promise. There isn't any resolve in his voice. It frightens me. I catch a glimpse of a bit of wood sticking out from the inside pocket of his suit coat. His chopsti-er, wand. I reach over to grab it and say, "You won't be needing-" The wand falls to the floor and I feel a jolt of electricity run through my fingers. "Ouch!"
"Watch it!" he tells me, a second too late. "Don't touch that."
"I won’t, anymore," I say, holding my fingers, which are candy pink and still sizzling. "What the hell?"
He takes the wand and tucks it back into the pocket. "Listen, are you sure you envisioned everything working out?"
"Um, yeah," I lie.
"Okay." He reaches up and pats my head as if he's not substantially shorter than I am, and whispers, "I told her not to hurt you again, but I can’t be sure she’ll listen to me. So just be good. Okay? Until Friday?"
I heave a sigh and nod. "Whatever."
"No, seriously. I don't want to have to worry about you any more than I already do."
"Okay," I say glumly. "I still don't know why you stick up for her."
He exhales slowly and takes my hand. "I told you. She's not bad. She's just obeying Massif’s orders. And she's probably going to catch hell from him if things work out for us. So try to cut her a little slack, okay?"
I throw up my hands. "I know, I know. I am a total brat."
He gives me a quick kiss, and I head across his lawn, through the bushes. As I'm leaving, I see Mrs. Nelson crossing the street, holding the hand of a little platinum-pig-tailed girl. Like my mother had said, she's just as perfect as before-full of life, not frail or pale at all. At first, I think maybe they're coming to see my mother, to thank her once again for the miraculous sfogliatelle. Instead, they head off toward the right, and when they reach the curb, the girl breaks free of her mother and runs up the Brownes’ driveway. Straight into Cam's waiting arms.