Fairy Tale

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Fairy Tale Page 17

by Cyn Balog


  It's stran­ge how kids ha­ve al­ways so­me­how be­en inexp­li­cably drawn to Cam. But I didn't think he knew Gra­cie, or the Nel­sons-at le­ast, not very well. Gra­cie has al­ways be­en a shy kid, duc­king be­hind her mot­her's legs whe­ne­ver I wo­uld say hel­lo. But now, she's grin­ning at him li­ke they're the best of fri­ends. She re­ac­hes aro­und his back and fe­els his sho­ul­der bla­des, and they both bre­ak in­to la­ugh­ter.

  And me­anw­hi­le, Mrs. Nel­son stands the­re in the grass. Smi­ling and wi­ping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  She may be smi­ling, but she's al­so sob­bing.

  And that's when I re­ali­ze what Cam's "assign­ments" are.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  MOR­GAN! CO­ME ON, I sa­ved you a se­at!" Eden calls from the top row of the ble­ac­hers. She's stan­ding the­re in her gre­en and gold Hawks swe­ats­hirt, and she's we­aring one of tho­se at­ro­ci­o­us gi­ant fo­am cow­boy hats. She turns to­ward the cen­ter of the gym as the marc­hing band belts out the fi­nal few no­tes of our fight song, and scre­ams a se­emingly ne­ver-ending "Who­o­o­o­o­o­oo!"

  Re­luc­tantly, I climb up to her se­at, no­ti­cing two mo­re dis­gus­ting purp­le le­ech bi­tes on her neck be­fo­re I plop down and stick my fin­gers in my ears. Two we­eks ago I wo­uld ha­ve kil­led to ha­ve a pep rally last pe­ri­od ins­te­ad of Eng­lish. Now, I think I wo­uld so much rat­her dis­sect Le­aves of Grass than sit thro­ugh this. I see Cam sit­ting a few rows ahe­ad of me, a blank lo­ok on his fa­ce. The pink aura is sur­ro­un­ding him, as usu­al. He's not we­aring his jer­sey, so it’s al­most li­ke he was ne­ver part of the te­am. I fully ex­pect him to bre­ak in­to te­ars.

  Eden grins and po­ints at me. "Scab ga­ve you a scab."

  "Funny."

  "What a jerk. I can’t be­li­eve I mis­sed that" she says glumly. "So, has Cam tal­ked to Scab at all sin­ce he was sus­pen­ded?"

  I sha­ke my he­ad. As if Cam has not­hing el­se to worry abo­ut.

  "Wow. That's so sad! They we­re, li­ke, best fri­ends."

  I shrug, tap­ping my fin­gers on the bench. I check the clock. It's two. Ti­me to get this show on the ro­ad.

  Fi­nal­ly, Prin­ci­pal Ed­wards strolls up to a po­di­um, and the che­ering co­mes to an end. He lec­tu­res, se­emingly fo­re­ver, abo­ut how this ye­ar's Hawks are go­ing to be the best ever, and I know Cam is win­cing at the tho­ught, tho­ugh I can't see him from my se­at. Then he be­gins to an­no­un­ce the te­am mem­bers.

  Eden sways back and forth in her se­at and says, "Wow, they re­al­ly did kick Cam off the te­am, didn't they?"

  I gla­re at her. "Who told you that? He qu­it."

  She shrugs. "It's the ru­mor that he lost his arm. Is it true Pip is go­ing to ta­ke his pla­ce?"

  He's not ta­king his pla­ce with me, that's for su­re, I think, cra­ning my neck to see the che­er­le­aders on the si­de­li­nes. Sa­ra has her pla­ti­num ha­ir in a pony­ta­il and is clap­ping for a wi­de re­ce­iver. She kicks her pen­cil-thin leg up so un­na­tu­ral­ly high that she can al­most kiss her knee. Gross.

  "I can't wa­it for to­night!" she is blab­be­ring as I watch the fo­ot­ball pla­yers jog out li­ke he­ro­es in the­ir gre­en jer­seys, wa­ving and slap­ping each ot­her on the back­si­de. "You want to me­et in the par­king lot?"

  Eden is ob­vi­o­usly so lo­ve struck by Mi­ke that, she's ex­pe­ri­en­cing de­lu­si­ons. Li­ke I wo­uld ever, ever go to this ga­me. Af­ter all, my boyf­ri­end was just disg­ra­ced in­to qu­it­ting the te­am. Or may­be he was, li­ke the ru­mor go­es, kic­ked off. What dif­fe­ren­ce do­es it ma­ke? For the past few ye­ars. Cam has li­ved and bre­at­hed fo­ot­ball, and now, it's over for him. He's ob­vi­o­usly go­ing thro­ugh a very tra­uma­tic pe­ri­od and pro­bably ha­tes everyt­hing that has to do with the ga­me. And I ne­ed to show my sup­port by boy­cot­ting it. I am su­re we both wo­uld ha­ve boy­cot­ted this pep rally, too, if it wo­uldn't ha­ve got­ten us de­ten­ti­on.

  Eden is sa­ying so­met­hing, but it do­esn't re­gis­ter un­til she's half­way thro­ugh. "… re­al­ly sucks that Cam isn't qu­ar­ter­back any­mo­re, but, li­ke you tell ever­yo­ne when you tell them fu­tu­res that aren't exactly gre­at, you ha­ve to ri­se abo­ve it. Mo­ve on."

  I turn to her, re­ady to spew, and then hold my ton­gue. She's right, of co­ur­se. I've used the "mo­ve on" spe­ech so of­ten, it's per­ma­nently ing­ra­ined in my he­ad. But it's easi­er sa­id than do­ne. I'm abo­ut to tell her that, when I re­ali­ze they're abo­ut to an­no­un­ce the star­ting qu­ar­ter­back.

  I'd ex­pec­ted all along to he­ar his na­me, but when it's fi­nal­ly out the­re, I ins­tantly roc­ket out of my se­at, fu­eled by the energy in the crowd. The ap­pla­use bu­ilds to a ro­ar, and Eden lets out a glass-bre­aking scre­ech. My eyes go in­to overd­ri­ve, fo­cu­sing in on the do­or to the boys' loc­ker ro­om. And the­re he is, in Cam's num­ber 10 jer­sey, the Gap je­ans I bo­ught for him, and a pa­ir of Ni­kes. He has a fo­ot­ball in the cro­ok of his arm. He won't lo­ok up at the crowd, so all I can see is the top of his he­ad, all mus­sed up, li­ke whip­ped pe­anut but­ter. I blink-can that re­al­ly be Pip?-and when he ta­kes a few steps, I know the ans­wer. Swish-swish-swish.

  Drag­ging his fe­et, he shuf­fles to the cen­ter of the gym. He gi­ves a slight wa­ve but so­me­how ends up pop­ping the ball out from the crad­le of his arm. It rolls on­to the flo­or awk­wardly for a mo­ment, and he cha­ses it abo­ut be­fo­re re­co­ve­ring it. The­re are a few gig­gles from the audi­en­ce, but when he wa­ves aga­in, the crowd grows lo­uder. I still can't see his eyes, tho­ugh. I can’t tell if he’s ex­ci­ted or sca­red to de­ath.

  Eden whist­les and fans her fa­ce. "Oh, my God, he is such a hot­tie. I'll be his tight end any day."

  "Who­se?"

  “Pip’s.”'

  I squ­int at her. I think she sa­id the sa­me thing abo­ut Cam a few days ago, aro­und the ti­me she was la­ug­hing abo­ut the fo­ot­ball te­am ste­aling Pip’s pants.

  "The­se are our Hawks!" Prin­ci­pal Ed­wards an­no­un­ces to mo­re ap­pla­use, and the che­er­le­aders run out to the cen­ter of the gymna­si­um. They all se­em to he­ad for Pip, wrap­ping them­sel­ves aro­und him un­til I can ba­rely lo­ca­te him in the mob. Then Sa­ra do­es a cartw­he­el and bo­unds over, li­ke a lit­tle kit­ten, po­uring her­self in­to his arms. I can see his fa­ce now, and the­re's a smi­le, a big one I don't think he’s ever shown me. She throws her he­ad back and la­ughs, and he do­es the sa­me. Ha­ve I ever he­ard him la­ugh? I watch as, des­pi­te the mad­ness aro­und them, they slowly bring the­ir lips to­get­her, and-

  Gah. What is Cam up to? I qu­ickly switch my ga­ze to a co­up­le of rows ahe­ad of me, ex­pec­ting to see him sit­ting the­re, si­lent, a lo­ne te­ar run­ning down his fa­ce.

  Inste­ad, he’s on his fe­et, ho­oting and hol­le­ring, pum­ping his fist in the air as the pink clo­ud swirls over his he­ad. Not exactly he­artb­ro­ken.

  Well, he had men­ti­oned so­met­hing abo­ut mo­ving on to his next thing. May­be he’s past fo­ot­ball. May­be he’s ta­ken up so­met­hing that his lit­tle fa­iry body will be bet­ter ab­le to hand­le, li­ke croc­he­ting or stamp col­lec­ting.

  Or may­be so­met­hing mo­re. Much, much mo­re.

  Chapter Forty

  I'M ON THE porch aga­in, lis­te­ning to the fa­ra­way vo­ices of La­ura from Lit­tle Ho­use on the Pra­irie waf­ting from my li­ving ro­om. It’s anot­her warm night, and be­fo­re, adults we­re wal­king past with strol­lers and mo­wing the­ir lawns, and kids we­re sho­uting out in play. Even lit­tle Gra­cie was out, with her first pa­ir of rol­ler ska­tes, Mrs. Nel­son watc­hing with eyes that ne­ver wan­ted to lo­se sight of her aga­in. But the sun has long sin­ce set, and I'm sti
ll out­si­de, still trying to re­ad the first few pa­ges of Le­aves of Grass for class to­mor­row. At this po­int, I'm one li­ne in­to the first po­em and con­fu­sed, my mind comp­le­tely lost on so­met­hing that was hap­pe­ning only a few stre­ets over.

  Over the tre­es I co­uld even see the gla­re of the sta­di­um lights, cas­ting the dark sky a gun­me­tal gray. And I co­uld he­ar the che­ering of the audi­en­ce every so of­ten in bet­we­en La­ura yel­ling for Ma or Pa. The crowd che­ered a lot, so Pip pro­bably did them pro­ud and won the ga­me. I bet he had the en­ti­re stu­dent body chan­ting his na­me. I'm su­re the te­am pic­ked him up on the­ir sho­ul­ders and car­ri­ed him aro­und the fi­eld. Sa­ra pro­bably to­ok him in for a pas­si­ona­te ce­leb­ra­tory kiss on the fifty-yard li­ne, whi­le con­fet­ti flo­ated aro­und them.

  Then the en­ding cre­dits rol­led and they li­ved hap­pily ever af­ter. Okay, so it pro­bably wasn't that per­fect, but the tho­ught still ma­kes me gag.

  "Are you okay?"

  I whip my he­ad aro­und and see a form stan­ding on my lawn, in the dark­ness. Cam? It mo­ves thro­ugh the bus­hes, and at on­ce, Pip’s fe­atu­res co­me in­to the light, his gol­den ha­ir a mess, the purp­le bru­ise on his lip just an out­li­ne now. He is we­aring an over­si­zed Hawks T-shirt that shows off his po­wer­ful lo­wer arms, and has a gym bag slung over his sho­ul­der. The bulb over­he­ad glows yel­low in each of his eyes, and, sin­ce his mo­uth is still swol­len, I can’t ma­ke out his exp­res­si­on.

  "Fi­ne," I ans­wer, stra­igh­te­ning. "You won the ga­me, right?"

  He nods. "How did you… Oh, that's right. Enc­hant­ress."

  I sha­ke my he­ad. "I didn't en­vi­si­on it. I just knew. But why are you back so so­on? Isn't the­re a ce­leb­ra­ti­on at the Par­so­na­ge?"

  "Yes" he says, clim­bing the steps to the porch and hef­ting his he­avy bag on­to the gro­und. "But, you know- abo­ut to­mor­row. I wan­ted to talk to you abo­ut it."

  I squ­elch the de­si­re to he­ar him tell me, "I rus­hed right ho­me be­ca­use I mis­sed you," and say, "That's right. Are you re­ady?"

  I mo­ve my ba­re fe­et from the gli­der, and he ta­kes the se­at next to me. "Yes. Are you?"

  "I just want it to be over with." I sigh. "I think Dawn has be­en ma­king me think and fe­el things that aren't re­al. I don't li­ke it."

  He wrink­les his no­se. "But you told me you can see Ca­me­ron in his true form."

  "Well, ye­ah, but ot­her things…"

  He lo­oks con­fu­sed. "That was a very po­wer­ful spell that Mas­sif put on us hu­mans, ma­king us see Ca­me­ron as he on­ce was. And you can see Dawn, even when she ma­kes her­self in­vi­sib­le. If you’re im­mu­ne to tho­se spells, you're pro­bably im­mu­ne to all Ma­gic of Tho­ught."

  "Ma­gic of Tho­ught?"

  "Ma­king you per­ce­ive things that don't exist, or not per­ce­ive things that do."

  "I gu­ess, but…" I bi­te my ton­gue. If I'm im­mu­ne to Ma­gic of Tho­ught then the fe­elings I've had for Pip are…

  No. No. No.

  "So, are you sa­ying, hypot­he­ti­cal­ly," I say, ma­king su­re that word is cle­ar, "that a fa­iry pro­bably co­uldn't, I don't know, get in yo­ur mind and ma­ke you think you we­re in lo­ve with so­me­one?"

  He la­ughs. "Not pos­sib­le. I told you, fa­iri­es don't un­ders­tand that kind of lo­ve. They su­rely co­uldn't con­coct a lo­ve spell."

  I fre­eze. My sto­mach starts to ac­he. So­met­hing in­si­de me isn't wor­king right. I sta­re at Le­aves of Grass, unab­le to me­et his ga­ze. I am an evil, evil girl.

  He's go­ing on, ob­li­vi­o­us to the he­art at­tack I'm ha­ving. "I be­li­eve Dawn is awa­re of everyt­hing."

  The plan? My he­art be­gins to be­at fas­ter, hum­ming li­ke a mo­tor in my chest. "How do you know?"

  He sits be­si­de me on the gli­der and whis­pers in my ear, his che­ek aga­inst mi­ne, soft and beg­ging to be kis­sed. "I ca­me right he­re be­ca­use be­fo­re I left for the ga­me, I he­ard Dawn tal­king to Ca­me­ron."

  "And…"

  "She told him that if she do­esn't de­li­ver him to Ot­her­world to­mor­row night, Mas­sif will kill her." He le­ans in still clo­ser. "Why wo­uld she tell him that, un­less she had a re­ason to be­li­eve he might not fol­low her to Ot­her­world?"

  "Is it true? Will Mas­sif kill her?"

  His lips form a stra­ight li­ne. "Pos­sibly."

  "And you think that me­ans she knows abo­ut our plan?"

  "Yes. I think it me­ans she's not go­ing to let you stand in her way. No mat­ter what Ca­me­ron says." He's so clo­se that I can smell Cam's scent on his jer­sey, and it's hard not to le­an in­to him. "She knows that you are the one thing that wo­uld ma­ke Cam stay in this world. If you're go­ne, he will ha­ve no re­ason to stay he­re."

  I bre­ak out of the da­ze and sud­denly fe­el cold. I'd ima­gi­ned that may­be she wo­uld lock me in a ba­se­ment un­til Cam was sa­fely in Ot­her­world. Per­haps ma­ke it so that my mom's SUV bro­ke down on the way to the party. But this… this me­ans…

  "You think she's go­ing to try to kill me?"

  He nods.

  "But how? You sa­id I'm im­mu­ne to her ma­gic."

  His fa­ce is sto­ne. "That do­esn't ma­ke you in­vin­cib­le."

  "No, of co­ur­se not. But Cam wo­uldn't let that hap­pen. He sa­id lie wo­uld kill her if she hurt me."

  "Dawn’s only mis­si­on in li­fe is to de­li­ver him to Ot­her­world. She will die if she do­esn't ma­ke this hap­pen. And I do­ubt Mas­sif wo­uld al­low Ca­me­ron to harm her. He wants the­ir king­doms to uni­te."

  "But if I’m de­ad, Cam wo­uld ne­ver go back to Ot­her­world. He'd ha­te Dawn fo­re­ver. He'd stay he­re, just out of spi­te."

  He sha­kes his he­ad. "I don't think he wo­uld."

  Anger wells in­si­de me. "How do you know? You don't know Cam."

  "But I do know what it is li­ke to be dif­fe­rent, to be an out­cast," he says softly. "And if Ca­me­ron stays he­re past his six­te­enth birth­day, Mas­sif will no lon­ger pro­tect him. His spell will be bro­ken. The one he put over all hu­mans. The one you are im­mu­ne to."

  "So, ever­yo­ne will see him as he is? Wings and ears and… everyt­hing?"

  He nods.

  My he­art stops.

  "Cam do­esn't ca­re how he lo­oks," I say, but even as the words co­me out, I know that he do­es. Af­ter all, that was the re­ason he'd be­en mo­ping abo­ut day af­ter day, fe­eling use­less. But wo­uld he re­al­ly rat­her spend an eter­nity mar­ri­ed to a de­men­ted fa­iry than li­ve in this world? If I we­ren't aro­und to pro­tect him, may­be. "And what abo­ut his po­wers?"

  "They will be go­ne."

  I bi­te my ton­gue. The only thing that has ma­de Cam smi­le in the past few days is the fact that he's fo­und his next thing. That he is use­ful. Wo­uld he re­al­ly want to gi­ve that up for me? Wo­uldn't he be crazy to even con­si­der that?

  Fi­nal­ly, I ask, "Do you think we sho­uldn't go thro­ugh with this?"

  "No, not at all." And then tho­se eyes, afi­re in the light from abo­ve, fo­cus on me, comp­le­tely se­ri­o­us and war­ning. "But I want you to be sa­fe."

  I swal­low, bre­ath­less. I do a men­tal in­ven­tory and re­ali­ze that the only thing bet­we­en me and a pa­in­ful de­ath is a po­wer­less fa­iry and a guy who has be­en known to pee his pants at the sight of anyt­hing with wings. Not go­od. I shi­ver, wis­hing I'd ta­ken so­me sort of mar­ti­al arts co­ur­se.

  "I just want ever­yo­ne to be happy," I mur­mur. "And it se­ems li­ke, wha­te­ver hap­pens, so­me­one is go­ing to suf­fer."

  Pip no­ti­ces that I'm tremb­ling and puts an arm aro­und my sho­ul­der. It fe­els ni­ce, and stran­gely fa­mi­li­ar. He lo­oks ac­ross the st
re­et, in­to the black night. "What-" he be­gins. It’s a full mi­nu­te be­fo­re he starts up aga­in. "What tho­ughts we­re you ha­ving? The ones you be­li­eved the fa­iri­es we­re ma­king you think?"

  "Um. Not­hing." As if I’d ever let him know abo­ut tho­se. Go­ose bumps ap­pe­ar on my arms, and I ha­ve to rub them away. "What do you think abo­ut this? Do you think Cam can still be happy he­re?"

  "Of co­ur­se. He has you."

  "But he won’t ha­ve any po­wers. He'll be fi­ve fe­et tall, with po­in­ted ears and wings. And comp­le­tely use­less."

  "Fa­iri­es ra­rely grow over fo­ur fe­et tall," he po­ints out.

  I sigh. "Even bet­ter. At first, Cam might be okay with it. But even­tu­al­ly, it will eat away at him. Pe­op­le are cru­el to tho­se who are dif­fe­rent. You know that."

  "But he will still ha­ve you."

  Yes, but will he? What if Dawn is plan­ning so­met­hing? What if she is plan­ning to kill me?

  Pip gi­ves me a ca­uti­o­us smi­le, then stands and hefts his bag hig­her on­to his sho­ul­der. "Watch out for yo­ur­self, enc­hant­ress. And ke­ep yo­ur win­dows clo­sed to­night."

  The way he says it, it ma­kes me shi­ver. I watch him di­sap­pe­ar in­to the dark­ness bet­we­en the bus­hes, then kick asi­de Le­aves of Grass and sta­re up at the blue-black sky. Out of the co­mer of my eye, I think I see a pink aura flo­ating in the light of the porch. When I turn to fa­ce it, it’s go­ne. And so­met­hing tells me it’s go­ing to be a very long night.

  Chapter Forty-one

 

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