Fairy Tale

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Fairy Tale Page 18

by Cyn Balog


  LYING IN BED, I lis­ten to the ra­in pat­te­ring aga­inst the win­dow. I roll over and pull up the co­vers, fe­eling the pil­low aga­inst my back. Tho­ugh it's soft and li­fe­less and co­ol to the to­uch, sin­ce all my dre­ams we­re fil­led with him-hol­ding me, stro­king my arms-it al­most fe­els li­ke he’s the­re with me. And may­be that's why, des­pi­te the stern war­ning Pip ga­ve me last night, I felt sa­fe.

  To­day is Oc­to­ber 15. My birth­day. My swe­et six­te­en. The day I am fi­nal­ly sup­po­sed to be a wo­man.

  I’d so ho­ped wo­man­ho­od wo­uld bring wis­dom.

  Of co­ur­se it wo­uld be ra­ining to­day. Ne­ver mind that my ha­ir is go­ing to be a frizz test by the ti­me the party is in full swing. In less than fo­ur­te­en ho­urs, one of the men of my dre­ams will be go­ne fo­re­ver.

  I can only ho­pe that when it’s all over, I'm mo­re re­li­eved than sad.

  I’m still wi­ping sle­ep out of the co­mer of my eyes when I co­me downs­ta­irs and ne­arly trip over a lar­ge brown mass at the fo­ot of the steps. In a flash, I won­der if Dawn had pla­ced an obs­tac­le in my way in a la­me at­tempt to kill me. But then I re­ali­ze it's my mot­her, scrub­bing the hard­wo­od flo­ors. I ex­pect a bright and che­ery birth­day gre­eting, but ins­te­ad she be­ars down all her we­ight on the spon­ge, drops it in­to the buc­ket, and huffs, "Ma­ro­ne! The­se flo­ors are a mess." The­re's a wild, un­fo­cu­sed lo­ok in her eyes.

  My mot­her's cle­aning fits are li­ke her shop­ping trips- comp­le­tely, psycho­ti­cal­ly ele­va­ted to the im­por­tan­ce and dif­fi­culty of roc­ket sci­en­ce. She's go­ne off the de­ep end be­fo­re, usu­al­ly be­fo­re com­pany co­mes. "Mom, you know that no­body's co­ming he­re. Ever­yo­ne will be at the To­ad."

  "But what if so­me­one wants to co­me back for cof­fee " she says, mo­re as a sta­te­ment than a qu­es­ti­on, sur­ve­ying the rest of the flo­or. "Go in the kitc­hen and get yo­ur oran­ge ju­ice. Ta­ke off yo­ur sho­es first."

  I'm abo­ut to ar­gue that the party will run way la­te, and we'll ha­ve plenty of cof­fee at the To­ad, but then I de­ci­de it's po­int­less. I pull off my bo­ots, one by one, and trud­ge down the hall in my pink socks, not fe­eling much li­ke oran­ge ju­ice. Not fe­eling much li­ke anyt­hing, ac­tu­al­ly, kno­wing the­re's a pos­si­bi­lity Dawn co­uld slip so­me cya­ni­de in­to it to get me out of the way.

  And that's when I see him, stan­ding in the mid­dle of the kitc­hen. At first I see only his fe­et, but my eyes tra­il up­ward, past the sea of too-bag­gy clot­hes he's swim­ming in, right to an enor­mo­us bo­uqu­et of pink- and red-fo­il cho­co­la­te ro­ses. He's known fo­re­ver that I think flo­wers are a was­te and cho­co­la­te is the fo­od of the gods. It's co­mi­cal, be­ca­use he's now so short, ne­arly a fo­ot shor­ter than I am, and his fa­ce is so hid­den that it's al­most li­ke the flo­wers ha­ve legs. "Happy birth­day," the tal­king bo­uqu­et says.

  I fe­el a pang of gu­ilt, a sud­den de­si­re to climb up to my ro­om and hi­de the­re, away from Pip and Cam and my di­vi­ded fe­elings, fo­re­ver. Ins­te­ad, I ta­ke a step for­ward, "Happy birth­day to you, too," I say, both ela­ted and sad that he knows me so well. I ta­ke the flo­wers from his hands and lo­ok down at him, then sto­op over awk­wardly, and… kiss the top of his he­ad, as if I'm his grand­ma. I ne­ver tho­ught anyt­hing with Cam co­uld be this we­ird. "They're ni­ce."

  My mot­her co­mes up be­hind me and says, "Well, don't wa­it. Gi­ve him yo­ur gift."

  "My-oh" I’d bo­ught it at the Men­lo Park Mall last month, tho­ugh it se­ems li­ke ages ago. It’s be­en in my bag ever sin­ce, and at first I co­uldn't wa­it to gi­ve it to him, it was so per­fect. But so much has chan­ged. I fumb­le aro­und in my knap­sack and pull it from the bot­tom, a gum wrap­per stuck to it. "I bo­ught it be­fo­re-well, be­fo­re," I exp­la­in.

  "Thanks, Boo." He ta­kes the small pac­ka­ge in his de­li­ca­te hands, ca­re­ful­ly slits the ta­pe, and pulls off the very mas­cu­li­ne blue and gold wrap­ping. "Wow. Ama­zing."

  "My pa­rents chip­ped in,” I say. "We knew how much you wan­ted it."

  He had wan­ted a wrist­watch for ye­ars. In scho­ol, they are ne­arly un­he­ard of, but Cam had re­ad so­mew­he­re that a man with a wrist­watch lo­oks in­fi­ni­tely mo­re in­tel­li­gent and put to­get­her. So my mot­her and I had de­ci­ded to buy him a re­al­ly ni­ce one from Macy's. But now I’m not su­re he'll use it. Still, he holds it in both hands and grins. "Thanks to both of you."

  "Try it on, try it on," my mot­her bub­bles, gi­ving him a don't-men­ti­on-it wa­ve.

  He re­mo­ves it from the pac­ka­ge, lo­osens the clasp, and sli­des it over his bony wrist. When he clo­ses it, I can see the gi­gan­tic gap bet­we­en the me­tal and his skin. As so­on as he tilts his arm to show it off, the watch falls to the gro­und and skit­ters ac­ross the li­no­le­um.

  "What-" my mom be­gins, con­fu­sed. "Is the clo­su­re bro­ken?"

  Under the spell, I sup­po­se the glossy sil­ver watch lo­oked just glo­ri­o­us on his wrist. I can re­mem­ber tho­se musc­les in his arms, his po­wer­ful fo­re­arms, and tho­se worn, big hands of his, but it’s fuzzy now, which is sad, be­ca­use I tho­ught I’d know everyt­hing abo­ut him by he­art fo­re­ver. Part of me en­vi­es my mot­her’s ig­no­ran­ce and wis­hes I co­uld see the old Cam aga­in, even if it isn't re­al.

  "No, it's gre­at," Cam says, pic­king up the watch and pla­cing it back in the ca­se. "Pro­bably just ne­eds so­me adj­ust­ment."

  "Off to scho­ol for you," my mom says ca­su­al­ly, gi­ving me a sho­ve. "I can't ha­ve yon mes­sing with my flo­ors any­mo­re."

  I gla­re at her.

  She tri­es to gla­re back, but she's no go­od at bluf­fing. "Happy birth­day, swe­et­he­art," she says, han­ding me a card.

  I grin and open it. It's a re­al­ly flo­wery one abo­ut how I'm a won­der­ful da­ugh­ter and ha­ve blos­so­med so ni­cely in­to wo­man­ho­od. It's a lit­tle corny, but I wi­pe a te­ar from my eye and gi­ve her a hug. "Thanks, Mom."

  That's the end of the gift gi­ving, sin­ce the tra­de-off was ag­re­ed to months ago. Ni­ce gift or big party. I'd known a car was out of the qu­es­ti­on, sin­ce I won't get my li­cen­se un­til next ye­ar, so it ma­de it pretty easy to de­ci­de on the party. Plus, with Cam go­ing in on it, it so­un­ded li­ke a fan­tas­tic way to ce­leb­ra­te.

  Now it do­esn't se­em so fan­tas­tic.

  Con­si­de­ring the pros­pect of lo­sing Cam fo­re­ver or sen­ding Pip back in­to a world whe­re he'll be tor­tu­red and ri­di­cu­led-not to men­ti­on a de­men­ted fa­iry on the lo­ose-to­night so­unds down­right scary.

  "Re­ady for scho­ol?" Cam asks me as I fi­nish wi­ping my eyes and prop the card up on the kitc­hen tab­le. When he ta­kes my hand with the tips of his small, bony fin­gers, I know he can't be much of a body­gu­ard any­mo­re. In fact, his body is ma­de for only one pur­po­se, and af­ter to­night, if all go­es as plan­ned, he won't even ha­ve that. The tho­ught ma­kes me fe­el mo­re sad and vul­ne­rab­le than ever.

  Chapter Forty-two

  "THANKS FOR SCA­RING me to de­ath," I mumb­le to Pip when I get him alo­ne. "I hardly slept at all last night be­ca­use I was so wor­ri­ed Dawn wo­uld mur­der me."

  "I'm sorry, Mor­gan." That's when I no­ti­ce his eyes are red-rim­med. He yawns.

  "You we­re up, too? Watc­hing me?" I ask, thin­king abo­ut the dre­ams I’d had when I fi­nal­ly fell as­le­ep. In them, he was the­re with me. I’d felt sa­fe.

  He says not­hing, just plays with his sle­eve.

  "So you we­re."

  We­re in the hal­lway at scho­ol. A bunch of girls wal­king be­hind us call out a happy birth­day to me. I smi­le and thank them but qu­ickly turn my at­ten­ti­on ba
ck to Pip.

  He says, "I told you, I want you to be sa­fe."

  I’m both flat­te­red and a lit­tle dis­gus­ted. But it’s Pip we­re tal­king abo­ut. His in­ten­ti­ons are pu­re, I'm su­re. "Okay. So are you go­ing to fol­low me aro­und all day?"

  He nods. "Unless you don't want me to."

  "I don't want you to miss class." But, then aga­in, I don't re­al­ly want to die, eit­her.

  "Okay. Well, I will check in on you thro­ug­ho­ut the day." He grins at me. His smi­le melts me.

  By the ti­me I le­ave scho­ol, Pip has chec­ked in on me so much that he's a step away from be­ing my sha­dow. And it's a go­od thing, too, be­ca­use my bra­in is so scat­te­red, Dawn wo­uldn't ne­ed to use ma­gic to do me in. The­re's so much on my mind, I'm ha­ving tro­ub­le ke­eping ray ba­lan­ce. Ten­se ima­ges and frag­ments of past con­ver­sa­ti­ons flo­at in and out: Cams bright smi­le af­ter his first fa­iry as­sign­ment. Tho­se hor­rib­le, hor­rib­le scars on Pip's back. His whi­te-blue eyes, li­ke a sum­mer sky fil­led with ga­uzy clo­uds, fo­cu­sing on me with comp­le­te in­ten­sity.

  Cam walks me back from scho­ol, and for the first ti­me, as we hud­dle un­der the ext­ra­wi­de umb­rel­la he bro­ught with him, I end up car­rying my own bo­oks. He lo­oked so silly, li­ke a lep­rec­ha­un to­ting two he­avy sacks of gold to the ra­in­bow.

  "You lo­ok fre­aked. What's up?" he asks me as we’re wal­king down our stre­et.

  “Just ner­vo­us abo­ut the party. I don't want to trip du­ring our grand ent­ran­ce," I fib.

  He switc­hes his bag to the ot­her sho­ul­der; he’s ha­ving tro­ub­le car­rying his own lo­ad. "You’re not wor­ri­ed abo­ut the ot­her thing. The plan?"

  "A lit­tle."

  "Pip and I will do the best we can to pro­tect you," he whis­pers, his fa­ce se­ri­o­us. "But you know I don’t fully in­he­rit my po­wers un­til mid­night. Un­til then, she's stron­ger than I am. And if you're in dan­ger… plan abor­ted."

  I nod, ho­ping it do­esn't co­me to that. Cam is so tiny now, wit­ho­ut ma­gi­cal po­wers, he’s abo­ut as vul­ne­rab­le as a new­born fawn. "Is that all you're wor­ri­ed abo­ut? What abo­ut to­mor­row? And the fu­tu­re?"

  He stops and lo­oks at me; then his eyes tra­il away. "I don't ca­re abo­ut that."

  Li­ar, li­ar. As dif­fe­rent as he has be­co­me, the funny thing is, I still know what's in­si­de. I still know him.

  A few mi­nu­tes of si­len­ce, and we're in front of his ho­use. "You bet­ter go ta­ke a sho­wer and get re­ady," I tell him. “We're le­aving he­re at six sharp."

  He rolls up the ro­omy sle­eve of his shirt and shows me a do­zen small red blis­ters on the un­der­si­de of his hand, li­ke drops of ra­in "I think I ha­ve to skip the sho­wer from now on."

  I ta­ke his hand gently and lo­ok clo­ser. "Are you se­ri­o­us? That's from wa­ter?"

  "Ye­ah."

  I qu­ickly mo­ve the umb­rel­la over him. If he can't even sur­vi­ve a ra­ins­torm, if he can't ever ta­ke a simp­le sho­wer… how will his li­fe in this world be? "I sho­uld ha­ve bo­ught you a bub­ble ins­te­ad of a watch" I say lightly, for­cing my gri­ma­ce in­to smi­le ter­ri­tory be­fo­re he can pick up on it.

  I lo­ok ac­ross the stre­et, whe­re Gra­cie is we­aring a lady­bug ra­in slic­ker and splas­hing thro­ugh pud­dles of wa­ter from the downs­po­uts un­der the eaves of her ho­use. "I know what you did for her," I say qu­i­etly. "For Gra­cie? You're her fa­iry god fat­her, aren't you?"

  He lo­oks at her, and a smi­le spre­ads ac­ross his fa­ce. "Well, sort of. It's ama­zing, isn't it?"

  "I'll say. So that's why you've be­en so happy."

  He can’t help grin­ning madly. It's the first I've se­en a smi­le li­ke that in a whi­le. "She was so fra­gi­le. So sick. They tho­ught she wo­uld be go­ne in anot­her few days. And I vi­si­ted her in the hos­pi­tal. All I had to do was talk to her. And that was it." He's lo­oking at his hands as if he can’t be­li­eve the po­wer in his own body. "And yes­ter­day I re­uni­ted a lady with her child­ren. They'd be­en kid­nap­ped and-"

  "You're go­ing to lo­se tho­se po­wers if you stay he­re," I say.

  He frowns. "I know."

  "You'll be mi­se­rab­le he­re."

  He's si­lent for a mo­ment, still lo­oking at his hands, tho­se smo­oth, da­inty hands. "But I’ll ha­ve you," he says we­akly.

  "You'll be mi­se­rab­le he­re," I re­pe­at, put­ting a hand on his sho­ul­der. "And Mas­sif is go­ing to kill Dawn if you stay. You ca­re abo­ut her, don't you?"

  He lo­oks off in­to the dis­tan­ce, at not­hing in par­ti­cu­lar, and ta­kes a bre­ath. "I know you do. You don't ha­ve to lie. It’s okay."

  "But I lo­ve you, Boo. And I don't want to le­ave you."

  Hol­ding the umb­rel­la tightly in my hands, I co­me up clo­se to him. I ha­ve to sto­op a bit, but, sur­ro­un­ded by his big UC­LA swe­ats­hirt, which is la­ced with his old, fa­mi­li­ar smell, I fe­el com­for­tab­le. His lips, for­tu­na­tely, are no dif­fe­rent than they've ever be­en, and when he kis­ses me, everyt­hing se­ems right. This se­ems right. But I can’t sha­ke the fe­eling that this kiss is our last.

  Chapter Forty-three

  I CLO­SE MY eye and, for the twelfth ti­me in an ho­ur, try to glue a fa­ke-eye­lash pi­ece to my lid. It slips and ends up at­tac­hed to my nost­ril. Anot­her te­ar mi­xes with my eye­li­ner and cre­ates a black wa­ding po­ol in the co­mer of my eye. The pan­ca­ke ma­ke­up has co­ve­red the rem­nants of the scratch Scab ga­ve me, but the te­ars ke­ep flub­bing up the ar­tistry. If my mot­her knew I was crying and ma­king myself lo­ok li­ke an ext­ra from Prom Night Mas­sac­re on the spe­ci­al event she's sunk so much of her cash in­to, she'd pro­bably kick my sorry ass. Still, step­ping back, I lo­ok li­ke I sho­uld be rif­ling thro­ugh gar­ba­ge cans. Thank­ful­ly, the gor­ge­o­us sil­ver strap­less dress with the te­al bow, and the strappy san­dals, help ele­va­te me slightly from the slums. When I'm do­ne, I walk si­lently out of my ro­om, he­ad down, not fe­eling anyt­hing clo­se to what a prin­cess must fe­el li­ke. This is not what I'd ima­gi­ned this night wo­uld be. The light is on in my pa­rents' ro­om and I can smell my mot­her's per­fu­me, so I know they're get­ting re­ady, and it'll be just mo­ments be­fo­re my mot­her is so­un­ding the bat­tle cry for us to re­port to the fo­yer for ins­pec­ti­on. So I grab the shawl I've bor­ro­wed from my mot­her and, sin­ce the ra­in has ne­arly stop­ped, trud­ge ac­ross to the ga­ze­bo in our gar­den. All the plants are dep­res­singly brown and sag­ging with ra­in­wa­ter, which may cont­ri­bu­te to the fact that as so­on as I get in­si­de and clo­se the scre­en do­or, I burst in­to te­ars.

  Why did I bring up Gra­cie? Why did I push a con­fes­si­on out of him? If I didn't, he wo­uldn't be ha­ving any se­cond tho­ughts; he'd just fol­low the plan. Now, he's thin­king abo­ut how comp­le­tely mi­se­rab­le he’s go­ing to be he­re, all be­ca­use I had to bring it up. And the fact is, I know he’s go­ing to be mi­se­rab­le if he stays with me. I know it. And may­be I bro­ught it up be­ca­use abo­ve all, I want him to be happy. But I still don't want to be wit­ho­ut him. I don't want Cam to le­ave me. Do­es that ma­ke me sel­fish?

  The scre­en do­or cre­aks open. I ex­pect it to be my mot­her, la­unc­hing in­to a "Lo­ok at yo­ur mas­ca­ra!" ram­pa­ge, but ins­te­ad my eyes tra­il up Pip’s tall form, his ele­gant black su­it and blue sa­tin tie. I gulp when I see him stan­ding the­re.

  He do­esn't say a word, just co­mes in­si­de and sits ca­re­ful­ly be­si­de me. I fe­el his arm sna­ke un­der my shawl, aro­und my ba­re sho­ul­ders, and as I let my he­ad fall aga­inst his chest, I in­ha­le the scent that on­ce was Cam's. So­me­how that ma­kes me cry har­der. I co­ver my fa­ce so that I don't schmutz up his s
u­it with my te­ars. Fi­nal­ly, I pull back and snif­fle, "Oh, happy birth­day."

  His body tremb­les a lit­tle, and I know he's la­ug­hing. "Sa­me to you.”

  I can't help la­ug­hing a lit­tle, too, thro­ugh the te­ars. "The hap­pi­est,'' I say.

  We're si­lent for a few mi­nu­tes. Fi­nal­ly, I whis­per in­to his su­it jac­ket, "I gu­ess you're won­de­ring why I'm crying."

  "I think I know."

  "Everyt­hing is wor­king aga­inst us," I snif­fle. “So­me­ti­mes I think he has to le­ave me, that that is the only way he'll be happy.”

  "I'm su­re he do­esn't want to le­ave you."

  "We've be­en to­get­her sin­ce fo­re­ver. He might be ab­le to go on wit­ho­ut me," I sob, "but I know I can’t do it. I can't be wit­ho­ut him. He says I'm bra­ve, but the truth is, I'm not. Wit­ho­ut him, I'm not."

  He do­esn't say anyt­hing, just rubs his hand up and down my arm, gently.

  I lo­ok up, and his eyes me­et mi­ne. In the glo­om and sha­dows, I can ba­rely see his iri­ses; they're just black, but so­me­how still warm. "You ha­ve to help me. We ha­ve to con­vin­ce him to stay."

  He nods. "I will do wha­te­ver you say."

  "I know. I lo­ve that abo­ut you," I snif­fle. Tho­ugh it all, I ha­ve al­ways be­en ab­le to rely on him to ne­ver go back on his word. He­re I am, abo­ut to send him back to Ot­her­world, his own per­so­nal hell, and he’s still fa­ith­ful. "But why?'

  He lo­oks at the gro­und. "Why what?"

  "Why are you so go­od to me?"

  "Be­ca­use…" he be­gins, and I know exactly what he’s go­ing to say.

  "Ye­ah, ye­ah, ye­ah. True lo­ve," I say, pul­ling the shawl tigh­ter.

  Sud­denly, it's very cold. "But may­be you sho­uld stop wor­rying abo­ut what ot­hers want and start ca­ring abo­ut what you want. You ha­ve to stop thin­king you don't mat­ter."

  He shrugs. "In Ot­her­world, I don't."

  "But you do! I've ne­ver met an­yo­ne so self­less and swe­et in all my li­fe!" I pro­test. Is it pos­sib­le that only a we­ek ago, he was this gawky lit­tle boy from anot­her pla­net? Now, he’s so be­a­uti­ful, I ha­ve a hard ti­me lo­oking him in the eye wit­ho­ut blus­hing. And when he’s clo­se to me, li­ke he is now, and the only so­und is the ra­in fal­ling all aro­und us, I can’t se­em to think of anyt­hing ot­her than ha­ving him clo­ser. Is it just me, or do­es he fe­el it, too? I can’t tell, but he is bre­at­hing hot on my che­ek, and I smell the grass, and pep­per­mint from his to­oth­pas­te, which ma­kes me wo­ozy. So­on I find myself mo­ving inexp­li­cably to­ward his lips, re­ac­hing up to me­et them with mi­ne…

 

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