Fairy Tale

by Cyn Balog

  The scre­en do­or to the ga­ze­bo opens, and I jump cle­ar off the bench. My mot­her is stan­ding the­re with an umb­rel­la, her black ha­ir pi­led on her he­ad, the col­lar of her black ra­in­co­at high aga­inst her ears. "Jesus, this we­at­her," she growls to her­self, and as she fo­cu­ses on me, her eyes turn to slits. "The­re you are. I've be­en cal­ling for you for twenty mi­nu­tes. Let's get a mo­ve on."

  I stand up obe­di­ently, won­de­ring if my fa­ce is comp­le­tely ru­ined.

  Sin­ce my mot­her has us get­ting in­to the city a full ho­ur ahe­ad of sche­du­le, "in ca­se of traf­fic," I'm su­re the­re will be ti­me for to­uch-ups, or in my ca­se, comp­le­te ma­ke­overs, on­ce we get to the To­ad. At le­ast, I ho­pe.

  "Oh! Mr. Pip!" My mot­her's to­ne turns to hos­tess. "How ni­ce to see you."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Sparks," he says, al­ways the gent­le­man. "Ca­me­ron isn't he­re with you?" she asks, se­arc­hing the small spa­ce to be su­re, as if we'd hid­den him un­der the bench. "No, he must still be at his ho­use," I say. Pip is still ga­zing at me. He mo­uths the words "It's okay." But I ha­ve a hard ti­me be­li­eving that's true.

  Chapter Forty-four

  SMO­KEY JOE THE DJ, a guy who lo­oks abo­ut eighty but is dres­sed li­ke a ho­mey, is set­ting up, and Gi­zel­le is mil­ling im­por­tantly aro­und the ro­om, nod­ding and pa­using every so of­ten to scrib­ble on a clip­bo­ard. I can't tell if anyt­hing is mis­sing, sin­ce all I can re­mem­ber abo­ut the eve­ning is that the tab­les are sup­po­sed to be set with sil­ver nap­kins. Or was it te­al?

  I ne­ed so­me alo­ne ti­me. As so­on as we pi­le out of my mom’s SUV, I ma­ke a be­eli­ne for the bath­ro­om with my ma­ke­up bag. My mot­her do­esn't try to stop me. She must ha­ve be­en too fraz­zled by the up­co­ming party or awed by Pip’s se­xi­ness to no­ti­ce at the ga­ze­bo, but whi­le I was get­ting in­to the car, she clas­ped her hand over her mo­uth. I've be­en dre­aming abo­ut this eve­ning for months, and "What the hell hap­pe­ned to yo­ur fa­ce?" isn't exactly the com­ment I've en­vi­si­oned pe­op­le ma­king abo­ut me.

  Insi­de, I see what all the shock and tra­uma was abo­ut. I lo­ok li­ke a bomb went off in front of me, so I ha­ve to scrub my che­eks vi­go­ro­usly and start aga­in. I pull my ha­ir back in­to the up­do with abo­ut a hund­red bobby pins, press so­me pan­ca­ke ma­ke­up in­to the scratch Scab ga­ve me, and start to lo­ok nor­mal aga­in. But as I'm abo­ut to apply eye­li­ner to my top lid, it hits me.

  For the first ti­me in my li­fe, I wan­ted to kiss so­me­one ot­her than Cam.

  My fin­gers slip, and I wri­te a li­ne of brown kohl ac­ross my temp­le, stra­ight in­to my ha­ir­li­ne. Blast.

  Why? Was that me get­ting back at Cam for even thin­king abo­ut le­aving me? Was it all just re­ta­li­ati­on?

  I ta­ke a tis­sue and mo­is­ten it un­der the tap, then era­se away the li­ne. No, that's not it. I've be­en ha­ving fe­elings for Pip, odd, unexp­la­inab­le fe­elings, for al­most a we­ek. I've be­en chal­king them up to fa­iry ma­gic, but the fact is, tho­se fe­elings are re­al.

  I re­al­ly am at­trac­ted to Pip.

  Not go­od. De­fi­ni­tely not a go­od thing.

  Step­ping away from the mir­ror, I re­ap­ply my lip gloss and then frown at myself. I lo­ok gor­ge­o­us, at last.

  But why do I fe­el so hor­rib­le?

  Out of the co­mer of my eye, I see so­me­one walk in­to the ro­om. I ex­pect the per­son to go in­to a stall, but I'm so swept up in my tho­ughts that I don't no­ti­ce, af­ter a full mi­nu­te, that the form is still stan­ding in the do­or­way, un­mo­ving. Sta­ring at me thro­ugh the mir­ror. Fi­nal­ly, I lo­ok up and me­et her ga­ze, and swal­low- hard. Dawn.

  She's dres­sed in a stun­ning pink party dress. Stan­ding next to her in the mir­ror, I lo­ok li­ke a Fas­hi­on Don't. She smi­les at me, then tos­ses a small gold bag on the co­un­ter and runs a fin­ger un­der her flaw­less doe eye. "I don't know abo­ut you,'' she says, "but I am re­ady to party."

  I want to tell her that I don't re­mem­ber ex­ten­ding her an in­vi­te, but my mo­uth is fro­zen. Be­ca­use for the first ti­me, the fe­ar Pip fe­els when he’s aro­und Dawn is rub­bing off on me. I'm alo­ne, and comp­le­tely help­less. Wo­uld any­body be ab­le to he­ar me if I scre­amed? The party is still an ho­ur away. She co­uld end my li­fe right he­re, and no­body wo­uld be ab­le to stop her.

  Fi­nal­ly, I catch my bre­ath. "I gu­ess you must be happy. To­night's the night you get Cam."

  "Yes." Her smi­le trans­forms in­to an evil scowl as I at­tempt to lo­ok as in­no­cent as pos­sib­le. I know it isn't wor­king; my fa­ce is bur­ning red, and I ha­ve to lo­ok away from her in­ten­se gla­re. "With or wit­ho­ut yo­ur help."

  I ha­ve to clamp my mo­uth shut to ke­ep my te­eth from chat­te­ring. "What do­es that me­an? You've won. He wants to go with you now."

  At this po­int, that pro­bably isn't a lie.

  She smi­les, al­most warmly. "Of co­ur­se he do­es. He has no re­ason to stay he­re. But, you see, the­re is one is­sue that is tro­ub­ling me. We only ha­ve one op­por­tu­nity to ma­ke su­re Ca­me­ron re­turns to his thro­ne in the Se­elie Co­urt, and I can't ta­ke any chan­ces. I ne­ed to do everyt­hing in my po­wer to en­su­re he cros­ses over as plan­ned, even if it me­ans re­mo­ving cer­ta­in pos­si­bi­li­ti­es. Do you un­ders­tand what I am sa­ying?" I nod numbly.

  "You see, I get the fe­eling he still thinks he has a re­ason to stay."

  "And you think that re­ason is me."

  "It is un­fat­ho­mab­le that he wo­uld gi­ve up his ro­yal birth­right for a com­mon hu­man, but it se­ems so.'' Her eyes nar­row. "You think you're so cle­ver be­ca­use you can so­me­how see me when ot­her hu­mans can­not. But you're still just a hu­man. You'll ne­ver be a match for us."

  I clench my fists and ste­el myself, fe­eling je­alo­usy bur­ning in my chest. She ob­vi­o­usly hasn't be­en in this world long eno­ugh to re­ali­ze that all the fa­iry ma­gic in the world co­uldn't ri­val the ve­nom of an angry Ita­li­an. "Lo­ok. I know that you're just un­der or­ders. And I know you'll die if you don't de­li­ver Cam back to Ot­her­world. So I un­ders­tand why you're get­ting so, um, in­ten­se. But re­al­ly… Cam wants to go."

  She smi­les aga­in. "Why don't I be­li­eve you?" She lo­oks in­to the mir­ror, adj­usts a wisp of pla­ti­num ha­ir be­hind her ear, and sne­ers, "Oh, I know. Be­ca­use right now-, that pat­he­tic hu­man sla­ve boy is out on the bal­cony, trying to co­ax Ca­me­ron to stay."

  I fre­eze, fe­el a trick­le of swe­at sli­ding down my rib ca­ge.

  "And I won­der who put him up to that?" She fa­ces me, put­ting her hands on her hips. "The ans­wer is ob­vi­o­us. That sla­ve has be­en in­fa­tu­ated with you fo­re­ver. He used to watch you cons­tantly from Ot­her­world, lon­ging to be in Ca­me­ron's pla­ce."

  I swal­low. "He did?"

  Her eyes wi­den. "Oh, you didn't know that? He thinks it sho­uld ha­ve be­en his. But the fact is, he's no match for Ca­me­ron. Even you wo­uldn't want him."

  I sha­ke my he­ad ve­he­mently “That's not true." She smi­les, sa­tis­fi­ed. “I know." Her eyes bo­re in­to me. "It do­esn't exp­la­in, tho­ugh, why you we­re plan­ning on sen­ding him back in Ca­me­ron's pla­ce.''

  I bi­te my lip. I gu­ess we we­re no match for the fa­iri­es.

  "Do you think I didn't know what you we­re whis­pe­ring abo­ut?''

  I fe­el my fin­ger­na­ils dig­ging in­to my palms, and my kne­es tremb­le. "Well, then, why don't you just kill me now?"

  Not wan­ting to gi­ve her any ide­as or anyt­hing.

  I ma­de a pro­mi­se to Ca­me­ron that I wo­uldn't kill you," she says, sha­king her he­ad as if she wis­hed she hadn't and wo­uld lo
­ve to squ­e­eze her hands aro­und my thro­at.

  I bre­at­he a sigh of re­li­ef

  "But," she says softly, mo­ving so clo­se to my che­ek that I fe­el com­pel­led to ta­ke a step back­ward, "the­re are ot­her ways. You hu­mans ha­ve many we­ak­nes­ses that we fa­iri­es do not ha­ve."

  I sta­re at her, not qu­ite get­ting what she me­ans. "As in?"

  She ig­no­res me. "And per­haps not only will they help me ac­hi­eve my go­al of ma­king Ca­me­ron our king, but they will al­so ha­ve the ad­ded ad­van­ta­ge of ma­king you reg­ret every last day you spend in this world. And that wo­uld be qu­ite sa­tisf­ying, I think."

  She can't kill me for trying to ke­ep Ca­me­ron he­re, but may­be… may­be she wo­uld just ma­im me? I shrink aga­inst the cold, ti­led wall, pre­pa­ring for the blow.

  Inste­ad, she simply tos­ses her ha­ir. "Glad we had this talk," she says, stri­ding out the do­or.

  I turn back to the sink and my ref­lec­ti­on, my skin now as­hen un­der the blush I just ap­pli­ed. My hands are sha­king so much that they can't even hold on to the ed­ge of the co­un­ter for sup­port. I'm not su­re I re­mem­ber how to bre­at­he.

  Chapter Forty-five

  I STAY ALO­NE in the rest­ro­om un­til the gu­ests start to ar­ri­ve. The go­od thing is that Dawn pro­bably won’t harm me if I stay he­re, out of the way of her "plan," but the bad thing is that my mot­her will if I spend the en­ti­re party in the lav. I must ha­ve left my cell at ho­me in all the con­fu­si­on, so the only re­ason I know that it's af­ter ni­ne is that whi­le I'm sit­ting in a stall, ho­ping to avo­id Pip, Cam, and Dawn as much as pos­sib­le for the next fo­ur ho­urs, two girls walk in who so­und sus­pi­ci­o­usly li­ke Jacin­ta and Janel­la Cru­ise. They're se­ni­ors that Cam in­sis­ted on in­vi­ting be­ca­use they've da­ted just abo­ut every se­ni­or on the fo­ot­ball te­am at one ti­me or anot­her, so, in his eyes, they're con­si­de­red part of the Hawks fo­ot­ball fa­mily. In my eyes, they're skanks. Pat­he­tic fo­ot­ball gro­upi­es. Not to men­ti­on that they're both as dumb as stumps. But I gu­ess I was in a for­gi­ving mo­od when we put the gu­est list to­get­her all tho­se months ago.

  They go in­to stalls on eit­her si­de of me, chat­te­ring away li­ke they'll blow up if they stop tal­king for even ten se­conds. The one on the right-I can't tell which, be­ca­use not only do they lo­ok comp­le­tely ali­ke, they both ha­ve iden­ti­cal high-pitc­hed vo­ices that can gra­te che­ese-says, "Oh. My. God. Did you he­ar abo­ut Si­er­ra?"

  Who hadn't he­ard abo­ut Si­er­ra? The only truly shoc­king thing he­re wo­uld be if Jacin­ta and Janel­la ac­tu­al­ly knew how to pro­no­un­ce "Har­vard."

  They both start to pee at exactly the sa­me ti­me, which is just pla­in fre­aky, as the one to the left of me squ­e­aks, "No, whuh?"

  Obvi­o­usly tal­king and pe­e­ing at the sa­me ti­me is a chal­len­ge for her.

  Righty says, "Oh. My. God. It’s so, li­ke. Hor­rib­le. Li­ke. She was, li­ke, ca­ught che­ating on her cal­cu­lus exam. Li­ke, se­ri­o­usly!"

  Lefty gasps. "Se­ri­o­usly? Li­ke. Oh. My. God!"

  I’d be­en do­od­ling on a pi­ece of to­ilet pa­per with my eye­li­ner, but I stop and stand up. They both flush at the sa­me ti­me (of co­ur­se), and they're such po­wer­ful flus­hes, I find myself wil­ling the to­ilets to qu­i­et down so that I don't miss any of the con­ver­sa­ti­on.

  "She must, li­ke, be in so­o­o­oo much tro­ub­le."

  They're was­hing the­ir hands at the sink. One of them gets a hold of so­me aero­sol ha­ir spray and starts to spray it, con­ti­nu­o­usly, for abo­ut three mi­nu­tes. This do­es not­hing to help me dis­tin­gu­ish bet­we­en the two, be­ca­use both Janel­la and Jacin­ta ha­ve no­to­ri­o­usly crispy ha­ir.

  "Li­ke, ye­ah. Li­ke, I think they ex­pel­led her or so­met­hing. Li­ke, so, go­odb­ye, gra­du­ati­on. Go­odb­ye, fu­tu­re. Go­odb­ye-"

  "Har­vard," I say to myself, da­zed. Hel­lo Mid­dle­sex Com­mu­nity Col­le­ge. So my vi­si­on… wasn't wrong?

  A full ten se­conds pass be­fo­re I re­ali­ze they've go­ne comp­le­tely si­lent.

  "Li­ke. Who's in the­re?" one of them sho­uts thro­ugh the clo­sed do­or.

  Damn, had I sa­id that alo­ud?

  I stand the­re, very still and si­lent, ho­ping that the­ir tiny minds, which can only fo­cus on one thing at a ti­me, will mo­ve on to the pretty so­aps sha­ped li­ke ducks on the sink.

  "Li­ke, show yo­ur­self," the ot­her says, stan­ding firm.

  "No comp­ren­do, " I say softly. "Ba­ja en el as­cen­sor."

  A few mo­re se­conds of si­len­ce. "Li­ke, that me­ans they ate too much che­ese " one fi­nal­ly says.

  "Ew. Li­ke, let’s get out of he­re."

  The­ir he­els go clip-clop­ping along the marb­le, to­ward the do­or. "Did you see Cam? He's li­ke, the hot­test…" is the last thing I he­ar be­fo­re the­ir vo­ices tra­il out of ears­hot.

  I re­le­ase the le­ver and slowly open the do­or, still thin­king abo­ut Si­er­ra. I know that this ti­me next ye­ar, she'll pro­bably be wal­king to class on the Mid­dle­sex Com­mu­nity Col­le­ge cam­pus. And I know that my vi­si­ons are al­ways, al­ways right. Pip is sta­ying he­re with me.

  My ref­lec­ti­on sta­res back at me, wi­de-eyed and un­su­re. Be­fo­re the pros­pect of lo­sing Cam exis­ted, I'd ne­ver lo­oked so pat­he­tic. I was to­ugh. I to­ok no pri­so­ners. If a fa­iry wan­ted to hurt me, I'd tell her whe­re to go, wit­ho­ut the help of any guy. And I'd ne­ver qu­es­ti­on my fe­elings, ever.

  Pip is sta­ying he­re with me. Cam is go­ing to be king of Ot­her­world. That is the way it is sup­po­sed to be.

  For the first ti­me, I think that may­be, just may­be, everyt­hing will be all right.

  I squ­int at myself and whis­per, "Ti­me to ta­ke cont­rol of yo­ur des­tiny." Then I press my lips to­get­her to get my lip gloss on evenly, ma­ke su­re the posts of my ear­rings are on se­cu­rely, smo­oth out the front of my dress, open the do­or, and step out­si­de.

  Chapter Forty-six

  EDEN IS THE first per­son to gre­et me when I co­me out. "Gre­et," tho­ugh, is too ni­ce a word. She ne­arly mows me down on the way to the rest­ro­om She's we­aring the ni­ce oran­ge chif­fon dress we pic­ked out at Macy’s to­get­her that works so well with her red ha­ir. I ex­pec­ted she’d put her corksc­rews in­to an up­do, but they're all down aro­und her sho­ul­ders, and rat­her rat’s-nesty. And I don't think she has any ma­ke­up on at all. If she’d only be­en he­re an ho­ur ago, when I was in the midst of my bre­ak­down, I wo­uld ha­ve be­en in go­od com­pany.

  'Mor­gan," she mut­ters, not at all glad to see me. It’s a to­tal 180 from the gi­ant cup­ca­ke and early-se­ason Ame­ri­can Idol ren­di­ti­on of "Happy Birth­day" she pre­sen­ted me with ear­li­er in the day. She se­ems da­zed, so it do­esn't surp­ri­se me when she blinks twi­ce at me and says, aga­in, "Mor­gan."

  "Ye­ah, that's me," I say, and im­me­di­ately I know exactly what is on her mind. Mi­ke Ken­sing­ton. Eit­her he bro­ke up with her or may­be she saw him with anot­her guy, but the fact of the mat­ter is, I was right.

  Aga­in.

  Ye­ah, baby.

  "Mi­ke?" I ask simply.

  A te­ar sli­des down her che­ek as she nods ever so subtly. "Why didn't you tell me?" she mo­ans.

  I put my arms aro­und her. "Oh, hon. I'm sorry."

  We stand the­re for a whi­le, just hug­ging each ot­her. I fe­ed her pa­per to­wels un­til the ti­de of te­ars ebbs.

  "Lo­ok," I say, wrap­ping my arm aro­und her sho­ul­ders and le­ading her away from the bath­ro­om. We­re in the lobby, sur­ro­un­ded by funky sculp­tu­res of na­ti­ve Af­ri­cans with spe­ars, when I whis­per, "Do you know John Va�
�ughn?"

  "Who?"

  The guy has be­en fol­lo­wing her aro­und li­ke a puppy for we­eks, and yet she has no clue.

  "He's cu­te. He's be­en as­king abo­ut you fo­re­ver. You sho­uld go dan­ce with him.”

  "Uh, okay," she says as I le­ad her in­to the ro­om.

  It's dark, and the mu­sic is ra­ging. The ro­om lo­oks li­ke one of the city's most hap­pe­ning clubs. A bunch of pe­op­le co­me up to me and say happy birth­day, and how the party is kic­kin', so I gu­ess I co­uld ha­ve spent all night in the la­di­es' ro­om and it wo­uldn't ha­ve ma­de any dif­fe­ren­ce. The ro­om is so pac­ked and dark that ever­yo­ne se­ems pres­sed to­get­her li­ke one big pe­op­le sand­wich, and I can ba­rely ma­ke out a so­ul.

  Dawn is now­he­re in sight, or el­se I'm su­re the ma­le half of the stu­dent body wo­uld be crow­ding aro­und her. And nor­mal­ly, Cam wo­uld ha­ve sto­od he­ad and sho­ul­ders abo­ve ever­yo­ne. Now, he's comp­le­tely lost among the bo­di­es. At le­ast, to me he is. "Eden, do you see Cam?" I ask.

  She's gi­ving me a "duh" lo­ok in the light of the stro­be. "Ye­ah, right the­re. You ne­ed to get the presc­rip­ti­on on yo­ur con­tacts chec­ked."

  She po­ints to­ward the DJ, and I still can’t see him, so I mo­ve for­ward a lit­tle, un­til I catch John and so­me of his ot­her fo­ot­ball bud­di­es, stan­ding to­get­her on the ed­ge of the dan­ce flo­or. They lo­ok as if they're stan­ding be­si­de a swim­ming po­ol, tes­ting the wa­ter, de­ci­ding whet­her to jump in. As I mo­ve aro­und the bo­di­es, I fi­nal­ly no­ti­ce him, lo­oking so small and de­li­ca­te next to the big boys, it’s scary. One of them co­uld step on him, squ­ash him, and ba­rely no­ti­ce.