Fairy Tale

by Cyn Balog

  "Per­fect," I say, then bre­ak in­to the crowd. "John, you know Eden. Eden, this is John. Go dan­ce."

  They lo­ok at each ot­her for a mo­ment, and then John shrugs. Eden shrugs back, and they're off. This is how so­me of the gre­atest matc­hes in the his­tory of the world we­re ma­de, I'm su­re. I’d ex­pect them to na­me the­ir first child af­ter me if I we­ren't now so cer­ta­in that my vi­si­on of her tal­king to her Pre­ci­o­us Mo­ments fi­gu­ri­nes was right.

  Cam flas­hes a hol­low smi­le up at me, lo­oking ner­vo­us. Who can bla­me him? At the stro­ke of mid­night his li­fe is go­ing to chan­ge fo­re­ver. "Ha­ving fun?" I ask.

  "Ye­ah. You?"

  "We ne­ed to talk " I say. "Badly."

  "I know."

  The words are still co­ming out of his mo­uth when my mot­her taps me on the sho­ul­der. "The­re you are, hon!" she says brightly, tho­ugh I can tell it’s just her hos­tess's co­ver for mas­si­ve an­no­yan­ce. "We've be­en lo­oking all over for you. We’d li­ke to get so­me pic­tu­res. Co­me along."

  I gi­ve him a wor­ri­ed lo­ok as she pulls me away. A gro­up of girls im­me­di­ately sur­ro­und him, as­king for a dan­ce, tho­ugh every one of them is ne­arly twi­ce his si­ze. He mo­ves bet­we­en them and mo­uths the words, "Back bal­cony. Ele­ven-thirty?"

  "Okay," I say, won­de­ring if thirty mi­nu­tes is go­ing to be eno­ugh to sort this all out. I ne­eded mo­re ti­me than that to pick the nap­kins.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  MY MOT­HER GETS me in every con­ce­ivab­le po­se su­itab­le for a swe­et six­te­en, every one of them inc­re­asingly corny, li­ke hol­ding a ro­se, fi­xing my ha­ir, and her fa­mo­us "Lo­ok back to yes­ter­day," whe­re I ha­ve my hands on my hips, he­ad tur­ned, and am glan­cing over my sho­ul­der. I ne­ver sho­uld ha­ve let my fat­her buy that di­gi­tal ca­me­ra for her birth­day last ye­ar. I comp­la­in that I'm mis­sing out on my own party, but she ke­eps sa­ying, "One day you’ll lo­ok back at the­se pic­tu­res and thank me." May­be, if I ha­ven't bur­ned them by then.

  Fi­nal­ly, I bre­ak free, and my mot­her calls af­ter me, "Don't for­get to go aro­und and thank ever­yo­ne for co­ming."

  I gro­an, thin­king that will ta­ke all night, but she's right; I wo­uld fe­el gu­ilty if I didn't talk to ever­yo­ne I've in­vi­ted. So by the ti­me I ma­ke the ro­unds with my fa­ke smi­le, "Thank you for co­ming!'' has be­en fo­re­ver tat­to­o­ed in­to my psyche. I've ma­na­ged to snatch only one ba­con-wrap­ped scal­lop all night, but as I'm he­ading over to the buf­fet li­ne, so­me­one taps me on the sho­ul­der.

  "Thank you for-" I be­gin li­ke I'm on crack, des­pe­ra­tely sa­li­va­ting for a chic­ken fin­ger. But at that mo­ment I'm sta­ring right in­to Pip's blue eyes. I lo­ok away and mumb­le "-co­ming."

  He's stan­ding with hands in poc­kets, eyeb­rows ra­ised, lo­oking very re­la­xed, con­si­de­ring what's co­ming to­night. The ro­om is warm, but I find myself shi­ve­ring. He says, "How are you?"

  "Fi­ne," I say. "Did you talk to Cam?"

  "Everyt­hing is still on plan.”

  My pos­tu­re stif­fens. "Lis­ten, abo­ut that… I may ha­ve be­en wrong. I think Cam is me­ant to be in Ot­her­world."

  He sha­kes his he­ad. "No. I spo­ke to Cam. He wants to be with you."

  I didn't re­ali­ze Pip co­uld be that per­su­asi­ve. "Then we ne­ed to talk to him, to tell him-"

  He puts his hand out for me to stop. "The­re is not­hing to tell him. He is po­si­ti­ve he wants to stay with you."

  "No, you don't get it. It won't work. My vi­si­ons are al­ways right. The one I had of you wal­king in le­aves-it's right. So the plan will fa­il. We sho­uld just gi­ve up now, be­fo­re Dawn do­es so­met­hing that-"

  He sha­kes his he­ad. "You're let­ting yo­ur vi­si­ons gu­ide you aga­in?"

  "No, you don't un­ders­tand. I want…" I be­gin. How can I tell him? He­re he is, ever so wil­ling to go back to Ot­her­world, his own per­so­nal hell. He ne­ver fo­ught it, des­pi­te what Dawn sa­id abo­ut him be­ing in­fa­tu­ated with me. Is it just be­ca­use I as­ked? He's so wil­ling to do wha­te­ver I say, just be­ca­use I ask it of him? So why do­esn't he fight? If he ca­res abo­ut me, why is he so wil­ling to le­ave? My thro­at clo­ses.

  We stand the­re awk­wardly for a mo­ment, and fi­nal­ly he le­ans in and says, "I was won­de­ring if you wo­uld dan­ce with me."

  It's only then I no­ti­ce we’re on the dan­ce flo­or. "You know my track re­cord with that," I mumb­le, even tho­ugh so­met­hing in me wants des­pe­ra­tely to fe­el the warmth of his arms aro­und my body.

  "No tan­go, then. You can cho­ose."

  It fe­els very fa­iry ta­le to me, li­ke ever­yo­ne in the ro­om has di­sap­pe­ared and it's only him, ex­ten­ding his hand out to me. I gu­ess if this we­re a fa­iry ta­le, I'd know mo­re dan­ces. But as it is, I shrug and say, "Okay. Hug-and-sway."

  He ra­ises his eyeb­rows. "Hug-and…?"

  "Trust me, you'll get it."

  I pull him to the cen­ter of the flo­or and pla­ce his hands aro­und my wa­ist. Then I put my hands on his sho­ul­ders, so that the­re is still a ni­ce, res­pec­tab­le dis­tan­ce bet­we­en us. Tho­ugh Evil Mor­gan wants to pull him aga­inst me, I cont­rol her, sin­ce she wo­uld ha­ve got­ten me in­to so much tro­ub­le by now. "Now we just sway," I inst­ruct.

  "I see," he says, as if it ta­kes mo­re than two bra­in cells to mas­ter. "Li­ke this?"

  "You're a na­tu­ral," I say. Now that we’re this clo­se, I ha­ve tro­ub­le lo­oking him in the eye. I inch my ga­ze up, to stab­bing blue eyes that ob­vi­o­usly ha­ve no prob­lem me­eting mi­ne, then de­ci­de it's too risky and fo­cus on the next-best thing, his nost­ril. Nost­rils are not at all sexy. But his, per­fectly ro­und, wit­ho­ut a tra­ce of no­se ha­ir, kind of is…

  Con­t­rol. Find yo­ur Zen, Mor­gan.

  And yet, still I find myself tigh­te­ning my grip aro­und his neck, mo­ving ne­arer. I fe­el the stub­ble of his chin aga­inst my che­ek and his bre­ath in my ear. I don't want it to stop, ever, so I rest my he­ad on his sho­ul­der. It's so com­for­tab­le, as if I be­long the­re. How can he not fe­el this, too?

  But that's when I open my eyes and fo­cus on Eden. She's stan­ding just a few yards away, in her own hug-and-sway with John, but they're comp­le­tely still. Ga­ping at me. Eden mo­uths, "What the hell are you-"

  I snap my he­ad up and pull away from him. "You're le­aving to­night," I squ­e­ak out, my lo­wer lip tremb­ling. He nods, con­fu­si­on daw­ning on his fa­ce, and tri­es to pull me to­ward him. "I know. We're just dan­cing."

  Is that all we­re do­ing? Why do­es it fe­el li­ke so much mo­re to me? And why do­esn't it to him?

  "Why do you want to le­ave me?"

  It's only then I no­ti­ce a fresh outb­re­ak of te­ars on my che­eks. Pip puts his palms out in front of him to stop me. "Okay. Shh. Calm down."

  A ting­le runs down my neck. I push on his chest and say, "I've got to go," then hurry out to the lobby, my lungs bur­ning for air. It's only 11:15, but when I run out to the bal­cony, I gasp li­ke a baby ta­king its first bre­ath.

  The ra­in has let up, and the mo­on is pe­eking thro­ugh a small, squ­are cu­to­ut of clo­uds. Out in this sil­ver light, it's fi­nal­ly pe­ace­ful. The bal­cony is en­ca­sed in gle­aming whi­te marb­le, and clim­bing along every inch of the walls is ivy. The­re are gi­ant sto­ne fo­un­ta­ins fil­led with whi­te chrysant­he­mums, and I think that if I hi­de be­hind one of them, I might ne­ver ha­ve to go back in­si­de.

  "I’m sorry. Did I do so­met­hing wrong?"

  Pip is stan­ding next to me. I've be­en so busy trying to catch my bre­ath, I'm not su­re how he got he­re. "Go away. Just…"

  I ex­pect him to turn and le­ave, ta­il b
et­we­en his legs, as al­ways. But ins­te­ad, he stands firm. '"No."

  I lo­ok up at him. "What?"

  He's not lis­te­ning. He's sta­ring at the gro­und, the dumb guy, to­tal­ly ig­no­ring me. Be­fo­re I can grab him by the sho­ul­ders, turn him away, and sho­ut, "March!" he says softly, "Tho­se tho­ughts you we­re ha­ving. The ones you tal­ked abo­ut last night. We­re they abo­ut me?"

  I fre­eze, then hug my sho­ul­ders. "No, I-"

  "Be­ca­use I've had so­me abo­ut you."

  I’m still trying to co­me up with so­met­hing, ot­her than him, that tho­se tho­ughts co­uld ha­ve be­en abo­ut, so I don't qu­ite he­ar him. "Re­al­ly?"

  "Actu­al­ly, mo­re than so­me. Every night, even sin­ce be­fo­re I left Ot­her­world. Every night," he says, sha­king his he­ad. He puts his fin­ger to his temp­le and says, "It’s li­ke you've be­en in he­re fo­re­ver.”

  My he­art be­gins to be­at wildly as I re­ali­ze that, yes, that's exactly how it fe­els. It fe­els li­ke I've known him just as long as, if not lon­ger than, I've known Cam. How is that pos­sib­le?

  "Then why are you so wil­ling to le­ave me?" I ask.

  He sits be­si­de me, a grim smi­le on his fa­ce, and to­uc­hes my arm. "You think I want to le­ave?"

  "You ne­ver fo­ught aga­inst it. You just ac­cep­ted it so easily. Too easily."

  The mo­on di­sap­pe­ars, and a thin driz­zle starts, cas­ting an eerie fog over the bal­cony. I turn to­ward him, and his eyes are mol­ten, in­ten­se. I can ba­rely re­cog­ni­ze that lo­ok. Things ha­ve al­ways be­en a cont­rol­led bla­ze for Cam and me; the fi­re has ne­ver bur­ned be­yond that. Not li­ke this. Not so that I fe­el every ha­ir on my body stan­ding on end, not so that I for­get whe­re I am, who I am. "But… isn't this wrong?" are all the words my mo­uth can form.

  He isn't lis­te­ning, be­ca­use he puts a hand un­der my chin and tilts it to him, and when our lips to­uch, the­re's a he­at I ha­ven't felt be­fo­re, ever. He tas­tes li­ke mint and his lips are as soft as Cam’s, but this kiss is dif­fe­rent, mo­re un­su­re. I to­uch his che­ek, softly, and he pulls away. That's when I spot, out of the co­mer of my eye, a clo­ud of de­ep black­ness on the ver­ge of co­ve­ring us. Pip must see it too, be­ca­use he grabs my wrist and pulls me out of the way be­fo­re a gi­ant tree branch can slam down on­to the bal­cony, shat­te­ring with a de­afe­ning crack.

  "Dawn," he sho­uts, us­he­ring me to a cor­ner of the bal­cony. "She did that."

  I stand the­re, da­zed, as a tor­rent of ha­il be­gins to fall. At first, it's only small bits, but so­on, the­re are ten­nis balls. He pulls me un­der an eave and ho­vers be­fo­re me li­ke a shi­eld. Pro­tec­ting me.

  "This is bad" are the only words I can get out. "We ha­ve to ma­ke her stop."

  He wi­pes his mo­uth with his hand and lo­oks down at me. "I am sorry. I don't know what I was thin­king. Tell me what you want me to do, and I will do it."

  "For true lo­ve, right?" I mut­ter as the shards of ice crash aro­und us. "The­re you go, sac­ri­fi­cing yo­ur­self aga­in."

  He lo­oks con­fu­sed.

  "Why do­es it ha­ve to be up to me? Why don't you tell me what you want, for on­ce?"

  He co­wers li­ke a wo­un­ded ani­mal. "Are you angry at me?"

  I'm only then awa­re that I've be­en ra­ising my vo­ice. "Yes, I am. If you want me, why don't you say you do? Why do you just sit the­re and let yo­ur­self be ta­ken ad­van­ta­ge of?"

  "Be­ca­use I want you to be happy," he mur­murs, lo­oking stric­ken. "Cam ma­kes you happy. You lo­ve him, and-"

  "I lo­ve you, you idi­ot," I sho­ut at him, po­king him so fi­er­cely that he col­lap­ses, limp, on a sto­ne bench. And its only when I say it alo­ud that I know, for su­re, that its true. "I lo­ve you. I lo­ve you. Do you he­ar me?"

  As sud­denly as it be­gan, the storm stops, and an eerie si­len­ce pre­va­ils. Pip is sta­ring up at me, exp­res­si­on­less, when I he­ar a no­ise co­ming from the ivy-dra­ped back ent­ran­ce, and we both turn.

  Stan­ding the­re among the sha­dows, lo­oking small and vul­ne­rab­le, is Cam.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  CAM WALKS TO­WARD us, hands al­most el­bow-de­ep in his poc­kets. For on­ce in our li­ves, his exp­res­si­on is comp­le­tely un­re­adab­le to me. I open my mo­uth to spe­ak, but be­fo­re I can, Pip be­gins to mo­an, a low, gurg­ling so­und fil­ling his thro­at. We both turn in ti­me to see a tend­ril of ivy sna­ke aro­und his neck, pul­ling it­self tigh­ter, so that his fa­ce be­gins to red­den. Im­me­di­ately, I rush to his si­de and be­gin to claw at it.

  "Dawn!" Cam sho­uts to the pink clo­ud swir­ling in the air abo­ve us. "Stop it!"

  It’s tightly aro­und his neck, dig­ging in­to his skin. Pip is cla­wing, too, but it's use­less. As so­on as I think it’s abo­ut to lo­osen, anot­her strand slinks for­ward and wraps aro­und his leg, drag­ging him to­ward the si­de of the bu­il­ding. I grasp his hand to ke­ep him with me, but he’s be­ing pul­led, his fe­et etc­hing two tra­ils in the ha­il-co­ve­red marb­le flo­or. "Cam!" I yell at him "She's got to stop."

  I lo­ok at Pip, who­se fa­ce is lo­sing all exp­res­si­on. He's still gag­ging, but his eyes are clo­sed. The­re isn't much ti­me. "Ple­ase, don't," I whis­per help­les­sly.

  Dawn ap­pe­ars from be­hind the fo­un­ta­in, na­vi­ga­ting bet­we­en ha­ils­to­nes with her fo­ur-inch he­els. "Ca­me­ron," she says, al­most ple­adingly, "don't ha­te me."

  "Let him go!" Cam and I sho­ut at her in uni­son.

  Cam rus­hes her, fists clenc­hed, grow­ling, "You pro­mi­sed!" but she simply ex­tends one ma­ni­cu­red fin­ger at him, and he fre­ezes in pla­ce.

  "I pro­mi­sed I wo­uldn't try to harm Mor­gan," she says to him. "I ne­ver sa­id anyt­hing abo­ut the sla­ve boy. I'm sorry, Ca­me­ron, that it has co­me to this. I re­al­ly wis­hed you wo­uldn't fight it."

  I find myself spraw­led out on the marb­le, Pips li­fe­less body by my si­de. “Ple­ase don't hurt him," I beg. "I'll do wha­te­ver you say."

  Dawn sighs. She lo­oks up at the mo­on and says, "It's Ca­me­ron who has to ag­ree."

  I lo­ok at Cam, who­se fa­ce is still fro­zen in a scowl. I see a soft­ness in his eyes, and bit by bit, li­fe re­turns to his fa­ce and limbs aga­in. He se­arc­hes my fa­ce, and I nod at him, wil­ling him to ans­wer her, bring this night­ma­re to an end. Then he turns to Dawn and says, "I ag­ree to co­me with you."

  I ex­ha­le, both in fe­ar and re­li­ef So­me­how, I’d ne­ver tho­ught I’d he­ar tho­se words.

  But now I know it's me­ant to be.

  "Per­fect," she says. The ivy no­ose lo­osens aro­und Pip’s neck. His fa­ce is cold and whi­te, li­ke the mo­on. As I to­uch it, she con­ti­nu­es. "I knew Mor­gan wo­uld sac­ri­fi­ce anyt­hing to co­me to that sla­ve’s res­cue. I think that of all the many we­ak­nes­ses hu­mans ha­ve, lo­ve is the gre­atest."

  I can he­ar Ca­me­ron bre­aking free from the spell be­hind me. He hud­dles over my sho­ul­der. "Is he okay?"

  "I don't know. I think he ne­eds an am­bu­lan­ce."

  Dawn puts a hand on Cam's sho­ul­der and says, "My king, are you re­ady?"

  "One sec," he says. He ma­kes a mo­ve to wa­ve her away, and that's when we both no­ti­ce it. The­re's a bright purp­le fla­me on the tip of each of his fin­gers.

  "What is that?" I mur­mur, unab­le to bre­ak my sta­re.

  He re­ac­hes in­to the poc­ket of his jac­ket and pulls out the wrist-watch I'd gi­ven him ear­li­er to­day. He shows it to me. "Mid­night."

  "Yo­ur po­wers?"

  He shrugs. "Let's see." He re­ac­hes down and to­uc­hes Pip on the hand. Im­me­di­ately, Pip's body' starts to glis­ten in yel­low light from he­ad to toe, and he be­gins to stir. As Pip's eye­lids
flut­ter, Cam, the gre­at king of Ot­her­world, proc­la­ims, "Whoa."

  "‘Whoa' is right" I say. I sta­re at Cam, bre­ath­less, as the light en­ve­lops him, stretc­hing aro­und his body. As a fa­iry, he's mo­re be­a­uti­ful than he ever was in hu­man form.

  "I gu­ess I ne­ed to go," he says.

  "The por­tal is open?" I ask. "Whe­re?"

  "It's not a physi­cal one, Boo. You can't see it." We both turn to lo­ok at Pip, who­se fa­ce is be­gin­ning to re­cap­tu­re a bit of the co­lor it had lost. He says, "It's okay, you know."

  "What do you me­an?"

  He ta­kes me to the bench and sits down be­si­de me. The mo­on has ma­de a re­ap­pe­aran­ce, and he tilts his he­ad up to it. "You and Pip."

  I catch a sob in my thro­at. "You're not angry?"

  He sha­kes his he­ad. "This was sup­po­sed to hap­pen. Pip was al­ways sup­po­sed to ha­ve be­en in my pla­ce. Now, everyt­hing is right."

  I sigh. "No, if everyt­hing we­re right, I’d still ha­ve you. I want you he­re, with me."

  He puts his hands aro­und mi­ne, and they fe­el fra­gi­le and small, li­ke dolls' hands. "But I am a fa­iry. Part of me has al­ways wan­ted to be in Ot­her­world. I've even dre­amed abo­ut it."

  "You ne­ver told me that."

  He says, "It's my ho­me."

  "And this isn't?"

  "No, not any­mo­re. The only thing that wo­uld ke­ep me he­re is you. I'd ne­ver le­ave if you didn't want me to. But I ne­ver do­ub­ted that you wo­uld be fi­ne."

  "I don't know abo­ut…" I be­gin, but my vo­ice tra­ils off when I re­ali­ze he's right.

  "The po­int is, stop do­ub­ting yo­ur­self. You can do anyt­hing you want to do. And you don't ne­ed me for that. You ne­ver did."