Fairy Tale

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Fairy Tale Page 21

by Cyn Balog


  I fe­el a te­ar sli­de down my che­ek. "You know I lo­ve you. One, two, three," I say, brin­ging the mid­dle three fin­gers to my lips.

  He grins, ta­kes my hand, and kis­ses it. "And fo­ur, fi­ve, six. And se­ven, eight, ni­ne. And on and on. I know. And I do, too. No mat­ter what world I'm in."

  We le­an our he­ads to­get­her, and our kiss is shaky and wet, be­ca­use I'm crying so hard that my who­le body he­aves with every bre­ath.

  "I ha­ve to go now," he says.

  "They say I won’t re­mem­ber you to­mor­row." I hold tight to his shirt. "But I will. I know I will."

  He stands up. "I left you a birth­day pre­sent back ho­me.”

  And with that, he lets go of my hands. I can still fe­el them smo­oth in my own when he fa­des slowly away, and then the driz­zle swirls, ghost­li­ke, thro­ugh the air that en­ve­lo­ped him.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  THE MOR­NING SUN fil­ters thro­ugh the blinds when I wa­ke that Sa­tur­day. I'm we­aring my pa­j­amas and my fa­ce has be­en scrub­bed cle­an, but everyt­hing abo­ut the night be­fo­re is a ha­ze. The party se­ems li­ke it hap­pe­ned de­ca­des ago. I can't re­call re­tur­ning to the party, the mu­sic dwind­ling in­to the night, sa­ying go­odb­ye to any of the gu­ests. All I can re­mem­ber are di­sj­o­in­ted flas­hes of the car ri­de ho­me, the si­de of my he­ad pres­sed aga­inst the co­ol win­dow, so­me­one's arms aro­und me. Fe­eling drowsy but com­for­tab­le. Lucky. Sa­fe.

  I pull up on my el­bows and im­me­di­ately see it, a lit­tle box al­most hid­den by a big pink bow on my nights­tand, right next to the rol­ler co­as­ter pic­tu­re. I un­tie the bow and open the lid, and find a be­a­uti­ful, so­lid-gold for­tu­ne co­okie on a cha­in. Lif­ting it from its cot­ton ga­uze bed and tur­ning it in my fin­gers, I see a hin­ge in the cen­ter. I slowly open the co­okie and pull out a mes­sa­ge that says, MOR­GAN SPARKS CAN DO ANYT­HING.

  I smi­le for a mo­ment, then le­an back in my bed, sa­vo­ring it. Yes, at this mo­ment, I fe­el li­ke I can do anyt­hing. And may­be it’s be­ca­use I can’t re­mem­ber the res­pon­si­bi­li­ti­es of yes­ter­day, but it fe­els li­ke so much mo­re. I'm six­te­en. The world is bright and fil­led with pos­si­bi­li­ti­es.

  I see mo­re mar­kings on the back of the pa­per, so I turn it over and re­ad: MA­GIC NUM­BERS: 1-2-3.

  I lo­ok at it. Lo­ok away. Then lo­ok back aga­in. For so­me re­ason, it fe­els li­ke the­re is a de­eper me­aning the­re.

  Thro­wing on my ho­odie and je­ans, I fas­ten the cha­in aro­und my neck and he­ad to the sta­irs. When I'm half­way down, I grin. Stan­ding the­re, lo­oking out the win­dow, we­aring a ba­se­ball cap and je­ans and lo­oking ut­terly scrump­ti­o­us, is Pip. I fe­el li­ke I ha­ven't se­en him in ages, so I sho­ut, "Hey, you," from the top step as I bo­und down to me­et him.

  He turns, and auto­ma­ti­cal­ly I jump in­to his arms and gi­ve him a long, lin­ge­ring kiss. His arms aro­und me, that wo­odsy-cle­an scent I've co­me to know and lo­ve-it all fe­els so com­for­tab­le, so per­fect. "You know, I've wan­ted to do that fo­re­ver."

  "Mor­gan"-he la­ughs-"I saw you last night."

  "I know," I say, pul­ling him to me.

  "Are you re­ady to go?" he mur­murs, snug­gling in­to my ha­ir.

  I pull the neck­la­ce from aga­inst my neck and hold it up to him. "Lo­ok."

  He gi­ves me a qu­es­ti­oning glan­ce. "A for­tu­ne co­okie? Who ga­ve you that?"

  In a glim­mer, I re­mem­ber the na­me. It co­mes flo­oding back, everyt­hing, so much so that my he­art jumps. Bre­ath­les­sly, I say, "Cam."

  Pip's fa­ce is blank. "Who?"

  "Cam." I re­pe­at the na­me aga­in and aga­in. "He's in Ot­her­world. Don't you re­mem­ber?"

  He squ­ints at me, con­fu­sed but still grin­ning. "You've be­en re­ading too many fan­tasy bo­oks, I think."

  But I know it wasn't fan­tasy. I know it was re­al. And I re­mem­ber.

  Not so much the past, but the way I felt when we we­re to­get­her.

  It was a fe­eling li­ke I co­uld do anyt­hing.

  It's still he­re.

  And I know that's be­ca­use Cam is lo­oking out for me.

  10/13/2009

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  10/15/2009

 

 

 


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