by MJ Ware
"I knew you'd understand the seriousness of the situation," Kyle said, coming into the cabin. "My roommates thought I was being a whiny baby."
"Oh, no. This is beyond serious. Whoever did this is going down," I said, punching my left fist into my right hand in a threatening manner. "You want me to help you take him out?"
Kyle shook his head. "That's just it. I can't help you. You have to avenge the comic on your own."
"Why?" I asked confused. Kyle was more than capable of seeking revenge. He was an expert fencer and after knowing me all his life, he was awesome at pranks. Not quite as awesome as me, but good enough. "Is he too strong for you or something?"
After shaking his head again, Kyle said, "That's just it. It's not a he. The person who did this is a girl."
"A girl? There's a girl here? But Kyle, you're at a camp for boys."
"Yeah, I know. But Christine Kowalski is so mean and evil that she's been banned from every girl's camp in the state. Her parents actually wrote a congressman in order to get her to come here."
I plopped on the bed and picked up half of the comic book. "I understand your problem. If you beat up a girl, you're an evil bully. But if you let her beat you up, you're a sissy."
"I knew you'd understand," Kyle said sitting next to me on the bed and picking up the other half of the comic.
"No worries, Kyle. Let me at her. Christine the Mean is going down."
* * *
The rest of Kyle's camp was at breakfast. He led me around to the Mess Hall and I poked my head in so I could get a glimpse of Christine in action.
She was a not completely unattractive brunette who had definitely hit her growth spurt a bit early. She was only twelve or thirteen, but she was built like an eighteen-year-old linebacker for the University of Texas Longhorns. A couple of hours with me, some lip gloss, and a hairbrush and she would have looked relatively normal. But as it stood, she looked like a wildebeest.
Apparently, a week at Kyle's camp was long enough to earn her a reputation. She sat alone hunched over her breakfast shoveling eggs and hash browns in her mouth so fast I think she thought someone was going to steal it.
I felt kind of sorry for her in that moment. She was just a lonely, fashion-challenged teenager who probably needed a friend. My sympathy for her quickly faded away when I saw her stick her leg out and trip one of the other campers. The boy fell forward and busted his lip open on his tray.
When one of the counselors came around asking what happened, Christine burst into tears and claimed the boy had called her fat.
Oh, she was good. Men have no idea what to do around a crying teenage girl. It was a tactic I had used often with my patented Prissy Fit.
"See what I mean," Kyle said, nudging me in the side. "She's evil, ruthless and unstoppable. None of the counselors believe us when we tell them what she does to us. She filled Aiden's jock strap with fire ants. And she's been giving Lucas a wedgie every morning for a week."
"Say no more, Kyle. This is a job only a woman can handle."
* * *
After breakfast, each camper was supposed to return to his...or her cabin to wash up before their morning activities. Kyle showed me where Christine's cabin was and I broke in to wait for her.
While I was alone in her room, I decided to check things out a bit. I wondered if there was a reason why she was so awful and mean. I think I figured it out when I looked at her family pictures. Christine was the youngest of what looked like a family of supermodels. Seriously, she had four older sisters who were like six-foot beauty queens. And her parents looked like they were either selling toothpaste or running for office. In every picture, ugly duckling Christine looked like she wanted to punch her siblings and her parents in the face. I couldn't say I blamed her. They managed to annoy me just from their pictures alone. I couldn't imagine what it felt like to have that kind of standard to live up to and not even come close.
Maybe all Christine needed was someone to understand her. And, of course, that lip gloss and hair brush I suggested earlier. That would be where I'd start.
"What are you doing in my room?" a gruff voice said from behind. I spun around and stared right into the snarky, pimply face of Christine Kowalski.
"Calm down, Christy. I'm not doing anything," I said.
"You are doing something. You're sneaking around my room without permission. That translates to asking for a beat down in my language."
"And what language is that? Amazon or ogre?"
I heard snickering. Yeah, I hear things a lot actually. It's another one of my super powers. I would have been able to hear the snickering if it was like a mile away. But this wasn't a mile away. It was like a few feet away. I turned to see Kyle and two of his friends staring at us through Christine's window.
My split-second lapse in concentration resulted in a split lip as Christine landed a left hook to my face. She hit me so hard I lost my balance and fell on the bed.
"I don't know, Kyle," one of the boys outside said. "Your girlfriend may be cute, but look at how tiny she is. She's no match for Christine."
Hey, I'm cute? I thought as Christine picked me up and threw me on the ground. Wow, she was strong. But, fortunately, not as strong as me.
Christine jumped on top of me and went to punch me in the face. Instead, I grabbed her fist and pushed it back against her own face. "Why you hittin’ yourself?" I said, leaping to my feet. Immature, I know, but I couldn't resist.
Christine stood as well and came at me. I was too fast for her though and I stepped out of the way. She went crashing into the wall on the other side of the room and fell to the ground stunned. I pulled a chair from her desk to the middle of her room and then swiped the sheet off the bed.
I picked up Christine and tossed her into the chair. As I started to tie her up with the sheet, Kyle and his friends came in.
"Wow, I totally underestimated the little redhead," one of the boys said. "She may be tiny, but she's spunky."
"Never underestimate my Priss," Kyle added with a smile.
Is it wrong that I got tingles at the way he said my Priss? How cute.
"When I get out of this you're dead, Montgomery," Christine said to Kyle when I finished tying her up.
"Hey, no one threatens my man but me," I said, poking her in the shoulder. "And you might want to watch that attitude considering the position you're in right now."
"Don't worry, when I get out of this, you're dead too."
"I'm not so sure about that. I'm about to rip you in half just like you did to my comic book."
Kyle grabbed my elbow and pulled me to a corner of the room. "What exactly are you planning on doing to her? I don't really want you to hurt her or anything. I just wanted you to teach her a lesson."
I wasn't quite sure what I was going to do to her. She wasn't another specimen and she didn't have powers so I really could hurt her if I tried. It honestly wasn't a fair fight. I'd have to come up with another way to get through to her.
My eyes surveyed her room. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but when I saw her karaoke machine on top of her dresser I knew exactly what to do.
A smile spread across my face as walked over to it and clicked on the machine.
Kyle's eyes grew large. "Oh, no. No, Priss. Don't do it." He leaped across the room and snatched the microphone out of my hand. "Priss, the sound of your singing voice is so terrible it's considered torture in three states."
"Hey, that's a bold-faced lie!" I said, snatching the microphone back. "It's only two states. And really North and South Carolina are like one big state, anyway."
"Okay, guys, let's get out of here," Kyle said, pushing his friends out of the room. "Christine, I suggest you surrender now. You have no idea what you're in for."
Christine shrugged. "It can't be that bad."
* * *
Three hours later Kyle returned right during my fifth, and might I say best, rendition of "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion.
"Montgomery, Montgomery!" Christine
pleaded with tears in her eyes. "I'll do anything. Just make her stop. Please!"
Kyle smiled then unplugged the Karaoke machine.
"Hey, I was really feeling that one," I said.
"Montgomery, she's crazy. Please get her away from me. I'll clean your bathroom with my toothbrush. I'll take your Mess Hall duty for the rest of camp. I'll glue back your comic book page by page. Just please make her stop." That's when Christine the Mean burst into tears. "How do you take it? Does she do this all the time?"
I should have been insulted that my singing voice could move someone to tears, but I wasn't. I mean, part of growing up was learning and accepting your strength and weaknesses. And singing was definitely a weakness of mine. But I had learned how to use it to my advantage.
* * *
Three weeks later both Kyle and I got packages in the mail. Mine was a classic Superman comic. Not quite as valuable as the one that was destroyed, but it was pretty darn close. Inside Kyle's package was a set of designer...ear plugs.
About the Author
Read an excerpt from Sybil Nelson's Priscilla the Great.
Fair Price
By Laura Lond
Kian had no memory of his parents. In fact, up until now he had no idea of what parents were. As long as he could remember, he’d always lived with the tribe, and the tribe was his family. He never went hungry or cold, and if he was hurt or upset, one of the women would always be there to comfort him. Men were good to him, too. One gave Kian a knife, another made him a small spear. Kian loved watching men dance at the fire, their bodies slender and strong, sweat glistening over the spiral markings on their bare chests. Kian’s own markings were different, but he was still very proud of them and couldn’t wait for the day when he would be allowed to join the warriors in their dance.
Kian didn’t spend very much time around other children—he was perfectly happy on his own—yet he had eventually noticed that all of them had two people they called father and mother. That puzzled Kian. Nobody ever told him who his father and mother were. Maybe he was supposed to find them himself?
Kian gave it some thought and then approached Lyntia, a bright-eyed young woman who seemed to always have a piece of sweet bread or some milk for him.
"Are you my mother?" Kian asked.
"No," Lyntia quickly replied, averting her eyes.
"Then who is my mother? And my father? Do you know?"
The woman looked at him, as if uncertain, then rose and took his hand.
"Chief Kanga knows. He will tell you. Come."
Kian held his breath as he stepped into the chief’s tent. He’d never spoken to the chief of the tribe, whom he considered the greatest of all men, and never dreamed he would have such honor until he became a warrior.
Chief Kanga showed no surprise at the sight of Kian and Lyntia. He seemed to know right away what brought them into his presence. Having dismissed the woman with a slight nod, he motioned to Kian to come closer. Kian obeyed.
The big man was silent for a few moments, his keen dark eyes studying the boy.
"So you have been asking about your parents, Kian," he said at last.
"Yes, Chief Kanga. Lyntia says that you know who they are."
"I do. Your father is Takunak, a great chief and a mighty warrior."
Kian’s eyes widened at the name of the feared enemy. "Takunak? The chief of the Bemungi?" he exclaimed.
"Yes."
"But—but I am a Chaflak!"
Chief Kanga gave him a long, sad look.
"No, Kian. You grew up with Chaflaks, but you are a Bemungi. Look at your tribal markings; they are so different from ours. They are Bemungi markings."
Speechless, Kian regarded his chest and arms. He knew the pattern was different, but it never occurred to him to ask why.
"I don’t understand, Chief Kanga."
"Let me explain. There was a battle between Bemungi and Chaflaks. My brother was then the chief. Our tribe won, but only because Takunak and most of his warriors were away. We fled before they returned, taking no plunder—except for one of our men. Without my brother’s knowledge, he went to Takunak’s tent and took his little son. You, Kian."
The boy listened, not knowing whether he believed it or not.
"…But why?"
"To crush Takunak. To hit him in his very heart and defeat the Bemungi once and for all."
Kian said nothing. He was overwhelmed.
"That warrior wanted my brother to kill you, Kian," Chief Kanga continued. "But my brother was wiser than that. He knew that your death would only cause more bloodshed. He decided to raise you in our tribe."
The chief paused, as if to give the boy another chance to speak up or ask a question. When Kian remained silent, Chief Kanga went on.
"One day, your father will come for you. And on that day, Kian, you will tell him that our tribe has been your family, and that Chaflaks treated you as one of their own. It will be the best proof of our good will. We no longer wish to fight with Bemungi."
"My father will come for me?" Kian asked, getting worried. "Is he going to take me from the tribe?"
"He might."
"But I don’t know him! And he—he doesn’t know me! What if he hates me? He hates Chaflaks!"
"He does not hate you, Kian. You are his son. He may be thinking that he had lost you forever—that you are dead. And when he sees you alive and well, he will be happy, and he will know that Chaflaks want peace."
Kian lowered his head, taking it in. It wasn’t about him. It was about peace between Chaflaks and Bemungi. The thought brought tears to his eyes, and Kian hurried to look away, terrified that Chief Kanga would notice them. He was a man, a future warrior—a chief’s son. He shouldn’t cry.
"Why… Why didn’t you simply give me back to my father while I was still little?" he asked.
Chief Kanga shifted on his seat. "There was no way we could do that. You will understand more when you grow up to be a man. For now, you know enough. Go, and be proud, for you are the son of a strong man."
Kian stood there for another moment, then squared his shoulders, pressed his right hand to his heart, bowed to the chief and walked out of the tent.
Chief Kanga watched him go. His heart longed after his son, but he ordered it to be silent. It was the right decision. It was going to save the tribe. When he killed Takunak’s boy, he knew he had crossed the line. Drunk with the quick victory, he took the life of a helpless child—and realized just a minute later that it would bring death to his own tribe. The Bemungi were so much stronger; they were going to go after Chaflaks, and in his fury Takunak would wipe them out.
The decision came hard, but when the thought had first crossed his mind Kanga felt strong, deep assurance that this was the right way to go. It was a fair price. His own son was born not that long prior; he didn’t yet have the markings. Copying the Bemungi markings from the dead boy’s body was no difficult task—Kanga had done many tattoos before; switching the children and silencing those who knew what he did took more effort and wits.
His brother never found out. Kanga presented the boy to him as Takunak’s son and suggested to keep him alive as a trophy. It was a dangerous trophy, but Lagon, Kanga’s brother, loved danger. He agreed, delighted to have his enemy’s most precious possession. The tribe had been on the run for several months, fleeing from Takunak’s rage. Then Lagon was killed in a battle, and Kanga became the chief. He had announced to the tribe his intention to stop the war with Bemungi, and the role Kian was supposed to play in it. The tribe, tired of Lagon’s never-ending fighting, had gladly accepted the idea. Some wondered whether it would be best to go to Takunak and give him his child right away. Kanga couldn’t allow that. Kian was younger than Takunak’s boy. He needed time to grow enough so that no one would be able to tell the difference. For several more years Kanga kept inventing reasons why it wasn’t the right time to approach Takunak yet. But now—now he could give it some thought. Kian was getting old enough to speak for peace. Kanga would need to t
rain him some more.
No, he’d better assign someone else. He shouldn’t grow attached.
About The Author
Read an excerpt from Laura Lond's My Sparkling Misfortune.
The Emerald Key
By N.R. Wick
Holly Greene lay on her bed with her legs hung over the side as she stared at the ceiling. She stared so hard at the stucco above her that the random shapes turned into strange and even disturbing faces. It was supposed to snow any day now, which would provide perfect sleighing fun, but instead, sleet fell that morning in a way that would disappoint any child.
"Holly, my love. I’ve brought you cocoa," her mother said. The woman nudged Holly’s bedroom door open with her satin-clad hip, carrying a small tray with a thin, ornate mug set upon it. Holly perked up immediately and grinned.
"Thank you, Mom," she said and scooted to the edge of the bed. Her mother set the tray on the night table next to her headboard before she took a seat beside her.
"It must be terribly boring for you here, especially with the weather the way it is," she said. Holly leaned against her and inhaled; her mother always smelled of lavender. The smell comforted her, even when they were apart.
"It’s all right, Mom. I just wish I could go sledding in the garden."
"Well, when you finish your cocoa, you should go see Ms. Madeline. She was in the attic early this morning putting away some of my old chinaware and mentioned that she may have found something special for you."
Holly’s eyes lit up with excitement. "What is it? Did she tell you?"
"Possibly, but you should go find her and ask her to take you up there to get it."
Holly whooped and raised her fists into the air. With a smile, her mother kissed her forehead and left. Steam from the cocoa warmed Holly’s face as she lifted the mug carefully to her lips. It was too hot for her to drink, and the thought of waiting for it to cool made her patience wear thin. Instead, she set the cup back down and left to find Madeline.
* * *
A robust, older woman with a thick Russian accent greeted Holly as she entered the kitchen. "Good morning, Miss."