With a Kiss

by Stephanie Fowers

  Chapter Four

  But I, so wild,

  Your disgrace, with the queer brown face, was never,

  Never, I know, but half your child!

  In the garden at play, all day, last summer,

  Far and away I heard

  The sweet "tweet-tweet" of a strange new-comer

  —Charlotte Mew, The Changeling

  "You were wonderful!"

  What a lie, and the hilarious thing was that they believed it. My family surrounded me, hugging me. Already, a bright bouquet of flowers was tucked under my arm, the baby in the other. I blinked heavy eyes, trying hard to concentrate on the world around me. That trickster could be anywhere around here. At least I hoped so. I hadn't gotten far through the crowd of crying children and sleeping grandparents before my family grabbed me in the auditorium. Apparently this play was the best thing they had seen since . . . my last play.

  My mom enveloped me in another big hug, all brightness and smiles. "I've never laughed so hard." The laugh lines on her face showed differently. "What a great rendition of the play. We loved it!"

  My dad winked at me. It looked like he had come straight from work—he was still wearing his suit. "Good job, pumpkin." He put his arm around Daphne too. "The Starr girls were the stars of the play. And I'm not being biased."

  Daphne giggled and I sighed, resigning myself to my fate. This was going to take a while. My two youngest sisters, Kelsey and Leslie, flocked around me, bursting with sweetness and adoration. The twins didn't mind that no one but us could tell them apart. In fact, I swore at times they liked it. They dressed exactly the same, with pink shirts and white shorts over incredibly long legs. They were the mermaids of the family—they spent more time in the water than on land. And though they were a good four years younger, both of them had outgrown me by a few inches. Kelsey relieved me of my flowers and Leslie peered good naturedly at the baby, tucking in her pink blankets and asking the usual questions. "Who's this? What's her name?"

  I had no idea. "The changeling," I said, "from the play."

  Kesley and Leslie laughed at the obvious and stole the swirly toy. The baby reached solemnly for it. Her chubby fingers danced in the air, and they took pity on her, laying it gently back into her hands. Then the twins took turns kissing her cheeks.

  "How come you still have her?" Daphne asked.

  I sighed. "I'm looking for its mom now." And I was wasting time.

  "It?" Kelsey and Leslie giggled in unison. "She looks like a she, not an it. Huh, cutie?" They made googly sounds at the kid and tickled her on the face with the flowers, but she just watched them with grave eyes. The twins were completely enchanted by the baby's aloofness, which was probably why they thought I was so awesome. It was the challenge of winning the hard-to-get love.

  I was just happy to get the attention away from me. Besides the baby and the exhaustion, something strange was happening, and I didn't want anyone to notice. If this was what normal felt like, I didn't want it. These new emotions were making me anxious, and it was only getting worse, which meant I was really in for it. I leaned against a jammed row of seats, smashing my gossamer skirts in the process.

  "Honey, you look tired," my mom said.

  "No, I don't . . ." My voice turned into a whine. It was my only defense against being coddled. It all stemmed from being a sickly baby, which I knew all started with those hands. Why had they come for me in the first place? The faery said the hands messed with my heart. Or, this could all be a relapse, some sort of schizophrenic episode. The only trouble with the theory was that my life hadn't felt all that real until now.

  My family prescribed all sorts of remedies for my low energy, but I tuned it out when I felt something staring down at me from the houselights of the auditorium. My heart skidded to a halt. Whoever it was, it watched from the shadows in the rafters. That meant trouble. I kept my focus on the baby. She seemed real, but what if I had stolen her from someone? No one had been able to diagnose what my disease had been from my childhood—maybe it was a form of kleptomania.

  And now I was paranoid.

  My mom looked worried. I could tell because she bit her lip and quickly changed the subject. "I like your costume, Halley. What a beautiful tiara."

  Really? The blond wasn't lying. It was a crown. I freed a hand from the baby to touch it. So far, the thing only smashed my head too hard when I let the baby get too far from me. "I just want it off."

  "Oh, does it hurt?"

  I cringed at the anxious note. Yes, but why was that the first thing everyone assumed? I wasn't that fragile. I mean, not normally. My family rushed forward to help it off my head. I skipped back a couple of steps, and fought them off with a false sense of bravado. "I have to wear it for the . . . uh . . . pictures. It's really not that bad."

  "Of course not," my dad said.

  Mom nodded. "Well, it looks beautiful."

  My sisters beamed at me reassuringly.

  "Are you adopted?"

  I turned on my heel. So, there he was! Mr. Mellow-No-Matter-What-Happens leaned casually against the stage platform, jutting his hip out in his amused, know-it-all way. Now that we were no longer in the darkness, I could see the logo printed across his black punk shirt: I'm the guy your mom warned you about. Nope, definitely not ethereal. I knew exactly what he was getting at, though. For lack of a better analogy, my family could've been faeries, they were so beautiful, and I was . . . well? Me.

  "And why do you say that?" I asked.

  "They're nice."

  He got me there, but I wasn't about to introduce him to my family after insulting me. I waited for them to come to my defense, but they uneasily ignored the argument. As a rule, they didn't like contention.

  "We're just concerned. That's all," my father said. He treated me to a wink.

  The baby hit me in the head with her swirly toy, and I winced. So did everybody else. Her fat fingers barely fit in the handle. I smiled when I saw them. Such cute fat fingers. I gave a tired laugh. The faery queen must've put quite the powerful spell over me.

  The swirly toy was just inches from my eyes, and I gave it a good cross-eyed look. The mirror was gone from the face of it, and something else replaced it. It looked like a fuzzy TV screen or dancing ants. I squinted at the toy, and a face shot into view. I sprang back. The toy clattered to the worn, red carpet. My head shot up, and I saw my co-conspirator give me an amused look. That jerk had stolen the toy from the baby and thrown it.

  "What did you do that for?" I asked.

  "Now now, it wasn't on purpose," my mom chided me. No matter how much they spoiled me, they never allowed me to be rude.

  But he had done it on purpose. Not that I blamed him. Why was there a face in the mirror, anyway? I didn't see who it was, but it was female and terrifying. I peered at the blond under my lashes. "Why can't you just tell me what's going on?" He shrugged and reached for the toy. The baby whimpered and I leaned down and grabbed it before he could. "Get away from that," I told him. "It isn't yours."

  My family made disapproving sounds, each of them looking startled in their own innocent and gentle ways. My mom managed a stern look, her soft brows floating together like clouds. "Really dear! Give the baby her rattle."

  I folded the baby's tiny hand over the handle, giving the blond my coldest shoulder. It just figured Mom would take his side.