Pretty Peg

by Skye Allen

  On the puppet theater stage, paper Josy stood front and center with her round arms flung wide. She was smiling an openmouthed smile. I didn’t think she’d been smiling before. I fist-bumped the tiny orange heart on her T-shirt with a knuckle.

  Nicky was standing behind a chair at the kitchen table, gazing into the overflowing jade plant with a polite expression on her face. Oh God. She heard all that speed-cleaning. My phone rescued me from eye contact by pinging. It was a text from Laura: yes.

  “Um, can I get you something to drink?” I said as I set the phone down on the table. Suddenly, I was ten years old, having a friend over from school. The table was covered in dusty mason jars, and the newspapers under Mom’s pottery wheel were moldy. I looked at the piano, where I knew the wood under that peach shawl was cracked, and the wall covered in Grant family photos above that. In every one of me, I was grinning so wide my eyes almost disappeared into my fat cheeks. I cringed.

  “So what time does Laura get home?” Nicky asked, ignoring my question.

  “She’s going to stay over at her teacher’s. I mean, at Professor Hill’s. You must have heard us on the phone.” I met Nicky’s eyes, and hers widened, and the skin of her face all seemed to lift, as though she had breathed in some powerful smell, and the horses in my blood bolted like a gun had gone off.

  “I never eavesdrop,” she said, and her voice was a little unsteady.

  “I’ll make coffee.” It was ten steps to the kitchen from the hallway where I stood. She stopped me as I passed the table, tugging on the end of the stretchy scarf that was still around my neck.

  “I don’t need coffee. Do you?” she said. She twisted the scarf at the level of my navel. If she pulled it tight, it would choke me. I let my fingers meet on the fabric above hers.

  “I was—before, at the revel thing.” I knew I was stalling. “That was peach crazy. That wasn’t me being crazy. And that music. When we—”

  “Oh, you mean when we kissed? Fey musicians’ll dance you to death if they take a mind to. They can make you do whatever they want.” Her eyes were down, fixed on my wrists. I looked into the crisp forest of curls at her hairline. When she looked up, we were close enough that I could feel the heat from her skin on my face. She murmured to my mouth, “Doesn’t seem fair.”

  I was the one who closed her mouth with mine.

  I was not a virgin. I had checked off the technical side of the hookup with Isaac Washington after the sophomore winter ball. We picked each other because he wanted to get rid of his virginity, and as far as I was concerned he was so soft and giggly he was practically a girl. I was pretty sure boys weren’t what turned me on even back then. In the two years since then, I had kissed exactly one girl. It was during service week for spring break, when I spent every afternoon with my California History class painting the rooms of four Habitat for Humanity projects with the same donated mud-yellow paint. Megan came with her church group. She was a junior at a private Christian school, and I was not the first girl she’d kissed. She had light brown hair and tiny moles all over her breasts, and we spent hours that week standing in freshly sheetrocked attics with a roofing shingle stuck under the door to jam it shut and our tops off, kissing until my jaw was sore and touching everywhere but below the waist. I still mentally traveled to a half-finished construction site whenever I touched myself.

  Now Nicky’s fingers hooked my jeans where the scarf met them. We kissed with mouths closed for a breath or two, until I felt the dart of her tongue, and I lost my balance and groped to the side for the table. Cinnamon, cigarette smoke, and something else, something warm and organic that was entirely her. Her hands crept across my shoulder blades and then up along my neck to rake through my hair. I felt heat drop a plumb line through my body, and there was a direct channel from where she was licking my neck to whatever was happening between my legs, and my cheeks were burning coals, and when her hand strayed across one nipple and my legs stopped holding me up, and she stepped in between them until my weight was held up by the table, I thought, This is happening. Right now.

  Chapter 9

  WHEN I woke up the next morning, we were holding hands under my quilt. Nicky’s head leaned away from mine so I couldn’t see her face. With my free hand, I slapped myself lightly on the leg. My skin felt like custard. Like it belonged to someone else. A hum still buzzed through me, like every blood cell was crowing “I’m awake! I’m awake!” I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since I got the news about Margaret, almost six months ago. I could feel the nourishment in my cells now that I had actually been asleep for more than five hours in a row.

  Nicky was not awake. I raised myself up to look at her. In sleep she looked like a little girl, all the guile rolled away, only vulnerable round cheeks and black lashes. Her eyebrows hunched for a second, and I was afraid I’d get caught watching her. The way you’d watch someone if you were in love. Was I in love?

  If I was, I wouldn’t say it. I’d be cool. I’d make banana waffles, and she’d blink her way into the kitchen wearing my XXL Gits T-shirt, which would come down to her knees, and I’d swing out of the house to go to school before I could say anything dumb like I’m a whole new person now. I never knew I could feel like that.

  I slid out of bed into the chill air, marveling at being naked. I never slept naked. Oh, beautiful girl still lying there. But I had to get up. I extracted clean underwear and leggings from the dresser, careful to lift the drawer where the wood would stick and scream if I tugged on it too fast. Nicky remained motionless. Good. My hand hesitated over a dark orange Frankengown in my closet. Why not wear a Josy Grant original? Today was a special day. I bundled everything in front of me and eased the door open to make my way to the bathroom.

  Laura’s bedroom door was still closed. I eased it open: closet full of tops and dresses ranked from baby pink to raspberry, white bookcase crammed with dead European composers, frilly bed with no pianist in it. I knew she was at her friend Saori’s, but I still needed to call her again. I felt a passing pang that Laura and I were not the best-friend kind of sisters, that if I called her now, at seven in the morning, it would just be to make sure she was still alive. Not to talk about exactly who was asleep in my bed right now.

  Neil would be up. But the last he heard, I wasn’t speaking to Nicky. That was going to take some explaining.

  I ran my hands over my legs in the shower, made circles with the scrubby ball on my shoulders, thinking all the time my whole skin is different. It turned out I was a goddess. Who knew? I pulled my towel to my chest and breathed in the touch of dry fibers, the citrus smell of conditioner filling the steamy air, felt the cold grit on the tile under my bare heels. Every sensation felt heightened, like I had gone from black and white to full color, high definition. My leggings slid on over stubble and tickled my calves. I pulled the rest of my clothes on and spun in the full-length mirror. I ran my fingers through damp pink-and-brown hair and put on lip gloss. I had company for breakfast, after all.

  I tiptoed into the kitchen and started the coffee, then turned around to see Nicky leaning in the kitchen doorway, one foot tucked up to her knee. She was dressed in the same clothes as last night and looked as if she’d just slept for twelve hours and spent another twelve at the spa: hair smooth, skin gleaming. Even her teeth shone.

  I smiled uncertainly. What was the etiquette with a girl you’ve just abandoned yourself to?

  “I think you should see this” was her greeting.

  I followed her back into my room. Rumpled quilt, my outfit from yesterday still heaped where it had landed on the floor just a few hours ago. Everything’s different.

  Nicky stood to the side of the puppet theater and gestured to it with a ringed hand like the assistant in a magic act. The velvet curtains were drawn closed, and in front of them lay a slender branch covered in red leaves. “It wasn’t like that before, was it?” she asked.

  “I’ve never seen it with the curtains closed. This is my—Margaret made this. There’s been, I don’t know what
to call them, messages. Through the puppet theater.” I rubbed a tender leaf between my fingers. “What is this? Where did it come from?”

  “We’re not mind readers. We know about the toy house, but I have no way of knowing what the rest of the Folk are up to. I wouldn’t want them to be GPSing me all the time either.”

  All week, the fey had been communicating with me through the puppet theater. I still didn’t understand how, or who was doing it. I’d been so distracted and overwhelmed by the whole Faerie Realm, and so afraid for Laura. All of a sudden I had to know. “No, I mean, what is it? Who’s sending these messages?”

  “I don’t know a lot more than you about the toy house. I know that Margaret built it, so that’s likely why it’s special both to my kin and yours. You. These devices are sometimes used as a kind of—if it was one of the Folk who could not come face-to-face with you, they might try to attract your attention through this. But I can, so I don’t need one of these.” She gave me a huge grin and darted in to kiss the corner of my mouth. “See? Face-to-face.”

  “Wait a minute. Can we test that out again?”

  She kissed the other side of my mouth and then picked up the little branch, rotating it in the light. “But everybody does seem to want a piece of the Lady’s new favorite,” she said.

  “I don’t even know what that means. Am I supposed to stop them from grabbing the next victim? Because that’s going to be Laura.” I stopped and swallowed. I’d spent the night not worrying about Laura. Selfish and distracted. I cast around the room for my phone. Who cared how early it was? She’d just yell at me no matter what time I called.

  “Hey,” Nicky said, and her arms were around me. “I told you. You won’t be alone. Blossom told me the Lady’s guard will be here if you ask.”

  I pulled back to look at her. “The guard? Does that mean the weird—I saw these soldier-type people the other night with the Lady. In Tilden. Is that them? I don’t really know what they do.”

  “The guard will make sure no one can get in or out of your house that you don’t want. They’d go with Laura to school or wherever she goes, if that’s what you ask for, even though she already has Hill. That’s the deal the Lady made.” There was a chuckle in her voice that said silly mortal.

  I bristled. I’m just trying to take care of the sister I have left. So I don’t know the rules.

  “Well, I’m asking. Laura needs… somebody to look out for her. Because I don’t know about that Professor Hill guy. Remember, the Winter people think they can take him.” I pictured the ferocious woman in the bark dress walking Laura to her piano lessons, carrying the dumb Julliard tote bag she kept her scores in. “How do I, uh, submit my requisition?”

  “I’ll talk to Blossom. She’ll take care of it.”

  “Can you do it right now? And are they going to look like—I mean, they kind of stand out.”

  She brushed the branch’s thick leaves against the inside of my forearm. It tickled, but it wasn’t unpleasant. “In a town full of mortals just back from Burning Man?”

  “Don’t make fun of me. I’m worried about her.” I took the branch away and set it down.

  Her face went still, going from impish to serious as the planes of her cheeks dropped. “Oh. Ash and thorn, I didn’t mean to scare you. My girl is worried. We’re going to keep your sister safe.”

  Am I her girl now? I was glad I’d already brushed my teeth. This time kissing her felt different: less curiosity, more of a sense that I knew for sure what everything was going to feel like. She made mmm noises, and I felt my body going alert. “Stay home with me,” she said.

  “Nope. I already skipped one day this week.”

  “Something about ‘goody’ and ‘two shoes’ comes to mind.” She dangled one of my high-tops by its laces.

  “Please do not hold my shoe hostage. I’ve had a long night.”

  She handed it to me with a look that was all seriousness. “How are you doing with that? Being the, uh, honored guest of the Winter Queen last night?”

  She doesn’t know how to bring it up. I guess I wouldn’t either. I thought about how I would tell Neil, and I could not come up with a simple explanation. I felt the traces of the terror and physical hurt from being in the Winter Queen’s theater. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle it if it happened again. And I would still be trapped there if it weren’t for Blossom and Nicky. I felt a fresh trickle of fear at that thought. I opted for saucy. “Okay, but it’s going to be hard to tell where some of those bruises came from.”

  She laughed, but her face reverted to furrows so quickly I could tell she was just humoring me. I went into the kitchen to pour coffee and get away from the concern on her face.

  “I have a fey-type question,” I said when we both had mugs. She sat with one knee up in the spare chair at the kitchen table, the one that was not Mom’s or Laura’s or mine. We called it the Elijah seat so we didn’t have to call it Margaret’s chair, which is what it was.

  “No such thing.” She looked up with a milk mustache. Her eyes and lips tugged upward, like she was trying not to laugh. That was how her face looked most of the time. We were back to normal, then. She settled deeper into her chair and held her mug under her chin.

  “I mean a question about the fey. Is there any coffee in that at all?”

  “I love milk. I really love it. And when we need to know something, we never ask a direct question if we can find out by subterfuge,” she answered.

  “That doesn’t surprise me. So how come I could get my arms unstuck last night, after the muscleman glued them on or whatever? And before, last night, there was a creepy thing like a—this sounds weird—a snow globe that made this creepy music, and I told it to stop.”

  “And it stopped.”

  “Yeah.”

  She set her mug down slowly, resting it first on the far side of the bottom, then the near side. She addressed the potted jade thicket in front of her. “This snow globe. Describe it.”

  I did my best. When I got to the impaled insects, she held up a palm. “Did you try it on anything else? Tell anything else to stop or start?”

  I told her about testing my new powers on the lamp, my iPod, and the door at the burned Winter Court theater. “It seemed like I had to be touching whatever it was. And it didn’t work on normal things, only, well, it did on my hands. Not on regular old—what?”

  The look on her face was alarm, or fear: nose pinched in, mouth turned down. “It works on Winter spells.”

  Oh. I might have worked that out for myself. If I knew anything about Winter spells, whatever they are, which I don’t.

  “There was the thing with the Lady,” I said.

  “What thing?” she said, and her voice caught and rasped in a way that made me wonder if she’d actually slept.

  “She said she gave me a gift. When Neil and I met her and her… the guards. Blossom was there,” I added, as Nicky’s head sank onto her arms, flattened on the blue and purple ikat tablecloth.

  She drew herself back up again and sat very still. “I was afraid she’d underestimated you. But I guess not, since she gave you a gift. That’s—see, fey gifts are never just gifts. Never simple.”

  “But what is it? What does it do? Besides help me get unstuck that one time. Does it only work when I really need it to?” I shuddered as the gray man’s dirty-dishrag smell washed over me, even though there was no way he could be in my cluttered kitchen right now with the white morning sun straining through the greasy window.

  She met my eyes, finally. Hers were small in a blanched face. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I can ask Blossom. She’s kind of like an advisor, higher up in the Lady’s Court than I am. But I can tell you that whenever a mortal takes on any fey aspect, it can—” She cut herself off. “It’s not always what you expect.”

  “What were you going to say?”

  “It’s mostly been mortals who want to be one of us. When something happens to them. They think they can handle a massive dose of—you’d call it ma
gic—and it changes them into something they weren’t prepared for. Do you remember the iron shoes? Snow White?”

  That was not the first time someone had brought up Snow White since this business had started. “Seven dwarves, hi-ho, hi-ho?”

  She smiled a tight smile. “The dwarves would have my guts for garters. But yes. What do mortals say is the moral of that story?”

  “Um, true love? Love conquers all?” I thought of every Top 40 song I’d ever heard.

  “No. It’s about the danger of meddling in something you don’t understand. What happened to the girl’s mother?” Now she was reminding me of the Winter Queen, with her hard voice and her long stare.

  “Mother? It was her stepmother. The Wicked Witch. Didn’t she melt or something?” I stirred my coffee with a finger and stuck it in my mouth.

  She lifted her eyes to the ceiling and said, “Not exactly. This might not be the Snow White story you know. An elf made her put on a pair of iron shoes that had been heated in the fire, and Ossian played a tune, and she danced until her heart stopped.”

  Another horrible death by the fey. “Ossian?”

  She sounded old when she answered, and very tired. “The fiddle player from the revel. You danced too. On the path.”

  “When you spit in my shoes!” And I remembered looking at the dark crown of her head streaked with sunlight, my legs still moving on their own as that irresistible music played while she slid my shoe off. That was only… four days ago. How was that possible? This girl has been undressing me since the minute we met. I guess that makes me cheap.

  “One of the few ways to treat the mortal weakness for fey music.” She was almost laughing again. This time I didn’t mind so much.

  “Don’t tell me that music didn’t make you do—you know. The accordion and all. When we first—”

  “Oh, you mean this?” She was around the table in a breath, lifting my head to kiss me, and my mind vanished.