by Alex Flinn
“Hey, loser, I spent a lot of time looking for you. I did it for your sister ’cause she’s worried sick and, unlike you, she’s nice. The least you can do is shut your cakehole for two minutes.”
“You cannot speak to me like zis! I am a prince!”
“Without me, you’d still be a frog. A dead one.”
Meg presses her finger to Philippe’s lips. “Don’t let him bother you, darling. He’s just jealous of our love.”
I swear, she smiles when she says it.
Philippe says, “Ah, you are so right, my leetle sea urchin.”
Meanwhile, Caroline has spotted the fountain, the swan house. “Oh my God! Are these them?” She runs toward them, flower shirts flapping.
Her shrieks are loud enough to pull the night guy from his monitor. “May I help you?”
Ignore us. Ignore us, as usual. “Oh, it’s okay. She’s with me.”
“Tell her she’s not allowed to pet the swans.”
I look at Caroline, and that’s exactly what she’s doing. Touching them, talking to them, even though she’s not wearing the magic earpiece. They surround her, craning their necks in every direction and making happy swan sounds.
“Tell her,” the night guy says. He’s gathering his stuff, keys, magazines. I glance at my watch and realize why he looked up. It’s because he’s leaving. Which can only mean . . .
Farnesworth!
I start toward Caroline, just as she brings out the first flower shirt. “Wait!” I say. “You may need to wait until . . .”
The swans are flying around Caroline, their long necks surrounding her like snakes. The door revolves, and Farnesworth steps in.
“What are you doing to my—?”
But it’s too late. The flower shirt is over the first swan’s head. His wings sink down under its weight. His neck folds in two, and for an instant, it’s like he’s disappeared.
Then, he rises, one foot. Two, until he’s a man, a grown man with longish hair, wearing worn jeans, a Hawaiian print shirt, and sandals.
“Hey, sis,” the swan-turned-man says. “I’m Jimmy.” He takes a shirt from Caroline and lifts it over one of his siblings’ heads. I can tell this one is Harry because he has a small healing wound under his wing. This swan, too, folds under, then rises as a small man with gray hair and glasses. Caroline lifts another shirt onto the third swan, and an identical man appears.
“Of course!” I laugh. “Harry and Truman! Twins!”
“No! What are you people doing? Where are my swans?” Farnesworth runs toward Caroline and tries to pull the shirts away from her, but the remaining three swans chase him away, pecking at him with their black beaks until he retreats. The lobby is swimming with feathers and flowers. Then, the three swan-turned-men each seize another shirt and drape them over the remaining swans’ heads. Soon, a man with a thick beard appears, then a girl with flaming red hair, as red as the sunset at Mallory Square, and another girl with black hair with a flower in it. Ernest! Mallory! Margarita!
Margarita walks over to Farnesworth. Her stride is graceful, like a dancer in one of those old black-and-white movies. She says, “I’m sorry, Farnie, but do you know what it’s like, eating nothing but birdseed for thirty years?”
“But where are they? What have you done to them?”
He buries his face in his hands, and I can see real tears dripping down his cheeks.
I try to explain. “They’re human now. They were always human. They were under a curse. Maybe you could get some real swans and—”
“Out!” he screams at me. “Out of my lobby! Out of my hotel!”
Is he serious? This is so not my fault. Well, I guess, technically, it is because I brought Caroline in. But it’s not my fault the swans were really people.
Farnesworth advances toward me, his face the color of a lobster in the tank at the hotel restaurant. One of the swans, the bearded one, Ernest, gets between us and tries to help. “Mr. Farnesworth. Frank. Be reasonable. The boy was merely trying to help.”
“Frank? I don’t even know who you are.”
“I’m Ernest, your favorite swan. You spent hours talking to me, confiding in me your dreams of writing a novel someday.”
“Confiding what? I did no such thing. Where are my swans?”
“And now, we can write together. We can drive to my father’s home in Key West for Hemingway Days, the festival of my namesake, Ernest Hemingway.”
Harry or Truman intercedes. “We can be friends, Frank, real human friends. We like you.”
“I’m calling the police. I don’t want friends. I want my birds. And I want you OUT!”
Meg takes my arm and pulls me toward the shoe shop. “I’ll make sure he leaves, Mr. F. He just has to clear out his stuff.”
“Good!” Farnesworth is still shaking with anger, but he backs off. As I leave, the swans are still trying to convince him they’re real.
“Get my stuff?” I say to Meg. “I work here. My mother’s place, remember? Now that you nabbed a prince, you want to get rid of me?”
“Shh.” Meg puts finger to lips. “Of course not. We’ll work it out. But you don’t want your mother getting kicked out, do you?”
She has a point. “No.”
“Okay, then, you’re going to have to lay low awhile. I’ll take Philippe up to his sister.”
“Be careful,” I say. “Sieglinde could still be after him. There could be spies.”
“Not to worry,” Philippe says. “I will defeat zem all.”
“Yeah, ’cause you did such a great job the first time.”
“Come on.” Meg takes my hand. Her fingers feel so soft, and again, I can’t believe I missed my chance with her. “There’s something I have to show you.”
I follow her back to the shoe repair. When I get there, she gestures toward the coffee shop. “It’s in here.”
It’s about time the place was open, and sure enough, Sean, one of her brothers, is there, opening up.
“You’re back,” he says.
“Just got here.”
“Who’s the stiff?” He gestures at Philippe.
“Oh, him?” Meg looks behind her and beams. “That’s Prince Philippe Andrew Claude of Aloria. We’re going to be married.”
“Yeah, right.” Sean smirks. “So you going to take this shift?”
“No such luck for you. I have to show Johnny the stuff. Shove over.”
She walks past him, into the pantry, where they keep the coffee and extra sugar and stuff. She throws open the door. “There you go!”
“What’s this?”
“Your stuff.”
I look. There, from floor to ceiling, are stacks of shoe boxes. And not just any shoe boxes. These are lime green ones with pink lettering. Next to a picture of a palm tree, in fancy script, they say:
Gianni Marco of South Beach
“Gianni?”
“It sounded cooler than Johnny,” Meg says.
“So you got me shoe boxes?”
“Not shoe boxes, Johnny. Look inside.”
I pull out one box. It’s heavy, not empty. I open it.
Inside is a pair of sandals. Hot pink metallic leather lining, leather upper with silver crystal detailing, five-inch acrylic heel with glitter inside. My design! “How did you . . . ?”
I can’t believe this. I can’t believe this. My shoes. My actual real-life shoes I designed are here. And Meg did it—somehow. I turn it over and over and even shake it.
Meg looks at the shoe, then Philippe, and says, “Can you excuse us a moment, darling?”
Philippe looks like he’s eaten a bad escargot. “If you must. But do not stray long, my leetle anemone.”
I think I see Meg make a face, but when I look again, she’s beaming at Philippe. She hands him a shoe box and kisses him (gag) before saying, “Each moment is a lifetime, my love.” (Gag). She leaves him, staring at the shoes.
I’m still staring too, as she pulls me into the closet and shuts the door. When she turns on the light, I see the
re are dozens, maybe hundreds more shoe boxes. Are they full? Meg whispers, “I guess I can tell you, since you know about the ring. We have brownies.”
“Brownies? Sure. You’ve got an awesome crumb cake too, but what does that have to do with shoes?”
“Brownies are elves, Johnny. It’s an Irish thing. They help clean up. Remember how the place was always a mess at night, and then, it would be clean in the morning?”
“Elves?” Elves???
“They clean up after we leave, do the baking, then start the coffee before we come every morning. They don’t work during the day. They like to be left alone.”
“Elves made these shoes?” I still can’t believe what I’m holding in my hand. And what could be in those other boxes.
“Brownies.”
“Brownies.” But if this is true, I can just get started selling them. Maybe I couldn’t get thousands for them, but we’d have money. We wouldn’t have to worry. I examine the workmanship of the shoe, and I can see it’s top, top quality. I wouldn’t have to marry Victoriana. If I could sell these for half what they’re worth, it would save the business.
“Anyway,” Meg says, “they were bored. It doesn’t take them very long to make some muffins. They’ve been doing the same thing for a long time. They don’t want to live at our house because it’s too crowded—they like their privacy. So when you left, I got them started on some shoes. I ordered the materials—you can pay me back out of Victoriana’s money—and I left out your patterns. They did the rest.”
Un-be-stinking-lievable. Meg’s solved all my problems, and now, she’s going to marry Prince Snottyface. “I can’t believe brownies made the shoes.” But I can. I can believe anything. “Where are they now?”
“They clear out every morning. It’s just their way. After they finished a few dozen samples, they started on a marketing plan. Maybe it’s around here somewhere. “Oh!” She spies a folder and hands it to me. “I bet this is it. Anyway, so take the shoes. They should get you started.”
“But . . .” I pick up another box. A lime green sandal with a stacked heel and a square-cut brooch on the vamp. Size six. Lovely stitching. I open another, and it’s the same shoe, size seven. My dream has come true. It’s really happening.
“Sean will help you carry them out. I have to go with Philippe.”
Philippe. My dream gets stuck in my throat. Meg understood and made my dream come true. Now she’s gone. With Philippe.
“Maybe we can have a double wedding.” She throws open the door. “Miss me, darling?”
“But of course, my sweet green mamba.” Philippe is still holding the shoe. Only one, like Cinderella’s prince. “Zis ees quite lovely. Ma mère—my mother—would like zem very much. She will be angry wiz me for disappearing. Perhaps a gift. Do you have eet in size five?”
“I’m sure I do. Let me . . .”
I stop. Across the way, I see Mom, opening our shop. And suddenly, all I want is my mother. My mother to comfort me. I turn to Meg. “Do you mind checking? I need my mom.”
Chapter 42
The fox said, “It is in your power to free me.”
—“The Golden Bird”
My mother greets me with a hug, but before I get a chance to tell her the whole story about Caroline, Farnesworth, the swans, Philippe, and Meg, she says, “We had, um, sort of an unusual visitor.”
“A visitor? Who was it?”
“Not who, but what.” She reaches into the drawer under the register and hands me a scrap of paper smaller than a Post-it. In the smallest writing I’ve ever seen, it says:
Meet me at the Port at midnight when you get back. Cornelius
“So this visitor, it was a . . . a rat.”
She shudders. “Yes. With little sharp teeth and tiny claws. I tried to chase it with a broom, but it wouldn’t budge until I took this. I think you have to go, yes? It’s important?”
That night, I take Mom’s car to the port. I remember the first time, the motorcycle, the shooting. But they won’t be there anymore. The prince has been found. I have nothing to do with it. I haven’t even tried to contact Victoriana yet. I can’t face her. I’m looking for a way to park by the roadside when the gate starts to open. No one’s there. I drive the car in. As soon as I reach Terminal C, there’s a tiny creature on my windshield. I open the window and allow him to hop into the car. He begins talking right away, but it’s all excited squeaks.
“Hold on. I can’t understand.” I insert the earpiece, and right away, he starts talking again.
“Hoo-boy. You made it. I was worried aboutchoo what wid da witch and dat big guy on da motorcycle. But hey. You made it back. Didya find the fox?”
I nod. “Thanks. He told me where to find the frog, and I found him.”
The rat’s whiskers droop a bit, and his eyes gleam sideways in the moonlight. “But . . . dat’s all he told ya? The fox?”
“That’s all I asked him.”
“That’s all you asked him, but did he ask you anything? Did he ask you to do anything?”
Then I remember the fox’s strange request, the one I refused.
“Well, he asked me to kill him, but of course, I didn’t.”
“Of course? You didn’t?”
“I’m not going to kill a fox, much less a talking one.”
“He wasn’t asking you to kill him so he could get dead. He coulda run in traffic if das what he wanted. If he asked you to kill him, den he asked for a reason.” He must see the confused look on my face, even in the darkness, because he continues. “We—all us used-to-bes—have things that gotta happen so’s we can get transformed back. It could be a kiss or a magic bean, something like that.”
“Or making shirts out of flowers?”
“Exactly. Weird, but exactly. I had to find my daughter, but she was killed in an accident before I could, so now, I’ll never go back.” The rat pauses, and I hear a tiny sniff. “But that fox—if he was asking you to kill him, I guarantee he was doing it for a reason. You gotta go back and do it.”
“But I can’t go back to Key Largo.”
“Why the heck not?”
I struggle to think of an answer. The obvious answer: No magic cloak. The usual answer: Work. The depressing answer:
“I may have to marry a princess.”
The rat laughs. “Marry her next week. Do this now.”
He’s right. I’ve got a car full of gas. I’ve been forbidden to work. Nothing prevents me but a beautiful princess—a princess any guy in the world would want.
Any guy but me.
What I wouldn’t give to be in your shoes, said the Baker’s Wife to Cinderella.
So I say, “Okay. I’ll do it.”
Because if I can’t help myself, I may as well help the fox.
I drive, radio off, feeling the shake of Mom’s old car, the rhythm of rubber on the road. None of it drowns out my thoughts. This should have been the day I got everything, a beautiful princess waiting for me, the shoes, the future. But it means nothing against wanting Meg and having her end up with that jerk. The moon and the streetlights cast white and black shadows across my face, and I want to give in to the beauty of a summer night, but always my thoughts stop me. How could I have been so wrong about what I wanted? Maybe I actually am stupid. And how could Meg not want to be together when we’ve gone through so much? Doesn’t she care? And yet, the shoes in her shop say different. She loves me. She just doesn’t love me the way I want her to.
Corrie ten Boom, who helped hide Jews from the Nazis during World War II, said, “If God sends us on strong paths, we are provided strong shoes.”
I hope I have strong shoes.
* * *
In two hours I’m in Key Largo. The fox is behind the inn. He holds half a sandwich in his paws. I look around to make sure the place is deserted, that Uncle Sam isn’t waiting for me. But the fox is alone. I insert the earbuds and say, “You wanted something from me?”
The fox nods but gives no other acknowledgment. I say, “Is it part of
the curse on you?”
“Nah, I’m just tired of eating out of Dumpsters all these years. No one ever thinks to throw away a packet of tartar sauce.” He swallows the last bite of sandwich, then licks the grease off his paws with his pink tongue.
“Are you serious?” I can’t kill him if that’s the reason. It would be hard to kill a fox, harder still, knowing he’s a man. What if he’s transformed back when he dies? What if there’s this corpse in the Dumpster? I could get nabbed for murder.
I picture the headlines: MIAMI DRIFTER WANTED IN KEYS. That’s me, Miami Drifter.
The fox finishes cleaning his paws and says, “It’s difficult for me to talk about the curse. Difficult. I can only promise that this is what I want and need, and if you do as I ask, there will be no trouble.” He looks up at me. The silver moonlight catches in his brown eyes, and they plead with me. I remember Cornelius, his family and his hope gone, doomed always to be a rat. Wouldn’t I rather be dead?
Strong shoes.
I nod. “How will I do it?”
He hesitates an instant, then scampers across the shadows and into the bushes. He returns a moment later, a knife gripped in his teeth. It’s not a scary knife like a switchblade. It’s one of those knives you use to carve a turkey on Thanksgiving. He thrusts it toward me with his teeth.
I take it. “I don’t think I can.”
“Please. I’m a fox. People kill animals all the time.”
I hold the knife straight. What would it feel like to stab someone? Maybe like cutting leather.
He reads my thoughts. “Think of it like cutting up a broken shoe.”
“How did you know I work with shoes?”
The fox hesitates, then says, “You told me so.”
“I did?”
The fox lifts his neck, and I see his white ruff like snow in the moonlight. “One good cut. I won’t bite.”
“I don’t think I can do this.”
“Did you drive here all the way from Miami not to kill me?”
He’s right. The rat said I should kill the fox, that it was for the best. But I didn’t kill the giants, and I didn’t even kill the witch. Still, I reach toward the fox, hold his neck in my left hand, close my eyes, and with one motion, slice into his neck.
