Magic Street

by Orson Scott Card

  Unpredictable. Uncertain. No rules. Mack feared the uncertainty but loved the profusion of life, and wished that he could share it with someone. Ceese did not want to go back there, though. And besides, what kind of companion would he be, towering sixteen or twenty feet in the air? Or taller, for all they knew—maybe Ceese would never stop growing the farther he got from Skinny House, until at the Santa Monica shore he would be so tall he could see over the mountains to the north and look at the Central Valley, or turn eastward and see the Colorado, no longer a thread of silver through a desert, but now a wide stream like the Mississippi.

  As he got older, he also got taller, so each stride took him farther. He grew so tall so fast that for a while he wondered if maybe he was becoming a giant like Ceese was in Fairyland, only slower, and on both sides of Skinny House. It wasn't like he knew of any blood relatives who could show him how tall he was likely to grow. But eventually it slowed down, and while he was tall enough that his loping stride carried him far and fast, nobody would mistake him for an NBA star. Well, maybe a point guard.

  His feet were callused so they felt like the skin of the soles didn't even belong to him, they were like hooves. He hated putting shoes on at school—it felt to him like he was in prison, wearing them.

  And in Fairyland they were more trouble than they were worth, the laces always snagging on something, the soft soles cushioning his feet so that he couldn't feel the earth and learn what it was telling him about the land he was passing through. One pair of shoes was sucked off his feet in the swamp and became a suitcase full of nearly perfect counterfeit hundreds found by a couple of skateboarders in Venice. The newspapers speculated that the bills were part of a terrorist plot to destabilize the economy. No sane person would ever believe that they began as a pair of Reeboks that were sucked off his feet in a mudhole.

  And from time to time Mack climbed down into the ravine and up the other side and walked to the clearing where it was always night, and the two globes sparkled with the only lights Mack saw in Fairyland that weren't in the sky. He sat and contemplated the globes, not knowing which was the captured fairy queen, not knowing if she went by Titania or Mab or some other unguessable name.

  Sometimes he thought of her as Tinkerbell from the Peter Pan movie—a scamp too dangerous to let out into the world. But sometimes she was a tragic figure, a great lady kidnapped and imprisoned for no other crime than being in somebody's way. Titania had saved a changeling from Oberon's clutches. Titania had saved a boy like Mack. So she had to be punished, at least in Midsummer Night's Dream. Was it possible that her imprisonment now had something to do with Mack?

  "Do I owe you something?" he asked.

  But when he spoke aloud, the panther always grew alert and stopped its prowling. If he kept talking, even if it was to the panther and not to the captured fairies, the panther began to stalk him, creeping closer, its muscles coiled to spring at him. So he learned to be silent.

  The corpse of the ass-headed man was a collapsed skeleton now, and grass grew over it, and leaves had scattered across it, and before long the ground would swallow it up or rain would carry it away. That's me, thought Mack. Dead and gone, while the fairies live forever. No wonder they don't care about us. We're like cars that whip past you going the other way on the freeway. Don't even see them long enough to wonder who they are or where they going.

  Sure enough, there he was in the living room, building a house of cards. Looking like he always looked. Not even bothering to glance up when Mack came in.

  "Tread lightly," said Puck.

  "Where've you been?"

  "Did we have an appointment? Your feet are filthy and you're tracking it all over the carpet."

  "Who cares?" said Mack. "As soon as you leave, there won't be a carpet."

  "You know how this works, Mack," said Puck.

  Mack sighed. "Some woman in the neighborhood's going to have to shampoo this carpet."

  "It's nice when you're tidy," said Puck. "I try to have some consideration for the neighbors."

  "You got towels and soap and shit in your bathroom?"

  "Oh, are you suddenly all hip-hop, boy, saying 'shit' like it was 'the'?"

  "Nothing hip-hop about 'shit,' " Mack murmured as he headed for the bathroom. There was soap, but it was a half-used bar with somebody's hair all over it, and the shampoo was some smelly fruity girly stuff that made Mack feel like he was putting candy in his hair. Couldn't Puck steal this stuff from somebody who kept their soap clean? Rubbing somebody else's little curly hairs all over his own body.

  He couldn't stand it, and stood there in the shower picking hairs off the soap and then trying to rinse them off his hand. By the time he got the soap clean the water was running tepid, and it was downright cold when he rinsed.

  When he stepped out of the shower, Puck was standing there looking at him. Mack yelled.

  "What are you doing? Can't a niggah get some privacy here?"

  "You picking up that 'niggah' shit at high school? You grew up in Baldwin Hills, not the ghetto."

  "What are you, my father? And how come you get to say 'shit'?"

  "I invented shit, Mack," said Puck. "I'm older than shit. When I was a boy, nobody shit, they just threw up about an hour after eating. Tasted nasty. Shit is a big improvement."

  "I saved your life, asshole, and then you ran off and hid for four years."

  "Statute of limitations run out so I'm back," said Puck.

  "There's no statute of limitations on owing somebody for saving your life."

  "Ain't no lawyers in Fairyland," said Puck. "That's one of its best features."

  "We aren't in Fairyland," said Mack.

  "Well, your mortal cops and courts sure as hell got no jurisdiction here," said Puck. "But tell me what you want me to do for you, and I'll see if I want to do it."

  "I want to know about the queen of the fairies."

  Puck shook his head and clicked his tongue three times. "Ain't you got no young girls in high school? Why you got to go looking into a woman older than the San Andreas Fault, and a lot more troublesome?"

  "So she causes even more trouble than you do?" asked Mack.

  "Some people think so," said Puck. "Though maybe it's a tossup."

  Mack wasn't going to let the fairy distract him. "Is she named Titania or Mab?"

  "I thought we settled that years ago. I don't tell names."

  "Then I'll ask the house."

  "She ain't here," said Puck. "Won't work."

  "I think you're lying," said Mack.

  "I'm gone four years, and you call me a liar first thing. You got no manners, boy."

  Mack leaned his head back and talked to the ceiling. "What's the name of the queen of the fairies?"

  Nothing happened. Mack went back to drying off with the towel.

  "Told you so," said Puck.

  "Maybe the house just trying to figure out how to show me her name. Her name isn't a word, like yours is."

  "Easy," said Puck. "Show you a tit with a tan—plenty of those in Brentwood—then a knee, then some dumb kid standing there saying, 'Uh.' "

  "So her name is Titania."

  Puck made a big show of looking aghast. "Oh, no! I let it slip!"

  "So her name isn't Titania?"

  "Come on, Mack. I'm not going to tell you because it ain't mine to tell."

  "All right then, tell me this. Why don't I ever see any fairies in Fairyland?"

  "Because this part of Fairyland is a hellhole where nobody goes on purpose. Why else would he exile her here?"

  "A hellhole?" said Mack. "It's beautiful. I love it here."

  "That's because you got protection," said Puck. "In case you forgot, I almost got my ass chewed off in there."

  "I saved your chewed-off ass, remember?"

  "How can I forget, with you always bringing it up like that?"

  "I haven't mentioned it in four years!"

  "Oh, yeah, congratulations on being a senior. Got AP English this year, too. Not bad for a boy ca
n't figure out how to tie his shoes."

  "Are you going to get out of the doorway so I can go out and put on my clothes?"

  Puck stepped aside. Mack went into the bedroom and pulled on his jeans.

  "Oh, you go commando," said Puck. "No underwear."

  "What's the point?" said Mack.

  "You ready for anything," said Puck. "Except your pants fall down in the mall."

  "I wear underwear when I remember to wash it."

  "Good thing you buy tight jeans instead of letting it hang off your butt like those other kids at high school."

  "I don't care about being cool."

  "Which means you even cooler."

  Mack shrugged. "Whatever."

  "You want to know why I'm back?" asked Puck.

  "I want to know about the queen of the fairies," said Mack.

  "I'm back because he is about to make his move."

  "What do I care?"

  Puck laughed. "Oh, you'll care."

  "So tell me his name, then."

  Puck was silent.

  "No guessing games?" said Mack.

  "Don't even think about his name," said Puck.

  "I can't. I don't know what it is."

  "Don't think about thinking about it. You might as well have flashing lights and a siren."

  "What, he doesn't already know where I am?"

  "But you don't want him to notice you in particular."

  "I've been tramping all over Fairyland and just asking you his name is going to make him see what he hasn't seen till now?"

  "Do what you want, then," said Puck. "Just giving you good advice."

  "I'm not afraid of him like you are," said Mack.

  "Cause you dumb as a muffler on a '57 Chevy."

  "I wouldn't be dumb if you'd answer my questions."

  "Boy, if I answered your questions you'd probably be dead by now."

  "What happened to you, when we took you to the hospital—he did that, right?"

  "Birds did it."

  There was some reason Puck was so scared of him. "His birds, right?"

  "Who else's? That place is Fairyland, and he king of Fairyland."

  "Bush is President and American birds don't do what he says."

  "President ain't king and America ain't Fairyland."

  "Don't you have someplace to go this morning?" asked Puck. "Like school?"

  "Plenty of time to catch the bus. Specially since I didn't have to go home to shower."

  "You don't ride with any of the other kids from Baldwin Hills? They all got their own cars, don't they?"

  "Not all," said Mack. "Not everybody rich in Baldwin Hills. And even some of the rich ones ride the bus so they don't have to take any shit about their fancy ride when they get to school."

  "All about money in your world," said Puck. "Money be magic."

  "Yeah, like you're the great social critic," said Mack. " 'What fools these mortals be.' "

  "Oh yeah. Will Shakespeare. I loved that boy."

  "I thought he was an asshole. According to you."

  "Even assholes got somebody who loves them."

  "I'm still wanting answers," said Mack. "You going to be here when I get back?"

  "I be somewhere. Might be here."

  Mack was sick of the dodging. It's not like he was longing for Puck's company the past four years. "Be here when I get back, you got it?"

  Puck just laughed as Mack headed out the door.

  As Mack knew, it wasn't even seven yet, and his bus wouldn't be by for another fifteen minutes.

  He had time to stop by the house and pick up his book bag, which would make the day go easier.

  Miz Smitcher was eating her breakfast. "Where do you go in the early morning?"

  "Exercise," said Mack. "I like to walk."

  "So you always say."

  Mack pulled up his pants leg and moved his toes up and down so she could see the sharply defined calf muscles flex and extend. "Those are the legs of a man who could walk to the moon, if somebody put in a road."

  "A man," she sighed. "Has it really been seventeen years since the stork brought you."

  "Not a nice thing to call Ceese." Mack poured himself a glass of milk and downed it in four huge swallows.

  "How tall are you now?" asked Miz Smitcher.

  "Six four," said Mack. "And growing."

  "You used to be smaller."

  "So did you."

  "Yeah, but you didn't know me when I was little." She handed him ten dollars. "Spending money. Take out a girl for a burger."

  "Thanks, Miz Smitcher," he said. "But I got no girl to take out."

  "You never will, either, you don't ask somebody."

  "I don't ask less I think she say yes."

  "So you have somebody in mind?"

  "Every girl I looking at, she's on my mind," said Mack. "But they always looking at somebody else."

  "I don't understand it," said Miz Smitcher. "Whoever your daddy and mama were, they must have been real good-looking people."

  "Sometimes good-looking people have ugly children, sometimes ugly people have beautiful children. You just shuffle the cards and deal yourself a hand, when you get born."

  "Aren't you the philosopher."

  "I'm in AP English," said Mack. "I know everything now."

  She laughed.

  In the distance, Mack could hear the whine of a high-powered motorcycle.

  Miz Smitcher shook her head. "Some people don't care how much noise they make."

  "Wish I had a bike made noise like that."

  "Now, Mack, we been over that. You want to drive, you have to have a job to pay for insurance. But if you have a job, your studies will suffer, and if you don't get a scholarship you ain't going to no college. So by not driving you're putting yourself through college."

  "Just don't ask me why I got no girlfriend."

  "I don't care, anyway, Miz Smitcher," said Mack. "It's fine as it is." He leaned down and kissed her forehead and then strode to the door, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and started jogging down the street to the bus stop.

  He knew the bus driver saw him, but she never waited for anybody. They could have their hand inside the door, she'd still take off when the schedule said. "I run a on-time bus," she said. "So you want a ride, you have yourself a on-time morning."

  So he'd jog to school. He'd done it often before. He usually beat the bus there, since he didn't have a circuitous route and a lot of stops, and he could jaywalk so he didn't have to wait for lights.

  Only this morning, as he ran along La Brea, the whine of the motorcycle got close enough to become a roar, and then it pulled up just ahead of him. Riding it was a fine-looking black girl in a red windbreaker and no helmet, probably so she could show off her smooth henna-colored do. She turned around to face him.

  "Miss your bus?"

  Mack shrugged.

  She turned off the engine. "I said, miss your bus?"

  Mack grinned. "I said:" And then shrugged again.

  "Oh," she said. "So you're not sure?"

  "So I don't mind walking."

  "I'm trying to pick you up. Don't you want to ride my bike?"

  "That what you do? Pick up high school boys who miss the bus?"

  "Big ones like you, yeah. Little ones I just throw back."

  "So you know where my high school is?"

  "I know everything, boy," she said.

  "You call me boy, I get to call you girl?"

  "So tell me your name, you don't want to be boy."

  "Mack Street."

  "I said your name, not your address."

  He started to explain, but she just laughed. "I'm messing with you, Mack Street. I'm Yolanda White, but people I like call me Yo Yo."

  "Not yet. It's Yolanda to you."

  "What about Miz White?"

  "Not till my gee-maw dies, and my mama after her."

  "May I have a ride to school, Miz Yolanda?" asked Mack in his most whiny, obsequious voice.

  "I thinks you owes me a
ride now, since you stopped me running and now I be late."

  "What a Tom," she said. "Next thing you'll be carrying mint juleps to massuh."

  For all his bravado in talking sass to her, he wasn't sure about how to hold on, once he was straddling the bike behind her. He put his hands at her waist, but she just grabbed them and pulled his arms so sharp around her middle that he bumped his head into the back of hers and his whole front was pressed up against her back. He liked the way it felt.

  "Hang on, Mack Street, cause this is one little engine that can."

  There was no conversation possible on the way there, because the engine was so loud Mack couldn't have heard the trumpets announcing the Second Coming. Besides which, Mack couldn't have talked, what with all the praying. She took corners laying over on her side and he was sure she was going to put the bike right down, a dozen times. But she never did. Her tires clung to the road like a fridge magnet, and she let him off in front of the school before half the buses had arrived. He kind of wished there were more kids there to see him arrive like this, riding behind a woman so fine. Only it wouldn't matter—they'd just make fun of him because she was driving and he was the passenger. Not that he minded. Those who didn't resent him because he studied hard and got good grades made fun of him because he didn't drive and took long walks and didn't dress cool. "Your mama buy those pants for you?" one boy asked him one day. "Or she sew that out of one of her own pantlegs?"

  "No," Mack told him. "I thought you recognize it—these pants your mama's old bra."

  Brother wasn't even his friend, he had no right to start talking about his mama. So when he gave Mack a shove, Mack casually shoved him into the lockers hard enough to rattle his teeth and make him sag, and then walked on. Whole different story if he hadn't grown so tall. Lots of things missing in his life, but God was good to him about his size. Guys wanted to get in his face sometimes, cause they thought he was a likely victim, dressing like he did. So he showed them he wasn't, and they left him alone.