Fairy Tale

by Cyn Balog

  I stop at the do­or and turn to him. "You ha­ve Tan­ner for ge­ometry?'

  He turns aro­und, eyes wi­de. I've sca­red him. Wi­ping his no­se, he nods, but his eyes ne­ver re­al­ly me­et mi­ne.

  "That's my class. I can ta­ke you," I say, lo­oking over to Aun­tie Em to ma­ke su­re she ap­pro­ves. I fi­gu­re that on­ce she se­es I’m the Girl Sco­ut type, she’ll fe­el bad for ever using that harsh to­ne of vo­ice with me and apo­lo­gi­ze pro­fu­sely. But, un­for­tu­na­tely, she just shrugs and wa­ves us off.

  I le­ad him out the do­or as No-Pants and Goth Girl sta­re af­ter me li­ke I've just of­fe­red to sell my so­ul to the de­vil. But it ne­ver hurts to be ni­ce, right?

  As we walk down the hall, I no­ti­ce he's not. Wal­king, I me­an. He shuf­fles, to­es po­in­ted out­ward, li­ke he's swe­eping the flo­or with his sne­akers.

  Swish, swish, swish. He's li­ke a hu­man Swif­fer.

  Thank God the hal­lways are empty, so I don't ha­ve to exp­la­in why I’m with him. He's clutc­hing a pa­per bag in his pa­le hands, and a lit­tle red plas­tic box. Is that a… wa­it. Is that a pen­cil box? Li­ke the kind we used in first gra­de? Oh, hell.

  "Um, so…," I start as we swish along. "I gu­ess you're new."

  I ste­al a glan­ce at him and re­ali­ze he's so flus­hed, you can see the red of his scalp pe­eking out from bet­we­en the gre­ased-back shards of ha­ir on his he­ad. "Er, no, I'm fif­te­en ye­ars of age," he says softly.

  "I me­an, li­ke, new to the scho­ol?"

  "Ah. Er. Yes. This is my first day at this fa­ci­lity," he says.

  Fa­ci­lity? Who re­fers to a scho­ol in the sa­me way they'd re­fer to a to­ilet? Huh, he has a po­int. Still, I'm con­vin­ced I saw this guy pro­fi­led on Ame­ri­ca's Most Wan­ted last Sun­day. "He was a qu­i­et kid, al­ways kept to him­self," they'd sa­id.

  I'm hol­ding his loc­ker-assign­ment slip by one crump­led co­mer, sin­ce it is still kind of-ew-clam­my from be­ing in his hands. We pass a hund­red aqua-co­lo­red do­ors in the sci­en­ce wing, fi­nal­ly lan­ding at num­ber 16S. "He­re you go," I say. I re­ach over and fid­dle with the knob. "See, all you ha­ve to do is go fo­ur­te­en this way, then one full turn to twenty-eight, and then back this way to ze­ro. Simp­le."

  He watc­hes, comp­le­tely perp­le­xed, as I lift the hand­le and the do­or swings open. "I see," he mumb­les, and it's ob­vi­o­us that he do­esn't.

  I de­monst­ra­te the tech­ni­que anot­her three ti­mes and then ha­ve him try. He fa­ils on the first at­tempt but gets the hang of it af­ter I talk him thro­ugh it.

  "Didn't they ha­ve loc­kers in yo­ur old scho­ol?" I ask, tho­ugh I’m gu­es­sing they must carry the­ir bo­oks from class to class on his ho­me pla­net.

  He sha­kes his he­ad and blus­hes cle­ar thro­ugh to his scalp on­ce aga­in. It's kind of cu­te, in a pi­ti­ful way.

  "Whe­re are you from?" I ask a ge­ne­ric qu­es­ti­on, sin­ce we ha­ve not­hing, not­hing, not­hing, in com­mon. At le­ast, I ho­pe.

  "Up north," he ans­wers.

  I la­ugh. "Li­ke, North Jer­sey… or the Arc­tic?"

  "Oh, uh…," he stam­mers. "The Arc­tic."

  I sta­re back at him, wa­iting for him to la­ugh, to tell me he's just joking. Not­hing; to­tal po­ker fa­ce. Fi­ne, I'll play along. "It must be very cold up the­re."

  He nods and clo­ses the loc­ker do­or. Uh-huh. Fas­ci­na­ting con­ver­sa­ti­on.

  I lo­ok down at the bag and pen­cil box in his hands and re­ali­ze he hasn't put a thing in­si­de. "You want to put yo­ur lunch in the­re?"

  "My?" he asks, con­fu­sed.

  I po­int at the pa­per bag. "Isn't that yo­ur lunch?"

  "No, it's my…" He pa­uses just long eno­ugh for me to men­tal­ly fill in the blank with so­me scary tho­ughts: bo­dily flu­id; se­ve­red hu­man he­ad; sci­en­ce ex­pe­ri­ment ("I'm bre­eding slugs!"), Fi­nal­ly, he says, "Yes, it's my lunch," which is a de­ad gi­ve­away that it's not.

  "Don't you want to put it in yo­ur loc­ker?"

  He shrugs and I aga­in help him to open it. He ca­re­ful­ly lays the pa­per bag on the top shelf, his eyes lin­ge­ring on it for a mo­ment, and then clo­ses the do­or.

  We walk to the ot­her si­de of the bu­il­ding in si­len­ce be­ca­use I'm won­de­ring if I co­uld be char­ged with aiding and abet­ting for tel­ling him to dis­po­se of his vic­tim's se­ve­red he­ad in a loc­ker. Fi­nal­ly, we stop out­si­de the do­or to Tan­ner's ge­ometry class.

  I fi­gu­re it's ti­me for a fi­nal go­od­will ges­tu­re, sin­ce I plan to ne­ver, ever, ever ha­ve any con­tact with this guy aga­in. I ex­tend my hand. "Well, wel­co­me to Ste­vens."

  He lo­oks at it for a mo­ment, then gently ta­kes my fin­ger­tips and gi­ves them a lit­tle sha­ke, as if he's af­ra­id of catc­hing my co­oti­es. "My na­me is Pip Mer­ri­we­at­her."

  He says this very pro­perly, li­ke a gay Eng­lish chap. Pip. Li­ke Pip­pi Longs­toc­king? What the hell? I se­arch the far cor­ners of my bra­in to find a nor­mal ma­le na­me that Pip co­uld pos­sibly be short for and co­me up with nil.

  I con­temp­la­te gi­ving a fa­ke na­me, but he'll fi­gu­re out the truth any­way, sin­ce we're in the sa­me class. Ba­si­cal­ly, I’m scre­wed eit­her way. "I'm Mor­gan. Mor­gan Sparks."

  He turns to me. "I know."

  Chapter Eight

  I TRY TO sne­ak in­to the ro­om as James Bond-ily as pos­sib­le, but Mr. Tan­ner stops his en­ti­re les­son. "The area of a pa­ral­le­lo-'' is still han­ging in the air as I sit at my desk in the back of the clas­sro­om. The en­ti­re class is sta­ring at me. Tan­ner's lo­ok co­uld melt fa­ces a la the last sce­ne in Ra­iders of the Lost Ark which is just per­fect. I bet I co­uld be Mas­ter of Pi from he­re on out and he'd still want to mur­der me.

  Go­ofy just stands in the do­or­way, lo­oking li­ke he wants to bolt. I can see his red scalp shi­ning glo­ri­o­usly from half­way ac­ross the ro­om.

  Tan­ner, ob­li­vi­o­us, be­gins aga­in. He bo­oms, "The area of a pa­ral­le­lo-" but is aga­in cut off, this ti­me by Pip's fra­gi­le "Ahem?"

  Eden sways back and forth in her se­at, trying to get a bet­ter lo­ok, li­ke a se­cond gra­der who's abo­ut to pee her pants. Then she le­ans over to me. "Is that him?" she whis­pers, ne­arly fal­ling out of her se­at.

  Tan­ner, a lit­tle ro­und man with a dark hel­met of ha­ir that ma­kes him so clo­sely re­semb­le a pen­gu­in, wad­dles up to Pip and snatc­hes the pa­per from his shaky hands.

  "Him who?"

  "The new kid," she says, as so­me ot­her pe­op­le turn and snic­ker. If they think Pip is snic­ker-worthy now, wa­it un­til Tan­ner an­no­un­ces his na­me.

  I nod as Tan­ner scowls and mo­ti­ons for Pip, who is now al­most con­vul­sing from fe­ar, to sit in an empty se­at at the front of the ro­om. "Wa­it. How did you he­ar abo­ut him?" I ask her.

  She lo­oks at me as if I'm a mo­ron. "Uh. From Cam?"

  "You saw Cam? To­day?"

  "Uh-huh."

  I'm je­alo­us. But what wo­uld Cam ha­ve to do with a fre­ak li­ke Pip? "What did he say?" I bark out, much lo­uder than in­ten­ded.

  Tan­ner, who has be­en trying to find an ext­ra text­bo­ok for his ne­west stu­dent, jerks his he­ad up. "Miss Sparks? See me af­ter class."

  Oh hell. Fa­ce red­de­ning, I stra­igh­ten li­ke an exc­la­ma­ti­on po­int. This is not my li­fe. I am the stu­dent te­ac­hers ado­re, dam­mit! I gi­ve them re­ason not to go ho­me af­ter a hard day's work and drink them­sel­ves in­to a stu­por! I am the one they re­mem­ber fondly du­ring the­ir re­ti­re­ment din­ners!

  Eden turns back to me and whis­pers, "I as­ked him if he had a spi­ne tu­mor and he told me you watch too much ER. "

  Tan­ner wad­dles back to the f
ront of the clas­sro­om and says, "Ever­yo­ne. This is Pip Mer­ri­we­at­her."

  A few chuck­les. Se­ri­o­usly, tho­ugh, what wo­uld Cam know abo­ut a du­de li­ke Pip? I lo­ok at Eden, ho­ping she can com­mu­ni­ca­te the ans­wer te­le­pat­hi­cal­ly, but she's too busy exa­mi­ning this new spe­ci­men of ma­le ner­di­ness. Most of the eyes in the class are fas­te­ned on him as he opens his red plas­tic box and ca­re­ful­ly re­mo­ves a fi­nely shar­pe­ned num­ber 2 pen­cil, then swi­pes in­to pla­ce a shock of oiled ha­ir that has fal­len over his fo­re­he­ad. I think that ha­irsty­le was may­be in vo­gue when the Pink La­di­es ru­led the scho­ol.

  Tan­ner turns to a sketch on the black­bo­ard aga­in. He ba­rely gets out "The area of a pa­ral­le­lo-" when the do­or opens and in walks Scab. He has this very se­ri­o­us lo­ok on his fa­ce and is sta­ring stra­ight at me. What the…? Then he turns to my te­ac­her and holds out a blue slip of pa­per. Hell.

  Aggra­va­ted, Tan­ner snatc­hes it, re­ads for a se­cond, and then tho­se de­mon eyes fo­cus on me. Aga­in.

  "Didn't you just co­me from the prin­ci­pal's of­fi­ce?" he asks ac­cu­singly.

  Do­ub­le hell.

  I nod, sin­ce my vo­cal cords ha­ve fro­zen up.

  "Se­ems you're wan­ted the­re aga­in," he grumb­les. I can sort of un­ders­tand his angst, sin­ce he's sa­id "The area of a pa­ral­le­lo-" mo­re than any hu­man sho­uld ha­ve to in a three-mi­nu­te pe­ri­od. But what can this be? Prin­ci­pal Ed­wards chan­ged his mind and now has de­ci­ded to hang me for be­ing three mi­nu­tes la­te? No­body, not even the le­gen­dary Fran­kie Buz­za­ro, who didn't gra­du­ate un­til he was twenty-one, gets cal­led to the prin­ci­pal's of­fi­ce twi­ce in one me­asly half ho­ur! I lo­ok at Eden, who shrugs, her eyes wi­de. My kne­es go we­ak as I ri­se, and one of the guys at the front of the class grins at me and sli­ces his in­dex fin­ger ac­ross his thro­at.

  Chapter Nine

  BY THE TI­ME I'm in the hal­lway, Scab is now­he­re in sight. De­ser­ter. I walk to­ward the of­fi­ce as slowly as pos­sib­le. The­re has to be so­me mis­ta­ke. May­be Prin­ci­pal Ed­wards wants to apo­lo­gi­ze for Aun­tie Em's at­ti­tu­de. May­be they'll fe­el so hor­rib­le for tre­ating me li­ke a fe­lon that they'll gi­ve me an award, pos­sibly na­me a wing of the scho­ol af­ter me.

  Oh, who am I kid­ding? I am do­omed.

  I'm so busy ima­gi­ning the exe­cu­ti­on that I don't pay at­ten­ti­on when a do­or swings open. A mo­ve­ment, a blur of red, flas­hes in my pe­rip­he­ral vi­si­on, and I'm snap­ped in­to re­ality when an enor­mo­us hand ro­ughly clasps my el­bow and jerks me thro­ugh the do­or­way of a clas­sro­om. As I'm re­co­ve­ring from the jolt and catc­hing my bre­ath, I lo­ok up and see Cam.

  "What are you-"

  He clamps his hand over my mo­uth. "Shh."

  I grab hold of his enor­mo­us, swe­aty paw and pull it off me. He pulls me in­to a hug, but his limbs fe­el stiff. I whis­per,"Hey. What is go­ing on?"

  "I told you, I had to get so­me stuff ta­ken ca­re of."

  Stan­ding back, I re­ali­ze he lo­oks ter­rib­le. His black ha­ir is un­com­bed, he's uns­ha­ven, and the­re are rims aro­und his eyes the co­lor of blo­od.

  "Stuff with Pip?"

  He ex­ha­les de­eply and ra­kes his hands thro­ugh his ha­ir. "You met him?"

  "Ye­ah. Is he an exc­han­ge stu­dent from Mars or so­met­hing?"

  He ig­no­res me. "I ne­ed yo­ur help."

  "Okay, I know, I want to talk to you, too." I put my hand on the do­ork­nob. "But I've got to get to the prin­ci­pal's of­fi­ce."

  He lo­oks perp­le­xed for a mo­ment, then blocks me from the do­or. "No, wa­it. That was me. I had Scab for­ge a no­te to get you out."

  "You? Thanks for the co­ro­nary." I sigh with re­li­ef and turn back in­to the empty ro­om I re­ali­ze that I've ne­ver be­en in this clas­sro­om; the­re are easels and sto­ols everyw­he­re, and shel­ves of pa­ints and art sup­pli­es. "What for? You lo­ok hor­rib­le. Did you sho­wer? We­ren't you we­aring that shirt yes­ter­day?"

  "No, lis­ten. This is se­ri­o­us. I ne­ed yo­ur help/'

  I sit down at one of the sto­ols sur­ro­un­ding this enor­mo­us wo­od-top­ped tab­le, and that's when it hits me. Yes, he was we­aring that shirt yes­ter­day.

  In my vi­si­on.

  "Oh, my God," I spit out, sur­ve­ying the pa­in­tings. Yes, they're comp­le­tely presc­ho­ol: bo­ring fru­it bowls and war­ped, car­to­on­li­ke port­ra­its and lands­ca­pes with tre­es li­ke Pop­sic­le sticks. I me­an, yes, my vi­si­ons are al­ways right. I knew it wo­uld hap­pen even­tu­al­ly. I just ne­ver tho­ught it wo­uld hap­pen so so­on. "It's the blac­ko­uts, right?"

  He nods. He won't lo­ok at me.

  "The thing on yo­ur back?"

  His eyes lock with mi­ne. "How long ha­ve you known abo­ut it?"

  "Only sin­ce last night." I stand up, po­si­ti­on myself be­hind him, and put my hand on his sho­ul­der. "Do­es it hurt? Show it to me."

  "You don't want to…"

  “ I do."

  I ex­pect a joke, so­met­hing to ligh­ten the mo­od. Ins­te­ad, he turns to me, comp­le­tely se­ri­o­us. Frigh­te­ningly so. "No. I don't want to."

  "Just show it to me," I tell him, with con­vic­ti­on this ti­me.

  Don't show him you're wor­ri­ed. Don't let him know how hor­rib­le you think it is, I tell myself. Re­luc­tantly, he wraps his big fin­gers aro­und the bot­tom ed­ge of his T-shirt and pulls it up, past the rip­ple of his ribs, over one of his sho­ul­ders.

  Don’t cry, don't scre­am, I tell myself.

  But my vi­si­ons are al­ways right.

  Chapter Ten

  "WHAT IS THAT?" I fi­nal­ly say. Do­zens of qu­es­ti­ons are swir­ling aro­und in my he­ad, but that's the only one I can ma­na­ge to cho­ke out. "It's bad, isn't it?" he asks.

  "Bad" is an un­ders­ta­te­ment. Just abo­ve his sho­ul­der bla­des, right at his spi­ne, the skin is ra­ised and bumpy, in the sha­pe of an in­ver­ted V. His on­ce-tan­ned, cle­ar back is co­ated in so­met­hing waxy, and it all se­ems to twitch and dan­ce, li­ke it has its own he­art­be­at. And at the very tip of that V, the­re's an ope­ning, a small one, a blo­ody smi­le. And the­re's so­met­hing, a sharp, whi­te sli­ver, just li­ke a fin­ger­na­il… po­king out…

  I screw my eyes shut and do my best to ke­ep my vo­ice even. "It's not that it's bad, per se… It's just…" What is the word for bad to the ni­ne­te­enth po­wer? Hi­de­o­us ti­mes a mil­li­on? Even "the most at­ro­ci­o­us thing I've ever se­en" se­ems to miss the mark. I me­an, last sum­mer, I was ad­dic­ted to Un­told Sto­ri­es of the ER on Dis­co­very He­alth. I ex­pec­ted, pos­sibly, to see a golf-ball-si­zed bump un­der the skin. May­be a ten­nis ball. Not this. "What the hell is it?"

  He-thank God!-pul­ls his T-shirt down, ca­re­ful­ly lo­we­ring it over the dis­gus­ting, ali­en growth, and turns to me. He balls his hands in­to fists and pres­ses firmly down on his thighs, but not be­fo­re I see his arms qu­iver. The rock of Ste­vens, the Cam Brow­ne who can do anyt­hing, is trying to ste­ady him­self, and that's eno­ugh to turn my own kne­es to Jell-O. When he spe­aks, his vo­ice is mo­use-li­ke. "How much did you see in yo­ur vi­si­on?"

  "Just this. What hap­pe­ned right now. That's it." I mo­ve aro­und him and put a re­as­su­ring hand on his sho­ul­der. "Did you go to the doc­tor? I can go with you, if you want.”

  "Doc­tor?" He sha­kes his he­ad. "So you didn't see anyt­hing el­se?"

  "Um, no. You are go­ing to the doc­tor, aren't you? I me­an, I don't think Ben-Gay has the ans­wer to this one."

  "So you don't know abo­ut her?"

  "The doc­tor?"

  "No. Her” he says for­ce­ful­ly, then lo­oks aro­und, ins­p
ec­ting the co­mers of the ro­om, un­til I'm su­re that the hit he en­du­red du­ring last night's Ca­me must ha­ve sha­ken mo­re than a screw or two lo­ose.

  "Her who?" My vo­ice ri­ses to match his. "Is it a tu­mor or what?"

  "No, it's not." He ra­kes his fin­gers thro­ugh his ha­ir aga­in. "For­get it."

  "No way. I've ne­ver se­en you this fre­aked. Who are you tal­king abo­ut?"

  The bell rings. In the hall, do­ors burst open and stam­pe­ding stu­dents fill every spa­ce. Des­pi­te the ton­gue-las­hing I re­ce­ived from Tan­ner and the know­led­ge that I'll pro­bably get the sa­me re­cep­ti­on from my bio te­ac­her if I don't ha­ul ta­il to the sci­en­ce wing ASAP, I can't mo­ve. But Mr. Fre­aky Tu­mor isn't tal­king. He just lo­oks away, out the win­dow, in­to the empty qu­ad.

  The do­or swings open. The two of us are still, as if we're po­sing for a gre­at work of art. No­body walks in­to the ro­om at first, but I can sen­se so­me­one fid­ge­ting in the do­or­way. Then a soft vo­ice says, "Is everyt­hing, li­ke, okay?"

  I turn and see a fa­mi­li­ar, ti­mid cre­atu­re, clutc­hing her bo­oks aga­inst her chest. I think it's the fresh­man that got me my fri­es at the Ca­me yes­ter­day. Ca­sey. No, Ka­tie. I want to say, "Su­re, everyt­hing's fi­ne," and flash a big smi­le, but I can't will my mo­uth to do eit­her of the abo­ve. It just hangs the­re, so stro­ke vic­ti­mes­que.

  "Ge­ez, Mor­gan, you're red! I can get you so­me wa­ter!" she pe­eps, drop­ping her bo­oks on the tab­le and scur­rying out the do­or.

  I walk so that I'm stan­ding abo­ve Cam, so clo­se I can rest my chin on the top of his he­ad. I put my hands on his sho­ul­ders and for­ce him to lo­ok up at me.

  "Her who?" I re­pe­at, lo­uder and slo­wer this ti­me.

  "Shh, she can he­ar."

  "Cam, we're alo­ne."

  "You saw Pip, right? Did he ha­ve so­met­hing with him?"

  Tho­ugh I ha­ve no idea what that gre­asy fel­low wo­uld ha­ve to do with anyt­hing, I fe­el the ne­ed to just play along with my nut-job boyf­ri­end, if only to ke­ep him from run­ning down Ma­in Stre­et na­ked with a co­lan­der on his he­ad la­ter in li­fe. "Urn, ye­ah. He had a pen­cil box. And his lunch. Well, I think it was his lunch, but he se­emed a lit­tle whac­ked abo­ut it."