Fairy Tale

by Cyn Balog

  He's si­lent.

  "But what abo­ut that guy isn’t whac­ked?" I add, tit­te­ring ner­vo­usly, and im­me­di­ately want to kick myself! I ne­ver tit­ter! Why can't he just crack one of his stu­pid jokes and put me at ease? As I qu­i­etly cur­se this new, mo­re in­ten­se ver­si­on of Cam that is re­du­cing me to be­ha­ving li­ke a fo­ur-ye­ar-old girl, I no­ti­ce so­met­hing. The­re's a brand-new exp­res­si­on daw­ning on his fa­ce. It's… fe­ar. "Urn, it isn't his lunch, is it?"

  "Not even clo­se. Do­es he ha­ve it with him?"

  Oh, God, it is a se­ve­red he­ad. "Um, no. We put it in his loc­ker."

  "You what? " He lo­oks at the clock, grabs my hand, and pulls me up. "Go to yo­ur class. All hell is abo­ut to bre­ak lo­ose, and I don't want you to be in the mid­dle of it."

  "What? No. What's go­ing on?" He's pus­hing me to­ward the do­or, but I re­sist, trying to dig the he­els of my Sam & Libbys in­to the li­no­le­um.

  Just then, Ka­tie ro­unds the co­mer, out of bre­ath, a Di­xie cup in each hand. She stops short, and be­fo­re I can re­act, my chest is co­ve­red in so­met­hing wet. Ka­tie stands the­re, mo­uth open li­ke a gold­fish. It ta­kes me a mo­ment to re­ali­ze that (a) it's ice-cold and (b) it's not wa­ter; it's so­me hot-pink stuff that lo­oks sort of li­ke wa­te­red-down Pep­to. It's li­ke Bar­bie threw up all over my whi­te cash­me­re swe­ater. Blast. "What is that…?" I ask amid the end­less apo­logy that's flo­wing, li­ke a vol­ca­nic erup­ti­on, from her mo­uth.

  "Hi-C. You lo­oked li­ke you co­uld use so­met­hing, um, stron­ger," she squ­e­aks, and then stra­ight back to the re­gu­larly sche­du­led "I'msor­ryl'msor­ryI’msor­ry."

  She pro­du­ces a bal­led-up Kle­enex from her back­pack, and as I'm dab­bing away at my swe­ater, I say, "Cam, just let me help-"

  But that's when I re­ali­ze that Cam is go­ne. Stan­ding whe­re he on­ce was is a pa­in­ting on an easel-an ar­ran­ge­ment of da­isi­es, or a bunch of eggs sun­ny-si­de up. Or may­be a port­ra­it? If only that we­re the most con­fu­sing thing on my mind.

  So rat­her than get my se­cond tardy of my scho­ol ca­re­er on the sa­me day as my first, I re­port to bio as sche­du­led. Then, I qu­ickly fa­ke a ca­se of mas­si­vely full blad­der and ask Ms. Simp­son if I can use the lav pass.

  I pa­ce back and forth at Pip's loc­ker, not be­ca­use I ha­ve any clue what is go­ing on, but be­ca­use I fi­gu­re that, ba­sed on our comp­le­tely cryptic con­ver­sa­ti­on, if Cam was go­ing to be anyw­he­re, it wo­uld be he­re.

  But he's not.

  Blast.

  All hell’s go­ing to bre­ak lo­ose. What did he me­an by that? He ob­vi­o­usly se­emed con­cer­ned abo­ut the thing in Pip's loc­ker. So what can it be? A we­apon? Drugs? I ha­ven't yet ru­led out the hu­man he­ad, eit­her.

  Gah. I don't ca­re if it is a hu­man he­ad. I ne­ed to know.

  I clo­se my eyes and mo­uth the word "Fluf­fer­nut­ter" a co­up­le of ti­mes, but the be­ating of my he­art drowns out the so­und. "Show me Pip," I say.

  But not­hing co­mes. A mi­nu­te pas­ses.

  I open my eyes and re­ali­ze I'm clutc­hing the wo­oden lav pass so tightly in my hands that splin­ters are stal­ling to prick my palms,

  This isn't wor­king,

  Fi­ne. I ta­ke a qu­ick lo­ok down the hall and, se­e­ing no one, fix my hand on the di­al. The first num­ber was twenty-eight, I think, And … twel­ve? I ne­ed to start ta­king gink­go bi­lo­ba.

  But that's when I he­ar it.

  It starts li­ke a scratc­hing, li­ke the so­und of a cat shar­pe­ning its claws. At first I think it must be co­ming from the ro­om be­hind the row of loc­kers. Then, the rub-rub-rub­bing no­ise in­ten­si­fi­es, to a tinny ban­ging.

  So­met­hing is in­si­de. So­met­hing ali­ve.

  That's im­pos­sib­le, I tell myself. Still, my hand is fro­zen on the lock. So­met­hing tells me that Cam is right, that all hell might be bre­aking lo­ose… out of this loc­ker?

  And, if so, I'm go­ing to be in the mid­dle of it.

  I drop my hand to my si­de and back away, and as I'm tur­ning to run, I he­ar it.

  A vo­ice, a whis­per. But not a swe­et-not­hings whis­per; mo­re of a sub­hu­man hiss.

  "Let. … me … out…"

  Chapter Eleven

  AS I'M RA­CING down the hall, thin­king how ni­ce it wo­uld be to be sa­fely ens­con­ced in Ms. Simp­son's class, le­ar­ning abo­ut the mol­lusk phylum, I turn a co­mer and ca­re­en he­ad­first in­to Pip and Cam, who, jud­ging from the fact that Pip's bre­at­hing li­ke a wo­man in la­bor, must ha­ve be­en run­ning to­ward me.

  Cam grabs me by the sho­ul­ders. "What's wrong? Why are you scre­aming?"

  I clamp my mo­uth clo­sed. I was?

  "Tell me you didn't go in­to his loc­ker," he says, bre­at­hing hard.

  "Urn…"

  "Go back to yo­ur class!" he sho­uts, al­re­ady se­ve­ral clas­sro­oms away, with Pip on his he­els li­ke a puppy.

  "No!" I tell him, fol­lo­wing.

  He starts run­ning back­ward, so­met­hing all fo­ot­ball pla­yers se­em to be go­od at, gi­ving me the "Don't ma­ke me co­me over the­re!" lo­ok. Not su­re why; he knows that ne­ver works with me. Next to him, Pip trips on an in­vi­sib­le bump, falls to the gro­und li­ke a wo­un­ded tur­key, then jumps up and ke­eps run­ning, in this car­to­on­li­ke way that so­me­how al­lows the he­els of his Keds to ne­arly smack his back­si­de with each and every stri­de.

  Catc­hing up to Pip is easy, but I ha­ve to bust a gut to get to Cam. "You ha­ve to tell me what is go­ing on. You're go­ing to Pip's loc­ker, right?"

  "Ye­ah"

  "The­re's so­met­hing ali­ve in the­re?"

  "Damn. You he­ard her?"

  "Her," I re­pe­at mind­les­sly. "Her? Who…?"

  Cam ig­no­res me and turns to Pip. "She's awa­ke. She'll be mad, right?"

  All the blo­od in Pip's body has rus­hed to his che­eks. "Yes, most de­fi­ni­tely."

  "How co­uld you le­ave her in the­re?"

  "I'm sorry. I didn't know what el­se to do, and I didn't want to aro­use sus­pi­ci­ons," he exp­la­ins, cle­arly up­set. As if sho­wing up to scho­ol in too-tight cords that amp­lify yo­ur pri­va­te parts do­esn't al­re­ady ha­ve half the scho­ol sus­pi­ci­o­us?

  "Her who?" I say, in a whis­per. Tho­ugh I am by no me­ans God­zil­la, and in fact think I am qu­ite pe­ti­te, I can ba­rely squ­e­eze a fist in­to the loc­kers they gi­ve us. So this "her" must be so­me sort of tiny ani­mal. Li­ke a girl hams­ter. May­be I was he­aring things when I he­ard ac­tu­al words co­ming from the loc­ker. I didn't get much sle­ep last night, af­ter all. Yes, de­fi­ni­tely. Pip, fledg­ling Jef­frey Dah­mer that he is, pro­bably just pic­ked up a squ­ir­rel on the way to scho­ol.

  Half­way down the hall, the boys stop short, and I ne­arly run smack in­to the wall that is Cam's back, not to men­ti­on the fre­aky tu­mor. Sli­ding to a Tom Cru­ise-style stop on the wa­xed flo­or, I be­gin to itch. My cash­me­re swe­ater is clin­ging to my ribs with pers­pi­ra­ti­on and Ka­tie's sticky pink drink, and it's wor­se than a tho­usand mos­qu­ito bi­tes. "This swe­ater is ru­ined," I grumb­le, lo­oking down at its pat­he­tic re­ma­ins.

  "Morg-" Cam says.

  I step out of his sha­dow and pe­er down the hal­lway. The hall is comp­le­tely empty, ex­cept… tho­ugh we're still se­ve­ral clas­sro­oms away, I can see the loc­ker do­or, num­ber 168, swin­ging in the dis­tan­ce. It ma­kes an eerie, tinny scre­ech as it slowly mo­ves back and forth.

  Wha­te­ver it is, it's out.

  "Is an­yo­ne con­cer­ned abo­ut ra­bi­es?" I ask.

  Cam ig­no­res me. He sta­res down the hall, eyes fi­er­ce. Fi­nal­ly, he says, "I'm sorry. She didn't know."
/>   "De­er ticks are-" Wa­it. Why isn't he lo­oking at me? I walk aro­und and fa­ce him. “Who didn't know?"

  "It won't hap­pen aga­in," he mur­murs.

  "What?" He's not pa­ying at­ten­ti­on. It's li­ke he's lis­te­ning in on anot­her con­ver­sa­ti­on. And his eyes aren't fo­cu­sed down the hal­lway… they're sort of fo­cu­sed on this ima­gi­nary spot-this not­hing­ness-right un­der his no­se. He's tal­king to an ima­gi­nary fri­end.

  He re­al­ly is go­ing nuts.

  Help­less, I turn to Pip. "What is he do­ing?"

  "Tal­king to Dawn," he says softly.

  Dawn? So, per­fect, he has an ima­gi­nary gir­l­f­ri­end. I’m ap­pal­led and je­alo­us at on­ce. Is this so­me psycho­lo­gi­cal di­sor­der that stems from not get­ting everyt­hing one wants out of one's cur­rent re­la­ti­ons­hip? "And Dawn is…?" I ask, sta­ring at Cam as he rubs his chin and nods, with de­ep un­ders­tan­ding, at ab­so­lu­tely not­hing.

  "… not ve­riy happy that we put her in that clo­sed com­part­ment," Pip says.

  "So, wa­it-you can see her, too?" This re­al­ly wo­uldn't surp­ri­se me.

  "No, hu­mans can't see them when they cho­ose not to be se­en," he exp­la­ins.

  "Hu­mans?" The word numbs my lips as it pas­ses thro­ugh them. Be­ca­use what is Dawn, if she isn't hu­man? And if hu­mans can't see her, but Cam ob­vi­o­usly can, what do­es that ma­ke him?

  I fol­low Cam's eyes in­to the air, con­cent­ra­ting hard on the spot abo­ve him, ho­ping to get a glimp­se of wha­te­ver he's tal­king to so that I can con­firm that my boyf­ri­end isn't des­ti­ned for a stra­itj­ac­ket. Fi­nal­ly, when I'm abo­ut to gi­ve up, I see so­met­hing mo­ve. It's trans­lu­cent, the co­lor of bub­ble gum, sort of li­ke a glob of ha­ir gel. A glob of ha­ir gel with a mind of its own, be­ca­use it's mo­ving in gent­le circ­les and is sus­pen­ded right abo­ve Cam's he­ad.

  I blink twi­ce. "What the hell is that?" When no­body ans­wers, I lo­ok at Pip. "What is that?"

  Pip's eyes wi­den. "Tell her I'm sorry. I didn't know what el­se to do."

  Gre­at. He's ig­no­ring me, too.

  I ha­ve no idea how an­yo­ne can clas­sify go­o­ey ha­ir fi­xa­ti­ve as eit­her ma­le or fe­ma­le, but I can't con­cent­ra­te on that right now. I'm get­ting mo­re tic­ked by the mi­nu­te that Cam finds the blob mo­re worthy of his at­ten­ti­on than his own girlf­ri­end.

  "Cam," I say softly. He is still go­ing on, very so­lemnly, to the not­hing, abo­ut how he'd re­al­ly pre­fer things to be kept un­der wraps right now. It's al­most as if / don't exist. "Cam!"

  Start­led, he turns to­ward me. As he do­es, the pink glob be­gins to se­pa­ra­te and in an ins­tant mo­ves aro­und his he­ad, to­ward me, in a tho­usand bril­li­ant and be­a­uti­ful spark­les. It spre­ads over me, warm and ting­ling on my skin, and I can't se­em to re­mem­ber what it was I was go­ing to say. That's when Cam starts to lun­ge to­ward me, this wild lo­ok in his eyes. A shot of fe­ar runs thro­ugh my ner­ves when he re­ac­hes for me, yel­ling, "No, don't!" his mo­uth fro­zen in an exag­ge­ra­ted O. Be­fo­re he can lay a fin­ger on me, tho­ugh, the­re's a sud­den, blin­ding pa­in on the si­de of my he­ad. The last thing I see is the cold, hard ti­le stretc­hing up to me­et me.

  Chapter Twelve

  “MOR­GAN?" CAM'S VO­ICE lu­res me back.

  I open my eyes, but everyt­hing is fuzzy sha­dows, li­ke clo­uds, li­ke the way I ex­pect he­aven wo­uld be.

  I'm de­ad.

  It's cold in he­aven. I’m lying down, un­der a blan­ket that fe­els li­ke bur­lap, and it smells li­ke pers­pi­ra­ti­on, grass, and lawn fer­ti­li­zer.

  Do pe­op­le swe­at in he­aven? And I tho­ught things we­re just na­tu­ral­ly gre­en up the­re, wit­ho­ut the ne­ed for harsh che­mi­cals.

  Fi­nal­ly, my vi­si­on imp­ro­ves to the po­int whe­re I can ma­ke out an old sco­re­bo­ard, lying on its si­de, with the fa­ded slo­gan GO H WKS! I'm on the flo­or of a cram­ped sto­re­ro­om, with cle­aning sup­pli­es and grass se­ed on shel­ves all aro­und, sta­ring down at me…And the re­ason the blan­ket on top of me fe­els li­ke bur­lap is be­ca­use it is. I'm lying down on a gym mat that lo­oks li­ke it was at­tac­ked by a te­am of wild­cats, for all the te­ars in it. The only light in the pla­ce is slas­hing thro­ugh an air vent ne­ar the ce­iling, so I can ba­rely ma­ke out Cam's fa­ce, his lips spre­ad in a stra­ight li­ne.

  "Whe­re are we?"

  "The shed by the fo­ot­ball fi­eld."

  "Gor­ge­o­us. Are you go­ing to exp­la­in things to me now?"

  "That's why I bro­ught you he­re," he says.

  "Oh, I tho­ught you we­re just go­ing to ra­va­ge my body." I sigh. "Okay. I'm lis­te­ning. If it isn't a tu­mor, what is it?"

  He's kne­eling down next to me, che­wing on the un­der­si­de of his thumb. He ne­ver bi­tes his na­ils; ins­te­ad, he pre­fers to go right to his cal­lu­ses, and he has plenty from all the we­ight lif­ting he's do­ne sin­ce fresh­man ye­ar. It's the one ha­bit of his I ha­te, but right now, I don't fe­el li­ke nag­ging. And I want to he­ar the story.

  If he will just tell it. Ins­te­ad, he's ins­pec­ting an old pa­ir of gar­de­ning glo­ves na­iled to the wall ac­ross from us. He ap­pe­ars to ha­ve for­got­ten me. Aga­in.

  I snap my fin­gers. "Hel­lo?"

  "Sorry."

  "Dawn aga­in?"

  "No, I'm just trying to fi­gu­re out the best way to tell you this."

  "Just tell me," I say. We've al­ways be­en ab­le to tell each ot­her everyt­hing, so I'm get­ting mo­re wor­ri­ed by the se­cond. What co­uld pos­sibly be so bad? He's still lo­oking baf­fled, so I say, "He­re, I'll help. Who the hell hit me?"

  "Dawn."

  "Dawn? Yo­ur ima­gi­nary girlf­ri­end?"

  He clicks his ton­gue. "If she hit you, she can't be ima­gi­nary, can she?"

  "Okay, Mr. At­ti­tu­de. So she's the pink glob?"

  He squ­ints at me. "She's in­vi­sib­le to hu­mans when she wants to be."

  I la­ugh bit­terly. "Well, she sho­uld work on that trick, be­ca­use she lo­oks li­ke ha­ir gel to me."

  He lo­oks surp­ri­sed. "You me­an, you can see her?"

  "I can see so­met­hing. I'm su­re I'm just hal­lu­ci­na­ting or dre­aming or in­sa­ne." I rub the spot on my he­ad.

  "I'm sorry abo­ut that," he says, dus­ting so­me dirt off the kne­es of his je­ans. "She was sle­eping when we left for scho­ol. We co­uldn't wa­ke her and knew she wo­uld be up­set if we left her, so he put her in a pa­per bag un­til she wo­ke up."

  "Well, that exp­la­ins her-who­ever she is-be­ing pis­sed. I wo­uld be, too, if you tre­ated me li­ke a ham sand­wich." I sigh and hold out my hands in exas­pe­ra­ti­on. "This isn't get­ting much cle­arer."

  "I know. He­re. This will exp­la­in things." He re­ac­hes ac­ross the ro­om and pulls out his back­pack. He un­zips the front poc­ket and ret­ri­eves a crump­led pa­per bag.

  Anot­her pa­per bag. Gre­at. I pe­er over as he un­folds it, so­me­how ex­pec­ting it to con­ta­in all the ans­wers to all the qu­es­ti­ons that ha­ve be­en swir­ling in my mind. Fi­nal­ly, he re­ac­hes in and pulls out…

  A stick.

  Not li­ke a twig or anyt­hing. Mo­re li­ke a chop stick. Not even a go­od set. Just one.

  "Is the­re a for­tu­ne co­okie, too?" I ask, ra­ising an eyeb­row.

  "Stop."

  I shrug. "I know I sho­uldn't be ma­king light of the si­tu­ati­on be­ca­use you're ob­vi­o­usly in so­me emo­ti­onal tur­mo­il right now, but if you won't let me in on it, what do you ex­pect?"

  "Okay, okay. You sa­id a for­tu­ne co­okie?" Un­der his bre­ath, half to him­self, he says, "I think I co­uld do that."

  Sta­ring hard, he holds the stick firmly in
his hand, li­ke a pen­cil, and taps it slowly on the mat be­si­de me, three ti­mes.

  "It works bet­ter with kung pao-" I be­gin, but be­fo­re I can get the sen­ten­ce out, it ap­pe­ars. I blink, then blink aga­in, and fi­nal­ly lo­ok at Cam, who is ins­pec­ting it tho­ught­ful­ly.

  "See that?" he says.

  "See? Yes. Be­li­eve?" I mur­mur.

  "Open it. Re­ad it," he ur­ges.

  I do as I am told. I pick it up, and it's still warm, but yes, it is a for­tu­ne co­okie. Just a nor­mal, every­day for­tu­ne co­okie. One that, I'm su­re, didn't exist fif­te­en se­conds ago. Sha­king my he­ad, I bre­ak it open, pull out the sli­ver of pa­per, and re­ad: DON'T LET THEM TA­KE ME AWAY FROM YOU.

  My eyes tra­il off the pa­per, back to his fa­ce. The funny thing abo­ut Cam is that he'd still li­ke me to think he do­esn't cry, even tho­ugh gro­wing up, I've se­en plenty of his melt­downs, from dirty-di­aper cha­os to the lost-Oreo de­bac­le. And in the split se­cond be­fo­re I me­et his ga­ze, I know he wi­pes a te­ar from the cor­ner of his eye.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "WA­IT. WHO'S TA­KING you away? You're mo­ving? Yo­ur dad got re­lo­ca­ted? Oh, God!" I bury my fa­ce in the dis­gus­tingly scratchy bur­lap.

  "No."

  "Oh. Then what the hell?" I'm get­ting frust­ra­ted. Not­hing's much cle­arer ex­cept for the fact that my ama­zingly ta­len­ted boyf­ri­end has the new skill of pul­ling Chi­ne­se fo­od out of his butt. And now he's lo­oking aro­und aga­in, as if trying to ze­ro in on a fly that's be­en buz­zing aro­und his he­ad. "Wa­it. Are we tal­king abo­ut Dawn aga­in?"

  "Shh, she can he­ar.”

  Agh, Fi­ne, I'll play along. "Is she he­re now? Wo­uld she li­ke so­me of this for­tu­ne co­okie?"