Fairy Tale

by Cyn Balog

  "Sa­ra had an ane­urysm and they want you to fill in as he­ad che­er­le­ader?"

  She gig­gles way too much in res­pon­se to my la­me joke and says, "I wish." Then she pulls her ha­ir back in­to a pony­ta­il and lets it fall down her back.

  How an­no­ying. I'm three se­conds away from whip­ping out a pa­ir of scis­sors and go­ing snip crazy. "What is wrong with yo­ur ha­ir? You-"

  But that's when I see it. A red­dish blotch, right on the si­de of her neck. Its hor­rif­yingly big and sha­ped kind of li­ke Te­xas. She winks at me, li­ke a lit­tle sex­pot, so not li­ke the old lady I’d en­vi­si­oned sit­ting at ho­me tal­king to her Pre­ci­o­us Mo­ments fi­gu­ri­nes.

  "It's a hic­key!" she cri­es out, lo­ud eno­ugh for half the class to swing the­ir he­ads in our di­rec­ti­on.

  "Pretty.'' I sigh. So, just per­fect. Whi­le the rest of the sop­ho­mo­re class had a ca­ref­ree we­ekend fil­led with yo­uth­ful de­ba­uc­hery, I was trying to sal­va­ge the re­ma­ins of my pat­he­tic fa­iry re­la­ti­ons­hip. I'm su­re they par­ti­ed li­ke it was 1999 whi­le I was off dan­cing the tan­go with Dorky Dor­ki­son.

  Eden dips her he­ad un­der the clo­uds for a se­cond to no­ti­ce the ban­da­ge on my arm. "Oh, my God! What hap­pe­ned the­re?"

  "I… fell," I mut­ter.

  "Is it bro­ken?''

  "Just black-and-blue."

  "Oh, my God!" she re­pe­ats. "You po­or thing. It's li­ke this we­ekend, the who­le earth shif­ted or so­met­hing."

  I sta­re at her blankly.

  "I me­an, you're inj­ured." She wa­ves her hand to­ward the front of the ro­om, whe­re Pip is still rif­ling thro­ugh his pen­cil ca­se. In all the we­ekend's hyste­ria, I'd for­got­ten to ste­al and bum it. "Ge­ek­boy is hot." She juts her fin­ger to­ward the purp­le bru­ise ming­ling with her freck­les, and the mon­do-grin re­turns. "And this awe­so­me thing."

  "You think he’s hot?" I ask, watc­hing Pip as he chews ner­vo­usly on his pinky fin­ger­na­il. Tho­ugh blo­ody na­il stubs aren't exactly at­trac­ti­ve, he still lo­oks a bit scrump­ti­o­us. I won­der how much of that is due to my po­wers of ma­ke­over and how much is due to Dawns spell.

  She shrugs. "Su­re. Kind of."

  Only then do I re­ali­ze I am sta­ring at him, jaw- drop­ped, a po­ol of dro­ol re­ady to spill over my bot­tom lip. I clo­se my mo­uth qu­ickly and say, "So, Who?"

  Her eyes nar­row. "Huh?"

  "Who's the vam­pi­re?"

  She's still squ­in­ting li­ke Clint East­wo­od.

  It ob­vi­o­usly isn't get­ting thro­ugh, so I po­int to the dis­gus­ting bru­ise and say, "Who. Did. That?"

  She rolls her eyes. "Duh. Mi­ke."

  Now it's my turn. "Mi­ke who?"

  "Duh!" she says aga­in. "Ken­sing­ton. Who el­se?"

  "He didn't."

  "He did!" she squ­e­als.

  "Hell he did. He's gay!" I burst out, and re­ali­ze a qu­ar­ter of a se­cond too la­te that I pro­bably sho­uld ha­ve whis­pe­red that part, sin­ce ever­yo­ne is now sta­ring at us aga­in. "Or, at le­ast, I tho­ught he was," I say, mo­re softly this ti­me.

  She gla­res at me. "God. The pe­op­le in this scho­ol re­al­ly get on my ner­ves so­me­ti­mes. Can't a guy dress well and still be he­te­ro?"

  '"Well, ye­ah, but-"

  She shrugs and po­ints at the hic­key "Ever­yo­ne can be wrong; it's cal­led gro­upt­hink." She says this last part very con­des­cen­dingly.

  I sta­re at her, un­be­li­eving. "So, wa­it. You knew ever­yo­ne tho­ught he was gay? And you still went af­ter him?"

  She nods.

  "My in­tu­iti­on is usu­al­ly right abo­ut things li­ke this," I mur­mur. "May­be he's just con­fu­sed."

  "Ri-ight." She gig­gles. "May­be you're the one who is con­fu­sed."

  Pip turns aro­und and grins at me, still suc­king on a fin­ger­na­il. And I find myself bre­ath­less, shi­ve­ring, won­de­ring what it wo­uld be li­ke if he re­al­ly did to­uch me li­ke he did in my dre­am. And then I think of Cam and want to stab myself with my pen. Eden is right I am de­fi­ni­tely con­fu­sed.

  Chapter Thirty

  THRO­UG­HO­UT THE PE­RI­OD, Pip ke­eps lo­oking back at me and mo­ut­hing, "Don't gi­ve up " so much so that by the ti­me Tan­ner throws out a pop qu­iz, I've lost all con­cent­ra­ti­on. I miss half the qu­es­ti­ons, which just abo­ut se­als the de­al of me ne­ver re­ac­hing te­ac­her's pet sta­tus in his he­art in my li­fe­ti­me. Tho­ugh I’m used to te­ac­hers be­aming at me, when the pe­ri­od ends and Tan­ner scowls as he col­lects my pa­per, I can’t bring myself to ca­re.

  If I was wrong abo­ut Mi­ke, may­be that vi­si­on of Pip is wrong, too?

  In the hal­lway, I see Eden al­re­ady en­ga­ged in a mas­si­ve PDA with Mi­ke at the next clas­sro­om over. Even when she's on her tip­to­es, he’s, li­ke, two fe­et tal­ler, and as he brings her fa­ce up to his, he gets this ra­bid, de­si­ro­us gle­am in his eyes, li­ke he might swal­low her he­ad. So, he is enj­oying it. Pe­op­le pas­sing by are do­ing do­ub­le ta­kes, just as con­fu­sed as I am. Mi­ke Ken­sing­ton. Gay Mi­ke. Who'd've thunk?

  Okay, so I’d ne­ver ac­tu­al­ly en­vi­si­oned Mi­ke pla­ying for the ot­her te­am. My in­tu­iti­on has al­ways be­en just as bril­li­ant as my psychic abi­lity, which ma­kes sen­se. And ever sin­ce I met Mi­ke, my in­tu­iti­on has scre­amed, "Gay!" So for me to be that off-ba­se is… well, is so­met­hing that has ne­ver hap­pe­ned be­fo­re.

  As Mi­ke dra­pes him­self over her, it ma­kes me think of Cam. The way Cam on­ce was. Bi­ting my lip, I turn away, re­ady to bar­rel down who­ever is in my way, in se­arch of the ne­arest girls ro­om. But I'm stop­ped de­ad in my tracks by Pips go­ofy grin.

  "Pe­op­le are too damn happy to­day," I mut­ter, pus­hing past him to stop myself from ac­ting on the ins­tinct to re­ach out and to­uch him

  "I got you so­met­hing," he says, shuf­fling to catch up to me. “For hel­ping me this we­ekend"

  Stay away from him, a lit­tle vo­ice in the part of my he­ad that's not be­ing cont­rol­led by Dawn scre­ams. Be to­ugh. Avo­id all ur­ges to stick yo­ur ton­gue down his thro­at, as they are just the pro­duct of fa­iry ma­gic.

  "I don't ne­ed anyt­hing," I say, no­ti­cing for the first ti­me that he’s hol­ding a small plas­tic bag.

  He hands me the bag and I pe­ek in­si­de. It’s a tu­be of Wet’n Wild lips­tick. In hi­de­o­us Day-Glo oran­ge. "All the fe­ma­les at the drugs­to­re we­re purc­ha­sing them."

  I ra­ise an eyeb­row at him, highly do­ubt­ful. "In this co­lor?"

  "It's be­a­uti­ful, isn't it? Re­minds me of the sun­set in Ot­her­world."

  I clo­se the bag and tuck it in­to my pur­se. Tho­ugh I’m ac­ti­vely trying to be cold to him, I can’t help be­ing to­uc­hed by the ges­tu­re. "Thank you. Re­al­ly. It must be very be­a­uti­ful the­re."

  He nods. "That is what I miss abo­ut it the most, I think. The sun­set."

  That's what I ne­ed to he­ar right now-how much he mis­ses Ot­her­world and can’t wa­it to re­turn. "So you re­al­ly don't mind go­ing back?"

  His fa­ce brigh­tens. "You me­an you’re not gi­ving up?"

  "My vi­si­on co­uld be a lit­tle off" I ad­mit, watc­hing Mi­ke gnaw on Eden's ear­lo­be. "And I can't. Not with Cam de­pen­ding on me."

  "You'll see, everyt­hing will work out."

  I don't want to think abo­ut it any­mo­re. I qu­ickly chan­ge the su­bj­ect. "Ha­ve you as­ked an­yo­ne yet?"

  He gi­ves me a she­epish grin. "I didn't think the­re was much of a re­ason to sin­ce I will be go­ing back to Ot­her­world."

  I start to put a re­as­su­ring hand on his back but stop half­way, de­ci­ding that wo­uld be a mis­ta­ke. Be­si­des, I'd had e
no­ugh physi­cal con­tact with him last night. "Of co­ur­se the­re is! The­re's not­hing sa­ying yo­ur last night in this world can't be a lit­tle fun. You sho­uld just enj­oy yo­ur­self."

  "All right. But…"

  "Don't be ner­vo­us. Trust me, you're a hot­tie, and any girl wo­uld be happy to go with you. Re­mem­ber: con­fi­den­ce."

  "Con­fi­den­ce," he re­pe­ats, sur­ve­ying the mar­ket exp­res­si­on­les­sly, as if watc­hing cars pass on a high­way.

  "See, lots to cho­ose from,'' I tell him, mo­re as­su­red in the tho­ught that who­me­ver he ta­kes to our party will not be le­aving with him. On­ce de­ar, swe­et Pip is sa­fely in Ot­her­world, we can gi­ve the po­or girl a ri­de back from the city and tell her that he ran away to jo­in the cir­cus or so­met­hing. "Did you ha­ve an­yo­ne in mind?"

  "Um" He digs his hands in his poc­kets. "I tho­ught I wo­uld just ask one of the ones who as­ked me this mor­ning."

  The hal­lway’s aw­ful­ly no­isy, so may­be I didn't he­ar him right. But I co­uld ha­ve sworn he sa­id so­me­one al­re­ady as­ked him. Scratch that; he sa­id "one of the ones," me­aning that mo­re than one per­son al­re­ady as­ked him. Which, con­si­de­ring it's only ni­ne on Mon­day mor­ning, is im­pos­sib­le. Isn't it? "Wa­it. What? Who al­re­ady as­ked you?"

  His stan­dard de­er-in-he­ad­lights lo­ok re­turns. "I don't know the­ir na­mes. The­re was a girl with very long yel­low ha­ir, al­most whi­te. And she had very ni­ce te­eth."

  I wa­ve my hand in front of him and he stops tal­king right away. This is bad. Ob­vi­o­usly. This is the thing that spells do­om for our plan. I had no idea that Pip co­uld work this qu­ickly. I me­an, so­me­ti­mes my po­wers of ma­ke­over sca­re me even mo­re than my psychic abi­li­ti­es. Or per­haps Dawn is using her ma­gic to ma­ke Pip ir­re­sis­tib­le to every girl on the pla­net so that I be­co­me je­alo­us and fall even har­der for him. Eit­her way, one thing is cle­ar. Pip is de­fi­ni­tely a lo­ose can­non.

  And I sho­uld ha­ve known by the way Gi­zel­le, the events ma­na­ger at the To­ad, fell over Pip that mul­tip­le girls at scho­ol wo­uld do the sa­me thing. If Pip co­uld ho­ok a da­te for the party this qu­ickly… who knows, by Fri­day he co­uld be en­ga­ged! And Pip, who has ne­ver known lo­ve be­fo­re, might be­co­me so in­fa­tu­ated with his da­te that when the ti­me co­mes, he'll re­fu­se to go to Ot­her­world. Pip se­ems trust­worthy, but he has no idea how crazy lo­ve can ma­ke a per­son. And pe­op­le do all sorts of nutty things for lo­ve.

  Just lo­ok at me. I'm ste­ering myself right in­to the men­tal-bre­ak­down la­ne.

  "Lo­ok," I tell him, "may­be you're right. You sho­uld just go to this thing alo­ne."

  He bi­tes his lip. "If you say so."

  "Unless you don't want to. You can ta­ke so­me­one, as long as you…"

  He stops me then by put­ting his hands squ­arely on my arms. His hands are big, po­wer­ful, and fe­el warm on my ba­re sho­ul­ders. I blink away flas­hes of last night's dre­am, his skin aga­inst mi­ne. When he lo­oks in­to my eyes, I fe­el a lit­tle we­ak. Dizzy. De­fi­ni­tely not li­ke myself. His words are spo­ken with a calm, con­fi­dent vo­ice, one I've ne­ver he­ard from him be­fo­re. "Mor­gan. I will go to Ot­her­world on Fri­day night. That is my pro­mi­se." My vo­ice fa­ils me. Fi­nal­ly, I squ­e­ak out, "Okay." He gi­ves me a fa­bu­lo­us grin, with just a tra­ce of coc­ki­ness, the es­sen­ce of what has got­ten him tur­ning the he­ad of every girl in scho­ol. Be­ca­use my he­art be­ats in do­ub­le ti­me. "You su­re?" I nod. "So you think the plan is go­ing to work?" His vo­ice has mo­re re­sol­ve and strength than I tho­ught it was ca­pab­le of. "I know it will."

  Just then, the­re's a squ­e­al, and a gag­gle of girls co­mes stam­pe­ding from the di­rec­ti­on of the gu­idan­ce of­fi­ce. As it gets clo­ser, I see a flash of hi­de­o­us co­lor and re­ali­ze that it's he­aded by Si­er­ra Mar­tin, we­aring a god-awful li­me gre­en pi­pe-cle­aner thing in her ha­ir and the third Mon­day-mor­ning des­ti­ned-for-the-nut­ho­use grin I've se­en to­day. Her fa­ce is red from bo­un­ding down the hall, so she lo­oks a lit­tle li­ke a drunk lep­rec­ha­un. She catc­hes a glimp­se of me and sne­ers, and be­fo­re I can say anyt­hing, she holds out a very of­fi­ci­al-lo­oking bur­gundy en­ve­lo­pe. Oh. Now I get it. "Har­vard? 1 ask.

  She nods smugly and con­ti­nu­es down the hall, her fol­lo­wers at her he­els. "Cong­rats" I call af­ter her.

  When I catch my bre­ath, Pip is still watc­hing me. "So, you see, you sho­uldn't let yo­ur vi­si­ons dic­ta­te how you li­ve yo­ur li­fe," he is sa­ying.

  And for the first ti­me, I be­li­eve that he is right.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  WAL­KING THE TIGHT­RO­PE wit­ho­ut a net can ac­tu­al­ly be a go­od thing. Su­re, anyt­hing can hap­pen, bad or go­od, but it be­ats be­li­eving Cam and I are do­omed and not be­ing ab­le to do anyt­hing abo­ut it.

  It's be­en a whi­le sin­ce I've be­en ab­le to think abo­ut the party wit­ho­ut thin­king of it as Cam's last night in this world. So at the end of the day, when I'm ap­pro­ac­hed by a co­up­le of fresh­men lo­oking for last-mi­nu­te in­vi­tes to my party, I don't mind han­ding them out. I even chat them up, pro­mi­se to tell the­ir fu­tu­res so­me­ti­me, for­get abo­ut the fa­iri­es for a whi­le, which is so­met­hing I ha­ven't do­ne in days. It fe­els go­od to think abo­ut so­met­hing in the pre­sent, for on­ce, ins­te­ad of cons­tantly ob­ses­sing abo­ut the fu­tu­re.

  By the ti­me I'm do­ne han­ding out in­vi­tes, the hal­lways are cle­ar and all the bu­ses ha­ve left the front of the bu­il­ding. I can he­ar a co­up­le of stray no­tes from a trum­pet and a sa­xop­ho­ne as the marc­hing band warms up on the fi­eld out back, so I know it's la­te. Cam is pro­bably at prac­ti­ce. May­be I’ll just go ho­me, kick up, and spend ti­me with the only man in my li­fe that, for on­ce, isn 't dri­ving me crazy right now: my dad. For the first ti­me in ages, I don't think I'd mind re­la­xing on the co­uch with him, let­ting him exp­la­in Ge­ne­ral Hos­pi­tal to me.

  I put my bo­oks in my loc­ker and slam the do­or. When I turn aro­und, I jump back. Cam is the­re, le­aning aga­inst the row of loc­kers ac­ross the hall, exp­res­si­on­less, arms fol­ded. His red-rim­med eyes say it all.

  "What hap­pe­ned?" I ask when I've fi­nal­ly got­ten over the shock.

  "Why aren't you at prac­ti­ce?"

  He stra­igh­tens up and walks ac­ross the hall to me, and I gasp. In the past few ho­urs, he must ha­ve shrunk fi­ve mo­re inc­hes. I can see cle­arly over the top of his he­ad. Me­aning, I'm tal­ler than he is. He's we­aring a baggy swe­ats­hirt, but it's pul­ling away from his sho­ul­ders as if he we­re we­aring a back­pack un­der his clot­hes. His je­ans are cuf­fed but they still drag on the gro­und, comp­le­tely co­ve­ring all but the to­es of his sho­es.

  "You know why," he says, in a vo­ice I don't re­cog­ni­ze. It's hig­her-pitc­hed, twangy, li­ke a co­untry sin­ger's. And lac­king all the con­fi­den­ce it on­ce held. I gu­ess this do­esn't surp­ri­se me; not­hing abo­ut him is the sa­me any­mo­re.

  "You can't play?"

  He sha­kes his he­ad, his sho­ul­ders dro­oping for­ward "Our first ga­me is Thurs­day, and I can ba­rely throw the ball ten fe­et."

  "But can't they see so­met­hing is go­ing on with you? You're a fo­ot shor­ter than you we­re on Fri­day."

  "I'm not su­re they can. I don't think an­yo­ne can. Ex­cept you."

  "Me? Why just me?"

  He shrugs. "May­be for the sa­me re­ason you can see Dawn. May­be be­ca­use you know me bet­ter than an­yo­ne. Any­way, they're fo­cu­sed on the win. And I'm let­ting them down. They're pis­sed."

  "Ha­ve you told Scab? He wo­uld un­ders­tand."

  "He's the worst
of them. And what am I sup­po­sed to tell him? I can’t play be­ca­use I'm a fa­iry?" He sha­kes the tho­ught away "He wo­uld la­ugh his ass off at me. They all wo­uld."

  "So what did you tell them?"

  "I just wal­ked off. I told them I was qu­it­ting and to use the­ir se­cond string."

  "Se­cond string? That's Tommy Mil­ler, and he sucks."

  "At this po­int, he’s bet­ter than me. An­yo­ne is." He ra­kes his hands thro­ugh his black ha­ir, and I catch a glimp­se of a nub of skin po­king out from over his ears. He catc­hes my stun­ned exp­res­si­on and lifts a lock of his ha­ir up so that I can get a bet­ter lo­ok. "Ye­ah, they're po­inty. Hot, huh?"

  "They're kind of cu­te," I say, re­al­ly me­aning it. "Don't get down. Lo­ok, the plan is go­ing to work. Well be to­get­her."

  "And I’ll be a fre­ak"

  "You just sa­id no­body can see the chan­ges in you ex­cept me. So what do­es it mat­ter? I will lo­ve you no mat­ter what. You know that. This is gre­at."

  His fa­ce is dark, dar­ker than I've ever se­en it. In the past few days, he's be­en spi­ra­ling down­ward, and not­hing I've told him has hel­ped. "I don't know if I can do this," he says, his new, stran­ge vo­ice ne­arly crac­king.

  “You can," I tell him. "Cam Brow­ne can do anyt­hing, re­mem­ber?"

  "That was the old one," he says, ex­ha­ling slowly. "Not this one."

  "Okay, so you may not be ab­le to throw a fo­ot­ball any­mo­re. But big de­al. The­re are ot­her things in li­fe. Just mo­ve on to the next thing."

  "But what is my next thing?" His vo­ice is lo­uder now-, and the­re is frust­ra­ti­on in it. "I pla­yed fo­ot­ball be­ca­use it ca­me na­tu­ral­ly to me. My body was go­od for it. Do you know what my body is go­od for now'?"

  "It's go­od for a lot of-"

  "Only one thing. Fa­ir­ying."

  I flash back to the vi­si­on of Pip wal­king, his fe­et crunc­hing, on the brown le­aves and catch my he­art be­fo­re it for­ces its way out of my thro­at. I tho­ught I'd con­vin­ced him to stay, and over the past co­up­le of days, he’d se­emed mo­re re­so­lu­te in go­ing thro­ugh with the plan. And now this. I’d tho­ught I’d ima­gi­ned every pos­sib­le si­tu­ati­on that co­uld for­ce our plan to fa­il, but not this. I ne­ver tho­ught he wo­uld be the re­ason the plan wo­uldn't work. "So, you’re gi­ving in. You want to le­ave me."