by Carrie Jones
“Hometown hero?” I say, yanking at the knot. “Nick?”
Devyn shrugs. “I think so. He saved me.”
I raise my eyebrows and start to ask how, but Megan slinks over, all sexified in her tiny shorts and tank top with spaghetti straps. Spaghetti straps are a violation of the school dress code, not like Megan cares. Coach Walsh obviously doesn’t care either.
Something in my throat tightens as Megan stands above me, blocking my view of Nick.
She smiles.
I do not trust that smile.
Issie coughs and twists her hands together. I slip a fingernail into the knot in Issie’s laces, and loosen the knot, as if I have all the time in the world. Then I look up and meet Megan’s eyes. They don’t match her smile. She obviously is not a good enough actress to make them friendly.
“Zara?” She twists a long lock of strawberry-blond hair around her perfect finger. “You’re from Charleston, right?”
I nod and wait for it to come.
“It must be hard adjusting to Bedford,” she says.
I glance at Devyn. He gives me sympathetic eyes.
“It’s okay.”
“Some people never adjust, you know,” she says.
“That’s not true,” Issie says. “Thanks for getting the knot out, Zara.”
Megan glares at her. “Yes it is. Some people can’t fit in.”
I start working on tying the lace. One rabbit ear. Another rabbit ear. Done.
“Why would I want to fit in?” I cross my arms in front of my chest.
Megan steps closer to me and bends a little so her face is close to my face. She’s put white mascara on her eyelashes, which makes her blue eyes a little creepy. It’s not a good look for her. “You obviously don’t want to since you keep hanging out with these freaks. Wheelchair boy and hyper girl.”
She starts walking away but I reach out and grab her by the arm. It’s icy and cold. “What did you say?”
She doesn’t answer. My fingernails make half moons on her skin, but I don’t loosen my hold. I say, “Don’t threaten my friends. And don’t insult them.”
Ripping her arm out of my grasp, she stares me down. Then she flounces her hair back over her shoulder and says, all condescending, “Oh, little princess. It’s not me you need to be scared of.”
She bounds up the bleachers to go sit with her people. They all start doing the popular girl laugh. I ignore them. She yells down, “You know all that peace and love crap went out decades ago. And John Lennon is dead.”
“You’re shaking.” Devyn says. “Zara, it’s okay. Sit down.”
I look down at my T-shirt. Something inside me breaks a little and I must gasp or something because Issie grabs my hand and tugs on it. I can’t figure out how to sit down. Why would I want to sit down with her staring at me? I want to run, to just get away from here. Where can I run? I start looking for ways to escape. My breath pants out and my heart beats eight hundred beats a second, I swear.
“Zara . . . ,” Devyn repeats. “It’s okay.”
“I grabbed her,” I manage to say. “I never grab people. Never.”
Issie opens her mouth, a little panicked looking, but then Coach Walsh saunters into the gym with Ian. Ian runs ahead and stands by me.
“I’ll be your partner for the sit-ups,” he says. “Hold your feet.”
I nod. “Sure. Fine. Uh . . . Megan won’t be cool with that.”
“So?” He stares hard at me. He has little crinkle lines by his eyes.
“So, you’re friends and everything and I don’t want her to get mad at you.”
“Megan isn’t my keeper, Zara.”
I eye him, struggle to find words to fit together. “Yeah, uh, right. Um. That okay with you, Issie?”
“Yep.” She scrambles up. Her shoes, I must mention, are beautifully tied, with no laces flopping on the floor. “Devyn, can I tuck my feet under the sides of your wheels? Will you count for me?”
“Anytime,” Devyn says. His dimples show. Issie starts blushing. Again. I wish I could be that cute with someone.
Ian puts his arm around my shoulders and steers me to a spot on the mat. “So, Megan’s giving you a hard time.”
“I’m fine,” I say as I settle into sit-up position on the mat. It smells like wrestler sweat and chalk. Ian scowls. I don’t know if it’s at me or at her.
I glance to my side where Nick and Megan work on their crunches. Nick whispers something to her and her face scrunches up, annoyed. If he likes me why is he helping Megan? Whispering to her? If he’s friends with Issie and Devyn how can he even talk to her? Issie is so clueless sometimes. My heart stabs at me a little bit for some stupid reason. I do not like Nick Colt. I will not like Nick Colt. Or, maybe I’m afraid of liking him.
“Hey, Ian,” I say, pulling up to look at him. He has nice teeth, really white and even. “Issie and I are starting this Amnesty International school chapter. We write letters to try to free political prisoners and stuff. You want to join?”
“What do I get in return?”
I slam back to the floor and up again, faster and faster. “My undying respect?”
“Good enough,” he says. “And maybe you’ll go out with me Friday?”
I smile at him and we switch off. I hold his feet and wonder what he’d think about our pixie theory, what he thinks about the Beardsley boy. He could be in danger too. Every single guy in here could be in danger.
“Well?”
I finally answer him. “Maybe.”
It’s not like I have a chance with Nick anyway.
“So, I hear you think I’m ignoring you,” Nick says, folding himself into a chair at the cafeteria table.
My mouth must drop open, because Devyn reaches over and pushes my chin back into place while he says, “Uh-oh.”
Issie cringes and leaps out of her seat. “Oops. Sorry. I’m going to go get a cookie. Anyone want a cookie?”
No one answers. Issie pulls on Devyn’s arm. “Devyn, I know you want to help me get a cookie.”
“What?” He finally gets it and he throws his napkin on the table. It flops there, dead. “Oh, right.”
“They’ve abandoned me,” I say.
“Us,” Nick corrects. “They just don’t want us to fight.”
“I don’t want to fight either. I hate fighting.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. Why do you look all surprised?”
“Because I’d say you like fighting.”
“You obviously don’t know me well.”
“I’d say you like fighting but you hate that you like it.”
“Oh, thank you, wise one.”
“You handled Megan today.”
I run my hand over my eyes. “That was horrible.”
“You didn’t slug her.”
“I grabbed her arm, and I never grab people’s arms.”
“She was attacking your friends.”
“Yeah. She was. And then you helped her with her sit-ups. That was rude of you.”
“Why was it rude?”
“Because they’re your friends too. It’s like you went all traitor or something.”
He shakes his head. His hair flops over his ears a little. A muscle twitches near his jaw. “Zara, I would never go traitor.”
“It’s okay. She’s pretty.”
“I was talking to her. I was telling her to leave them alone. Leave you alone.”
I stab at a piece of lettuce. My fork pierces all the way through but when I bring the fork up to my mouth the lettuce rips, flutters down. Everything seems to be fluttering down: Devyn’s napkin, the lettuce, my heart, my ego, my everything. When I talk again my voice is soft. “I just don’t like that I grabbed her arm. I don’t like that I had to yell at her. I hate yelling. I’m not into conflict. I promised myself a long time ago that I would never hurt anyone for any reason . . .”
He leans away. “What? Like you wouldn’t attack the creep who keeps pointing at you?”
I shrug. “I d
on’t know. I don’t know if I could hurt someone else.”
“C’mon, Zara. You don’t value yourself that little, do you?” He leans back. His thigh touches my thigh. Neither of us move away.
“That’s not it. I don’t really know how to explain it. It’s more like, who am I to decide that my life is worth more than someone else’s?” It tingles where our legs meet.
A cafeteria light flickers and makes a buzzing noise high above us. Trays clatter in the background. People murmur about tests and dates and here we are talking about this.
He smells like the woods. I try not to smell him; it makes me dizzy. I try to focus.
He’s talking. “You wouldn’t attack a person who was trying to kidnap someone? Or hurting a baby? Or—”
“Enough,” I interrupt. “I don’t know if I would, okay? I mean, I know all about self-defense and everything, but I don’t know if I could do it, if it’s morally right to do it.”
“You’d do it.” He grins, so certain he’s right. “If someone was attacking Issie you’d do it. If someone was attacking your grandmother you’d do it. Or Devyn. Or probably even Ian.”
My eyes close. This is probably true. “I don’t want that to be true.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to be violent.”
“It’s not violent to protect your friend.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not like someone’s going to go attack Issie.”
“We don’t know that.”
“What? You think Is is in danger?”
“No.” He raises his hands up in the air. “I think we’re all in danger.”
“From that guy? The pointing guy? You think he’s seriously bad?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I do.”
I lean forward, closer to him. “But how? How do you know?”
“I feel it here.” His fist taps his stomach.
We stare at each other for a second. There’s something about his eyes that makes me frightened, yet not frightened. That makes no sense. It’s like every part of me needs those eyes to look into my eyes a certain way, but I’m afraid of that. I want to ask about the dust I saw on his coat, but I’m afraid of that, too.
“I’m such a wimp,” I say.
He must think I’m still talking about the pointing man because he shakes his head. “No you aren’t. You just don’t want to be brave.”
“What?”
Nick doesn’t answer because Devyn rolls back to the table. Issie bee-bops right behind him. He’s got a pile of cookies spread across a napkin in his lap. “Is went a little crazy.”
“I didn’t know what kind everyone would like,” she explains, plucking cookies up off the napkin and putting them on the table. She glances at us. “Oh no. You two are still fighting.”
“No, we aren’t,” Nick says.
Devyn eyes us.
“Really,” I say. “We aren’t fighting.”
“Then what’s all the doomy-gloomy vibe going on?” Issie asks, sitting down. She offers me a cookie, M&M’s mixed with chocolate chips.
“I scared her,” Nick explains. He grabs an oatmeal raisin.
“Good,” Devyn says. “She needs to be scared.”
“What?” Issie turns on him.
“Fear makes us stronger, puts us on our toes. We’ve got to embrace it.”
Issie snaps her cookie in half. “Guys can be so stupid.”
True. Devyn’s face turns red but Nick just laughs.
“So,” I say really quickly, “are we going to go to the library after school today?”
“There’s no cross-country?” Devyn asks.
“It’s our day off,” Nick explains. “Should we carpool or what?”
I turn on him. “You’re going?”
“Yeah. Of course I’m going. That’s okay with you, right?”
I nod. “Yeah, that’s okay and yes, we should carpool to lower our carbon footprint and all that.”
But for some reason knowing that I’m going to be in the library with Nick makes a knot form in my stomach, and it’s not because the cookie is bad. The knot is becoming a familiar feeling. It’s fear.
That dust on his jacket? It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, right? And the way my insides feel all crazy weird whenever I look in his eyes? That doesn’t mean anything either.
There is something about libraries, old libraries, that makes them seem almost sacred. There’s a smell of paper and must and binding stuff. It’s like all the books are fighting against decay, against turning into dust, and at the same time fighting for attention.
I touch the cover of one book, ESP Your Way. “It’s like they’re all crying out, ‘Read me. Read me.’ ”
Nick turns around to look at me. “The books?”
“It’s like they’re lonely,” I say. I shrug on purpose so he doesn’t think I’m too weird.
“Books get lonely,” he repeats, not looking at me anymore, scanning the titles above his head.
“What?”
“It’s sweet.”
I am sweet. My heart flip-flops and I bite my lip a little bit. Sweet as in a lollipop, or sweet as in a girl you would like to kiss passionately in the stacks? That’s the question.
I squat down, checking out the numbers. “Found some.”
Nick squats next to me and whistles low. “Wow.”
We start pulling them out, Fae Lore, Fairy Charms, An Encyclopedia of Fairies.
Nick carries most of them to the back table by a big bay window. Dust particles swirl around in the sunbeams. Devyn and Issie almost look enchanted, like storybook heroes.
“You guys find stuff?” Issie asks too loudly.
A guy by the magazines shushes her.
“Sorry. Sorry!” She holds up her hand in an apology and then whispers at us. “What a grump. We found stuff too. Right, Devyn?”
Devyn nods but doesn’t actually verbalize anything, just keeps reading the book he’s got. It’s ancient and smelly. I sneeze and settle into a chair. Nick grabs the one next to me. He splits our book pile in half and thrusts three books at me. “Dig in.”
I dig.
We read and read and read and then Nick says, “Got something.”
I sniff. “What?”
Issie hands me a crumpled tissue she’s fished out of her bag. “It’s clean.”
“Thanks,” I blow my nose. “I’m sorry. I’m allergic.”
“To books?” Devyn raises his eyebrows like he can’t believe it.
“Old books,” I explain and lean closer so I can check out the book that’s splayed in front of Nick. “What did you find?”
“It’s about the tributes,” Nick says. He is almost snarling. “It’s vile.”
“Just read it,” Devyn demands.
“Quietly.” Issie looks over at Magazine Man, who is leafing through a copy of the Economist and glaring at us.
Nick lowers his voice and reads, “ ‘So you are being chased by a pixie?’ ”
“It does not say that,” Issie squeals, snatching the book away from him. “Oh my God, it does.”
“Issie . . . ,” I warn, looking to see if Nick’s pissed. He isn’t. “It doesn’t really say that.”
“It does!” She shows me the book, pointing.
“ ‘Of all of the Shining Ones—pixies, elves, fairies—it is true that the preservation of the princely bloodline is integral to their survival. They all share the sidhe heritage. In fact, their name is derived from the pict-sidhe. They are the Caille Daouine, or forest people. If you have been singled out by a male of their race, be proud. You are singled out to help continue the bloodline. It is unusual for this to happen. It is especially unusual for this to happen to humans. You might have some sidhe blood already flowing through your veins.’ ” I shut the book. “Oh, I am so honored.”
“That’s amazingly bizarre,” Devyn said, staring at me like he’s never seen me before. “Do you think you have sidhe blood?”
“What? No.” I stare at all of them. �
��You guys aren’t believing this.”
Nick and Issie both put their hands on my arms. Issie reaches all the way across the table.
“I know this is a little freaky,” she says, all calm.
“A little freaky?” I pull my arm away. “It’s super freaky!”
“Will you please be quiet!” says the man reading the Economist.
“Sorry. Sorry.” I sit down. I try to breathe slowly.
“Maybe he wants you to be his queen,” Devyn says. “Continue the line.”
“That’s crap,” Nick says.
“Yeah.” I glare at him. “Why would anyone want me to be their queen?”
“That’s not what I meant.” The front legs of Nick’s chair slam back down.
I can’t even look at him. “Right.”
“I just don’t get what this has to do with boys going missing,” he adds in a whisper that is low and serious. “What do you think, Devyn?”
Devyn rubs at his nose and stretches his arms out like he’s been lifting weights and the muscles are tired. “The Web site said if the king doesn’t have a queen he needs blood tributes from boys.”
Issie shivers. “Creepy.”
“What does that mean, though, blood tributes?” I grab one of Nick’s books out of his pile and look at the index. “Oh. It’s in this one. Page 123.”
I flip to the page, scan the lines, and suck in my breath.
“What does it say?” Devyn asks.
When I look up from the words I can see him staring at Nick, like he’s trying to get strength from him somehow. His face pales.
Nick nods at me. “Read it, Zara.”
“ ‘When unable to mate with a queen, the pixie king has no choice but to take blood tributes from young males.’ ” My voice starts shaking and Nick puts his big hand on my shoulder, steadying me. “ ‘The entire court will help him hunt down the boys, absconding with them to the king’s home, where the boys’ blood is slowly drained.’ ”
I stop reading. Devyn’s face is pale, almost all the dark, good color of it just gone, washed away.
Issie’s eyes widen more than usual. “That’s sick.”
She sits back. She leans into Devyn, who still looks like he might pass out or puke or something.
Nick squeezes my shoulder. “Anything else?”
I flip the page. I don’t want to keep reading, not if it’s upsetting Devyn.
