by Carrie Jones
"There are ten people, Issie," I say, sighing. "Ten is not much. There are thousands of people who need our help."
Ian waves at me. He has a monster smile on his face, and he swaggers over like he's responsible for all ten people here, which, to be fair, he probably is.
"Ten's really good," Issie says and then points at Ian with her elbow. "Uh-oh, look who's coming."
"At least he's here," I say, putting down some pens and pre-stamped envelopes. "Unlike other people."
Something in my stomach drops when I think about Nick not being here.
"At leasthe cares," I add as Ian comes closer.
Ian smiles down at me. "Hey, Zara. Good turnout."
I glance at Issie, who gives me an Itold you so look. "It's only ten people."
"Ten is good up here. We're psyched if five people show up for Key Club," he says, nodding at my Urgent Action reports. "Can I help you pass those out?"
"Yeah." He is being so nice. "You could."
It isn't until I've explained all about Amnesty International's important mission and people start writing letters that Nick decides to show up.
Ian is already sitting next to me. So Nick stands in front of my desk.
"Nice of you to show up, Colt." Ian sneers. He suddenly looks like a snake. It is not a good look, all scaly and coiled.
Issie puts her hands over her eyes like she's afraid to see bloodshed.
I stare up at Nick. "You're late."
He smiles at me. There's a piece of spruce branch stuck to his sweater.
"I had tilings to take care of," he says, all growly, looking away from me and staring Ian down. They do the whole I'm alpha-No, I'm alphathing, with the staring and pulling the shoulders back and posturing.
Devyn whispers to Issie, loud enough for us to hear, "They're so sad sometimes."
She whispers back, "I know."
Mick picks the spruce branch off his sweater and says in a normal voice, "We are, aren't we?"
Then he smiles at me and my heart starts beating harder, which I'm ashamed to admit, but it's true.
Hearts betray you like that. This is why it's perfectly acceptable to be cardiophobic, afraid of hearts.
"I'm sorry I'm late. Tell me what to do, Zara," he says, casually rocking back on his heels. I swear Ian almost breaks his pen in half, but I just stand up and get Nick settled in with an Urgent Action appeal and some paper.
During school the sky is bright and blue, the kind of Maine sky that painters always recreate, the kind of sky that makes even a Charleston girl like me relax and smile. The colors crisp on the trees that I stare at during art class. I'm supposed to be working on a paper collage of an eagle, but my thoughts keep drifting off to pixies and political prisoners.
I rip a piece of red brocade paper to create a splash of excitement on the eagle's left wing. When I'm applying the glue, Nick glides into the room. He sits down at the table next to me.
"Is it okay if I sit here?" he asks.
I nod. My heart pitter-patters a million crazy, happy rhythms. My brain wonders why he's sitting next to me. There are a million trillion places he could have sat, not to mention where he usually sits.Do not get too excited. Do not wake this into something. Its probably just to talk about pixies.
Nick goes back to the supply closet and grabs his project. He sets it up on the table. It's a wolf stalking through the forest. He's done it all with coiled-up paper.
"That's good," I say, pointing.
He smiles. "Yours too."
We sit there without talking for a minute. I wish he'd say something. Anything. Well, not anything, maybe something nice.
"You're too quiet," I blurt out.
He laughs. "Like you aren't?"
"I didn't sit down with you."
"True, but last nightyou asked meto be your friend." His eyes twinkle.
"Shh. There are some things that should just never be repeated."
He clutches at his heart, pretending to be hurt. "What? You didn't ask me?"
"It just makes me sound so needy."
"No, it doesn't."
"Yes, it does."
He smiles and the smile comes through his voice. "Zara, you are not needy."
I rip another piece of paper and edge it finely with an X-Acto knife while I groan. "Yeah, right."
"Plus," I say after I work a little bit on the wing and my logic. "A real friend would not bring up something that would so obviously embarrass his friend because of its innate patheticness."
He starts laughing, but it sounds like a snort. "Innate patheticness?"
I pretend like I'm going to stab his chiseled forearms with an X-Acto knife. Of course, our art teacher notices.
She points at me with a glue gun. "Zara."
"Just kidding!" I say.
"Do I need to ask Mr. Colt to move?" She wiggles her lips. "Are we having a little love in the afternoon?"
Everybody titters-not laughs, but titters. I can feel my face turning red. "No. No, it's fine. He's fine."
"He sure is," mutters some girl with mall bangs at the next table. Her table mate slaps her five.
"Back to work, people." The art teacher pulls on her smock so the top of her cleavage shows. "Let's leave Nick and the new girl alone."
I scowl and stab the knife into the newspaper. "I hate being the new girl."
"Why?"
I glance up at him, trying not to get all crazy fluttery about his eyes or his jawline or his hands. I don't answer.
We sit there another minute working. I am so ridiculously, intensely aware of him there, right next to me.
It's like I can feel the heat he generates. It's nice.
"Okay, so when I came into school Mrs. Nix was acting really weird. She told me if I'm going to go out at night I should wear my coat inside out."
"What?"
"I know. Weird, right? So I googled 'wearing clothes inside out,' " I say.
"Yeah?"
"It says that pixies can confuse humans alone in the woods at night, but wearing clothes inside out protects us."
He presses paper to glue, paper to paper. "That's weird." He pauses. "I talked to Betty about stuff."
"Yeah, you said that."
"She's going to let you in on some things tonight."
"Why don't you just tell me now?"
"Because."
"Because why?"
He gestures around "People might hear."
"You have to give me a hint what it's about."
"You're pouting. Pouting is not allowed. It's too cute."
My heart opens wide and then his face shifts. His eyes narrow. He suddenly turns serious.
"Tell me now," I insist.
"No way."
"Please."
"I promised Betty."
"So?"
"You know you can't cross Betty."
"True." I give up.
Then after another little bit I get enough courage to say, "If we're Mends I should know things about you."
He opens up his arms. "Go ahead."
"Um." I think for a second. "What do your parents do?"
"They're nature photographers. They travel a lot."
"Really? Where?"
"All over. Right now they're making a film in Africa."
"No way."
"Really."
I start with the glue. It squirts on my finger a little. "So you're all alone?"
"Yep."
I shudder. How awful. "Don't you hate it when they leave you? Don't you feel left behind?"
He shakes his head. "I'm meant to be here."
"Very philosophical," I say and touch my head where the bump is. It still hurts. I wonder if Betty's told my mom about it.
His eyes seem concerned. "No, just the truth."
It's pretty obvious that he's all through with that subject. But I continue on, because I hate it that we're so different.
"It must be nice to know where you're meant to be," I say.
"You'll know someday, Zara."
"I doubt it." I've always had friends, but I've never felt like I fit with the rest of the world. My mom said that it was a normal adolescent thing to feel. I hated her for saying that. I just pounded right out of the room and went running down at the Battery.
"I don't think I'll ever find a place," I say slowly, turning back to stare at my collage instead of Nick. I have to stop staring at him all the time. "I'm just not a person who fits in. That's okay."
"I'm positive you will."
"Really?"
"Absolutely sure."
He motions to the glue brush. "Can I have some?"
I start to grab it so I can it pass it to him. He reaches for it at the same time. Our fingers touch, and the moment they do the fluorescent lights overhead flicker and then fizzle out.
Everyone moans, even though we can all still see. There's enough light from outside filtering in, just not enough for us to really focus on the finer details.
Nick's fingers stroke mine lightly, so lightly that I'm almost not sure the touch is real. My insides flicker like the art room lights. They do not, however, fizzle. I turn my head to look him in the eye.
He leans over and whispers, "It will be hard to be just your friend."
The lights come back on.
"Just a little brownout." The art teacher smiles and holds out her arms. "Welcome to Maine, Zara. Land of a million power failures."
Nick's breath touches my ear. "I heard you didn't drive to school. I'll bring you home after crosscountry, okay?"
"Okay," I say, trying to be all calm, but what I really want to do is leap up and do a happy dance all over the art room. Nick is driving me home.
Devyn is waiting for us outside art class.
"What?" Nick says. His face changes into worry. "Issie okay?"
"Yeah," Devyn says, motioning us to follow him. "I found something."
He brings us to a little cubby in the hallway, a place just off the main hall. There's a red door to a supply closet and another to an electrical room. We all barely fit in the nook. Nick squats down to Devyn's level. So do I.
"Okay," Devyn says. "It's not good."
"Just tell us."
"They kiss people," Devyn says.
I laugh. "Who kisses people?"
"The pixies," Devyn explains. He lifts the book from the library. "This is serious, Zara."
"Sorry. Okay. They kiss people," I repeat. I look up at Nick, who has never kissed a girl.
Devyn must notice me looking at Nick's lips because his voice frustrates out, "This is not a good kind of kiss. This is bad. It can kill you."
"Powerful kiss," I say.
"Zara…," Nick warns.
I raise my hands again, leaning my back against the wall for support. "Sorry."
Devyn points at me. "No more interrupting and no more attempting to hide your fear behind pathetic attempts at sarcasm, although I do appreciate it. Anyway, the kiss gives the pixie king some of the power over the woman's soul. And it changes her into a pixie."
"Which means?" Nick asks.
"I'm not sure," Devyn continues. "But if she's all human and has no pixie blood it can kill her."
"Wait," I say. "So, the pixie guy kisses some woman. She either dies or becomes the queen. Either way part of her soul becomes his?"
"Yeah."
"That sucks," I say. "And you saidif she's all human? What else could she be?"
Devyn shrugs. "She could already have pixie blood. According to this book there are a lot of people who are descended from the Pixies. Or…," he looks up at Nick and then says it, "she could be were."
"Weres again? Werewolves?" I shake my head and stand up. My bracelet slides down my arm. "This is crazy."
"Zara?" Nick stands up too. He grabs my hand. "You already believe half of it."
"I know! But kisses that take away your soul? Pixie blood? Weres? It's crazy." I grab the book off Devyn's lap and walk away. "It's way too crazy for me."
Malaxophobia fear of love play Nick and I leave practice early because my head is still spinning from clanking it and maybe, just a little, from the pow-wow with Devyn by the electrical closet.
"I can bring her home," Ian says when he sees Nick leading me off the trail.
Nick raises his arm. "Nope. I got this one."
Coach Walsh meets us in the parking lot where the trail ends. He leans on his old maroon pickup truck, holding his clipboard. He takes one look at me and his whole PE coach posture changes. It goes from straight to slumped.
Shaking his head at me, he says, "Don't push yourself so hard, Zara."
"I'm not."
He stares hard at me. I stare back. He has crud in the corner of his eye, just a little bit. I don't know whether or not I should tell him or pretend I don't notice.
"Yes, you are. No practice tomorrow either," he orders. "My fault for believing that you could run today.
Betty's going to kill me."
"But-" "No buts." Pointing at Mick he says, "Take her home."
Nick fake salutes. "Sir, yes sir."
"Sarcasm doesn't become you, Colt," Coach Walsh says, but he smiles when he says it, so obviously he is only mad at me, not superboy Nick Colt, beloved of coaches everywhere. If I were a guy he would let me run tomorrow.
"I want to go to practice, Coach," I say. "I'll be fine tomorrow."
"We aren't practicing tomorrow," he says.
That makes no sense. "It's on the schedule."
Mr. Walsh exhales and rubs the top of his head. "I might as well tell you two now. We've just gotten word. Jay Dahlberg's missing."
"Missing?" The world spins. Nick grabs my hand.
"He never came home last night after practice. His parents haven't heard from him." The coach starts rubbing his neck. "He's not the kind of kid to run off."
"Maybe he'll show up." I reach out my free hand and touch the coach's shoulder.
"The other ones didn't," he says, slouching even more. He starts rubbing his eyes now. "God, I never thought this would happen again."
I swallow and look at him, look at Mick. Beneath my feet is an old Cheetos wrapper, and the little orange cat mascot's smile is smashed from feet and dirt and ice. He is discarded, forgotten. I drop my hands, bend, scoop up the wrapper, and stand back up, a bit woozy. I stash the wrapper in my pocket.
Nick opens the door of his MINI to let me in and Coach Walsh eyes his clipboard. Then the coach yells after me, "Don't do anything stupid, Zara."
I slam into Nick's car. What does that mean? Don't do anything stupid? I bet he wouldn't tell Mick not to do anything stupid. But because I am a pacifist I say nothing.
I pull on my seat belt as Mick says something to the coach. God, someone else is missing.
Jay Dahlberg. He's tall with blond hair and a goofy laugh. He seems like a good guy. He hangs out with Ian sometimes.
Swallowing, I check out the MINI. I hadn't paid attention to it the night before. The dark maroon seats are sort of the color of blood. It smells like Mick, woodsy, manly. I shift my feet around a bunch of school books scattered on the floor. My foot tip touches a small clump of brown fur.
Nick must have a dog. It smells faintly of dog, but mostly of the Christmas tree air freshener. I pick up a book, Edward Abbey'sGood News. A little postapocalyptic ditty. Interesting.
What if Nick is a pixie? He had dust on his coat. He's never kissed a girl, supposedly. Although he's not the guy who points, but he could be one of his minions. Is that the right word? Minions?
I put the book back down on the floor.
Nick and Coach Walsh seem to be arguing a little. I turn the key dangling from Nick's ignition and put down the window to hear, but I can't get any of the words.
Cold air rushes in. The air chills against me so I zip up the window and turn on the heat. The warmth blasts out of the heaters, rolling the tuft of fur underneath my seat.
Nick jumps in. He looks human. He is so human.
"Took you long enough," I tease, brushing all my
doubts out of my head.
He glowers and puts the car in reverse to get it out of the parking spot. "Coach and I were having a little talk."
"It looked like you were arguing."
"It was just a talk," he says slowly, shifting again so he can speed out of the parking lot like a tornado is chasing us or something.
"Whatever."
"I didn't think we should practice anymore. He, of course, disagrees because he wants to win state." His mouth steadies into a line and then he speaks again. "I'm freaking sick over the Jay Dahlberg thing, Zara.
I haven't slept since Devyn was attacked last month. I've been trying to figure out what's going on and I haven't been able to piece it together. Pixies! I mean, who would have thought there were actually pixies?"
"It's okay, Nick." I grab his hand and squeeze it. "It's not your job to save the world."
"But I have to." He lets out this man growl that sounds like a professional wrestler gone bad. All the veins in his neck bulge and pop. "I'm trying, okay. I am really trying."
"Why? Why are you trying so hard?"
He keeps holding my hand. His eyes meet my eyes. "Why are you?"
Anger rushes out of me from somewhere inside. And I'm surprised, because I had no idea it was there.
"Because I couldn't save my dad. There. I said it. Okay? You happy?"
I try to pull my hand away but he won't let me. He pulls over and stops the car.
"No. Not happy. I'm honored that you told me, though." His jaw is so straight and his eyes are so deep, like a tree where the bark is all textured.
"I'm sorry. I don't know why I was so mad."
"It's okay." His thumb drags across the skin of my hand, the one that's not scraped up.
He unbuckles his seat belt and turns his body so he faces me, blocking out the entire window of the driver's side door. God, he's huge. He rests one arm on the steering wheel. The other lays across the back of the seats. His solid fingers thrum against the upholstery. I turn to face him.
"How's your hand?" he asks, like everything is all normal.
"Fine."
"And your head?"
"Fine," I say. I want answers. "You're changing the subject."
He smiles. "I know. Most girls around here would take the opportunity to tell me all about their injury, then they'd tell me about their clothes and shopping, and the way their parents mistreat them."
