Fairy Tale (11 page)

After I wash up, I spend a few minutes burying my face in my bath towel, convincing myself that it hadn't actually happened.

But maybe it will? Maybe it's not a dream, but a vision? Then I spend the next few minutes convincing myself I didn't enjoy it.

What the hell? We're talking about Pencil Box Pip, not a hunk of burning love. Unless, of course, you talk to my mom.

In spite of Cam's warnings, I'd vowed late last night, in between my warped dreams, that even if Dawn killed me, I was going to find a way to save him. Pip's
ewl
discourse hadn't been much help, so at 3 a.m. last night, I went online, reserving every book about fairy lore I could find from the Edison Public Library.

I throw my hair into a ponytail as I head down the stairs, but when I get to the kitchen, I realize something's off. My father is not wearing his white T-shirt and boxers, which is rare for a Saturday morning. That can only mean one thing: company. His familiar chair creaks and moans in protest as he stuffs an entire Boston cream doughnut into his mouth and exclaims, "But she actually was married to his brother!" to someone across the table from him. I figure he must have captured the paperboy or the lands caper. My father will try to carry on a conversation with anyone, even if they show no interest in being spoken to. Even if they're waving a gun in his face, telling him to shut up. But as I come farther into the room, I see our guests. It's Pip and Mrs. Browne. Pip has one hand in a box of Munchkins and is watching my father, rapt. Well, I think he's rapt, but I can't tell for sure, because he still has his sunglasses on.

His face turns toward me and this big, goofy grin spreads across it. I carefully pluck the shades off his nose. "You know these are just for outside, right?"

His eyes widen. He doesn't.

"That's okay. Why are you here?"

My father struggles to pull his belly out from under the kitchen table, "Oh, hi, Morgan. Our young neighbor and I were just discussing yesterday's
General Hospitals

"Oh?"

Pip exclaims, "The city of Port Charles sounds interesting."

"You know it's not real."

He squints at me. He doesn't.

"So anyway, why are you here?" I repeat, louder.

His toothy, psychopathic grin hasn't disappeared yet. It totally defeats the purpose of the cool clothes he's wearing. "I have come to be your escort," he says stiffly.

I stare at him. "My what?"

"Cameron said you shouldn't miss the appointment."

"Appointment?"

"There's to be a party next weekend?"

"Yeah, but..." I think for a moment and realize that my mom had scheduled the appointment with the Green Toad's events manager for this weekend. It was mainly just to iron out details as to what would be in the buffet line, what color napkins we'd use, et cetera. A week ago, I'd been so excited about it, spending many sleepless hours going back and forth on the tiniest details, like, mini quiches or bacon-wrapped scallops? Teal or silver? In all the commotion, I totally forgot. In fact, I don't care anymore. I have to go on a very important mission to free my boyfriend from a bunch of overrated mosquitoes. Plus, teal and silver are my colors, but either one would look bad with my destined-to-be-nightmarish complexion. "That's today?"

My mom comes in, fastening a gold stud to her ear. "Don't tell me you forgot!"

"I forgot."

She shakes her head and puts a hand on Mrs. Browne's shoulder.
Marone
!
These kids! Can you believe she went on for days about this party, and she forgets?"

Mrs. Browne says nothing but gives me a look that says she completely understands. From the way she's shifting in her chair, I think a party is the last thing on her mind, too.

I shrug like the ungrateful brat my mother thinks I am.

"I think it's very nice for this young man to offer to come with us, especially since Cam is..." She looks at him. "Where did you say Cam is?"

Pip says simply, "Studying the fairy ways," as he stuffs an entire jelly doughnut in his face. It's like he and my father are in an eating contest.

When she looks at me, I explain, "It's an elective. I took creative writing instead."

Her questioning look slowly disintegrates, and she grabs her coat. "Well, that's fine. We need a man's opinion. Shall we be off?"

Reluctantly, I follow her out the door, contemplating that. Pip is human, so I guess he is more of a man than Cam is. But when I turn around, I see that this "manly specimen" has a gigantic blob of jelly on his upper lip.

And the irony of it is, in fairy logic, Cam's the one who doesn't belong here.

I'VE ONLY BEEN to the city a handful of times, so as my mother navigates the streets, it appears like we're going in circles. Each building is taller than the next, bearing down on me, making it difficult to breathe. When we arrive at the Green Toad, I want to sit down and bury my head between my knees. The lush decor-toads dancing on the walls, primitive cave drawings, and gigantic urns filled with tropical flowers of every color- something I once found funky and eclectic, now just bothers me. My mother begins to talk to a water-goblet filler as if he already knew who she is. As if my event isn't one of hundreds they put on every year. "Mom," I mumble, trying to hide my aggravation, since I know she's going to all this effort for me, "maybe we should talk to the lady we talked to on the phone?"

Luckily, before I can spear her with one of the tribal artifacts nearby, a pale, matronly lady with a huge mouth and way-too-red lipstick greets us and introduces herself as the receptionist. She leads us into another room, which is wallpapered with even more dancing frogs. Maybe it's because they're so happy, maybe it's because last time I was here, Cam pretended to be one and cracked me up doing a Kermit impersonation that sounded like Donald Duck, but all I can think about is getting out.

Instead, I sit in an overstuffed chair covered with fabric splashed with orange and green palm trees and stare down at a rainbow of napkin swatches while my mother babbles on. Something about how she hopes that the water fountain in the lobby, which isn't working today, will be fully operational by Friday. Mrs. Browne just sits there, a blank look on her face, as if she's at a funeral.

After another ten minutes, my mom finally turns to me and says, "Well?"

"Urn. What?"

'The napkins," she grumbles, jabbing her finger at the swatches.

Sighing, I say, "I give up. I have no decision."'

My mother grinds her teeth. "You'd better have a decision."'

Whenever I think about this party now, I think about doom. And it became so much more real the second we arrived in the city and walked through the huge, arched doors to the Green Toad. A month ago. Cam and I were at this very place, choosing songs we wanted the DJ to play, talking about what we'd wear, bursting with excitement. But now, there's a fifty-pound weight on my chest. The night of our sixteenth birthday is no longer party time. It's D-day.

Still, the parents are spending a lot of money on this, so I can't appear ungrateful. I force a smile and say, "I'm fine with either."

My mother's eyes narrow. "Well, you definitely had an opinion last week." Which is true; life seemed a whole lot simp lei then. She takes the book from my hands and says, "You liked the silver. Or the teal. Make a decision."

"I-I can't." Is this what a mental breakdown feels like?

Mrs. Browne, who has not said a word since we left my house, finally pipes up. "You take your time, hon."

I give her a grateful smile. ''Which do you like?"

"They're both very pretty"

Some help she is.

"I like this," Pip says, scraping the bottom of a plate with a fork, oblivious to the napkin upheaval. For the first time, I notice that there are half-full plates of appetizers and desserts in front of us. Half-full, because Pip has already eaten just about everything that is within reaching distance of his chair. There are about five empty paper plates in his lap. Thankfully, he's stopped short of licking them "What is this called?"

"Whipped cream?" the events manager says, giving me an amused, "Is he for real?" look. Her name is Gizelle and she's so completely put together, with her four-inch heels, crisp white blouse, and French twist, that she looks at least thirty. But when she flashes Pip a coy smile, and gnaws on her lower lip, she's reduced to my age. I've seen that look on many a girl's face around Cam. It's subtle, but I've become an expert on it.

She's flirting
with him.

Wait. She's getting all hot and bothered over a guy who gets more food on his mouth than in it?

My mother grins at Pip like he is the son she never had and giggles something about growing boys.

I glare at her, annoyed. It's amazing how a new outfit and a little hair gel can turn grown women into Jell-O. Are we really that shallow? "Um, silver: Okay."

"Silver it is. Oh, but the teal is so... What do you think, Pip?" my mother asks, putting a hand on his knee as I start to groan. "It's always nice to have a man's opinion."

He looks at me and, without missing a beat, says, "I agree with Morgan."

For once, I'm grateful to have him around.

"So, it's settled. Silver it is." She takes the swatch and folds it neatly in front of Gizelle. "Now, you were going to give us a tour of that lovely courtyard? The balcony is beautiful. All that ivy!"

Mrs. Browne is the first to stand. She looks almost as green as the frogs on the wall, so I think she needs some air. Gizelle stands and smooths her hair, then checks to see if Pip is noticing. He isn't; he's busy studying some tribal masks on the wall behind her desk. Though she's a hottie, I get the feeling Pip wouldn't notice her if her hair were on fire. He's so busy trying to navigate this strange new world that he's probably the only sixteen-year-old guy who
doesn't
think constantly about sex.

That's probably why I can't help wanting to tell Gizelle to back off. Pip is naive and unsure of himself, and he needs protection from this cruel world.

Pouting, she gives up and turns toward a corridor: "This way."'

"You know. Mom," I say, standing, "you guys go ahead. I just want to check out the room again."

Gizelle says, "There's a dance class going on in there now, but feel free to look around."

Pip says, "I think I will stay with Morgan."

My mother and Gizelle let out a collective sigh, and I half expect Gizelle to let her hair down and lick her lips as a last-ditch attempt to get him to notice her. She doesn't; they just head off, their heels click-clicking in chorus on the parquet floor.

"What is this event for?" Pip asks me when we're alone.

"Our sixteenth birthday. Turning sixteen is a big deal here," I explain, twisting a lock of my hair.

"It's a big deal where I come from, too."

"Really? Do they have wild parties in Fairy Land?"

"Well, yes, often. But what I mean is that, for a fairy, their sixteenth birthday is their Becoming."

"Oh, right. Becoming."

"Yes,
on a fairy's sixteenth birthday, they become a true fairy. Right now, Cameron's a-"

"Larva. I get it. So Dawn is a full fairy. Is she older than sixteen?"

He fiddles with a zipper on the new jacket I bought him. "She is forty-three."

"Wait. What?" I can't help but feel disgusted. "So he's marrying my mother. Gross."

"Fairy life spans are much longer than human lives. A fairy will live a thousand years. So in that way, they are very close in age."

"All right, but if they have such long life spans, why are they in such a rush to take him away from me on my sixteenth birthday? Can't they wait a couple of years? Maybe until I'm eighty and toothless?"

He says, "The only time, other than on the day of his birth, that the portal to cross into Otherworld will be open for Cameron is at midnight on his Becoming. You see, it's easy to come to this world. It's nearly impossible to go back to Otherworld."

"So until then, he's stuck here?"

"The door isn't open."

"And after that..."

"It will never be open again."

"But Dawn-"

"There are some exceptions to the rule. As his chosen guide, only Dawn can transcend the barrier with him. She is the only one with this ability. Very powerful."

"Yes,
Dawn is wonderful," I mumble, grabbing him by his sleeve. "Come on."

I lead him down a hallway, to double doors with a placard over them that says TAHITI ROOM. I grasp a gilded handle and push a heavy, ornately carved door open, and we squeeze inside as Sinatra croons,
"Just the way you look tonight."

This is where, in the movies, the needle of the record player would screech off its track. Twelve gray-haired ladies are staring at us. Six pairs of women, standing, midwaltz, in their Sunday best. The smell of Jean Nate, the perfume my grandmother used to have a vat of in her bathroom, bums my nostrils, even from a distance.

A fit, well-endowed lady in a short blond bob, who is considerably younger than the rest and wearing a hot-pink leotard, bounds over to us, her chest doing its own salsa dance. "Oh, wonderful."

"We're here to-"

"Don't be shy. We welcome all ages here."

I'm not exactly sure where "here" is, but I take a step back, because it's definitely not someplace I want to be. "No, we just wanted to-"

"You're just in time." She smiles gratefully, then leans in and whispers, "I was wanting to shake things up a bit. You game?"

Uh-oh. This cannot be good. I look at Pip, who is nodding very cordially at the ladies. They giggle, too, just like my mom. What
is
this strange effect he has on women?

The fit lady claps her hands. "Tango. And this young couple is going to demonstrate."