Fairy Tale (16 page)

"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."

He won't look into my eyes, so I already know the answer. "I don't think I have a choice."

I know people say that in critical times, their entire life flashes in front of their eyes. At that second, snippets of our relationship gallop through my mind-playing Game Boy with him on his hospital bed for hours on end when he was sick with asthma; watching him throw back an entire carton of milk and package of Oreos every day after school; my fifth-birthday party, where we accidentally both gave each other a Sit 'n Spin; and last Christmas, when he got me an opal ring-my birthstone. The fairies have obviously clouded his mind, because he can't possibly be thinking straight if he wants all of that to come to an end. I drop my bag and walk over to him, put my arms around his neck. His body feels small, weak, like it could crack apart. "You'll be miserable there."

"I know. I'll be miserable here, so what's the difference?"

"Me," I blurt out. "At least here, you'll have me."

He nods, a gleam returning to his eye. "You're right. I'm letting the guys get to me. Footballs not the only thing in life." "Right."

"There's loads of things I can do besides playing football." He stops, picks up my bag, and hefts it up onto his shoulder, and for the first time, he has a bit of trouble with the weight. Then, his tortured voice sighs, "I just have to figure out what they are."

THAT NIGHT, THE weather is beautiful, so I spend it on our front porch, surrounded by old copies of my mother's magazines, drinking cinnamon tea and looking up every so often to see if Cam is around. But his house is completely dark. As usual, he's in training. When I left him this afternoon, he'd mentioned something about having a first assignment. He was-no surprise-dreading it. I guess that's why I am on a mission, going through cheesy, feel-good articles from this supermarket checkout-aisle rag. I'd remembered seeing a news story on television a long time ago about a soldier who lost half his head in Iraq. He couldn't do many things, but he discovered a passion for working with kids. I remember him telling the camera, "When I had my accident, I didn't think life was worth living. But now, my life is so much more fulfilling than I ever imagined " I got to thinking, maybe that's what Cam needs. A little boost so that he can see that his life isn't over. So I'm finding stories about people who faced adversity and triumphed, putting them into a collage, with hopes it might lift his spirits.

Like my mom's
sfogliatelle
,
it's a long shot, but what kind of girlfriend would I be if I didn't try?

I flick a tiny insect off my forearm just as a voice calls from the darkness beyond the porch. "Hey, there!'' At first I think it's Cam, but the lifeless boy I saw this afternoon wouldn't have that energy in his voice. It's only a second before Pip launches himself over a hedge and plants himself on the glider, next to me. "What are you doing?"

He's sitting just inches from me, and I can see golden stubble on his chin. The look definitely works. Why is it that a week ago, he was nothing but a baby-faced little boy, and now he's...

Oh, right. Fairy magic.

"You're happy," I say, trying to avoid looking into his eyes. How can I be so happy to see him and so anxious to have him leave at tlie same time?

He swallows back his grin. "Sorry. Are things not good with Cameron?"

"He's depressed. I'm cutting out inspirational stories to cheer him up."

'That's a nice idea," he says, grabbing a magazine from the stack. "I will help."

He flips to a page, begins to read, and suddenly starts to pant, turning red. Shaking. I think he may be having convulsions. "What?" I ask.

He has tears streaming from his eyes. "Listen to this," he says, reading from the magazine. "Two fish swim into a wall. One says to the other, "Dam!...

I am not sure if he is laughing or dying. He pounds the arm of the glider with his fist and fights to breathe. All I can do is stare. Dawn has to be using her magic to make him irresistible to the opposite sex; it is not physically possible for a guy to be that lame and still be a girl magnet "Amusing," I say. "But not exactly inspirational."

"Sorry." He quickly quiets and starts to flip the pages. I try to go back to my own magazine, but I can't help peeking at him every so often. Even without the makeover, he's an interesting guy. He has a look of pure concentration on his face-lips pursed, eyes focused-as if he really wants to help with this project. It's sweet, the way he is, so untouched by everything bad in this world, so naive and trusting. I can't believe I'd even thought for a second that he'd fall in love and ruin the plan. Of course he would never go back on his word. He's like a child, and with children, promises are pinky sworn, solemn, and unbreakable. They mean something.

After a while, he looks up at me, triumphant. "I found one. This guy lost both his arms in a motorcycle accident but still runs marathons."

Up until that moment, I hadn't realized I was staring at him, openmouthed, in a dream state. I snap back to reality and finally choke out, "Um.
Yeah.
Great. Thanks."

I pass him the scissors, and he begins to clip out the article. Every so often, he stops and screws up his face. "I am wondering if there is anything else I can do for him,'' he says thoughtfully.

Of course he is. Saint Pip. "You're doing enough. Seriously. I don't know if I thanked you for helping to keep us together... but thank you."

"You and Cam have been very good to me, even when others were not. So I am happy to return the favor," he says.

At that moment, something hits me. "But you are human. You are capable of love. And if you go to Otherworld..."

He plays with the sleeve of his shirt. "Honestly, Morgan. I have given it thought, and I'm not interested in that."

"You aren't? How do you know?"

"There seems to be quite a lot of pain involved."

"I can't deny that. Sometimes I think I'd be better off without it." I motion toward the magazines and grin. "Sometimes it's a real pain in the ass."

He shrugs. "Of course, the way I see it, you're both better people because of it. Right?"

I think for a moment. "Me, definitely. Him? I don't know. I guess."

He slides the article into my pile. "Is that what you think?"

"Well, yeah. Look at Cam. I mean, he's amazing. Everything he touches turns to gold. You said that Cam thought I was brave. That's only because of him. In this world, I'm just... Cam's Girlfriend. Or Free Psychic Reading Girl. I doubt half the people who are coming to our party on Friday even know my name."

He looks back at the magazine and sighs. "I told you Cam was a changeling. Do you know what a changeling is?"

I think for a moment, back to when Pip gave me the mind-blowing rundown on all things fey. "You said he was sick."

"Right. From the very beginning his brother, Azizl, was the stronger of the two sons. Massif and the royal court assumed Azizl would eventually be king and Cameron would wither and die. So they cast him out of Otherworld. They never expected him to live to reach his sixteenth birthday."

"But he didn't die."

Pip nods. "But he was supposed to. Why didn't he?"

"I remember, he had asthma. He was in the hospital at least once a month. It was a horrible thing for a little kid to have to go through. I remember visiting him all the time. I'd make him cards, and-" He's nodding at me as if he knows all this. I finally say, "Are you saying he didn't die because of me?"

He shrugs. "I think you had a lot to do with it."

"Really?" I let that sink in for a moment. It seems so ridiculous that playing a few games of Tetris with Cam could make him well. "Even if that
is
true, instead of thanking me, Massive Jerk wants to take him from me."

"His name is Massif. But yes."

I blow a strand of hair out of my eyes. "At the mall, we have a saying for that. 'No refunds, no exchanges. ' Tough luck."

"I know it isn't fair," he whispers. "And maybe if Azizl hadn't died, Massif wouldn't care so much. But Cameron is now the only heir to Otherworld's throne."

"Cam would make a great king," I admit. But only if I could be his queen.

He checks his watch. "I must go. Will you be all right?" I nod, feeling a twinge of sadness that he can't stay, but happy that he's looking out for me. Maybe it was Cam who told him to, but something tells me that he would have done it anyway.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm courting a girl from our class. Like you told me to." My stomach flip-flops.

"Courting? Oh really?" I force a smile. "Which girl?"

He stands up, shakes down the legs of his jeans. "Sara Phillips." I bite my tongue so hard, I can taste the blood. Sara Phillips, ethereal head cheerleader. The word "perfect" constantly swirls around her head, along with furry cartoon animals and singing birds. Scab has had a crush on her since our last finger-painting class, and I don't think she's dated anyone in our school, ever. In fact, the only guys she dates are college ones, frat boys with Beamers and Sigma Chi Whatever sweatshirts. They come to the games in droves to drool over her matchstick legs in that cute little skirt.

"She is she one of the girls who asked you to the party?" I spit out, the words tumbling over one another in an incomprehensible heap.

He nods.

So let me get this straight. Sara asked him? The untouchable Sara Phillips likes Pip?

Okay, some fairy magic is definitely at play here. There is no other explanation. My face must be frozen in horror, because he says, "Why? Is she bad?"

"Um, no. Not exactly. Just don't-" My mouth hangs open, contemplating how-to finish.
"Don't give in and kiss her when she looks at you with those pathetic doe eyes of hers"? "Don't fall for her"? "Don't be the utterly perfect, sweet guy you're been all this time so that she falls for you''?
After all, he's just "courting." He's just doing exactly what I told him to do. And why shouldn't he? In another few days he'll be returning to Otherworld, where falling in love isn't possible. I should be encouraging him to have as much fun in this world as he can. Finally, I swallow and say, "Just have fun."

"Sure. Have a good night, Morgan," he says, hopping down the porch steps, taking all three at once. And he disappears into the darkness, leaving me with a pile of magazines... a pile of inspiration. And yet, why do I feel so uninspired?

ON TUESDAY MORNING something happens that has never before occurred in my life on this earth. When I come downstairs, my mother is not standing at the door to the kitchen-carton of Tropicana in hand. In fact, the house is completely devoid of any breakfasty smells-no eggs, no bacon, none of the elaborate morning meals my mother usually cooks and I rarely have time to eat. Our Mr. Coffee isn't even brewing. Not that I was hungry, but I assumed this day would come only when my mother was dead and buried. So naturally that worries me.

I'm trying to close the front door while simultaneously holding a Pop-Tart between my teeth and stuffing my geometry book into my backpack, when I see her. She's sitting on the front steps in her typical morning attire of housecoat and slippers, a full trash basket between her feet. She looks dazed.

"Need help with that?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "Hi, hon. No, I already took care of it."

I peer into the container. "It's full. Don't you want it at the curb?"

She blinks as if waking from a dream. "Oh yes. I just..."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. But the most amazing thing has happened," she says, her voice sounding anything but fine. It sounds faraway, lacking in energy.