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First published April 16, 2019
"Just like with girls, there’s a point when they can see us. Most of them pretend they can’t, though, and they almost never try to catch us.”
“What happens when a boy catches you?”
“Depends on the boy. Someday, when you’re older, you might meet a boy who will admit to having caught a fairy. Ask him how it went.”
“Can you make someone strong, instead of pretty?”
The fairy gave her a sort of a sideways look. “We don’t actually make anyone pretty.”
This was new information. Amelia sat down and took out her notepad. “Go on.”
“This is very complicated, and you probably won’t understand it.”
“Try me.”
“When you touch us, that lets us see into the future. Just a little, right after we’re caught. So, when we want to have that power for a while, we find girls who can see us, let them catch us, and then we promise them something based on what we can see about their future.”
You’d think it would make us happy when a kid checks out the same book a zillion times in a row, but actually it just keeps us up at night.
The Runaway Prince is one of those low-budget young adult fantasies from the mid-nineties, before J.K. Rowling arrived to tell everyone that magic was cool, printed on brittle yellow paper. It’s about a lonely boy who runs away and discovers a Magical Portal into another world where he has Medieval Adventures, but honestly there are so many typos most people give up before he even finds the portal.
Not this kid, though. He pulled it off the shelf and sat cross-legged in the juvenile fiction section with his grimy red backpack clutched to his chest. He didn’t move for hours. Other patrons were forced to double-back in the aisle, shooting suspicious, you-don’t-belong-here looks behind them as if wondering what a skinny black teenager was really up to while pretending to read a fantasy book. He ignored them.
The books above him rustled and quivered; that kind of attention flatters them.
“She was supposed to pine,” said the slim-hipped faerie glumly. “They always pine. You make passionate love to them and then you vanish and they pine away and die of love.”
“Ha!” The faerie next to him poked the fire with a stick. “Not our Rose. Did she give you the line about the lost sheep, too?”
“That sheep gets lost a lot,” muttered a third one. He had darkly tanned skin and shocking green eyes. “I’ve my doubts that it ever really existed.”
“We looked for it for three weeks,” said the slim-hipped faerie. “I had to stop looking. I couldn’t keep up.”
The other fae raised their beers in silent tribute to the stamina of the absent Miss McGregor.
The fern man stood in the dark on the coffee table. Its bulb head drooped sleepily, and its stem arms hung at its sides. The torso leaned slightly—toward the window, LT realized.
He picked up the ceramic pot and set it on the sill, in a pool of streetlight. Slowly, the trunk began to straighten. Over the next few minutes, the head gradually lifted like a deacon finishing a prayer, and the round leaves at the ends of its arms unfurled like loosening fists. The movement was almost too incremental to detect; its posture seemed to shift only when he looked away or lost concentration.
Slow Mo, he thought. That’s what we’ll call you.
Tomorrow his mother would throw all the paintings out the front window, send them sailing into the street. LT would never see the boyfriend again. The fern man stayed.
Wells is bourbon and hamburgers and a life spent spending every last cent on simple sins. Love has found him wanting. He’s stood in rooms full of birth and thought about dying. He’s a minor magic man with nothing but his broken life to lose.
Lately, he’s been haunting Boise, Idaho. He’s learned how to say the name of the place, the “sea” instead of “zee,” and so people think he’s local enough to last.
While he stands at the beverage station, staunching his nose with his dad’s scarf trick and waiting a thousand years for the kettle on the hotplate to boil, he thinks about performing with his father, thirty years ago, posing in front of a glittering backdrop, his dad throwing a knife at his heart, and the oohs from the crowd as the knife diverted midair and stung the ceiling. His dad, grinning and bowing. Mustache. Top hat. Magic.
Every once in a while, the knife would go a little way in, and every once in a while, Wells would wake up with a Band-Aid under his t-shirt. Just once, something went wronger than usual and Wells woke up frozen, wristbanded, on a gurney. His dad pushed the gurney out of the basement of the hospital, and there was Wells, alive again.
“Sorry about that, buddy,” said his dad, and laughed. “Overkill.”
