Captivate

  Instead I work on the pixie handbook for a bit. I’m working on the chapter “Saving Yourself from Pixies.” Even that gets old, though. So I mosey up and open the shades. The sky is bright blue, a brand-new day. I wonder how those captured monks I’ve read about feel, what their sky looks like, if they can even see it, if their candle of hope shudders against shrill scenes.

  The woods just beyond the driveway sway with the wind, and for a second it seems as if something is moving between the trunks, a man. I shiver. It reminds me of my father always vanishing before he finally told me who he was, what he wanted.

  “He’s locked up,” I announce to the window. My breath fogs it up. I use my fingertips to wipe the fog away. “And I refuse to let the other pixie guy be out there.”

  I try to make it sound tougher. “Absolutely refuse.”

  The woods sway some more and for a second I sway with them, dizzy, confused. I shake my head, imagine Nick’s broad face, the line of his chin, his mischief-twinkling eyes. I turn away from the woods and go take a shower.

  It’s when I’m getting dressed that I get an idea. My stepdad wrote in the margin of an old Stephen King novel a long time ago, tipping us off about pixies. Maybe he did that again. Just because Betty and my mom don’t know anything about Valhalla or Valkyries doesn’t mean he didn’t. I race into his old bedroom and eye the ratty-looking paperbacks in his bookcase. They are almost all Stephen King. The top shelf starts with King’s first book, Carrie, and goes on chronologically to this short story collection, Nightmares and Dreamscapes, which was published in 1993. Stephen King wrote a lot of books after that, but they aren’t here. They are probably at our house in Charleston. I thumb through them all, flipping through the pages, looking for my dad’s writing in the margins; little notes about things, signs that he existed. Sometimes just seeing a page earmarked makes my stomach hitch up. Losing people you love affects you. It is buried inside of you and becomes this big, deep hole of ache. It doesn’t magically go away, even when you stop officially mourning. I do not want that hole to get any bigger. I do not want to lose anyone else.

  I thumb through the books pretty quickly and find nothing. I slide the last paperback into its place. There are other books here and I should go through them too, but I can’t be late for school. I pull out an H. P. Lovecraft collection of short stories. On the cover is this monster hiding in the far back of this horrifying cavern that looks straight from hell. The cavern is beneath a tombstone.

  “Creepy,” I mutter.

  I find a couple phrases in the margin. The first one is: “Leave Risk Sixty.”

  The second is longer: “A Baa Ebbed Fly Tight Vigor Trolls.”

  Total gibberish. I tuck the book under my arm and bring it downstairs with me and say to the room, “Great. Thanks, Dad.”

  Downstairs, Betty’s left a note on the fridge:

  Early shift. Take your pain medicine. Do not sell it at school. JUST KIDDING! Sort of.

  I drop my spoon onto the floor. “Crud.”

  It clanks. I pick it up and stand, woozy. I have to steady myself by placing a hand on the fridge. I throw the spoon into the sink. Metal hits metal. All my organs seem to shudder inside me. I am instantly cold as I peek out the window. There’s nothing out there, just shadows. I try to uncurl my fear and pour some Cocoa Puffs. The crunch of chocolate balls is strangely tasteless in my mouth. I check to make sure my ankle bracelet is still safely fastened. It is.

  “There is nothing to worry about,” I announce.

  The refrigerator hums in happy oblivion. That’s the only answer I get.

  Pixie Tip

  Pixie eyes turn up a tiny bit at the ends.

  Nick has driven me to school for the last week, which is nice because it means we get to spend more time together and I get to make sure that he has not been murdered by any evil pixie kings. Truth is, though, neither of us are all that good in the morning and we both kind of spend the whole car ride grunting and stretching and yawning.

  He parks his MINI and grabs my bags for me. Sometimes having a slightly sprained wrist is good. It’s healing well, though. The splint is off and it’s just wrapped now.

  “Do you have to take all your books home every single night?” he asks, hauling my new book bag over his shoulder since the last one died a fiery death.

  “Yep.” I smile at him.

  He leans lower so he can whisper in my ear. “You are lucky you’re so cute, baby.”

  I wave to Paul and Callie, who are going out and are both in our art class. They have matching Mohawks died green, which is really sweet in a retro way. Jill and Stephanie are holding hands and looking very much like morning people. They are so in love. Lovebirds are all around us, basically, but none of them have to worry about their other half being murdered by pixies because of who they are . . . or aren’t.

  I walk closer to Nick, put my good arm around his waist. We reach the glass doors at the front of the high school. He opens it for me. Suddenly there is heater-warmed air and lots of noise. He keeps holding the door so that Paul and Callie and Jill and Stephanie can get through too.

  “We are so late,” Jill says. She gives me a thumbs-up. “Love your jeans. Nice.”

  “Thanks,” I say as I see Issie zipping up the ramp to the second floor toward Devyn. Her gauzy blouse sways with the movement.

  “Issie! Devyn!” I yell.

  Devyn turns around and waves, smiling. He’s wheelchair free—just the metal braces that connect to his forearms! Cassidy’s standing next to him.

  Nick’s hand death-locks around my forearm. “He doesn’t have his wheelchair! Zara, he doesn’t have his wheelchair at all!”

  He lets go of me and vaults over the railing of the ramp. Nick’s arms wrap around Devyn and he swings him around in a big circle with the force of his hug. People scatter out of the way. One of Devyn’s braces falls off his arm and hits the ramp. Issie leaps over it as she runs up. She lunges right into the group hug. She’s screaming, she’s so happy.

  We knew this was coming, but to see it . . . to actually see him without his chair? The feeling is heart-stopping good. I pick up the brace as I trot up the ramp.

  “No wonder you didn’t want a ride today,” Issie’s saying. She keeps patting him on the back. “No wonder! Did you drive yourself?”

  “Nope. Cassidy drove me.”

  “Right!” Cassidy interrupts, fiddling with her sparkly pink barrette.

  “She—she drove you?” Issie sputters.

  “Yeah, Is. I wanted to surprise you all.” Devyn smiles at me. “What do you think, Zare?”

  Handing him his brace I say, “I think this is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

  And it is.

  “Now I can finally start doing the things I want to do,” Devyn says.

  That stops me. “Like what?”

  Devyn just smiles. Cassidy clears her throat and gives him her own little hug. “I am so psyched for you, Dev.”

  Issie’s backed up against the wall. Her hand is on her throat. She looks away.

  “Thanks,” Devyn says.

  They pull apart and Cassidy starts scratching at the back of her neck. “I knew this would happen.”

  The way she says it stops me short. It’s almost eerie, but she whirls off before I can say anything.

  “We are all late,” she says over her shoulder, still scratching. “Congratulations, Devyn! Let me know if you need a ride home.”

  We all head toward our first period. For a tiny bit Nick doesn’t talk about protecting and pixies and pain. For a tiny bit his shoulders relax and he smiles, and it is that very moment that I realize how hard all of this is for him.

  Tears spring to my eyes and I’m not sure why. I think it’s just that I don’t want Devyn to ever get hurt again. I don’t want any of us to ever get hurt again.

  Spanish class used to be my least favorite part of the day. It’s not because the entire room reeks of our teacher’s lilac perfume and my n
ose always goes instantly stuffy. It’s because of this girl Megan. Megan used to sit diagonally in front of me and every so often turn and glare. Then she’d whisper something to her friend Brittney, and they would witch cackle. Even though she’s not here anymore, it still feels like she is.

  I breathe out, suck on the edge of my pen, and make a list.

  ILLEGAL THINGS WE’VE DONE AND WHY

  1. Betty killed Ian because he tried to turn me pixie by kissing me.

  2. Megan disappeared, so Mrs. Nix forged her transfer papers, which is okay because she was not just a mean jerk, she was a pixie.

  3. We trapped all the pixies in a house because they would have kept killing.

  Okay, it’s not that long a list and I feel a tiny bit better even if the crimes do include murder, forgery, and mass kidnapping. I fold the list up and tuck it into the back of The House of the Spirits. I start translating again, but I am really thinking about how my grandmother has killed, how I have trapped, how there is a history of violence that exists and I don’t know how to deal with it. I’m in Amnesty International. I mean, I care about human rights. But what about pixie rights? They are kind of human. And what do you do when the world has no clue that they exist?

  I’m getting nowhere with the book so I pull out a new piece of paper and start working on the pixie handbook, scrawling in an entry that I’ll type into Devyn’s or Gram’s laptop later.

  TOP TEN THINGS TO REMEMBER WHEN DEALING WITH PIXIES

  10. Think pixies are like Tinker Bell? You think wrong.

  9. Pixies do not hang out with Peter Pan.

  8. Pixies do not sleep in glass jars nor do they carry magic wands.

  7. Pixies hate iron and steel.

  6. Pixies will call you by name and try to get you lost in the woods.

  5. Pixies are great fighters; they use claws and teeth.

  4. Pixies can look like humans. They are not human.

  3. Pixies may go to your school or work with you. We have no idea.

  2. Pixies have needs.

  1. Never let a pixie kiss you. Ever.

  “ Zara? Atiende usted?” My Spanish teacher eyes me. She’s right at my desk, smiling sweetly. Her dark brown hair is up in a high ponytail. She arches an eyebrow.

  “Yes . . . yes. I mean, sí,” I try to correct myself. I hit my head with my hand and the book flops closed. Brittney giggles.

  “Usted no traduce el libro.” She taps her finger on my half-empty page for emphasis. “Usted está mirando por la ventana.”

  I wasn’t translating. I was looking out the window. Guilty as charged. I try to think of something to say and can only come up with sorry. “Lo siento. Lo siento.”

  I am sorry, only I’m not just sorry about not paying attention. I’m sorry that pixies exist and that my existence puts my friends in danger. I am sorry about everything.

  The moment the class ends everyone jumps up and escapes into the hall, a bunch of cattle in the wild west running from one pen to another. We bump and jostle and finally each get our own personal space as we try to get to our next class. Someone grabs my good elbow. I yank it away screaming.

  “Baby? What’s up?” His face is a worried ball of cute.

  “It’s okay. I’m sorry. I’m edgy,” I say, trying to calm down.

  “Are you scared about the . . .” He doesn’t say the last word because there are people around. He jams his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants. “We haven’t found him yet, but I will. I swear.”

  The bell rings. “We’re late,” I say, trying to look away, but I can’t. His eyes are so brown beautiful. I brush a piece of dog fur off his deep blue shirt. He’s got a sort of half jock, half skater look today. I like it.

  He shrugs a little. “Mrs. Nix will give us a note.”

  He tugs my hand and pulls me into the stairwell. We sit on the landing by the top stair. Callie bullets by us. She smiles. “Lovey lovebirds.”

  We smile back as she scampers down the stairs. Her Mohawk waves from our heating system’s way-too-powerful forced hot air. There’s a big puddle of slush on the floor just to the left of my feet.

  “So, are you worried about the pixie?” he asks again.

  I shrug so I don’t have to answer.

  “Zara? Are you worried?”

  “A little.” My voice is a quiet breath in the stairwell.

  He moans a little bit, a half growling, half sighing kind of noise. “What are you not telling me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Zare? We work better when we’re a team.”

  “We’re a good team.”

  “Yeah, we are.”

  For a moment neither of us says anything. I close my eyes against the flickering fluorescent lights, against the ugly gray staleness of the stairwell. I would like to take Nick around Charleston, show him the Battery, watch the dolphins frolic in the river, laugh at the tourists coming off the cruise ships wearing their matching outfits and fanny packs, buying as many sweetgrass baskets as they can scarf up.

  Cassidy rushes by, her long legs taking the stairs two at a time. She stops abruptly when she sees us. She doesn’t look at me, only Nick, and her mouth drops open. She gasps and staggers down a step, grabbing the railing for balance.

  I jump up, ready to lunge around and catch her. Nick leaps up right behind me.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She closes her eyes for one long second. When she opens them they are filled with sadness. “Yep. All good. Just startled. Yeah.”

  She scurries off still muttering in sentence fragments.

  I sit back down, pat the stair next to me so Nick will sit too. “That was weird. I hope she’s okay. She was staring at you.”

  “I have that effect on the ladies,” he says all lounge lizardy. “I make them stagger and run away.”

  “Oh really?” I turn and try to raise my eyebrows at him. His fingertips move from my ear to my chin, following the line of my jaw. Something inside me aches with need and want and all those things, all those human, hormonal-normal things. He smiles and leans in, kissing me. I kiss him back, hard and long and good. When he finally breaks away his eyes are soft and passion filled, darker than their normal rich brown.

  “You are too much,” he says.

  My hand flattens out against his chest. His heart beats beneath it. One beat. Another. A steady rhythm of life, of comfort.

  “I don’t ever want to lose you,” I manage to say, and then I duck my head.

  He gently lifts my head back up so I can face him.

  “You won’t ever lose me.” His voice is husky.

  “Swear?” I whisper, but even that one whispered word is a gulp that threatens to yank me into a dark hole of loss and despair and—Nick’s fingers stroke my skin. “I swear.”

  The school cafeteria is an octagon-shaped room with the lunch counter and kitchen on three sides, the doors in and out a fourth side. The rest of the walls are windows and an emergency fire exit. The white of the snow combined with the fluorescent lights make it ridiculously bright in here, which is not a good thing.

  Is and I get bagels in the lunch line. They come on paper plates with plastic knives.

  “Not environmentally friendly.” Issie makes a little tsking noise and slides her ID payment card through the machine.

  Giselle Brown, who is behind me, says, “I have been protesting about that forever.”

  She shakes her head and her dreadlocks fly all around. She’s got an old tie-dye Grateful Dead T-shirt on. She is one of the few people who always come to my Amnesty International meetings on Wednesdays and therefore I love her even if she does occasionally swear at the dictators when she writes. Whatever. We can’t all be perfect. And if you’re going to swear at someone a dictator is a good choice.

  Giselle leans toward Issie and says, “What’s up with Devyn and Cassidy?”

  Issie freezes. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s all over him. I thought you two were a thing,” Giselle explains.

 
The paper plate Issie is holding shakes. “No. No. We’re not. We’re just friends.”

  “Oh. I won’t hate her on your behalf then.” She smiles at me and then scrunches her nose. “It smells like butt in here.”

  The lunch lady looks up from her supervisory duties and bats her eyelashes. “That’s not butt, that’s cabbage.”

  Giselle jerks backward, fumbling. She drops her banana. I grab it before it hits the floor. “Oh! Oh! I didn’t mean that horribly. I am so sorry. I am really, really—”

  The lunch lady points a white Bic pen at Giselle. Her hair net wiggles to the left a little bit. “Hush up. I think it smells like butt too.”

  I slide my card through and head to the table with Issie. It’s a small four-seater with a puke pink top. Nick and Dev are already chowing down on pizza. I scoot into the seat next to Nick.

  “Hey, baby,” he says and kisses me. His breath smells like pepperoni. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” I open up my bagel with one hand.

  “Giselle just told the lunch lady that it smells like butt,” Issie says just as Giselle walks behind her.

  “I didn’t mean it horribly!” she insists, still shaking her head.

  She plunks herself down at a table with Callie and some other kids who are into art and theater.

  Nick spreads cream cheese on my bagel for me because it’s hard to do with one hand. You need to hold the bagel and everything.

  “You are the nicest boyfriend ever,” I tell him and kiss his cheek.

  “Gag,” Devyn says.

  “You’re just jealous,” Nick teases him and points his plastic knife at Devyn. “Which is ridiculous because you are the star of the school now that the wheelchair is totally gone. Everyone is talking about you.”