Odds Are Good

  I opened my eyes, and gasped.

  About a third of the people in the cafe—including the guy that Melvin had winked at—were blue. Some were bright blue, some were deep blue, some just had a bluish tint to them.

  “Are you telling me all those people are gay?” I whispered.

  “To some degree or other.”

  “But so many of them?”

  “Well, this isn’t a typical place,” said Melvin. “You told me the theater crowd hangs around in here.” He waved his hand grandly. “Groups like that tend to have a higher percentage of gay people, because we’re so naturally artistic.” He frowned. “Of course, some bozos take a fact like that and decide that everyone doing theater is gay. Remember, two-thirds of the people you’re seeing aren’t blue.”

  “What about all the different shades?” I asked.

  “It’s an indicator of degree. I set it up so that you’ll see at least a hint of blue on anyone who has a touch of twinkiness. And a lot of blue on . . . well, you get the idea. Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

  It was like seeing the world through new eyes. Most of the people looked just the same as always, of course. But Mr. Alwain, the fat guy who ran the grocery store, looked like a giant blueberry—which surprised me, because he was married and had three kids. On the other hand, Ms. Thorndyke, the librarian, who everyone knew was a lesbian, didn’t have a trace of blue on her.

  “Can’t tell without the spell,” said Melvin. “Straights are helpless at it. They’re always assuming someone is or isn’t for all the wrong reasons.”

  We were in the library because Melvin wanted to show me some books. “Here, flip through this,” he said, handing me a one-volume history of the world.

  My bluevision worked on pictures, too!

  “Julius Caesar?” I asked in astonishment.

  “Every woman’s husband, every man’s wife,” said Melvin. “I met him at a party on the other side once. Nice guy.” Flipping some more pages, he said, “Here, check this one out.”

  “Alexander the Great was a fairy?” I cried.

  “Shhhhh!” hissed Melvin. “We’re in a library!”

  All right, I suppose you’re wondering about me—as in, was I blue?

  The answer is, slightly.

  When I asked Melvin to explain, he said, “The Magic 8 Ball says, ‘Signs are mixed.’ In other words, you are one confused puppy. That’s the way it is sometimes. You’ll figure it out after a while.”

  Watching the news that night was a riot. My favorite network anchor was about the shade of a spring sky—pale blue, but very definite. So was the congressman he interviewed, who happened to be a notorious Republican homophobe.

  “Hypocrite,” I spat.

  “What brought that on?” asked Dad.

  “Oh, nothing,” I said, trying to figure out whether I was relieved or appalled by the slight tint of blue that covered his features.

  Don’t get the idea that everyone I saw was blue. It broke down pretty much the way the studies indicate—about one person in ten solid blue, and one out of every three or four with some degree of shading.

  I did get a kick out of the three blue guys I spotted in the sports feature on the team favored to win the Super Bowl.

  But it was that congressman who stayed on my mind. I couldn’t forget his hypocritical words about “the great crime of homosexuality” and “the gay threat to American youth.”

  I was brushing my teeth when I figured out what I wanted to do.

  “No,” I whispered, staring at my bluish face in the mirror. “I couldn’t.”

  For one thing, it would probably mean another beating from Butch Carrigan.

  Yet if I did it, nothing would ever be the same.

  Rinsing away the toothpaste foam, I whispered Melvin’s name.

  “At your service!” he said, shimmering into existence behind me. “Ooooh, what a tacky bathroom. Where was your mother brought up, in a Kmart?”

  “Leave my mother out of this,” I snapped. “I want to make my second wish.”

  “And it is?”

  “Gay fantasy number three, coast to coast.”

  He looked at me for a second, then began to smile. “How’s midnight for a starting point?”

  “Twenty-four hours should do the trick, don’t you think?” I replied.

  He rubbed his hands, chuckled, and disappeared.

  I went to bed, but not to sleep. I kept thinking about what it would mean when the rest of the world could see what I had seen today.

  I turned on my radio, planning to listen to the news every hour. I had figured the first reports would come in on the one o’clock news, but I was wrong. It was about 12:30 when special bulletins started announcing a strange phenomenon. By one o’clock, every station I could pick up was on full alert. Thanks to the wonders of modem communication, it had become obvious in a matter of minutes that people were turning blue from coast to coast.

  It didn’t take much longer for people to start figuring out what the blue stood for. The reaction ranged from panic to hysterical denial to dancing in the streets. National Public Radio had quickly summoned a panel of experts to discuss what was going to happen when people had to go to work the next day.

  “Or school,” I muttered to myself. Which was when I got my next idea.

  “Melvin!” I shouted.

  “You rang?” he asked, shimmering into sight at the foot of my bed.

  “I just figured out my third wish.” I took a breath. “I want you to turn Butch Carrigan blue.”

  He looked at me for a moment. Then his eyes went wide. “Vincent,” he said, “I like the way you think. I’ll be back in a flash.”

  When he returned he was grinning like a cat.

  “You’ve still got one wish left, kiddo,” he said with a chuckle. “Butch Carrigan was already blue as a summer sky when I got there.”

  If I caused you any trouble with Blueday, I’m sorry. But not much. Because things are never going to be the same now that it happened. Never.

  And my third wish?

  I’ve decided to save it for when I really need it—maybe when I meet the girl of my dreams.

  Or Prince Charming.

  Whichever.

  The Metamorphosis of Justin Jones

  Justin Jones shot out the front door of the house where he lived—not his house, just the place where he was forced to live—and ran until he could no longer hear his uncle’s shouts. Even then he didn’t feel safe. Sometimes Uncle Rafe’s anger was so powerful it propelled the man onto the street after Justin. So the boy ran on, stopping only when the stitch in his side became so painful he could go no farther.

  He leaned against a tree, panting and gasping for breath. The air burned in his lungs.

  It was late twilight, and stars had just begun to appear, peeking out of the darkness like the eyes of cats hiding in a closet. Justin didn’t see them. He was pressing his face against the tree, wishing he could melt into its rough bark and be safe.

  When he finally opened his eyes again, Justin noticed an odd mist creeping around the base of the tree—a mist that somehow seemed to have more light, more color, than it should.

  Curious, he stepped forward to investigate.

  As he circled the tree he heard an odd whispering sound and felt a tingle in his skin. The mist covered the street ahead of him—a street he had never seen before, despite the fact that Barker’s Elbow was a very small town.

  He walked on.

  At the end of the street he saw a strange, old-fashioned-looking building. In the window were the words ELIVES MAGIC SUPPLIES—S. H. ELIVES, PROP.

  I could sure use a little magic about now, thought Justin. He glanced at his watch. Most of the stores in town were closed by this time of the evening. But this one had a light in the window.

  He tried the door. It opened smoothly.

  A small bell tinkled overhead as he stepped in.

  Justin smiled. He would never have dreamed that Barker’s Elbow could hold such a
wonderful store. Magicians’ paraphernalia was scattered everywhere. Top hats, capes, scarves, big decks of cards, and ornate boxes covered the floor, the walls, the counters, even hung from the ceiling. At the back of the shop stretched a long counter with a dragon carved in the front. On top of the counter stood an old-fashioned brass cash register. On top of the cash register sat a stuffed owl. Behind the counter was a door covered by a beaded curtain.

  Justin wandered to one of the counters. On it stood an artillery shell, thick as his wrist. To his disappointment, the shell had already been fired. Attached was a tag that said LISTEN.

  Remembering the big seashell his mother used to put to his ear so he could “hear the ocean,” Justin lifted the empty metal shell and held the hollow end to his ear.

  He could hear the sound of cannons, explosions, the terrified neighs of horses, the screams of wounded men.

  He put the shell down. Quickly.

  Next to it stood a French doll. When Justin reached for her, the doll blinked and cried, “Ooh-la-la! Touch me not, you nasty boy!” Then she began a wild dance. When Justin pulled his hand back, the doll froze in a new position.

  Deciding he should just look at the merchandise, Justin crossed to another counter. A broom resting against the edge of it blocked his view. Justin picked it up so he could see better.

  The broom began to squirm in his hands.

  Justin dropped it. He was about to bolt for the door when the owl he had thought was stuffed uttered a low hoot.

  “Peace, Uwila,” growled a voice from beyond the beaded curtain. “I’m coming!”

  A moment later an old man appeared. He was shorter than Justin, with long white hair and dark eyes that seemed to hold strange secrets. His face was seamed with deep wrinkles. The old man looked at Justin for a moment, and something in his eyes grew softer. “What do you need?”

  “I don’t think I need anything,” said Justin uncomfortably. “I just came in to look around.”

  The old man shook his head. “No one comes into this store just to look around, Justin. Now what do—”

  “Hey, how do you know my name?”

  “It’s my job. Now, what do you need?”

  Justin snorted. What did he need? A real home. His mother and father back. He needed—

  “Never mind,” said the old man, interrupting Justin’s bitter thoughts. “Let’s try this. Have you ever seen a magician?”

  Justin nodded.

  “All right, then what’s your favorite trick?”

  Justin thought back to a time three years ago, back before his parents had had the accident. His dad had taken him to see a magician who did a trick where he locked his assistant in handcuffs, put her in a canvas bag, tied up the bag, put it in a trunk, wrapped chains around the trunk, and handed the keys to a member of the audience. Then he had climbed onto the trunk, lifted a curtain in front of himself, counted to five, and dropped the curtain. Only, when the curtain fell, the assistant was standing there, and the magician was inside the bag in the trunk, wearing the handcuffs. Justin had loved the trick, half suspected it was real magic.

  It had had a special name, something scientific.

  “The metamorphosis!” he said suddenly, as his mind pulled the word from whatever mysterious place such things are kept.

  The old man smiled and nodded. “Good choice. Wait there.”

  Justin felt as if his feet had melted to the floor. The old man disappeared through the beaded curtain—and came back a moment later carrying a small cardboard box. Clearly it didn’t have a big trunk in it. What, then? Probably just some instructions and . . . what? Justin was dying to know.

  But he also knew the state of his pockets.

  “I don’t think I can afford that,” he said sadly.

  The old man started to say something, then paused. He looked into the distance, nodded as if he was listening to something, then blinked. His eyes widened in surprise. After a moment he shrugged and turned to Justin.

  “How much money do you have?”

  Though he was tempted to turn and run, Justin dug in his pocket. “Forty-seven cents,” he said at last.

  The old man sighed. “We’ll consider that a down payment. Assuming the trick is satisfactory, you will owe me . . .” He paused, did a calculation on his fingers, then said, “Three days and fifty-seven minutes.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me! Now do you want it or not?”

  Something in the old man’s voice made it clear that “not” was not an acceptable answer. Swallowing hard, Justin said, “I’ll take it.”

  The old man nodded. “The instructions are inside. We’ll work out your payment schedule later. Right now, it’s late, and I am tired. Take the side door. It will get you home more quickly.”

  Justin nodded and hurried out the side door.

  To his astonishment, he found himself standing beside the tree once more. He would have thought the whole thing had been a dream . . . if not for the small cardboard box in his hands.

  Justin walked home slowly. The later it was when he got there, the greater the chance his uncle would be asleep.

  Luck was with him; Uncle Rafe lay snoring on the couch, a scattering of empty beer cans on the floor beside him.

  Justin tiptoed up the stairs to his room. He set the box on his desk, then used his pocketknife to cut the tape that held it shut. He wasn’t sure what he would find inside; clearly it was too small to hold the entire trick. Probably he’d have to go out and buy the trunk and stuff, which would mean that he’d never get to try it.

  The box contained two items: a small instruction book and a bag that—to Justin’s astonishment—shook out to be as large as the canvas sack the magician had used.

  The fabric was smooth and silky, and the colors shifted and changed as he looked at it. It was very beautiful, and at first he was afraid that it would be easy to tear. But it felt oddly strong beneath his fingers.

  He opened the instruction booklet.

  The directions were written by hand, in a strange spidery script. On the first page of the booklet were the following words: WARNING: DO NOT ATTEMPT THIS TRICK UNLESS YOU REALLY MEAN IT. DO NOT EVEN TURN THE PAGE UNLESS YOU ARE SERIOUS.

  Justin rolled his eyes . . . and turned the page.

  The directions here were even weirder:

  To begin the metamorphosis, open the bag and place it on your bed. Being careful not to damage the fabric, climb inside before you go to sleep. Keep your head out!

  After you have slept in the bag for three nights, you will receive further instructions.

  Justin stared at the bag and the booklet for a long time. He was tempted to just stuff them back in the box and take the whole crazy thing back to the old man. Only, he wasn’t sure he could find the store again, even if he tried.

  He rubbed the whisper-soft fabric between his fingers. It reminded him of his mother’s cheek.

  He climbed inside the bag, feet down, head out, and slept. That night his dreams were sweeter than they had been in a long, long time. But when he woke he felt oddly restless.

  Justin slept in the bag for the next two nights, just as the directions said. In his dreams—which grew more vivid and beautiful each night—he flew, soaring far away from his brutal uncle and the house where he had felt such pain and loss. He came to long for the night, and the escape that he found in his dreams.

  On the morning of the fourth day, Justin felt as if something must explode inside him, so deep was the restlessness that seized him. Eagerly, fearfully, he turned to the instruction booklet that had come with the silken sack. As he had half expected, he found new writing on the page after the last one he had read—a page that had been blank before.

  Sometimes a leap of faith is all that’s needed.

  Wondering what that was supposed to mean, he went to the bathroom to get ready for school.

  His shoulders itched.

  The next morning they were sore and swollen.

  The morning after that, Justin Jon
es woke to find that he had wings. They were small. They were feeble. But they were definitely there.

  Justin had two reactions. Part of him wanted to shout with joy. Another part of him, calmer, more cautious, was nearly sick with fear. He knew Uncle Rafe would not approve.

  He put on a heavy shirt and was relieved to find that the weight of it pressed the wings to his back.

  The next morning the wings were bigger, and the morning after that, bigger still. Justin wouldn’t be able to hide them from his uncle much longer.

  The wings were not feathered, nor butterfly delicate, nor leathery like a bat’s. They were silky smooth, like the sack he slept in. To his frustration, they hung limp and useless. Late at night, when his uncle was asleep, Justin would flex them, in the desperate hope that they would stretch and fill, somehow find the strength to lift him, to carry him away from this place.

  Exactly one week after the first night he had slept in the sack, his wings became too obvious to hide. When he sat down to breakfast that morning, his uncle snapped, “Don’t slouch like that. Look how you’re hunching your shoulders.”

  Justin tried sitting up straighter, but he couldn’t hide the lumps on his back.

  “Take off your shirt,” said his uncle, narrowing his eyes.

  Slowly, nervously, Justin did as he was told.

  “Turn around.”

  Again, Justin obeyed. He heard a sharp intake of breath, then a long silence. Finally his uncle said, “Come here, boy.”

  Turning to face him, Justin shook his head.

  His uncle scowled. “I said, come here.”

  Justin backed away instead. His uncle lurched from the table, snatching at a knife as he did.

  Justin turned and ran, pounding up the stairway to his room. He paused at the door, then went past it, to the attic stairs. At the top he closed the door behind him and locked it.