She helps me sit up, stepping over Devyn to do so. “We all worry about each other. That’s what friends do.”
Later, I’m alone with Astley. I sit on the edge of the bed and then swing my legs up next to him. He looks so small, and he’s normally so far from small.
Astley’s eyes flutter open but he seems tired, and he can’t quite focus. His eyes are silver. His skin is a sickly blue still, but better than yesterday. I touch his face.
“You will be okay,” I whisper. “We will be okay.”
His lips move but no sound comes out. Instead, he moves his hand and I grab it. Our fingers interlock.
“We will be strong together,” I promise.
YAHOO! ANSWERS
Trey D
In the event of a pixie apocalypse?
So allegedly there’s like a pixie invasion in my town and we’re having this meet-up to learn how to fight them. So, um, yeah … any pointers or ARE WE DOOMED?
BEST ANSWER - CHOSEN BY VOTERS
Trap the little things in jars like fireflies. Totally worked for Peter Pan and Wendy. Also, lay off the bath salts.
1 hour ago
60% 2 Votes
I feel much better after a shower, and Astley is up and walking around. I get ready and head over to Issie’s house so we can carpool to the training. We’re late because Issie is taking for-freaking-ever to find appropriate “pixie war training” clothes. Issie deals with horrible situations by ignoring them. Instead of focusing on Astley’s poisoning, she’s focusing on clothes. It’s a weird survival method, but it seems to work well for her because she’s … um … surviving.
“I need something both war appropriate and cute,” she explains as we finally get in the car. “Do you think this works?”
She’s wearing yoga pants and a red T-shirt that they were selling at the Gap a while ago when it was cool to care about world hunger and things like that. She zips up her coat and adjusts her rainbow-striped hat. I’m wearing my favorite black running pants and an old rock band T-shirt.
As we drive to the YMCA, Issie babbles on about Devyn, her mom’s new insistence that hairspray is an effective weapon against mass murderers, and how any of us will pass any of our advanced placement exams at the end of the year since school is so insane. Once we get there, she parks and I haul the box of How to Survive a Pixie Attack manuals out of the back of her car. Now that I’m pixie it’s easier to carry things.
As we get out of the car, she squinches up her nose, tucks her hair behind her ear. There’s a loose blue thread on her rainbow hat, sort of unraveling. It dangles and hangs out with her hair.
I tuck it into her hat. But as soon as we walk up the cement curb, the little blue thread has fallen out of her hat again, dangling there, homeless, as we walk in and veer to the left. The gym is on one side of the main hallway of the Y, set off by a big admission desk. The front-desk lady says, “Joining the fun?”
On the other side is a hallway to the weight room and the locker rooms. Issie grabs the door handle to the gym and stops.
“Holy—” she starts and then breaks off.
I peek around her to see what it is, ready to drop the box in case there are pixies or something awful and dangerous inside. I stagger back too. “Issie …”
“I know!”
“There are so many people here.” I’m shaking. I can actually feel myself shaking.
“I know!”
“Is there a basketball game we didn’t know about?” I ask.
“Okay. Fact check. The people aren’t in the bleachers. There are no bouncing balls. No refs. No cheerleaders. No smell of popcorn. I think they are here for us.”
For us. I swallow hard. “Okay. Okay. This is a good thing. Repeat after me: this is a good thing.”
“This is a good thing,” Issie whispers.
“The whole entire freaking world knowing that there are pixies is a good thing,” I say, trying to convince myself. I stare up at the empty basketball hoops. The nets dangle off of little orange rims, waiting for the balls, waiting for the action. I toughen up and say to both Is and myself, “We can handle this.”
“We totally can.” She looks stunned, though.
I scan the crowd. “Is Nick coming?”
“I think so.”
“Okay. We can do this.” I stride into the room like I have done this a million times, like I’m not worried about Astley, like I’m a leader. I hold up the box. “Hey! People! Everybody! Let’s get started!”
People stop talking except for Austin, who basically never stops talking. Everyone starts heading toward me. They are tall, short, skinny, not so skinny, and regular. They are younger and slightly older, but mostly all in high school, I think. Some have pimples. Some have glasses. Some look a little confused. Some look a little scared. And some, like Jay and Callie, look angry and determined. Jay nods at me. I nod back.
Cassidy grabs the box from me and smiles. It’s a serious smile, but still a smile. I smile back. It’s so good to see her here, so good that she is on our side. She’s wearing a tracksuit that looks pure vintage 1970s, all orange and cotton. With her multiple braids she looks kind of Rastafarian, like she might start singing reggae or something. Maybe she’s trying out a new identity. I can understand that.
I take one of the manuals out. “We’ve got some handbooks, but not enough, so you’ll have to share!”
People hustle forward and grab the handbooks out of the box. Some people even say thank you, which is kind of astonishing. Anne Kat looks up at me. She clutches her manual to her chest. She’s wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. Her hands shake.
“Is this for real, Zara?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s for real.”
She sucks her lips in, nods just the tiniest bit, and turns around. I have no idea how she’ll ever be able to fight. Her glasses always fall off in PE class every time she runs. She skitters into the crowd and disappears between the taller, broader people.
Paul grabs a handbook and says to me and Is, “Got a turnout, huh?”
“Did you tell the entire school?” Issie asks.
He shrugs and then reaches up absently to touch his hair. “Basically.”
“Awesome sauce.” Issie bounces on her toes and hands out some more handbooks, passing one to Tara Bogue. “People! Get your handbooks here. Step right up and get your handbooks.”