To Don Radovich, because he is so missed, very missed, and to Emily and my own John Wayne. Thank you both so much for being beyond great.
Pixie Tip
Pixie kings leave a glitterlike dust behind. This is supposedly part of their souls. I’m not sure if they actually have souls, but I remain optimistic.
There are these bizarre people who actually like physical education class. You expect these people to grunt a lot and enjoy the great art of sweating. You expect them to wear designer PE gear and yell stuff like, “Dude, we are going to rock this freaking volleyball court.” While I don’t do any of those things, I swear I am still one of those bizarre PE-loving people.
That’s because Nick is in PE. But even with the cute Nick factor, I am not super psyched about being in the freezing-cold gym learning the rules of Ping-Pong today. I’m too busy being worried.
Coach Walsh has gathered us in a half circle around him and already gone through his whole hand-eye coordination speech and talked about the intricate rules of serving. I’m huddled up next to my best friend, Issie, for warmth. My teeth chatter. Coach Walsh is almost done with his whole speechifying bit but Nick is still not here. I want to not worry about him. I just want him to be safe. I squish even closer to little Issie, like she could make me feel better. Nick could be broken and mauled somewhere out in the woods. He could be bleeding and dying. He could be . . .
I grab Issie’s tiny arm and whisper, “Where is he?”
“He’s just running late.” She bounces on her toes and tries to be reassuring. She does not pull away. Issie is cool like that. She’s okay with human contact. “He’s fine. Every time any of us are late you imagine we’re dead. You are no longer allowed to imagine anyone is dead.”
“I’m not imagining he’s dead,” I whisper, but I’m totally imagining him bleeding to death on the snowy forest floor. Crows circle above him. A pixie arrow juts out of his beautiful chest. It’s the same thing I imagined about Devyn last week when he forgot to check in.
“You are such a liar-liar pants-on-fire.” Is kisses my cheek in her sweet friend way. “But I love you.”
“I just worry about people,” I whisper back. “If I’m not the one out there I feel so helpless.”
Coach Walsh notices we’re talking. “Girls, pay attention. And no kissing.”
Everyone starts snickering. I let go of Issie’s goose-bumpcovered arm. My face gets hot, which means I’m in insane blush mode. Nick thinks insane blush mode is cute. I bend down and check on my ankle bracelet that Nick gave me. It’s gold and thinchained. A tiny dolphin dangles off of it. The dolphin reminds me of Charleston because they swim right off the Battery. Next to it dangles a heart, which just reminds me of love—corny but true. I’m so afraid of losing the anklet, but I can’t take it off. I adore it that much.
“I’d pay for more kissing,” some jerk yells. I should know his name but I still don’t know everyone’s yet. I haven’t been here long enough and I’m not the best with names.
From his wheelchair Devyn power points at the guy, who probably outweighs him by a hundred pounds. Coach just gets this wicked twinkle in his eye, then ignores all of us and starts putting people in groups. Issie and Devyn and I clump together in the middle of the shiny gym floor. I drag the toe of my running shoe across it and straighten my shorts.
“Where is he?” I ask in a regular voice since Coach Walsh has moved away.
Devyn’s eyes stay calm. He is the most mellow of us, the most analytical, and the least likely to panic, which is part of the reason Issie unofficially loves him. “He’s just patrolling, Zara. I’m sure he’ll be here in a sec. He probably just got held up.”
I mutter, “He shouldn’t go out alone.”
“You can’t tell him that.” Devyn stretches his arms high above his head like he’s stretching out his wings. Even in a wheelchair he takes up a lot of space, moves a lot, seems like he’s going to fly away. “He’s compelled to go out alone. It’s his nature.”
“I know,” I murmur. Lately Devyn’s been telling me a lot about what is and what isn’t Nick’s nature. Nick shifts into a wolf. Wolves are . . . well, they hunt but they also protect. They sleep in huddled masses. They take care of their own. They are not like humans.
Devyn stops stretching. “It’s just not in the DNA.”
“Goes against the whole hero-complex thing you guys have,” Issie agrees. She bounces up and down, touches her toes. Her bunny T-shirt rides up a little in the back, exposing her bright orange underwear. “Isn’t that a helpful hint for the guide? ‘When dealing with pixies do not have a hero complex.’ ”
Devyn and I have started writing this guide. We call it How to Survive a Pixie Attack, which is a total takeoff from the zombie thing, but we figure it’s important to give people some helpful tips in case we ever go public someday. Truthfully, we’ll probably just post it anonymously on the Internet. A couple of months ago we didn’t know pixies even existed. Now it feels like capturing pixies is all we do.
“I’ll add it,” Devyn says, and his attention shifts. There’s movement at the door. Cold air rushes in. Winter in Maine is not fun.
Nick saunters into the gym and my heart basically stops. He’s ridiculously cute in his PE shorts and dark green T-shirt; and people that good-looking seem vulnerable, almost like they can’t be real.
He’s real, though. He’s all dark skin and dark hair and dark eyes. Okay. His eyebrows, like Devyn’s nose, are a little big and if you stare at him long enough you realize that his lips are a bit lopsided. I have kissed his lips. I have felt his breath in my ear and I know without a doubt that he’s real, even if he is a werewolf. The massive muscles in his legs redefine themselves as he walks toward me. He waves a late pass at the coach and yells, “Sorry I’m late. I’ve got a pass.”
“Not a problem, buddy,” Coach yells back. He and Nick are all jock bonding.
Nick pockets the note, which is probably a fake. I can smell his deodorant even though he’s still far away. There are these things called pheromones, odors that guys give off to attract women. I swear his pheromones have my freaking name written on them. They hone in and attack.
“You are getting all swoony faced,” Issie tells me with her singsong voice. She pokes me in the ribs with her elbow, gently. She turns to Devyn, who is smiling like a crazy man, just hanging back in his wheelchair watching the scene. “Dev. Look at Zara. She’s got her lovey-dovey look on.”