“What the —?” An old man rummaging through a dumpster stopped and gaped at Skye as she sprinted the last block to her garage apartment, fairy wings flapping uselessly behind her.
Crap. She’d been so close to making it without anyone seeing her in this ridiculous condition. Skye looked back over her shoulder where he stood, still with the same slack-jawed incredulity, a broken bottle of liquor at his feet.
“Early Halloween party,” she called out. “I’m Tinker Bell.” Skye sprinted up the stairs to her place. With any luck, by morning he wouldn’t remember seeing a real-life Tink running around Tuscaloosa.
She reached for the door handle. Safe at last. Skye turned the knob only to meet the solid resistance of a locked door. Keys! She surveyed her flimsy nightgown without much hope of finding a pocket with keys.
“Aarghh.” She stomped her feet and paced the deck, as much to keep warm as vent frustration. It must be about forty degrees and she didn’t even have a pair of shoes on. She glared at the unyielding door. “Abracadabra, open sesame,” she hissed.
It didn’t open. Big surprise. If she was going to be a fairy she should at least be granted magic pixie dust or a wand or something. So this is what it means to be hysterical.
“Why dontcha fly to the window?” The drunk yelled, pointing an unsteady arm to her bedroom window on the side of the building.
Skye whirled in surprise. He was still there, still watching.
“Fly,” he shouted again, arms waving. Probably the only coherent thing he’d said all night.
Why not? She had to do something before she either froze to death or he woke up the whole neighborhood shouting. Skye flapped her wings and glided, air-born, to the – thankfully – unlocked window. Once inside she gave a little wave to the wino advisor, and slammed it shut.
And walked into a jungle of greenery. All her potted plants, in various stages of death throes, had blossomed into lush foliage and fragrant flowers that would make the most gifted horticulturist gasp in amazement. Ivy and philodendron vines lined the ceiling, windows and doors. The pitifully stunted fig trees on either side of her bed had grown so tall they touched the top of the ceiling. Herbs, orchids, and miniature roses spilled from the windowsill to the floor.
Mom would pass out with shock. Whatever caused the magical transformation, Skye couldn’t take any credit for it.
She blinked, then shook her head. She was too cold to think. Grabbing a quilt off her bed, she headed to the kitchen to boil water for coffee. Maybe when her teeth stopped chattering she could try and make sense of these . . . these appendages growing out of her back. No wonder she’d been plagued with severe backaches this past year. Her body was trying to sprout. Like alfalfa seeds.
Good goddess.
After filling the teakettle and starting the burner, Skye pulled out a chipped mug with its ‘witchin’ kitchen’ logo and measured a teaspoon of java. No, better make that two teaspoons for an extra jolt of clarity. As Skye got out the sugar and soymilk, the familiar routine took the edge off her near hysteria. She could have a nervous breakdown later.
Skye glanced at the clock. 3:15. Seemed as if she’d been gone days instead of a few mere hours. And it was way too early to call her Mom or Callie like she had planned.
Taking her drink in the living room, she plopped on the sofa, still shivering beneath the quilt. The wings were awkward and bulky, and she readjusted her body several times until they obediently lay flat behind her. By the time she’d gulped down half of her drink, Skye reckoned the danger of death by exposure was over.
In spite of the caffeine, exhaustion set in, smothering wakefulness like a thick, wool blanket. Flying was hardly a dainty stroll through a rose garden. She fought sleep as hard as a three year-old forced to take a midday nap. No telling what would happen if she fell asleep again. Skye shuddered, imagined waking up to find herself roaming downtown in the middle of the afternoon wearing nothing but the thin nightgown with the conspicuous wings sticking out from behind.
She stood and paced the room in a desperate effort to stay awake. Her steps gradually slowed and she stumbled in weariness. Perhaps she should chain herself to something. Unfortunately, she had no rope or chain for such an emergency. The best solution for now was to dress warmly in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, along with thick socks and shoes in case she did materialize outside again.
Putting anything over the wings proved a challenge. In a burst of inspiration, Skye located a long Ace bandage and awkwardly tried to bind them flat. She refused to watch the operation in the bathroom mirror. She’d freak.