Now, remember that there’s about fifty million people in the park that day. You’d think I would run into one or two, which would mean safety because muggers don’t like witnesses. But no.
So I’m running and he’s running, and I can hear him breathing but I can’t hear his footsteps, and we’ve been running, like, forever, and I don’t know where the hell I am, which means I must be in the Ramble, which isn’t that near the Boat Pond, but hey, I’m running for my life. And I think he’s getting closer and I really want to look, just stop and let him catch me and get it all over with, but I keep running anyway, and suddenly I remember what my fairy’s name was (is) and I shriek out, “Bugle! Help me!”
I bet you thought something would happen.
So did I, and when it didn’t, I started to cry. Gulping for breath, my glasses all runny with tears, I staggered up a little rise, and I’m in a clear spot with a bench in it and trees all around and a low stone wall in front of another granite cliff, this one going straight down, like, a mile or two.
The guy laughs, low and deep in his throat, and I don’t know why because I don’t really want to, but I turn around and face him.
So this is when it gets really weird. Because he’s got a snout and really sharp teeth hanging out, and his stocking cap’s fallen off, and he has ears—gray, leathery ones—and his skin isn’t dirty, it’s gray, like concrete, and he’s impossible, but he’s real—a real, like, rat-guy. I give this little urk and he opens his jaws, and things get sparkly around the edges.
“Gnaw-bone!” someone says. “Chill!”
I jump and look around everywhere, and there’s this amazing girl standing right beside the rat-guy, who has folded up like a Slinky and is making pitiful noises over her boots. The boots are green, and so is her velvet mini and her Lycra top and her fitted leather jacket—all different shades of green, mostly olive and evergreen and moss and like that: dark greens. Browny, earthy greens. So’s her hair—browny-green, in long, wild dreads around her shoulders and down her back. And her skin, but that’s more brown than green.
She’s beautiful, but not like a celebrity or a model or anything. She’s way more gorgeous than that. Next to her, Taylor Swift is a complete dog.
“What’s up?” she asks the rat-guy. Her voice is incredible, too. I mean, she talks like some wise-ass street kid, but there’s leaves under it somehow. Sounds dumb, but that’s what it was like.
“Games is up,” he says, sounding just as ratty as he looks. “Fun-fun. She saw me. She’s mine.”
“I hear you,” the green girl says thoughtfully. “The thing is, she knows Bugle’s name.”
I manage to make a noise. It’s not like I haven’t wanted to contribute to the conversation. But I’m kind of out of breath from all that running, not to mention being totally hysterical.
I’m not sure what old Gnaw-bone’s idea of fun and games is, but I’m dead sure I don’t want to play. If knowing Bugle’s name can get me out of this, I better make the most of it. So, “Yeah,” I croak. “Bugle and me go way back.”
The green girl turns to look at me, and I kind of wish I’d kept quiet. She’s way scary. It’s not the green hair or the punk clothes or the fact that I’ve just noticed there’s this humongous squirrel sitting on her shoulder and an English sparrow perched in her dreads. It’s the way she looks at me, like I’m a St. Bernard that just recited the Pledge of Allegiance or something.
“I think we better hear Bugle’s take on this beautiful friendship,” she says. “Bugle says you’re buds, fine. She doesn’t, Gnaw-bone gets his fun and games. Fair?”
No, it’s not fair, but I don’t say so. There’s a long silence, in which I can hear the noise of traffic, very faint and far away, and the panicked beating of my heart, right in my throat.
Gnaw-bone licks his lips, what there is of them, and the squirrel slithers down the green girl’s shoulder and gets comfortable in her arms. If it’s even a squirrel. I’ve seen smaller dogs.
Have I mentioned I’m really scared? I’ve never been this scared before in my entire life. And it’s not even that I’m afraid of what Gnaw-bone might do to me, although I am.
I’m afraid of the green girl. It’s one thing to think fairies are wicked cool, to own all of Brian Froud’s Faerie books and see Fairy Tale three times and secretly wish you hadn’t outgrown your fairy friend. But this girl doesn’t look like any fairy I ever imagined. Green leather and dreads—get real! And I’m not really prepared for eyes like living moss and the squirrel curled like a cat in her arms and the sparrow in her hair like a bizzarroid hair clip. It’s way too weird. I want to run away. I want to cry. But neither of these things seems like the right I thing to do, so I stand there with my legs all rubbery and wait for Bugle to show up.
After a while, I feel something tugging at my hair. I start to slap it away, and then I realize. Duh. It’s Bugle, saying hi. I scratch my ear instead. There’s a little tootling sound, like a trumpet: Bugle, laughing. I laugh too, kind of hysterically.
“See?” I tell the green girl and the humongous squirrel and Gnaw-bone. “She knows me.”
The green girl holds out her hand—the squirrel scrambles up to her shoulder again—and Bugle flies over and stands on her palm. It seems to me that Bugle used to look more like a little girl and less like a teenager. But then, so did I.
The green girl ignores me. “Do you know this mortal?” she asks Bugle. Her voice is different, somehow: less street kid, more like Mom asking whether I’ve done my math homework. Bugle gives a little hop. “Yep. Sure do. When she was little, anyways. Now, she doesn’t want to know me.”
I’ve been starting to feel better, but now the green girl is glaring at me, and my stomach knots up tight. I give this sick kind of grin. It’s true. I hadn’t wanted to know her, not with Peggy and those guys on my case. Even Elf, who puts up with a lot, doesn’t want to hear about how I saw fairies when I was little. I say, “Yeah, well. I’m sorry. I really did know you were real, but I was embarrassed.”
The green girl smiles. I can’t help noticing she has a beautiful smile, like sun on the boat pond. “Fatso is just saying that,” she points out, “because she’s afraid I’ll throw her to Gnaw-bone.”
I freeze solid. Bugle, who’s been getting fidgety, takes off and flies around the clearing a couple of times. Then she buzzes me and pulls my hair again, lands on my shoulder and says, “She’s not so bad. I like teasing her.”
“Not fair!” Gnaw-bone squeaks.
The green girl shrugs. “You know the rules,” she tells him. “Bugle speaks for her. She’s off-limits. Them’s the breaks. Now, scram. You bother me.”
Exit Gnaw-bone, muttering and glaring at me over his shoulder, and am I ever glad to see him go. He’s like every nightmare Mom has ever had about letting me go places by myself and having me turn up murdered. Mine, too.
Anyway, I’m so relieved I start to babble. “Thanks, Bugle.
Thanks a billion. I owe you big time.”
“Yeah,” says Bugle. “I know.”