“You owe me, too,” the green girl puts in.
Now, I can’t quite see where she’s coming from on this, seeing as how she was all gung-ho to let Gnaw-bone have his fun and games before Bugle showed up. Not to mention calling me names. On the other hand, she’s obviously Very Important, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned from reading all those fairy tales, it’s that it’s a very bad idea to be rude to people who wear live birds and squirrels like jewelry. So I shrug. Politely.
“Seven months’ service should cover it,” she says. “Can you sing? I’m mostly into salsa these days, but reggae or jazz is cool too.”
My mouth drops open. Seven months? She’s gotta be out of her mind. My parents will kill me if I don’t come home for seven months.
“No?” Her voice is even more beautiful than it was before, like a fountain or wind in the trees. Her eyes sparkle like sun through leaves. She so absolutely gorgeous so not like anyone I can imagine having a conversation with, it’s hard to follow what she’s saying.
“I don’t sing,” I tell her.
“Dance, then?” I shake my head. “So, what can you do?”
Well, I know the answer to that one. “Nothing,” I say. “I’m totally useless. Just ask my French teacher. Or my mom.”
The beautiful face goes all blank and hard, like granite. “I said Gnaw-bone couldn’t have you. That leaves all his brothers and sisters. You don’t need much talent to entertain them.”
You know how your brain goes totally spla when you’re really scared? Well, my brain did that. And then I heard myself saying, “You said I was under Bugle’s protection. Just because you’re Queen of the Fairies doesn’t mean you can do anything you want.”
I was sure she’d be mad, but—get this—she starts to laugh. She laughs and laughs and laughs. And I get madder and madder, the way you do when you don’t know what you’ve said that’s so funny. Then I notice that she’s getting broader and darker and shorter, and there’s this scarf over her head, and she’s wearing this dorky green housedress and her stockings are drooping around her ankles and she’s got a cigarette in one hand. Finally she wheezes out, “The Queen of the Fairies! Geddouddaheah! You’re killin’ me!” She sounds totally different, too, like somebody’s Aunt Ida from the Bronx.
“The Queen of the … Listen, kid. We ain’t in the Old Country no more. We’re in New York”—Noo Yawk is what she said—“New York, U. S. of A. We ain’t got Queens, except across the bridge.”
So now I’m really torqued, I mean, who knows what she’s going to do next, right? She could turn me into a pigeon, for all I know. This is no time to lose it. I’ve got to focus. After all, I’ve been reading about fairies for years, right? New Age stuff, folklore, fantasy novels—everything I could get my hands on. I’ve done my homework. There’s a chance I can b.s. my way out of this if I keep my cool.
“Oh, ha ha,” I say. “Not. Like that rat-guy didn’t say ‘how high’ when you said ‘jump.’ You can call yourself the Mayor of Central Park if you want, but you’re still the Queen of the goddam Fairies.”
She morphs back to dreads and leather on fast forward.
“So, Fatso. You think you’re hot stuff.” I shrug. “Listen. We’re in this thing where I think you owe me, and you think you don’t. I could make you pay up, but I won’t.” She plops down on the bench and gets comfortable. The squirrel jumps off her shoulder and disappears into a tree.
“Siddown, take a load off—have a drink. Here.” Swear to God, she hands me a can of Diet Coke. I don’t know where it came from, but the pop-top is popped, and I can hear the Coke fizzing and I realize I’m wicked thirsty. My hand goes, like all by itself, to take it, and then my brain kicks in. “No,” I say. “Thank you.”
She looks hurt. “Really? It’s cold and everything.” She shoves it towards me. My mouth is as dry as the Sahara Desert, but if there’s one thing I’m sure I know about fairies, it’s don’t eat or drink anything a fairy gives you if you ever want to go home.
“Really,” I say. “Thanks.”
“Well, dag,” she says, disgusted “You read fairy tales. Aren’t you special. I suppose now you’re going to ask for three wishes and a pot of gold. Go ahead. Three wishes. Have a ball.”
This is more like it. I’m all prepared, too. In sixth grade, I worked out what my wishes would be, if I ever met a wish-granting fairy. And they were still perfectly good wishes, based on extensive research. Never, ever wish for more wishes. Never ask for money—it’ll turn into dog doo in the morning. The safest thing to do was to ask for something that would make you a better citizen, and then you could ask for two things for yourself. I settled on a good heart, a really ace memory, and 20/20 vision. I didn’t know about laser surgery in sixth grade.
So I’m all ready (except maybe asking to be a size 6 instead of the vision thing), and then it occurs to me that this is all way too easy, and Queenie is looking way too cheerful for someone who’s been outsmarted by an overweight bookworm. Face it, I haven’t done anything to earn those wishes.
All I’ve done is turn down a lousy Diet Coke. “Thanks all the same, but I’ll pass,” I say. “Can I go home now?”
Then she loses her temper. She’s not foaming at the mouth or anything, but there are sparks coming out of her eyes like a Fourth of July sparkler, and her dreads are lifting and twining around her head like snakes. The sparrow gives a startled chirp and takes off for the nearest bush.
“Well, isn’t this just my lucky day,” Greenie snarls. “You’re not as dumb as you look. On the bright side, though,”—her dreads settle slowly—“winning’s boring when it’s too easy, you know?”
I wouldn’t know—I don’t usually win. But then, I don’t usually care that much. This is different. This time, there’s a lot more at stake than my nonexistent self-esteem. I’m glad she thinks I’m a moron. It evens things up a little. “I tell you what,” I tell her. “I’ll play you for my freedom.”
“You’re on,” she says. “Dealer’s choice. That’s me. What shall we play?” She leans back on the bench and looks up at the sky. “Riddles are trad, but everybody knows all the good ones. What’s black and white and red all over? A blushing nun? A newspaper? Penguin roadkill? Puleeze. Anyway, riddles are boring. What do you say to Truth or Dare?”
“I hate it.” I do, too. The only time I played it, I ended up feeling icky and raw, like I’d been sunbathing topless.
“Really? It’s my favorite game. We’ll play Truth or Dare. These are the rules. We ask each other personal questions, and the first one who won’t answer loses everything. Deal?”
It doesn’t sound like much of a deal to me. How can I know what question a Queen of Fairies would be too embarrassed to answer? On the other hand, what can a being who hangs out with squirrels and fairies and rat-guys know about human beings? And what choice do I have?
I shrug. “I guess.”