“Okay. I go first.”
Well, sure she does. She’s the Queen of Central Park. And I see the question coming—she doesn’t even pause to think about it. “So, how much do you weigh, anyway?”
Now you have to understand that nobody knows how much I weigh. Not Elf, not even my mom. Only the school nurse and the doctor and me. I’ve always said I’d rather die than tell anyone else. But the choice between telling and living in Central Park for seven months is a no-brainer. So I tell her. I even add a pound for the hotdog and the Mr. Softee I ate the boathouse.
“Geddouddaheah!” she says. “You really pork it down, huh?”
I don’t like her comment, but it’s not like I haven’t heard it before. It makes me mad, but not so mad I can’t think, which is obviously what she’s trying for. Questions go through my mind, but I don’t have a lot to go on, you know what I’m saying? And she’s tapping her green boot and looking impatient. I have to say something, and what I end up asking is, “Why are you in Central Park, anyway? I mean, there’s lots of other places that are more fairy-friendly. Why aren’t you in White Plains or something?”
It sounds like a question to me, but she doesn’t seem to think so. “I win. That’s not personal,” she says.
“It is too personal. Where a person lives is personal. Come on. Why do you live here, or let me go home.”
“Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she says. “Okay, here goes. This is the heart of the city. You guys pass through all the time—like Grand Central Station, right? Only here, you stop or a while. You rest, you play, you kiss in the grass, you whisper your secrets, you weep, you fight. This ground, these rocks, are soaked through with love, hate, joy, sorrow, passion. And I love that stuff, you understand? It keeps me interested.”
Wow. I stare at her, and all my ideas about fairies start to get rearranged. But they don’t get very far because she’s still talking.
“You think I don’t know anything about you,” she says. “Boy, are you wrong. I know everything I want to know. I know what’s on your bio quiz next week. I know Patty Gregg’s worst secret. I know who your real mother is, the one who gave you away when you were born.” She gives me this look, like Elf ’s brother the time he stole a dirty magazine. “Wanna know?”
It’s not what I’m expecting, but it’s a question, all right, and it’s personal. And it’s really easy. Sure, I want to know all those things, a whole lot—especially about my biological mother.
Like more than anything else in the world. My parents are okay—I mean, they say they love me and everything. But they really don’t understand me big time. I’ve always felt adopted, if you know what I mean—a changeling in a family of ordinary humans. I’d give anything to know who my real mother is, what she looks like and why she couldn’t keep me. So I should say yes, right? I mean, it’s the true answer to the green girl’s question, and that’s what the game is about, isn’t it? There’s a movement on my shoulder, a sharp little pinch right behind my ear. I’ve totally forgotten Bugle—I mean, she’s been sitting there for ages, perfectly still, which is not her usual.
Maybe I’ve missed something. It’s that too easy thing again. Sure, I want to know who my birth mom is. But it’s more complicated than that. Because now that I think about it, I realize I don’t want Greenie to be the one to tell me. I mean, it feels wrong, to learn something like that from someone who is obviously trying to hurt you.
“Answer the question,” says the green girl. “Or give in. I’m getting bored.”
I take a deep breath. “Keep your socks on. I was thinking how to put it. Okay, my answer is both yes and no. I do want to find out about my birth mom, but I don’t want you to tell me. Even if you know, it’s none of your business. I want to find out for myself. Does that answer your question?”
She nods briskly. “It does. Your turn.”
She’s not going to give me much time to come up with one, I can tell that. She wants to win. She wants to get me all torqued so I can’t think, so I won’t ask her the one question she won’t answer, so I won’t even see it staring me right in the face, the one thing she really, really can’t answer, if the books I’ve read aren’t all totally bogus.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
I mean, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Like, how dumb does she think I am? Pretty dumb, I guess, from the look on her face.
“Guess,” she says, making a quick recovery.
“Wrong fairy tale,” I say, pushing it. “Come on. Tell me, or you lose.”
“Do you know what you’re asking?”
“Yes.”
There’s a long silence—a long silence, like no bird is ever going sing again, or squirrel chatter or wind blow. The green girl puts her fingers in her mouth and starts to bite her nails. I’m feeling pretty good. I know and she knows that I’ve won no matter what she says. If she tells me her name, I have total power over her, and if she doesn’t, she loses the game. I know what I’d choose if I was in her place, but I guess she must really, really hate losing.
Watching her sweat, I think of several things to say, most of them kind of mean. She’d say them, if she was me. I don’t.
It’s not like I’m Mother Teresa or anything—I’ve been mean plenty of times, and sometimes I wasn’t even sorry later. But she might lose her temper and turn me into a pigeon after all.
Besides, she looks so human all of a sudden, chewing her nails and all stressed out like she’s the one facing seven months of picking up fairy laundry. Before, when she was winning, she looked maybe twenty, right? Gorgeous, tough, scary, in total control. Now she looks a lot younger and not tough at all.
So maybe if she loses, she’s threatened with seven months of doing what I tell her. Maybe I don’t realize what I’m asking. Maybe there’s more at stake here than I know. A tiny whimpering behind my right ear tells me that Bugle is pretty upset. Suddenly, I don’t feel so great. I don’t care any more about beating the Queen of the Fairies at some stupid game.
I just want this to be over.
“Listen,” I say, and the green girl looks up at me. Her wide, mossy eyes are all blurred with tears. I take a deep breath.
“Let’s stop playing,” I say.
“We can’t stop,” she says miserably. “It has begun, it must be finished. Those are the rules.”
“Okay. We’ll finish it. It’s a draw. You don’t have to answer my question. Nobody wins. Nobody loses. We just go back to the beginning.”
“What beginning? When Gnaw-bone was chasing you? If I help you, you have to pay.”
I think about this for a little while. She lets me. “Okay,” I say. “How about this. You’re in a tough spot, right? I take back question, you’re off the hook, like you got me off the hook with Gnaw-bone. We’re even.”