How to Ditch Your Fairy Read online

  On this side, once we’d left the school behind, it was parkland for as far as you could see, which in the dark wasn’t very, even with all the fancy new lighting along the paths. Trees, bushes, flowers, climbing walls, skater ramps, restrooms, bubblers, more trees, bushes, and flowers. But no basketball courts or cricket ovals. I wished there was time for us to shoot some ball on the way home. I missed basketball so much it hurt.

  I wondered what was up with Dad. Why the sudden need for alone time with me?

  “Are you finally going to give Nettles a quokka?” Nettles had been nagging for one ever since she saw a quokka special on World’s Cutest Animals. Little kangaroolike creatures about the size of a cat. They were pretty adorable. But Nettles did not have a good track record for pet maintenance: several dead fish, a lost cat, and two guinea pigs that Dad ended up looking after ’cause Nettles kept forgetting to feed them.

  Dad laughed. “The no- small- marsupials- in- the- house rule still applies.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be getting her a big marsupial then?” I said, with a smile that I hoped he’d think was mischievous and would distract him from whatever it was I was in trouble about.

  “Very droll. How’s school?” Dad asked, and I knew exactly what was up.

  “Mom sent you, didn’t she?”

  Dad nodded. He didn’t look fuming, but then he never did, which was why it was him coming to talk to me and not Mom. Dad’s the enforcer. Mom says you have to be calm to enforce. Mom is not calm.

  “She knows about my game suspension.” I sighed. How could she not?

  Mom has the quintessential mom fairy: a knowing-what- your- children- are- up- to fairy. It drives her nuts because she does not consider herself to be the kind of mom who would need such a fairy. But not as much as it drives us nuts (particularly Nettles).

  “I was suspended from this weekend’s cricket meet,” I said at last.

  “I’m sorry, Charlie. Your mother’s upset. She thinks the whole not- going- in- the- car thing has gone on too long and gotten you in too much trouble. I agree. Do you want to wind up expelled? You love this school!”

  “But, Dad . . . ,” I trailed off. There was no point explaining yet again why it was so important. My dad doesn’t believe in my parking fairy. He doesn’t believe in any fairies, which many people believe is why he doesn’t have one, which for him confirms that they don’t exist. It’s a whole circular reinforcement thing (that’s what Mom calls it). Non- belief interferes with their fairy thing working. Or at least that’s the theory.

  Dad’s disbelief is so strong that it cancels out other people’s fairies. Well, almost everyone’s. It doesn’t have any effect on my fairy. Or Mom’s. But one time Rochelle was shopping-grounded for weeks and weeks (she’d bought an extremely well-fitting cheongsam that her mom said was “immeasurably sexier” than it should have been for a twelve-year-old) and when the grounding was finally lifted, her parents decreed that she could only clothes shop with adult supervision and there were only four days until the school dance. But it had been raining solid for a week and it kept on raining until the day before the dance and Rochelle’s fairy doesn’t work when it’s raining.

  It was what Rochelle calls a VAST SHOPPING EMERGENCY because she had to have something new for the school dance (despite her wardrobe bursting at the seams), but neither of her parents could be her adult supervisor because they were working late and my mom was working late too (as usual), so Dad stepped in.

  It was a disaster.

  Everything Rochelle found that fit was ludicrously expensive, or if she could afford it, then it made her look like the most horrendous bug-eyed troll ever to live. She was so dirty on Dad I was amazed he didn’t notice.

  That’s what comes from not believing in fairies. You rob people of a new dress for their school dance.

  “Charlie? Are you listening?”

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  “You’re going to be suspended from all your games, which means you’ll be off all your teams, which means you may wind up expelled. This is all you’ve ever wanted—to play cricket and basketball. I know basketball hasn’t worked out. Is that what this is about? Are you acting out—”

  “No, Dad!” Why did he have to bring up basketball? “I just wanted to get rid of my doxhead parking fairy! That’s all!”

  “For the sake of argument, let’s just say fairies are real.”

  “Yes, Dad, everyone in the neighborhood has me ride in their cars because of my stellar conversational skills. Not because they always get the perfect parking spot if I’m in the car.”

  “I said I was pretending fairies are real.”

  “Big of you,” I said, testing out the limits of dad tolerance.

  He waved his arms as if to wipe away what I had said. “How does not taking the bus help get rid of your parking fairy? Buses don’t need to park. Or your bicycle? There are bicycle hubs all over the city. And you don’t park your skateboard, you carry it. You’re making your life far more difficult than it has to be and most likely to no purpose at all. Why don’t you limit your embargo to cars? If you’d just take the bus, or the light-rail, or a ferry, you wouldn’t be late so much and you wouldn’t be suspended from your cricket match on the weekend. Cricket B needs you!”

  “But, Dad, I feel like the fairy’s just about to leave. Like it could be gone tomorrow, or in the next hour, or the next minute.” All day my fairy had been feeling somehow lighter. Like it was fading away.

  “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” Dad said, almost singing it. “You’re putting your whole future in jeopardy for the sake of a non existent fairy.”

  “I thought we were pretending fairies were real?”

  He let out a gust of air almost too violent to be a sigh. “We’ve spent a long time discussing the matter, Charlie. Your mother and I have decided that either you start riding the bus again, or you have to do enough public service to wipe out all your demerits.”

  “Public service!” I saw myself every Sunday picking up trash along the river, or worse in the river, or even more horrifying: stuck hours after school prying chewing gum from underneath every desk. “But that would mean no free time ever again. I’d be locked in epic servitude for the rest of my life!”

  Dad smiled. “No, Charlie, just until your demerits are wiped out.”

  “But, Dad!”

  “Why not start right now? We could catch a riverboat the rest of the way home.”

  “You promised me a sundae,” I said to stall. We were minutes from the Ice Palace, the best café for sundaes in all of New Avalon.

  “All right, how about after we’ve had the sundae?”

  I thought about it. I looked at the inviting ferry stop, all lit up and shining. There were maybe twenty or twenty-five people waiting, so the next boat wouldn’t be long. At this time of night most of the ferries had brass bands on board. You could pay for them to play whatever song you wanted. It was expensive, but . . . maybe if I caught the ferry I could con Dad into it?

  But I was so close. Just a little bit longer . . .

  “I’ll do the public service,” I said.

  “A double sundae it is. Any flavors you want.”

  CHAPTER 9

  An Intervention

  Days walking: 62

  Demerits: 8

  Conversations with Steffi: 7

  Doos clothing acquired: 0

  Game suspensions: 1

  On Tuesday at first recess, Sandra and Rochelle dragged me out onto the lawn overlooking the outdoor pool. Twelve swimmers were doing laps.

  “Sit down,” Sandra said. She and Rochelle remained standing. Sandra handed a protein bar to Rochelle, tossed one to me, then unwrapped her own and started munching.

  “Why?” I peeled back the gold and green foil and took a bite. Chalky texture, unidentifiably disgusting flavor that was labeled mangosteen. “Yum. My favorite.” Why couldn’t someone invent a protein bar that wasn’t foul?

  “This is an intervention,�
� Sandra said, sounding like a vastly grumpy coach. For a microsecond I could imagine her as just that: Coach Petaculo the Ruthless. I bet Sandra would even use a whistle. I hate whistles. “So you have to sit.”

  I sat down, but only because I was knackered and it was easier than standing. “A what?”

  “We don’t want you to get any more demerits. We love this school. You love this school. We don’t want to graduate without you. We’ve already talked to her and she says yes. She’s sure her parents will help,” Rochelle said, looking at me triumphantly. “At least, she’s sure her mom will. Her dad can be a bit weird. Anyway, it’s all settled.”

  “What is? Who is?” I wondered if Rochelle and Sandra had gone insane. I finished off the protein bar and wiped my hands on the grass. A ladybug landed on my finger, tasted doxy protein bar crumbs, and flew away.

  “You’re going over to Fiorenze’s tonight,” Sandra said, “and her parents are going to teach you how to lose the parking fairy and get a new one.”

  “No, I’m not.” Over my fairy- fragged body! Even if the world had ended and Stupid- Name’s house was the only remaining shelter, I still wouldn’t step foot in it. Even if ravening, rabid, rapid wolves were chasing me.

  “It’s the only way,” Rochelle said firmly. “You’ve been walking everywhere for more than two months and you still haven’t got a new fairy.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. I’m close. I can feel my fairy getting lighter.”

  Sandra sucked her teeth. “No one can feel their fairy.”

  “But if you go to Fiorenze’s,” Rochelle said, “you’ll be able to see your fairy’s aura, whether it’s lighter or not. They’ll teach you how to get rid of it. They know everything there is to know about fairies!”

  “I can’t. I have to do public service at the cemetery.”

  “Which one?” Sandra asked.

  “Hillside.”

  “Maybe you’ll get to tend to Our Diviya or Our Lakeisha,” Sandra said, rolling her eyes as if she were joking, forgetting that me and Ro had seen the shrine to Our Diviya and Our Lakeisha that is her bedroom.

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, tomorrow night then,” Rochelle said.

  I shook my head. “Public service. I have to do public service every day after school until all my demerits are gone.”

  “C’mon, Charlie. Fiorenze’s parents’ll solve your problem. You won’t accrue any more demerits, you won’t have to do public service. Everything will be the way it should be, except that you’ll have a brand-spanking-new fairy,” Rochelle said. Then her eyes got wide. “Maybe even a clothes-shopping fairy—”

  Sandra snorted. “You have the only known clothesshopping fairy in the universe.”

  “I can’t do it until Sunday,” I said. “I’ve got public service every day till then.”

  “Fine,” Rochelle said. “I’ll organize it for Sunday then.”

  “But, Ro, that’s my one day off. I was going to—”

  “Visit Fiorenze’s parents. Promise?”

  I made a halfhearted movement of my head that could have been interpreted as a nod as soon as a shake.

  Rochelle tsked. “Do you promise?”

  “Mmpfyeh,” I said, widening my eyes to their maximum earnestness.

  “Say it again with your hands on your lap where we can see them,” Rochelle said.

  I uncrossed my fingers and put my hands in my lap. “I promise,” I said heavily. “Ours’ honor.” I tried to think of something horrendous enough to be sufficient punishment for Rochelle and Sandra forcing me to spend my one day off at Stupid Fiorenze’s. It called for something spectacular.

  CHAPTER 10

  Statistical Torpor

  Days walking: 62

  Demerits: 8

  Conversations with Steffi: 7

  Doos clothing acquired: 0

  Game suspensions: 1

  While I love this school more than anything, there are aspects of it that are less than doos. Like Statistics, my least favorite class. Hmmm, wait, that implies that it’s on my list of favorites. It’s not. If I had a choice between doing statistics or eating my body weight in empty calories—I’d take the ECs, thank you very much. I’d take amputation. Statistics is the worst thing in the known world. (Other than my parking fairy.)

  And it’s worse than it otherwise would be because Rochelle and Sandra aren’t in my class. Vastly difficult to get through the worst class in the universe without the moral support of my best friends.

  To add to my pain Steffi and Fiorenze are both in my Stats class. They sat side by side. Steffi passed her a note, which is an infraction, but Ms. Basu (we’re all convinced she has a good- hair fairy since her hair is always shiny and never even slightly messy) didn’t seem to notice, despite every boy in the class staring at them with jealous intensity, and every girl with the same. (Only the boys were wanting to be where Steffi was and the girls were wanting to be Stupid- Name.) Of course my pointing it out would only bring me a demerit. Dobbing is vastly frowned upon.

  Besides, I would never do that, no matter how much the parties in question deserved it. I hoped Steffi wouldn’t be at Fiorenze’s on Sunday. Or Fiorenze, for that matter. No way could I stand to be around them all touchy-touchy love-love out of school. School was horrendous enough. It didn’t help that Steffi was looking even more pulchy today than ever, even though his curly black hair was a mess. Or maybe that’s why? Was messy hair pulchy? Or just Steffi’s messy hair?

  We were supposed to be reviewing strike rate calculations; I wasn’t understanding it any better than I had the first time we learned it. I don’t play cricket to improve my statistics. How many wickets I take and at what rate—it’s immaterial to me. I don’t care about my average (23.75), or my strike rate (51.61), or my economy rate (6.34), or my number of hat tricks (2). I just adore the feel of the ball between my splayed fingers, the little extra pressure I exert with my knuckles before it leaves my hand and is spinning just how I want it to, looking so innocuous that the batter lets it go only to hear the leather of the ball against the wood of the bails as they’re sent sailing through the air. Sigh. Who cares if I manage that feat every twenty runs or thirty?

  Steffi pushed another note to Fiorenze. I was too far away to have any hope of reading it, so I stared out the window, imagining that they were breaking up with each other: I had no idea it was possible, Steffi would write her, for someone to be as stuck- up as you are. Furthermore, wearing brown with brown with brown does not work. If I weren’t already unlinking with you because of your aforementioned stuckupedness, the brown thing would kill it for me. Plus you smell funny and aren’t nearly as smart, witty, and overall doos as Charlie.

  I snuck another peek at the irksome twosome. He was smiling at her in a soft, wet, gooshy way and she was staring down shy and overwhelmed. It seemed unlikely they were merely hiding the pain of a breakup. If only Basu would give them multiple demerits.

  I turned back to the window, and watched the B-stream volleyballers practicing spikes. Leaping, skidding, spiking. Volleyball is not my sport.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m adequate, but I don’t have the something extra you need to get into even D-stream volleyball at NA Sports. I thought I had that certain something for basketball. It hadn’t occurred to me I wouldn’t even make D-stream basketball. I thought I’d be in B with Rochelle. At Bradman I’d been the star point guard and now I only got to play ball in my own front yard.

  “Charlotte Adele Donna Seto Steele?” Basu was looking at me: the expression on her face was not kind. “Can you calculate career and season strike rates for the following batter?” The name K. S. Duleepsinhji appeared on the screen of my tablet with his entire career laid out in numbers. There was his cumulative runs: 995 scored from 19 innings. So 995 divided by 19. “52.37,” I said.

  “No, Ms. Steele. That is Mr. Duleepsinhji’s average. I believe I asked you to calculate strike rates. The number of runs scored for every hundred balls faced.”

  I felt
my cheeks heat up. Everyone knows the difference between averages and strike rates.

  “Perhaps what is going on in class is of more assistance in the calculation of strike rates than what is going on outside the window?”

  I looked down.

  “Well, Steele?”

  “Yes, Ms. Basu.”

  I glanced at the cloying couple. Another note went from Steffi to Fiorenze. I forced myself back to the calculations in front of me. Failing Statistics was not the extra little something I needed to add to my increasingly disastrous life.

  CHAPTER 11

  Public Service

  Days walking: 62

  Demerits: 8

  Conversations with Steffi: 7

  Doos clothing acquired: 0

  Game suspensions: 1

  Hillside cemetery is the biggest and oldest in the city. All the most famous Ours are buried there. It’s surrounded by huge stone walls and all the entrances have wrought iron gates. It also has 360-degree views. On a clear day you can see the mountains to the west and all the way to the ocean in the east.

  When I walked through the main entrance, I saw a light-skinned woman with canary yellow hair scrunched back tight in a bun, holding an official- looking tablet. I walked over to her. She looked me up and down, noting my NA Sports uniform, then turned to her tablet.

  “Charlotte Adele Donna Seto Steele?”

  “Yes.” It occurred to me that until I started New Avalon Sports High I’d barely known what my full name was. Even when my parents were mad at me they called me plain old Charlie.

  “You’re almost late. We expect those doing service to get here at least ten minutes early.”

  I started to apologize but she cut me off. “You will be punctual and you will attend every public service session you have agreed to do.” She looked down at her excessively bright tablet. “Which is every evening except Sundays.” She looked at me again. “You must be an exceedingly naughty girl.”

  “No, I—”

  The look she shot me was poisonous. “For every hour’s work you do, one demerit will be erased from your record.”