Green Fairy (Dangerous Spirits) (16 page)

“Didn’t believe it,” Taric said. “But it’s true. Little faggy wolf is a leaf-eater now. Tell me.” He leaned in closer. “You given up eating all kinds of meat? Or just the kind that ain’t attached to your boyfriend?”

Sol tore a hunk out of one of his dinner rolls and chewed. He prayed that someone would notice, that Taric would get bored, that there would be a fire and the whole school would have to be evacuated.

But Taric kept nudging his arm when he tried to eat, as if they were ten years old and not almost legally adult, as if eating salads was some big crime. Sol finally snapped, “Leave me alone, okay?”

“Leave me alone,” Taric jeered, showing back as many teeth as Sol had shown him.

He hadn’t wanted to get up and leave, because that would mean they would win, and also they might follow him. But every time he took a bite of his salad, one of them would bump his arm or his tray, and finally in exasperation he stood up.

“Yeah,” the coyote who played football said. “Take that leaf-eating shit somewhere else.” And as Sol turned to do just that, he punched the underside of the tray hard enough to send one of Sol’s salads spilling across the tray and onto the table.

Sol couldn’t help himself. As the tray came back down from the punch, he let it keep going and going. His other salad and drinks slid to the edge, and still the tray dropped. And then, while the coyote was still smirking, Sol let go, sending lettuce leaves and grape tomatoes, vinegar dressing and water and milk all over the coyote’s polo shirt and jeans.

The tray clattered to the floor. The coyote jumped out of his seat as Sol backed away. He heard snickers from around him, so at least some people had been watching. Taric didn’t get up, just watched with one arm slung over the back of his chair as his friend took a step toward Sol.

Sol hadn’t been in a serious fight since eighth grade, but he knew when a situation was heading in that direction. The little laughs that kept bubbling up from his throat at the dripping shirt and pants of the furious coyote weren’t helping at all. The saving grace was that Taric and the other coyote mostly looked amused, showing no inclination of getting up to help.

“What is going on here?”

Sol flicked his ears back. He’d never been so glad to hear the shrill voice of Mrs. Mercher.

The short arctic fox walked up between the two of them, glaring at both of them. “Well?”

“Wrightson dumped his leaf-eater lunch all over me,” the coyote said, shaking his paw at Sol.

“From where I was standing, it appeared that you struck his tray and brought this upon yourself,” she said.

The whole lunchroom had turned to watch them now. The coyote glared at Sol but didn’t say anything. Mrs. Mercher went on. “Normally, I would insist that you apologize, but it looks like you’ve already gotten as good as you’ve given. Go clean up, and perhaps from now on you’ll allow Mr. Wrightson to eat his lunch in peace.”

The coyote’s first words when he sat down were to Taric, saying, “You just sat there? Not backin’ me up?” But Sol felt, with the same certainty that Niki anticipated the hostility in the cabaret’s changing room, that his life was not going to get any easier.

In fact, he was fairly certain that practice was going to be worse than usual, and he was right. To his surprise, though he did get shoved and called “leaf-eater” a few times, a mouse and deer actually came up to him and said, “Hey, cool.” And in the locker room, when Taric called him “leaf-eater,” the rabbit who was starting in left field leaned casually in and said, “You got something against leaf-eaters?”

Taric looked about as surprised as Sol was. “That’s different,” he said, ears back, “and this ain’t none of your business.”

“Don’t see as it’s yours neither,” the rabbit said. “Let Sol eat what he wants.”

“He’s…” The big coyote waved a disgusted paw. “Forget it.”

Miraculously, Sol thought that might be an end to it. But when he went out to practice, the coaches and the other wolves, even the coyotes and foxes, all of them were looking at him a little funny, like he’d been diagnosed with some disease or something. He barely got any grounders hit to him, and none of the other players threw to him. By the time warmups were done, Sol was only panting a little, mostly from the afternoon heat rather than the exertion.

Mr. Zerling came up to him as the players were leaving the field. He didn’t look at Sol as he said, “Hey, a couple of the guys said you’re off meat? Some kind of condition? Is it something that I should know about?”

“No,” Sol said. “I’m fine.”

“But you’re not eating meat.” Now Mr. Zerling was looking at him, and Sol didn’t feel any better, because the wolf’s brow was lowered, like he was trying to figure out what to tell the batter to do with two outs and two guys on base.

“It’s just…it’s just a thing I’m doing, and I’m fine, and it’s nobody’s business.”

Mr. Zerling shook his head. “No, no. Course not. But are you going to be able to go a whole practice?”

“I started last week,” Sol said. “I’m fine. I just want…”
I want them to include me
. But he couldn’t say that, because it sounded like a whiny cub’s demands, and what could Mr. Zerling really do? “Just want to be left alone.”

“Sure. I’ll tell the guys not to bother you,” Mr. Zerling said. And then, before Sol could correct him, he walked off yelling at some other player who didn’t appear to be doing anything wrong.

Sol bit his lip. He had never before had the feeling that he could just walk off the field and not be missed. And it was all because of what he’d chosen to eat? Even after the shower incident, though he’d lost a lot of respect, he’d still been one of the team. This was different, dismissive and cold. The horrible thing was that Sol could feel the faint echoes of the wolf he’d been a year ago, when he hadn’t been “funny like that” nor vegetarian, and that wolf would have been mystified if one of his friends had stopped eating meat. He hoped he would have been more understanding, but if the other wolves had turned their back, would Sol have had the courage to try to understand his friend?

Of course he would. The problem wasn’t his diet, it was that he was already alienated from the team. Well, fine. If he had to work twice as hard to prove he belonged, he would. He stalked over to the footwork drills and practiced until his feet were sore, alone, while the other players were doing other drills, throwing the ball back and forth, catching and throwing, catching and throwing.

When his legs were burning, he picked up a bat and went to the batting cages. He deliberately chose the one all the way at the end so that he wouldn’t have to talk to any of his teammates, wouldn’t have to see anyone except the random smattering of people who always sat and watched, today a mouse and a fox. The machine spat balls at him and he lashed out at them, the sounds of contact more satisfying than they’d been at the softball game.

Dumping the tray in the coyote’s lap—he hadn’t even thought about doing it. It seemed bold for him, and he was sure he was probably going to pay for it at some point, but there had been something so satisfying about the coyote’s expression, the vinegar dressing covering his shirt, the milk and water dripping down his front. Where had that come from?

Unwillingly, he thought of the coyotes as the jealous dancers in his dream. He was trying not to think about the actual events of the dream, but the emotions persisted. In fact, Sol felt more outraged on Niki’s behalf than he did on his own. Whatever else people thought about his vegetarianism, he was doing it of his own volition to be closer to Carcy. He hadn’t been forced into it.

Still, he couldn’t imagine what would happen if the school actually found out he was really gay, and not just the closest thing to it that they knew. So when Taric yelled at him, “Hey, Fagson. Get out of the cage, the starters need to practice,” Sol’s ears went back.

He turned and saw that the rest of the cages were full. Of course Taric had probably let everyone else claim one first, so that he could be the one to kick Sol out. “I’m…almost done,” Sol said.

“You’re done now.” Taric came around the side, gripping the chain link with one paw. “Do I hafta come in there and take you out?”

Sol smacked the button to stop the pitching machine. He could only leave the cage in one direction, and that direction took him past the coyote. Even though he moved as quickly as he could, Taric was faster, pushing his shoulder against the chain link and growling into his ear. “I’m always gonna be better than you,” he said. “Dumpin’ salad on my retarded friend don’t change nothin’.”

Whatever, Sol wanted to say, but couldn’t make his mouth form the word, which was probably just as well. After a moment, Taric let him go.

“Don’t you fuckin’ watch me, either,” he said, stepping into the cage and starting up the machine.

In half an hour, Sol knew, the cages would be empty, except for Taric. So he just took his bat and practiced his swing. It was easier without worrying about the ball; he could focus on where to plant his leg and work on his follow-through. And soon enough, the cages did empty, and Sol took one of the vacant ones to hit some more balls. Tonight, he swore, Taric would go home first. Nobody else on the team would see. Nobody would know for sure. But Sol would know, and if he could keep that up for a week, he felt that would really prove his dedication to the team.

The coyote seemed just as determined to outlast Sol, even if he didn’t look at him once. But the black wolf kept hitting even after his arms were exhausted, after he’d reached the point last week where he’d quit. He just looked down the row of cages at Taric, and every time the coyote lifted his bat, Sol did the same. He refilled his machine, casting an eye down to see if Taric noticed, but Taric was still swinging away, his hits still loud, but not quite as sharp now.

Sol’s and Taric’s shadows grew longer, and Sol had to take longer breaks between hits, sometimes letting two balls go by without swinging. His muscles ached, but in what Mr. Zerling called “a good way.” And Taric, he noticed, wasn’t swinging at every one any more either. The coyote’s ears were swept back, listening for the crack of Sol’s bat. Once, when Sol let three balls go by, Taric half-turned, smirking. The smirk disappeared when he saw Sol watching him, and he went back to hitting.

The sun wouldn’t go down until almost eight, and there was a point, probably around six-thirty, when Sol wondered if they would both be there until then. But it wasn’t quite seven o’clock when Taric kicked the side of his cage and just left, walking from the cages back to the locker rooms. “It’s not like you’re going to get better,” he snapped as he passed Sol, and he hit the chain link fence with his bat just to emphasize the point.

“I’m getting a little better.” Sol grinned. He felt rejuvenated. He wished Xavy and the others were there to watch.

Taric turned, muzzle open to respond, and then shut it with a click and a shrug. He walked away, tail swaying behind him.

The next ball came flying out of the machine, but Sol was watching Taric, and only returned his attention to the batting cage at the jingle of the pitch smacking into the chain link. On the next, he unleashed a perfect swing and connected, sending the ball sailing over the pitching machine and into the field.

So it went all week: practice late, rush home for dinner, homework, bed. During the days at school, Sol did a good job of avoiding Taric and the other coyotes, although he noticed that the other wolves from the baseball team didn’t particularly like him around either. Xavy was the most favorably inclined, and he still wore that expression of pity, as if Sol were mentally handicapped rather than just vegetarian. Maybe that’s what he thought. Sol didn’t care; he didn’t need to talk to any of them. By Wednesday, he felt as though he were moving in a fog where the only things he could see were his next class assignments, like baseballs shooting out of the future at him.

He did not see Meg, except for briefly on the bus, and though she sent him e-mail messages reporting her progress on their assignment, he didn’t respond with anything more than a quick “Cool.” She asked him about coming over again, and he told her that baseball practice was taking a lot out of him. Jean’s book and Niki’s dream were not so much memories as a conflicting tug of emotions. He missed them, but he could still feel the velvet of the black ribbon on his fur in idle moments, and that made his fur stand on end and his heart race. It wasn’t something that seemed to belong to his real life: either it was something that had come out of his dream into the real world—ludicrous—or he was having serious hallucinations. Baseball was real and physical and undeniable, and he could lose himself in it without fear that he would wake up with infield grass under his claws or a batting glove in his bed.

Friday night, his dedication paid off. They had a home game against a high school that was 4-0 on the year, and Mr. Zerling put him in to hit late in the game. He made good contact and got a single, and got pats on the back from the deer and mouse and even Xavy and one other wolf. They lost, but Taric didn’t play spectacularly well, and that lifted Sol’s spirits. Another week like this, of showing his dedication to Mr. Zerling and the team, and he might start again.

And if he got his spot back, he would get his car, and if he got his car, he would be on his way to Millenport this summer, and that reminded him that he had best start to work on Carcy, who was also real and undeniable, if not yet physical to Sol.