Green Fairy (Dangerous Spirits) (24 page)

His surviving paintings display talent similar to the middle years of van Gogh. His last known painting is dated 1901, when he is presumed to have died.

And one of the images on the Wikipedia page was a female mouse, reclining before a background of red and yellow leaves rendered with short, sure brushstrokes.

Sol’s nose knew the oils that covered the canvas. He stared at it. The background had been less defined in his dream, but it was the same female mouse. At least…now he was sure it was. The other two paintings looked familiar, but they hadn’t held his—Niki’s—attention in the dream the way the mouse had. And neither of them was of a nude fox.

The other links all had the same text from the Wikipedia page:
Very little is known about him…he is presumed to have died…
The images were all of the same three paintings.

Nobody had images of the portfolio of sketches. Where would one go to find something like that? Probably Sol would have to go to Montmartre itself, to ask around one of the museums there and do some detective work. And he didn’t speak the language—not when he wasn’t dreaming, at least—and right now he wasn’t even allowed to walk down the street, let alone cross an ocean in search of a sheaf of hundred-year-old drawings that would show him…what? A sketch of Niki, perhaps?

For the heck of it, he searched for “Niki Moulin Rouge” and got no results, even though he knew that Niki and the Moulin Rouge were mentioned in Jean’s book. The failure just frustrated him further, the thought that the answers he was looking for might well be out there on the Internet, but buried too deeply for him to find.

At least, he thought, he felt more sure that Cireil had been real, and that the emotion he’d felt for her had been for a real wolf who died on the street a hundred years ago. That made him feel better about his grief, less silly than if he’d been crying over a dream.

When he closed that browser window, an old one popped up: the one showing the car he was supposed to have gotten. He stared at it for a second and then closed that window, too. Henri was more real than his lost car, and so, he was sure, were Cireil and Niki.

Carcy, too, was very real, and he would rescue Sol from this. Over the weekend, Sol spoke more to Carcy via text than he did to his parents in person, grunting in sullen monosyllables when asked a question. His father said, over Sunday dinner, “You’ll lose the attitude or you’ll be grounded another week.”

Before Sol could reply, his mother said, softly, “Jerious, give him time.”

“He’s had two days.” His father turned back to him. “I’ll pick you up from school after practice tomorrow at six-thirty.”

Sol couldn’t resist the taunt. “What if Taric stays later?”

His father glared at him until Sol set his ears back. “Six-thirty. Sharp.” And those were the last words they exchanged.

Monday morning on the bus, Meg stopped at Sol’s seat where the swift fox’s nose was buried in her English book again. “Hey, bookworm,” she said. “Go sit back there.”

“I’m sitting here,” the fox said.

Behind Meg, a lion said, “Siddown or get out of the way.”

Meg ignored him, leaning over. “I’m gonna sit down and talk to my friend here in about five seconds, whether you move or not.”

“Take your seats,” the bus driver yelled back.

Meg swung her thick otter tail around to whack the side of the seat. The swift fox jumped. “Three,” Meg said. “Two.”

“Jesus Christ,” the lion said. “Get out of the fuckin’ way already.”

“Stoner bitch,” the fox muttered, and collected her bag, sliding back two rows to a free seat.

Meg grinned. “Scoot,” she said to Sol.

He slid closer to the window. Her tail landed on the seat between them and she followed it. The lion said, “About fucking time,” so she gave him the finger.

“What’s up?” Sol said. He glanced toward the back of the bus. “Out of drugs?”

“Shut up, asshole.” Meg glared at him. “I sat here to talk to you, since you can’t come over. What’d you do, tell your old man that baseball is a huge waste of your time and a sissy sport?”

“I told him you said that.” Sol lowered his voice. “I told him the only way I’d get a starting spot is if I gave Mr. Zerling…oral…you know.”

Meg raised her eyebrows. “Good for you. Got some spine in you.”

“Did you bring the…” He glanced at her bag.

Her brow lowered. “Yeah, I brought it.” She tapped her bag, so Sol’s ears could catch the clink of glass. “When we doing this? Want to ditch history?”

“After practice.”

Meg scowled. “You mean I gotta stay after school? You’re the one being punished.”

“Stay after school and drink.” Sol nudged her. “Think that’s punishment?”

“Can we sit under the bleachers where the spiders are?”

Sol tilted his head, not sure whether or not Meg was serious. “I was thinking the park across the street, but…”

“Too bright.”

“You’re serious.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You can’t drink absinthe in the sunlight in a park. What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t like spiders in my drink?”

“Besides which,” she said, “if a Responsible Adult sees us, you’ll be grounded more than just two weeks, and I’ll get suspended. Third strike, or some bullshit like that.”

“All right.” Sol shrugged. “Under the bleachers it is.”

“Great. What time?”

“I dunno.” He thought about it. “Mr. Zerling calls practice at five-thirty. Quarter to six? I need to be done by quarter after so I’m not late for my dad picking me up.”

“Done.” She squinted at him. “You sure you want to be buzzed for dinner?”

“They never noticed when I came home from your place. Maybe it’ll make it more tolerable.”

He was glad he had that to look forward to, because the school day was pretty terrible. Tanny started in right away with the “bench-riding” and a new nickname, “meatless,” and though she hadn’t brought any props, the constant chatter was annoying enough to fold his ears back. In his classes, his homework from the previous week, when he’d been killing himself at baseball practice, was returned. His grades definitely showed the lack of attention. At least he didn’t have to bring that home to his parents.

And at lunch, where they were serving clam chowder, Taric’s football-playing friend dumped a bowl of it down Sol’s side and on his lap. Because the teachers were right there, Sol couldn’t retaliate, and the coyote apologized, smirking the whole while. “At least you can lick it clean, meatless,” he said, low, as Sol made his way to the bathroom.

He wiped up as much as he could, but the rest of the day, he smelled like clams and cream. It was a relief to get into his baseball uniform and take practice—but being free of the smell was the only good thing about practice. Sol didn’t complain to Mr. Zerling or talk to his teammates. He caught grounders mechanically, and only batted until Taric came over and rattled the cage. Then he ran laps desultorily, panting from the heat, imagining that he was running down the hill of Montmartre, through the streets of Lutèce, or along the freeway to Millenport. When Mr. Zerling called practice done, Sol happened to be near the batting cages.

He rested his paws on his knees while the others left the cages, and then walked off the field, ignoring Taric’s sharp laugh behind him. Tsarev waved to him from the bleachers. Sol waved back with a tired wag of his tail, but he wondered if Meg would still want to drink under the bleachers if the fox were sitting there.

Fortunately, by the time he emerged in his chowder-scented clothes, Tsarev had gone. Taric was still in the batting cage, smashing line drives across the practice field with the regularity of a hammer driving in a nail. He didn’t object to Sol watching him this time, or maybe he didn’t notice. Or maybe, because Sol was in his schoolclothes and not competing any more, the coyote enjoyed it.

At ten to six, Meg appeared around the side of the bleachers, hissing at him. Sol almost jumped, and ran around to the corner where she was. “How long have you been here?” he asked.

“Long enough to watch you jumpin’ through hoops with the rest of the Stepford Sons.”

“You brought it, right?” If nothing else, at least the lousy day had distracted him from the dream. Now that Meg was here, though, his heartbeat quickened and his tail twitched with anxiety.

Meg gave him another squinting look. “Jesus, yeah, I brought it. Come on, I got it all set up.”

She led him under the bleachers to where she’d set her bag against a post. The earthen smell mixed with the sour smell of garbage, which always lingered despite the school’s attempts to keep the bleachers clean. Sol wrinkled his nose and squinted. Fat stripes of sunlight showed dust particles swirling lazily around him; the contrast between light and dark made it hard for his eyes to see anything clearly. It took him a good while to make out the shapes of the two red plastic cups on the cement support at the base of the pole. “I brought the knife and the sugar. Sorry, I tried to find green cups.”

Sol leaned over and caught the familiar anise smell. Cloudy green liquid swirled in the cups. “You’re the best,” he said.

“I know.” Meg sat cross-legged beside the cups and grinned at him. “Come on. Ready to accept the gift of the Green Fairy?”

“I need it today.” Sol sat across from her. “This day’s been shitty.”

“I saw you get a clam chowder bath. That coyote’s a piece of shit. Vicki Reis says at football practice he’s such a suck-up to the starters that it makes all the cheerleaders sick.”

Sol paused, cup in paw. “You talk to Vicki Reis?”

“You kidding? But I listen when she talks shit about guys. Never know what might come in handy.” Meg lifted her cup. “Now, Green Fairy, please bestow upon us your gift of inspiration. Let us see by your light, let us breathe your inspiration.”

She was about to drink when Sol added, “Bring us your dreams of…art.”

Meg’s face, already black under her makeup, was nearly unreadable in the shadows. “You still having dreams?”

“Yeah.” Sol felt himself on the edge of telling her, but she lifted her cup before he could.

“Then bring us dreams.” She tipped the edge of the cup to her mouth.

Sol did the same, felt the now-familiar scent of anise and the warm tang of the alcohol on his tongue. He drank down half the cup and set it back down, keeping a paw over the top.

Meg set hers down. “I was kidding about the spiders,” she said.

“I know.” Sol glanced up. “Y’never know.”

They sat in silence, while Sol let the warmth of the absinthe blossom inside him. “Thanks,” he said, “for bringing all this.”

“Now I can say I snuck under the bleachers with a boy.” Meg leaned against the post. “If anyone ever asks. You can pay me back by gettin’ me a ride this summer.”

“Oh yeah.” Sol’s ears perked up. “I talked to Carcy. He says he’ll come down and get me, and that we can bring your stuff in the car. So if you can take the bus, we’ll hold your stuff at his place until you get there.”

Meg squinted. “I dunno if I trust your boyfriend to not smoke all my pot.”

“Then don’t pack it.” Sol reached for his drink again. He’d thought Meg would be happy that he’d worked something out.

“He have a big place? Lots of room?”

“One bedroom. And another boyfriend.” The words came out before Sol could stop them. “I mean, not a boyfriend. Just a friend.” He took another drink to stop himself from talking.

“Just a friend.” Meg nodded. “A friend he sleeps with?”

“Hey, just because we’re gay doesn’t mean we’re promisku—.” His tongue tripped over the word. “Promis-cue-us.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t finish that.” Meg nodded at his cup. Sol met her eyes as he lifted it to his muzzle and drained it. “All right then. Maybe you shouldn’t listen to me.”

Sol put the cup down. “Yes,” he said. “He sleeps with him. Sometimes. But he says they’re not boyfriends.”

“Guys’ll say anything to get you in bed.” Meg held up a paw. “That’s all guys, not just you queers.”

“How do you know that?” Sol put his empty cup down.

“Alison Damarcus says so.”

“You talk to Alison—oh.” He nodded as she tapped her ears. “Well, he says—he says it’ll all work out.”

“Sure he does.” Meg finished off her own cup. “So when do I have to be packed by? Finals? Two months?”

“Two months. Christ.” Sol closed his eyes and again saw the days of baseball practices, the games sitting on the bench, the dinners with his father.

Meg laughed, softly. “Yeah, don’t you wish we could go next week?”

“Damn!” Warmth bubbled up through Sol’s throat in a laugh. “That’d be awesome. Get out of here, get the rest of our lives started.”

“Except you wouldn’t graduate from Midland Hell School. Wouldn’t that screw up Charleton College?”

Sol’s tail wagged lazily against the cool ground, stirring up dust and other less appealing smells. “Who cares? I don’t really want to go there anyway. Carcy dropped out of college and he’s doing fine.”

“Great role model. In a few years you can start hitting on high school boys.”

“And who cares about computer science anyway? I don’t want to do that.”