Small Persons With Wings (18 page)

“Interesting point.” He held out his hand. “Am I holding out my hand?”

“Yeah, your hand's right there. You can't see it?”

“No.” He looked down at himself. “All I see is a clock. And it's standing up, even though I know I'm sitting down. Curious.”

A fly buzzed by, but I managed to keep my tongue in my mouth. My stomach gurgled. “It's dinnertime. Can you eat?”

“I don't know. I've been alone with my memories for two months—an experience that would madden a weaker man, by the way. I haven't felt hungry or thirsty, no need to pee, none of the usual urges. Perhaps it's a side benefit of being a fake clock.”

“I'm a fake painter,” Dad said to the carpet. “If I'd wanted to be a real painter, I should have devoted my life to it.”

“I'm a fake painter and the school hired me as a shop teacher to fill an equal opportunity quota,” my mom replied. “Plus I'm dumpy-looking. And a terrible mother. Other people's children respect them.”

“No, they don't,” I said.

“Well, let's see if I can walk.” Grand-père got up on his knees and reached for my arm. I helped him stand, his joints popping, and leaned him against the wall. He stretched out his arms, massaged his neck, wiggled his feet—all the things you'd do if you'd been tied up for two months.

In the interests of science, I took off the moonstone ring. My hands turned green and there, leaning against the wall, was ... a clock, quivering as Grand-père continued to work out his kinks.

“Can you walk?” I asked, feeling like an idiot for talking to a quivering piece of furniture.

Bong,
the clock said. It rose an inch and floated forward. Then it stopped, trembled, and tipped over backward against the wall. I put the ring back on. The old man was leaning on his arm, glaring at me. “I could use some help, Froggie-face,” he said.

I turned to my parents, trying to sound cheerful. “Let's all go downstairs. We can have a cup of tea and I'll make dinner.” My syrupy tone reminded me of my third-grade teacher, who told me skinning my knee on asphalt would make me a big, strong girl as long as I didn't cry.

“Why would she make us tea?” my mom said. “She doesn't even like us.”

“Now wait a minute,” I said. “Okay, so I think your plans might be unrealistic sometimes and I don't want you spending my college fund. But I respect and love you. L-O-V-E love. Love, love, love. You. Both of you.”

“You think we're behaving badly right now,” my dad said. “You think we were stupid to drink the elixir.”

“Will you please come downstairs and have a cup of tea,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Do they know what you look like?” Grand-père said as we all started down the stairs. He was behind me, hands on my shoulders, leaning heavily.

“That's why they took the elixir, so they could see the real me.”

“Ah, the real you. And what is that, exactly?”

Now he was the one who sounded like a teacher. “I'm not in the mood,” I said, trying to sound respectful yet firm. “Sir. Concentrate on walking down the stairs, okay?”

When we got to the kitchen, my parents sat down and stared at the tabletop. Grand-père flung himself into a chair and gazed around as if the kitchen were Mammoth Cave. “
Mon Dieux.
This is beautiful. Is that gold filigree on the refrigerator?”

Thanks to the moonstone ring, I'd forgotten about Sleeping Beauty's Dream Kitchen. “Oh, yeah. The Parvi did that. They're living in the pub.”

“Did you promise to give them the Gemmaluna?”

“No.”

“So why did they improve your surroundings?”

“It's all fake. They were trying to impress the building inspector.”

“This is exactly what I wanted,” Grand-père said. “Except it was going to be real. I was going to give them the Gemma and they would fix this place up for me.”

“They've offered us the same deal. But now Gigi Kramer wants the moonstone.”

“I know. That's why she turned me into a clock.”

I was pouring hot water into the teapot when someone behind me said, “Gah!”

It was Timmo, standing round-eyed in the kitchen doorway. He gaped at me, then at Grand-père. Then at the room, which he saw all done up in pink silk. Then at me again.

I didn't want Timmo seeing me as a frog, although why I should care I didn't know. “It's me, Mellie. A walking mannequin turned me into a frog, but underneath I'm still the real me.”

“Awesome,” Timmo said. “Why is there a clock on the chair?”

“I CAME TO INVITE YOU TO MY HOUSE for supper,” Timmo said. “But, uh . . .”

“Maybe some other time.” I took off the moonstone ring. “Here. Put this on.”

As soon as the ring was out of my hands they turned green. The pink silk and gold filigree oozed back into view and my crabby old grandfather turned back into a clock. He did look bizarre, stuck up on a chair like that. Where his legs should have been, there was nothing.

Timmo put the ring on his finger and looked at Grand-père. “Hunh.” He looked at me, and somehow the fact that he could see the real Mellie made me feel better. Not that the real Mellie is any thing of beauty.

Bong, bong, bong,
the clock said.

“Yessir, I'm Timmo from next door. Timothy Oliver Wright.”

“Nope. Named after my uncle. He's an insurance adjustor.”

Mom roused herself from contemplating the tabletop. “You respect your parents, Timmo?”

Timmo sized up Mom's red eyes and Dad's rounded shoulders. “That all depends. My dad erased our computer's hard drive twice in six months. Once I could handle. Twice, I'm not so sure.”

“You're not telling the complete truth,” Dad said, “but who cares.”

“We don't have a computer, because we are bad parents,” Mom said.

“We're worthless,” Dad said. “We don't even paint well.”

Timmo wrinkled his forehead at me.

“They drank the elixir,” I said. “Turns out it takes away all your illusions and makes you really, really depressed.”

Timmo nodded. “Like that guy who jumped off the bridge.”

Timmo blanched. “Sorry. I forgot that was your dad.”

Timmo sidled closer to me. “What's wrong with calling someone ‘dad'?” he whispered.

“Don't worry about it,” I whispered back. A fly buzzed by. I snapped at it. Got it.

“That was gross,” Timmo said. “Cool, though.”

My male progenitor stood up. “I suppose I should be glad to see you,” he said to the clock. He turned to me, eyes desolate. “I'm going to bed.”

“Me too,” Mom said.

“Don't you want tea?” I said. “And we've got Roland's Big-Time Teriyaki for supper.”

“That's not really so special.” Dad schlumped to the door. “We only think it tastes good because it's so salty.”

“It's better than anything
I've
ever cooked,” Mom said, following him.

We listened to them trudge up the stairs.

Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong
. “What's he saying now?” I asked Timmo.

“He says bed's the best place for them because at least they'll stay off bridges. And he thinks magic suppresses the appetite.”

“I'm hungry,” I said. “And I've been magicked.” I was hungry for flies, but nobody had to know that.

Timmo turned bright red and refused to translate.

“Give me that ring,” I said. The clock turned into a scrawny old man who was supposed to be dead but wasn't.

He gave me a sour smile. “I said, for some people appetite suppression is not a bad thing.”

“Are your parents going to be okay?” Timmo asked, sitting down at the table.

“I don't know.”

“Must be weird.”

“Yeah. They usually respect themselves a bit more than they do right now.”

“I mean for you. Being the only kid and all.”

“Yeah.”
I'm all they've got. Sheesh
.

“I hope they're okay.” Timmo's right toe prodded a curl of torn rubber on his left sneaker, letting it spring up, flattening it again. It was mesmerizing. “I like them. They talk to you like you're a human being.”

“Instead of a frog, you mean.”

He flushed. “No, before this. And I don't mean ‘you'—I mean ‘us,' everybody. Kids. They really like you. Meaning me.”

Okay, I'm confused.
“Are you saying your parents don't like you? Because I'm sure they do.”

“A fatuous response if ever I heard one,” Grand-père said. “
Fat
uous. Heh.” Fortunately, I had the ring on and Timmo only heard a series of bongs.

“What do your parents say you're going to be?” Timmo bent the curl of rubber backward until it broke off. “When you grow up, I mean.”

“Fat,” Grand-père said.
Is it okay to hate a relative?

My parents and I hadn't discussed my career that much—getting me through middle school was hard enough. “I think we all assume I'll be a scientist. Dad said I'd make a good accountant, but I don't think he was serious.” I pondered. “I could write art books maybe.”

“My dad's waiting for me to get tall so I can play basketball with the guys at the police academy. I'd rather play baseball and be an astronaut.”

“Your mother's not that tall—what if you take after her?”

“I bet I do. Just my luck.”

“Every time your dad talks to you,” I said, “you stare at your shoes.”

Timmo stared at his shoes.

“You should look at a person when they're talking to you,” I said.

Timmo hit me with the galaxy eyes. “I'll look at you,” he said, “but can I have the ring back? You're drooling.”

Oh, right, I look like a frog.
Not my fault. So why was I ashamed? I handed Timmo the ring. “Want some Roland's Big-Time Teriyaki?”

He hesitated. “Better call my mom.”

I clattered around the kitchen so I wouldn't overhear Timmo on the reception desk phone explaining why he was staying here rather than me going over there. I tried to figure out exactly how it had happened that the boy next door and I were eating supper at each other's houses.
He almost acts as if he likes me.
But then, so did Mina Cardoza when she thought I had a fairy, back in kindergarten.
He's pretending he likes me because of the Parvi.

Timmo returned. “I told her you'd been grounded. And your parents wanted me to eat here as an example of good behavior.”

“She bought that?”

“
My
mother still has her illusions.” He sat down at the table.

I took the pan of Roland's Big-Time out of the fridge and stuck it in the oven, then pelted frozen corn into one of Grand-père's fancy saucepans. Timmo had the ring, so Grand-père's protests sounded like
bong, bong, bong.

“So-o-o-rreee,” I said musically. “I can't understa-a-and you.”

Fidius joined us. “There is a clock on that chair,” he observed, settling himself on the toaster. Without the ring on, I saw him dressed in blue velvet knee breeches, vest, and jacket, with a plumed hat.

“That's my grandfather, O-gee-errr Turr-pinn,” I said, pronouncing it Dad's way to annoy Grand-père, an impulse I now understood. In fact, I felt I was representing Dad, who'd had to spend his whole childhood with this guy.

“I lived with Ogier before I came to you and your parents,” Fidius said. “He was a pill.”

“Now he's too noisy,” Fidius said. “Old men should be seen and not heard.”

I introduced Timmo to Fidius. Timmo was explaining about his uncle the insurance adjustor when Durindana buzzed in. She rocketed around the ceiling, making eyes at Timmo.

Then she noticed Fidius. She just about fell out of the air, but recovered and swooped down to land on the table, showing off. She skidded over the edge and plummeted wailing to the floor.

Remembering that Fidius had called her
Inepta
, I steeled myself for what he'd say now.

But he was nice. He swooped down to the floor, bowed to the prostrate Durindana, and helped her to her feet. They flew together to tabletop height, Fidius's hat in his hand, Durindana's head at a coy tilt like a china shepherdess. He ushered her to a seat on the toaster and landed on the tabletop, only then replacing his hat.

“It is good to see you, Monsieur Fidius,” Durindana cooed down to him.

He bowed to her again. “My lady Inep—. . . er, Durindana.”

“Want something to eat?” I asked.

The downstairs door slammed and heavy footsteps started up the stairs.

Timmo turned pale and freckly. “That's my dad!”

“Get out of here,” I ordered the Parvi. Fidius instantly turned himself into a china figurine. Durindana flitted up to sit on my shoulder.

“Change!” I told her.

“Hide!” she told me.

I remembered I had a frog face. “You win.”

As Chief Wright's footsteps reached the top of the stairs I squeezed myself into the broom closet, Durindana still on my shoulder. I left the door open a crack so I could see and possibly breathe. The closet smelled like bleach and three kinds of cleaning fluid.