A History of Glitter and Blood (20 page)

“Piccolo.”

“Seriously? Seriously, you want to do this? There's nothing with Piccolo and me.”

He crosses his arms.

“
Don't look at me like that!
You know what?” she says. “Fine. Fine. There's
tons
with Piccolo and me. Piccolo and me are having wild passionate sex while you're busy writing your stupid book. We're making out and ripping off each other's clothes and running around like little vagabonds off having the times of our lives and he's showing me all this stuff about being free and being happy that I never would have realized without him, and for once in my whole life I feel happy
and wanted and dear, and he's opening my eyes to awesome food and awesome games and awesome sex and nobody invited you because
everybody hates you, poor poor Scrap
.” She shuts the water off and dries her hands on her pants. “There. What you wanted to hear was probably somewhere in there.”

“Fuck off.”

“You fuck off. And stop acting like my jealous boyfriend.” She dumps a whole load of dishes in the sink for him. “Do these yourself. I'm leaving.”

“You're going to get hurt.”

“I hope I die!”

“I hope we both die!” he yells as the door shuts.

“It's bullshit,” Beckan tells her father on her way down to meet the others. “It's total fucking bullshit, and I'd like to punch him in the face.” She shakes him, gently, and peers through the glass at his glitter and his eye. “I wish I knew if you could hear me.” It's a windy day, and her hair whips into her eyes as she walks.

The city is transformed more and more every day. The tightroper shops gleam. They're building apartments soon.

They're not going anywhere.

The fairies aren't coming back.

But they probably wouldn't have tried anyway, and Beckan can't regret wanting to hold hands with her gnomes and her tightroper and start something new.

It's a little like when she and her father moved closer to the center of the city (he was never interested in a house on the outskirts. Beckan's father was strong and brave and was crafted like iron in his city) when she was seven. They went back to their old apartment a few days after the move to sign some papers, and gnome construction workers were already rearranging the counters and putting in a nook for the next fairy family who would live there. The furniture was gone, but the burn on the wall—from one of Beckan's earliest welding experiments—was still there. The apartment was still the same shape. It was still the same space. There were still bits of her in it.

But there were only bits, and everything was changing and she had to go to her new home.

“Becks!” Piccolo yells, half a mile above her head, the second she steps into the city. She lifts her head and smiles at everyone and stuffs her father into her bag before she starts the climb. She isn't scared anymore. She isn't scared of anything. She climbs and breathes thinner, cleaner air and forgets about the city and the cottage and the apartments and the bits.

Beckan is invincible.

When she gets to the top, Josha immediately says, “What's wrong?” and hugs her. He's still a bit more shaky on the tightropes than Beckan is, but he's improving. Even the gnomes are beginning to get their sky legs, but for safety they stay sitting, and for other reasons they stay sitting too far apart to touch.

“Nothing,” she said. “I'm fine.”

“You brought your dad!” Piccolo exclaims, pulling him out of her bag.

“He always liked heights. I used to leave him on our windowsill, back in my apartment.”

“Where was your apartment?” Rig says, and Beckan brings her to the edge of the bowl of webbing so she can point out the rubble that was once her building. Up here, she can see the progress the tightropers are making in a way that's so much calmer and more objective.

See, it's pretty. It's all very pretty.

“How are you?” she whispers to Rig.

Rig coughs out a laugh. “Lonely,” she says, after a minute.

“Are you two . . .”

She shakes her head. “Not yet.”

It's hard for Beckan to understand. The rush of being alive, the passion of fighting for it, makes her want to grab hold of anyone nearby.

She touches Rig's hand, and Rig, after a minute, turns her hand to wrap her fingers around Beckan's.

“I'm afraid of power now,” she says.

“What?”

“I'm afraid of sex because I'm afraid of the power. Because I know that either Tier will have power over me or I will have power over him, and I know that should be part of it—I know that is part of it, and I loved it before because everything about sex with him, I loved—but now it's just a part of the war. And I'm scared.” She shakes her head. “I can't believe I'm up here after . . .”

“Oh. Shit. Are you—”

“I'm okay.”

“You can't be okay. No one can be okay after that.”

“I'm breathing in everything and breathing it back out.” She points. “That's where they kept us. You can't even see it from here.”

“You
are
okay, aren't you?”

She's just so
real
, this girl.

“You sound disappointed,” she says.

“I sound amazed, Rig.”

Piccolo says, “Hey, lovelies, come here. Something to show you.”

They turn around. Piccolo, still with Beckan's dad on his lap, is shooting them a huge grin.

They come and rejoin the circle, and Piccolo reaches deep into the folds of his jacket. “Ta-da,” he says, and he pulls out a small silver gun.

It is just so very small.

“Now, don't freak out,” he says, though nobody has moved. “It's only for protection. No one's going to get hurt.” He passes it to Tier, who rolls it in his hand for a minute before quickly nudging it the rest of its way around the circle. It is heavier than Beckan expected, and she is surprised and confused by her urge to pull the trigger. Just to see what would happen. She doesn't believe it, really.

They had talked about carrying weapons. Cricket wanted to. He said they needed something for protection.

“No,” Scrap had said. “No. Carrying a weapon shows you want to fight. We don't want to fight. We do not want to fight.”

But Beckan had a knife in her pocket the day Cricket died.

“Where did you get this?” Rig asks.

“Grabbed it from the supply closet when I was putting my mop away. There are dozens and dozens of them. One won't be missed. Neither would five.” When the gun gets back to him, Piccolo tucks
Beckan's dad under one arm and stretches his other out over the city. He aims at a crumbling office building, close to Beckan's late apartment, and pulls the trigger.

It's so much louder than any of the fighting Beckan has ever heard. It is right next to her ear. It is right here.

Rig says, “Someone's going to come—”

“Here,” Piccolo says. “Give it a try.”

“What is it for?” Tier says. “Why do we need guns?”

“We need to be able to hold them like we know what we're doing,” he says. “Even if we don't use them, we need to make sure that if there's any trouble, the tightropers and the gnomes think we'll use them. No one takes you seriously without a weapon.” He fires the gun again, and this time he lets out a little cheer, like a child's, when it goes off.

And just while Beckan is looking at the others, just when they're all trying to figure out if they are being set up, or they are being sucked in by someone who is beautiful and charismatic but altogether crazy, a voice yells, “Piccolo!” and he shoves the gun back into his coat and runs his hand through his hair. “Shit,” he whispers. “Shit.”

Beckan says, “What's going on?”

“Shit. My dad. I'm supposed to be working. You guys should leave. Now.”

Rig grabs Beckan's hand and Beckan whispers, “It's okay it's okay you're okay.”

They scurry toward the ladder they took up, but Josha, the first in line, hasn't made it even a step down before a man, in a jacket identical to Piccolo's but twice as big, with eyes the same color as Piccolo's but twice as mean, barrels toward them and they flinch and huddle together. But he stops at Piccolo and grabs him by both of his shoulders. He shakes his son like Beckan will sometimes shake her father, when she forgets to think of him as still alive.

Beckan's father, who is clutched in Piccolo's hand.

“No,” Beckan whispers. “No, stop shaking him.”

Piccolo's father begins to scream at him in a language Beckan doesn't know, and even though she's heard the tightroper language before, this is the first time she's really realized that they do not use her language when she's not around, that most foreigners don't, that this is a thing that she takes for granted. Did the gnomes once have their own language, too? (I don't know. I'm working on this one.)

So Beckan does not understand the words. But how his father shoves his mop at him, the way he rips the sleeve of Piccolo's jacket, the slap he plants firmly on Piccolo's cheek . . . those she understands.

And so does Josha. He is pushing through them, separating father and son, jerking Piccolo back into him, and into safety—

—and her father's jar slips from Piccolo's hand and falls through the ropes and crashes to the ground.

She can't breathe. “No. No. No no no no no.”

She has to get to him. She has to find every bit of him and sweep him into the jar, she has to make sure not a single speck of his glitter gets lost because it will be alone and it will be frightened, and he trusted her. He thought he would be safe in that jar, she told everyone he would be safe and here he is lying in the dust of the city he knew, blowing around and hitting dirty stone and concrete and unfamiliar shops and whipping back and forth like this city is the world's biggest glass jar. Trapped forever but no lid and no Beckan and she cannot get down there fast enough.

By the time she gets to the ground, there is nothing left. Not a scrap of him. Nothing but slivers of glass. Nothing.

He is somewhere. But he is nowhere.

And she is on the ground, she is bleeding from the glass, she is desperate down in the dust and her nose is running and she is sloughing off her skin clawing the pavement and she is desperate
and she is gasping and crying harder than she ever has and screaming how sorry she is and how she never meant to and then Tier is beside her, his arms around her, crying like it was his own dad.

“When was the last time you saw Piccolo and everybody?” Scrap says a few days later in a voice that is so genuine and naïve and stupid it could slay her.

“I don't know,” she says, and she does nothing but eat and sleep for the rest of the week.

Josha comes home less and less and spends his days with Piccolo up in the sky. He says the gnomes don't come up anymore. He says one of them couldn't stand it and doesn't say which. Everything broke, so quickly.

Scrap disappears to the mines again and again and he comes up each time looking like someone has sucked out some of his blood. Shaky, pale, somehow smaller. Glitter missing in patches.

Beckan brings herself to care about all of this as much as she can, which is hard when she can barely get herself out of bed.

She gets up at one point to get a glass of milk and Scrap is holding his head at the kitchen table, staring down at an empty mug.

“Becks?” he says, without looking up.

“Yeah?”

“Will you tell me how Cricket made all that money?”

It's his voice. That's the reason she tells him. He sounds like he has given up and what harm will it do now?

“He was a spy,” she says.

“Spying on the gnomes?” His voice is resigned, like he'd figured this out.

But: “No,” she says. “Spying on the tightropers.”

Scrap looks up.

“He took information from the tightropers and brought it down to the gnomes. They paid him for it and he got to stop tricking. The tightropers liked him, never suspected anything. And then that day . . . Cricket was talking to the tightropers and I guess Crate decided he couldn't trust him.”

Scrap is frozen, his hands covering his eyes. In this light, his fake one almost looks real.

“You didn't want to know,” Beckan says. “So I didn't tell you.”

“That's how you guys got your information on the tightropers.”

“Cricket's old stuff, and what Piccolo and I stole. None of it turned out to be very useful. If they'd had anything good, Cricket would have found it and the gnomes probably would have won the war while they could.”

“While they had a king.”

“Right.”

Scrap shakes his head for a while, silently.

“That was so stupid,” he says. “Why did he do that? If he hated tricking so much . . . he could have stopped, we could have gotten by just the two of us.”