Odds Are Good (28 page)

His eyes went dreamy for a moment, as if he was looking at something far away, or deep inside. “I walk and talk the way I do because I'm not going to let anyone else define me. I can turn it off whenever I want, you know.”

He moved in his seat. I couldn't begin to tell you exactly what changed, but he suddenly looked more masculine, less . . . swishy.

“How did you do that?” I asked.

“Protective coloration,” he said with a smile. “You learn to use it to get along in the world if you want. Only I got sick of living in the box the world prescribed; it was far too small to hold me. So I knocked down a few walls.”

“Yeah, and look what happened. You ended up dead.”

“They do like to keep us down,” he said, stirring his coffee. Suddenly he smiled and looked more like himself again. “Do you know the three great gay fantasies?” he asked.

“I don't think so,” I said nervously.

He looked at me. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Skip the first two. You're too young. It was number three that I wanted to tell you about anyway. We used to imagine what it would be like if every gay person in the country turned blue for a day.”

My eyes went wide. “Why?”

“So all the straights would have to stop imagining that they didn't know any gay people. They would find out that they had been surrounded by gays all the time, and survived the experience just fine, thank you. They'd have to face the fact that there are gay cops and gay farmers, gay teachers and gay politicians, gay parents and gay kids. The hiding would finally have to stop.”

He looked at me for a moment. “How would you like to have the sight?” he asked.

“What?”

“How would you like to have gaydar for a while? You might find it interesting.”

“Does this count as a wish?” I asked suspiciously. “No, it's education. Comes under a different category.”

“All right,” I said, feeling a little nervous.

“Close your eyes,” said Melvin.

After I did as he requested, I felt him touch each of my eyelids lightly. My cheeks began to burn as I wondered if anyone else had seen.

“Okay,” he said. “Open up, big boy, and see what the world is really like.”

I opened my eyes, and gasped.

About a third of the people in the cafe—including the guy that Melvin had winked at—were blue. Some were bright blue, some were deep blue, some just had a bluish tint to them.

“Are you telling me all those people are gay?” I whispered.

“To some degree or other.”

“But so many of them?”

“Well, this isn't a typical place,” said Melvin. “You told me the theater crowd hangs around in here.” He waved his hand grandly. “Groups like that tend to have a higher percentage of gay people, because we're so naturally artistic.” He frowned. “Of course, some bozos take a fact like that and decide that
everyone
doing theater is gay. Remember, two-thirds of the people you're seeing
aren't
blue.”

“What about all the different shades?” I asked.

“It's an indicator of degree. I set it up so that you'll see at least a hint of blue on anyone who has a touch of twinkiness. And a lot of blue on . . . well, you get the idea. Come on, let's go for a walk.”

 

It was like seeing the world through new eyes. Most of the people looked just the same as always, of course. But Mr. Alwain, the fat guy who ran the grocery store, looked like a giant blueberry—which surprised me, because he was married and had three kids. On the other hand, Ms. Thorndyke, the librarian, who everyone
knew
was a lesbian, didn't have a trace of blue on her.

“Can't tell without the spell,” said Melvin. “Straights are helpless at it. They're always assuming someone is or isn't for all the wrong reasons.”

We were in the library because Melvin wanted to show me some books. “Here, flip through this,” he said, handing me a one-volume history of the world.

My bluevision worked on pictures, too!

“Julius Caesar?” I asked in astonishment.

“Every woman's husband, every man's wife,” said Melvin. “I met him at a party on the other side once. Nice guy.” Flipping some more pages, he said, “Here, check this one out.”

“Alexander the Great was a fairy?” I cried.

“Shhhhh!”
hissed Melvin. “We're in a library!”

 

All right, I suppose you're wondering about me—as in, was I blue?

The answer is, slightly.

When I asked Melvin to explain, he said, “The Magic 8 Ball says, ‘Signs are mixed.' In other words, you are one confused puppy. That's the way it is sometimes. You'll figure it out after a while.”

 

Watching the news that night was a riot. My favorite network anchor was about the shade of a spring sky—pale blue, but very definite. So was the congressman he interviewed, who happened to be a notorious Republican homophobe.

“Hypocrite,” I spat.

“What brought that on?” asked Dad.

“Oh, nothing,” I said, trying to figure out whether I was relieved or appalled by the slight tint of blue that covered his features.

Don't get the idea that everyone I saw was blue. It broke down pretty much the way the studies indicate—about one person in ten solid blue, and one out of every three or four with some degree of shading.

I did get a kick out of the three blue guys I spotted in the sports feature on the team favored to win the Super Bowl.

But it was that congressman who stayed on my mind. I couldn't forget his hypocritical words about “the great crime of homosexuality” and “the gay threat to American youth.”

I was brushing my teeth when I figured out what I wanted to do.

“No,” I whispered, staring at my bluish face in the mirror. “I couldn't.”

For one thing, it would probably mean another beating from Butch Carrigan.

Yet if I did it, nothing would ever be the same.

Rinsing away the toothpaste foam, I whispered Melvin's name.

“At your service!” he said, shimmering into existence behind me. “Ooooh, what a tacky bathroom. Where was your mother brought up, in a Kmart?”

“Leave my mother out of this,” I snapped. “I want to make my second wish.”

“And it is?”

“Gay fantasy number three, coast to coast.”

He looked at me for a second, then began to smile. “How's midnight for a starting point?”

“Twenty-four hours should do the trick, don't you think?” I replied.

He rubbed his hands, chuckled, and disappeared.

 

I went to bed, but not to sleep. I kept thinking about what it would mean when the rest of the world could see what I had seen today.

I turned on my radio, planning to listen to the news every hour. I had figured the first reports would come in on the one o'clock news, but I was wrong. It was about 12:30 when special bulletins started announcing a strange phenomenon. By one o'clock, every station I could pick up was on full alert. Thanks to the wonders of modem communication, it had become obvious in a matter of minutes that people were turning blue from coast to coast.

It didn't take much longer for people to start figuring out what the blue stood for. The reaction ranged from panic to hysterical denial to dancing in the streets. National Public Radio had quickly summoned a panel of experts to discuss what was going to happen when people had to go to work the next day.

“Or school,” I muttered to myself. Which was when I got my next idea.

“Melvin!” I shouted.

“You rang?” he asked, shimmering into sight at the foot of my bed.

“I just figured out my third wish.” I took a breath. “I want you to turn Butch Carrigan blue.”

He looked at me for a moment. Then his eyes went wide. “Vincent,” he said, “I like the way you think. I'll be back in a flash.”

When he returned he was grinning like a cat.

“You've still got one wish left, kiddo,” he said with a chuckle. “Butch Carrigan was already blue as a summer sky when I got there.”

 

If I caused you any trouble with Blueday, I'm sorry. But not much. Because things are never going to be the same now that it happened. Never.

And my third wish?

I've decided to save it for when I really need it—maybe when I meet the girl of my dreams.

Or Prince Charming.

Whichever.

Justin Jones shot out the front door of the house where he lived—not
his
house, just the place where he was forced to live—and ran until he could no longer hear his uncle's shouts. Even then he didn't feel safe. Sometimes Uncle Rafe's anger was so powerful it propelled the man onto the street after Justin. So the boy ran on, stopping only when the stitch in his side became so painful he could go no farther.

He leaned against a tree, panting and gasping for breath. The air burned in his lungs.

It was late twilight, and stars had just begun to appear, peeking out of the darkness like the eyes of cats hiding in a closet. Justin didn't see them. He was pressing his face against the tree, wishing he could melt into its rough bark and be safe.

When he finally opened his eyes again, Justin noticed an odd mist creeping around the base of the tree—a mist that somehow seemed to have more light, more color, than it should.

Curious, he stepped forward to investigate.

As he circled the tree he heard an odd whispering sound and felt a tingle in his skin. The mist covered the street ahead of him—a street he had never seen before, despite the fact that Barker's Elbow was a very small town.

He walked on.

At the end of the street he saw a strange, old-fashioned-looking building. In the window were the words E
LIVES
M
AGIC
S
UPPLIES
—S. H. E
LIVES
, P
ROP
.

I could sure use a little magic about now
, thought Justin. He glanced at his watch. Most of the stores in town were closed by this time of the evening. But this one had a light in the window.

He tried the door. It opened smoothly.

A small bell tinkled overhead as he stepped in.

Justin smiled. He would never have dreamed that Barker's Elbow could hold such a wonderful store. Magicians' paraphernalia was scattered everywhere. Top hats, capes, scarves, big decks of cards, and ornate boxes covered the floor, the walls, the counters, even hung from the ceiling. At the back of the shop stretched a long counter with a dragon carved in the front. On top of the counter stood an old-fashioned brass cash register. On top of the cash register sat a stuffed owl. Behind the counter was a door covered by a beaded curtain.

Justin wandered to one of the counters. On it stood an artillery shell, thick as his wrist. To his disappointment, the shell had already been fired. Attached was a tag that said L
ISTEN
.

Remembering the big seashell his mother used to put to his ear so he could “hear the ocean,” Justin lifted the empty metal shell and held the hollow end to his ear.

He could hear the sound of cannons, explosions, the terrified neighs of horses, the screams of wounded men.

He put the shell down. Quickly.

Next to it stood a French doll. When Justin reached for her, the doll blinked and cried, “Ooh-la-la! Touch me not, you nasty boy!” Then she began a wild dance. When Justin pulled his hand back, the doll froze in a new position.

Deciding he should just
look
at the merchandise, Justin crossed to another counter. A broom resting against the edge of it blocked his view. Justin picked it up so he could see better.

The broom began to squirm in his hands.

Justin dropped it. He was about to bolt for the door when the owl he had thought was stuffed uttered a low hoot.

“Peace, Uwila,” growled a voice from beyond the beaded curtain. “I'm coming!”

A moment later an old man appeared. He was shorter than Justin, with long white hair and dark eyes that seemed to hold strange secrets. His face was seamed with deep wrinkles. The old man looked at Justin for a moment, and something in his eyes grew softer. “What do you need?”

“I don't think I need anything,” said Justin uncomfortably. “I just came in to look around.”

The old man shook his head. “No one comes into this store just to look around, Justin. Now what do—”

“Hey, how do you know my name?”

“It's my job. Now, what do you need?”

Justin snorted. What did he need? A real home. His mother and father back. He needed—

“Never mind,” said the old man, interrupting Justin's bitter thoughts. “Let's try this. Have you ever seen a magician?”

Justin nodded.

“All right, then what's your favorite trick?”

Justin thought back to a time three years ago, back before his parents had had the accident. His dad had taken him to see a magician who did a trick where he locked his assistant in handcuffs, put her in a canvas bag, tied up the bag, put it in a trunk, wrapped chains around the trunk, and handed the keys to a member of the audience. Then he had climbed onto the trunk, lifted a curtain in front of himself, counted to five, and dropped the curtain. Only, when the curtain fell, the assistant was standing there, and the magician was inside the bag in the trunk, wearing the handcuffs. Justin had loved the trick, half suspected it was real magic.

It had had a special name, something scientific.

“The metamorphosis!” he said suddenly, as his mind pulled the word from whatever mysterious place such things are kept.

The old man smiled and nodded. “Good choice. Wait there.”

Justin felt as if his feet had melted to the floor. The old man disappeared through the beaded curtain—and came back a moment later carrying a small cardboard box. Clearly it didn't have a big trunk in it. What, then? Probably just some instructions and . . . what? Justin was dying to know.