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Authors: Ellen Booraem

Small Persons With Wings (16 page)

BOOK: Small Persons With Wings
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“That would be my affair.”
I took the ring off. Gigi Kramer became a gorgeous blond lady, panting with her tongue between her teeth like I was a chocolate layer cake. “Do me first,” I said.
“No. Give to me the ring.”
“You were lying about something before.”
The downstairs door opened. “Mellie?” Mom called up the stairs. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, Mom. I'm fine.” But she woke up my brain, my stupid, inconvenient brain. “I wouldn't really be pretty,” I said. “It would be fake.”
“
Zut
, Turpina. We are as we look.”
I couldn't tell if that was a lie or not. “Are not,” I said, putting the ring back on. The neck cracks and nylon wig reappeared.
“Fine,” the mannequin said. “I will be making you so hideous your own parents will not know you.”
“You said you couldn't hurt me with the Gemmaluna on.” I had a nasty feeling I'd identified the lie.
“I will not
hurt
you.” The mannequin started laughing so hard its head jiggled. I looked at my hands—they weren't breaking out in anything. But I'd had all I could take of Gigi Kramer.
“Mom!” I shouted, and hurtled out the door.
When I burst into the pub—and thanks to the moonstone ring I did see it as a pub again—Mom yelled and jumped behind Dad, who yelled and jumped behind Bruce McCarthy.
“What the heck is that?” Bruce McCarthy yelled, looking for somebody to jump behind.
“What the heck is what?” I looked around too. The china figurines now were live Parvi standing absolutely still with frozen faces. They were wearing the most disgustingly filthy and raggedy rags I'd ever seen, but I didn't have time to worry about that.
“Mellie.” Mom shoved my father and Bruce McCarthy out of the way. “Is that you?”
“Of course it's me. What's the matter?” But before I'd even finished the question, I knew the answer. Something had happened to me after all, something I couldn't see because I had the moonstone ring on.
“Here, Mom.” I pulled off the ring and handed it to her. “You can wear this for a while.”
The moonstone off my finger, the pub sprouted marble and damask and crystal all over again, like ink soaking through a paper towel. The Parvi turned into china figurines.
And my hands were green. I ran to the bar, climbed up on a stool so I could see into the mirror behind the liquor bottles.
Staring back from the mirror was . . . a giant frog. Wide-mouthed. Drooling. My body was its normal shape and I still had my brown eyes, but they looked weird surrounded by all that waxy green skin. I had nostril holes instead of a nose.
The frog's mouth opened wide. It drooled. I screamed.
I kept telling myself to look at something else, anything else—as if that would solve it—but I couldn't stop staring at this frog-person shrieking at me from the mirror.
Isn't me, can't be me, not real, can't be, can't be, can't be, can't be—Timmo will tell all his friends and his dad and his mom and his dad and his mom ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod . . .
I screamed and screamed and screamed. Someone grabbed me and held me.
Mom, makethisgoaway.
She crooned, telling me to calm down and it was all going to be okay and looks didn't really matter.
She says that all the time.
I shrieked into her shoulder.
My dad patted me on the back, the way he does when he wants to help but doesn't know what to do. “Is this really Mellie?” he asked my mom.
What do you think, Dad, some monster stole my clothes?
“Here,” Mom said to him, not letting go of me, “put the ring on a minute.”
“Or, if you wish your daughter to be herself once more, you will give that ring to me,” said Gigi Kramer, standing in the doorway in stiletto-heeled glory.
At least that was what I saw. Dad, however, had the ring on. He made a gargling sound and staggered backward a step or two. He was seeing the fiberglass mannequin with the nylon hair.
“
Tiens
. Be getting a grip,” Gigi Kramer said. She turned her full, shark-eyed attention to Bruce McCarthy, and in seconds he was gazing at her in zombified adoration.
“Can I do anything for you at all?” he said. “Waive an ordinance? Fake a permit?”
“You could be seizing that ring for me,” Gigi Kramer purred.
Bruce McCarthy grabbed Dad's hand, tried to break off his fingers.
“Hey!” Dad caught Bruce McCarthy's wrist. “You're breaking my fingers.”
Mom let go of me and kicked Bruce McCarthy in the lower abdomen. Nobody breaks my dad's fingers when my mom is around. Bruce McCarthy went
oof
and doubled over, releasing Dad's hand.
“That won't work anyway,” Dad said, flexing his fingers. “We have to
give
it to you.”
I felt like I had a fever, all sweaty and unreal. I was dizzy from hyperventilating.
Give her the ring, Dad!
I wanted to shriek. But here's what I really said: “Dad, there's a Parva inside that dummy and she wants the moonstone for herself. Not a good idea.”
Why the heck did I say that?
“Better not give it to her, Roly,” Mom said.
Dad took the ring off. He got an eyeful of me, turned the color of that school paste you can eat, and put it back on. “Nick, we can't sentence our daughter to go through life like that.”
“Roly, I don't trust this . . . this . . . whatever she is. Who says she won't take the ring and leave Mellie exactly the same?”
“I would never do such a thing,” Gigi Kramer said.
Dad shuddered. “You're lying,” he said, surprised. He had the moonstone on, remember.
“
Tiens
,” Gigi Kramer said. “I feel that I am intruding. You must be talking this over as a family. I shall leave now and return for your decision. Come, Mr. McCarthy.” Still hunched over and breathing funny from Mom's kick, Bruce McCarthy hobbled to the door and held it open for Gigi Kramer. She sashayed out, and he hustled after her.
“I guess we'll hear from you about the inspection results,” Dad called after him.
“Did he ever inspect anything other than Gigi Kramer?” Mom asked.
The door closed behind Bruce McCarthy. “Gigi Kramer?” Dad said. “Who's she?”
Mom turned to me, intending to exchange a
men!
look. But a fly buzzed by my nose and, without thinking about it, I flicked out my tongue and caught it. My tongue was nowhere near as long as a real frog's, but it turned out to be agile and a bit sticky.
Flies taste like sausage. My mom whimpered.
“Rethinking your ‘looks don't matter' position?” I asked her.
“A little.” Her voice wobbled.
“Take the ring back for a while,” Dad said.
I seemed to be breathing all right again. Not staring into the mirror did help—made it all theoretical, you know? Except for the green hands and the expressions on other people's faces.
Something was weird, though. I mean, weirder than usual. This was more than an illusion. I was sort of
acting
like a frog.
“Oooo,” said a tinny voice from the bar. “Look what has been done to our Turpina.” Other voices sniggered.
The speaker was Rinaldo, dressed as a shepherd but no longer a china figurine even to those of us not wearing the moonstone. He was standing on the bar surrounded by other Parvi in shepherd and shepherdess outfits, all of a silken silliness that would have put a real sheep-herder to shame. They were pointing at me and giggling behind their little hands.
I reminded myself that what they were seeing wasn't the real me. That was no comfort.
Their laughter died when I told them about the Parva inside the mannequin. Durindana stood up in her chandelier bed, but if she thought anyone was going to admit she'd been right about that giant doll, she was sadly mistaken.
“This giant doll has a bad, bad Parva Pennata inside,” Rinaldo said, as if he'd known all along.
“Can you undo whatever she did to me?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “The magic is not mine to undo.”
“Can't you create another illusion on top of this one?” Dad said.
“It is not good to make illusion of illusion,” Rinaldo said. “Perhaps I would make her look even more like a monster of the earth.”
“Oh, thanks.” A glance in the mirror and my breathing went funny again. He wasn't wrong.
My stomach hurt. I wanted it to be last week. Or next week. Anytime except now, when I looked like a frog and I was freezing cold and surrounded by blank-faced fairies and mildew.
Slush balls and Tampax. Child's play.
Chapter Fourteen
Bong, Bong, Bong
MOM WAS PULLING ME TOWARD the pub door—she seemed to think everything would be okay if she just got me upstairs—when Lady Noctua flew in through the mail slot. Rinaldo embraced her in midair, the first time I'd seen a Parvus exhibit any real enthusiasm.
“My Lady Noctua,” Rinaldo said. “Wherever have you been?”
She did not seem to be returning his hug. She hovered there, arms by her side, the two of them bobbing up and down with their wing beats. “I was beside the sea,” she said. “I . . . I forgot the time.” The hem of her dress was wet and sandy, totally out of character.
“But our trick, the turning of us into china Parvi Pennati . . . this was your idea,
ma chère
. Without you, all was very nearly lost.”
“For this I am sorry. Excuse me, consort. I am
fatiguée
.” Noctua turned her back on him and flitted off to drink nectar. Rinaldo watched her go, and I wished I could read an expression—any expression—on his pale face.
Something was fishy.
“Let's get out of here,” Mom said. “I need a Parvi break.”
As we climbed the stairs, I wondered why Lady Noctua chose that exact time to go out to the beach, to return only when Gigi Kramer was gone. I tried to remember what Gigi Kramer sounded like. Could that have been Noctua inside the mannequin?
I needed to talk this over with my parents, but I never got the chance.
“Here's a question for you.” Dad dove for the refrigerator's gold-filigree door handle as if he were honey-ham-deprived, stuck his head in so the door was between us. My own father didn't want to look at me.
Mom, who still had the moonstone on and could look anywhere she wanted, gave me a chocolate chip cookie. I took it in my green hand and felt absolutely no desire to eat it. I handed it back to her. “Oh, lovey,” she said, her eyes teary.
“Remember that china guy Fidius left behind?” Dad said, emerging from the refrigerator. “Think he's really china?”
I'd been wondering the same thing, but Gigi Kramer and my frog face had driven it out of my mind.
If that little guy was actually Fidius, I was hurt and ticked off for reasons I couldn't even count. Sheesh, just a year ago I'd started imitating Peter Paul Rubens's fat naked Venus in front of the mirror.
Rubens (1577-1640) was Dutch and loved fat ladies with cellulite. The Venus is a cool picture because you think she's looking at herself in the mirror when she's really looking at you. It is not, however, a picture you imitate in front of a small guy with wings.
“Give me that ring, Mom,” I said. She took it off, got a load of what I looked like, and buried her face in her hands. Dad rubbed her back, averting his eyes.
“Thanks, guys,” I said. “Way to make me feel better.”
“Oh, Mellie.” My mom started to cry. I figured the least I could do was get out of sight.
I raced up the stairs, which went marble-free the minute I shoved the ring onto my finger.
My china guy was standing on my dresser, looking completely normal. I pulled the moonstone off, put it back on. Still china.
I would have been irate if the guy turned out to be Fidius. Now that he wasn't, I was ridiculously disappointed. I sat down on my bed, blinking hard. Something landed on my shoulder, chilling my ear.
Durindana?
I wanted to say hi, but I didn't trust my voice.
“The clothes are right,” a tinny voice whispered in my ear.
That isn't Durindana.
“But the frog face? Not my little Turpina. Not my little Turpina at all.” He took off from my shoulder and hovered at the end of what used to be my nose. “What happened to you, Turpina?”
“Fidius,” I whispered, reaching out to touch him. He looked the same, except thanks to the moonstone ring I could see he was dressed in a torn, filthy burlap tunic and breeches.
He backed away from my hand. “Careful, Turpina. You don't need any more frostbite. Remember my hand on your nose?”
A tear ran down my cheek, although I wasn't sure why. Joy at seeing Fidius? The memory of when he froze my nose and left?
Oh. Or maybe not having any nose at all. “Fidius, a Small Person in a mannequin turned me into a frog.”
His face showed no expression—less than I recalled, even. But his wings missed a beat. “A Small Person in a
what
?”
“A mannequin. A human-sized . . . uh, doll that you see in store windows. She can walk and talk, and she looks like a woman unless you have the moonstone ring on. Then you can tell it's a mannequin with a Small Person inside.”
Fidius sucked in his breath. “This is Magica Mala, Turpina. Do you know what that is?”
“Rinaldo told us. When this mannequin lady looks you in the eye, your brains turn to mush and you do what she says.”
Fidius's wings darkened. I instinctively pulled back. “Rinaldo knows nothing of the Magica Mala,” he snapped. “Rinaldo is an imbecile.”
BOOK: Small Persons With Wings
5.98Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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