What I Wore to Save the World (16 page)

If only. But it was Mr. McAlister, dressed in old-fashioned tennis whites, a college letter sweater (with a big
O
, of course) and a tweed cap. It was like he'd just climbed out of his Model T. The sight of him in the doorway, leaning on his wooden-handled tennis racquet, made my milk-shake-of-happiness feeling curdle into cottage cheese.

“Ye're up awfully early, Mr. McAlister,” Colin said with automatic hospitality. “Care for some rashers and eggs?”

“At my age a man doesn't need much sleep. No sense wasting the time you have left snoring into a pillow.” He gave me a wink to underscore the “at my age” bit. Then he gestured with his racquet. “Your invitation to breakfast is very generous, but I must decline. I have a tennis match scheduled for later, with a noted collector of architectural antiquities, no less! I've booked some practice time this morning to brush up on my serve. My sole purpose in stopping by is to give Miss Rawlinson a message.”

Colin took a step back from the door so Mr. McAlister and I could see each other more clearly.

“A message?” It came out like a frightened squeak. “For me?”

“Normally I would have waited until a more civilized hour to deliver it, but the marvelous culinary aromas wafting on the breeze from your cottage to mine indicated that you were already up. In any case, I thought you'd prefer to receive it promptly.”

All of a sudden the locket around my neck felt like it was burning a heart-shaped hole in my skin. I tried not to look as full of dread as I felt. “What is it?”

“It's a very simple message, so I do hope I get it right.” Mr. McAlister took off his tweed cap and cleared his throat. “ ‘Your mother called.' ”

fourteen

“my mother?” i stared at him, hard. the question
which one?
was burning in my eyes. Had his research at “the Bod” included getting the scoop about my all-too-special relationship with Queen Titania?

“Yes, she left a message on my phone; she said her name was . . . hmm, let me think for a moment . . .”

“Helen!” I felt like the stooge in the audience feeding answers to a fake psychic.

“Helen, of course! She must have retrieved the number when you used the oPhone to leave her a message. These gadgets today! Simply astonishing. In my day, we had to ask the operator—”

I gave Mr. McAlister a major death glare, thinking,
With all due respect, sir, shut up. This is not the time to let Colin know how ancient you are.

He stopped himself short with a nervous laugh. “But of course, in my day all kinds of things were different. Perhaps we ought to leave it at that. What a lovely necklace, dear. Is it new?”

“It's new on Morgan. It was me granny's,” Colin explained. “I can pour ye some coffee to go if ye like. The pot's already made.”

Mr. McAlister gave his tennis racquet a practice swing. “Some coffee would hit the spot, actually—provide a smidgen of extra energy on the court. I
am
hoping to make a good impression on this collector—”

“Mr. McAlister!” I interrupted, before a whole new round of chitchat could get started. “Did you happen to save the message from my mother? I'd like to hear it before I call her back.”
So I can make sure it's really her and not the crazy Queen of the Faeries who I'm supposed to dethrone,
is what I was thinking.

“Yes, I believe I did.” As I saw him start to reach for the pocket of his white pants, I mouthed a silent “nooooooo.”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, folding his arms. “But how silly of me to leave my phone back at the cottage! I forget how portable everything has become. In my day, to make a call we had to physically enter these large enclosed booths—”

My
zip it, big mouth
facial expression must have been terrifying to behold, but Mr. McAlister simply shifted gears again and said, “Would you care to accompany me to the Tip of the Iceberg? I have a few minutes to kill before my court time.”

I glanced at Colin.

“Go ahead. I've got a bit more thinkin' to do about those nasty computer problems ye've been havin',” he said with a sly look. “Go hear what yer ma has to say, and then we'll get started . . . with what we've got planned.”

“I'll be back in a flash.” I smooched Colin quickly on the cheek and touched the locket with my finger. “Thank you for this. I love you.”

I dashed out of the cottage before Colin could answer, but I heard him calling—“Remember, Mor, it's the middle o' the night at yer parents' house—”

 

 

 

mr. mcalister walked pretty fast for a guy who was well into his second century. When we were halfway to his cottage he turned, reached into the pocket of his silly white pants and retrieved the oPhone.

“I realize it's none of my business,” he said, handing me the phone, “but if you and Colin are going to have a chance at real happiness together, you'll have to learn not to be so skittish about retrieving your telephone messages in front of him.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I muttered, fiddling with the phone's hand-forged cover until it opened. I stared at the touch screen, stumped. The icons didn't look like any I'd seen before. “How do you get messages on this thing?”

“Look for the picture of the ostrich quill pen.”

“Got it.” I tapped the icon and listened.
Please,
I thought,
let it be from my real mom and not Titania . . .

“Hello, this is Hel-en Raw-lin-son speaking. I'm the mother of Mor-gan Raw-lin-son, one of your ‘Special Admissions Candidates.' ”

Whew. It was Mom, using her sweetest, o-ver-ar-tic-u-la-ted voice. The ass-kissing voice, as I liked to think of it.

“I'm
so
incredibly sorry to use this number, I know we're not supposed to. However, my husband and I have reason to believe Morgan's wallet may have been lost or stolen.”

My wallet? What was she talking about? My wallet was still in my suitcase, I hadn't used it since—since—oh,
fek—

“You see, her father went online to pay the bills and found a charge on Morgan's American Express account that seemed suspicious. It was a rather expensive bus ticket to someplace in Wales; I won't even try to pronounce it! But now we're terribly worried, and we just wanted to make sure Morgan is all right and that her credit card hasn't been purloined.”

Nice vocab word, Mom,
I thought, rolling my eyes.
Just because you think you're talking to a college admissions office doesn't mean you have to whip out your SAT Word-of-the-Day desk calendar.

“Please have Morgan call me back at our home number in the States. I would deeply appreciate it, since we don't have any other way of reaching her. Thank you so very kindly!”

I snapped the cover shut.

“You seem displeased,” Mr. McAlister observed.

“No, I'm pissed!” I gave him back the phone. “It's not easy to keep your half-goddess identity secret when American Express is ratting out your every move. Now my parents know I bought a bus ticket to Wales. How am I supposed to explain that?”

“That
is
inconvenient,” he said sympathetically. “Perhaps you can tell your mother your campus tour included a field trip: ‘Architectural Oddities of Great Britain.' As the world's leading, and in fact, only, expert on Castell Cyfareddol, I would happily write you a note.”

“It's all Mr. Phineas's fault.” I was too frustrated to listen to reason. “He's the one who got my parents all worked up about me going to Oxford—as if that's ever gonna happen. And basically I've been lying to everyone about everything, and when the truth comes out my family's going to hate me, and Colin's going to hate me, and I don't even know who this Phineas guy
is.
Plus, I blew off doing my community service hours at the SmartYCamp!”

I knew I was getting off-topic, but I was so aggravated I just kept ranting. “Not that I really
wanted
to do them, but without them I won't be able to get in to even the lamest of the lame schools, so now I'm going to end up being an X-ray technician and my parents will be so embarrassed they'll probably move to New Jersey.”

I stood there, breathless and pouting. Mr. McAlister looked at me like I was a toddler having a tantrum, which was pretty close to my state of mind. Finally he spoke. “My dear girl, if you really want to apply to Oxford, no one is stopping you.”

“I've
already
stopped me, that's what's so pathetic! My grades suck and I have no extracurriculars. And get this: Last night the unicorns told me I had to get rid of Titania and become the Queen of the Faeries so I can save the human realm from getting all smooshed together with the magic realm.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “So that's what they meant by saving the world. It's quite a task.”

“Like I have time for that.” I threw up my hands. “It's just nuts.”

“No doubt it is.” He twirled his tennis racquet thoughtfully. “But consider this, Morgan: In your heart, you don't want the magic world to get ‘smooshed together' with the human world any more than the unicorns do, correct?”

I touched the locket and thought of Colin. “Correct. But that doesn't mean—”

“And you
are
still interested in pursuing higher education at a prestigious university of international reputation, are you not?”

“Well, yeah, but I don't see where you're going with this—”

“Morgan, think! Saving the world—surely
that
would have to count as community service hours, don't you agree?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. Would it?”

He shrugged right back. “I don't know, either. Personally I think it would be a rather impressive ‘extracurricular,' as you call it.”

Okay, now he had me completely mixed up. “So, wait. You're saying there's still a chance that I could get in to Oxford?”

He looked at me kindly. “Morgan, if there's one thing I've learned in my ridiculously long life, it's that ‘unlikely' does not mean anything remotely like ‘impossible.' But your intentions must be clear—do you sincerely wish to attend? If offered a place in Oxford's freshman class, would you enroll? Assuming a suitable financial aid package was made available, of course.”

Pull it together, you doofus,
I told myself.
He's on the admissions committee, remember?

“Well, yeah, sure.” I felt kind of dumb all of a sudden, talking about my college plans when the world still needed saving. “I mean, why not? Oxford would be awesome.”

“And would you be willing to first perform this diffi cult yet urgent task that the unicorns have requested?” he pressed. “Community service, leadership, self-sacrifice—I do think it would make a significant difference in how your application is received.”

It was an interesting question: Could saving the world be any worse than teaching long division to Monstrous Marcus at the SmartYCamp? Probably not.

And, since I was here in Wales and the SmartYCamp had already started without me in Connecticut, what choice did I really have?

“But Mr. McAlister,” I protested weakly, “I don't even know how to do what the unicorns want me to do. Even
they
don't know how I'm supposed to do it.”

“That's what makes it such a challenge! But you really ought to have a campus tour before applying; it's protocol. Let me make some inquiries.” He stroked his chin. “Perhaps something can be arranged. . . .”

 

 

 

mr. mcalister left for his tennis practice and i went back to the Seahorse. Colin was already nearly finished cleaning the kitchen. “How's yer ma?” he asked, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Everything okay on the homestead? They still think ye're at Oxford, don't they?”

No point getting Colin worried about stupid parent stuff. “Yeah, she's just obsessing. I'll call her later when they're awake. Hey, you did all the dishes! You should've waited for me.”

He gave a low chuckle. “I'm not takin' any chances with the housekeepin'. If Grandpap wakes up to dishes in the sink there'll be a hue and cry like a thousand banshees wailin'. I can do without that, thank ye very much.”

“What's a banshee?”

He looked startled, then laughed. “More Irish faery claptrap. In the old stories the banshees were beautiful faery women who'd come screechin' and howlin' around the house. If the banshees showed up, it meant someone was about to die.”

He folded the damp towel neatly and draped it over the faucet. “Now ye see why I never believed in any o' that stuff. Most of it's silly, and the rest is bloody morbid, if ye ask me. All right, we've got a big day ahead. Let's have a cuppa and sketch out a game plan.”

Colin poured fresh coffee and we sat at the table. I half listened as he made flow charts diagramming the three different but possibly related mysteries we were allegedly trying to solve: a strange message scratched on the forest floor, a sighting of animals that looked suspiciously like unicorns and an e-mail received by me from Colin that apparently he'd neither written nor sent.

I say
allegedly
because the first two weren't mysteries at all—at least not to me. But I did have a couple of burning questions of my own. The first: What were these Rules of Succession that the unicorns were so sure existed?

The second?
When is Colin going to discover that I've been lying worse than a cheap rug from Ikea, and how much will he hate me when he does?