The bell rings, and he’s up like Pavlov’s dogs, but I was prepared for that, so I meet him at the door and push him back into the classroom as everyone else files out.
“You don’t look so good,” I tell him.
He makes bodybuilder arms. “How about now?”
Flirting with me. Because he likes me or because he wants me to like him? Because he likes me or because he doesn’t want to talk about how he’s getting his ass kicked?
“Your arms look fine.” They do, actually. “It’s your face that concerns me.”
“Fine?” Mock offended. “Feel these.”
I do. Flirting back, I suppose, but what choice do I have really? And anyway, I don’t know what I’m feeling for—it’s the first biceps I’ve squeezed that I’m not related to—but I see his point. “Better than fine,” I admit. “Nice.”
“Nice? That’s even worse. We’re looking for mighty. Epic. Awe-inspiring.”
“They make your head look tiny in comparison,” I offer.
“That’s my only goal,” he says.
“I think you should expand it.”
“My head?”
“Your goal. I think you should shoot for tiny and intact.”
“I don’t want to get greedy.”
“Let me help you,” I say.
“Help me what?”
“Survive high school.”
“Depends how. Are you going to disguise me?”
“A disguise will never work.” It’s hard for me to say because I don’t do this very often, but whether he’s flirting or evading, I think he’s pretty good at it. “You’re too distinctive. What with all those big muscles.” Me too, I’m pretty good at it.
“True, true.” He pretends to stroke his pretend beard thoughtfully. “Will you fashion some kind of unbreachable transport for me to take back and forth to school? Like the popemobile?”
“Not unless you’re the pope.”
“Can you cast a protection spell?”
“I don’t know. Let me ask someone who does magic.” I can feel my cheeks are flushed. “Hey River, can you teach me a protection spell?”
His cheeks are flushed too, though whether we’re embarrassed or enjoying ourselves I couldn’t say. “I can teach you how to pull a really long scarf out of your armpit.”
“Pass.”
“Then I don’t think you can help me,” he says.
“I have to.”
“Why?” He’s suddenly serious. He moves a step closer to me—and he was pretty close already—looks hard into my eyes. “Why?” he says again, softer, and waits for me to say because I like him or at least because I care about him or at the very least because it’s the right thing to do. Instead I tell him the truth. Well, some of the truth. “I promised my sisters.”
He blinks. “Okay.” Takes a step back, but only one. “For your sisters, I agree to let you try to stop everyone from beating me up.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome.” He puts a hand on each of my shoulders like he’s going to pull me in and kiss me. He does not. “So what’s the plan, fairy queen?”
It’s a good question.
The only answer I can come up with is this: I can’t run circles around these guys, but I can talk circles around them.
I decide to start with the Kyles. Two birds and all that. At tutoring, I try begging them. “Just leave the kid alone.”
“No,” they say.
“Please,” I wheedle. “For me.”
“Still no.” Everything the Kyles say, they say together.
I try flattery.
“But you’re so much stronger than he is.”
“True,” they agree but can’t see why this isn’t an argument for beating him up rather than against.
I try an appeal to fairness.
“It’s two against one.”
“We take turns,” they assure me.
I try reason, but reason is not their strong suit.
“It wasn’t his fault. He’s our age.”
“He is?”
“Of course. He’s enrolled in high school.”
“Who cares if he’s our age?”
“Because what happened with Belsum happened before any of us were even alive.”
“That’s why you’re so vacuous,” Petra puts in from where she’s doing multiplication tables with Nellie in the corner. But the Kyles aren’t studying for the SATs so they don’t know what “vacuous” means, which, come to think of it, is probably for the best.
I summon patience. “If he wasn’t born yet, it can’t be his fault. And besides, how much control do you have over your parents’ actions?”
“Huh?” they say.
“If your dad does something stupid, is it your fault?”
“Yeah,” says one.
“Usually,” says the other one.
I resort to platitudes.
“Violence is never the answer.”
And it’s like a clearing, like a wind blows the storm clouds from their brains and suddenly you can see for miles.
“It is,” they say.
“His dad’s gonna give my dad a job, Mab,” Kyle M. says.
“Mine too,” says Kyle R.
My legs pretzel, and I fold right to the floor. They cross theirs nimbly and join me, crisscross-applesauce on the carpet like when we were in kindergarten. My brain is screaming: It’s starting. It’s started. And also, quieter, She won’t survive this.
“My dad said the whole place is a shit show,” says Kyle M., “but maybe it’ll be better this time.”
“My dad said the whole company’s corrupt, lying assholes,” says Kyle R., “but a job’s a job.”
“So we did what we had to,” they say together.
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe our dads can’t stand up, but we can.” Kyle R. looks so earnest it’s like he’s still a kindergartner. That was the year he started an adopt-a-slug program at recess with the slogan “Even the slimy deserve a family.”
“Maybe our dads can’t stand up,” Kyle M.—adoptive father to the vast majority of rehomed slugs—adds, “so we have to. You know? Their way didn’t work, so now it’s our job.”
I nod. I do know. But then I shake my head. “But River’s on our side. He’s helping us.”
They look skeptical. I know how they feel. “How?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m working on it. But I can’t get him to help us if you won’t leave him alone.”
“Are you sure he’s helping?”
I’m not. “I think he’s trying.”
“He might be lying to you, Mab.”
“Maybe,” I admit.
They consider the matter between them.
“Plus, Mirabel says,” I add. My ace in the hole.
Their faces light up. They emerge from their huddle, nodding.
“We’ll stop for the moment,” says Kyle M., “if you promise to let us know when it’s time to start up again.”