Fairy Tale by Cyn Balog Page B

heard me right, w ings - I skulk out of the shed, knowing something big, something life-altering, is happening but not being fully able to comprehend what that something is. I find myself so deep in confusion that I'm barely able to walk a straight line.
    My boyfriend is a fairy. Cam has always been talented, almost superhuman, so I'd fully expected him to do something fantastic, like one day end up on the cover of SI, but flying around, painting rainbows, taking teeth away from under children's pillows in the night? I saw the wings, the fortune cookie that materialized out of nowhere, and yet... I've known this boy since we were in diapers. I know him and his family inside and out. It isn't as if he suddenly appeared in a flower bed one day after a thunder storm, or as if his parents are mysterious elvish royalty. And he burps and farts like any good human-in fact, quite a bit more than I'd like.
    As I was wrapping the bandage around his shoulder blades, trying my best not to come into any contact with the growth, he told me that the wings are actually just for show; that, according to Dawn, he can fly. Which explains his Superman on the football field. Dawn had told him to be very careful, because the reason he blacked out last night is because his powers are not fully developed. He is just a newbie now, but on his sixteenth birthday, when he fully inherits his powers, he will have to leave this world.
    Forever.
    But if he is a fairy, and if he does have to leave, that would explain why I hardly ever see him in any visions of the future. His best friend Scab, is my biggest fan and best customer. I've seen almost all of his next five years: the game where he dislocates his shoulder, the graduation party where he eats sixty hot wings in twelve minutes, his college years in Miami. One would expect Cam to be somewhere in the background, but he never is. I hadn't realized it until today, but I haven't seen him in any visions further out than two weeks from now. As for my own future, I've tried to imagine it only a handful of times, and it's always been too fuzzy to comprehend. It's a close-up of my nostril, or a big shot of my butt, and the "camera," which obviously has a sense of humor, never pans out. Still, I've always felt like Cam is somewhere nearby. He just has to be.
    But maybe he isn't.
    Oh, God.
    After that realization, I end up spending much of my time in the third stall of the music-wing bathroom, having a minor mental breakdown and vowing never to wear my orange-sherbet-colored flip-flops again. If it weren't for them, Sierra Martin wouldn't have recognized my feet and begun peppering me with questions about her future while I was trying to stem the tide of tears that were majorly schlubbing up my complexion.
    "No comprendo" I say in the best accent, my two years of Spanish will allow. "Soy una..." How the hell do you say "ESL student"?"Urn. Soy una biblioteca mas grande. "
    Close enough.
    "Hello, Morgan? Are you there?" she asks, after a moment of silence. I think the flu is easier to avoid.
    "No! No Morgan. No comprendo. Baja en el ascnesor" I saycombatively.
    "Morgan, stop," she whines. "You're totally freaking me out. I just need to ask you a teensy-weensy favor."
    "Fine." I give in. I flush a tear-soaked wad of TP and open the door, hoping that my face doesn't look as red and blotchy as a volcanic eruption. If it does, she doesn't seem to notice. Of course, I think she may be oblivious to anything other than her stupid future. "Great timing."
    She examines her hair in the mirror and fluffs this giant, fluorescent-pink feather thing that's holding up her ponytail. "Well, what do you expect? I've been in agony. And you didn't return my calls."
    "Calls?" I ask innocently, even though I programmed my phone to play "Super Freak" whenever her number pops up so that I can let it go right into voice mail. Which happened, in the past twenty-four hours, around fifty times.
    "Yeah. This is important stuff."
    "I know. I've