I wedge both hands between his body and the ground, find his hand wrapped around the phone, and claw at his fingers. He wheezes every possible profanity at me, angling his body away. My arms are pinned. I wiggle my fingers and dig my knee into his back. I pant, “Give me the phone. Give it to me.”
He suddenly rolls away and onto his back. His face is red and splotchy and drenched. Fluid pours from every orifice. His eyes are clamped shut. He’s panting.
Okay, I feel a smidge guilty for doing that to another human. But I have to get the phone. I launch myself onto him again, desperately prying at his fingers.
His other arm flashes up. I hear a hiss. And I am on fire.
I scream, my hands instinctively covering my face. Instantly I’m a mess of snot and tears and saliva—streaming into my hands, running down my arms, pouring off my chin and soaking my jacket. I am blind. My conflagrated eyes refuse to open. My throat constricts. Between coughing fits, I rasp, “You’re… Satan.”
“You… drew… first… blood.”
We don’t talk again for a long time. For five or twenty minutes, the only sound is coughing, gasping, groaning, and nose blowing. Finally, the feeling of being incinerated alive begins to abate. I contemplate my situation while I wipe smears of watery eye makeup onto my sleeves.
This bottom-feeder is basically trying to force me to quit my job—my calling, my very purpose on earth—the same week my sister hit me with the news that she’s ditching me for good. And in case that doesn’t burn enough, he’s deployed a chemical weapon on me. I don’t even know if what he wants is possible. And even if it is, I’d rather break both his legs than help him. But the brutal reality is, he has me in a corner. I take off my jacket and mop my face with it.
I hear Stalker mess with his phone, but I’m too spent to restart the fight. There’s a shwoop, and he croaks, “I just emailed the audio file to myself.”
Game point, Captain Stalker. I concede the win with “I hate you.”
“I despise you.”
I want to cry. I want to throw myself into the wood chips and bawl like a baby. Instead I take my first deep breath since getting Maced in the face. The night air feels like Icy Hot on my scorched throat and lungs, and it reinflates me with cool resolve. I’m the fairy godmother. The fairy freaking godmother. My defeat is transitory. My revenge will be swift and sweet.
Feigning dignity not truly possible in the aftermath of pepper spray, I pull my lips into a tight, saccharine smile and lilt, “Fine. You win. I’ll grant your crappy wish.” I lean into his personal space. “But that means you do exactly what I say and only what I say. From here on out, you don’t put on your tighty-whities without my permission. Got it?” I jab my finger into his collarbone for effect, and he rewards me with an uneasy look. His eyes are pink and puffy and bloodshot. I must look the same.
I stand up, still holding my soggy jacket and empty pepper spray can. I pivot to make my grand exit, but all the swagger has been burned out of me. Instead of a strut, all I manage is a dead-limbed plod. At the edge of the circle of light, I turn back for the mic drop. “Congratulations, Noah. You’ve got yourself a fairy godmother.”
6 This Is How I Go to War
Eight hours. That’s how long I get to recover from the disaster with Noah. At 7:05 on Saturday morning, he texts: Can I put on my underwear now?
This is sleep-deprivation torture. It’s sick and twisted and inhumane. As I lie in bed contemplating ways to murder him and make it look like an accident, I hear clanging in the kitchen. Without responding to the text, I roll out of bed and pad toward the source of the noise.
Mom is there—dressed in a suit, hair done, and makeup applied. She looks like she’s been up for hours. When I appear from the hallway, she gives me her deal-making, check-collecting, world-saving smile. “Good morning, sweetheart. Coffee?”
“I’m trying to quit.” I don’t drink coffee. Maybe she’s being cute, but I suspect she doesn’t know this about me.
“I’m making eggs and toast. You want some?”
“Sure.” While Mom cracks eggs into the frying pan, I pour myself a glass of orange juice and flop onto one of the high bar chairs at the counter. Once my morning throat has a protective coating of OJ, I say, “So, you look nice. You going into work today?”
The question is so casual, like it’s just trivia.
I hear my phone chime in my room. It might not be Captain Ambush. It might be… someone else who gets up way too early on Saturday. Who am I kidding? No one who doesn’t hate me would be texting right now.
“I have breakfast with a major donor at nine, and I don’t want to be too hungry.”
“Oh.”
My phone chimes again. It could be Hope forgetting what time zone I’m in.
Mom puts a plate of eggs and toast in front of me and sits down with her own. While we eat, my phone keeps cheeping from my bedroom, and I keep ignoring it. I wait hopefully for Mom to ask me something—anything—about my life. I fill the space by prepping responses, just in case.
Imaginary Mom: Your eyes look puffy. Are you okay?
Me: It’s kind of a funny story, actually. This nerd vigilante attacked me.…
Imaginary Mom: How did the halftime routine go last night?
Me: It was fine. I’m not really that into Poms, though. I only do it to keep up appearances.…
Imaginary Mom: How are you doing in trig?
Me: I’m working really hard, but… this is the first time in my life I’ve felt like I might fail at something. I’m scared, Mom.
Daydreams. She chews placidly. I realize she’s not really here. She’s rehearsing what she’s going to say to her major donor, and what they might say back, and how she’ll respond. Resentment churns the eggs in my stomach, followed quickly by shame. She’s literally trying to save the ocean from floating garbage and oil slicks. What kind of an attention-starved whiner would resent that?
I finish my breakfast, slam the last few ounces of OJ, and take my dishes to the sink. I make my voice as cheerful as it should be. “Well, have a great meeting. I hope they give you a million dollars.”
Her eyes come back into focus. “I’m going to ask them to let us use their yacht for a fundraising dinner.”
“Oh. Cool.” The wish bubbles up again: Ask about me. It’s petty. I release it with a sigh. “I might go see Memom later. Or maybe tomorrow… She’s been asking when you’re coming to visit.”
Mom stabs her egg like it’s earned a quick execution. “Really? She’s guilt-tripping me through you now?”
“I think she just—”
“I’m sorry, Charity. You shouldn’t have to be our go-between. I’ll try to call her… sometime.”
This is officially awkward now. They’ve been this way since I was like five. I have a vague memory of a shouting match where Mom accused Memom of filling our heads with fairy tales and Memom called Mom a disappointment. They’ve barely been on speaking terms ever since. I try not to get involved.
My phone chimes again in the distance, and I back toward the hallway. “I’d better go see who’s texting me. Thanks for breakfast.”