Wayward Son Read online

  “There’s something about you,” he says.

  I wipe my hands on a cloth napkin.

  “Can I give you a tour of the grounds?”

  I sigh. “All right, fine. Show me the grounds. Because I’m so special.”

  “Exactly right,” he says, offering me his arm.

  19

  PENELOPE

  I wake up in an empty hotel room. It’s already noon, and someone’s knocking on the door.

  “Housekeeping!” A small woman has keyed in.

  “Just a minute!” I say. “Can I have a few minutes?”

  “Ten minutes!” she calls, and closes the door.

  My eyes are so swollen that they won’t fully open. I slept in my clothes last night, even though I was coated in North America. I’ve got dust up my skirt, in my ears. When I push down my knee sock, there’s a line of grime at the border. Also, my hands smell like Buffalo Blasts.

  I decide to take a very fast shower. The room really is empty; Baz and Simon must have taken their stuff out to the car already. I glance out the window. The Mustang is still in the car park. Baz is standing beside it, not so discreetly casting spells at the broken top. Simon is sitting in the front seat, possibly pretending to drive.

  Right. Shower first. Then decide where we’re going. Then decide what to do with the rest of my life.

  Not much has changed, I suppose: All those things I was going to do with Micah waiting at home for me? Now I’ll do them with no one waiting.

  If I’m being rational, nothing has changed. I hadn’t seen Micah for a year. Who knows when I would have seen him again? Would I have even pushed for this insane trip if I hadn’t felt like something was wrong between us?

  (For a cheap hotel, this shower is massive.)

  If I’m being rational, if I’m being honest, I never wanted to move to America. I didn’t want to go to university here. I couldn’t see myself living here—or maybe I should say that I couldn’t see myself living anywhere but England.

  So what did I see?

  Micah coming around eventually. Seeing things my way …

  Is that so wrong? Is that such a fatal flaw? Simon’s never said it, but Baz has: “You think you’re always right, Bunce.”

  So what if I do? I usually am right. It’s just good sense to go through life assuming that I am. It’s the law of averages. Better to assume I’m always right and occasionally be wrong than to fiddle about doubting myself all the time, saying to everyone, “Yes, but what do you think?”

  I’m very good at thinking!

  Would things have been so bad for Micah if he’d just followed my lead?

  My dad does exactly what my mum tells him to, and he’s happy. They’re both very happy! My mum makes all the decisions, they’re mostly correct, and it’s an incredibly efficient operation all around.

  Micah could have had a good life with me. I’m intelligent, I’m interesting, I’m at least as attractive as Micah is. I would have given him very bright children! I’m a genetic upgrade in most ways; both of my parents are geniuses, I have very straight teeth—

  He never would have been bored with me.

  I might have been bored with him. It’s something I’ve considered. But I’d have my work! And I’d have Simon, I’m never bored with Simon.

  Micah was supposed to be the stable element in the equation. The constant.

  He’s right. I’d ticked off the boyfriend box; I thought I’d got it settled early. Everyone around me wasted years trying to fall in love. I wasted nothing! I’d crossed it off my list.

  Now I suppose I’ve wasted everything. And the worst part is—

  The worst part is …

  The worst part.

  Is that he doesn’t want me.

  I put my hand on the shower wall. There’s that cold feeling washing through my middle again.

  I’m not being rational.

  “Housekeeping!”

  * * *

  The boys are leaning on the car when I get down there. Simon’s eating a banana. Baz is wearing his giant sunglasses and a beautiful floral shirt. (White with blue and purple flowers and fat striped bumblebees. It probably cost as much as my tuition.) He’s tying a pale blue scarf around his hair.

  “You can’t wear that,” Simon grins.

  “Shut it, Snow.”

  “Where did that even come from? Do you just carry a ladies’ scarf around with you?”

  “It was my mother’s,” Baz says.

  “Oh,” Simon says. “Sorry. Wait—do you carry your mother’s scarf around with you?”

  “I wrap my sunglasses in it when I’m travelling.”

  “Are those your mother’s sunglasses, too?”

  Baz is rolling his eyes, but then he sees me, and his face goes gentle. It’s intolerable. “Good morning, Bunce.”

  “Hey, Penny,” Simon says, just as kindly, “how are you?”

  “Fine,” I say. “Right as rain.”

  Baz looks doubtful, but busies himself rubbing sunblock onto his nose.

  “You slept through breakfast,” Simon says, “but it was awful.”

  “Snow was very excited about continental breakfast,” Baz says.

  “It’s not what you think.” Simon frowns. “It’s not French stuff. It’s just really sad pastries and bad tea. Oh and you missed Baz eating a squirrel.”

  “I didn’t eat the squirrel.”

  “Oh, sorry, you drank it, and threw its little squirrel body in the ditch. Do you think there are any magickal creatures or magicians here, Penny? Everything seems so mundane.”

  Baz turns to me. “Snow needs you to cast your angel spell on him. I hid his wings for breakfast, but they’re still there.”

  “Um,” I say. “What are we going to do now?”

  “What do you mean?” Simon asks. “Our plane tickets are from San Diego, right? We press on.”

  “Yeah, but—” I don’t feel like pressing on. I feel like pressing off. “Agatha isn’t expecting us. She might not be happy to see us. I was wrong about surprising Micah.…”

  “It won’t be that bad,” Simon says. “It’s not like Agatha’s planning to dump us.”

  Baz elbows him. Like I can’t be reminded that I’ve just been dumped. Like I might have forgotten.

  “I mean,” Simon says, chagrined, “we may as well see the country. The mountains. The ocean. Maybe the Grand Canyon. Or that rock with all the guys’ faces on it.”

  I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking clearly when I got us into this. I’m still not. “What do you think, Baz?”

  Baz is rubbing sunblock on his hands. He looks like my grandmother in that scarf. He glances over at Simon. “Yeah,” he says, “we may as well finish our road trip.”

  20

  SIMON

  Iowa is beautiful. It’s all gentle green hills and fields of maize. It reminds me of England. But with fewer people in it.

  BAZ

  Iowa looks exactly like Illinois. I’m not sure why they bothered to separate them. Just an endless stretch of motorway and pig farms. (There’s the distinction: Iowa smells more like pig shit than Illinois.)

  The sun is relentless.

  The radio is blaring.

  I haven’t had any tea at all today. None.

  And I’ve decided not to let my nose smoulder off, so I’m reapplying sunscreen like an addict.

  And I think my magic’s gone wonky. I tried a few spells on the car top that should have fixed it. I put all the magic I had into “Shipshape and Bristol fashion!”—and nothing! My wand shot out sparks.

  SIMON

  Baz coached me through traffic today, then onto the motorway. I feel like I’m really doing this, I’m driving. I need to get some sunglasses now. Wayfarers.

  Baz’s sunglasses are as big as his head. And that scarf. It should make him look like a mad old bat, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t look half glamourous. Like a boy Marilyn Monroe.…

  My brain gets kind of stuck on “boy Marilyn Monroe” for a while.

  Then my favourite song comes on again.

  BAZ

  Apparently there aren’t enough golden oldies to fill out a whole station, because this is the fourth time we’ve heard this song since we left Chicago. Why would you go through the desert on a horse with no name? Why wouldn’t you name the fucking horse at some point?

  Snow goes to turn the stereo up, but the sixty-year-old volume knob is already cranked all the way to the right.

  I slide my wand out of my pocket and point it at the radio. “Keep schtum!”

  Nothing happens!

  SIMON

  “In the desert, you can remember your name, ’cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain.…”

  BAZ

  “‘Welcome to Nebraska … the good life’—I wonder if that’s a spell.…”

  It’s the first thing Bunce has said since we left Des Moines. She’s been lying in the back seat with her arms over her face. I’ve envied her.

  We whiz past the sign and into the first city we’ve seen in two hours. I’m encouraged that most Americans seem to realize this part of the country is blighted and have settled elsewhere.

  “I’m hungry!” Penny shouts. Snow doesn’t hear her. She leans between us to turn down the radio.

  “Hey!” Snow grins at her. “You’re up! Are you hungry!? I’m hungry!”

  She gives him a thumbs-up, hanging between our seats.

  “Belt up!” I shout at her. She lifts her arse in the air and wiggles it, just to bug me. I point my wand at her and say it with magic—“Belt up!” But, again, nothing happens! That spell should have made her sit down and shut up and buckle her seat belt—but nothing!

  You’re never supposed to point your wand at your own face, but I do. Is something wrong with it?
br />   “What do people eat in Nebraska?!” Snow asks.

  “Their dreams!” I shout at him.

  “Hey, look—” He points at another sign at the side of the road. Middle America is papered in signs. EXOTIC DANCERS! WHOLE WHEAT BREAD! VERY COLD BEER!

  This one says, OMAHA RENAISSANCE FAIRE & FESTIVAL! JOUST DO IT.

  “Nooooooo,” I say.

  “It’s this weekend!” Snow shouts. “How lucky are we?!”

  “Desperately unlucky,” I say.

  “Penelope?!” He looks at her in the rearview mirror and shouts. I’m sure she can’t hear him. “Are you in?! It’s a festival!”

  She gives him another thumbs-up.

  * * *

  We follow the signs to the Renaissance Festival and eventually pull into a long gravel field filled with hundreds of cars. The Mustang kicks up a load of dust (which then settles on us). Snow finds a parking spot, then looks very pleased with himself for managing it. “I think I’m going to get a car when we get home,” he says.

  “Where will you park it?”

  “In the magickal parking spot you’ll manage for me.”

  He doesn’t usually talk like that—about magic. About us. About the future. I can’t help but smile at him. I hate everything about this road trip, but if it’s going to keep drawing Simon out of his shell, I’d gladly drive to Hawaii.

  Bunce climbs out of the car; it’s like she’s forgotten how to use doors. I untie my scarf and shake my hair out, pulling the rearview mirror towards me to check it. The scarf’s worked like a charm.

  When I look away, Simon is standing next to the car watching me, his head tipped slightly to the side. I can just see his tongue in the corner of his lips.

  My eyebrows drop, in suspicion, then I slowly raise the left one. Maybe Nebraska is the good life.…

  He lifts his chin—“Come on. Festival!”—and starts to walk backwards.

  I hurry out of the car to follow him. “Oh, wait—Bunce!”

  Penny turns back to me.

  “You’ll have to spell an umbrella over the car, in case it rains. My wand’s gone wonky.”

  She comes back. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’ve been casting spells all day, and nothing’s happening.”

  “Are you sure it’s the wand?” She holds out her hand. “Let’s see.”

  I give it to her. “Are you suggesting that I’ve gone wonky?”

  “Anything’s possible.” She sniffs at the wand. “May I?”

  I shrug. Your own wand will work for someone else, just usually not as well. Bunce slides off her own magickal instrument, a gaudy purple ring, and hands it to me. Then she points my wand at the ground and murmurs, “Light of day!” Light shines out of it, weakly, but definitely there.

  “Damn it,” I say, taking the wand back. I look around. There are a few Normals walking by, inexplicably dressed like fairies. (Not like real fairies; they’re not wearing cobwebs. They’re dressed like fairies from Normal fantasies. With costume-shop wings and glitter on their faces.) I wait for them to pass, then point at an empty water bottle. “A glass and a half!” The bottle should fill with milk, it’s a child’s spell, but—nothing!

  Bunce starts giggling. She still looks ghastly from no sleep and all the crying, so the overall effect is ghoulish.

  “What?” I demand. Very tired of these two laughing at me on foreign soil.

  “What were the other spells you cast, Basil?”

  “I don’t know—‘Bristol fashion,’ ‘Keep schtum,’ ‘Exceedingly good cakes.’”

  She laughs harder. Snow is frowning at her, like he doesn’t get it either.

  “Baz,” she says. “Those are all spells from back home. They’re British idiom—useless here.”

  Oh. Crowley. She’s right.

  “Wait,” Simon says, “why?”

  “Because there aren’t enough Normal people here using those phrases,” I say. “It’s the Normals who give words magic—”

  Simon rolls his eyes and starts quoting Miss Possibelf. “‘The more that they’re said and read and written, in specific, consistent combinations’—right, I know. So your magic’s fine?”

  “Yes,” I say, tucking my wand away, feeling like a pillock. “It’s my syntax that’s buggered. Come on.”

  As we get to the festival entrance, a man dressed like a mediaeval peasant steps up, ringing a bell. Without any warning, Simon’s wings explode from his back and spread out completely, in all their red-leather glory.

  Simon freezes. Bunce holds out her ring hand. But the people in the queue don’t seem fazed—some of them even start clapping.

  “Excellent cos,” a teenage girl says, stepping up to inspect the wings. “Did you build these yourself?”

  “Yes?” Simon says.

  “So cool—do they move?”

  He tentatively folds his wings back.

  “Wow!” she says. “I can’t even hear the motor. Are they on strings?”

  “A magician never reveals his secrets,” I say (which is also a spell, though Crowley knows whether it works here).

  Penny takes Simon’s elbow and muscles him to the end of the queue.

  “What is this place?” I murmur. The person in front of us is dressed as a Viking. There’s also a genie, a pirate, and three women dressed like Disney princesses. “Is it fancy dress?”

  “Five dollars off for cosplay,” the ticket seller says to Simon. “You, too,” she says to me.

  I look down at myself. “This is a very expensive shirt.”

  “Come on,” Simon says, taking my hand. He’s laughing. He turns towards me and pulls me into the festival—and for a moment, everything feels almost magickal. Simon with his wings spread wide, a row of hanging lanterns behind him. There’s smoked meat on the air. And somewhere, someone is playing a dulcimer. (My aunt plays the dulcimer; all the women in my family learn.)

  Then Simon swings over to my side, and the fair itself stretches before us.

  “What in the curs-ed fuck?” I say.

  Bunce and Snow are similarly gobsmacked.

  The festival is set up like a tiny village, with hastily built shacks and hand-painted hanging signs. Nearly everyone is dressed like—Crowley, I don’t know. It’s like Monty Python and the Holy Grail crossed with The Princess Bride crossed with Peter Pan.…

  Crossed with some film where all the women wear push-up bras and extremely low-cut dresses. Every other woman here, maid or matron, is laced into a ridiculously tight bodice and spilling out the top. I’ve never seen so much and so many breasts in my life—and we’re only five feet into the festival.

  “Crikey,” Simon says.

  A nearly topless woman catches his eye and wheels around him. “Good morrow, my lord.”

  I wave her away—“Right, right, move along.”

  “Fare-thee-well!” she calls to Simon.

  “What on earth is the theme?” Bunce has her hands on her hips, properly puzzling it out.

  “The Renaissance?” Simon suggests.

  “That’s Galileo and da Vinci,” she says. “Not…”

  Frodo Baggins waddles by.

  “Look,” Simon says, “turkey legs!”

  I half expect to see someone wearing turkey legs, but it’s another shack with a large drumstick-shaped sign hanging over the window—SMOKED FOWL.

  Bunce and I follow Simon to the shack. “It’s so strange,” he says, grinning. “Nobody’s looking at me.”

  Two children have stopped in their tracks to stare at him. Their mother is taking a mobile-phone photo.

  “Everyone is looking at you,” I say.

  “Yeah, but not like it’s any big deal. They think it’s a costume.” He spreads his wings out wide. Everyone in the turkey-leg line says, “Ohhhh.” A few more people point their phones at him.

  Bunce covers her eyes. “My mum’s gonna kill me.”

  There’s another bosomy woman behind the cash register. “Well met, my lord, what dost thou require this bonny afternoon?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Simon says. “I’ll have a turkey leg and”—he looks at the menu—“a tankard of ale.”

  “I’ll be needing to see your papers, young master.”