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“Who do you want permanently damaged?” Archie asked me. “You or the bastard who’s knocking your block off? If you don’t want to hurt him, turn tail. If you stay, be prepared to maim.”
Jack shook his head. “I don’t know where you picked that up, Archie.”
“You’ve led a sheltered life, Mr. Loose Shirt and Pretend I’m Normal,” Archie answered. “Remember, boys, anything sharp and pointy is useful. Hit ’em with that ring, Abel, and don’t be afraid to pull hair and bite if you have to.” He hitched up his pants and left.
“Coward’s tactics,” Jack grumbled.
I nodded, a tight, worried knot clenched in my stomach. Was this another joke at my expense? But I had to admit, I was impressed.
To my surprise, all week long I received similar advice from the most unlikely sources.
“Stick him with a hatpin, sweetie,” said tiny Gladys Dibble. “I always keep one at hand.”
“A handful of dirt or sand in the eyes is helpful,” said Albert Sunderland.
“Step on his foot,” said Jolly Dolly. “That always works for me.”
I wouldn’t have believed so many of my friends had been in need of self-defense.
A few days later, Uncle Jack surprised me at practice with a new set of throwing knives in a leather bandolier. “These are weighted for distance,” he told me, and grinned.
I accepted the bandolier with delight and pulled out a knife to feel the balance. It had a pleasant heft to it and sat in my palm like an old friend. These were just the knives I needed. “Will I get a chance to show them off in front of an audience soon?” I asked, made hopeful by his gift.
“I’m sure we can round up some of the fellows,” he answered.
“No, I mean a real audience,” I said. “When are you going to let me join your act?”
“My act?” He cocked his head, and my heart sank as I realized it had never crossed his mind.
“So why did you bother to teach me? Where am I supposed to use these skills?” I demanded as anger flamed through me.
Uncle Jack looked taken aback. “Another show, I suppose.”
I glared at him. “You mean I’m not good enough for this show?”
“No. I mean, yes, I …” Jack reached for me, but I stormed out of the barn.
It was true, then. I didn’t belong. I was useless here. I was handicapped by my normality. Why would an audience care about me? Who would come to see a normal boy throw knives, with all these exciting oddities around? I wanted to be seen, but if I wanted a chance to stand out, I would have to find a place with people like me.
Ha! People like me. I felt sad at setting myself apart by those words. I had always thought we were alike, all of us who lived in Faeryland—we laughed and cried and loved and hurt—but I was ordinary, and they were stars. I needed to be in a place where skill alone could set me apart. I remembered the poster I’d seen. A place like that circus.
As I entered the front hall, Phoebe came down the stairs.
“Abel!” she called, and ran lightly to meet me, her silky facial hair a nimbus about her. “Would you like to join my family for dinner tonight?”
“Why?” I asked, annoyed at the interception.
The smile on Phoebe’s face dimmed a little. She hesitated. “You waited too long and my father has something to say to you.”
“About what?” I was being deliberately obtuse.
Her smile disappeared completely. “I thought …”
“You think too much,” I snapped. “And use your imagination in excess when you do.”
Her face crumpled into a ball of anguished fur, and I brushed by her, my anger fueled even hotter by m
y guilt.
