(Posted February 27th, 2018)

Ginger Snaps

Year of Water, Winter of the Sunlit River

Friday, December 27th, 1991

Gary knew what a job interview was. Aunt Sissy (Okay, so she wasn't really his aunt–he just pretended because he didn't get to see his real family much) had come into his life by way of a job interview. She ran the concession stand Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and every other Saturday. Gary remembered listening outside the tan building's door while his dad interviewed hopeful adolescent after hopeful adolescent, trying to find exactly the right people to manage every aspect of the golf course and the surrounding area. Hiring personnel who really cared and wanted to keep the place clean and orderly had been so important to him.

Dad said that sometimes, if you waited in the Snack Shack long enough after-hours when the sky grew dark, you could sometimes hear the nature spirits running and playing among the decorations on the course, or splashing through the water traps. You couldn't go looking for them, though, or they'd disappear in a puff of dust. In the mornings, the golf clubs would be polished and the golf balls would be organized in the dispensing tubes by color. If you left out sugary candy, the candy would vanish, but so would all the trash in all the trash cans. Sometimes his dad would leave coins and bills behind, tucked away in the holes of the course like gifts. If they didn't disappear one night, they would the next, usually on Thursday. It was like magic.

Once, Gary had asked to go with him. He remembered lying on the dusty Snack Shack floor in his sleeping bag, curled up against his dad's side, as they ate popcorn and candy and listened to the sound of snapping fingers, thwacking golf balls, and eerily dry laughter for hours. Gary wasn't a night person–he always got tired as soon as the sun went down. Staying up so long had been exhausting, but it had been worth it. Still, the next day he fell asleep in class and Mom was kind of mad about it, but Dad had just laughed and ruffled his hair. "Come on, Ellie, they're nature spirits. Not everyone gets to listen to them scampering around. They've chosen to bless our golf course with their presence. Let the little man get in touch with his heritage." Gary didn't have many good memories of his dad, but that night was one of them.

Even though their separation had been final for two months, it wasn't supposed to be permanent. Gary was going to live with his mom, but the plan was to spend Thanksgiving with his dad, and maybe some other holidays too. But not anymore. That was so weird, thinking about how he'd never see his dad again. Not even for Thanksgiving. Dead in a car accident, H.P. had said. That sounded about right. It had been snowy, and his dad wasn't that good of a driver. He always got distracted looking out the windows at the animals, or at Gary when he tried to have a conversation in the car.

H.P. had delivered the news calmly almost twenty whole minutes ago, his hands folded on his desk and his face solemn and serious, while the rest of them sat on the white couch on the other side of the room, and Sanderson watched from his place by the cool square bookcase with the pizza boxes. Gary still wasn't over the fact that Mr. Sanderson was more than 250,000 years old, and an eight-year-old boy like him was already a foot taller. He was almost taller than H.P. was. Almost. He only looked taller because of his gray Santa hat, that's all.

Kenny had understood "Your mom and dad won't be coming back", even if most of the explanation was lost on him, and he'd rubbed his eyes with both fists as the tears started to prickle up. Betty hadn't cried. She'd been too shocked to cry, or maybe she didn't understand what death was. "Oh," had been her weak response. Her blonde eyelashes fluttered. Her fingers touched her face, waiting for those tears to come. They would spill over later, Gary knew, when she wasn't so scared and in denial and finally accepted that everything that had happened was true. Maybe at night, when she was in bed. That's how it worked for him. He never cried. Well, almost never.

Maybe Gary took it better. Maybe it helped him to watch Betty's face instead of worrying so much about his own parents that he drove himself crazy. He guessed his dad was dead before H.P. even turned his attention on him, just because, well, if it happened to Betty and Kenny and they were here in H.P.'s office getting this talk, it had probably happened to him. Gary hadn't known what to say to Betty when she was clearly stung and frozen (He figured it wasn't the right time to ask if she wanted to be his friend forever now), so he stayed quiet, patting one foot against the wooden floor and waiting for his turn to hear Quincy Tuckfield's fate.

He was right. H.P. confirmed it, and Gary had accepted the blow with an absent nod. Was that wrong? He probably didn't love his dad enough. That was it. The thought filled his throat with guilt, but he couldn't really be mad about it. His dad had decided to give him away, after all. That had been Gary's fate for two months. He hadn't loved his father for three.

Was that wrong? It was probably also wrong to decide one day that your "difficult" child was too much trouble and dump him on a woman you loved for years and suddenly didn't anymore instead. How could people do that, anyway? Totally love someone, and then learn a tiny trait or secret about them and change their mind? That wasn't how true love was supposed to work. That wasn't how it was supposed to work at all.

After waiting a minute for Gary's reaction, H.P. had said, "I expect you'll want to live with your mother now. I can take you there, of course, although I'll have you know–"

"No," had been Gary's instantaneous answer. H.P. paused. His fingers skittered briefly across his desk, hands wrapping around the front edge.

"What?"

Gary had tightened his hands around his knees and struggled to find the words to match his feelings. "I don't want to live alone with my mom. She scares me. I like working in the garden with her, but… she gets mean when it's night. It was okay when I had my dad around, but now it's just going to be me and her, and I'm scared. She's nice and I love her, I guess, but if I live with her, she'll never let me have any friends come over to play, and she won't ever let me go play at anyone else's house either. Even when I grow up, she says she'll never let me take a girl to dinner or a dance. She's always worried I won't come home before dark, even when I promise. She thinks that when it's dark, I'll get tired and lost and hurt. I wanted to stay with my dad, but Mrs. Daisy said I had to live with her because she's my mom. But can't I stay with you instead? You're letting Betty and Kenny stay with you, right? That's why you came to get us when our parents died. You're here to rescue us. Right?"

H.P. had fixed him with a quizzical stare. "You don't even know me."

"I know my mom. I'll take my chances."

"She's an interesting woman, as far as I've observed," Sanderson said lightly, still floating by the couch. His wings buzzed like a bumblebee's.

Betty had started to look really uncomfortable after that, and another splash of guilt filled Gary's belly when he stole a sideways glance at her. She and Kenny had just lost both his parents, and here he was complaining about his mom. Betty probably wished she still had a mom. Maybe her mom was a lot like his. Maybe that's just how moms were.

She and Kenny still had each other, though. Gary didn't have anyone.

"Hmm." H.P. had pressed the tips of two fingers together in front of his nose. "You have a grandmother on your dam's side, don't you? Your mother's mother?"

Gary shrugged. "Yeah, but she smokes too much. And she always tries to give me baths. She says my mom doesn't do a very good job washing and taking care of me, but then she just feeds me super-duper sugary candy and tells me not to worry about being unhealthy and dying, because only sick people die and I'm not sick. I don't like it."

"And you have a great-grandmother."

"I guess. She doesn't live in the USA, though. And she's old. I've never even met her."

Still giving him a little bit of a peculiar look, H.P. had reached along his desk and touched his fingers to a metal bar connected to a small box. "Madigan," he said to the box, like it was a telephone.

The noise that came back had been fuzzy at first, but then a voice on the other side said, "Sir?"

"Let Wilcox's team know there's been a change of plans. Don't contact Elaine or any of the other Cabreras. Or whatever last names they're using; I can't remember them all."

There was a pause. Gary had looked at Betty, who'd looked at him and hugged Kenny tighter. She still hadn't started crying, but her cheeks had turned pink. Even Kenny had stopped rubbing his eyes and now sat quietly at her side. Gary wasn't sure how much the younger boy understood about the situation, or if there was even a difference between death and parents abandoning their kids in his mind. Maybe it was mostly hearing H.P.'s serious tone combined with the word "Mom" bothered him.

More static from the box, but only for a second. "Clarification requested, sir."

"Elaine Cabrera lives in Salina, Kansas." He'd put unnecessary emphasis on 'lives'. "You don't need to do anything. The human authorities will notify her and the others that Gary Cabrera died with his father in the crash. No further action on our parts is required."

Gary had sat back in his chair, breathing out a sigh of relief. For the first time since… Well, maybe just since he'd been introduced to H.P. earlier, he allowed himself to smile. Of course, his mom would be so upset when she heard that he was dead (he wasn't really; this was just for pretend), but what was she going to do about it? Lock him in his room? How could she do that when she thought he was dead? He was going to live with fairies now!

Maybe everything would turn out to be okay after all.

The speaker on the other side of the box paused again, but it was shorter this time. Then, "Are the humans with you, sir? You're being vague."

H.P. had glanced at Gary, who held his breath with anticipation for a long time. "Yes. They're here. And I don't want anyone approaching any of the Cabreras. For any reason."

"Yes, sir." Madigan sounded a little puzzled, but Gary could hear him switching to another method of contact. "Violet Division, there's been an unexpected change of assignments. Please return home to receive your new orders personally. Thank you."

Anyway, that all happened twenty minutes ago, and now they were here. Gary knew job interviews, and this was sooo clearly a job interview. H.P. sat on one side of his friendly purple desk, and he, Betty, and Kenny each sat in their own chair on the other side. Mr. Sanderson hovered by the couch behind them, his wings blurring together, occasionally fiddling with his pen. The pizza boxes were still there. Betty had finally gotten hungry enough to try some pizza, and Kenny, H.P., and Mr. Sanderson had finished off the rest. Gary yawned and scooted his chair to the side, wishing a warm beam of sunlight would zoom in through the window and fill him with a burst of energy. Only, the curtains were pulled back, and it looked all starry out there. Too bad. The room looked smaller when it was dark. It was okay for Gary since he was a kid, even though he didn't really like it, but he wondered how grown-ups could fit in H.P.'s office comfortably. Maybe they didn't. Maybe they always bumped their heads on the ceiling. That set off fluttery, panicky thoughts in his brain. He knew he was tall for his age, especially in his family, but still, he hoped he never grew tall enough to bump his head on the ceiling.

Gary made sure to sit up straight and fold his hands in his lap, instead of stuffing them away in the pockets of his dad's red jacket like usual. He sat even straighter than Betty and Kenny, just in case H.P. was really holding this job interview to make the choice between keeping him or them. Nothing personal or anything; that's just the way it was. Good things happened to you when you were on your best behavior.

"So tell me," H.P. said, addressing Gary now, "what are your skills and interests?"

He'd already asked Betty the same question earlier, leading her to proudly respond, "Numbers and horses". Gary had thought H.P. would ask Kenny next, but he didn't. Maybe he thought Kenny was too little. Maybe he didn't ask because Kenny had started to cry softly. That was probably it. It would be hard to answer if you were crying.

Gary wasn't really sure what to think about the other two kids yet. He'd only known them for less than one day, but he thought Betty seemed a little too… outspoken, and Kenny wasn't alert enough. Then again, she was a girl, and he was four. Usually, girls talked a lot and four-year-olds were nervous around strangers, so it made sense.

But they seemed nice, or Betty did at least. They obviously cared about each other. A lot. Like, even though Kenny had his own chair, Betty still kept a protective arm around his shoulders. She spoke to him softly, and made sure he was wrapped snuggly in the huge blue blanket Mr. Sanderson had given him. You know. In the whole entire blanket. But it was okay, because she gave it to her brother instead of taking it for herself. So then it wasn't selfish–it was nice.

Okay. Yes. Gary wished he had a big brother or sister who would make sure he had some of the blanket too, without making it look like he was stealing from a small child. Maybe brothers and sisters made golf take a lot longer and made you had to be patient, but maybe that was why it was so fun, too. Golf wasn't as fun when you had to play it all by yourself. Gary figured that out a long time ago.

"My skills?" Try as he might to sit up straight and be confident, shoulders relaxed, Gary still found himself squirming around in his chair. It was built for people with pixie-sized behinds. He barely even fit in it, which freaked him out a little, and his feet touched the floor weird. The chair had padded mesh arms, but the padding slid up and down like soap when you plucked at it. "Okay. Well. I don't know. I like talking to people and making friends. I'm a good listener. I can play and work outside, even when it's a hot day, without getting tired as fast as the other kids. I always work hard to do a good job and make sure everything is perfect. Whenever I break something, my mom says I'm real good at telling stories. Ooh!" Idea! Gary jerked up his head, kicking his feet against the too-close-for-comfort ground. "Hey, you know what I love? Well, I just love singing and dancing! I really do!"

Then his grin faded. "But my mom says I'm not allowed to in front of people anymore."

"Communication," H.P. said, nodding his big head. He made a note in the pad on his desk. "Sanderson described you as passionate, enthusiastic, idealistic, and energetic. And yet, I can see that in the presence of strangers, your natural state is to be private and introverted. You must be my INFJ. That's rare for humans. Much more common for Fairies. I'm used to dealing with Fairies. I can work with this. See, this is why you need proper socializing this summer with children your age."

What did that mean? That part about, "Sanderson described you as passionate, enthusiastic, idealistic, and energetic"? Mr. Sanderson could only know that stuff if he'd been spying on him. Gary tried to remember the last time he was "passionate, enthusiastic, idealistic, and energetic" about anything, and winced. Mr. Sanderson must have been spying on him for a long time.

H.P. tapped his pen against one arm of his glasses, using his left hand to straighten his notepad perfectly on his desk. "Hmm. Of course, before we go on too far, we must also address the small matter of how being an INFJ makes you Betty's absolute opposite in personality, what with her being an ESTP. It's beneficial to us that you're still so young. I can make this work, but we'll have to make cuts somewhere. Maybe I'll need Anti-Cosmo to get in on this and make the final call. If nothing else, I can lord it over his head that the two of you were both born in the same year on the Fairy zodiac, and yet your personalities stand on opposite ends of the spectrum. He'll hate that."

"What's ESTP?" Betty asked, leaning forward.

"It's an initialism." H.P. turned his pad around and pointed at the letters with the nib of his pen. "Each letter stands for your score on a spectrum I use to determine your personality type. It's based on your actual personality, not on the year of your birth. You are extroverted, observant, a thinker, and 'prospecting', whereas I've determined Gary to be introverted, intuitive, a feeler, and 'judging'."

"I thought prospectors were old men," Betty said, apparently without wondering if H.P. would be offended by that (Oh my goodness, no! Gary couldn't help but think) and then she said, "I mean, old men who dig in the ground and pan for gold and stuff."

Fortunately, H.P. didn't seem to take offense at her words. "Yes. 'Prospecting'. That means you're flexible and good at improvising. As a judger, Gary is more decisive. These are both good traits in different ways, and can be put to use in the right circumstances."

While Betty studied the letters, Gary scanned the rest of the page for his name. It was at the top. Next to it, H.P. had written, Deep thinker. Hesitant to trust. Verbal talents in English grammar and music. Attentive to deets. Systems thinker. Searches all faces in a social setting to gain context of moods like an Anti-Fairy. Poor relationship with mother. Eager for friends. Introduce to Verona and Rosencrantz. Gardening with Jardine. Unaffected by Principle of Observation. Dysolfactya?

Those last few words were a mystery. When he looked up, he saw the Head Pixie idly observing him from the corner of his eye. Gary forced an embarrassed smile and dropped his gaze again, trying not to fly into a flushing panic. If there was one thing he absolutely hated, it was getting caught doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing. He hated feeling caught.

"Communication is an excellent skill, Cabrera," H.P. said, bringing his attention back to Gary. He turned his pad around again. "One of the finest. Really. After all, you're bilingual, aren't you?"

"Uh…"

"You look bilingual." H.P. pointed the end of his pen between Gary's eyes. "How do you say 'We're Pixies' in Hispanic?"

Gary blinked. "Uh. I don't know. I don't speak… Hispanic. Is that like Spanish? I don't speak Spanish."

"Oh, come on." The old man swatted the pale yellow folder between his notepad and his typewriter. "Of course you speak Hispanic. You're Mexican."

At a loss, Gary glanced over at Betty for help. She stared at H.P. with an offended look on her face. Behind her, Mr. Sanderson dropped his forehead into his hand. "Sir," he said, "if I may?"

"What, Sanderson?"

"Gary has no real ties to Mexico. His father's heritage is Cherokee and Japanese, and while his mother's family did recently hail from Spain, I've picked up traces of Italian and Indonesian blood in there too. If you recall, Ralston is running up a DNA test for exactly this reason. We'll see the results shortly."

"If he's not Mexican, then he shouldn't have a Mexican last name," H.P. grumbled, squinting at his pad. He sighed, then tore the top page off. Placing it next to his pad, he started copying the information onto the new, clean page.

"Spanish," Mr. Sanderson corrected. "And sir, he was born and raised in Kansas under the name Tuckfield. His parents separated just recently. His father's family were more involved in his life, and his mother didn't teach him other languages. Spanish or otherwise."

H.P. hmphed. To Gary, he said, "I'll schedule you down to learn seven languages by the time you're twenty-five. I trust you can handle that. Now. Please tell me these other two are American, at least."

"Raised in Kansas," Mr. Sanderson said without taking his hand from his face. "Half a dozen generations back, we could trace their lineage to Sweden. However, for the purpose of relaying the cultural background they're familiar with, they're two Americans raised in Kansas."

H.P. rolled his eyes. "See, that makes sense. Gary, be more American like Betty."

"Oh." Gary had celebrated Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July with his family every year for as long as he could remember (Well, his dad's version of Thanksgiving, anyway). He also lived in Kansas, the very middle of the United States. He'd memorized the pledge of allegiance when he was six. He'd always just assumed he was doing a good job of being American.

"But Gary was born in America," Betty said. "That means he's already American."

H.P. stopped writing. He didn't raise his head, but he did flick his eyes up to stare at her. They glittered behind the lenses of his glasses, reflecting the pale glow of the lamp on his desk. "Betty, which one of us is 744,688 years old?"

She crossed her arms. "Which one of us is actually human?"

Kenny clung to her arm. "I–I am–I am human. Betty, Mom says I am a human bein' like you."

H.P. did not move. He didn't blink either. Gary saw his fingers clench a tiny bit tighter around the pen. "Maybe you don't understand how we do things around here, Betty. I am the Head Pixie. That means, if I say Gary is Mexican, then you say…?"

"I say, 'Gary, what do you want to be called, and how can I help you feel loved?'"

"Oh no." Gary covered his face in his hands. H.P. was getting frustrated, and Betty was getting frustrated right back. Th-they were going to start fighting. About him. What should he do?

In response to Betty's comment, H.P. drummed his fingers against the desk. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. "You're planning to be a thorn in my side for the long haul, I see. I'll keep that in mind when I'm scouting for Christmas presents. Let's try this again. If I say Gary is Mexican, you say, what?"

"Please just agree with him…"

Betty stuck out her pouting lip. "You can't call him Mexican unless he says you can call him Mexican. You don't know for sure if he's Mexican. Maybe he's not. You have to ask him."

"Betty," Gary whispered. He lifted his hands, palms facing down and out. "It's fine. It's fine. Really, it's okay. It doesn't bother me if he says I'm Mexican."

Betty turned on him with a huff, crossing her arms with a slap of skin. "But he's wrong. You can't be from Mexico if you were born in Kansas. You can't just let him be wrong. Do you want a guy who's wrong to be in charge of you?"

"Oh, goodness." Gary laughed and grabbed her by the sleeve. "Excuse us for a second, please. We're going to talk over here like grown-ups."

"Hey!" Betty protested as Gary yanked her out of her tiny seat. Kenny got up too and followed them.

"When is Mommy coming back?" he asked, very polite and calm about it. "Or Papa? I want Papa to play that game with me. It's that game with the cards."

Gary pulled Betty over to the door that led out of H.P.'s office. It was a little closer to Mr. Sanderson than he wanted it to be, and Mr. Sanderson was probably a spy, but it would have to work. Then he let go of her arm. "Look," he said. He made sure to gaze deep into her eyes. "I know you're really scared about what's going to happen to us now that we, um… can't live with our parents anymore. But H.P. cares about us, and he wants to help."

"Well, he doesn't care enough about you to ask if you're even part Mexican." Betty thought about that for a second. "Are you part Mexican? With your orange hair and green eyes, you don't really look like you could be Mexican."

That made him frown. "My dad's hair is black, and my mom's is blonde like yours, except more red-gold. Maybe it's really supposed to be bright orange like mine and she just uses colored shampoo to change it. Some people do that. And, people from Mexico can live in Kansas. It's not against the law. Anyway, maybe H.P.'s just trying his best. We need to support him." Gary grasped both of Betty's hands in his. Taking a deep breath, he studied her eyes again. They were blue. A very light blue, like robins' eggs, or the clear sky, or that pretty color the toilet water turned when you poured in the cleaner, or other nice things that were blue. "Please don't make him mad, or he might change his mind about letting us live with him, and then we'll have to go live in an orphanage. I really don't want to live in an orphanage. I might have to wait years before I get adopted. I'd rather live with the Pixies right now. H.P. is giving us a chance to prove we're important. I… I don't want you to get in trouble because of me."

"But are you part Mexican?" Betty asked, staring just as seriously into his eyes as he was into hers. "If you're not, then you have to tell him now. Because it gets kind of awkward if you let somebody think the wrong thing about you for a long time, and then you tell them later that it's not true."

"Um." Gary squirmed and accidentally looked away. "My family comes from lots of places." It was okay to say that; it wasn't a lie. "I probably have a Mexican somewhere in my family. I've been called a lot of things, and he's not the first person to guess my parents are from Mexico. He can call me Mexican if he wants to. It doesn't bother me."

"Are you sure?"

"Um." He nodded. "Yeah."

"Gary." Betty squeezed his hands and forced him to look up at her again. "Are you sure that's what you want? Don't say it's okay unless it's really what you want."

He gave it another moment of thought, trying to remember the faces of all the people in his extended family. There were so many different ones, it was crazy that they could all be related. Some faces were a little bit lighter like his, some were darker, and some were even as light as Mr. Sanderson's and H.P.'s. He had to have someone from Mexico in the mix too, right?

The Tuckfield side of his family had both lighter and darker faces. Most of them were American Indians. His grandpa was… different. He was from somewhere called Japan that he never talked about as much as Gary wanted him to. His grandpa always said his life before marrying his grandma was "the strangest." He had to live in a special camp for awhile. Maybe he was sick; Gary couldn't remember. He just remembered that Nana Euny fell in love with him after he got out when he had no place to stay and no more family in the USA. He stayed with her family and they wanted to be married. He wanted an American name because he was going to be an American now. Or… maybe it was someone else who told him he should have an American name; his grandpa had always skipped past that part too quickly for Gary to be sure. He just knew that Nana Euny said it was okay, so his grandpa made a new last name up, and he picked Tuckfield. You could do that if you were born somewhere else, apparently. Gary had always thought Gray would be a cool last name, because everyone could spell it and it looked just like his first name (or at least his nickname) and it was kind of funny, but his teachers at school told him he was a boy, so he had to keep his last name when he got married. Maybe it was because he was born in the USA. Those were the rules.

Gary missed his grandpa. But after Nana Euny died, he got really confused, and acted like he didn't even know he'd been married. He didn't call his kids by the right names. He talked about magic arrows and birds with arms and all sorts of weird stuff. Gary had visited him a lot since, but it always made his dad sad and angry. His cousins didn't seem to like him very much, maybe because with his scruffy red hair and faint freckles, he looked so different than them with their lighter skin and flowing black hair. Or maybe it was just because he didn't join in with them when they sang, and always hung back feeling awkward about everything. Then Mom started having a hard time getting along with his uncles, so they stopped going.

His Tuckfield family didn't have as many new faces and people as his Cabrera family. They were crazy. The girls from the Cabrera side of his family liked to travel, and they always found someone in a new place that they fell in love with. His grandma lived somewhere different than his great-grandma, and his mom and aunts lived somewhere different than both of them. Then they married someone in the new place, and lived there forever, and their daughters moved away and fell in love with someone new again. This had been going on for longer than even his mom could remember, and it didn't seem to bother anyone that they didn't see each other very much. Maybe they liked living alone like that. It was kind of weird. Gary was sure his Cabrera family would like him more than his Tuckfield family, and he wished they would get together so he could play with his cousins and hear his aunts and uncles tell stories of all the different places they lived.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm Mexican."

Betty just said, "Oh." They sat down in their chairs at H.P.'s desk again. Kenny sat on the floor next to Betty's chair, clenching his hand in her sock. He sucked on the index and middle fingers of his left hand.

"Let's try this one more time." H.P. brought his hands together to make a house with a pointed roof, fingertips touching. "Betty. If I say Gary is Mexican, then you say…?"

Gary nudged Betty's ankle with his foot. He did it softly, so it wouldn't hurt her. She dropped her chin against her folded arms, hunching over the purple desk. "Gary's Mexican," she muttered.

H.P. smiled. "Very good, Elizabeth. You're a fast learner. Now. Gary." The pixie picked up his pen again, and tucked his glasses closer to his face. "Besides not being bilingual, what other skills do you have? You mentioned that you enjoy singing. So does Sanderson. I want to know why I should be interested in your singing abilities when I already have him working for me. Are you any good?"

"I can… sing well," Gary said slowly, scratching behind his neck. His stomach pinched itself into a really tiny knot. "But sometimes when I start, I get too excited. I'm… weird. My mom says I shouldn't do it anymore, or my condition will get worse. My dad says it comes from her side of the family and if he'd have known about it earlier, they never would have had me. It's why I don't have any brothers or sisters."

He didn't finish the sentence: And I'm the real reason my parents wanted to split apart in the first place. I know I am.

"Oh? Can you elaborate?" Neither of H.P.'s sentences really sounded like a question. His stare remained super focused on Gary's face. Gary gulped. 'Elaborate' meant 'Say more about'. He looked over at Betty, who was still sulking in her arms. Then he turned his attention back to H.P.

"Um. You know, maybe I can sing for you alone. In private. You can have a personal show. I don't really want to do it in front of Betty and Kenny. Sometimes it gets weird."

"I'm legally not allowed to be left alone and unsupervised with small children anymore," he monotoned. "Anything you can show me, you can show Betty. Remember. You two will be growing up together now. You're a team. There are no secrets between us."

"And Kenny," Betty said, putting her arm defensively around her brother's shoulders.

"Kenny too, of course," H.P. said dismissively.

Gary scuffed his shoe on the floor, then shook his head. "I don't sing in front of other kids anymore. It scares them. And they never let me finish, and then I just look stu… I look like a dummy."

Hearing that, Betty raised her head and turned to look at him. "When you sing? Singing's not scary. At least, I won't think you're scary. I like seeing people sing."

Gary shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and crossed his feet together on the floor. "I dunno… I can't really control the scary part. It just happens when I, y'know… get excited. I can't undo it afterwards…"

"Gary." H.P.'s voice was patient, and kind of bored. Gary had thought earlier that he was just being serious because their parents had died in the car crash, but he was starting to think that H.P. was just serious about everything all the time. He always sounded bored; it's how he was. "Think about it. I am over 740,000 years old. As a pixie, I can fly. I grew up here in the clouds above Earth learning how to control magic. I use magic every day. I am surrounded by other pixies who also use magic every day. There is essentially nothing you could do that I haven't seen before. Really. You can go ahead and sing."

He sounded like he meant it. 740,000 years was a long time. That was older than turtles. Was that even older than the earth? Maybe. But pixies were magic, so they could do stuff like live a long time. Gary stood up and flexed his arms, but he still hesitated. "Well… Okay. But first, I have to warn you not to–"

With a thrumming ping noise, a cloud of white dust, and a rustle, a sudden short stack of papers appeared in a basket on the Head Pixie's desk. Gary and Betty both jumped, while Kenny started to cry, louder this time than before. The papers just popped out of nowhere. It was just like magic! It probably was magic. H.P. lifted one finger in Gary's direction. "Hold that thought. These must be the results of yours and Betty's DNA tests. I wanted to see this."

Gary sat down again. H.P. picked up the papers, and Mr. Sanderson floated over to look over his boss's shoulder and read what they said. When H.P. started making checkmarks in his notepad, Gary craned his neck a little bit, even though he was worried about what he might find if he looked.

Once, when he stayed out almost until sunset and his mom had gotten even more upset about it than she usually did, his dad had sat with him on his bed and explained that something in Mom's brain wasn't "normal" like it should be. It wasn't her fault, but she was born with something in her DNA that made her crazy. And because she was his mom, it was possible that Gary could have inherited it, and he might be crazy too. Dad didn't say it like that, exactly, but Gary figured those parts out.

So he was just curious to see what H.P. was looking at, and technically, he wasn't really spying on anything. They were looking at his own personal DNA, after all. Plus, Betty was doing it too.

The Head Pixie took his time looking everything over, even the hard to understand stuff that didn't have any pictures. He made notes in his notebook as he went along. Gary waited for him to say, "I'm sorry, I was wrong, and you're not really Mexican", but he didn't. Line by line, H.P.'s finger moved down the page, until at the bottom of a grid with about 50 boxes, it stopped.

"Wait a second. What's that?"

"What, sir?"

H.P. separated the DNA test results, sliding Betty's to his left and Gary's to his right (Kenny didn't have one, probably because his DNA would be so close to Betty's since he was her brother). Once he'd pushed them apart, H.P. touched his fingertips to the sides of his head, and stared down at the two sheets of paper. Sanderson floated quietly behind him. He didn't say he was frustrated that H.P. didn't explain what "that" was, but Gary could kind of tell it bothered him. He could feel the irritated tingles in the air.

"Sanderson. I thought you confirmed that the family hadn't been interfered with. My assumption was that you included all magical lifeforms in that analysis. This won't be as easy if they aren't clean."

"Sir?"

H.P. touched the last box in the grid along the bottom of both papers. There were little squiggly pictures in all the boxes decorated with stripes in black, white, and various shades of gray. Gary tilted his head. Betty's last box had two pictures like that, with the letters XX next to them. Those letters were called chromosomes, and Gary remembered learning in school that that meant she was a girl. Girls were supposed to be XX, and boys were XY.

But the last box in his grid had three pictures. And underneath them were three letters: XYZ.

Sanderson's wings skipped so many beats, he actually had to land on the floor and grab hold of the corner of H.P.'s desk. "But–"

"It's there," H.P. said. "No arguments. You know what it means."

"That can't be right," Sanderson said, taking off his sunglasses while still staring at H.P.'s pointing finger. "It doesn't make sense. His hair is orange. It's too rare."

They both looked at Gary, their eyes searing like purple sunbeams that came out of nowhere in the middle of the night. Gary bent his head, and stayed very quiet. That hadn't taken as long as he hoped it would. H.P. must have found the part of his brain that was going to make him crazy like his mom when he grew up. What else could it be? And now he was probably going to change his mind about letting Gary stay with him, and dump him on his mom just like his dad did. Oh well. Gary was still glad he'd tried to find someone who didn't care if he was crazy, even if it didn't work out. Otherwise, the not knowing would have driven him, well… crazy.

"Actually," H.P. muttered, leaning his chin on his hand, "that makes perfect sense. What color would your hair be if you didn't have a tail?"

When H.P. looked away, Sanderson checked behind him as if to confirm he didn't, in fact, actually have a tail.

"Gary," the Head Pixie said, "do you have any heroes? Someone you admire, look up to, or appreciate for their marketable skills?"

It was an interesting question. Gary didn't remember his dad asking this to any of the people who wanted to get jobs at the golf course. He thought about that for a minute. "I like Harry Houdini. His magic was really cool, even though Mom always said they were just illusions, not real magic. He could escape from anything. I read a book about him last year. From the library."

"I'm sure you did. Remind me, what color is your mother's hair?"

"Blonde." Gary pointed at his eyes. "Sometimes, blonde people have hair that's so light, you can't see their eyebrows or their eyelashes. My mom's hair is kind of red-blonde, though. Some people give her weird looks for it, but I think it's pretty. Also, you can see her eyebrows. I think it helps that her face is darker instead of too white."

"Gary, do the words 'Vitamin D deficiency' mean anything to you?"

"Um. That sounds like the medicine I have to take every day. It's one of those hard kinds you're not supposed to bite into, and it has to be taken in the morning with food." Gary felt around in the pocket of his red jacket, then pulled out the bottle and shook it in his hand. It rattled. "This medicine. My mom helps me with the lid."

H.P. rubbed his chin with his hand. "How much do you like water?"

Gary shivered. "I can't swim. Usually I get my dad to get my golf balls out of the water traps." Come to think of it, he probably shouldn't have said that. It made him sound weak, and boys weren't supposed to be weak. Everyone said so. Especially to him. Gary knew he had a gentle and friendly personality, even though he was shy and didn't talk as much as he wanted to. He liked to play with blocks, but he didn't enjoy knocking them down before it was time to clean up. He preferred watching the clouds and making up stories about animals to stealing someone's hat on Hat Day in school and running around with it, or jumping off the swing at its highest arc and rolling around in the woodchips. Sometimes, that made it hard for him to get along with the other kids his age, who usually raced across the playground faster than he could run and didn't care about slowing down for him. He liked playing with toy cars, but didn't care so much for baseball or football, even though his parents had asked him if he wanted to sign up for a team. He'd tried both sports for a year, but he still didn't enjoy them. "Don't act like such a girl" was a sentence he'd grown up hearing almost as many times as the pledge of allegiance. Rephrasing himself, Gary said, "I can do it myself. I just think it's a little gross. There are plants in there. Sometimes my hands get stuck."

"And do you like campfires?"

Campfires? Gary grinned. "Yeah! My family roasts marshmallows every summer. S'mores are my favorite."

H.P. brought his right hand up to fiddle with his glasses. "Okay. Completely random get-to-know-you question. By any chance, are you afraid of small spaces?"

"Deathly. Why?"

"Gnat wings and kelpie dung," the pixie muttered. Swiftly, he snatched up the nearest file folder and batted Mr. Sanderson on the head with it. "You found me a witch with all of the weaknesses and none of the strengths, you dusthead."

"Liking s'mores isn't so bad," Mr. Sanderson protested, shielding his face. "He can learn."

"No hitting," scolded Kenny.

"Why didn't you pick up the traces on him while you were making nice on the couch?"

"I don't know! He doesn't smell like he's half-genie. Check Ralston's report, sir. His genie parent must be further back in his heritage. He slipped under the radar. It'll be on his mother's side, of course. I think I remember Anti-Cosmo saying once that due to the extra chromosome, witch heritage only comes from the dam."

"See, I told you guys he wasn't Mexican. You should've listened to me."

H.P. swatted his hair with the folder again. "That's really great, Sanderson. You know, I specifically didn't want to get Anti-Cosmo involved. You know how he gets about his genie conservation program. He'll want in on this. I didn't plan to share. Worse, he'll most likely drag Gary away to his castle and lock him up for excruciatingly painful, painful study, and then we'll be down to just the two Lovells. I was hoping for two humans who were genetically diverse, not related. That might help us in another 47 years. I can't multiply siblings. Now, explain how I'm supposed to keep a witch under wraps with Anti-Cosmo floating around here for the week."

Mr. Sanderson ducked again, although it didn't look like the folder hurt him at all. "I'm sure Anti-Cosmo won't figure it out unless someone tells him, sir. He really doesn't smell like a witch, and you, Ralston, and I are the only ones who would've seen his DNA, so–"

"Gary," Betty interrupted. "Are you crying?"

He wasn't, until she said that. H.P., Sanderson, and even Kenny focused their attention on him. Gary covered his face with the too-big jacket sleeves and started to sob as hot, rolling tears slithered down his cheeks and boiled against his skin.