_]move my car, after all.
“Thank you,” I say, “for moving my car and everything.”
He smiles at me again and out of the corner of my eye I think I see something up the road. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand not knowing. I smash open the door and dash up the side of the road, toward where I saw the man.
“What are you doing?” Nick yells after me. “Zara!”
“I saw him again.” I keep running, looking along the ground. Nick flies after me.
“What are you doing?” he says again.
“Looking for evidence,” I say and stop. I point at the ground. There, on top of dried-up mud and ice and twigs, are tiny specks of gold powder, like glitter, but even smaller. I stagger backward into Nick. “Oh my God.”
He squeezes my shoulders and then lets go to bend down and touch the powder. “It’s like dust, but gold.”
“Pixie dust,” I say. “How can it be pixie dust?”
“Pixie dust? What do you mean?”
“Devyn and Issie, they have a theory about some stuff that’s been happening to me. There’s this guy who keeps showing up. They think he’s a pixie. I know it sounds stupid. Pixie kings are supposed to leave dust like this.”
He brings his glittering finger closer to our faces. My face warms from his breath. It’s minty. His finger trembles, just the tiniest tremble. “Like this.”
“Yeah.” I step back and search his face to see if he thinks I’m ridiculous. “The whole pixie aspect of it is kind of whacked, but it could be a serial killer or someone who is completely mental. It could be his calling card or something. I don’t know. I don’t like it.”
“Me either.” He tugs on my sleeve. “Let’s go back to the car.”
“You don’t want to go see if he’s in there?” I gesture toward the woods.
“You don’t have boots on.”
“Oh. Right.” We walk back to the car and that’s when I see it on the back of his jacket, little gold flakes… like dust.
He follows me home to make sure I’m safe. In the driveway, I park Yoko and tell it, “John would be proud.”
I turn off the ignition and check out the scene. I did not make it in to register the car, but I think under the circumstances this is totally acceptable. It’s not every day you start believing in pixies or psych yourself out about opening the door and walking twenty feet to your grandmother’s house.
“Paranoid, Zara. You are being paranoid.” Telling myself this does not make it feel any better.
The sun has almost completely set. I open the door and start across the ice toward the front door. Grandma Betty has left on the porch light and has spread some grains of blue chemical stuff across the ground so the ice dissolves in little clumps, which was very nice of her. I should do that tomorrow, help out, you know?
Something cracks a twig in the woods just beyond the driveway.
I squeal and fast-walk to the porch, lunging up the steps in a totally ungraceful and wimpy way.
I slam the door open and lock it behind me.
I check the lock.
Okay, let’s face it, Maine is creepy. That’s all there is to it. Creepy, creepy, creepy and too damn cold.
For a second I wish that Nick Colt _had _ followed me all the way up the driveway. He’s cute and he has that whole I’m-going-to- keep-you-safe thing going on. Not like there’s anything to be scared of. What do pixies do? They frolic in flower gardens, right?
Only this guy points.
I walk over to the window that looks out at the driveway, the woods, the lawn. “I’m being ridiculous.”
I stare out into the dusky lawn. The woods at the edge of it seem full of secrets, full of unexplained things.
I never should have read all those scary books when I was little. What was my dad thinking keeping them in the house? Pain wells up in my heart and then the ache comes.
My dad. It is so hard to just think of him.
I turn away from the door and sit on the couch where he used to sit. I put my face in my hands and rock back and forth a little, but I do not
“Thank you,” I say, “for moving my car and everything.”
He smiles at me again and out of the corner of my eye I think I see something up the road. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand not knowing. I smash open the door and dash up the side of the road, toward where I saw the man.
“What are you doing?” Nick yells after me. “Zara!”
“I saw him again.” I keep running, looking along the ground. Nick flies after me.
“What are you doing?” he says again.
“Looking for evidence,” I say and stop. I point at the ground. There, on top of dried-up mud and ice and twigs, are tiny specks of gold powder, like glitter, but even smaller. I stagger backward into Nick. “Oh my God.”
He squeezes my shoulders and then lets go to bend down and touch the powder. “It’s like dust, but gold.”
“Pixie dust,” I say. “How can it be pixie dust?”
“Pixie dust? What do you mean?”
“Devyn and Issie, they have a theory about some stuff that’s been happening to me. There’s this guy who keeps showing up. They think he’s a pixie. I know it sounds stupid. Pixie kings are supposed to leave dust like this.”
He brings his glittering finger closer to our faces. My face warms from his breath. It’s minty. His finger trembles, just the tiniest tremble. “Like this.”
“Yeah.” I step back and search his face to see if he thinks I’m ridiculous. “The whole pixie aspect of it is kind of whacked, but it could be a serial killer or someone who is completely mental. It could be his calling card or something. I don’t know. I don’t like it.”
“Me either.” He tugs on my sleeve. “Let’s go back to the car.”
“You don’t want to go see if he’s in there?” I gesture toward the woods.
“You don’t have boots on.”
“Oh. Right.” We walk back to the car and that’s when I see it on the back of his jacket, little gold flakes… like dust.
He follows me home to make sure I’m safe. In the driveway, I park Yoko and tell it, “John would be proud.”
I turn off the ignition and check out the scene. I did not make it in to register the car, but I think under the circumstances this is totally acceptable. It’s not every day you start believing in pixies or psych yourself out about opening the door and walking twenty feet to your grandmother’s house.
“Paranoid, Zara. You are being paranoid.” Telling myself this does not make it feel any better.
The sun has almost completely set. I open the door and start across the ice toward the front door. Grandma Betty has left on the porch light and has spread some grains of blue chemical stuff across the ground so the ice dissolves in little clumps, which was very nice of her. I should do that tomorrow, help out, you know?
Something cracks a twig in the woods just beyond the driveway.
I squeal and fast-walk to the porch, lunging up the steps in a totally ungraceful and wimpy way.
I slam the door open and lock it behind me.
I check the lock.
Okay, let’s face it, Maine is creepy. That’s all there is to it. Creepy, creepy, creepy and too damn cold.
For a second I wish that Nick Colt _had _ followed me all the way up the driveway. He’s cute and he has that whole I’m-going-to- keep-you-safe thing going on. Not like there’s anything to be scared of. What do pixies do? They frolic in flower gardens, right?
Only this guy points.
I walk over to the window that looks out at the driveway, the woods, the lawn. “I’m being ridiculous.”
I stare out into the dusky lawn. The woods at the edge of it seem full of secrets, full of unexplained things.
I never should have read all those scary books when I was little. What was my dad thinking keeping them in the house? Pain wells up in my heart and then the ache comes.
My dad. It is so hard to just think of him.
I turn away from the door and sit on the couch where he used to sit. I put my face in my hands and rock back and forth a little, but I do not
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