Thistle Down

Four

“WHAT HAPPENED TO DUSTY?” Thistle asked no one in particular.

The young girls kept bouncing their little ball and collecting the oddly shaped metal stars.

“Oh, some bully beat the crap out of her in the schoolyard about a billion years ago,” the blonde teenager replied, just returning from her tour. She shooed the children into their father’s office.

“Everyone in town knows that story,” snorted the darker girl. “One of the advantages of living in a small town. We all know each other’s dirty laundry.”

Gossip! Thistle wiggled with excited anticipation. Good gossip provided food for Pixies when pollen was rare. But were these girls reliable gossips?

She eyed them closely: exact opposites, tall and fair, short and dark, heavily made up and bare-faced, careful embellishments of lace and jewelry to the blonde’s pioneer costume, the other’s stark and prim. Yet they seemed joined at the hip, true friends. Like Thistle and Dusty used to be.

“Pretend I’m not from around here,” Thistle prodded the girls. “Pretend I was born and raised by wild Pixies in The Ten Acre Wood.”

Both girls giggled. “If it was The Ten Acre Wood, then you were raised by pirates. More barbaric and unlettered than Pixies. Pixies have better manners,” M’Velle said.

“What about Dusty?” Thistle prodded before the girls went into a gigglefest about childhood games. “I know she was really sick for a while, but I thought she got over it.”

“She beat the cancer with chemo and a bone marrow transplant, but her mom insisted on homeschooling her even after she got better. They always eat organic, take their shoes off at the door, and wash their hands like a hundred times a day. Dusty tutored us last summer, but she did most of it by email. I’m Meggie, by the way.” The blonde tossed the words over her shoulder as she reached inside the icebox for a cold drink. She didn’t clean off the can top as Dusty had.

“And I’m M’Velle,” the brunette with milk-chocolate skin added. “Ms. Carrick takes books from the library around to old folks in town who don’t get out much. And she helps her mom organize Garden Club meetings and stuff, again by email. The old folks, and those of us who work at the museum, may be the only people she sees face-to-face.”

“Her mom went ballistic over the cancer thing,” Meggie took up the story. “Blamed the school system for letting Dusty ‘catch’ it when her scrapes and bruises from a playground dustup didn’t heal. As if you can ‘catch’ cancer.” She rolled her eyes in disgust.

“Sounds like guilt to me,” M’Velle snorted. “Mrs. Carrick blames herself for not being able to protect her child from cancer, and then she couldn’t heal her because she wasn’t a perfect bone marrow match. Anyone who has passed high school biology knows that a full sibling has the best chance of being a match.” M’Velle rolled her eyes. “Ms. Carrick plays in the dust down in the basement rather than face reality. And her mom encourages it because she’s still afraid she’ll catch something from another person that will kill her precious baby girl.”

“You know, if Ms. Carrick got out more, she’d learn a few social skills and feel less awkward in public. She’d learn to talk about something-anything-but history and this museum,” Meggie said quietly. “She tells us all the time that practice makes perfect. She should take her own advice. Maybe she’d make a few friends if she took the trouble to go find them.”

Thistle hummed a bit of displeasure into the tune that clung to the back of her throat. Dum dee dee do dum dum.

“What she needs is a date with a bunch of people. Have a few laughs with a guy before she goes on a solo date,” Meggie said.

Thistle wandered around and around the room, her gaze flitting from this to that. Starshine! She missed her wings.

“She needs more than a few laughs. She needs to find someone she can take a mating flight with,” Thistle mused. The music inside her soared in memory.

“A what?” both girls asked in chorus.

“In Pixie, when you fall in love, the truly, deeply, forever kind of love, you both fly up to the tallest branches of the Patriarch Oak in the center of The Ten Acre Wood, the one with mistletoe. Then the female flattens her wings, the male grasps her from behind, and they plummet downward. His wings will slow the flight, but aren’t strong enough to actually fly them both. The girl has to trust him to get her to the ground safely.” Thistle settled on the floor in a corner with her legs crossed. Her middle ached so badly she couldn’t stand up anymore. Her internal music died on a sour note.

“Before you can love that deeply, you have to be friends. There’s responsibility in friendship.”

“Wow! That sounds like the best kind of love ever.” Meggie’s eyes glazed over, lost in a dream.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to face each other, so both of the Pixies can support the flight?” M’Velle asked. She sounded a bit bewildered.

“Oh, that’s fun, too,” Thistle brightened a bit. “But the other, the mating flight depends on that deep and abiding trust. You have to trust the man with your life as well as your heart and soul. He completes you, and fulfills you. There’s nothing else like it.”

“What a beautiful metaphor. Pixie love. I’ll have to use that expression, start a new fad,” Meggie said dreamily, still lost in her imagination. “Maybe I’ll write a story about it.”

“Sounds like you’ve had one of those kinds of relationships.” M’Velle’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “What happened? I mean why did the police drop you off here with nothing but a borrowed T-shirt to wear? Seems to me, if you had a guy you trusted so much, you should have called him rather than Dusty Carrick.”

“He betrayed me,” Thistle replied softly. And I’ll have my revenge on Alder yet.

“If my boyfriend ever did that to me, I’d kill him,” M’Velle insisted.

“Killing is too good for him,” Thistle said, an unmusical chuckle formed in the back of her throat. “I gave him a comeuppance. A really good one.” She laughed long and hard in memory of her best trick ever.

Then she sobered as she remembered how Alder had lashed out in anger. He’d blasted her so hard she’d landed in Memorial Fountain, stark naked in the middle of rush hour without wings to fly her back home.

No Pixie ever plays tricks on another Pixie. Ever. Go live with humans a while and learn to appreciate being the victim of Pixie tricks, Alder had said.

“Dusty needs to learn to trust people again. I know just the man she belongs with,” Thistle said instead, looking toward Joe Newberry’s office as the sound of childish giggles erupted in the background. “And you girls are going to help me teach her.” Maybe then Thistle Down could find a way home.

“What? No way.”

Thistle loosened her clenched fists, hoping she had a little Pixie dust left. With a sharp flash of her arms she flicked her fingers at the girls. A satisfying shaft of lavender, pink, blue, and gold sparkles shot forth from each fingertip.

Meggie and M’Velle gasped in wonder. “What was that?” they asked in unison.

“A diversion to get your attention. Now listen to me,” Thistle insisted.

“Well why didn’t you just say you had, you know, like something important to say,” Meggie grumbled.

“This is important. Dusty is your friend.”

Both girls rolled their eyes in response.

“Believe me, she is. How else did you get your jobs this summer? She spoke up for you. She helped you both get better grades in school, so you’d qualify for the jobs.” She silently thanked the network of Pixie gossip for that bit of information.

“Yeah, she did,” M’Velle admitted. “And I appreciate it. She showed me the best way to get away from prejudice is to get an education.”

“So now it’s time for you to be a friend to her. Go talk to Dusty. Nothing special, just be friendly, recount your day, laugh at the antics of the children in your tour groups. Let her know that you trust her with your secrets. Be as good a friend to her as she has been to you,” Thistle instructed. “I just wish I could go downstairs and help, but underground is death to a Pixie,” she mumbled to herself.

“No, I’m afraid you can’t assemble your float on the museum grounds tomorrow. The rules say you have to bring it here complete for judging.” Dusty said anxiously into the phone in Joe’s office. The room was too quiet. She needed background music to keep her from listening to the old house creak as it settled. Or strain to hear how Thistle was getting on with Meggie and M’Velle.

Her boss had taken his daughters to day care and then gone home to change to casual business clothes. She had the place to herself for a couple of minutes until Thistle or Meggie or someone else came looking for her with a problem only she could solve.

“But we just can’t get everyone assembled at the garage and then transport them all to the museum by nine!” wailed the chairman of the Chamber of Commerce.

“I’m sorry, sir. Those are the rules you agreed to when you sent in your application for a place in the parade. You signed the agreement. Besides, there will be another activity on the grounds that won’t be clear until nine. You cannot show up early just to assemble your hay bales and park benches on the back of a flatbed truck.”

The man complained and grumbled with a threat to take the restrictions to the City Council. Dusty held firm, happy that she could conduct this conversation over the phone and not have to face the man. One scowl, and she knew she’d cave in to his demands and ruin the inspection for the grant.

Eventually, he hung up on her.

No sooner had she replaced the phone in its cradle when it rang again.

“Ms. Carrick, I really must insist you open your parents’ home for the Historical Tour Wednesday night,” Janelle Meacham, chair of the Historical Preservation Committee, demanded without preamble. “It’s bad enough that Mabel Gardiner won’t open her home. We can’t bypass yours as well.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Meacham. I can’t do that. My parents are on sabbatical until September. No one will be home to decorate and show the public rooms.” Dusty bit her lip. She began to shake at the idea of playing hostess to hundreds of strangers wandering through the big Queen Anne style home and gardens.

“Nonsense, what else have you and Dick to do with your time? I’ll email you the recipe for those shortbread cookies…”

“No. I can’t eat white flour or processed sugar. I will not bake for your tour, nor will I cancel several meetings and appointments to be there. You will just have to do without stopping at the house. You can admire the gardens from the street.”

“But your mother always…”

“I am not my mother.” This time Dusty hung up first.

Hands shaking as much as her middle, she made a note to make sure Dick mowed the lawn.

Her lunch wanted to come up. She wished now she hadn’t eaten the second half of the chicken salad on homemade whole wheat bread. She’d eaten no red meat and only organic fruits and vegetables, free-range chicken, or wild-caught fish for so long she didn’t think she could digest anything else. But today, even her wholesome diet felt like a lump of processed glue.

She needed a long walk in the fresh air. But the emails for the coming week of festivities kept piling up.

The phone rang again.

“Damn.” Dusty stared at the malevolent tool of society. She blushed at her own bad language. Thought a moment. “Double damn. Skene County Historical Society,” she answered sweetly.

“Desdemona, why didn’t you answer your cell phone? I’ve left several messages today.” Her mother’s voice sounded fuzzy over the long-distance connection.

“Sorry, Mom. I turned it off while I was doing a tour. We’re very busy to today with the start of Festival and all.” Dusty pulled her phone out of her pocket and flicked on the power. Sure enough there was one, and only one, message from an unknown overseas prefix.

“Oh, well, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to make sure you made time to go to the Health Food Market. You can’t trust the local grocer to have truly organic food. And the farmers’ market isn’t much better. They say they use natural fertilizers, but you never know. And did you find the bottle of hand sanitizer in the back of the pantry? It’s not as good as soap and water, but in an emergency…”

“Yes, Mom. Dick went to the store on Monday.” She crossed her fingers at the little lie. She’d bought organic foods from the local farmers’ market last Saturday and found they tasted no different and felt no different from the more expensive specialty market. “I know where the hand sanitizer is. Now I really have to go. We’re very busy…”

“Of course. Just checking. See you in a couple of weeks. Oh, and my college roommate’s son will call you. He wants to escort you to the Ball…” The rest of her words dissolved in static. She dropped the receiver into its cradle.

Dusty breathed heavily and resisted the urge to run to the basement. She really did need to tackle some of those emails. But the privacy she craved wasn’t about to happen in Joe’s office. Was Norton’s Family Diner any less private than this! Everyone in town ended up there at some point in the day, even if only for coffee on the run.

“Can I talk to you a minute, Dusty?” Meggie opened the door a crack and spoke meekly.

“Um, I have twenty-seven, no make that thirty-one emails to answer.” Dusty bit her lower lip.

“This will only take a minute.” Meggie squeezed into the office, keeping the door closed as much as possible. She kept looking over her shoulder as if needing to keep this visit secret.

Curiosity replaced Dusty’s annoyance at the invasion of her space.

“What’s up, Meggie?” Dusty leaned forward, forearms braced on the desk. “This hesitancy isn’t like you.”

“I know. It’s just that… just that I need some advice and you’re a friend.”

“Huh?”

“Look, I know I don’t usually bother you with this kind of thing, but… but you see, there’s this guy. This guy from school. He’s really cute and everything. We could have true Pixie love, I think…” She trailed off, looking as puzzled as Dusty felt.

“And you’re asking me for advice, why?” She decided to ignore the reference to Pixies.

“You’re a friend-and an adult. It just seems like you know a lot about people, even though you don’t get out much and all.”

Like never, Dusty thought.

“I know a lot about the people who founded this town,” Dusty hedged.

“But people are people, whether they live now or a hundred fifty years ago. And I need to know how to make this guy notice me.”

“Invite him to the Ball,” Dusty said flatly. “Girls are allowed to do that now. Especially since it’s work related and you work here.” That was stretching it a bit. Meggie rarely worked even though she showed up every day.

“That’s a good idea. But how do I know he’ll come?”

“You don’t. Not unless you ask.” Dusty had answered similar questions from the girls, but usually through email and their tutoring sessions. She smiled a bit inwardly. These girls were her friends. Sort of. And, just like friends, they…

Oh, God, this was starting to sound like a setup. Who was going to be the one to comment that Dusty should follow her own advice and ask Chase to accompany her to the Masque Ball?

“Thanks, that’s a really good idea.” Meggie retreated with her usual determination and eagerness to return to the lounge and her can of cola. She left the door open a crack.

Dusty shifted to look at the computer screen. Her eye caught the blinking red light on line two. She hadn’t heard it ring during her conversations, and the girls had strict orders not to tie up the lines with personal calls.

She pushed the chair away from the desk to go investigate-she dismissed the urge to lift the receiver and listen in-when M’Velle slipped into the office with the same furtive over-the-shoulder-glances as Meggie.

“May I speak with you?” M’Velle asked. Dusty noticed how her diction and grammar were more precise than Meggie’s more casual style.

“Yes.” Dusty dragged out the word, suddenly suspicious that someone wanted her distracted and off the phone.

“It’s about my college application essay,” M’Velle said, approaching the desk more decisively than her initial entrance.

At least this was something Dusty felt qualified to discuss. “What about the essay? I thought you’d finished it and were just waiting for a work recommendation from Mr. Newberry.”

“Well, yes. But now there’s this scholarship I found out about and I want to change my essay to fit.”

“What scholarship?”

“DAR.”

“Daughters of the American Revolution. They don’t usually give those to anyone who can’t prove they had an ancestor who fought in the Revolutionary War.”

“I know. And finding documentation for blacks prior to 1864 is almost impossible. There are only a few bookkeeping entries of the purchase and sale of slaves, often without names. But I’m not all black. My grandfather on my mom’s side is white, and very proud of being able to trace his ancestry back to the Civil War. I think I can prove his family owned land in South Carolina back to the mid-1700s.”

“So what about your essay?”

“I want to write about the difficulty in tracing my black ancestry because slaves weren’t citizens and records of births and deaths, and parentage is so spotty, especially if a baby was sired by a white. It’s worse than trying to trace the kings and queens of Pixie. And then I want to compare it to how easy it was to find out about my grandfather’s family.” M’Velle’s eyes lit up with excitement.

“Sounds like a great topic.” Dusty leaned forward, equally excited. She wanted to bounce ideas off the wall with this girl and help her come up with a solid research plan and outline.

“But will the DAR approve of it?”

“That’s another question entirely. My mom might know. She’s a member.”

“Oh. I thought you knew about every scholarship available.” M’Velle’s expression fell, and her eyes grew dark with resentment and disappointment.

“Let me send out a couple of emails to people who might have some answers for you,” Dusty offered. “Mom’s in England for the summer, and she’s never been good about checking her email or answering it.” Though she called every week. Sometimes twice. Or three times.

“You’d do that?”

“Of course. You do good work; study hard now that you’re over your sophomore slump. I want you to succeed.”

“Thanks, Ms. Carrick.” M’Velle looked as if she might reach across the desk and hug Dusty. Then she thought better of it and straightened her posture again. “Can I run my research notes past you? Make sure I’m not jumping to conclusions without facts to back it up?”

“Certainly. Bring them to work tomorrow.”

The girl waved blithely and retreated. She, too, showed much more determination in her step upon leaving than arriving.

“Uh, M’Velle, is this sudden interest in consulting me a setup?”

M’Velle paused at the door. She looked over her shoulder, directly into Dusty’s eyes. “No. We just want to let you know that we value your friendship.” Then she vanished and closed the door with a firm snick of the latch.

Dusty checked the phone. The red light on line two had blinked off as she stared at it.

“Mission accomplished, whatever you two are up to.” Now to call Dick and figure out a way to send him to buy Thistle some clothes and then figure out what to do with her. She almost wished Dick was still dating Phelma Jo occasionally-though their relationship had been more off than on since high school. PJ Nelson had an innate sense of fashion. Not something learned because she didn’t have anyone at home to learn it from. But when it came to sizes, colors, and cut, PJ was the one Dusty wished she could consult.