Troll Or Derby, A Fairy Wicked Tale (2 page)

Dave and his gang of junkie slaves had been working beneath the trailer, and sure enough, they’d been too distracted, dumb, or high to put away a set of screwdrivers, some ratchets, and a really, really heavy wrench.

It’s no crowbar, but it’ll have to do.

Liquid shit dripped on me, but I didn’t have time to care. My sister was screaming her head off in a burning trailer and I was reasonably certain she was out of her mind on drugs.

I flung the wrench at the window, but it didn’t break. I tried again, and again, but only managed to crack the damned glass, and Gennifer still hadn’t appeared at the window to save herself.

There was only one thing to do. I grabbed the wrench and ran to the kitchen end of the trailer. I took a deep breath of fresh air, then I hurled myself through the cloud of fumes. The fire and smoke obscured everything, and I shut my eyes against the sting of chemicals. For a moment, I thought I saw the shapes of blue and orange dancers in the flames.

I braced myself for the heat, but I didn’t feel it. Pops and hisses all around me sounded like whispers or cackles. The fire was eating through the trailer, and I felt the floor giving out with every step. I wouldn’t let it take Gennifer—I wouldn’t let it consume me, either.

The hallway was short, and the door Gennifer was locked behind very thin. Her screams were so loud, there was no point trying to yell to her that I was coming in, especially if it meant inhaling more smoke.

I swung at the handle, holding the wrench like a baseball bat. The brass knob fell to the floor, a chunk of splintered wood still clinging to it. I kicked the bedroom door in, and Gennifer stopped screaming long enough to pass out.

Lovely. Now I’ll have to carry her.

She wore a black bra and jeans, and her skin was burning with fever. I put my hands under her armpits and lugged her over my shoulder. She had at least 75 pounds on me, so I should have crumpled under her, I suppose. Instead, I stumbled into the door frame as I carried her across the spongy floor of the burning trailer.

The heat touched my hair—I could hear it sizzle, could smell it burning, even—but I felt nothing but determination as I carried my sister out of that meth lab.

With Gennifer still on my back, I jumped. She fell hard on top of me, and I was just pushing her off, struggling for breath, when the trailer collapsed onto the ground. The sound of sirens in the distance was no surprise—the smoke was so black and thick that farmers in the vicinity surely could tell this was no typical trash fire. I pulled my sister as far away from the flames as I could and watched for the EMTs to roll up.

Gennifer groaned, and her eyes flickered open for a sec. She met my gaze and frowned. She closed her eyes again and drew a deep breath.

“I’m going to kill that son of a bitch,” I said.

“Dave didn’t do it,” she said. Her words were slurred. She reached up to rub her eyes, lazily, as if waking up from a nap.

“Yeah, right, Gennifer. He’s such a saint, locking you in a burning trailer and all.”

I didn’t see the point of arguing with her, though. I let it drop.

Something sticky and hot dripped too close to my eyes, and I reached to wipe it off.
Please don’t let it be crap from the sewer line. I pulled my hand away, and it was covered in blood. Even better.
I won’t think of that now—nope, not at all.

The fire truck roared up the gravel driveway. Guys in black rubber suits jumped off the truck—someone put a face mask on Gennifer and asked me if there was anyone still inside.

I shook my head no, and then I fell through trees, air, sky, into the black. I felt my head hitting the hard ground near where my backpack lay, could hear the EMTs shouting, and then—nothing.

Chapter 1.5

I’d Love to Change the World

Harlow

I want you to understand something. I didn’t rise up out of the ground fully grown, I wasn’t the bastard child of an angry god, and I didn’t become this way because I was cursed. My skin’s not green and I won’t turn to stone in the sunlight.

When I was young, I had a mother, and she was a troll. I had a mother
and
a father who were both trolls, in fact—and we were a family. Yes, I had a family. Just like you.

Scared yet?

Almost everything I know about humans, I’ve learned from their trash.
Redbook and Woman’s Day
show up at my doorstep more than any other source, I reckon. It may not be a perfect picture of what your life is like, but I’m betting I’ve got a more accurate view of your lifestyle than you have of mine, at least for the time being.

For starters, there’s a shopping mall full of differences between troll family life, and how human families live. Trolls, for instance, do not typically invest a lot of emotion into their own young—often don’t even raise them. They especially don’t socialize with their relatives for special occasions. You won’t see us breaking out the patio umbrellas and the ice chests full of soda for a family barbecue. A special occasion in troll culture is when the villagers rise up and try to corral one of us in a cave, or something like that. At least, that’s how it used to be. That’s what my mom told me. I remember that.

I remember a lot more now than I did, when this adventure started—but I’ll get to that.

Best I can tell, my nuclear family was more like a human family than a troll one. The extended family, as you English would call it, was a mess. A big, illegal, drug-running, slaving mess. But I’ll get to that. This is my part of the story and I want to begin in the beginning. I’m not a storyteller. It’s not my profession. Bear with me while I sort this out, okay?

Sure, you’re going to think what you want about trolls. I mean, you’ve seen movies, you’ve read Rowling and Tolkien. I’m telling you that the real-live working-class trolls of the Midwest are nothing like you’ve been told. We’re capable of great violence, sure, and I’ll concede that our proclivity is largely toward evil, but let’s face it—a lot of that comes down to breeding and culture.

In our world, might most definitely makes right. That’s the fundamental law of troll culture, although most trolls would forego the flowery wording and just express it with a grunt and blow to the head.

Trolls as a species, though,
are
capable of great love. I know, because I’ve experienced it. You don’t live with something like that and ever forget. If you do, you’re a fool, anyway.

My parents weren’t totally solitary like so many other trolls are. They even had a very close friendship with a fairy family called the Wheelers. If we’d celebrated holidays, the Wheelers were the ones we’d have invited over for a Fourth of July cookout. We didn’t do that a lot, that I can recall. We
did
raid sinkholes filled with garbage on a few occasions, though. Good times.

The Wheelers were not just fairies, they were Protectors. Fleet of foot and quick of mind, their instincts were so well-tuned as to be mistaken for psychic powers, by most. According to my mother, in the old days humans and fairies alike worshiped or feared the breed of fairy the Wheelers were. Their massive black wings shimmering in air above a crowd of would-be foes were beautiful and awesome—I remember that, too. Sometimes. The memories come and go, unless I’m looking at Deb. Then I can’t forget.

Anyway, these two particular Wheelers, Marnie and Mannox, were so powerful and strong, everyone lived in fear of them. Everyone but my folks, and me, I guess. The Wheelers were my fairy godparents. I don’t remember much about them, but I remember
that
.

Trying to remember is a full-time job. I’ve visited the library in Bloomington, and even picked through the local bookstore in Bedrock, curious about what the old days used to be like. Maybe there’d be a book there, or something. I read in a muddy copy of
Psychology Today
once that some therapists use fairy tales to trigger vital memories in their patients—and I used to get these blank spots, this fogginess.

Anyway, my point is, among the children’s stories and the romantic teen fiction, and even in a lot of the comic books, there’s some truth. Mostly fiction, but if you look hard enough, you can see through the tall tales, and find the common thread within. I’ve always been good at that sort of thing. Figuring stuff out.

The one thing I wish I’d figured out sooner was what to do about my uncle Jag.

Why? Well, for starters, my uncle killed my parents, and my fairy godparents. It was immediately after the bonding ceremony between their baby daughter and me. The Wheelers had pledged to protect my parents, and by extension, me. My parents were to protect Deb, and I was, by extension …

Well, I jump ahead of myself. I told you I’m not good with stories.

I should start with an introduction, shouldn’t I?

My name is Harlow Saarkenner. I am an American Troll living in rural Indiana, and this is the story of how I met a kick-ass rollergirl, rejoined a rock band, and lived happily ever after.

In a landfill. Did I mention that?

But there’s more. Stay tuned. I’m just going to tell it like it happened, best I can. Deb will fill in the rest.

Chapter Two

Even Cowgirls Get the Blues

Deb

Taking care of Gennifer has been a full-time job for as long as I can remember. Even before high school, when her friends started openly calling me “freak,” “queer,” and other charming things, my big sister resented me for having to watch her all the time.

Mom gave me no choice. She drank a lot and spent most of her time asleep on the living room couch in our trailer. I stopped worrying about her sometime in elementary school—someone called Child Protective Services once, and we were taken away to a children’s home for a few days. Gennifer got smacked around and I got beaten pretty badly by the other kids. I think we were both relieved when Mom came to pick us up, freshly-pressed and sparkly clean, swearing up and down to the group home Matrons that the whole thing had been a misunderstanding.

We’re related to someone—a judge, I guess—and the whole thing was swept under the rug. Ever since then, I just look out for Gennifer and me and figure Mom can fend for herself.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve kept Mom out of trouble best I can. If all she does is drink herself numb every day, and doesn’t spend all the Social Security before the bills get paid, I don’t consider her such an awful parent. There are worse ways to live. In a town as small as Bedrock, Indiana, I know plenty of people who have it worse than a drunk for a mom.

Drunk or not, she was probably going to beat my ass for what had happened to Gennifer in the fire. If I was the town reject, Gennifer was the closest thing Bedrock had to a debutante. While I was hanging out with the other rink rats or skating around on my outdoor wheels, Mom was putting together scrapbooks of Gennifer’s achievements. You know, Laurents County Pork Festival Queen, winner of the most inventive nail decal competition in the 4-H fair, and runner-up in the Girl Scout dance-off. That was before she started sneaking off with Dave, but Mom hadn’t caught up with reality just yet.

Next to my sister, I felt like a troll. I guess when she started getting drunk (or crunk, or whatever they called it), I felt like she was coming down to my level a little bit—you know, where us real people live. People who make mistakes and don’t have to look perfect all the time. But, whatever—drugs are for idiots and I hate the way she started acting, whether she was high or not. I didn’t want to see her turn into Mom, sleeping on the couch and griping at someone to take care of her, all blobbed out like Jabba the Hutt.

The Emergency Medical Center in Bedrock barely qualifies as a hospital, but that was where they took us after the fire. Gennifer was unconscious for a couple of hours. The nurses asked me for our home number, but Mom wasn’t answering the phone.

It was Homecoming Night, and I was pretty sure she’d be at the salon getting her hair and nails done to match Gennifer’s get-up. In fact, it was kind of weird that Gennifer would have skipped an afternoon of pampering with Mom to do drugs with Dave, but I guess that’s how far she’d fallen. Surely being crowned Homecoming Queen was going to get her higher than Dave’s meth, right? But what do I know about how junkies think?