"I want to know about the queen of the fairies," said Mack.
"I'm back because he is about to make his move."
"What do I care?"
Puck laughed. "Oh, you'll care."
"So tell me his name, then."
Puck was silent.
"No guessing games?" said Mack.
"Don't even think about his name," said Puck.
"I can't. I don't know what it is."
"Don't think about thinking about it. You might as well have flashing lights and a siren."
"What, he doesn't already know where I am?"
"But you don't want him to notice you in particular."
"I've been tramping all over Fairyland and just asking you his name is going to make him see what he hasn't seen till now?"
"Do what you want, then," said Puck. "Just giving you good advice."
"I'm not afraid of him like you are," said Mack.
"Cause you dumb as a muffler on a '57 Chevy."
"I wouldn't be dumb if you'd answer my questions."
"Boy, if I answered your questions you'd probably be dead by now."
"What happened to you, when we took you to the hospital—he did that, right?"
"Birds did it."
There was some reason Puck was so scared of him. "His birds, right?"
"Who else's? That place is Fairyland, and he king of Fairyland."
"Bush is President and American birds don't do what he says."
"President ain't king and America ain't Fairyland."
"Don't you have someplace to go this morning?" asked Puck. "Like school?"
"Plenty of time to catch the bus. Specially since I didn't have to go home to shower."
"You don't ride with any of the other kids from Baldwin Hills? They all got their own cars, don't they?"
"Not all," said Mack. "Not everybody rich in Baldwin Hills. And even some of the rich ones ride the bus so they don't have to take any shit about their fancy ride when they get to school."
"All about money in your world," said Puck. "Money be magic."
"Yeah, like you're the great social critic," said Mack. " 'What fools these mortals be.' "
"Oh yeah. Will Shakespeare. I loved that boy."
"I thought he was an asshole. According to you."
"Even assholes got somebody who loves them."
"I'm still wanting answers," said Mack. "You going to be here when I get back?"
"I be somewhere. Might be here."
Mack was sick of the dodging. It's not like he was longing for Puck's company the past four years. "Be here when I get back, you got it?"
Puck just laughed as Mack headed out the door.
As Mack knew, it wasn't even seven yet, and his bus wouldn't be by for another fifteen minutes.
He had time to stop by the house and pick up his book bag, which would make the day go easier.
Miz Smitcher was eating her breakfast. "Where do you go in the early morning?"
"Exercise," said Mack. "I like to walk."
"So you always say."
Mack pulled up his pants leg and moved his toes up and down so she could see the sharply defined calf muscles flex and extend. "Those are the legs of a man who could walk to the moon, if somebody put in a road."
"A man," she sighed. "Has it really been seventeen years since the stork brought you."
"Not a nice thing to call Ceese." Mack poured himself a glass of milk and downed it in four huge swallows.
"How tall are you now?" asked Miz Smitcher.
"Six four," said Mack. "And growing."
"You used to be smaller."
"So did you."
"Yeah, but you didn't know me when I was little." She handed him ten dollars. "Spending money. Take out a girl for a burger."
"Thanks, Miz Smitcher," he said. "But I got no girl to take out."
"You never will, either, you don't ask somebody."
"I don't ask less I think she say yes."
"So you have somebody in mind?"
"Every girl I looking at, she's on my mind," said Mack. "But they always looking at somebody else."
"I don't understand it," said Miz Smitcher. "Whoever your daddy and mama were, they must have been real good-looking people."
"Sometimes good-looking people have ugly children, sometimes ugly people have beautiful children. You just shuffle the cards and deal yourself a hand, when you get born."
"Aren't you the philosopher."
"I'm in AP English," said Mack. "I know everything now."
She laughed.
In the distance, Mack could hear the whine of a high-powered motorcycle.
Miz Smitcher shook her head. "Some people don't care how much noise they make."
"Wish I had a bike made noise like that."
"Now, Mack, we been over that. You want to drive, you have to have a job to pay for insurance. But if you have a job, your studies will suffer, and if you don't get a scholarship you ain't going to no college. So by not driving you're putting yourself through college."
"Just don't ask me why I got no girlfriend."
"I don't care, anyway, Miz Smitcher," said Mack. "It's fine as it is." He leaned down and kissed her forehead and then strode to the door, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and started jogging down the street to the bus stop.
He knew the bus driver saw him, but she never waited for anybody. They could have their hand inside the door, she'd still take off when the schedule said. "I run a on-time bus," she said. "So you want a ride, you have yourself a on-time morning."
So he'd jog to school. He'd done it often before. He usually beat the bus there, since he didn't have a circuitous route and a lot of stops, and he could jaywalk so he didn't have to wait for lights.
Only this morning, as he ran along La Brea, the whine of the motorcycle got close enough to become a roar, and then it pulled up just ahead of him. Riding it was a fine-looking black girl in a red windbreaker and no helmet, probably so she could show off her smooth henna-colored do. She turned around to face him.
"Miss your bus?"
Mack shrugged.
She turned off the engine. "I said, miss your bus?"
Mack grinned. "I said:" And then shrugged again.
"Oh," she said. "So you're not sure?"
"So I don't mind walking."
"I'm trying to pick you up. Don't you want to ride my bike?"
"That what you do? Pick up high school boys who miss the bus?"
"Big ones like you, yeah. Little ones I just throw back."
"So you know where my high school is?"
"I know everything, boy," she said.
"You call me boy, I get to call you girl?"
"So tell me your name, you don't want to be boy."
"Mack Street."
"I said your name, not your address."
He started to explain, but she just laughed. "I'm messing with you, Mack Street. I'm Yolanda White, but people I like call me Yo Yo."
"Not yet. It's Yolanda to you."
"What about Miz White?"
"Not till my gee-maw dies, and my mama after her."
"May I have a ride to school, Miz Yolanda?" asked Mack in his most whiny, obsequious voice.
"I thinks you owes me a ride now, since you stopped me running and now I be late."
"What a Tom," she said. "Next thing you'll be carrying mint juleps to massuh."
For all his bravado in talking sass to her, he wasn't sure about how to hold on, once he was straddling the bike behind her. He put his hands at her waist, but she just grabbed them and pulled his arms so sharp around her middle that he bumped his head into the back of hers and his whole front was pressed up against her back. He liked the way it felt.
"Hang on, Mack Street, cause this is one little engine that can."
There was no conversation possible on the way there, because the engine was so loud Mack couldn't have heard the trumpets announcing the Second Coming. Besides which, Mack couldn't have talked, what with all the praying. She took corners laying over on her side and he was sure she was going to put the bike right down, a dozen times. But she never did. Her tires clung to the road like a fridge magnet, and she let him off in front of the school before half the buses had arrived. He kind of wished there were more kids there to see him arrive like this, riding behind a woman so fine. Only it wouldn't matter—they'd just make fun of him because she was driving and he was the passenger. Not that he minded. Those who didn't resent him because he studied hard and got good grades made fun of him because he didn't drive and took long walks and didn't dress cool. "Your mama buy those pants for you?" one boy asked him one day. "Or she sew that out of one of her own pantlegs?"