Free Captivate by Carrie Jones Page B

for being political activists, though they all have major medical issues. They weren’t even allowed to appear for a trial. It drives me nuts. I shoot off an e-mail to the Zimbabwe government and consider getting ready for school.
    Instead I work on the pixie handbook for a bit. I’m working on the chapter “Saving yourself from Pixies.” Even that gets old, though. So I mossy up and open the shades.
    The sky is bright blue, a brand-new day. I wonder how those captured monks I’ve read about feel, what their sky looks like, if they can even see it, if their candle of hope shudders against shrill scenes.
    The woods just beyond the driveway sway with the wind, and for a second it seems as if something is moving between the trunks, a man. I shiver. It reminds me of my father always vanishing before he finally told me who he was, what he wanted.
    “He’s locked up,” I announce to the window. My breath fogs it up. I use my fingertips to wipe the fog away. “And I refuse to let the other pixie guy be out there.”
    I try to make it sound tougher. “Absolutely refuse.”
    The woods sway some more and for a second I sway with them, dizzy, confused. I shake my head, imagine Nick’s broad face, the line of his chin, his mischief-twinkling eyes. I turn away from the woods and go take a shower.
    It’s when I’m getting dressed that I get an idea. My stepdad wrote in the margin of an old Stephen King novel a long time ago, tipping us off about pixies. Maybe he did that again. Just because Betty and my mom don’t know anything about Valhalla or Valkyries doesn’t mean he didn’t. I race into his old bedroom and eye the ratty-looking paperbacks in his bookcase. They are almost all Stephen King. The top shelf starts with King’s first book, Carrie, and goes on chronologically to this short story collection, Nightmares and Dreamscapes, which was published in 1993. Stephen King wrote a lot of books after that, but they aren’t here. They are probably at our house in Charleston. I thumb through them all, flipping through the pages, looking for my dad’s writing in the margins; little notes about things, signs that he existed. Sometimes just seeing a page earmarked makes my stomach hitch up. Losing people you love affects you. It is buried inside of you and becomes this big, deep hole of ache. It doesn’t magically go away, even when you stop officially mourning. I do not want that hole to get any bigger. I do not want to lose anyone else.
    I thumb through the books pretty quickly and find nothing. I slide the paperback into its place. There are other books here and I should go through them too, but I can’t be late for school. I pull out an H.P. Lovecraft collection of short stories. On the cover is this monster hiding in the far back of this horrifying cavern that looks straight from hell. The cavern is beneath a tombstone.
    “Creepy,” I mutter.
    I find a couple phrases in the margin. The first one is: “Leave Risk Sixty.”
    The second is longer: “A Baa Ebbed Fly Tight Vigor Trolls.” Total gibberish. I tuck the book under my arm and bring it downstairs with me and say to the room, “Great.
    Thanks, Dad.”
    Downstairs, Betty’s left a note on the fridge:
    Early shift. Take your pain medicine. Do not sell it at school. JUST KIDDING! Sort of.
    I drop my spoon on the floor. “Crud.”
    It clanks. I pick it up and stand, woozy. I have to steady myself by placing a hand on the fridge. I throw the spoon into the sink. Metal hits metal. All my organs seem to shudder inside me. I am instantly cold as I peek out the window. There’s nothing out there, just shadows. I try to uncurl my fear and pour some Cocoa Puffs. The crunch of chocolate balls is strangely tasteless in my mouth. I check to make sure my ankle bracelet is still safely fastened. It is.
    “There is nothing to worry about,” I announce.
    The refrigerator hums in happy oblivion. That’s the only answer I get.

9
Pixie Tip
    Pixie eyes turn up a tiny bit