Cold Cereal (The Cold Cereal Saga) Read online

  “Call me Mick.” Mick slid down from the bed and circled Scott’s small room, casting his eyes toward this and that. He had the impatient look of someone pretending to shop when all he really wanted to do was use your bathroom. Then he paused at the window. It didn’t face much of anything apart from the alley, but if you stood at the edge and looked through it obliquely, as Mick was doing now, you could see just a sliver of the town at large: its crosshatched trees and factory on the hill. He took a drink of something from a little metal container in his pocket and grimaced as he swallowed. “Can’t believe yeh live here. Of all places, this.”

  Scott frowned. “What’s wrong with Goodborough?” It wasn’t New York, to be sure—it was small and quiet, and nearly everyone who lived there worked for the cereal company in one way or another. But it was nicer than their last home, and it even got tourists: visitors who loved Goodco cereals so much they left bigger cities to come here, to buy souvenirs, to take the tour.

  “Yeh don’t even know. Course yeh don’t. No one digs in the dirt anymore.”

  “Uh-huh. In New York you said you’d explain what’s going on,” Scott said. “If I freed you.”

  “Aye, I did.” Mick turned from the window. “So I am honor bound to tell yeh that I am one o’ the Fair Folk, the Good Folk of the daoine sídhe, and I am a very long way from home.”

  Scott inhaled. “You are a leprechaun.”

  Mick scowled. “I am a clurichaun. A clurichaun. I amn’t no bleedin’ leprechaun. Does my suit look green to you?”

  “No.”

  “So I amn’t a leprechaun. But I am one o’ the Fay, one o’ Queen Titania’s court, an’ probably so are you.”

  “I’m … what?”

  “Scott!” called his mother. “Breakfast!”

  So quite possibly the most important conversation of Scott’s life was just then interrupted by waffles, and there are worse things.

  CHAPTER 10

  “You look at that,” said Reggie Dwight to his publicist, but en español. He’d landed in Madrid twelve hours ago and kept insisting everyone listen to his second-semester Spanish. “You look at that, below to the window, in the street.” He paced across his suite to another window in the bedroom, then back to the first.

  “I saw them,” said his publicist, Angela, in English. Below Reggie’s hotel window, on the sidewalk of Madrid’s Calle Gran Vía, were a camera crew and three lonely Spaniards with picket signs. Two of these signs were in Spanish, the third read GOD SAVE THE QUEEN (FROM REGGIE DWIGHT). He actually found it kind of clever.

  “I have…,” Reggie began, but faltered. He wanted to say he had protesters, but settled for “revolutionaries.”

  “It’s nothing. Someone on the hotel staff must have blabbed.”

  “Is exciting. My heart is fat.”

  “Can you please stop speaking Spanish?” Angela chirped. “I wouldn’t ask except it’s making me want to stab pens in my ears.”

  “I’m just saying it’s kind of exhilarating. All the sudden attention.” Both Reggie’s last movie and album had failed to meet sales expectations, and he’d been feeling a little neglected. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity, right?”

  “Sure,” said Angela. “Publicists love that expression.”

  Three days ago Reggie had punched the Queen of England in the face. He had done it for some very good reasons that he was nonetheless now at a loss to explain to anyone else.

  “Okay,” he said, still watching the street. “What are we doing?”

  “We’re still waiting to hear back from the Late Show people, but there is no way they’re not having you on. And this week everyone you talk to is going to call you Sir Reggie Dwight or Sir Reginald if we have to pin a note to your shirt.”

  “I don’t know,” said Reggie, rubbing his neck. “I don’t really go in for titles and all that—”

  “Please. The only thing you love more than your title is pretending you don’t love your title. Everyone will be reminded that you’re still a Knight of the Realm and the queen hasn’t disqualified or excommunicated you or whatever despite you punching her in the face, so if you’re good enough for Her Majesty, you should be good enough for them. I mean, do you realize that even a couple of your stalkers have gone quiet lately?”

  “Only a couple?” Reggie joked, but he recognized that the really obsessive fans didn’t tend to just fade away. They either loved you or they were suddenly sending you portraits of yourself made with dead insects.

  “Well, that one accountant still sends you daily email,” said Angela.

  “What about?”

  “The usual. Bogeymen, secret societies. Rubbish. But here’s something nice: Goodco still wants you for that commercial.”

  “I thought Steven already said no to them. I don’t do American commercials.”

  “I want you to reconsider. It’s a huge vote of confidence that they’re still offering, and this could be a very good move. That talking police dog comedy you just wrapped is a family film, and you want to seem family friendly. And it doesn’t get more wholesome than children’s breakfast cereal. You’ll look like a nice guy … you know, less of a queen-puncher.”

  Reggie had met the queen once before of course—five years ago, when he’d been knighted. When he’d been made a Knight Bachelor “for achievement in theatre and music and for service to children through his charity Kids First.” He’d knelt before the small old woman and rested his knee on an odd stool that had no other earthly purpose but to receive the knees of the knighted. The queen wore a pale yellow suit with squared shoulders like a stick of butter, and she’d smiled kindly at him through her big spectacles. He remembered wishing he could touch her hair, which was gathered about her head like candy floss. He wanted to know if it was as sticky as it looked, but of course he didn’t dare—he would never have dared to touch the queen. Except, just recently, to punch her. That apparently he would do. He still marveled at this.

  “And of course I’m still trying to put this press release together,” said Angela. “So once again, any help you could give me—”

  “I told you already. I can’t explain it in any way that doesn’t just make me sound more crazy.”

  “Are you taking any prescription medications? Something that could have gone bad on you?”

  “Just stuff for hay fever … sumatriptan for migraines. You know, I was getting a migraine that day.”

  “Hmm,” said Angela as she jotted this down. “It’s something.”

  The second time Reggie met the queen was last week, at the racecourse in Berkshire. He had always enjoyed the races. He had always liked horses, but he’d determined as a boy that while a love of horses might be considered faintly girlish, a love of horse racing made him one of the lads. He was enjoying box seats with two London cousins when a prim man appeared at his elbow. Her Majesty was here, dining with the jockey Sir Gordon Maris. Would Reggie please come pay his respects?

  Reggie was led to an elegant dining room that overlooked the track. He’d bowed at the neck to his queen, who was dressed in pearls and another of her squarish overcoats, this one as green as a Williams pear. He wondered if anyone had ever told her that she always looked like something good to eat. Maybe Prince Philip. He decided to keep it to himself regardless.

  He was feeling the first twists of a headache as he was invited to sit between Her Majesty and Gordon Maris. The little jockey was no longer a young man, but he still looked like a schoolboy in his blazer. The pink and blue diamonds on his tie reminded you of the garish silks he once wore on the racetrack. He must have these ties specially made, thought Reggie, and that’s when he saw the fly.

  A great fat horsefly, plump as a raisin, helicoptering around the jockey’s head. Neither Maris nor the queen gave it any notice as they discussed the National Hunt race taking place that afternoon. Then the bug quit its wheeling and buzzed right for Her Majesty, attaching itself like a fresh wart to her nose.

  The queen did not so much as flinch,
so Reggie flinched for her.

  “The young filly Baker’s Dozen is a bit of a wild card,” Maris droned, “if you’ll permit me to say so. Quite good on the hurdles but rather untested on the steeplechase.”

  Reggie couldn’t believe they were still talking about horse racing. Of course, Maris was old and (Reggie remembered reading somewhere) half blind. But the queen! She’d scarcely moved, and now the fly was plumbing the soft flesh of her nostril with its tiny teeth. Reggie glanced for help at the queen’s assistant, who was maintaining a respectful distance and a complete lack of eye contact.

  Her Majesty smiled at something Maris said, and the fly crossed the bridge of her nose, leaving behind a watery bead of thin red blood that slipped off its tip and dripped onto the china. The fly continued past her eye, humped over her brow, and parked again on the empty lot of her forehead. And just as Reggie began to think it might be his knightly duty to slay this beast, the queen plucked the horsefly off her face and popped it wriggling into her mouth. Then she cast a sideways glance at Reggie and winked.

  Maris said, “You know who has a really good horse-breeding program now is the Danes.”

  “Er,” said Reggie, fully intending to excuse himself and return to his cousins. But then the woman turned, and he saw the darkly glinting ancient eldritch maleficence in her eyes and did what any loyal knight would when faced with the sudden certainty that his queen had been replaced by an impostor.

  A few seconds later the old woman was still wailing and squirming facedown on the floor, and Reggie began to wonder if he’d made a mistake.

  In his hotel room now, he realized that this had not been the first time he’d seen something that wasn’t there. Granted, it had been a while. How old had he been? Six? Seven? Young.

  “Goodco is in Goodborough, right? In New Jersey?”

  “… Yes,” said Angela. “But they don’t want you in New Jersey. They want you on a soundstage in Burbank.”

  Maybe we could change their minds about that, Reggie thought. He was fogging up the windowpane. He wiped it clear with his sleeve and discovered that the protesters and press were already gone.

  “I need to see my kids,” he said.

  CHAPTER 11

  It turns out that it’s impossible to concentrate on breakfast when there’s a two-foot-tall Irishman standing under the table. Scott buttered his fruit and poured orange juice on his waffle, and Mom had to make him another.

  “What’s with you this morning?” she asked as she poured the batter.

  “Sorry,” said Scott. “Still sleepy.” He passed a piece of buttered pear under the table to Mick, who made a disgusted sort of noise in his throat.

  “What was that?” asked Polly, so that Scott was forced to clear his own throat several times as cover. He sounded like he was trying to start a lawn mower.

  He wolfed down his new waffle, and when the time came for Scott and Polly to clean up, Scott offered to do it by himself. Polly squinted at him as if he was up to something, which of course he was.

  “Why? Why do you want to do it by yourself?”

  “Can’t I just do something nice for you for no reason?” Scott asked, feeling Mick’s presence like a pebble in his shoe.

  “I guess I always figured you could; you just never wanted to.”

  “Let me do it. You won’t owe me anything.”

  “I won’t owe you anything?”

  “No.”

  After a moment Polly shrugged and went off to do whatever seven-year-old girls do. Scott filled the sink with dishes.

  “Want help?” asked the two-foot-tall Irishman under the table.

  “No.”

  “This is undignified,” said Mick from inside Scott’s backpack. After the dishwasher was filled and he could sneak the little man outside, Scott headed vaguely toward the park with a squirmy yellow schoolbag over his shoulders.

  “What did you say before?” Scott asked. “I’m one of the Good Folk? One of Queen Titanium’s court?”

  “Titania. And I’m sayin’ maybe. Maybe it’s why yeh can see me. Yeh ever see anythin’ else yeh can’t explain?”

  Every week, practically, thought Scott. “Yesterday I saw two different kinds of animals with a horn on their heads.”

  “Sure,” Mick said. “What sort? Unirat? Uniraccoon?”

  “What? No—”

  “Unipossum? Uniturtle?”

  “Are those really … no, one of them was just a regular unicorn,” said Scott, and he marveled that such a phrase had stormed its way into his vocabulary. “The other was a unicat. And before that I saw a rabbit-headed man.”

  The squirming stopped. “A rabbit-headed man?” said Mick. “Wha’ did he look like?”

  He looked like a rabbit-headed man thought Scott. Is that seriously not a good enough description? “He was wearing a blue tie and a shirt and pants. No shoes.”

  “Like the rabbit on Honey Frosted Snox?”

  Scott frowned. The Snox Rabbit was just a simple cartoon drawing, and when you meet an actual clothes-wearing rabbit-man, it turns out you don’t really make the connection; but yes, Scott said, he did sort of look like the rabbit on Honey Frosted Snox.

  “Poor Harvey.” Mick sighed. “Where did yeh see him?”

  “Right about here, actually,” said Scott. They were near the storm drain.

  “Let me out.”

  “Are you … are you sure? Someone might see—”

  “I’ll risk it—mostly folks see wha’ they expect to see: a dog in a pet carrier, a chicken in a chicken coop. Mostly they expect to see nothin’ at all, an’ they’d never look for me here.”

  Scott grunted and eased his bag down to the ground. “Who’d never look for you here?” he said. “Are you in trouble?”

  Mick pushed the zippers apart with his fingers and stepped free, and ignored the question.

  “Now, where did yeh see Harvey?”

  “The rabbit-guy? Back there, by that pipe. It didn’t have all that police caution tape before.”

  Mick perked up at this and began scanning the horizon. “Goodco might’ve marked it off like that. When a spot has seen a lot of the Good Folk, it becomes special, an’ more Fay are likely to turn up there. Glamour attracts glamour.”

  “Goodco…” Scott looked into Mick’s dried-apple face and something clicked. “I just remembered where I’ve seen you before.”

  “Is it New York? ’Cause I remember that too.”

  “It was in a commercial. At the Goodco factory a few weeks ago.”

  “Ugh,” said Mick. “My distinguished actin’ days. Back when I still had enough glamour to appear on camera. Which one was it?”

  “I don’t know—I wasn’t paying much attention. It was my first day at school, so I was mostly checking out the other kids and feeling weird.”

  “Did I seem just annoyed or was I actually abusive?”

  “More annoyed, I think.”

  “’Twas one o’ the early ones then. They quit usin’ me when I ran low on magic an’ kept makin’ the kids cry.”

  “Uh-huh. So what is it,” said Scott, “to be one of the Good Folk? What does that even mean?”

  “Aw, nothin’,” said Mick. “It probably just means you’re part fairy is all.”

  Scott gave Mick a sour look, but the elf wasn’t paying attention. “That’s hate speech. You’re ignorant, and I feel sorry for you,” he finished, reciting something his mom had always told him to say in these situations.

  Mick was distracted, still looking for some sign of his friend. “What? Who’s ignorant?”

  “Just because he … dresses in weird costumes during his concerts and he’s an actor and all doesn’t mean you should call him a fairy,” Scott finished, his face a little hot.

  Mick squinted up at him. “What are yeh talking about, son?”

  “My dad. Sir Reggie Dwight. He’s a movie star, and a recording artist and stuff.”

  “I’m talking about the Fair Folk, the daoine sídhe. The Seelie Court. Brownie
s an’ elves an’ those goblins that can keep from stabbing everything an’ sit still a minute. Fairies.”

  Scott’s stomach settled. “Oh. Like you, ’cause you’re a leprechaun.”

  “Clurichaun. Clurichaun. But yes. Sure an’ your great-great-granddaddy was a changeling or your grandmom a banshee or something similar. It happens.”

  Scott thought. Maybe it was his paternal grandmother. That woman was nuts.

  “Your da’s a knight?” asked Mick.

  “Yeah. His real name’s John. Reggie Dwight is his stage name.”

  “I knew some good knights back in the day,” Mick mused as he returned to his inspection of the crime scene. “Course, nowadays knights are all lawyers an’ actors an’ writers and such. Useless people.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “Happens?” said Mick. His mind was clearly still on his rabbit friend, though he’d narrowed his search to looking for clues in and around the drainpipe. He picked up a stone and sniffed it.

  Scott would not be discouraged—he read a lot, and he knew how these things worked. “Yeah, like, do I have magic powers? Do you teach me how to use them or do I go to a special school?”

  Mick put the stone down where he’d found it, then very slowly and deliberately turned to stare at Scott in wonder. It made Scott feel suddenly fidgety and donkey headed.

  “No … no magic powers?” he stammered.

  Mick shrugged graciously. “Yeh may have a tarnished glamour about yeh, sure. Like a celebrity’s daughter,” he said, and Scott bristled. “Maybe folks don’t pay much attention to yeh unless yeh want to be noticed? Maybe when yeh do, you’re all they can look at? You’re the golden boy.”

  Scott couldn’t remember ever being the golden boy, but he’d never actually made much of an effort there. “Is that it?”

  Mick mused. “’S hard to keep one of the Good Neighbors out when they want in. Maybe you’re good with locks. Or, if yeh prefer, maybe when yeh decide to get around a lock, yeh find the locker forgot to lock it in the first place. Though that’s gettin’ into quantum physics and isn’t really my area.”