My father lifted his hand. I whimpered at the sight. How often when I was five, six, seven had I seen that hand rise like this to strike me? But there was no anger now, only deep, enduring sorrow as the memory of flesh came down to brush against my cheek.

I swiped at a tear, trying to hide it, too aware of how my tears had always stirred my father’s wrath.

“I always loved you, Jonathan,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I was just too dumb to say it.”

He put his arms around me, embracing me as I had embraced the creature, and though no touch could be felt it was as real as salt and as deep as love itself.

Then, before I could say a word, he was gone.

After a time I got to my feet.

Moving slowly, I walked toward the mirror’s frame. I glanced back only once.

There was nothing behind me.

Turning, I stepped through the black lacquer frame, back to where my own sweet, harsh world lay waiting.

Am I Blue?

IT STARTED the day Butch Carrigan decided I was interested in jumping his bones.

“You little fruit,” he snarled. “I’ll teach you to look at me!”

A moment or two later, he had given me my lesson.

I was still lying facedown in the puddle into which Butch had slammed me, as the culminating exercise of my learning experience, when I heard a clear voice exclaim, “Oh, my dear! That was nasty. Are you all right, Vince?”

Turning my head to my left, I saw a pair of brown Top-Siders topped by khaki pants. Given the muddy condition of the sidewalks, pants and shoes were both ridiculously clean.

I rolled onto my side and looked up. The loafers belonged to a tall, slender man. He had dark hair, a neat mustache, and a sweater slung over his shoulders. He was kind of handsome—almost pretty. He wore a gold ring in his left ear. He looked to be about thirty.

“Who are you?” I asked suspiciously.

“Your fairy godfather. My name is Melvin. Come on, stand up and let’s see if we can’t do something with you.”

“Are you making fun of me?” I asked. After Butch’s last attack, I had had about enough of people calling me a fruit for one day.

“Moi?” cried the man, arching his eyebrows and laying a hand on his chest. “Listen, honey, I have nothing but sympathy for you. I had to deal with my share of troglodytes when I was your age, and I know it’s no fun. I’m here to help.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I told you, I’m your fairy godfather.”

He waited for me to say something, but I just sat in the puddle, glaring at him. (It was uncomfortable, but I was already soaked right through my undershorts, so it didn’t make that much difference.)

“You know,” he said encouragingly, “like in Cinderella?”