The Princess and the Page Page 2

  “You’re throwing pencils away?” I peer into the trash can. It’s brimming with paper and pencils. I pick out the soccer ball pencil I bought at Chadwicks Stationery. Mom snatches it from my hand and tosses it back into the trash.

  “After last night, we need to refocus our priorities,” she says. “We can’t take any more risks. It’s best if we got rid of all writing utensils and papers. We can’t be too careful.”

  “You think the robbery was because of the missing pen?”

  “That old thing?” Mom tosses the electronic pencil sharpener into the trash can. “No. It was my mother’s and I was just feeling overly sensitive about it last night.”

  Guilt tugs at me. After the police left, I stashed the pen in my secret writing compartment. Maybe I should give it back to Mom. Maybe then she wouldn’t freak out so bad. But when she starts ripping the lists and charts off the kitchen wall, anger rolls inside me.

  Why does she have to overreact and control everything in my life? This is way worse than when I got the sports editor job at school and she flipped out. I managed to keep that job only because I convinced her I wouldn’t be writing fiction. Writing anything imaginary is strictly prohibited in my family. It’s practically the family religion. Facts, data, charts: These keep the world spinning. Fiction is for freaks.

  Harding Family Rule #1: Do not write fiction.

  Harding Family Rule #2: No pens allowed.

  But this morning, she’s finally gone wacko and it looks like nonfiction and pencils are off-limits now, too. I cross my arms, holding back the storm inside me. If the pen is just an “old thing,” then she won’t miss it.

  “How am I supposed to do my homework without paper and pencils?”

  “We’ll figure something out. Don’t you worry.” But her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. They’re cloudy blue this morning. The color of the sky when a rain shower settles in for a long haul. “I made you some toast. It’s whole wheat with hummus. Super healthy.”

  I shuffle to the counter and the plate of burnt toast. A white spread covers the top. I nibble at the corner only to spit it out. The white stuff isn’t hummus or even butter. The jar of mayonnaise beside the plate has got to be the culprit. Gross.

  The doorbell rings. Mom and I freeze.

  “I’ll get it,” she says all nonchalantly, but her body stiffens as she picks up her cell phone and heads for the door.

  “I’ll be your backup.” I flash a smile and grab my soccer ball.

  It’s Bella, my best friend since second grade, standing there wearing a purple polka-dotted shirt that makes her black curls shine. She smiles widely as Mom welcomes her inside. Since she lives only three houses down the street, we hang out often, especially at the park because I rarely invite her to my house. The last time she went into my kitchen, she asked a hundred questions about Mom’s lists and graphs. It was completely mortifying. But then, Bella’s house is always brimming with material and sewing machines for her mom’s fashion business that she recently launched, so there’s never room there for us to hang out either.

  “Hey, Bells!” I say, and wave for her to come in. I try to block out the thought that Baseball Cap Guy stood right in this spot less than twenty-four hours ago. “What are you up to?”

  “I heard about last night,” she says as Mom leaves us to continue her cleaning escapades. “That’s so horrible. Are you okay?” I shrug. “Well, don’t worry. I’m here to cheer you up and get your mind off it all. Mom is having one of her big designer parties at the house, so I thought your house would be the perfect place to escape.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Come on up.”

  * * *

  “You want me to do what?” I flip through the magazine Bella brought.

  “It’s not a big deal.” Bella plops down on my bed, staring at me with those big puppy dog eyes of hers. “Fairy tales are easy to write, aren’t they? Plus, maybe it’ll help get your mind off everything after last night.”

  I’m not sure anything will get my mind off last night or that look Baseball Cap Guy flashed before he escaped the police. “I don’t know,” I say. “How do we even know it’s not some kind of scam?”

  “It’s Girls’ World!” Bella sticks the magazine in my face. “If they aren’t legit, then who is?”

  I suppress a smile. “Point taken.”

  “Don’t give me that look.”

  Bella may be my best friend, but she veers toward the gullible side. “Come on.” I roll my eyes. “It’s a magazine that tells you what to wear and how to bake cupcakes.”

  “Don’t bash the cupcakes!” Then she flips to page 16. “Just read it.”

  A silhouette of a princess set against an outline of a castle fills the magazine page. Fairy Tales Do Come True swirls in flowing script across the top.

  Win a fairy-tale vacation to a French castle in the famous Loire Valley. Entrants must be between 8 and 12 years of age. Winner receives a trip for four to France, airfare included, to become a princess for one week in a fairy-tale castle. On the final night, a ball will be held in the winner’s honor, including her own ball gown to keep.

  To enter, write a 2,000-word fairy tale. Fill in the form below and attach it to your story.

  “It is pretty dreamy.” I totally can imagine myself flying off to France with Bella. I skim the rest of the advertisement, which explains where to send the story, and the deadline. “You’re right. It does look legit. But you really want me to enter? Me, the skeptic. Me, the hater of all things pink? And besides, the deadline is like tomorrow!”

  “For my entire life, I’ve dreamed of visiting a castle and living the life of a princess. And here is our chance sitting right in front of us.” Bella tilts her head as she puckers her lower lip. “I was thinking if we both enter, we’ll increase our chances of winning, right?”

  “Increases them from none to slim.” I tuck my flannel pillow against my stomach. “So let’s just say that I wrote this amazing fairy tale—even though they make me feel like I’m going to puke fried bananas—I’d still have to enter the contest. And you know how my parents feel about me writing stories.”

  “Then don’t tell them. It’ll be our secret.”

  “Trust me, that’s so tempting.” I sigh and shake my head. “But if I won? Mom would totally flip. I’d be grounded for an eternity.”

  “Don’t you think it’s strange your parents don’t allow you to write stories? I mean, you’re twelve years old!”

  If she only knew. “Mom says I should spend more time on my math and science. Subjects that deal with reality and truth will help me get a better job.”

  Bella stares at me as if I’m a pink-headed unicorn. I wonder if Bella would still be my friend if she knew the extent of my family’s rules or saw my mom downstairs throwing away perfectly good writing materials. My life is crazy enough as it is and the last thing I want is to lose Bella’s friendship. Besides, right now Mom is downstairs stripping more of my freedom away with every new idea she has. Maybe I need to keep something for myself.

  I toss my pillow aside and head to a corner of the room. With the edge of a penny, I pry out the loose piece of baseboard, revealing a hole where my secret writing stash is located.

  “What are you doing?” Bella says.

  “Getting my supplies.” My journal, favorite pencil, a stack of papers, and Twizzlers are right where I left them. I lightly touch my new pen. A spark of blue bursts from its surface as if it’s winking at me. But I leave it hidden. Safe.

  “You hide your supplies? That’s so weird.”

  The memory of when this whole madness began still haunts me. I was six years old, lying on the living room floor and writing about a picture I’d drawn of a girl with Pegasus. Mom spotted the Pegasus and gasped. She ripped the story from me, tearing it into tiny shreds, and then began frantically peeking out the windows as if she was afraid someone had seen me. I started crying.

  “There now.” Mom pulled me into a hug. “We know you are going to be incredibly succes
sful someday. But in order for that to happen, don’t write any more stories. It’s the math and science, the hard facts, that are going to bring you success. I know other people imagine stuff, but in our family, we focus on what is real and true.”

  My face burns at the memory.

  “It makes writing more fun having secret compartments,” I say breezily. “Don’t you think?”

  “Oh!” Bella practically bounces on the bed. “Then you’re going to enter the contest?”

  “Don’t get too excited.” I bite off the end of a Twizzler strip and hand the bag to her. I try to focus on my journal rather than the blue tinge emanating from the baseboard where the pen is hidden away. I position myself on the bed so that I block Bella’s view from the glow.

  “All right. But you’ve got to help me. First: The princess needs a name,” I begin.

  “How about Gabrielle?” Bella suggests. “That sounds princessy and French.”

  “Perfect.” I chomp another bite. “Something needs to go wrong, but do princesses even have problems?”

  “Well.” She looks up from her story, chewing on the bottom of her lip. “There’s Sleeping Beauty who got on the bad side of a fairy and then Snow White had that wretched stepmom.”

  “I thought that was Cinderella.” I rub my forehead. “Ugh. They’re all the same!”

  “Then I guess you should have a stepsomebody in the story,” she says, giggling.

  “A stepsister, then.” I start writing. “A nasty, wicked stepsister. After all, a fairy tale has to have a bad guy—or girl in this case.”

  An image of the castle crystallizes in my mind. The sun glistening off stained-glass windows, the shadows from the fading day deepening on the parapet, and a jealous stepsister.

  Once upon a time, there lived a princess and her stepsister. The two were inseparable best friends and had everything they ever wanted.

  “Don’t forget to make sure someone falls in love,” Bella adds. “I adore a good romance.”

  One bright summer day when the forget-me-nots were in bloom, Princess Gabrielle met a lonely prince visiting from a faraway land at her birthday party.

  Once I start writing, I can’t stop. I write a full page, but then pause.

  “The story feels too perfect.” I tap my pencil to my lips as I think. “Oh! How about this?” I read my words out loud for Bella.

  “But the stepsister also fell deeply in love with the prince, and the thought of him loving another was too much for her to endure. If he could not love her, she was determined he would love no one. So she—”

  I groan. “So what does she do?”

  “Beats me.” Bella sighs and rolls onto her back. “I’m getting nowhere real quick, too. What we need is a good luck charm. Or a fairy who would grant us a wish.”

  I tug on the bottom of my shirt, unable to stop thinking about my pen tucked away safely in its compartment. What would happen if I used it? Would it give my story good luck? Grant my wish?

  The door opens. It’s Mom carrying a tray of juice and carrot sticks. Her smile vanishes as her eyes pan across our writing materials. I toss my Manchester United throw over my journal, but it’s too late. She’s already seen the evidence.

  Mom calmly, way too calmly, sets the tray on the table and clasps her hands in front of her. She smiles, but her eyes are steel, cutting and hard as they bore into me.

  “What are you girls doing?” she says.

  “Er.” Bella side-glances at me, unsure what to say. “We were making a list?”

  Any other day, that would’ve worked for Mom. But not today. Definitely not today.

  I plaster on my most innocent face. “Hey, Mom.” I pick at the corner of the throw. “We were writing a school report.”

  “You were writing?” She marches to the bed and yanks away the throw. “This doesn’t look like a school report.” Her fingers trail down the paper as she scans the words. “This is a story!” She wads it up and throws it in the trash can.

  “It’s not what it seems. It’s a fairy tale. That’s a form of nonfiction, right?”

  Mom’s chin lowers and she lifts her eyebrows skeptically.

  “For class.” Inwardly, I cringe. Okay, I need to stop lying. Things are getting out of hand. “We were asked to write a fairy tale for a contest. It’s nothing big.”

  “Please, Mrs. Harding,” Bella says. “I was just trying to cheer her up.”

  “I guess there isn’t any harm in it,” Mom says, but I spot that gleam in her eyes. She’s just saying that for Bella’s sake. “You had good intentions.”

  Bella’s phone beeps. “Oh, broomsticks!” she says. “I’ve got to go. Mom says she needs help cleaning up after her show. Promise you’ll call me if you have any brain blocks.”

  “I promise,” I say, but wince at Mom’s glare.

  “Au revoir!” Bella says. I give a halfhearted wave, wishing she didn’t have to leave.

  As soon as the front door slams shut, Mom starts gathering up the papers and writing supplies.

  “I can’t believe you said all that in front of Bella!” I say. “It was embarrassing!”

  “She wasn’t robbed last night. She’s safe and doesn’t understand what we have to deal with.”

  “You’re taking all of my writing supplies, too. That’s not fair! You can’t do that.”

  “I can and I will. I’m doing this for your safety.”

  “No, you’re not! You’re doing it because you want to control my life. You don’t care what I want or what I like to do.”

  “Now, don’t overreact.” Mom’s shoulders sag. “Maybe it’s time to get you a computer. It will be such a relief when you’re out of school and don’t have any of these reports to do. You’ll get a nice job where you won’t have to write.”

  “But why?” I clench my fists. My face burns like it’s on fire. “What’s wrong with writing? There could be worse things than writing stories. So what if I can’t have a successful career as a writer? All these stories are bursting in my head, and I want to write them!”

  “Oh, sweetie.” Mom bites her lip, tears crowding the corners of her eyes. She reaches for me, but I step away, crossing my arms, needing the distance. “When I was a kid, I got myself into a lot of trouble with my words. I did something irresponsible, and I nearly lost everything because of it. I don’t want that to happen to you. I’ll do anything, anything, to keep you safe and let you be who you’re truly meant to be.”

  “Because you made that mistake doesn’t mean I should be punished for it!” And just like that, all the anger and frustration over last night stirs up a storm inside me. I point at the trash can, my hand shaking. “Writing stories like this can’t hurt anyone and you know it. It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard and I’m sick of it.”

  “Keira!” Mom takes a deep breath. “You have to trust me on this. I’m looking out for you.”

  “No, you’re not. You just want to control me. Admit it.”

  “Focusing on things that aren’t real, and living in an imaginary world is dangerous.” All her sweetness vanishes, replaced by red cheeks. “I’m trying to keep you safe. And if that means I have to be a little controlling, so be it.”

  With those words, she leaves, her back stiff as a board. I kick my door closed behind her. The walls shudder.

  I glare at the door as I dig my hands into my hips. My anger has built into a hurricane that won’t stop swirling, whooshing through me, begging to be released. I start kicking my soccer ball against the wall, smashing it hard, kick after kick. Mom hates it when I play soccer in the house, but she doesn’t come to stop me, so I know she’s madder than mad.

  My ball knocks over our family picture on my bedside stand. I pick it up and set it back in its place. It’s the three of us with white-toothed smiles, wearing matching khaki pants and blue tops. We look like the perfect family.

  But we aren’t. Something is wrong with us. Very wrong. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach.

  The blue light beams th
rough the cracks of my secret hiding spot calling for me. I bend down and pop open the baseboard. The pen glistens as though it’s made of a million sapphires. As I pick it up, blue winds burst out of the pen and rush around me, just like last night, swirling, whirling in a magical madness. Once again, time freezes and words whisper, spinning about like pixies on a warm summer day. My hand aches to finish my fairy tale. That desperate need to pour out my anger and frustration over Mom and her rules overwhelms me.

  I rescue the crumpled fairy tale from the trash can and smooth it out. It’s time someone wrote a fairy tale that showed real life, where people don’t live happily ever after and don’t get their way.

  The power of my words rumbles through my chest, echoing and clambering for escape.

  I know I shouldn’t.

  But I also know I must. So I release the words, letting them whirl around me and spill across the page. People and new worlds are woven with each stroke of my pen, creating a story of magic and romance.

  Then I scrawl out the ending in fierce, hard strokes.

  On the night of the ball celebrating the engagement of Princess Gabrielle and the prince, the stepsister swooped into the castle amid the celebration. The knights and the queen tried to stop the stepsister, but failed. In her fury, the stepsister cast a powerful spell, banishing the queen, her court, the prince, and Princess Gabrielle to the Dark Tower, where they would never live happily ever after. The stepsister now rules the kingdom with force and evil magic, killing any who steps in her path. No one dares stand against her.

  THE END

  The words glisten on the paper like stars in a midnight sky.

  A breeze tasting of salty tears and lilies whips across my face. The sapphire colors spin around me—once, twice—before being sucked back into the pen. My room hangs in silence. The pen becomes simply an old antique, and my words are merely scrawled in blotted ink.

  But deep down inside, I know something happened.

  A magic terrifyingly wonderful.