My Unfair Godmother (2 page)

Happiness, of course, is more expensive than that. Which is why people need magic.

As Tansy’s fairy godmother, I helped her learn these things.

Please accept this extra-credit project as proof I am more than ready to enter Fairy Godmother University.

From the Honorable Master Sagewick Goldengill
To Mistress Berrypond

Dear Mistress Berrypond,

I’m in receipt of Chrysanthemum Everstar’s report on Tansy Miller Harris, but it seems to be missing some crucial details. Can you have the Memoir
Elves look into the matter and write their own report
so I can better assess Chrysanthemum’s role as Tansy
Miller Harris’s fairy godmother?

Most magical thanks,

From the Department of Fairy Advancement
To the Honorable Sagewick Goldengill
Dear Professor,

The Memoir Elves submerged themselves into
Tansy’s mind while she slept, and, after several
nights of observation, have composed her story in her
own words. I remind you that sending Memoir Elves
into teenage girls’ minds is unhealthy for the elves.

Even after short amounts of exposure to the jumble
of impulses and hormones that make up a teenage
girl’s mind, the Memoir Elves are apt to pick up bad
habits, grow obsessive about their hair, and giggle
when boys pass by.

All the elves involved in Tansy’s case are in detox
and are recovering well—except for Blinka Ruefeath-er, who refuses to give up her iPod and keeps belting
out Taylor Swift lyrics. But then, Blinka always was
susceptible to love songs. She may need stronger
intervention.

At any rate, you should be able to see Chrysanthemum Everstar’s role as Tansy’s godmother from
the following memoir.

Flitteringly yours,

Chapter 1

Bo’s text message to me was short: “I hope you like surprises.” It was all he would say about our date tonight. He was probably trying to be romantic, but that’s the thing about guys. They don’t understand that it takes girls some thought and effort to get ready. Was I supposed to wear heels? Tennis shoes? Waterproof mascara? A para-chute? He could have at least given me a category for the night’s activity.

After changing outfits three times, I decided on dressy casual—it worked for most things—then went out to the living room to put on my shoes. My shoes were in the closet by the front door because Sandra, my stepmother, insisted we take off our footwear as soon as we came inside. It was better for the carpet.

Sandra was one of those immaculate housekeepers that I hope never to be. I’m all for cleanliness, but I draw the line at immaculate.

Sometimes it’s okay if the light fixtures have streaks.

My stepbrother, Nick, was sprawled out on the couch reading a book. He has reddish blond hair and so many freckles that Sandra refers to them as “the stars dotting the sky of his features.” Nick just calls them the freckle convention that showed up on his face.

Out on the street, Bo honked his motorcycle horn. At the noise, Nick looked up from his book. “Classy way to signal the beginning of a date.”

I grabbed my shoes and slipped them on. “If he rang the doorbell, he’d have to turn off his motorcycle.”

“And?” Nick asked.

20/356

I rolled my eyes, like Nick was making a big deal out of nothing, but to tell the truth, it was starting to bug me too. I stopped at the entryway mirror to check my appearance. I had pulled my long blond hair back in a french braid, which is one of the few hairstyles you can wear on a motorcycle and not look like you’re impersonating a sea anemone at the end of the ride. Since I started dating Bo, my hairstyles have become all about wind control.

Behind me in the reflection, Nick stared at me. Slowly he said,

“The problem with dating a guy to tick off your father is you end up having an idiot for a boyfriend.”

“I’m not dating Bo to tick off anyone.” This was partially true.

Ticking off my father was an added benefit. “Bo accepts me for who I am. He cares about me.”

The horn blared again.

“He cares about you, but not enough to get off his motorcycle?” Despite my best intentions to hate Nick for becoming my replace-ment—he was, after all, the kid my dad had lived with for years—I actually liked Nick. He felt like a brother.

Nick was still staring at me, waiting for some response. Really, he should have been happy I was dating Bo. Bo’s friends had become downright nice to Nick lately. They would nod to him in the school hallways like they’d always been on good terms.

I asked Bo once why he had picked on Nick before I’d moved in.

Bo had looked surprised at the question. “Guys mess around,” he said.

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

And it probably didn’t to Bo. It means a little more if you’re the one getting messed around with.

The horn honked again. Nick went back to his book, shaking his head. “Have a fun time. If that’s possible while you’re out with a troglodyte.”

21/356

Nick liked to throw around vocabulary no high school student should know. It was his way of winning arguments. People couldn’t dispute anything he said when they needed a dictionary to figure out what he was talking about. But I had a vocabulary that rivaled Nick’s.

It came from reading hundreds of novels back before Dad left.

Despite sounding like something that should hang in caves with stalagmites and stalactites, a troglodyte is a stupid brute. They show up a lot in time-travel novels.

Sometimes I missed reading.

“Bo isn’t as bad as you think,” I said.

“Probably not, since I think he’s devil spawn.”

“You should have an open mind,” I said. “Bo does.” Nick flipped a page of his book. “You’re confusing open with empty.”

I ignored the comment, tucked a stray strand of hair back into my braid, and went outside. Even though it was 9:00 p.m., the Arizona air was still so warm it felt heavy against my skin. Dad said it would cool down in October, but I didn’t believe him. Arizona only knew two tem-peratures: hot and hotter.

Bo was sitting on his motorcycle, casually fingering the handle-bars. His dark hair swept across his forehead and a shadow of stubble dotted his jaw. On most guys, I wouldn’t have thought that looked good. But on Bo it worked. He watched me walk up to his bike and smiled.

Nick was wrong about him. Bo wasn’t bad—just misunderstood.

He was the kind of guy who didn’t play by other people’s rules. I could respect that. Bo handed me a helmet, and even though he never wore his, I strapped mine on. I wanted to rebel a little, but I wanted to do it with my head attached.

22/356

“So where are we going?” I asked. Judging from the paint splatters on his jeans and T-shirt, it wasn’t going to be any place fancy. I hoped I wasn’t overdressed.

He gave me a secretive smile. “You’ll see when we get there. I’m taking you to do something you’ve never done before.” That could be a lot of things. I climbed onto the back of the bike, wound my arms around his waist, and we sped down the street. As usual, I tried not to think about the fact that Bo and I were wider than the motorcycle wheels, which would seem to make us an unbalanced load. Especially since the wheels were spinning. Very fast.

Real rebellious girls didn’t worry about those sorts of things.

We drove out of the neighborhood and headed downtown. As the buildings went by, I tried to guess where Bo was taking me. I hoped it wasn’t some concert his brother’s band was putting on. I had already spent hours listening to them practice, and lately every time I heard the band’s name I wanted to snap, “There’s no such word as ‘indestruction.’ You can either be Indestructible or In Destruction although I don’t know why you’d want to be the last one.” Actually, the only things they were destroying were chords, notes, and probably their hearing.

I held on to Bo a little tighter and resolved to act delighted if the surprise turned out to be a whole night of listening to indiscernible lyrics. Indiscernible, that would work as a band name too. Or maybe Indecipherable, Inconceivable, or Insufferable.

We drove through downtown and at last pulled into the city hall’s empty parking lot. It was a boxy two-story building that the architect had tried to dress up by throwing a few columns onto the front. But the columns only made it look like a post office with pretentions.

23/356

I was surprised Bo had taken me here. And even more surprised that four of Bo’s friends stood beside their motorcycles at the far end of the parking lot.

“Why are we here?” I asked. If Bo had planned to stage some sort of demonstration, it wasn’t going to work. The building was closed.

Bo pulled up to the other motorcycles and turned off his ignition.

“Revenge.”

He got off his bike. I stayed on, eyeing the trash bag his best friend, Steve, was holding. “What are you talking about?” Bo held out his hand to help me off his bike and kept his fingers twined through mine as he led me over to the others.

Steve opened up the trash bag. “It took you long enough to get here.”

Bo half nodded in my direction. “You know how girls are. They’re never ready when you pick them up.”

I glared at Bo, because it hadn’t taken me
that
long, but he wasn’t paying attention to me. Steve reached into the bag and took out two cans of red spray paint. He threw one at Bo and one at me. “Well, hurry. This ain’t the most private place in town.” The spray can felt cold in my hands. A ball of dread formed in my stomach. “You’re not going to vandalize city hall, are you?” Bo laughed and propelled me closer to the building. “I told you I was taking you to do something you’ve never done before.” Yes, he was, and it turned out I was way overdressed for our date.

If he had told me the category for tonight was committing a crime, I could have worn a ski mask. Or better yet, not come at all.

I pulled my hand away from his. “We can’t do this.” He pointed toward the broken street light in front of city hall.

“Don’t worry. I came here before and knocked out the lights. No one will see us.”

24/356

The other guys were already beside the building. They took the lids off their cans and sprayed red streaks across the wall. The night hissed with the sound as the smell of fresh paint drifted back to me.

Bo shook his can and popped off the lid. “Go ahead. Let the mayor know what you think.” He stepped forward and sprayed a red slash on the pale stucco wall. It looked like a bleeding wound.

“This is not a good idea.” I tried to keep my voice low, but it spiraled upward. “We’ll get in so much trouble if we get caught.”

“We haven’t been caught yet.”

We’d only been here for a few minutes.

One of Bo’s friends, Mike, wrote, “Close this dump not the libary!” Which meant even though I hadn’t uncapped my spray can, this was my fault. Bo’s friends were risking getting in trouble to support me.

But it was wrong, and not only because Mike had left an
r
out of

“library.” I had to push away my sudden urge to spray paint an extra
r
in to correct the word. Or to add the comma the sentence needed.

You’re not supposed to edit graffiti.

Bo tapped the can in my hand with his own, clicking them together like he was making a toast. “Write something. It’ll feel good.” I stared at the wall. Hadn’t I wanted to be the rebellious type?

This was it. Rebellion. Danger. And it would feel good to let the mayor know people were upset, to mess up his building like he was messing up my life. I didn’t move though; I just gripped the can.

Steve walked over to us. “Hey, Bo, I bet you can’t hit that upper window.”

Bo leaned down and picked up one of the river rocks lying in the landscaping. “Ten bucks says I can.” 25/356

Breaking windows was worse than spray painting. You couldn’t fix windows by painting over them. “Don’t break it,” I said. “That’s serious.”

My comment caused a wave of laughter to go through the guys. A guy named Brandon, who had earring holes so big you could shoot marbles through them, nudged Bo. “Dude, you’ve gone serious on us.” Steve made kissy noises. “He’s a serious boyfriend.” Bo shrugged away from his friends. He didn’t like their ribbing, didn’t like that I’d spoken up. He shot me an aggravated look. “Loosen up and have some fun.”

Bo sized up the distance to the window, then flung the rock upward. It bounced off the wall and shot back to the ground. Brandon stepped out of the way and swore. “Are you trying to kill us?” Steve rubbed his thumb against his fingers and smirked at Bo.

“You owe me ten, man.”

Bo stretched his shoulders. “Stand back. I get more than one try.” I stepped away from Bo and the rest of them. My palms were sweaty against the spray can, and I couldn’t relax enough to stand in one place. Obviously, I wasn’t cut out to be the rebellious type, because I couldn’t do this. I didn’t know whether to try again to make Bo stop or walk away from the building and find my own way home. How upset would Bo be if I just left? He and his friends were doing this for me. For the
libary
. Maybe I was ungrateful to get upset with them.

Everything was happening so fast that I couldn’t sort it out in my mind. I needed advice, and the only one I could think to call was Nick.

“I’m going around the back of the building,” I said. None of the guys paid much attention to me since they were watching Bo pick up another rock.

He held it in his palm, testing its weight. “You do that, baby. You write a whole novel back there.”

26/356

I hurried to the back of the building. Another smack sounded against the wall. Bo’s friends snorted with laughter.

Bo said, “Hey, in baseball you get three strikes—that’s only two.” I took out my cell phone and dialed Nick’s phone one slow number at a time. I had just gotten the phone and hadn’t programmed the speed dial yet. I leaned against the wall while the phone rang. An angry crash sounded from the other side of the building. Apparently Bo’s aim wasn’t that bad after all.

“Perfect hit,” Bo said, his voice filled with strut and confidence.

“That was the wrong window,” Steve said. “You still owe me a ten.”

Nick picked up. “Hey, Tansy.”

“Bo and his friends are vandalizing city hall and I don’t know what to do.”

Nick paused. “They’re what?”

“They’re spray painting stuff and they broke a window.” Another crashing noise came from the other side of the building. “Make that two windows.”

Nick’s voice sounded incredulous. “On your date?”

“He’s doing it because he cares about me.”

“Sheesh, couldn’t you find a guy who would just give you flowers?”

I paced along the back side of the wall, not even caring that I could hardly see where I was going. “How do I make them stop?”

“Start walking toward our house and I’ll drive down and get you.”

“If I make a big deal about this, Bo will be angry. What if he breaks up with me?”

“And the downside of that would be?”

“I don’t want to be dumped.” My voice choked. “Bo is the only person in the world who cares about me.” 27/356

“Tansy!” I heard Bo yell, but I didn’t answer him. I didn’t know what to say to him yet.

Nick’s voice came over the line. “You know what Bo is doing is wrong or you wouldn’t have called me. You can’t go along with this.” I let out a whimper, but I knew he was right. I would have to tell the guys to stop.

“I don’t want to deal with those miscreants when I pick you up,” Nick said, “so ditch them.”

Miscreants: troublemakers or wrongdoers. In this case, not only an insult but an accurate description.

Nick was right. It was better not to involve him. “You don’t have to pick me up.” I let out a sigh of resignation. “I’ll make Bo take me home. I guess we need to talk about this.” Motorcycles started up and peeled out of the parking lot. Some of the guys must have left. Good, less damage to worry about.