The Unfairy Tale: Audrey's Turn

By Shari Lane

Middle School: A whole new adventure - or a whole new chance to mess things up. It's a year of firsts for Amanda, Audrey, and Linda. First school dance, first chance to solve a crime, first serious rift in their friendship. And now a boy has joined the Fearsome Threesome. When life gets tough, the tough get reading! In this second installment of The UnFairy Tale, it's Audrey-in-the-fairy-tale who goes adventuring, with a little help from a Water Sprite and a Dwarf. Along the way there's danger, and romance, and everyone gets a little closer to Happily Ever After.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781682226216

Book preview

Acknowledgement

O N E

I don’t believe spiders really do catch flies, Mrs. Grand said with a grimace.

Why do you say that, my dear? Mr. Grand said, guardedly. Mrs. Grand’s explanations were, on occasion, something to be feared, and always, arrived at and pronounced without the least regard for anything that could be called logic or scientific analysis.

I believe it is a myth, she said, cautiously approaching the subject of their conversation with a tissue. Spiders are so creepy and hairy and hideous. We tell ourselves they rid the world of insects because we want to imagine they have some purpose, some karmic role in the universe. Nothing can be altogether ugly and useless, after all.

It can’t? Mr. Grand said.

Yes it can, Amanda said, peering around the corner from the kitchen where she was making her first-ever school lunch. (You’re certainly old enough to make your own lunch, Mrs. Grand had said, and you always complain about the lunches I make, to which Amanda had muttered something about liverwurst and then beat a hasty retreat). I can think of something both utterly ugly and utterly useless.

And that would be? asked Mr. Grand, obviously fearing the answer yet drawn to the conversation as a moth flutters to the deadly flames.

Clarence, Amanda said, licking a glob of marshmallow fluff from her index finger. Clarence the Bug-Eyed Creep.

Nonsense, said her mother. You will find, as you mature—Amanda scowled—"that Clarence has the potential, she emphasized the word with care as she dispatched the offending arachnid to the next world, for a beautiful and communicative soul. You will also find that everyone needs love, even the worst bullies." Amanda rolled her eyes.

Mrs. Grand dropped the tissue-embalmed corpse into the trash. There, she said sadly, I’ve probably destroyed my karma for the next few lifetimes. But the rule is as clear as it is simple: No Spiders in the House.

Well, I guess we’ll never know, Amanda said, taking up the prior conversation, because Audrey told me yesterday that she overheard Marty say his uncle who works with Clarence’s dad told him Clarence is going to Silverton this year because his parents bought a new house in the Silverton neighborhood.

Well, that settles it, then, Mr. Grand said. With such an authoritative source, who could doubt the news?

Amanda ignored the sarcasm.

Amanda, her father continued, "what is that you’re making for lunch?"

A peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich, Amanda said.

Ye gods, Mr. Grand said. Margery, are we going to allow this?

Peanut butter and marshmallow are good for the psyche, Mrs. Grand replied, unperturbed.

It’s the body I was concerned about, he muttered, but subsided lest the inimitable Mrs. Grand suggest he make the children’s school lunches if he was concerned about their contents.

By the way, Mrs. Grand said, scanning the room quickly to ensure there were no other spiders lurking in the corners, I’ve finally finished the sequel. Middle school is the beginning of a new era for you girls. Do you want to start the adventure with a reading tomorrow night?

Most definitively, Amanda said, tasting the word with satisfaction. I’ll notify the troops tomorrow. I can’t believe we had to wait all summer. What are you going to call it?

I haven’t decided yet, Mrs. Grand said.

Don’t you have a book signing coming up? Mr. Grand said.

Next week, Mrs. Grand said.

I still think they should have made the girl on the cover look like me, Amanda said. I am the main character’s namesake, after all.

No, my love, she’s yours. But remember, the heroine has blonde hair, and you, she kissed the forehead of the pouting face, are a ravishing auburn beauty.

Am not, Amanda said. My nose is too flat on the end and my legs are too skinny and my hair always looks like I just finished playing with an electrical socket.

Mr. Grand tried to catch Mrs. Grand’s eye, as this was the first time he’d heard such self-deprecation from his previously carefree child, but Mrs. Grand had her back turned.

Beautiful you are and beautiful you will always be, Mrs. Grand said.

You just say that because you’re my mother, Amanda said.

Would you rather she insulted you? Mr. Grand said, perplexed. Mrs. Grand shot him the look, and he withdrew, apparently realizing feminine self-image and pre-adolescent angst were probably best left to the other female in the room.

Sixth grade, Amanda said with a sigh fully intended to convey a perfect blend of satisfaction and wistfulness. Middle school. We’re not kids anymore, kids.

I for one am glad to leave childhood behind, Audrey said somberly.

You two are sure full of yourselves, Linda said, throwing a pillow at Amanda.

Amanda threw it back, accidentally nicking Audrey on the elbow. Audrey lifted the hefty couch cushion—the seat, not one of the lesser throw pillows—and whomped Amanda over the head.

Ow! That hurt.

Only a child would complain about getting hit with a pillow, Linda sneered, with just a hint of the old unbearable Linda.

Pillow fight, Thomas yelled, diving into the gaggle of girls with a squeal of glee and grabbing the first thing he could find (which, unfortunately, was Amanda’s slipper, not a pillow at all).

Don’t, Thomas, Amanda cried, it has a hard—

—sole, Audrey finished sadly, rubbing her leg where the slipper had landed.

Thomas, we’re going to read. You have to go away now, Amanda said sternly.

I want to read, too, Thomas said petulantly.

You’re not old enough for this book, Amanda said.

And it’s just for girls, Audrey added.

Say it isn’t so, my dears, Mrs. Grand said, entering the room carrying a pile of papers.

Why? Amanda asked.

I’d hate to think only girls will read my books.

Why? Amanda asked again.

Because, Mrs. Grand explained, fully fifty percent of the world is made up of the male gender. I don’t want to exclude half the world’s children.

We, Audrey announced, are not children.

Excuse me, Mrs. Grand said. I’d forgotten.

Will liked the first book, Linda said, and he’s a boy. Remember Will? Last year in detention?

Amanda and Audrey groaned in tandem.

You’ve jinxed us, Amanda said.

What? Linda said.

By mentioning detention on this, the eve of the first day of the new school year.

Oh, Linda said, abashed.

Pshaw, Mrs. Grand said. You brought detention on yourselves by the choices you made. You have free will, you know. You can choose to behave yourselves and avoid detention this year, or you can go off and do foolish, senseless things again, and take the consequences of your actions. There is no such thing, she said, scooping a pillow from the floor and plumping it slightly before replacing it on the couch, as a Jinx.

The girls looked dubious, but they assumed arguing would lead to further delay in reading, and so they said nothing.

Mrs. Grand settled the manuscript on her lap, and began.

I miss our dear sister, Audrey said with a sigh.

As do I, said Alyxandra, raking the crude wooden comb through her tangled and knotted auburn hair. She could make sense of this mess on my head, at least!

Auburn! Amanda exclaimed. You gave her auburn hair!

Why yes, yes I did, Mrs. Grand said, smiling bemusedly as if the significance had just occurred to her.

Which one is Audrey again? Audrey asked.

The second-oldest sister, Linda said. And Alyxandra is next. Don’t you remember? There were twelve sisters.

Heaven and saints preserve us, Amanda said. Two kids is enough for any family, I always say.

You, Audrey said, are so weird.

Keep reading, Linda urged.

’T is one long year since she left us, Audrey continued, pausing in her task of filling a bucket with clear stream water.

Has been a good year for us, Alyxandra pointed out, scowling as her comb hit a particularly obstinate snarl.

I thought stream water had giardia and other nasty bacteria, Linda said.

Not in the olden times, Amanda said.

Giardia comes from deer poop, Audrey said. Are you saying they didn’t have deer poop in the olden days?

I’m sure they boiled their water before drinking it, Mrs. Grand said, pursing her lips at the girls.

’True, Audrey admitted. Good things have come to us in goodly measure. And we had that message, from the far-off kingdom where she now resides, that Amanda is well and happy. And yet, oft it is I worry about her, and wonder whether we should not go after her, to offer aid and comfort.

You, Alyxandra said matter-of-factly, are the last person on this green earth who would go gallivanting into the wilds in search of kith and kin. You have not the adventuring spirit.

Audrey said nothing, but hung her head. It was true, she knew. Amanda had the bold and saucy spirit among the older girls; Audrey was—and always had been—shy, obedient, and compliant.

Thomas, I thought I told you to go away, Amanda said.

But I want to listen, Thomas whined.

No, you’ll bother us by doing cartwheels and picking your nose and rolling around on the floor.

Will not, Thomas said.

You’re doing it right now, Amanda said, exasperated. Besides, you’ll interrupt.

And of course, Mrs. Grand said, we can’t have anyone interrupting.

The girls nodded in agreement, oblivious to the irony.

All right, Thomas, Mrs. Grand said. Scoot on up to your room. Dad will be up in a few minutes to read to you and tuck you in.

Thomas reluctantly faded from view, picking his nose (guilty as charged), wandering in the general direction of the basement stairs rather than the stairs to his bedroom. This was an old trick, and had often gained him an extra hour or two before bedtime. Each parent assumed the other had escorted Thomas to bed, only to find him downstairs quietly playing with whatever odds and ends of tools and toys he could find.

Now then, Mrs. Grand said.

Wait, Audrey said.

Wait? Three voices said.

I’m not shy and obedient and—what did you call her?—‘compliant.’

No, Mrs. Grand agreed. Although you are practical, and sensible—both wonderful qualities. But just wait and see. There may come a time when Audrey-in-the-book must take courage and step outside her natural character. Then perhaps you’ll recognize a little of your own spark in her.

Okay, Audrey said, sounding dubious.

A sudden noise interrupted the girls’ conversation. It was Peter, the baker’s apprentice.

Audrey! Alyxandra! he called urgently, crashing through the underbrush (There is a path, Alyxandra muttered), come quick!

What is it? Audrey said, turning pale.

Your father, Peter said. The cart fell. He was delivering wood to Baker Samuel, when the axle broke, and the wood fell upon him. He is in a bad way, I’m afraid. You must come quickly, for he is calling for you.

Quickly was not possible, unfortunately, as the town lay far from the outskirts of the fey forest where they lived. The girls, wishing they had wings to fly, moved as quickly as possible through the woods, along the rutted track to the outskirts of town, and down the winding, cobbled streets to Baker Samuel’s home. There they found their father laid out on a makeshift bed of hay, in a dark corner. As their eyes adjusted to the dim light, the girls could just make out their father’s ashen face, wrenched with pain.

Father, Audrey whispered, too horrified to cry.

Don’t worry, he said, summoning a ghastly smile that was clearly intended to be reassuring but failed utterly. I’ll be fine. Just need to rest here, for a while.

Father, Audrey whispered again.

Stop saying that, Alyxandra commanded. What can we do, Father? Has the barber been summoned?

Yes, Baker Sam answered, approaching from behind. He had blankets in his arms.

Peter stood in the doorway, trembling and visibly aching to be useful. Shall I fetch some water? he said.

Yes, boy, Baker Sam answered, and put it on to boil.

Just then the barber appeared. There was something wrong with his face—the girls could not say quite what it was—as he stood on the threshold looking in. Where be the patient? he shouted.

Here, Aldus, Baker Sam said quietly. No need to shout.

I’ll shout if I feel like shoutin’, Barber Aldus shouted.

He stumbled through the door, just catching himself on the rough table still covered with flour and dough from the work in which Baker Sam had been engaged when news arrived of the injured man.

Barber Aldus waved flour-covered hands at the girls. Begone, fair ladies, and let me have a look at the dead man.

Audrey gasped, but Baker Sam shot her a comforting look. Don’t mind him, he said kindly, he’s just drunk.

Alyxandra sensibly pulled her sister out of the house, to give the barber more room and light to work. When, a moment later, they heard their father cry out, she led her further down the street to sit on the low stone wall beside the town well.

He’ll be fine, she said, but even confident Alyxandra did not sound convinced.

Audrey looked around at the town as if seeing it for the first time. The sun shone merrily on the houses and store fronts, dilapidated and grandiose alike. The birds sang, and the town’s solitary horse stamped and huffed in the yard where he was tied. Everything looked exactly as it always did, and yet somehow, Audrey knew, from this moment forward nothing would ever be the same.

Mrs. Grand closed the book,

That’s it? Amanda said. You’re going to leave us hanging, not knowing whether their father lives or dies, or whether one of them falls in love with Peter, the baker’s apprentice?

I thought you didn’t like romance in your stories, Mrs. Grand said.

That was last year, Mom, Amanda said. I was just a kid then.

I’ll keep that in mind, Mrs. Grand said without a trace of sarcasm (which was in itself a rather amazing feat).

Too short, Amanda said at last, when she could think of no other criticism. You need to make the first chapter longer.

I thought it was perfect, Linda said, and I can’t wait to hear what happens.

Once a suck-up, always a suck-up, Audrey said, and everyone, including Mrs. Grand, looked at her in surprise.

I thought it was my job to be tactless, Amanda said.

Audrey said nothing, and Mrs. Grand saved them from more awkwardness by announcing that there were more likely than not cookies in the pantry that were only slightly stale, if anyone was interested.

Anyone! Amanda shouted (a childhood game she and Audrey shared, that started when a very young Amanda had demanded to know who anyone was and why they would want cookies), and they scrambled to their feet to investigate.

T W O

Why do I always feel this way on the first day of school? Audrey asked of no one in particular.

Nervous, excited, shy, and hopeful, you mean? Amanda asked.

That about sums it up, Audrey answered.

Because it’s a brand new year, Linda said, ever pragmatic.

But it’s not, really, Audrey said. Even though we’re officially middle school students, it’s the same kids, same building—pretty much the same everything as last year.

Ah, said Amanda, but a whole new chance to mess things up.

The first thing the girls noticed was that Clarence was indeed absent from homeroom. The second was that there was a new teacher. The girls had expected Mr. Ramen (The Noodle Man), the long-suffering, unutterably dry, thin and balding man who had taught sixth grade time out of mind.

In his place at the front of the classroom was a short, dark-skinned man with thick black hair and unreadable dark eyes.

The class will come to order, the new teacher said. He had a lilting accent that made it sound, the girls decided later, as if he were chanting Zen stanzas in a mountain monastery. I am Ronald, he said.

The students looked at each other surreptitiously. Teachers at Forest Park did not refer to themselves by first name. It was always Mr. This or Ms. That, and some of the older female teachers still preferred Mrs. or Miss. What could it mean? Was he going to be one of those annoying teachers who tries to be your friend? Or was he just too inexperienced to know that power and authority must be established from Day One in the classroom?

Maybe he’s just a substitute, or a teacher’s assistant, Audrey scrawled on a note lifted casually toward Amanda for inspection.

I think he’s GORGEOUS, Linda wrote on the front of her own notebook, likewise turned to the other two for viewing.

I am neither a substitute, nor a teacher’s assistant, Ronald said, looking directly at Audrey.

All three girls gasped. They were sitting in the third row—how on earth could the man have read their notes?

And I thank you for the compliment, Ronald said, looking at Linda.

Ronald is my last name, and I am from Sri Lanka. I use my last name only, as it was done during my military service, to set the tone. I will do the same with each of you.

Amanda scowled. A whole year of being referred to as Grand didn’t appeal to her. What fun the other students would have with that!

We will be pursuing a year of military precision and excellence, he said.

And in fact, that’s just what he proceeded to do. He strode around the front of the room like a general or a stage director, barking out questions and orders in his gentle, musical voice. The combination of soldier and poetry was magical, Linda said later.

Baloney, Amanda said. It’s just weird.

What I don’t understand, Audrey said, leaning against the lone tree on the playground during their lunch break, is why his name is Mr. Ronald. ‘Ronald’ doesn’t sound very … foreign, does it?

Not unless you consider England ‘foreign,’ Mr. Ronald said, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. "My grandfather was British through and through. A Londoner, I believe. He traveled to Sri Lanka, married a beautiful Sri Lankan woman, and settled in for good. I was born and raised in Sri Lanka, however I came to America to attend university, and to visit relatives, and now I have permanent residency.

My first name, he added brusquely, is Mahinda. That is, I believe, ‘foreign-sounding,’ yes? But you will not share that information with others, I trust.

And then he was gone, turning on his toes and striding away as though marching to his own private martial orchestra.

That afternoon, during music class,