Beautiful Curse

By Jen McConnel

“If this is magic,” I whispered to the wispy clouds overhead, “then I promise to believe in it.”

Psyche Jones just wants to be normal, but between her mom walking out, her own suddenly too-good-to-be-true appearance, and the way everyone at school treats her, normal is next to impossible. When her beauty catches the attention of the mysterious Ross, she leaves her old life behind and takes a chance on the stranger. Everything with Ross is magical, from his toe-curling kisses to the invisible servants who staff his castle, but loving him might be more than a mere mortal like Psyche can handle. Has she wandered into an unexpected fairy tale, or does something ancient and dark threaten her love?
Beautiful Curse is a re-imagining of the myth of Cupid and Psyche.

Winner of the Gayle Wilson Award for Excellence in Fiction.

“A fun and fresh twist on a well-loved story! The Cupid and Psyche romance is my favorite myth and McConnel's whimsical take did not disappoint. An absolute delight, I loved every moment of this love story and instantly wanted more.” – New York Times bestselling author Rachel Harris

“Beautiful Curse is the perfect balance of mysterious and romantic. You’ll swoon over this imaginative retelling of Cupid and Psyche.” - Robin Constantine, author of THE PROMISE OF AMAZING.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jen McConnel
• Release date: Oct 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370153534

Jen McConnel

Jen McConnel first began writing poetry as a child. Since then, her words have appeared in a variety of magazines and journals, including Sagewoman, PanGaia, and The Storyteller (where she won the people's choice 3rd place award for her poem, “Luna”). She is also a former reviewer for Voices of Youth Advocates (VOYA), and a proud member of SCBWI, NCWN, and SCWW. A Michigander by birth, she now lives and writes in the beautiful state of North Carolina. When she isn't crafting worlds of fiction, she teaches writing composition at a community college. Once upon a time, she was a middle school teacher, a librarian, and a bookseller, but those are stories for another time. Follow Jen on Twitter @Jen_McConnel, and visit www.jenmcconnel.com to learn more.

Book preview

By Jen McConnel

Published by Jen McConnel

Smashwords Edition

Copyright of the 2nd edition, 2016 Jen McConnel

Cover Designed by Paper and Sage, 2016

Cover Photo by Meet Cute Photography, 2016

Translations by Matthew McConnel, 2012

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, locations, and events are products of the author’s mind, or have been used in a fictitious manner. The author acknowledges the right of all trademark holders for products mentioned in this work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or to actual events, is purely coincidental.

License Statement:

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

BEAUTIFUL CURSE

Jen McConnel

Translations by Matthew McConnel, 2012

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Acknowledgements

Copyright

About the Author

To everyone who’s ever run a little short on hope.

" … and yet, the youngest girl was so singular, was so splendidly beautiful, that no tongue of men was able to neither praise nor sufficiently express it. Many—citizens and strangers—came to see the rumored beauty and were struck dumb by her presence and they began to adore her as if she were the goddess of love herself …"

Apuleius, Metamorphosis

Part I

Chapter One

After checking my hair one more time in the small purple mirror, I slammed my locker, excited. For whatever reason, I looked really good, better than I’d hoped; my blond hair was smooth and perfect, and I hadn’t even taken the time to straighten it that morning. It wasn’t just my hair; my skin glowed like a girl in a magazine, and I had the ridiculous feeling I’d been airbrushed. It was a little weird, since I hadn’t done anything that morning that I hadn’t done a million times before, but I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. If the universe wanted me to be gorgeous for the first day of junior year, who was I to complain? My stomach flopped around as I scanned the hall, looking for Elaina. She’d been visiting her grandparents in Montana all summer, but even though I hadn’t seen her for two months, I needed her beside me. If the face in the mirror was any indication, junior year was going to be our best year ever, and I couldn’t wait to see her. Energy rippled around me, and finally I spotted a familiar brown ponytail through the crowd.

Elaina! I stood on my toes and waved, trying not to care that the people near me whipped their heads around to stare. I smiled at my best friend. Let them stare; we’re upperclassmen now.

Elaina elbowed her way through the crowd, grinning, but her smile faded by the time she got to me. I gave her a quick hug, but she pulled back, studying me closely. What did you do to your face?

I reached for my cheek. Is there something on it? Hurriedly, I turned to open my locker and check the mirror again, but Elaina put her hand on my arm.

Stop fooling around. Seriously, what did you do?

I ran my tongue over my teeth, hoping I didn’t have any food stuck in them. What do you mean?

She squinted at me. Psyche, you look like a frickin' super model. What gives?

I blushed. I’d been excited when I woke up and realized how good I looked, but something in Elaina’s tone made me uncomfortable. I forced a laugh. I know, right? It’s so weird. It’s like magic or something.

Elaina raised her eyebrow. Did you have work done or something?

What? No! I looked around and lowered my voice. You know I’d never do anything like that.

Makeup, then. What brand are you using?

I shook my head. Seriously, I didn’t do anything. It’s like my face finally decided to behave. I smoothed my long blond hair out of habit, and Elaina’s eyes followed my fingers.

And your hair. You look way too good for the first day of school! Her words were light, but her smile looked a little strained. If you don’t want to share your secret with me, that’s fine. She turned abruptly, but I hurried after her, hurt.

There is no secret! I’m just having a really, really good hair day, I guess.

Before she could reply, the warning bell rang, and I glanced at my schedule, my stomach suddenly tight with anxiety.

I’ve got Farkner for homeroom, and then Calc.

Elaina nodded. I’ll see you at lunch. Her tone was distant, and I bit my lip, trying to figure out what was going on.

She slipped into the crowd before I could say anything else, and I stared after her for a moment before I turned and began pushing my way through the students to the math room.

Someone bumped me from behind, and my books went sailing to the floor. So much for this being a good day. Conscious of my knee-length denim skirt, I knelt to grab my things.

An underclassman with red hair and thick glasses handed me my pencil case, and I grinned at him. He started drooling, and his eyes glazed over. He looked like he’d been smoking pot behind the track with his buddies, and I scrambled away from him, scooping up my books in a hurry. Who came to school stoned on the first day?

Eager to get away from the strange freshman, I skidded across the threshold of Mr. Farkner’s classroom just as the late bell rang.

Ah, Miss Jones. Cutting it close, aren’t we?

His tone made me wince, and I looked at the floor and nodded. Mr. Farkner sighed heavily and turned back to the board to finish writing the warm up, and I slipped into an empty desk beside the dirty window and opened my notebook. A folded scrap of paper fell out, and I glanced around. No one was paying any attention to me; they were all dutifully copying down the Pre-Calc problem on the board. I guess we weren’t going to waste any time on introductions or stuff, I thought, staring at the numbers on the board. I’d heard Farkner was hard in class, but I’d met him when I picked up my schedule, and he hadn’t seemed too bad. Still, I hadn’t expected him to jump right in on the first day.

Distracted, I unfolded the note, keeping it under one corner of my desk so no one could see what I was doing. I skimmed it, confused, then read it more carefully.

"Roses are red, but your lips are, too,

I wish I had a girl as sweet as you.

Your hair reminds me of the beach and sand,

I want to hold it in my hands."

Who would write me a love letter? I looked around the room, but the only person who met my eye was Lydia, a girl I’d never really liked. She glared at me and wrinkled her nose, and I glanced back at the note. It was kind of creepy, I decided, skimming the words again. The whole thing sounded like a joke, with the pathetic rhyme about my hair and the sand. With a sigh, I crumpled the note up, trying to pretend it hadn’t made my heart race for a minute.

A loud noise made me jerk my head up and stare at the front of the room. Mr. Farkner was slamming his ruler against the board as if he wanted to smack us, but couldn’t.

Didn’t anybody do the review work I sent out this summer? I swallowed nervously. I’d always liked math, but I hated the idea of speaking up in class. Mostly, I tried to blend in, unless I was in class with Elaina. She made me feel brave, but she’d been so weird this morning, I was almost relieved we didn’t have class together.

You! Miss Jones. Did you do the homework I assigned over the break?

Yes, I mumbled, keeping my eyes down.

Speak up, girl.

Yes, I said a little louder. Someone snickered from the back of the room.

Mr. Farkner rocked back and forth on his heels. Then would you care to solve this problem?

I walked to the front of the room and picked up a blue dry-erase marker. Working quickly, I solved the equation and slunk back to my seat, wishing I were invisible.

Mr. Farkner looked at the board and nodded. Now, did anyone besides Miss Jones bother to come to class prepared?

Lydia snorted under her breath and whispered something to Rachel, the girl beside her, who chuckled and pulled out a piece of paper. She began furiously scribbling while Farkner reviewed the problems on the board. I looked back at Rachel, trying to keep my long hair in front of my face so she wouldn’t notice. For some reason, I had a feeling they were talking about me. Rachel passed the note to her left, and it began to snake its way around the classroom.

After fifty agonizing minutes, the bell rang. Farkner glared at us, and I sank a little lower into my seat. Fifty questions tonight. Finish the review in chapters one and two, and don’t be surprised if you have a pop quiz in the next few days.

This so wasn’t how I’d pictured junior year. I exhaled, shoving my books into a careless pile. Someone dropped Rachel’s mysterious note on top of my stack, but I didn’t look up to see who it was. An unfamiliar warning prickled on my skin, and I almost threw it out without reading it. Instead, I locked myself in a stall in the girls’ bathroom on the second floor and unfolded the crumpled paper.

It was a sketch of two stick people. One was labeled Psyche and the other Mr. Farkner. God, I never knew stick figures could be so dirty! Hot tears blurred my vision, and I crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the toilet. So much for starting the year off on a good foot; school hadn’t even been in for a day and I’d already managed to piss off the bitchiest girls in the class.

I glanced in the mirror, studying my green eyes. At least it can’t get any worse, right?

I was wrong. It got a lot worse.

***

Dumping my bag in the half-painted kitchen, I pulled out my cell phone. Elaina had been really cold to me at lunch, and we didn’t have any classes together; maybe I should text her to see if she wanted to come over. I stared at the phone for a moment and considered texting her, but then I shook my head. She’s probably just having a bad first day. Trying not to think about her, I rummaged through the fridge, hoping I could find something with either copious amounts of chocolate or salt, but all I came up with was an apple. I sat down at the kitchen table and sighed before biting into the red skin.

Psyche, is that you? Mom called from upstairs, and I swallowed the bite of apple.

Yeah. I sort of hoped she wouldn’t come down. I didn’t really want to re-hash the awful day, but I heard her soft steps on the stairs.

She came around the corner and looked at me expectantly. Well, how was it?

I sighed. Okay, I guess. Elaina and I had a fight.

About?

I took another bite of my apple. I’m not sure, I lied. I didn’t want to tell Mom that we’d fought about my looks. It seemed like a ridiculous reason to argue, and I hoped Elaina would get over whatever was bothering her by tomorrow.

Mom squinted at me. What did you do to your face?

I stopped chewing. What do you mean? I reached for my cell phone to check my reflection in the screen, but Mom’s next words stopped me.

You look different. Fake, somehow. Are you wearing new makeup?

I shook my head. You know I hate wearing makeup.

Mom cocked her head to one side. Still, something’s different about you.

I slumped into my seat. Desperate to change the subject, I gestured at the kitchen. Are we out of paint?

She nodded, but her eyes studied my face for a moment before shifting to look at the half-finished walls. Yes. I was going to run out and get some more, but— She cleared her throat. I guess I got distracted upstairs.

I can get it.

Don’t you have homework?

I shrugged. It’s not a far walk.

Mom hesitated, glancing at the door, but then she nodded. Okay. She leaned forward and kissed my forehead. Thank you.

I hopped up and tossed my apple core in the compost bin on the counter. Another gallon?

She nodded, and then she pulled me into a tight hug.

Confused, I looked up at her. You okay?

Yes. Mom pulled away and pursed her lips. Are you sure you don’t want to wash off whatever’s on your face first?

I sighed, exasperated. I told you, Mom, it’s just me.

She laughed, but it sounded forced. No one looks that good when they’re sixteen, sweetie.

***

When I got home from the hardware store, Mom was nowhere to be found. I left the can of paint on the kitchen counter before I carried my bag upstairs and settled in at my desk, determined to start my homework and forget the way Mom and Elaina had both basically accused me of lying. But I couldn’t focus, and by the time Dad got home from work, I’d only done three of the fifty math problems Farkner had assigned. I sighed and closed my books, and then headed downstairs for dinner.

Dad was standing in the kitchen, his back to me, and I slipped up behind him and gave him a quick hug. Hi, Daddy.

He folded a piece of paper and tucked it into his pocket before he turned around. Princess, he said, his voice thick, you get more beautiful every day.

I rolled my eyes, feeling self-conscious. Whatever, Dad. What’s for dinner?

He hesitated, and I realized his eyes were puffy. I’m not sure. Dad looked around the kitchen as if he’d lost something. I guess we’ll go out.

I stared at him, trying to figure out why he was acting so weird. Dad, what’s wrong?

He shook his head, but not before I caught the glimmer of a tear in his eyes. Nothing. Get your purse.

Did somebody die? I hesitated, but I couldn’t ignore the rock-solid feeling in the pit of my stomach. Should I get Mom?

For a moment, nothing happened, but then his shoulders started to shake, and as I watched, my dad unraveled in front of me. Horrified, I took a step forward. Dad! I felt helpless, but I had no idea what to do; I’d never seen my dad cry before.

After a few shuddering breaths, Dad straightened up. I don’t think your mom will be coming, Princess. He paused, like he was struggling to find the right words, but when he finally spoke, I wasn’t prepared for what he had to say. She’s left us.

Chapter Two

The next few weeks passed in an awful blur. Every day felt more and more like I was walking on broken glass, but I kept moving. What else could I do? Mom didn’t come back; she didn’t call, or if she did, Dad didn’t tell me. He refused to talk about it, but I kept replaying my last conversation with Mom over and over in my mind. What had made her leave? Was it something I said? I started having trouble sleeping, but I’m ashamed to admit that I wasn’t only miserable because of Mom. Things at school went from bad to worse, and by the end of September, Elaina wasn’t speaking to me anymore, and neither were most of the other girls in our grade.

I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d done, but like Elaina and my mom, no one seemed to believe that I wasn’t trying to look the way I did. In fact, I even went a week without washing my hair, to see if grease could tone down my new, freakish beauty, but that only made the girls whisper about the way I smelled. All my excitement for junior year had vanished that first day. Now, I was just trying to survive it.

I wasn’t doing a very good job.

Since Mom left, I’d retreated into my shell, but even though I tried not to talk to anybody, that didn’t stop them from talking about me. Their whispers followed me around like some kind of twisted Greek chorus.

Slut.

Whore.

Who does she think she’s fooling?

If I were a slut, maybe then I wouldn’t feel so alone. But despite my freakish beauty, I’d never even been kissed, let alone done anything else. I’d been too shy before the transformation, but even though I had guys following me around now, I didn’t trust them. There was no way to tell if they liked me or if they were drawn by my weird beauty, and I didn’t want to risk it. Between the guys falling all over me and the girls treating me like a leper, I pretty much hated every minute of school.

Art was the only class I didn’t want to miss: everyone was always so busy working on their own projects that they forget to torment me. It was a welcome respite from the rest of the crappy days.

The art room was housed in what used to be the athletic shed, before the school scraped together the money to build a brand-new stadium complex across the street in a big cornfield. Ms. Amboulia had happily moved the art students into the building despite the fact that it didn’t have heat.

It’s good for the artist to suffer a bit. Makes them create better art, she’d told the principal when he reminded her how cold the building would get in the winter months. But Ms. Amboulia was an institution: she’d taught at the school for what seemed like centuries, and no one was willing to argue with her.

So she moved her classes out to the shed, which was actually a really great idea. Instead of being confined to one classroom, we had free rein over the abandoned track and football field, not to mention the woods surrounding the school. Ms. Amboulia had some of the seniors help her build a wood kiln, and she’d added pottery to the list of independent study subjects that she offered.

Since it was only late September, the art room hadn’t lived up to the principal’s expectations of becoming a meat locker, but Ms. Amboulia had promised us that she wouldn’t let us freeze in the winter, no matter what. I wasn’t sure how she planned to accomplish that, but Ms. Amboulia wasn’t the type of person who made promises lightly.

Shaking off my thoughts, I slid open the shed door, wincing at the noise. Unlike in my other classes, no one looked up: everyone who signed up for independent study was serious about their art, and I had a feeling that it would take a zombie invasion to break their concentration. Not for the first time, I wished I could spend the whole school day safe in the art shed.

Ms. Amboulia glanced at me, her hands covered in potter’s silt. She looked pointedly at the clock, and I dropped my things guiltily. I’d taken to hiding out in the girls’ bathroom between classes to avoid the cramped halls where I’d either be propositioned or tortured, or both, depending on the day, but this was the first time I’d actually been late to a class. Trying to move fast, I crossed to my art locker and grabbed the project I’d been working on. This year, I had decided to try working with wood.

Even though Jameson High funneled a lot more money into its athletic budget than anywhere else, Ms. Amboulia still managed to get whatever supplies we wanted. It was sort of like magic; I had access to a jigsaw,