Rewritten

By Tara Gilboy

After learning the truth about her own fairy tale, twelve-year-old Gracie wants nothing more than to move past the terrible things author Gertrude Winters wrote about her and begin a new chapter in the real world. If only things were going as planned. On the run from the evil Queen Cassandra, the characters from Gracie’s story have all been forced to start over, but some of them cannot forget Gracie’s checkered past.

Even worse, Gracie discovers that her story is still being written in Cassandra’s magic book, the Vademecum. As long as Cassandra has the Vademecum, none of the characters are safe, including Gracie’s mom and dad. In a desperate attempt to set things right, Gracie finds herself transported into another one of Gertrude’s tales—but this one is a horror story. Can Gracie face her destiny and the wild beast roaming the night, to rewrite her own story?

• Language: English
• Publisher: North Star Editions
• Release date: Apr 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781631634345

Tara Gilboy

Tara Gilboy holds a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia, where she specialized in writing for children and young adults. She teaches creative writing in San Diego Community College's Continuing Education Program and for the PEN Writers in Prisons Program. Her work has appeared in Word Riot, Beloit Fiction Journal, Cricket, and other publications. She lives in San Diego, California.

Book preview

Rewritten © 2020 by Tara Gilboy. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Jolly Fish Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Edition

First Printing, 2020

Book design by Jake Slavik

Cover design by Jake Slavik

Cover illustration by Jomike Tejido

Jolly Fish Press, an imprint of North Star Editions, Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data (pending)

978-1-63163-433-8

Jolly Fish Press

North Star Editions, Inc.

2297 Waters Drive

Mendota Heights, MN 55120

www.jollyfishpress.com

Printed in the United States of America

To Samantha, always

Chapter 1

The problem with real memories, Gracie thought, was that they had actually happened.

She lay in bed, sprawled on her stomach, a blank journal open in front of her. She was supposed to write about her feelings in it. Jacob, Gracie’s father, had given it to her that morning before he and Mom left on their trip, to help her deal with what had happened in Bondoff. He’d learned about this technique in one of the self-help books he was always reading. Even though the glimmers had ceased six months ago when Gracie changed the ending of their story, the memories didn’t fade as easily.

Glimmers. Gracie would never forget the pain of them. Glimmers were those vivid visions of the story world that once plagued her every moment, coming on without warning. They were slippery, mutable, like the shadows that prowled across her ceiling when she lay awake at night. Sharp edges blurred into flashes of what might have been, of what Gertrude, her author, had written. Not what Gracie had done.

Memory, on the other hand, was solid, bulky, heavy as an oil lamp in her hands, jagged as the spraying shards of glass when she had heaved it at the wall. True memory was the scorching stink of burnt fabric, the glare of flames reflected in the lenses of Walter’s glasses, everything she’d done in Bondoff when the story’s power had seized hold of her. Real memory, she’d learned, was every bit as painful as a glimmer.

Gracie would rather forget about her past than write about it in journals.

What are you doing? Walter asked.

Gracie slammed the journal closed and turned. Nothing.

Walter stood in the doorway in faded cargo shorts and a button-up plaid shirt with a frayed collar. As storybook characters, they didn’t have certain real-world things like birth certificates and social security numbers, which made it difficult for their parents to find jobs. Gertrude Winters, the author of their story, earned some income from the royalties of her dozen published books, but money had been tight lately, and they were all looking a little ragged. This was one of the reasons Jacob and Mom had left that morning. Jacob had gotten a two-day construction job in Arizona, and Mom had gone with him. They had only recently gotten back together after being separated for most of Gracie’s life, and they had decided to turn the trip into a working mini-honeymoon.

Walter nudged his glasses up on his nose. I think Gertrude’s having a crisis.

Again? Ever since she’d quit writing fiction six months ago, the author had been moping around the small house they all shared. Gracie shoved the journal under her mattress and followed Walter downstairs.

Gertrude Winters sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by notepads, scraps of paper, and reference books. Her hair was uncombed, and she wore a T-shirt with a coffee stain across the chest. There is no drama in vegetables, she moaned. An ink spot smeared her cheek.

Gracie slid a yellow legal pad out from beneath a stack of books and seed packets. At the top, Gertrude had written The Science of Beets??? Below that, she’d scrawled A Cultural History of the Sweet Potato??? No wonder Gertrude was depressed. Giving up fiction doesn’t mean you have to write a book on gardening, Gracie said.

Gertrude cradled her head in her hands. What else is there to write about?

Walter leaned over Gracie’s shoulder, reading Gertrude’s notes. Oops, that reminds me! My mom said we’re supposed to start dinner. She wanted us to peel potatoes.

Gertrude whimpered again but said nothing, and Gracie joined Walter at the counter. He plopped a bag of potatoes in the sink and handed Gracie a peeler. They worked in silence, though they exchanged smirks every time Gertrude let out a muffled moan (muffled because she had plunked her face down on the Formica tabletop). They knew from experience that Gertrude would be fine in a few minutes. She could be dramatic when she was frustrated with her writing, but usually having Gracie and Walter—her very own characters—near was enough to snap her out of her mood.

You know, potatoes are actually pretty fascinating. Walter rinsed one under the faucet and examined it. The acid in a potato can work like a battery. Researchers think maybe someday we could power cell phones with them.

With potatoes? Gracie imagined people holding cell phones to their ears with potatoes strapped to them.

You’d be amazed at all the things we can make electricity from. Onions, tomatoes, citrus fruits . . .

That could be an interesting novel. Gertrude raised her head from the table. Her forehead was imprinted where she’d been resting it on the corner of a book. A science-fiction story set in a future where the world is powered by vegetables.

I should think not. Audrey, Walter’s mother, swooped in through the patio door, her hands clumped with soil. She rinsed them at the sink, budging between Gracie and Walter to reach the faucet. The gardening book had been her idea.

It could be a children’s story, Gertrude said. Something nice and sweet, where no one gets hurt. I don’t see what harm it could have, so long as it has a happy ending.

We’ve already talked about this. Audrey dried her hands on a towel, her jaw set in a hard line. She was a small, plump woman, but she looked formidable when her mind was made up. Writing fiction is much too dangerous. Not if there’s a chance the stories could come alive like ours did.

Gertrude slumped over the table.

Why not try writing about yourself? Gracie tossed the peeled potatoes into the pot and filled it with water. I’m sure your own experiences are just as interesting as anything you could make up.

This, anyway, was the philosophy Gracie had been living by lately. Live in the real world. Be herself. Forget Bondoff. Forget the story Gertrude had written about her.

Like a memoir? Gertrude scowled. I’ve already based too much of my fiction on my own life. If I wrote a memoir, people would see how much in my novels was true. It would be humiliating.

Gracie supposed she wouldn’t want anyone reading about her memories either. She set the pot on the stove and lit the burner.

What are you doing? Audrey jostled Gracie out of the way and flicked the burner off. "I wanted you to peel potatoes, not cook them."

Gracie stumbled back, knocking her hip against the counter. She rubbed the sore spot. Walter said you wanted them for dinner.

Audrey’s face was flushed. Yes, but you don’t need to use the stove. I’ll handle that part.

My mom always lets me cook on the stove, Gracie said.

But she’s not here, is she? Audrey said. And I think it’s too dangerous for children.

Gracie narrowed her eyes. She knew exactly what Audrey meant. She thought it was too dangerous for Gracie. She didn’t want Gracie near flames after what Gertrude had written about her.

I’m not going to start a fire! Gracie said. I was only trying to help make dinner.

Audrey drummed her nails on the edge of the counter. Everyone out of the kitchen. I’ll take it from here.

Gertrude gave Gracie a sympathetic smile as she stalked out, but Gracie couldn’t help noticing she didn’t jump to her defense. She’d opened her laptop and was typing away, hopefully not about societies powered by brussels sprouts.

You want to make a potato battery? Walter asked as he followed Gracie down the hall. I found some wire in the garage.

Gracie shook her head. No, I think I’ll just read in my room. She turned to go upstairs, but as she placed her hand on the railing, her elbow knocked the vase resting on the shelf beside the staircase. It tottered for a moment, and Gracie reached to catch it, but it slipped through her fingers and shattered on the tile floor.

Footsteps pattered down the hall, and Audrey appeared, mouth spluttering, cheeks going splotchy. She stared at the smashed vase, her hands on her hips.

I’m sorry. Gracie bent to pick up the broken pieces, but Gertrude, who had come rushing after Audrey, placed a hand on her arm. Don’t touch them. You’ll cut yourself.

You saw how mad she was because I didn’t let her use the stove, Audrey said. She wanted to get back at me.

You think I did this on purpose? Angry words bubbled to Gracie’s lips, but she stuffed them down. She wished she didn’t have to prove to everyone, and herself, that she wasn’t a villain. She’d have loved to give Audrey a piece of her mind, but if she talked back, it would only give Audrey more ammunition to use against her.

That vase was a wedding gift from my mother. It’s one of the only things I managed to bring from Bondoff, Audrey said. It’s an irreplaceable family heirloom.

I’m sure it was an accident. Gertrude wrapped an arm around Gracie’s waist.

Audrey trudged off to get a broom. She pursed her lips as she swept the shards into a dustpan. I hope you’re ready to do extra chores to make up for this, missy. Accident or not, maybe you’ll think twice before stomping off and throwing hissy fits when you don’t get your way.

Not trusting herself to speak, Gracie fled to her room.

Chapter 2

Gracie’s room at Gertrude’s house was nothing like her old room back in Wisconsin. When they’d been forced to flee from Cassandra, their story’s villain and Gracie’s former stepmother, they hadn’t had time to get many of their things, so most of the items in the room had come from what they’d scavenged cheaply at secondhand stores. A twin bed that sagged in the middle. A bunk bed for Mom and Jacob. Battered dressers and tacky lamps with crooked shades.

Gracie sat on the edge of her bed, her body still tense with the injustice of Audrey’s accusations. She opened a book, a biography of Einstein she’d borrowed from Walter, but her emotions were too high to concentrate on the informational text, and she slammed it shut again.

Gracie, like Walter and their parents, was a character dreamt up by Gertrude Winters, but unlike the others, Gracie had been written as a villain. When Gracie and Walter were babies, their parents had taken them out of Bondoff, the fairy-tale land of their story, and into the real world, so they could escape the terrible things Gertrude had written. Gracie had grown up in Wisconsin with Mom, knowing very little about Bondoff or her father, but from the time she was very young, she’d suffered from terrifying glimmers, visions of things that were supposed to happen in the story. When she’d gone searching for answers six months ago, she’d ended up getting everyone trapped back inside the land of Bondoff.

In Bondoff, they’d all started to forget who they were in the real world, reverting instead into the characters Gertrude had written. Jacob was married to the evil Queen Cassandra, and Gracie was a princess, though a wicked one. She’d done terrible things in Bondoff, but eventually she’d managed to change the end of their story and return to the real world. Unfortunately, Cassandra had escaped too. She’d gotten away with the Vademecum, a powerful magic book that opened a portal between Bondoff and the real world. Instead of being able to return to their homes in Wisconsin, Gracie and the others had been forced to move across the country to California to elude Cassandra. If she caught them, she’d force them all back into the story.

Someone knocked on her door. Gracie was tempted to mutter, Go away, but she realized that if it had been Audrey, she would have burst in without knocking. Instead, Gertrude Winters eased the door open. You okay? she asked.

I didn’t mean to break her vase, Gracie said.

Some people are slow to let go of grudges. Gertrude sat on the bed beside Gracie. Audrey has a hard time getting over what happened in Bondoff.

"The vase had nothing to do with Bondoff. It’s like I’m not allowed to make normal mistakes. Anytime I do something wrong, Audrey takes it as a