My Fair Godmother

by Janette Rallison

Jane didn’t go to sleep for a long time. She went into Savannah’s room and with shaking hands took the stack of teen magazines from her sister’s closet. She retreated to her bedroom, sat on the edge of her bed, and studied every single one of them.

  The next day Jane made an appointment with the optometrist for contacts. She also went shopping with Savannah, who was thrilled her sister wanted to update her appearance. Savannah helped her with the zeal of someone administering life support.

  As they flipped through the racks at Forever 21, Savannah put together outfits and handed them to Jane. If Jane balked because something was too bright or too flashy, Savannah quickly brought her around again with a gentle reminder. “Clothes say a lot about a person. Right now yours say you’re on the fast track to becoming an eccentric cat lady.” Then she would shove the outfit at Jane and say, “Now go try this on and show everyone how beautiful you really are.”

  Jane didn’t feel guilty about accepting Savannah’s help. She wasn’t trying to steal Hunter. She was trying to punish him. She wanted Hunter to notice her so she could ignore him.

  After Jane had spent enough money on outfits and accessories to ensure that she would need a scholarship to go to college, she had her mother, who’d worked as a beautician for years, cut, highlight, and shape her hair until it was the mirror image of Savannah’s.

  Savannah, who was almost as good a stylist as their mother, made the finishing touches and applied the hairspray. “Now we look like twins again.”

  They had often been told this growing up, back before their styles had detoured.

  On Monday, Jane drove her own car to school. By the time calculus rolled around she was in good spirits. She had received a lot of approving gazes from the guys. Flirting would be a problem for her, she knew. But she’d seen Savannah do it enough times. You looked into the guy’s eyes, smiled, and complimented him. She could handle the first two tasks on this list. She just needed to come up with some generic compliments that would work on a variety of guys.

  “You’re so smart.”

  “You’re so funny.”

  “You have really great biceps.”

  She’d have a boyfriend in no time.

  Hunter walked into calculus, did a double take, and strode over to her. “Savannah, what are you—” He stopped as though pulled back by a leash. “Jane?”

  “New haircut,” she told him. “Don’t feel bad. People have been doing it all day.”

  “Oh,” he said, and continued to stare at her.

  “Don’t you like it?” she asked.

  “It’s exactly like Savannah’s.”

  “Right,” she said. You’re so smart.

  He broke his gaze away from her for a moment, seeming to come out of a trance.

  “I’d better say yes or I’ll have both you and Savannah mad at me, won’t I?”

  “Right,” she said and laughed along with him. You’re so funny.

  He went back to staring and didn’t say anything else. Oddly, the silence didn’t make her feel awkward. She owned this silence, not the other way around.

  “You’re wearing makeup,” he said.

  “I was ready for a change.” You have really great biceps, she thought, and I will never let you put your arms around me.

  They didn’t eat lunch together that day. She said she didn’t feel like doing homework. While he ate with guys from the track team, she talked to football players in the hot-lunch line. She laughed and flirted, her inexperience making her too obvious and nearly drunk with desperation, but she didn’t care. This was not something she had to do well, just something she had to do.

  Fairy’s side note: Guys can smell desperation. It triggers an instinct in them to run far and fast so they aren’t around when a woman starts peeling apart her heart. They know she’ll ask for help in putting it back together the right way—intact and beating correctly—and they dread the thought of puzzling over layers that they can’t understand, let alone rebuild. They’d rather just not get blood on their hands.

  But sharks are different. They smell the blood of desperation and circle in. They whisper into a girl’s ear, “I’ll make it better. I’ll make you forget all about your pain.”

  Sharks do this by eating your heart, but they never mention this beforehand. That is the thing about sharks.

  The sharks at the school began to take notice of Jane. Over the next few days one after another slid up to her, stopped by her locker to talk, measured her with hungry gazes. “What’s your phone number, Jane?” “Who are you hanging out with this weekend?” “My friend is throwing a party. It’s going to be a lot of fun.” All of them swishing about her, humming, “Come swim with me in the deep water.”

  Jane didn’t know enough about guys to recognize a shark when she saw one. But Hunter did. He grew more upset every time he saw her wading farther away from the shore, every time he saw her smiling as the fins circled around.

  Finally Hunter and Jane had lunch together again. They had a test on Friday and Jane was not so reckless as to abandon her grades in the pursuit of revenge. They studied as they ate, then went to the library to study some more. As they walked there, a sharp-toothed jock sauntered up beside her. “You never got back to me about the party on Friday. Are you going?”

  She smiled at him. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “What’s to decide? I can pick you up if you need a ride.”

  Another smile and a toss of her hair. “I’ll let you know.”

  He swam off, and Hunter’s glare followed him. “You’re not really going to go anywhere with that guy, are you?”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  They walked into the library, but instead of sitting down at a table he took her arm and pulled her behind the history section. “What’s gotten into you? Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?” she asked, but she knew. She just wanted him to say it.

  He held out one hand, waving it in front of her. “The way you’re acting. The way you’re suddenly carrying on with complete jerks.” More hand waving, as though he were trying to erase something in the air. “You’ve stopped being you.”

  She tilted her head at him in accusation. “Why shouldn’t I change? You never liked the old me.”

  His head snapped slightly backward. “I did too.”

  “No, you didn’t.” She swept her hand in front of her, presenting herself. “You like this. This is why you’re dating Savannah and not me.” There, she’d said it, and she hadn’t even meant to.

  He looked at her without speaking, realization saturating his expression.

  She turned to go. She did not want to be there when he found the words to speak.

  But he never did. Speak, that is. He reached out, took her arm, and moved in front of her to block the way. She stopped and looked at the belt loops on his jeans, waiting for him to say something. Still, he didn’t.

  She watched his chest move up and down with each breath. Some sort of emotion made the breaths come faster, but she was afraid to find out which emotion that was. She stared at the bookshelves around her, at the books lined up in perfect, tidy rows. Her life had been like that once— perfect, tidy.

  “Jane,” he said.

  She looked up to decipher his gaze, but didn’t see much of it. He bent down and kissed her.

  Somewhere in her mind a row of books went flying. Pages flapped by like birds in flight. She kissed him back and felt them flutter away in a reckless scramble. Don’t think, she told herself and then, don’t let him go.

  But of course both happened eventually. He stepped away from her and ran his fingers through his hair, watching her breathlessly.

  “We shouldn’t have done that,” she told him.

  “No—we should have done that a long time ago.” He leaned down then and kissed her again.

  In Jane’s defense, it took her a while to process what he’d said. It was hard to think while he kissed her. Finally she gave up trying to sort it out and pushed him away. “What do you me
an? Do you think I want to betray my sister?” She took a step away from him. “What kind of person do you think I am?”

  He looked at her as though just realizing it himself. “I think you’re the perfect person for me.”

  Jane shook her head. At last she remembered Savannah— but you can’t blame her. You haven’t thought of Savannah in pages. Savannah was, at that moment, ignoring her English assignment in favor of a prom dress catalog. She was wondering if Hunter could set up Jane with one of his friends. That way they could double date.

  But back to Jane and Hunter. The taste of his kiss had turned to bitterness on Jane’s lips. “You already chose Savannah.”

  “And that was a mistake.”

  They looked at each other silently, each one weighing the past against the future. “I’ll break up with her,” he said.

  “Not yet,” she said. “We have to think of a way to do it gently.”

  Jane thought over this particularly difficult equation for the next week. The ride to school in the morning became an exercise in awkwardness. Lunch was better and worse. After they ate, they walked the rows of the library. Biographies and poetry. General fiction and mysteries. At some point Hunter would take her hand and say, “There is no way to do it gently. We just need to tell her.”

  Jane would lean into him, stand close enough to hear his heartbeat, and want nothing more than to keep her arms around him. But she always said, “Not yet.”

  Hunter grew more silent and distant toward Savannah during their car rides. Occasionally he sent heavy, questioning looks in Jane’s direction. He never took Savannah’s hand or put his arm around her.

  Savannah should have known then, but she didn’t. Sometimes love not only lifts you to the ceiling, it also keeps your eyes there.

  One day as the three walked across the parking lot, Savannah told Hunter that he’d become gloomy and really, he should stop worrying about finals—hadn’t he already been accepted to George Mason? She took hold of his hand and gave him a knowing look. “Seriously. We’re going to have to refresh your fun skills.” She gestured toward her sister. “Even Jane is loosening up—look at her.”

  He did.

  “She’s going to be a total hunk magnet when she goes to college. She’ll probably have so much fun that—I don’t know— she’ll let a grade or two slip to an A minus.”

  He kept looking at Jane. She blushed.

  Savannah nudged Hunter because his hand had gone limp in hers. “Let’s go do something fun tonight.”

  “We’ll go out tonight,” he said. “It’s time we did.”

  Then his eyes found Jane’s again. Right or wrong, the equation was written.

  Jane nodded. Watching the way her sister possessively took hold of Hunter’s hand had momentarily blocked out thoughts of loyalty.

  Fairy’s conclusion: In ten years Jane wouldn’t have let things unfold that way, but eighteen years old is too young to understand that things that are easily done are often much harder to undo. Sometimes impossible. And when you invite a grudge that big and vicious to come and sit between you and your sister, well, let’s just say it will be keeping you company for a long, long time. I’ve seen grudges half as small scare off trolls and goblins. Large grudges make dragons shiver. But there it was, grumbling with hunger and stretching its claws between the two of them.

  All those years of sisterhood were about to be chewed to pieces.

  This is why mortals need magic.

  Of course, they don’t realize it. Never has a fairy godmother been called upon to vanquish a grudge. Instead they settle for jewels, kingdoms, handsome princes, that sort of thing. It was this reason, by the way, and not laziness, disinterest, or time spent at too many Pixie dances—as some of my magic professors asserted— that I concentrated my studies on jewels, kingdoms, and handsome princes. In fact, as you have seen from my final reports, I spent more than the required time studying handsome princes. This was due to the extreme importance mortals put on royalty, and not, as Headmistress Berrypond suggested, that I am an incurable flirt.

  I hope you will see from the Wishes Granted budget report that I used my magic to the best ends and took on this project following fairy godmother protocol ensuring that the subjects, Savannah Delano and her sister, Jane, lived happily ever after.

  From the Honorable Master Sagewick Goldengill

  To Mistress Berrypond

  Dear Mistress Berrypond,

  I am in receipt of Chrysanthemum Everstar’s report, yet it seems quite a bit has been left unsaid about her time as a magical godmother for the mortal Savannah Delano. Can you please have the Memoir Elves elaborate so that the academy and I can more accurately assess her project?

  Yours,

  Sagewick Goldengill

  From the Department of Fairy Advancement

  To the Honorable Sagewick Goldengill

  Dear Professor,

  As you requested, we sent Memoir Elves to the mortal Savannah Delano’s home. Madame Bellwings, Memoir Elf Coordinator, was not at all pleased with this request, because elves who write the memoirs of teenage girls have the unfortunate habit of returning to the magical realm with atrocious grammar. They can’t seem to shake the phrases “whatever” and “no way,” and they insert the word “like” into so many sentences that other elves start slapping them. They also pick up the bad habit of writing things in text message form (e.g., R U going 2 the mall?) and for no apparent reason occasionally call out the name Edward Cullen.

  Currently the Memoir Elves who delved into Savannah’s mind while she slept are in detox. They are doing well in their recovery process, although one still occasionally stands in front of the mirror and asks, “Do you think I look fat in this?”

  Savannah is none the wiser and the elves were able to compile a thorough report. You should be able to find out exactly what part Chrysanthemum Everstar played in granting wishes and whether she did indeed follow all fairy/mortal protocol.

  The memoir report follows as told to the elves by the subject Savannah Delano.

  Chapter 1

  Here’s my definition of a bad day: your boyfriend of four months—who, until twelve seconds ago, you thought was the most perfect guy to set foot on earth—breaks up with you.

  My definition of a truly horrible day: the aforementioned boy dumps you for none other than your sister.

  The definition of my life: he does all of this right after you inform him that you blew your last dollar buying your dream prom dress. He asks if you can get a refund. It turns out he’ll be taking your sister.

  • • •

  I stared at Hunter across the restaurant table, so many thoughts shooting through my head that I didn’t know which one to pick first and aim in his direction.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Jane and I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  “Really?” How do you not mean to ask your girlfriend’s older sister to prom? Do the words just trickle out by themselves? Was someone else in charge of your lips when this happened? I didn’t say any of this, because there wasn’t a point. What he meant was: I didn’t mean to like her better than you.

  I wanted to ask him why he did—like Jane better than me, that is—but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to ask the question. The answer would hurt more than not knowing.

  Almost as if he’d read my mind he added, “It’s just that Jane and I have more in common. We’re both more . . .” He moved his hand in a rolling motion as though trying to catch the right word somewhere over the tabletop.

  During the pause, I thought of my own adjectives. Smart? Talented? Good-looking? No, it probably wasn’t looks. Jane and I look too much alike for that. She’s pretty, true, but I always get noticed first. Jane always has been content to be known as the quiet, studious one. The quiet, studious one who had now stolen my boyfriend.

  “Organized,” Hunter said.

  “Organized?” I repeated. “You’re dumping me because I’m disorganized?”

  “I guess ‘responsible’
is a better word,” he said.

  “So I’m disorganized and irresponsible?”

  He leaned toward me but his eyes distanced themselves. “Don’t take it the wrong way. You have lots of great qualities: you’re fun and you’re pretty, you’re just . . .”—more hand rolling, as though this somehow unwound his tongue—“always late for everything.”

  I stared back at him, stunned. This was how guys chose girlfriends—based on their punctuality?

  “I’m not late for everything,” I said, even though I hadn’t been ready when he came to pick me up that night. But I’d had a good reason. One of Mom’s hair clients had needed an updo for a fancy night out and Mom hadn’t finished with her perm appointment, so I’d stepped in to help out.

  I nearly pointed this out, but then stopped myself. It hadn’t been tonight’s ten-minute wait that had decided my fate with Hunter. He’d only scheduled this date to break up with me. I should have sensed it by the way he’d hardly looked at me while he ate his dinner.

  “Jane and I both want to go to college,” he went on. “You don’t even want to go to high school.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I have never said I didn’t want to go to high school. I enjoy high school. Well, at least the socializing part. Geometry I could do without. Ditto for world history. And really, why should I care what the symbolism in The Grapes of Wrath stands for? Do employers ask those kinds of questions during job interviews?

  He shrugged. “You don’t take your grades seriously.”

  “I took us seriously,” I said.

  That made him flinch. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I pushed my chair away from the table. “Take me home.”

  We drove back to my house in silence. Inside my head a whole orchestra of thoughts played out, competed with each other, blared so loudly I could hardly think.

  He drove looking straight ahead and I caught a glimpse of his profile. I hated myself for still thinking his wavy black hair had the perfect amount of gloss to it, that he looked more like a knight preparing for battle than a high school senior. A girl shouldn’t have thoughts like that about the guy who just dumped her.