by Anna Day
We cross a paddock, climb over a fence, skirt around the edge of a lake—this route actually seems familiar, echoing the set of the movie, but I feel so far from being a film star. With every step, my nerves seem to build, and now they fill my entire body, making even my fingers tremble. I begin to long for that beyond-cold shower again.
You see, I’ve always been terrible with the opposite sex. I’ve been on one date, which ended with me choking on an olive, and I’ve only been kissed twice. Once I was so drunk I barely remember it, the other time it was like having a wet gherkin shoved into my mouth. It’s hard scoring boys when you’re constantly overshadowed by Alice, the human mannequin.
Violet the Virgin. Ryan Bell called me that for a whole semester, until Katie kneed him in the balls and called him a scumbag.
Just thinking about Katie and Alice makes my heart feel like it’s going to explode. I have to get Willow to fall for me or we’re all stuck here. The image of my feet pirouetting through the air bursts into my consciousness—in six days, I will hang—but I push it down into that shadowy part of my brain along with the olive and the gherkin and all my other insecurities.
Saskia pauses by a leafy archway laced with trailing wisteria. “That’s your best bet, the orchard.” She gestures beyond the archway. “His evening stroll should take him right near here. Attract his attention somehow, do your thing. Thorn trusts you, God knows why.” She looks me up and down. “If you let us down, I’ll kill you.”
I suppose a “Good luck” is out of the question then, I think to myself.
She grabs Nate by the arm. “Come on, young ’un, best not cramp the lovebirds.”
“No.” My voice comes out a little desperate.
Saskia glares at me.
“Can he stay? Please, I don’t know if I can do this on my own.”
Nate interrupts. “She needs me to prepare, we’re a team, you see.”
Saskia curls her lip at the word team. “Whatever.” She walks away, and I get this awful feeling she wants us to fail so she can follow through on her threat.
Nate runs through my lines with me, quoting the scene from the film. He takes Willow’s lines, using this deep, manly voice, which makes him sound like the girl who played the prince in last year’s pantomime. And I say Rose’s lines, wincing at how stale my voice sounds:
WILLOW
Are you OK? Are you hurt?
ROSE
No, thank you, I’m fine, it’s just a little graze. You must be Willow.
You look like a Willow.
WILLOW
And what does a Willow look like?
ROSE
Tall and lanky.
WILLOW
(laughs)
And you are?
ROSE
Just another Night-Imp.
WILLOW
Really, I hadn’t noticed.
Fortunately, the dialogue from the film remained pretty true to the book, so we at least don’t feel torn about which lines to choose. I have a different problem: The words have lost all meaning and swirl around in my head like a series of disjointed sounds. And I can’t believe I never noticed how cheesy they sound. Saying them out loud makes me cringe.
I raise a hand to show I’ve had enough. “It’s not helping, sorry.”
“It’s OK, you know it backwards, anyway.”
I stand next to the plum tree, my hands sweaty, my breathing shallow. I try leaning against the trunk like Rose, but my hair sticks to the wood and I worry I’ll get a bark pattern imprinted on my forehead.
“I don’t think I can do this.” My voice seems to disappear upward, between the leaves and branches.
“Of course you can,” Nate replies.
“But Rose and Willow … they’re like Edward and Bella, Lancelot and Guinevere, Tristan and Isolde …”
“Kermit and Miss Piggy.”
This makes me laugh, but only for a second. “What if he doesn’t like me?” I wish I hadn’t said this, because even in the dark, Nate’s face acts like a mirror, reflecting my anxiety.
He catches himself and smiles. “’Course he will, just stick to the script. Say the lines and try to look, you know, half-decent … Don’t dribble or fart or pick your nose.”
“But what about that connection,” I say.
Nate recites a line from the book. “And after only the briefest of encounters, Willow knew that he could wander the earth for the rest of his life and never find another soul who made him feel so complete. It’s like they were born to fit together.”
“Seriously, Nate. I don’t need to hear that crap right now.”
The clock tower strikes midnight. I imagine a stage curtain lifting.
“You ready?” he says, handing me a knife.
The knife. In all my anxiety, I totally forgot about cutting myself. Thank goodness Nate remembered. He must have lifted the blade from Saskia on the way here.
I hold it above my outstretched palm. I am Rose. I am strong and fearless. I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself to stab my own hand. But my arm just wavers midair, puppetlike and uncertain.
“Violet,” Nate hisses.
Panic forces my eyes open. “I can’t.”
“You have to, it’s canon.”
“But I don’t do pain.”
The clock finishes chiming, the curtain has lifted, and yet here I stand, unbloodied and wobbling like a giant marionette.
Nate grabs at my overalls and whispers in an urgent tone, “Come on, you’ve got balls of steel. Think Rose, think Tris, think Katniss.”
I flatten out my palm, now dappled with sweat. “Balls of steel, balls of steel.” I say it like a mantra, letting the adrenaline build inside. And just as I’m about to thrust the knife blindly downward, hoping I somehow hit my palm, I hear the crack of twigs.
“It’s him.” Nate dives behind a nearby trunk, his slim frame easily swallowed up by the orchard.
Necessity pulls the blade down in a graceful arc, but I lose my nerve at the last moment and whip my palm away. The tip of the blade just catches my thumb, sending a sharp pain up my wrist like I’ve been stung. “Ow! Bastard knife!” I drop it—handle first—on my foot. Mid-hop, I remember Rose leaned seductively against the tree, and I kind of headbutt the trunk in my eagerness.
Willow skids into view. I clasp my foot with one hand and my head with the other, my heart tries to escape my rib cage, and I think I may be mumbling a stream of swear words. But when my eyes fall upon his face, everything stops. My head empties. I forget it all—the mission, my insecurities, my pirouetting feet. I see only him.
He looks a bit like Russell Jones—same high cheekbones, same full lips—but his eyes seem kinder, like two puddles of molten copper. And his bone structure looks more delicate, his Adam’s apple less pronounced, lending him a more feminine quality. The film didn’t do him justice. Even my own imagination didn’t do him justice. The man before me is an Adonis. I suddenly become aware of the fullness of the moon, the scent of apples and wood smoke, the bite of the cold on my throat.
“Are you OK? Are you hurt?” His voice sounds like the chiming clock, resonant and lyrical and yet somehow distant. He ambles toward me with long, sinuous steps. I notice the top two buttons of his white linen shirt have come undone, revealing a triangle of honey-colored skin. I freeze, unable to blink, unable to breathe. He stops an arm’s length from me. Even in the dimness, I can see the warmth of his colors—copper eyes, honey skin, caramel hair—like a sliver of sunshine in the night. I inhale quickly and the tang of his aftershave finds me. Citrus and coriander.
I know it’s my line, but my thoughts mush together. I open my mouth and my breath uncurls in a single wisp.
He studies my face for a moment—in the book he’s supposed to be reminded of tree sprites or nymphs or something. I suddenly feel very awkward in my overalls, more goblin than sprite.
I hear a faint cough from a nearby tree. I feel so dissociated from reality it barely seems strange a tree should cough. The actual, real-li
fe Willow stands before me, all concerned and perfect and warm—of course the greenery’s coughing. No, not the greenery. Nate. It’s my line.
My synapses begin to spark and, finally, my throat opens. “No, thank you, I’m fine. It’s just a little graze.” I look at my palm and realize with a rush of shame that I failed to draw any blood, but I push on with my lines regardless. “You must be Willow, you look like a Willow.”
He smiles his faultless smile, two long dimples framing his mouth. “And what does a Willow look like?”
“Tall and lanky.”
He laughs, the heat of his breath closing the gap between us. “And you are?”
“Just another Night-Imp.”
“Really, I hadn’t noticed.” He moves toward me so his chest almost touches my chin. The words don’t seem cheesy at all now, they seem romantic … perfect. And this close, I realize just how tall he is—all the moisture leaves my mouth. He lifts my hand and examines the scratch on my thumb.
I order my voice to stay true, to stay on-script. “The trouble I would get in if anyone saw you touching me. I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”
He continues to hold my hand and lifts his gaze to meet mine. “I’m sure the trees won’t tell.”
“No, but the stars might.”
He laughs like he’s meant to. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
I let the scent of apple and smoke and aftershave fill my lungs. It’s going really well. Not an olive in sight. “Why are you being so nice? I thought all Gems were cruel.”
“And I thought all Imps were stupid.”
“Looks like we were both wrong.” I smile. I mean, really smile, not just because that’s what Rose did, but because pretending to be confident and sexy makes me feel confident and sexy.
He releases my hand. “You really aren’t going to tell me your name, are you?”
“We don’t have names … only numbers.” I spin around and lift my hair so he can see my tattoo. The cold hits my neck and a thin veil of sweat evaporates.
He sucks air over his teeth. “That must have hurt.”
I nod and suppress a little smile. Willow is gazing at my neck.
“You seriously want me to call you Imp 753811?” he says.
I let my hair fall back across my tattoo and turn back to face him. “You really want to know my name? Why don’t you guess?” I would never say anything so brazen, especially not to a boy; it feels liberating.
“Rumpelstiltskin.”
I laugh. It’s meant to sound like a bell, but it comes out a bit snorty. “Almost.”
He touches the fabric of my overalls like he wants to touch me, but can’t quite muster the courage.
Right on cue, we hear a car door slamming. He runs his fingers through his hair, ruffling it up so it’s all gloss and color in the moonlight. “I’d better go.” He smiles as if to say, Another time, and turns toward the manor.
This is the point in canon when he glances over his shoulder and says the words, Can I see you again? But he doesn’t, he just keeps on walking. I watch him saunter away, the leaves and bark closing around him as though he sinks into a bog. Swallowed up forever. Look over your shoulder, I scream in my head. Look over your shoulder and say your line … please. Fear shoots through my veins—I’ve failed the mission. Thorn will kill Katie and we’ll be stuck in this world forever. But another emotion simmers beneath the fear: disappointment. He didn’t like me.
I’m about to admit defeat, hot tears gathering in the corners of my eyes, when he stops. And he doesn’t just glance over his shoulder, he turns his whole body. His face hovers in the dark like a bronze heart. “Can I see you again?”
It feels like someone has yanked a plastic bag off my head. I want to gasp and heave and suck in great mouthfuls of air, feel my rib cage stretch and my head fill with blood. But instead, I offer a demure shrug, just like Rose. “Perhaps.”
He laughs. I watch the triangle of his back disappear and stand completely still for a moment, listening to the rush of blood in my ears.
Nate dashes out from behind a tree and embraces me while jumping on the spot. “Oh my God, Violet, that was awesome.”
I start jumping, too. “I know, I know.”
“You were word perfect.”
“Did you see him touch my hand?” I feel like my body can’t contain this much joy, like my skin’s going to rip from the pressure.
Nate opens his mouth to reply when we hear another voice—familiar and yet faintly bitter. “Why didn’t you just tell him your name? It’s so pretty …” It comes from the sky, and for a brief second, I think God himself is talking. “The color and the flower.” A rustle of foliage followed by a shower of dust and leaves and splinters.
Ash lowers himself so he hangs from a nearby branch, overalls pulled taut across his chest, fingers white and claw-like. He lands a few yards away, absorbing the fall with his knees like he really is part cat. “I never took you for a Gem lover.” A wry smile unfurls across his face, but his voice sounds a little wounded.
After staring at Willow, Ash doesn’t seem nearly so cute. His nose seems a little on the large side, his smile a little lopsided, but something about him looks so real. And those eyes … My mouth hangs open for a moment.
“Ash!” I finally say. I knew I would run into Ash eventually, but Rose didn’t meet him until later tonight, in the Imp-hut. He certainly wasn’t watching her from a tree in canon. I don’t know what those two threads are playing at right now, but after being entwined for so long, they’ve decided to diverge. “I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon,” I say.
“Ash?” Nate still clings to me, though he’s at least stopped jumping. “As in, Ash from canon? Rose’s puppy?”
Ash ignores him. “I figured.”
“How does he even know you?” Nate asks me.
But I ignore him, too.
We stare at each other—Ash and me—this awkward silence hanging between us, lips parted like we want to speak but don’t know how. The paleness of his eyes alarms me and I feel a sudden urge to apologize. I move like I might take his hand, but instead make this strange fluttering motion in front of my face. I suddenly remember how useless I am with boys, how much I need that script.
I see Nate in my peripheral vision, studying my face and mumbling, “Oh no.” He pushes his hands into his hair and grimaces. “This is not canon.”
I just keep gawking at Ash. This muddle of emotions pushes up my throat—sheer pleasure just because he’s here, awkwardness, like my limbs don’t quite fit on my body, and this guilty feeling like I’ve been caught cheating.
Nate looks from me to Ash and back. “Oh no, oh no, oh no.” He leans against a trunk like it’s all too much. “Why didn’t I notice before? He’s even got the stupid dystopian-love-interest name—Ash—like Gale or Four or something.” He slithers to the floor, all the joy leaking out of him. “This is going to screw up everything.”
I SEE ASH IN the Imp-hut later that night—this was the point when he first met Rose in canon, completely unaware of her true identity as a rebel, completely unaware of her relationship with Willow. He offered to show her the ropes and took her apple picking. He looked so affable, so naive. But this Ash, my Ash, looks positively suspicious, pissed off even. I guess it isn’t just Gems who disapprove of Imp-Gem relationships.
I pretend I don’t notice him, and instead focus on Saskia’s instructions. She sits opposite me and Nate at the pine table. We warm our hands on mugs of hot tea, and she inadvertently blows steam at us while she speaks. “So if you want to blend in, you need to get on with chores for the rest of the night. Some of the Night-Imps choose to travel back to the city come morning, the ones with families and responsibilities, but we’re better off sleeping here, minimize your contact with the guards as much as possible.”
The mention of the guards sends a shiver down my spine.
Saskia pretends not to see. “Nate, you can help mow the lawns, Violet—”
Ash cuts over her
. “I could always do with a hand picking apples.”
This surprises me. Judging from his expression, I’m the last person he wants to spend time with. Maybe I’m due an ear bashing.
Saskia shrugs. “Yeah, whatever, just don’t work her too hard, Squirrel.”
I step from the dank air of the Imp-hut. The moon casts the estate in a milky glow and the stars stretch into forever. I follow Ash across the paddock and around the lake, which sits like a giant opal in the night. The air feels at its coldest, and the scent of smoke finally dwindles, overpowered by wet leaves and soil. I resist the urge to rub my eyes, the lack of sleep and the stress gradually pulling at my seams.
At this point in canon, Ash bombarded Rose with questions, hanging on her every reply, studying her face with large, puppy-dog eyes. So, what’s your name? What part of the city do you come from? But right now, I’m met with an awkward silence. I begin to wish we could follow the movie script, but with our history, it would make no sense.
“So why did Saskia call you Squirrel?” I finally ask. I know the answer of course, but I can’t bear the tension anymore.
He continues to plunk one foot in front of the other. His reflection in the water shoots away from him like a spike. “It’s just a nickname.”
“Yeah, I guessed that, but why?”
Finally, he meets my eye, causing a tiny ripple of excitement in my belly. He then runs at a nearby oak tree, planting the ball of his foot on the trunk and jumping from the other foot. One arm wraps around the trunk, the other grabs a low-hanging branch, and he lugs himself up so his pelvis rests on the bough. He swings his legs up so he sits, back bolt upright, arms folded like an elf. He looks down at me and laughs. He’s hardly broken a sweat.
I laugh, too. “OK, OK, I get it … it’s because you’ve got buck teeth, right?”
“At least you didn’t crack a joke about me liking nuts.” He grips the branch with his legs and lets his body fall back so he hangs upside down like a bat. This makes him look really strange, his hair falling away from his face and his cheeks sagging toward his eyes. I can’t help thinking of the upside-down kiss in the old Spider-Man movie. Maybe following the script isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
