by Jordan Ford
Paper Cranes
A Fairytale Twist Novel
Jordan Ford
Contents
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Paper Cranes
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Jordan Ford’s next project…
Note from the Author
Also by Jordan Ford
About the Author
Connect with the Author
© Copyright 2017 Jordan Ford
www.jordanfordbooks.com
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover art (copyright) by Dwell Design & Press.
http://parchmentplace.wixsite.com/dwell-design
“i carry your heart with me (i carry it in).” Copyright 1952, © 1980, 1991, by the Trustees for the E. E. Cummings Trust, from COMPLETE POEMS: 1904-1962 by E. E. Cummings, edited by George J. Firmage. Used by permission of Liveright Publishing Corporation.
License Notes
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Paper Cranes
Tristan Parker is lost.
After living through his parents’ bitter divorce, Tristan surprises everyone when he decides to uproot his life and move across the country with his dad. Disenchanted, Tristan deals with his pain by shutting out the world… until one day, when trying to retrieve a lost baseball, he climbs a tower and meets a girl.
Helena Thompson is like no one Tristan has ever encountered. She’s quirky, weird, and lives in an imaginary world—her only way of coping with the bizarre life her paranoid mother forces her to lead. Drawn by Helena’s magical view on life, Tristan finds himself returning often to the unique girl with the long golden hair. But spending time with her is not an easy task, especially because their relationship must be kept a secret.
When Helena’s mother discovers the truth, can Tristan find the strength to fight for the girl who has awakened his heart? Or will the paranoid woman who keeps her daughter under lock and key stop their dreams from coming true?
For lovers of Rapunzel
I grew up on fairytales. They fed my romantic heart, fueled my imagination, and made me believe in the impossible. Even though Paper Cranes is written as a real-life story with a fairytale twist, it was inspired by my all-time favorite—Rapunzel.
So if you’ve always dreamed of a handsome prince climbing a tower to rescue you…then this story is written for you.
1
The Lost Boy
Once upon a time there was a boy who was lost.
He had no compass, no map, and he couldn’t find his way home. He wandered the world in aimless despair…until one day he discovered a tower and decided to climb it.
“Tristan! Hey, Tristan! Wait up.”
Stepping to the side of the corridor, Tristan glanced over his shoulder. Mikayla Oswald was bouncing up behind him, her petite body insignificant against the backdrop of bustling students. She could easily pass as a middle schooler yet was a junior, just like him.
Part of him wanted to pick up his pace and duck around the corner before she could reach him, but manners had him slowing to a stop and waiting for his enthusiastic helper.
“Hey.” She hugged her binder to her chest as she caught up to him, tapping her finger against the thick spine. Her button nose wrinkled when she smiled, squishing the freckles on her pale face and reminding Tristan of a hamster.
He pushed the thought from his mind, forcing a grin, which probably looked as half-assed as it felt.
“Hi.” He nodded, then glanced past her shoulder. He wasn’t really sure what she was hoping for and thought minimal eye contact would be for the best.
“It’s Mikayla.” She pointed at herself.
“Yeah, I remember.” Tristan adjusted the beanie on his head and shoved his hand in his pocket.
She grinned and tucked a loose lock of mousy brown hair behind her ear. “I, um, was just wondering where you were going.”
“Class.” He flicked his thumb over his shoulder.
“Oh, okay, because I thought you had English now and it’s that way.”
Tristan followed her pointer finger and shut his mouth against the curse he wanted to mutter.
Instead, he cleared his throat and turned back the way he’d come. “Right.”
The hum of student chatter buzzed around him, noisy and irritating. He shifted sideways and began to move through the crowd but was stopped by a tug on his sleeve. He rolled his eyes and clenched his jaw while Mikayla squeezed past a group of freshmen and stepped up beside him again.
“You know, our lockers are right next to each other so if you want to meet me in the morning before school, I’m happy to show you around. I mean, I’ve kind of been asked to do that anyway and you’ve been here like two weeks already, so…well, are you going to let me? You know, help you?”
“I’m good.” Tristan’s voice sounded flat, the way it always did, but he wasn’t sure how to change that. He mustered a closed-mouth smile—all he could manage—and picked up his pace, heading away from the only student at Burlington High that had taken the time to try to befriend him. Although, she had been assigned the task.
Either way, he wasn’t interested.
Mikayla’s crestfallen expression nibbled at his conscience, but he didn’t want to encourage her. He wasn’t there to make friends, and he definitely didn’t need a curious, overenthusiastic pip-squeak following him around. She’d only ask questions, and then the story would come out.
The pathetic, demeaning story that he was still caught inside of. Like an overused bookmark, tattered and torn, he was trapped within the pages of a tragedy he never saw coming.
A tragedy that seemed to have no end.
2
The Pointless Tragedy
Miss Warren was already speakin
g when Tristan slipped into class. Her pale brown gaze brushed over him, her perfect features flashing with an acute smile before turning back to the whiteboard. She was nice enough not to lecture him in front of everybody, and he quietly sat down while she wrote up the name of the play they’d be studying over the next few weeks.
Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare
Tristan suppressed his groan, settling for an eye roll instead. Why were teachers obsessed with that play? Why study such a depressing run of events that could have so easily been avoided?
In Tristan’s opinion, the biggest tragedy was the fact that it had stood the test of time. It was constantly being regurgitated and remade just so people could fall in love and then have their hearts torn out of their chests and stomped on. He pictured his mother sniffling at the television, dabbing at her eyes while Claire Danes shot herself in the head.
“So tragic,” she’d mutter. “So beautiful.”
A black cloud of bitterness stormed through Tristan’s mind and without meaning to, he snatched the play from Miss Warren’s hands.
Her usually kind eyes narrowed in question, so he mumbled an apology and slumped back in his seat.
“I take it you don’t like Shakespeare, Mr. Parker.” She fought a grin.
“He’s okay, I guess,” Tristan muttered.
“Then what seems to be the problem?” Her head tipped to the side, her elegant fingers wrapping around the rest of the books she had to give out.
His face was turning scarlet—he could feel it. Curious gazes flicked his way. Harley, the annoying girl from his PE class, gave him a sympathetic smile. He averted his gaze, keeping his eyes down while scratching his forehead in an attempt to hide his face. With a shrug, he shook his head. “There’s no problem.”
His English teacher wanted to say more; Tristan could tell by the way she hesitated at his desk. He glanced up and noticed her lips twitch before she pursed them to the side and kept moving down the aisle, handing out books and receiving a steady stream of thank-yous.
Thumbing through the worn pages, Tristan gave in with a sigh and opened the cover, shuffling in his seat and leaning over the text.
“Before we get started, can someone please give me a brief overview of what this play’s about?” Miss Warren perched her slender behind against the front edge of her desk. Her legs stretched out before her; the skin-colored pumps and fitted cream skirt she was wearing made them sleek and attractive.
Tristan looked away. He wasn’t the only guy in the school to think the young English teacher was hot, but he was probably one of the only ones who didn’t care either way. He wasn’t interested.
“Tristan, how about you?”
His blue gaze was icy when he looked at her, but she just smiled at him, tipping her head so her fine, sandy locks fell onto her shoulder.
He pressed his lips together but soon had to give in with a sigh. The fact that she was ignoring the three raised hands in the class was proof she wasn’t giving him an inch.
Clearing his throat, he mumbled, “It’s about these two young people who meet at a party and fall instantly in love, but they’re not supposed to be together because their families hate each other. They get together anyway, everything falls to crap, and they kill themselves.”
A few snickers rippled through the classroom and Miss Warren stood, once again fighting a grin. “Okay, brief and to the point. I take it you have a low opinion of this play.”
“It’s all right, I guess.” His shoulder hitched.
She held the book up in her hand, gazing around the room as she spoke. “You know, people say it’s one of the most romantic stories of all time.”
Tristan scoffed, his jaw working to the side. He couldn’t make eye contact with the delusional English teacher when she glanced back at him.
“You don’t believe in romance? Star-crossed lovers? A passion that could last beyond the grave?”
Tristan’s lips pressed into a tight line. The flurry of truths he wanted to unleash clogged his throat. He didn’t want to trample on her fantasies with his bitter reality.
If only she knew that love was a crock. It fooled the heart, broke the heart, and then shat all over it.
The only thing about William Shakespeare’s play that actually made sense to Tristan was the death part at the end, because if Romeo and Juliet had somehow survived and gotten away with it, they would have had to face the reality of living with each other and finding out that stars don’t shine forever and true love doesn’t last.
3
Stone-Cold
Burlington was a smaller town than Albany. Tristan thought he’d hate moving from New York to Vermont, but after only two weeks, he was finding his way pretty easily and kind of liked the small lakeside town—not that he’d admit it to anyone.
Pedaling through the intersection, Tristan leaned into the corner and sped down North Street. The high school was less than two miles from his new home so it was an easy bike ride there and back. His father couldn’t afford to buy him a car and Tristan didn’t want him to anyway. It had been a struggle to buy the house they’d found a month ago, and his father’s wage was only just enough for them to get by. He’d managed to secure a job as a caretaker at the University of Vermont, but it was hardly a high-powered position. In fact, he was only working part-time hours until more work opened up, and he probably wouldn’t have even gotten the current job if one of his old high school buddies hadn’t put in a good word for him.
Leon Parker had been born and raised in Burlington and hadn’t planned on moving back, but then his life fell apart and all he could think of was returning to his roots. Being a loyal son, Tristan followed his father a couple of hours north, and so began his new “meat in the middle of a sandwich” life.
Rounding the corner onto Booth Street, Tristan eased on the brakes and slowed to turn into his new driveway. The house was a two-story white box with wood paneling, a small front porch, and boxed windows looking out over Pomeroy Park.
It was a typical New England home, built close to the sidewalk with a big yard out back, surrounded by huge trees that turned gold and crimson in the fall. Tristan’s house pretty much matched every other home along the block, except for the one next door.
The dark green house, surrounded by a high fence and towering trees, was a mystery to him. He’d been curious since the day they’d moved in, and caught himself spying whenever he stepped outside. There wasn’t much to see, really. The skeletal trees guarded the house like belligerent Marines who seemed reluctant to let in the sunlight. Come the summer when the leaves had all grown back, Tristan wouldn’t be able to see anything. The best view of the house was from the front, but even then, he had to go on tiptoes to see above the fence line. Tristan always slowed to walk past it whenever he was heading that way.
The house was a box, much like his, but there was an old-world, magical essence to it. Tristan figured it was most likely the sharply steeped roof or the intricate vines creeping up the exterior. Or it could have been the circular tower built into the east side. The dark green paneling and elongated Georgian cross-windows made it appear cartoonlike. Whoever built the house must have had creative passion and flair. A few years ago, Tristan would have hoped the house had some kind of mystical story surrounding it, but he knew better than to believe in fairytales.
Lifting the garage door, Tristan walked in and leaned his bike against the tool bench before pressing his palm against the hood of his father’s car.
Stone-cold.
Tristan glanced at his watch and frowned. Sucking in a breath through his nose, he pulled the garage door closed again and jumped up the three steps before entering the house through the kitchen door.
“Hey, Dad,” he called, slipping the bag off his shoulder and sliding off his gloves and jacket. The snow had pretty much gone for the year and spring was definitely on the way. Tristan was looking forward to warmer weather.
“Dad?”
Lightly kicking his bag out of the wa
y, Tristan walked towards the low murmur of sports commentary coming from the TV in the living room. His father’s long body was slumped on the couch, a can of beer in one hand and a remote in the other. Baseball season had just started up. Tristan stared at the screen with a bitter frown. A couple of years ago, he would have been flopping down on the couch next to his old man, settling in for the last three innings of the Yankees game.
But not anymore.
“I’m home.” Tristan nudged his father’s broad shoulder and forced a grin.
“Hey, buddy.” His father squinted up at him. “How was school?” He looked back at the TV, slurping on his beer while Tristan tried to figure out if his father even cared what the answer was.
Ignoring the question, he bent down and picked up the two empty beer cans on the floor. Snatching the chip bag next to them, he scrunched it in his hand and walked to the trash can that was housed beneath the kitchen sink.
“Sorry about that, man,” his father called over his shoulder. “I was going to clean up when I was done.”
“Whatever,” Tristan mumbled. “What time did you get home?” he called from the kitchen.
“What?”
“What time did you get home?” he snapped, using the need to raise his voice as an excuse to let off a little steam.
“Around two,” his father yelled back.
Tristan looked at the pile of dirty dishes scattered across the kitchen counter. Half-eaten cereal was crusted to the side of the white bowls while coffee dregs stained the inside of the World’s Best Dad mug. Tristan’s upper lip curled. He hadn’t had time to do the dishes before he left for school and now he’d have to fit that in along with cooking dinner.
