Paper Cranes (Fairytale Twist #1)

by Jordan Ford

  “What have you done?” Helena’s mother sucked in a horrified gasp, stumbling to the photo and reaching out for it with shaking fingers. Her breaths were rapidly turning into sobs. “You evil, wretched creature!” She turned to Tristan, her words dripping with venom. “You stay away from my daughter. You stay away from this house. You hear me?”

  “Mother, please don’t say that.” Helena had tears running down her face, stark trails of sadness that marred her porcelain complexion.

  “You have one minute to get out.” The woman’s voice was low and husky.

  “Please, it doesn’t have to be this way.” Helena’s tears spurred Tristan into one final attempt, but it was pointless.

  The woman looked ready to rip his head off. With an irate huff, she stormed into the parlor and snatched her phone off the coffee table.

  She pushed three digits—beep, beep, beep—then held the phone to her ear.

  Tristan’s time was up.

  “All right, all right. I’ll go.” He backed away, clipping his shoulder on the solid doorframe before turning and walking for the door.

  Wrestling with the locks, he flung the door back and jumped onto the porch, scuttling down the steps and heading for the gate.

  “Tristan!” Helena raced after him.

  He spun on the path, ready to leap forward, catch her hand, and make a run for it. But she stumbled on the stairs, a little yelp popping out of her mouth as she rolled to the ground.

  “Helena.” Tristan sprinted back, crouching down to help her stand. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Her voice was weak and she hissed when she stood, glancing at her grazed elbow.

  “Helena!” The woman’s voice was near hysterical, desperate fear lacing each syllable as she stood on the porch. Her skin was stark white, her chest heaving. “Please!” she cried. “It’s not safe. It’s not safe.”

  Helena’s shoulders slumped. Tristan gripped them, forcing her to face him properly.

  “You don’t have to go.”

  A deep sadness washed over her expression and she swallowed. “Listen to her, Tristan. I have to go.”

  She shuffled out of his grasp, resting her hand on the banister and looking just a touch afraid. Her eyes darted around the unkempt yard and she blinked a few times before spinning and racing up the stairs.

  Her mother’s arm wrapped around her shoulders and she pulled her inside. The door slammed shut and the bolts clicked—one, two, three.

  Tristan stood by the stairs, straining to hear voices, but all he could make out were soft murmurs. Helena wasn’t being screamed at. She was safe inside her home once more and no doubt being fussed over by her psychotic mother.

  It ripped his heart out to walk away.

  Part of him wanted to call the police himself and have Helena rescued. Her mother obviously hadn’t gone through with the call.

  But he’d seen the flash of fear on Helena’s face. He’d seen the inside of her fairytale house. Would she even be able to handle the real world? She’d be crucified at a normal high school, with her fancy way of talking and her theatrical ways.

  With a heavy sigh, he shuffled out the thick gate and back to his house, shoving his hands into his pockets and trying not to remember the ecstasy of Helena’s kiss and the intoxicating power she had over him. He wasn’t welcome back in that home. He wasn’t willing to put Helena through that kind of distress again.

  So, really, his only choice was to stay away.

  23

  Not Enough

  Tristan couldn’t stay away.

  He spent the night dreaming about Helena, locked in her tower and guarded by a vicious dragon. He rose at dawn and leaped to his computer, sending her an email to make sure she was all right.

  The email went unanswered.

  He sent one every day for the rest of the week, but received nothing in return.

  By Friday he could no longer cope, so he climbed the tower once more, but the window was locked. He tapped on the glass, searching for Helena. He was close to giving up when she shuffled into the room, her long hair masking her face. She closed the door behind her and he tapped again.

  White-blonde hair floated out around her as she spun. Her puffy red eyes rounded, her soft lips parting as she rushed for the window.

  “Let me in,” he said softly, not wanting to awaken the dragon.

  “I can’t.” Her voice wobbled. “She bolted it shut.” Helena ran her hands over the frame. He craned his head and spotted the metal bracket locking the window in place.

  “You should go. I don’t want her to catch you.” Helena’s chin bunched and quivered.

  Tristan pressed his hand against the glass. With a watery smile, Helena reached for it, pressing her palm against the pane so their fingers were aligned.

  “This can’t be over. I’ve emailed you every day. Why won’t you reply?”

  Her expression crumpled, her lips pressing into a tight line before she sucked in a breath and admitted, “She’s blocked my account. She’s deleted everything. I can’t even access the Internet anymore.”

  Anger tore through Tristan’s center. “She can’t do that,” he growled.

  “She has.” Helena’s shoulders slumped, her index finger squeaking on the window as she bent it. “The ban may lift eventually, but I was sneaking a boy into the house and she’s just trying to protect me. Maybe it’s for the best.”

  “Don’t say that,” Tristan huffed. “We didn’t do anything wrong! It’s not fair. She can’t just end us like this.”

  “She can.”

  “Not if you don’t let her.” He stared at the glass, trying to catch her eye and make her see the truth, but Helena refused to look at him. Her hair draped over her face as she dipped her head and sniffed.

  “You should go, Tristan. I’m okay. I have our memories.”

  He thumped the window with the side of his fist. “That’s not enough.”

  “It’s all we have.” She drew her hand away from the glass and gave him one final glance, her green eyes awash with tears. “They’ll be enough.” She nodded, stepping away from the window.

  “No, wait! Helena, please!”

  She shook her head, backing towards the door until she walked into it. Her desperate gaze never left his until she’d managed to turn the handle and spin out of the attic.

  Tristan’s last glimpse of her was her pale golden locks flying behind her as she sped down the stairs.

  He had no choice but to climb down the tower and walk home.

  Snatching his bag off the back steps, he shouldered the kitchen door open and stepped inside. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes and he could see clothes spewing out of the laundry room door. The faint sound of a ball game was coming from the living room.

  Tristan’s shoulders drooped, the energy draining out of him completely.

  “Hey, buddy.” His dad sauntered into the kitchen, an easy smile on his face. “Yankees are up three nothing against the Sox with two innings to go. Looks like we’ll cream ’em again.” His chuckle was gleeful and irritating.

  Pulling open the fridge, he grabbed a beer and popped the top, rubbing his thumb over the condensation with a grin.

  “I take it you’re going to watch the rest of the game, then?” Tristan rested his butt against the counter and pressed his palms so hard into the ridge that dents started forming in his skin.

  His father shot him an incredulous look. “Of course. Want to join me?”

  Tristan’s eyes narrowed, his lips bunching into a tight line. “I can’t. I’ve got dishes to do and laundry to clean and dinner to cook! It’s not like you’re going to do it, right?”

  Leon lowered his can, looking at his son like he’d just grown two horns. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” Tristan flicked his hand in the air and then scratched his forehead with a frown. “I’m just tired,” he mumbled, pushing off the counter and storming from the room. Shooting a dark glare at the TV, he raced up the stairs and slammed his
bedroom door.

  His father didn’t follow him. There was no gentle knock or humble words of apology.

  The doorbell rang about forty minutes after Tristan had flopped onto his bed, and then the smell of pepperoni pizza wafted up the stairs. His stomach grumbled, forcing him off the bed. Slumping down the stairs, he flopped onto the couch, snatching a napkin and a large slice.

  They ate in silence, not looking at each other. His father’s gaze flicked his way a couple of times, but every time Tristan looked up, his father jerked back toward the screen, shuffling in his seat and clearing his throat.

  Tristan rolled his eyes, a deep yearning for Helena causing knots in his stomach and a painful bleed in his chest.

  24

  Dazed and Confused

  Every morning before leaving for school, Tristan stood in his driveway and gazed up at the tower. The trees were starting to bloom and soon the tower would be lost to him.

  Each day that passed without a touch of Helena’s light stole a little something from him. He spent the weekend holed up in his bedroom, staring at paper cranes and resisting the urge to rip them down. He avoided his father as much as he could, studying in the library after school and coming home with takeout. He’d dump it on the coffee table and then retreat to his room, feigning a heavy study load. His father frowned each night this happened but didn’t fight him on it, and so Tristan sank further and further into a morose stupor. He even called and canceled with his mother. The idea of putting on a charade for her and Curtis was too much. She tried to argue, but he won with excuses of schoolwork and extra study. His sullen tone may have put her off as well. She was no doubt relieved not to have to deal with him when he was in one of his moods.

  The world around him became dull, the conversations in the hallways were white, static noise, and he struggled to focus on anything clearly.

  “Tristan. Tristan?” Mikayla tugged on his arm, jerking him out of his daze. “Hi. Where’d you go?”

  He shook his head, shrugging with a frown.

  “I’ve been chasing you down two corridors. Thankfully you were walking like a low-battery robot, so you were easy to catch.” She grinned, her freckles twitching with the rise of her cheeks. She caught the edge of her lip with her teeth and kind of cringed up at him. “You know you’ve got English now, right?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So.” She looked confused, and then her expression crinkled with worry. “Well, you’re heading in the opposite direction. Are you skipping out?”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose and turning back the way he’d come.

  Mikayla’s small hand stopped him, wrapping around his wrist and tugging him still.

  “If you need someone to talk to, I could meet you under the bleachers.” She grinned. “I kind of owe you one.”

  “No, I’m good.”

  She gave his forearm a light squeeze. “You don’t look good, Tristan. Whatever’s tearing you apart, you either need to do something to stop it…or you need to let it go.”

  “I know,” he murmured. “I…I just don’t know how.”

  Her soft hazel gaze searched his face. “I’m always here to listen, if you need a friend. A burden shared is a burden halved, you know.”

  His gaze snapped to hers, his eyebrows wrinkling with a fleeting frown. “That’s what my friend says.”

  “Well, he must be a smart guy.” She chuckled.

  “She,” he whispered brokenly.

  Mikayla’s face puckered with concern and she moved to step in front of him, but he turned out of her way before she could. He was sure she was staring at him as he shuffled off to English, but he couldn’t look back to check.

  All he wanted was Helena. He couldn’t let her go…but he didn’t know how to get her back either.

  “Right, we’re starting a new topic today.” Miss Warren clipped through the class, dropping assignment papers on each desk.

  Tristan picked his up and grimaced.

  Poetry. Aw, crap. How the heck was he supposed to survive that? The only reason he’d done so well on Romeo and Juliet was because of Helena. He’d flunk for sure without her guidance.

  Despair pierced him as he imagined going home to his morose house and enduring the unit alone. He’d try to decipher the confusing text with no one to help him. His father was useless when it came to homework.

  Who was he kidding? His father was useless when it came to everything except drinking beer and watching TV.

  Tristan lifted the page and read the assignment. They had to select a poem and analyze it, trying to draw out the writer’s meaning between the lines and figure out what kind of lessons the author wanted to teach the reader.

  “I call bullshit,” Tristan muttered, slapping his paper down.

  “Something to share, Mr. Parker?” Miss Warren dropped the leftover papers on her desk and faced him with a smile.

  He shook his head, pressing his elbows into the desk and keeping his head down.

  “Who’s your favorite poet?” Her voice, usually so calming, grated on his nerves.

  He gritted his teeth and shrugged. “I’m not really into poetry.”

  She nodded, a soft smile brushing her lips. “Well, let’s hope I can change your mind.” Leaning back against her desk, she shook her head to flick the long sideways bangs out of her eyes and asked the whole class. “Anyone else? Who has a favorite poet, or already knows the poem they want to pull apart and analyze?”

  Tristan slumped down in his seat and let the answers turn to fuzz. The paper crinkled in his grasp, and it was an effort to even swallow. He was going to fail this assignment…and he didn’t even care.

  25

  Miss Warren’s Romantic Heart

  The bell rang, freeing Tristan from the torture of poetic prose and brilliant minds that had died decades before.

  “Tristan, may I have a word, please?” Miss Warren hindered his retreat. A few students eyed him as they brushed past and out the door. He turned sideways, letting the room clear before shuffling back into it. Miss Warren walked around her desk, smoothing down the back of her beige skirt and taking a seat.

  He stood in front of her, his jaw clenched as his gaze traveled the front panel of her desk.

  “What’s up?” His teacher rested her chin on her knuckles, settling in for a conversation Tristan didn’t really want to have.

  He shrugged.

  “Tristan Parker, you have a burden weighing you down. I have no idea what it is and it may not be my place to even ask. I’d love to refer you to the school counselor, but I have a sneaking suspicion you’d refuse to go.”

  He pursed his lips, the sudden silence between them thick and awkward.

  Miss Warren huffed out her nose and pulled a sheet of paper from underneath her planner. She slapped it on her desk, giving him a pointed look.

  Tristan leaned forward to glimpse his Shakespeare test. A vivid F was circled in the top right corner.

  “Explain to me how you can get an A+ in your assignment work and an F on the final test. Where were you last Monday?”

  Tristan frowned and mumbled, “I was here.”

  “Your body may have been here, but your mind certainly wasn’t.” Her eyebrows lifted, her stern expression giving him no comfort. “Do you have to catch the bus after school?”

  “No, I’ve got my bike.”

  “Good, then sit.” She pointed at a front row chair.

  With a heavy sigh, Tristan slipped the bag off his shoulder and slumped into the desk.

  “You know this’ll go much faster if you lose the scowl.” Miss Warren’s right eyebrow peaked as she dipped her head with a pointed warning.

  His jaw worked to the side and he looked away from her, training his eyes on the door he desperately wanted to escape through.

  “Now, I am willing to let you redo this test, claiming that sickness hindered you from success when you first did it. But before I offer that, I need to know if it’s worth the effort I
will have to go through.”

  His lips pulled into a straight line and after a long, slow beat he shook his head. “I can’t pass it.”

  “Why?” She leaned forward, her gaze shifting to one of such sincere concern that Tristan felt his insides begin to fracture.

  “I…” He swallowed, picking at the desktop and struggling to breathe past the rock in his throat.

  “The girl who helped you with Romeo and Juliet. Is she still around?”

  He nodded, then shook his head, his chin trembling.

  “What happened?” His teacher’s voice dropped to a husky caress that yanked the truth right out of him.

  “Her mother.” His laugh was dry and brittle. “She doesn’t want me to see her anymore. She’s kind of paranoid. She caught me over there and won’t let me back in. The woman’s psycho.”

  “Is this friend of yours safe?” Miss Warren threaded her fingers together, an uneasy frown flashing over her expression.

  Tristan didn’t know how to respond. If he said no, Miss Warren was the kind of teacher to take that stuff seriously. She’d be calling child services before he even left the school grounds. That could save Helena. She could go into foster care… She could…

  Foster care?

  Who the hell are you kidding?

  Leaving that safe haven of hers would kill her. As much as he wanted to set her free, he didn’t want her drowning either.

  Pressing his lips together, he forced a nod. “Yeah. Her mother loves her. They have a good relationship, I think.”

  “So, maybe not so much psycho as overprotective?” Miss Warren’s elegant finger brushed beneath her chin, the silver ring on her middle finger catching Tristan’s eye. He stared at the intricate oval design. It reminded him of the vines wrapped around Helena’s tower.