“Ouch,” Julie said. With the phone cradled to her ear, she opened the refrigerator and rooted around for a Coke. She wished she could talk to her mom. She had tried about a zillion times in the past to ask about Dad, but Mom always sidestepped the conversation or gave half answers or promises of “when you’re older.”
“I said I did practice. And he said, ‘Perhaps you should think about practicing harder. Not all of us are naturals.’ I almost died,” Gillian said.
Julie found a soda. Maybe she should try to talk to Mom again. She could just ask her, point-blank, about the Wild, about their family history, about Dad . . . and she could keep asking until Mom answered, instead of letting her mom avoid the questions like usual.
“Trumpet’s supposed to be what I’m good at. I can play that piece perfectly when I’m alone,” Gillian said. “It’s just when there’s an audience, my lips, like, droop.” Julie heard snaps—trumpet case snaps. Sighing to herself, Julie held the phone a few inches from her ear. She knew what was coming next.
After a few practice honks, Gillian began playing her trumpet into the phone. She missed a note and started over. Julie laid the phone on her shoulder as Gillian continued to practice. What could she say to make Mom answer this time? She could start small, like, “What was it like in the tower?” Or she could start big right away: “Why didn’t Dad escape with everyone else?”
On the fifth iteration of the trumpet piece, Julie switched on the TV, volume low. She watched the flicker without paying attention to what she was seeing. Instead, she played through the conversation in her mind.
Two-thirds of the way through a Real World rerun, Julie heard a car in the driveway, and her heart beat faster. I could do it, she thought. I could keep pushing until Mom answers. And then I’d never have to go through another day like today. “Gotta go,” she said into the phone. “Mom’s home.” The trumpet trilled. Louder, Julie said, “Sorry, I gotta go!” The trumpet stopped. “My mom’s home.”
“Call me later, okay?”
“Sure,” Julie said. She hung up the phone and rubbed her ear.
Carrying groceries, Julie’s mother came in the door. “Pumpkin, could you help me with the rest?” Zel called.
After the groceries, I’ll begin the conversation, she promised herself. Julie went out to the car and fetched the other two grocery bags. She peeked in the top. From what she could see, her mother had bought two packages of celery and several dozen eggs. She put the bags on the kitchen table. “Couldn’t we have gone out for pizza?”
“Quiche,” her mom said.
“Gesundheit,” Julie said.
Zel shed her coat. “It’s sort of egg pie.”
“Pizzas are sometimes called pizza pies,” Julie said hopefully.
“I told Snow’s seven to come at 6:30,” Zel said.
Snow’s seven! Julie groaned. She had forgotten all about the dinner party. She couldn’t talk to Mom with Snow’s seven coming. Mom would be busy cooking and cleaning and preparing. She would use that as an excuse to avoid any hard questions, just like every other time Julie wanted to have this conversation.
Her mother turned the oven on to preheat. “We’ll have to cook in two batches. Oven’s too small to hold more than two pie plates. But on the plus side,” Zel said, with a quick grin at Julie, “at least we know it’s never cooked a witch. Or a little German girl.”
Julie plopped into a chair. She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted to talk until the chance was gone. “Why do you invite them? They’re so . . .” Rude, obnoxious, condescending. “. . . sexist. Honestly, they make the Brothers Grimm look PC.”
“Snow deserves a day off,” her mother said. “Come on, Julie. It won’t be that bad.” Julie snorted. Wheedling, her mom said, “I’ve invited your grandmother.”
“Yeah?” Julie said, feeling a grin spread across her face.
“She promised to behave this time.”
Grandma was coming! At last, something to compensate for the flip-flops and the mirrors and the constant humiliation of it all: Grandma. Julie couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t seen her in weeks. The Wishing Well Motel was too far for an easy bike ride, and Grandma only left the motel on special occasions; she regarded it as an almost-sacred duty to personally guard the well against would-be wishers.
What had her mom said to get her to come? It couldn’t have been the quiche. Julie eyed the eggs and celery warily. She’d have a nice, safe PB&J later, she decided. “Who’s watching the well?” she asked.
“The three bears,” her mom said. She took a mixing bowl out of the cabinet. “Go on up and change. Anything but jeans. I don’t want to hear the seven’s spiel about girls in jeans.”
So long as Grandma was coming, Julie would happily wear a clown suit. “Fine.” Scooping up her backpack as she passed through the living room, she headed upstairs. “And put on some socks!” Zel called after her. “You’ll freeze your toes in those shoes!”
Chapter Four
The Dinner Party
Julie was always surprised by the number of exceedingly short men her mother knew. All seven of their guests were short enough to rest their chins on the rims of their plates and shovel quiche directly into their mouths. Even seated, Gothel, Zel, and Julie all towered over them. If Boots were here, he and Julie would have laughed about it, but he’d pleaded other plans—he’d promised Cindy he’d help with her mouse problem.
Lucky cat.
“Girl!” one of the seven said. Didn’t they know she had a name? She was Rapunzel’s only daughter, and they’d known Zel for five hundred years. You’d have thought they’d bother to learn her name. “Girl,” he said, “I know you haven’t had the benefits of a forest education, but it’s common courtesy to set the table with clean forks.” He held up his fork, which appeared spotless to Julie, and waved it at her.
She looked at her mom. Zel mouthed, “Please.”
Julie rolled her eyes and headed for the kitchen for the fifth time (not that she was counting). Zel put her hand on her wrist as she passed. “I know they’re difficult,” Zel whispered softly, “but they’re old family friends. We owe them a lot.”
Julie made a face. “They call me ‘Girl,’” she whispered back.
“They called me ‘Long-hair’ for three centuries,” Zel whispered. “Please, Julie. Just be a good hostess tonight. It won’t kill you.”
Old family friends—what could they possibly owe Snow’s seven? She supposed it was another thing that Mom would never explain, even if Julie ever managed to ask. Julie fetched a new fork. She laid it next to the dwarf’s plate and he inspected it. “There’s a smudge . . .” he began.
Didn’t this count as child abuse? She held out her hand for the fork and softly whistled, “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work . . .” Unfortunately, she didn’t whistle softly enough.
“You . . . you . . . you,” the dwarf sputtered. “We worked in mines. Hard labor!”
Julie shrank back. Uh-oh. Now she’d done it. “Sorry! I didn’t mean anything.”
“You didn’t mean anything? You don’t know anything!” He waved the fork at her. “You don’t know what it’s like to be forced to work all day, knowing that someone you care about is in danger, knowing you can’t protect her, knowing she will be hurt while you’re gone but you still have to go. You don’t have any choice but to go!”
Gothel plucked the fork out of the dwarf’s hands, spat on the tongs, rubbed it with her napkin, and handed it back. “It’s clean now,” she said firmly. Quivering, he shoveled quiche in his mouth while the rest of Snow’s seven stared. Gothel looked over his head at Julie and winked.
Julie sagged back in her chair. Rant averted. Score one for Grandma. Julie tried hard not to look at her mom. She’d be hearing about this later.
Breaking the awkward silence, Zel asked brightly, “So, how’s the jewelry store?”
“Oh, terrible,” one of them answered. “Business hasn’t been the same since chain stores were invented. Frankly, I’m s
urprised your motel hasn’t folded, Dame Gothel.”
Grandma’s motel, fold? Julie couldn’t imagine Northboro without Grandma’s motel. How could he even suggest it? Granted, the plumbing barely worked and the heat was iffy. The swimming pool hadn’t held water in decades, and the rooms themselves still had the original purple-and-orange decor. (Julie’s mom said it was the place 1979 went to retire.) But still, Julie loved it. She’d spent summers playing jungle in the grasses and detective in the vacated rooms. She’d caught frogs in the lobby, and she’d picked apples from the tree in the courtyard.
“The Wishing Well Motel has had guests every night for the thirty years I’ve run it,” Gothel said, an edge in her voice. Clearly, the idea of the motel folding offended Grandma as much as it did Julie. The Wishing Well Motel was Gothel’s pride and joy, Julie knew—as her mom had once explained, it let Grandma have an income and watch the well at the same time. “Dame Fortune, who has all the money that luck and the state lottery can bring, books with me,” Gothel said. “Even the swimming pool is currently booked by the Giant-Ogre family for Halloween.”
Obviously seizing the opportunity to shift the conversation, Zel said, “I heard they opened a Big and Tall franchise in Manhattan.”
“Oh, good grief,” Julie said. It sounded like a bad joke. Were these people for real? Honestly, you’d think they wanted the world to know who they were.
“Even the son?” one of the seven asked.
Julie couldn’t resist: “Not him. He’s trying to break into the pro-wrestling circuit, but he only wants to fight Englishmen.”
“Really?” another said.
Julie rolled her eyes. “No, not really. It was a joke. ‘I smell the blood of an Englishman’?”
Snow’s seven didn’t laugh. Some of them looked angry.
“He does interior design,” Zel said, shooting her daughter a look. Julie poked at her quiche. They were all so touchy.
Gothel wasn’t deterred. “Do you think I’d abandon the wishing well, even if the economy failed?” she said. “Someone has to guard it.”
If Julie had the well here, she’d wish the seven were gone. Not that her grandmother would let her make that wish—or any other. Like the items in the linen closet, the wishing well was off-limits.
Once, Julie remembered, she had tried to make a wish. From her sentry point in the main office, Grandma had seen her. It was the only time Julie had witnessed her grandmother truly angry. Do you want to feed the Wild? she’d said. Do you want to destroy everything? And she had sat Julie down and proceeded to explain why the Wild was so dangerous. No one had ever done that before. For weeks after that, Julie hadn’t been able to sleep in her bed for fear the Wild would trap her in one of its little puppet plays. The Wild, Grandma had said, takes your free will. Every fairy-tale event that is started must be completed. Is your wish worth your freedom? Everyone’s freedom? Julie had cried. It was only a little wish, she’d lied. She’d said she wanted to wish for straight hair.
Of course, she had meant to wish for her father.
“People need that motel,” Gothel said. “It’s a haven for our kind.”
“Our kind can’t mingle too much with the non-Wild,” one of the dwarves agreed. “They just don’t understand. To them, we’re Sneezy and Dopey. They don’t understand: we didn’t get a happy ending. We never got to save Snow. We worked while she died, and then we watched while some boy who never appreciated her carried her away.”
“How can they understand?” another said. “You shouldn’t blame them.”
“Oh, I don’t blame them,” the first dwarf said. “In fact, I envy them. To have always known who you are, to be able to change who you are, to shape your fate, to make your own story . . .” He nodded at Julie in reference.
All of a sudden, everyone was looking at her. Julie shrank back. She felt her face turning bright red. She knew she wasn’t like them, just like she knew she wasn’t like Kristen and her flock. Did they have to point it out? Worse, did they have to point it out in her own home?
Zel cleared her throat. “Julie? Help me clear the table?” An escape route. Thank you, Mom. Quickly, Julie collected a few of the dishes and fled into the kitchen. Following her, Zel set out the pies for dessert—berry pies, because the dwarves would not eat apple. “Honey? Are you all right?” Zel asked.
“Just great,” Julie said. She turned the water on and squeezed the soap bottle over the sink as if wringing its neck. The unfairness of it all—everything she had to go through, the secrets she had to hide, the humiliations she endured . . . and she wasn’t even one of them. Her world could be ruined because of their secrets, and she didn’t even get to be “our kind.” Why did the seven have to remind her? She’d almost started to have a good time.
Gothel appeared in the doorway. “Can I help with anything, dear?”
“We have it all covered,” Zel said. “Besides, I think the seven would feel better if you weren’t near their dessert. It’s not apple, but still, no need to upset them.”
Gothel smiled but didn’t argue. “In that case, may I use your phone? I told Ursa I would call after dinner.”
“Please.” Zel waved at the phone.
Julie scrubbed at the dinner dishes. Behind her, she heard her mother stop slicing the pies. Her mother was watching her—Julie could almost feel Mom’s eyes boring into her back. “Dishes without even being asked,” her mom said lightly. “I should invite Snow’s seven more often.”
In the other room, their sexist guests were condemning the Princess and the Pea Mattress Company commercials, in which the princess wore a low-cut nightgown. Julie scrubbed the plates savagely.
Her mom laid her hand on Julie’s arm. “Julie. Honey, talk to me. What’s wrong?” Julie dunked a plate into the sink, and soapy water splashed out. Zel took a step backward as water sprayed on her. “You’re going to break that plate if you’re not careful,” she said mildly.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Julie said. Mom had been in the Wild. She belonged with Grandma and Boots and Cindy and the dwarves . . . Julie was the only one who didn’t fit in anywhere.
“Try me,” her mom said.
For an instant, Julie was tempted. Could she have the conversation she always wanted to have? If she explained, would her mother understand? Could she know what it was like to not fit in? Could she understand what it was like to not know who she was or where she belonged? Or even where she came from? Julie knew nothing of her father. She knew nothing of how her mother and her fairy-tale friends had escaped the Wild. How was Julie even here? How had the force of the Wild Wood, a power that had dominated the entire Middle Ages, been reduced to a tangle of vines under her bed?
Behind them, Gothel hung up the phone. “Julie, be a dear and fetch my purse, would you? I left it under my chair.”
Zel’s voice sharpened. “What’s wrong?” she asked Gothel.
Gothel’s eyes flickered toward Julie.
“Julie,” her mother said, “please go get your grandmother’s purse.”
“Is it the well?” Julie asked.
“No,” both her mother and grandmother said in unison.
Julie swallowed a lump in her throat. “It’s because I wasn’t in the Wild. That’s why you won’t tell me. Isn’t it? You know what? I don’t care.” She threw the sponge in the sink. “I don’t care that I don’t belong. I don’t want to be a part of your little club.”
“Julie, it’s not because—” Zel began.
“I wish Grandma would let me make a wish in the well,” Julie said. “I’d wish you weren’t my mother.”
Zel’s face drained white. Gothel sucked in a breath. For a long second, the kitchen echoed silence. Her mother opened her mouth and then shut it. She looked like she’d been slapped.
Julie turned and ran from her mother’s expression—out of the kitchen, through the dining room, up the stairs. She locked her bedroom door behind her and threw herself on the bed.
The Wild left her alone as she cried her
self to sleep.
Chapter Five
The Wild
Julie took a few Oreos and poured herself a glass of milk. She was doomed to a long you-hurt-my-feelings talk. She was just lucky that Mom worked at the salon on Saturdays or she’d already be at the table feeling like a horrible slug for the horrible thing she’d said to her mother.
She really, really shouldn’t have said it.
Julie grabbed the whole bag of Oreos and the container of milk and carried them into the living room. She switched on the TV. She had six hours until Mom came home.
Cartoon, cartoon, commercial, rerun, talk show . . . She flipped through the channels, wishing she could flip through parts of her life like this. She imagined she was turning her mom off, Grandma off, Kristen off, Cindy off, the dwarves off . . . Cartoon, rerun, rerun, Torso Track infomercial . . . Breaking news, she read on CNN. Live from Northboro, Massachusetts. Hey, that’s here!
She’d seen those Halloween decorations: the cardboard pumpkin over the Marlboro poster, the corn husk witch on the Pennzoil . . . It was the Shell gas station near Grandma’s motel—or she thought it was. It didn’t used to have trees between the pumps. Premium unleaded was now next to an oak tree instead of a window squeegee dispenser. Vines were twisted around the pump nozzles. Moss covered the credit card displays.
Julie leaned closer to the TV. Was that moss spreading?
“ . . . Even more alarming,” a reporter was saying, “the rate of growth appears to be increasing.” The TV focused on the pavement. Green (oddly vibrant for October) advanced across the blacktop like an army of worms. Tendrils snaked forward, and the asphalt cracked. Thicker vines shot into the cracks, widening the splits. The street crumbled.
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