The Thirteenth Fairy

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “Did you get your book?” Carter Cho asks, taking off his glasses and wiping them with the hem of his wrinkled T-shirt. He’s handsome and trim, neat and tidy in his gray sweater and slacks, in contrast to Mum’s messiness.

  “Ugh, no,” Filomena says, staring blankly in front of her. “The book’s not available. It wasn’t even published.”

  Her parents look at each other for a moment and then turn their confused faces on their daughter.

  “Not published?” asks her mom.

  “That’s odd,” says her dad, frowning.

  “Mrs. Stewart said all the bookstores were told it’s never going to be published. Turns out the author’s been dead for ages and supposedly didn’t leave the thirteenth book. Maybe she never wrote it even.”

  “Oh no, honey,” her mom says. “I’m so sorry. You were really looking forward to it.”

  “I know,” Filomena says, sighing. “Maybe the estate will find it one day, but until then, no one knows when or if it will ever come out.”

  “That’s strange,” her father says. “Typically, traditional publishing is pretty strict and set when it comes to release dates.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it,” her mom chimes in. “Bob’s a maniac about my deadline. How am I supposed to write twenty thousand words by Friday?”

  Dad chuckles. “You’ll get it done, sweetheart. You always wait until the last minute and then whip up something fantastic and heartwarming that brings your hero and heroine together in a spectacularly romantic ending!”

  Filomena’s father writes mysteries featuring a very fastidious detective given to cheerful proclamations. He thinks there’s always a resolution to every story. Meanwhile, every romantic lead in Mum’s story resembles Dad. Even the secret billionaires have a penchant for Korean food.

  He turns to Filomena and snaps his fingers, his eyes shining. “I got an idea,” he says. “I know this won’t replace the excitement you felt for the release of that book, but how about we play a little Never Ever?”

  It’s a popular game based on the Never After book series. As much as she loves it, her father’s right. Nothing can replace the book she spent a year looking forward to reading. But she offers him a forced smile anyway, grateful for his attempt to cheer her up, and she goes along with it.

  “Fine! But I’m the princess,” says Filomena.

  She always plays the heroine.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE PASTA POSSE

  The next day, Dad drives her to school as usual. “Still bummed about the book not coming out?” he asks when he notices her looking glum in the back seat.

  “You could say that,” she tells him.

  He reaches behind to pat her leg and then looks ahead at the road. They drive the rest of the way in silence, her father unsure how to comfort her about the book, Filomena unsure how to tell her dad what’s really on her mind.

  She doesn’t know how to say that it’s not just the book that’s troubling her, but how much she dreads going to school every day. That the bullying has gotten out of hand lately. That she can’t walk to her classes without being harassed by the mean popular kids. That she doesn’t feel like she can be herself there, or be there at all without being bothered or made fun of in some fashion. She doesn’t know how she can ever tell him that these kids are ruining her life—without breaking his heart in the process.

  Her parents care about her so much—maybe too much, if that’s possible. Knowing that she’s hurting would only hurt them, so she doesn’t want to share her sadness with them. This isn’t their fault, or their fight. Plus, if they tried to intervene, it might just make things worse. If the other kids knew she had snitched on them, the teasing would just worsen. Nothing good happens for anyone who tattles. That’s a fact. Snitches get stitches. Middle school and prison code: sort of the same thing.

  Filomena’s father joins the long carpool line staffed by teachers and administrators with megaphones to direct the traffic at their fancy private school. The worst thing about being bullied at Argyle Prep is that her parents are actually paying for her to have the privilege of attending the school. Dad plants a soft kiss on her cheek and tells her to have a good day. “Love you, Fil,” he says just as the troll-faced principal opens the car door for her.

  “Good morning, Filomena! Mr. Cho!” Principal Nightingale booms with forced cheerfulness as she holds the door open. At private schools, principals also act as the morning valets, as part of the school’s we’re-all-in-this-together facade.

  Dad gives the principal a tight smile. At PTA meetings, Mum and Dad are very vocal about their displeasure in the way the school is run, and the principal, who once declared there is no such thing as bullying in the school (“So what do you call it, then?” asked Dad) is no one’s favorite. Filomena smiles at her dad despite the tension she feels and says, “Love you, too,” as she reluctantly scoots out of the car. “Bye, Daddy.”

  * * *

  Filomena at school is very different from Filomena at home. For one, as she walks closer to the entrance, her body shrinks and folds into itself, almost as if she were losing height, confidence, space. She’s trying to make herself invisible. Trying to make herself disappear in front of her peers.

  She checks her phone and sees that she has just enough time to make it to her locker and get to class before the second bell. If all goes smoothly, at least, which it usually doesn’t.

  She scans her outfit again. It’s a free-dress day, otherwise known as dress-anxiety day. Filomena is much more comfortable in the school uniform. She surveys her clothing, examining it for anything strange or unusual that someone could tease her about. Her sneakers are normal enough, on trend even. She’s stopped wearing her favorite purple combat boots. Apparently, they weren’t up to par with what the other kids considered normal to house your feet in.

  Her jeans fit all right, not too tight, not too loose. Her black faux-leather jacket should at least help make her appear tough, especially with the ripped T-shirt underneath. But she doesn’t feel that way inside anymore. Not since they’ve beaten her down—literally and figuratively—for so long.

  Alas, the Linguini Losers are right there when she walks through the school doors. They’re waiting in the hallway near her locker, as has become the daily norm.

  There’s nothing special about them. The head girl isn’t even particularly pretty or funny or smart—just aggressive, with a bossy air and a threatening attitude. But she does have seven short, bland, generic kids who dumbly follow what she says.

  Troll army, thinks Filomena, just like in the Never After books. Except all the mean girls at her school are named after flowers—Posy, Daisy, Petunia, Carnation—while the mean boys are all named after sports teams—Tex, Angelo, Lake, Buck. They would be intimidating except that the boys are even shorter than the girls. (It’s middle school, after all.)

  Filomena makes her way to her locker. As she inches closer, the Rigatoni Ralphs jump in front, blocking her.

  “Come on, the bell’s going to ring,” says Filomena meekly, even though she towers over them.

  “Too bad,” sneers Posy, her hand across the locker. “I heard you did well on the science test the other day.”

  What science test? wonders Filomena, and then she remembers. Oh, the one everyone else failed. Posy and the noodles had posted their horrific grades—52 percent, 65 percent, 48 percent—on their social media accounts, joking and laughing with one another, and so Filomena had done the same, thinking she was innocently joining a meme. Except her score—102 percent (because she got everything right, including the extra-credit question)—was apparently nothing to laugh about.

  “You think you’re smarter than us, huh?” Posy demanded.

  “Um…” Filomena wants to tell them about the C-minus she got in Algebra One Honors, except it would only make them hate her more. She’s already two math levels ahead of the rest of her grade.

  The other kids giggle, taking part in taunting her. One of them snatches at her backpac
k, pulling it away from her back so that she stumbles a little.

  Another grabs at her hair as she tries to regain her footing, knocking her off-balance yet again and yanking her backward.

  “Dumb move,” her assailant chimes in, sounding disgusted while gripping her hair hard and pulling.

  Filomena flinches, reaching for her hair—which took hours to flatten. It’s another thing her peers take delight in teasing her about, accusing her of being neither here nor there in her heritage and looks.

  “If you’re so smart, do you even know if you’re black or white or yellow?” someone else taunts.

  This is getting so old. She’s heard all the jeers before.

  “Yeah. Your own parents didn’t want you. You think your teachers do?” another kid says to her, a statement that still stings her every time.

  Filomena turns red. She tries to fight back the tears threatening to spill. If she’s late for class again, she’ll get a suspension, and she doesn’t want to tell the teachers about the bullying. She just wants it to go away.

  If only there was a way to make it stop. The rude and snide remarks. The pushing. The snickering. The teasing. The things that are slowly chipping away at her confidence—little by little, day by day, until one day she’ll just disintegrate into nothing.

  But she knows she needs to try to find the strength to fight back. Wallowing, retreating, flinching—that only makes things worse. It feeds them, eggs them on. Backing down just infuriates the bullies more.

  She reaches for her locker, but Posy slaps her hand away.

  “For a smart kid you’re pretty stupid,” she hisses.

  “Yeah, and Filomena’s an ugly name, too,” someone else cackles.

  Now all the kids are surrounding her and slapping her. As usual, there are no teachers or administrators around. All the teachers are in their classrooms and the staff are in their offices. No one ever sees anything, which is why the principal says there’s no bullying in the school. It looks playful, but it’s not. The slaps hurt, almost as much as the words. Filomena can’t take it anymore. Not even for a second longer. Her name isn’t ugly! It’s ancient Greek and Arabic. It means “strength” and “courage,” and it also means “friend.” Above all, her mother told her, it means “beloved.” You are loved. We wanted you so much, baby.

  Filomena tries to dodge the blows, but they keep landing, even as she twists away from the others, their insults ringing in her ears. Ugly. Stupid. Know-it-all. Show-off. Loser. Unwanted.

  She needs to make it stop! If it would only stop! Then she hears a voice in her head: Never After is real. Immediately a spell comes to mind, and she speaks it out loud: “Time and tide await none but me! Stop the clocks until I order thee!”

  And just like that, the ruckus stops.

  She opens her eyes.

  Everyone is frozen.

  The kids standing all around her are paralyzed mid-insult, mid-hit, their faces ugly and contorted.

  * * *

  Never After is real. That’s what the boy said yesterday. The boy who called himself Jack Stalker. And speak of the devil … The voice in her head isn’t just in her head at all.

  “Good work!” says Jack, who’s suddenly appeared, almost as if she’s conjured him here. But now he has a friend by his side.

  “Alistair?” says Filomena.

  “Yes!” says Alistair happily. “She knows who I am!” He turns to look at Jack with a pleased grin on his face, moving his eyebrows to showcase his smugness.

  Of course Filomena knows who he is—it’s Alistair from the books, Jack Stalker’s loyal friend. This new boy is dressed in the same dun-colored robes Alistair wears in the Never After series, and he has a treasure chest tattooed on his cheek. But … he’s different from what’s on the page.

  “You’re much cuter than I expected,” she tells him. “And you don’t have an odd accent at all! I mean, it’s a little Cockney, right? But that’s all.”

  Alistair is a bit miffed. “Well, gee, thanks. I’m from Parsa, but I went to boarding school in Albion. It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”

  “My mom’s from Brighton,” says Filomena, who knows Albion is a kingdom in Never After that closely resembles England. “And you don’t look like a goblin! The writer really took some liberties with your description,” she informs him.

  “Goblin?” sputters Alistair. “I’ll have the writer know that I’m a prince!” he declares.

  “Are you now?” says Filomena.

  “One hundred percent,” says Alistair with a smile, and it’s almost like she can hear the glint shine off his white teeth. “Anyway, you know our names, but we don’t know yours.”

  For a moment Filomena hesitates, her inner alarm sounding a stranger danger! warning. But then again, they did just help her get away from her enemies. And what was that saying? The enemy of my enemy is my friend?

  “Filomena Jefferson-Cho,” says Filomena, greeting both boys.

  “Alistair Bartholomew Barnaby,” says Alistair. “You already know that’s Jack.”

  “I do,” says Filomena, because if this is Alistair, then that’s really the famous Jack Stalker standing next to him. And that really was an Ogre’s Wrath she deflected yesterday. Which means …

  “Hold on.” She shakes her head. “Did I just cast a time spell?” she asks. She looks back at the Frozen Lasagnas (get it?), hoping they never thaw out.

  “Yes, you did, which means we don’t have much time,” says Jack, looking at his pocket watch.

  “Right,” says Filomena.

  Time has stopped only until she does what she has to do, which is get away from the petulant Pasta Posse.

  “Let’s go!” says Jack.

  “Wait!” Filomena reaches into her locker and grabs her stuff. She needs her books!

  Books in hand and Filomena away with a head start, time unfreezes, and the slimy noodles begin to move again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE TREES

  When time starts up again, the Fettucine Alfredos are standing in front of Filomena’s locker, but Filomena is no longer there, where she should be, according to logic and, well, general rules of time and space. All that’s left of her is the scent of peachy bodywash and coconut shampoo, and in her place stands a whirlwind of confusion.

  Posy and the trolls stare at one another in disbelief, quizzical looks on their faces.

  “Where did she go?” Posy snaps. “She was literally just here!”

  “That little snake!” another kid chimes in, kicking Filomena’s locker.

  Filomena is, they notice suddenly, running down the hall shoving her books into her backpack. And she now has two oddly dressed kids with her. Kids the noodles don’t recognize. They’ve never seen the pair around school, and they basically know everyone—by taunt or by haunt.

  “Who are those weirdos?” one of them asks.

  “Who cares! How’d she get there so fast, anyway?” another replies.

  “Beats me. She was just here a second ago…”

  “Quit wasting time!” Posy barks at them. “She’s getting away!”

  Filomena makes a mental note never to post her test scores on social media again, no matter how much fun it seems to be. It’s just not worth it!

  The Alfredos give chase, tailing Filomena and the two boys.

  Filomena finds herself out of breath yet again, wondering why each time Jack Stalker shows up she is forced to run for her life. She supposes in the books he is always doing the same (running, adventuring, hopscotching over fiery pits and whatnot).

  And just like in the books, he’s kind of cute.

  Not that she noticed.

  And how did he magically show up here anyway, right after I cast that spell? She continues to run as fast as she can, following Jack for a second time, automatically trusting him. After all, she’s read twelve books about him; she knows him like he’s practically her best friend. Plus, Alistair is here. Everyone loves Alistair. He’s a fan favorite. He’s the kid who basically
carried Jack up Mount Gloom so that he could destroy the Ring of Infinity before that horrid ogre queen could get her hands on it.

  Has she lost her mind?

  What if Jack and Alistair are just figments of her imagination? But they seem so real.

  Jack’s cloak is flapping in the wind, with Alistair trundling as fast as he can behind. Filomena turns to check whether the Alfredo gang is still following them. They are. In fact, they’ve closed the distance a little too much for her liking. Beads of sweat form on her forehead as she races toward the school exit, and she momentarily wonders how Alistair is making out with all this cardio. He has the shortest legs of the three of them, and if she’s feeling it, she knows he and Jack must be, too.

  “Get back here, you little witch!” Posy yells after Filomena.

  Filomena turns around to see her pursuers quickly catching up. They’re only a few feet behind!

  Why do popular people always have to be so athletic?

  She tries not to let their impressive speed discourage her as she trails Jack and Alistair. The doors are just ahead. If they can make it outside, maybe the Alfredos will give up and let them go already, so that the Spaghetti Squad themselves don’t get in trouble for being late for class. Although it’s probably inevitable now that they’ll get tardy marks.

  To her dismay, as she, Jack, and Alistair blow through the front doors, the Alfredos are still close behind them, ramming through the same doors seconds later. The doors didn’t even have a chance to close!

  Oh God, oh God, oh God, Filomena repeats in her head, trying to keep herself calm despite the impending doom heading straight for her. She knows she’ll be dead meat if they catch her—and that is not a metaphor.

  “You can run, but you can’t hide!” one of the Alfredos yells.

  “Wait till we get our hands on you!” another troll warns.

  “Awful clichés, is that the best they can do?” says Alistair.