by R.K. Ryals
~Peregrine Storke~
Foster followed me out of the tower, our thudding boots echoing on the stairs. “Let me guess, Herman is a cross-eyed monkey with a penchant for causing trouble?” he asked.
Despite my best efforts not to smile, my lips twitched. “I applaud your sudden creativity, but no.”
“A pixie with bad allergies whose snot tastes like licorice?” he tried again.
This time I chuckled. “So you tasted Nimble’s fairy dust? Tastes like—“
“Watermelon,” we finished together.
He frowned. “I don’t like watermelon.” I would have snorted, but he followed it with, “So no pixie then? A mermaid with scaly legs rather than a tail?”
There weren’t many rooms or doors inside of my palace. Outside of the castle’s main hall, the two towers, and a room for King Happenstance and Queen Norma, I’d only drawn one other space. The door, like all of the doors, was arched.
My fingers found the wood, and I pushed it open. “No,” I told Foster. “Herman,” I gestured at the chaos within, my gaze falling on splayed books and overturned tables littering the floor, “is a worm.”
There, in the midst of what looked like an explosion of colorful paint, sat a small green shape lounging on an open book, his overly large, black glasses askew. Herman, the bookworm. Nimble flew chaotically around him, her hands wringing and her expression flustered.
Herman frowned. “I told you to wait before you mixed it. The pink doesn’t go with the green.”
Nimble shrugged. “It looked so pretty.”
“Tittletat!” Herman swore.
Behind me, Foster muttered, “A worm … of course.”
Herman glanced up sharply, his gaze peering over his glasses at Foster’s incredulous face. “A lumbricus libri,” he corrected.
Sheepishness prompted me to translate. “A bookworm,” I explained.
Foster’s lips parted, a small laugh escaping. “Were you dropped on your head as a baby?”
My gaze met his. “No head injuries, I’m afraid. My mother taking too many painkillers … maybe.”
Foster grew still, his eyes searching mine. “I’d laugh, but that doesn’t sound like a joke.”
My gaze held his. “It isn’t.”
Awkward silence in Awkward wasn’t any less awkward than it would be in the real world.
Foster’s eyes narrowed. “Perri—”
“This is all wrong,” Herman exclaimed. He straightened his glasses, his small body sliding across the page of the book he rested on. I’d drawn him tiny arms when I created him. It was at odds with his wormlike body, but the arms were useful now.
My gaze fell on the worm. “What are you trying to do?”
Herman sighed. “Create a resolution potion,” he answered, his small hand running across the page.
Foster drew closer to me. “Magic?” Foster asked. He glanced at all of us. “A resolution potion? Do you really think magic can fix this?”
Herman’s magnified eyes widened. “Not in your world, but this is Awkward.”
Unease filled my gut, my gaze taking in the spewed paint. “Magic,” I murmured. My heart sank. “Your magic is paint.”
“It’s imagination,” a voice answered from the library’s entrance. Elspeth crossed the threshold, her eyes sad, her body enfolded in a silver gown that emphasized her honey-colored hair and turquoise eyes. It seemed at odds with her golden spectacles, but then again, there was always something odd about everything in Awkward. “And creativity,” she added. “Paint is a part of that. Words, too, and dreams.”
Foster stared at her. Elspeth was beautiful. Her spectacles only made her more so, not less. “And yet,” he said, “you now have enemies in your little world that shouldn’t belong here. Perfection and Stereotype. If they don’t belong here, do you really believe they can be destroyed with something that does belong here?”
Elspeth frowned. “Imagination can fix anything.”
I was beginning to see where Foster was going with his words, and my shoulders fell. “Not everything,” I remarked. “If something is perfect, then there is nothing to fix.”
My awkward characters were innocent and naïve, but they weren’t stupid.
Elspeth’s face fell. “Then there is no way to defeat Perfection?”
Foster glanced between us. “Would you want to?” he asked.
Anger roared through my veins. “I certainly wouldn’t want Perfection to win a war.”
Foster’s eyes met mine. “So, this is a war, then?”
There was something in his gaze. Wariness, maybe?
It was Elspeth who broke the tension. “We need to free Prince Dash.” Her voice was full of determination and choked sobs.
Foster sighed. “Do you know where he is?”
Elspeth laughed, the sound verging on hysteria. “He’s locked inside of a tower, trapped in Perfection’s kingdom. Her kingdom has many names. Utopia, Eden, Flawless …” Her words trailed off.
Foster watched her. “And you think this Prince Dash wants to be set free?”
Elspeth’s head shot up. “Of course he does!”
“And yet he believes he’s in love with Perfection?” Foster asked.
Elspeth sputtered, a tear leaking from her eye. It left a trail of sparkles down her cheek. Tears didn’t belong in Awkward, but when they came, they were beautiful.
My hand found the crook of Foster’s elbow, and I gripped his skin, my fingers pressing into his flesh, my gaze going to his face. “Tell me,” I whispered, “if you were in love would you want it to be perfect love? Would you want it to be the kind of love where nothing could ever be awkward between you, where you could make no mistakes? A love where you never argued?”
Foster stared. “I’ve heard a little about your family from Camilla. I would think you, more than anyone, would want perfect love,” he answered.
I laughed, the sound short. “It was trying to strive for perfection that destroyed my parents, Foster. I wouldn’t want perfect love. I want true love, the kind that doesn’t depend on pretending to be better than I am.” I glanced at Elspeth, my gaze soft. “Love isn’t roses. It’s those little square caramels and a root beer from the gas station because he knows that’s your favorite snack. It’s watching a musical with you without groaning. It’s handing you your glasses at night because he knows you’re too blind to find your way to the bathroom without them. Love is awkward.”
Elspeth grinned, her eyes watery. She was beautiful.
“Let’s save Dash,” I declared.
Nimble clapped, violet dust flying.
Foster’s hand covered mine on his arm. “If I’m being forced to join your war, do me a favor.” He glanced at Nimble. “Make her dust taste like a quarter pounder with cheese.”
Chapter 8
“That awkward moment when you realize men are much more agreeable after they’ve eaten.”