The Story of Awkward

by R.K. Ryals

  ~Peregrine Storke~

  There was little conversation following our experience in the Cavern of Clichés. We’d simply walked, our feet finally carrying us out of the forest into tree-covered lanes and open fields full of wildflowers, occasional small homes, dancing fairies, and tiny dragons. The rain continued to fall, drowning us for most of the day before slowing to a drizzle. The bright sun made everything sparkle.

  Elspeth was quiet, her thoughts occupied. Nimble whistled simple tunes that sounded an awful lot like modern alternative music. Weasel kept sneaking sweets from a pocket in his clothes, the candy wet but no less edible. He offered us some, but we refused. We drank the cold soup in his pack instead. It was tasteless, my weariness making it impossible to crave any kind of food. For water, our heads lifted, our tongues catching the rain.

  Foster marched beside me, his hand holding Queen Norma’s ball, his fingers rolling it carefully over his palm. The colors in it swirled, cloudy and beautiful. From yellow to green to cerulean. Tiny wisps of red smoke invaded the blue. Foster stared at it, his brows furrowed, as if gazing into the crystal could tell him how to make it stop. He looked older, tired. It seemed strange that the one place that should make us feel like children suddenly made us feel aged.

  My bare feet hurt, the mud, sharp twigs, stone, and uneven ground taking its toll on me. Hunger ate at my gut. My grimy scalp itched, my body stiff in places it hadn’t been stiff before.

  Herman lifted Weasel’s top hat, his eyes watching me, his silent stare unnerving.

  “We should stop,” the bookworm insisted suddenly, his gaze moving from my face to my feet to the sky. The sun had climbed during our walk and then begun to sink again, turning a deep orange that touched everything with gold. “This is Farmingdale, isn’t it?”

  I glanced at the open fields, the rows of tilled soil, the patches of flowers, the orchards, and the wooden windmills. All fairytales should have farmers. There is something fanciful about rows of cultivated land and trees heavy with fruit. In reality, it was hard, back breaking work. In my fantasy, it was easy labor full of rosy-cheeked women, smiling men, and skipping children.

  My gaze found Herman’s. “You ate the map I drew, didn’t you?”

  He flushed. “The hunger …” The blush deepened. Eating paper meant learning things for Herman. It was like having a photographic memory in reverse. Instead of looking at a piece of paper and memorizing it, he ate it. Anything he consumed became a part of him, facts and pictures that were never forgotten.

  Foster glanced from the ball in his hand to the horizon. Three days of walking, and it felt like we were no closer to finding Perfection than we had been the day we’d left the palace.

  “It can’t hurt to stop,” Foster admitted, his gaze sliding back to the ball.

  It was all we said, our exhaustion leaving no room for conversation. We shuffled forward, our feet carrying us to the nearest cottage. It was a small home with a green thatched roof and purple walls. I cringed at the sight of it, but if Foster felt inclined to turn the odd color choices into a joke, the fatigue kept him from actually doing it.

  Elspeth rapped on the door, her shoulders thrown back, her head held high. The woman who opened it was middle-aged with a smile too large for her face, hair the color of cinnamon, and unnaturally rosy cheeks. She was short and stocky, her braided hair lay over her shoulder. Around her waist she wore a white apron, and her hands were sprinkled with flour.

  She stared at us. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “We need a place to rest,” Elspeth said, her sweet voice firm but gentle.

  The woman’s eyes grew large. “The Princess!” she gasped. The crack in the door widened. “Of course! Please, come in. What is ours is yours, Your Majesty. Whatever you need.” She stepped back, her hands twisting the apron. Her rosy cheeks flamed. She had an accent, the kind I’d heard in an old Oliver Twist movie once simply because I liked the sound of it.

  Elspeth nodded. “Thank you. Can we trouble you for some food and maybe a bath?” she asked.

  The woman grinned, her hands swiping at her face. Strands of hair framed her cheeks.

  “It ain’t much, but I’ve got some bread. There’s a bath in the barn. We can fill it with warm water for you.” She perused our figures. “I don’t have much in the way of clothes here, but I can send my man to the neighbors. We’ll get you right as rain.” She flashed us a smile, her concerned clucking and frenzied movements reminding me of Mrs. Evans.

  Foster must have come to the same conclusion. A smile lit his features, something akin to longing in his gaze.

  “Come,” the woman insisted.

  She ushered us to a small building behind the house. It was an airy structure, the second level loft and floor below covered in hay. There were no horses. It seemed wrong that I’d drawn this cottage and barn with no animals, but that was Awkward. It was a strange mix of finished and unfinished sketches, creatures, people, and pasted pictures. It was, in a way, the story of my life. Strange and unfinished.

  There wasn’t much to remember after that. There was steaming water, a small metal bath, a cheerful woman who scrubbed, clucked, and soothed. She sent Foster and Weasel away, her hands gentle as she helped Elspeth and I in and out of the tub before allowing us to dry. Again, I chose to wear a man’s tunic over a dress, the light, airy feel of it preferable over the ankle length gowns the woman showed us. It was Elspeth who surprised me, the princess choosing to wear a similar tunic, both of us fastening belts around our waists. We braided each other’s hair, our silence heavy. Above the barn, birds sang. Elspeth’s friends had returned.

  There was a ladder after that, a blanket, and a pile of straw. I sank into the hay, my fingers pulling the sketchbook free of my belt. As the others washed and changed, I drew, my pencil flying over the page, my finger smudging and blending.

  Everything else was forgotten. There was only me and a piece of paper. The elf-giant grew, his pointed teeth and angry expression an odd addition to Awkward. The glass room in the cavern came next, Foster’s broad form standing in front of Elspeth, her chin raised and his lips meeting hers. It was a true fairytale moment, the beauty corrupted by the shattering glass behind them.

  Each new picture surprised me, the violence and darkness so unlike anything I’d ever drawn in Awkward. And yet, no matter how strange it felt to draw these pictures, it was the one I drew of Foster that shocked me the most. He was leaning against a tree in a dark forest, a man-sized leaf pulled up to his chin. The moon peeked at him through the foliage. His gaze stared at the place next to him, but there was nothing there for him to look at.

  “You left something out.”

  I looked up, my gaze meeting Foster’s. He was freshly bathed, his damp, auburn hair hanging on his forehead. His dirty, white tunic had been replaced by a turquoise shirt. The color should have looked ridiculous on him, but it brought out the green in his hazel eyes instead.

  He motioned at the picture on my knees. “Unless my memory fails me, you were sitting there.” He touched the spot next to him on the sketch.

  I lowered the book and placed it on the hay. “I can’t draw myself.”

  He sat next to me. “Why?”

  There was no ready answer. “It doesn’t seem right.”

  Reaching over me, he picked up the sketchbook. “So you’d draw me into your fairytale and leave yourself out?”

  I grinned. “I could draw Elspeth there.”

  Foster stared at the picture, a furrow forming between his eyes. “I’d rather you drew yourself,” he said.

  He glanced up, his gaze meeting mine.

  I took the sketchbook away from him, a numb, desperate feeling filling my gut. I’d never had trouble talking to the opposite sex, but flirting with them was a different story. Somehow, I’d been born without the gene. Foster had left me the perfect opening, and the only thing I could do was search his gaze.

  “I can’t like you,” I said. It was the worst possible t
hing a girl could say.

  Foster laughed. “Did I ask you to?” It was the worst possible thing he could have countered with.

  My face flushed. “You’re my best friend’s brother.”

  His lips quirked. “I’m a bullygog, too.” He exhaled into his palm. “You know, smelly breath and all that.”

  My laugh was followed by a snort, my lips pinching together.

  Foster stared. The look he gave me was unnerving. “You know, you’re the first person I’ve slept next to since I returned from Afghanistan,” he told me.

  I picked at the hay. “You didn’t have much of a choice.”

  “Maybe,” he answered. “But you’re also the first person who hasn’t asked me why I don’t sleep well.”

  My gaze met his. “It’s none of my business.”

  He smiled before tapping my nose. “And that’s why I like you.”

  My eyes narrowed on his. “Because I don’t ask you about the way you sleep?”

  He chuckled. “No, because you’re undemanding.”

  “Oh.” My gaze traveled down his face to his chest and back up again. “So, if I just started needling you for information, you’d suddenly decide I’m unlikeable?”

  He shrugged. “Probably so.”

  I laughed. “Well, then …”

  He lifted my hand and placed it against his face. It was an unexpected move, and I sobered instantly, my stomach clenching.

  “No more barriers,” he said.

  I swallowed hard. “You’re Cam—”

  “Camilla’s not here,” he interrupted.

  The direct way he said it sent shivers down my spine. His jaw was rough, the stubble like tiny needles against my hand. It didn’t feel anything like I thought it would.

  I watched him. “I don’t kiss on the first date,” I said firmly.

  His brows lifted. “This isn’t a date.” He placed his hand over mine on his face. The clenching in my stomach grew worse.

  I knew only one way out of the conversation, and I ran with it. “Why do you thrash when you sleep at night?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Perri!” Foster swore, his free hand grabbing the back of my head, his lips coming down firmly on mine.

  This kiss was nothing like the one he’d given Elspeth. It wasn’t simple. It was bruising, his cool lips pressed firmly against mine. I moved when he moved, my fingers falling from his face to the front of his tunic, the fabric bunched in my palm. His hand tightened on the back of my head, his fingers digging into my scalp. I felt it everywhere, my lips parting. His tongue met mine, the moist feel of it both wonderful and awkward at the same time. He wasn’t my first kiss, but kisses are never the same. Foster’s kiss tasted like coffee-flavored rain and felt like an invasion. His kiss was a lot like the man. Sometimes he demanded, other times he teased.

  His teeth grazed my bottom lip, his eyes on mine when he pulled away. I couldn’t have looked away even if I wanted to.

  “Tear down those damn walls, Perri.” He picked up the sketchbook and laid it in my lap. “Quit hiding behind these. Draw yourself.” I started to say something, but he stopped me, his finger pressed against my lips. “Don’t make it perfect. Make it awkward, as awkward as you think you are. If you were perfect, you wouldn’t be interesting.”

  I stared. “Says the guy who thinks we shouldn’t fight Perfection.”

  He leaned close. “I never said we shouldn’t fight her. I just don’t believe wanting to be better is wrong.”

  My brows rose. “Then tear your own walls down, Foster. Not everything’s a joke.”

  His gaze searched mine, his gaze falling to my lips. “No jokes?” he asked. “You want me to be perfectly candid?” He leaned even closer. “If we were the only two people here right now, I’d have no trouble sleeping with my sister’s best friend.”

  My heart pounded. It was the most inopportune place to be having this conversation. It seemed wrong. We were in the middle of a messed up fairytale, and he was talking about sex.

  “Wrong story for that,” I whispered.

  Foster grunted. “Really? If a writer took the time to ask his male main character what he was thinking, I promise he’d tell the writer he wasn’t thinking PG thoughts about eighty percent of the time. It doesn’t matter how inappropriate. Do you really think Prince Phillip saw Sleeping Beauty in that bed and thought about just a kiss?”

  I threw him a look. “And here I sensed a chivalrous man when you asked Elspeth to dance with you in the cave.”

  Foster eyed me. “Please tell me you didn’t learn about romance from trashy romance novels.”

  I grinned. “No, I learned about romance from fairytales. I learned about sex from trashy romance novels.” My gaze slid down his abdomen. “Just please don’t tell me your … um …” I gestured at his pants, “… you know is like brandished steel. Cause the thought of a rod of metal there is frankly quite terrifying.”

  Foster howled, his laughter filling the loft. “Oh, and that’s not awkward?” he asked.

  A sound separated us, our gaze going to the loft ladder just as Elspeth’s head appeared. Nimble flew over her, her clean face full of joy. Violet dust fell everywhere.

  “What was this about brandished steel?” Elspeth asked.

  Foster groaned, shifting so that he was facing away from the ladder. I choked, the startled chuckle coming out more like a hiccup than a laugh.

  “This is Awkward, after all,” I mumbled. Romance in fairytales was different from the real world. It was chaste and uncomplicated.

  I glanced at Foster.

  In the real world, romance was complicated, terrifying, and uncomfortable. In Awkward, Foster was a smelly villain who thought he was a poet. In the real world, he was my best friend’s brother and almost as awkward as I was. It’s funny how different life is after high school, how different people start to look later.

  If I was being honest with myself, I was beginning to like reality better. However, if I was also being honest with myself, I’d have to admit, it would have been awful nice to see Foster climbing an ivory tower to save me.

  Chapter 20

  “That awkward moment when you realize running away from life doesn’t mean life won’t pack its bags and follow.”