Through the Looking Glass

by Carla Jablonski

  “I wish I could take it back and do it all over again,” Mirana says, her voice choked with emotion. “I’m so, so sorry. For everything.”

  A single giant tear begins to form in your eye. You quickly wipe it away. “That’s all I ever wanted to hear. Really, it was…”

  Just then, a door opens and a little girl shrieks. Suddenly, you feel as if you can’t move. The world changes around you, as if you’re looking through rust-covered glasses.

  The next thing you know, you’re back in Time’s castle. Did you faint? You see Mirana’s concerned face hovering over you. She helps you up.

  The last thing you remember before everything went rusty is Mirana’s deeply heartfelt apology.

  “Can you ever forgive me, Racie?” Mirana asks softly, putting a hand gently on your arm.

  A very unfamiliar feeling creeps over you. Generosity? Kindness? Forgiveness? Happiness? All of the above? You’re not sure. It’s been such a long time since you felt any of those emotions, you don’t know that you can identify them correctly.

  “I can,” you say, surprising yourself. “I can!

  You pardon everyone you ever sentenced to a beheading, and the Hatter promises to make you the perfect hat to complement your, er, generously sized head.

  THE END

  YOU HAVE YOUR SISTER BACK AND, MORE IMPORTANT, THE PROMISE OF LOVELY NEW HATS. NOW IT’S TIME TO GO BACK TO THE BEGINNING AND BE SOMEONE ELSE.

  WARNING! You’re about to spoil a great story by not making a choice! Page back, then click one of the links to advance the story. Otherwise, the next section may not make any sense to you.

  YOU TUCK your doll under your arm and head off to your daily lessons: reeling and writhing and the various branches of arithmetic—ambition, distraction, uglification, and derision.

  Your big sister, Iracebeth, is already at her desk. She’s wearing red—her favorite color. Your favorite color is white, so that’s what you and your doll are wearing.

  She smiles broadly when she sees you, and holds up her own doll, which is wearing a red gingham dress just like hers.

  You slip into the seat beside her.

  “I have the best idea for a game,” she tells you, her eyes twinkling.

  You clap gleefully. Your sister always makes up the best games! She can be awfully bossy, but you still always have fun together. “What’s the game?”

  “Backward hopscotch!” she tells you.

  “Can’t wait,” you say. Then you quickly fold your hands together on top of your desk as your teacher lumbers in.

  “Just think,” you say as you and Iracebeth leave the classroom. “Today was a nine-hour day of lessons. Tomorrow we’ll have lessons for eight hours, then the next day seven—”

  “Of course,” Iracebeth says, interrupting you. “We have fewer hours of lessons each day. That, dear sister, is why they’re called lessens.”

  Iracebeth knows everything, you think, gazing at your sister with admiration. “Do you ever wonder why our tutor is a giant turtle?”

  “Tortoise,” Iracebeth says, correcting you. “It makes all the sense in the world. After all, it is the Tortoise who taught us.”

  Why didn’t I think of that? you muse. She will make such a good queen when we’re grown up.

  After a rousing game of backward hopscotch, you find your mother, Queen Elsmere, busy preparing dinner. In honor of the invention of backward hopscotch, you’re having dessert first.

  “My favorite!” you squeal as your mother places a platter of purplemelon fruit tarts on the table between you and Iracebeth. “Yum, yum, yum!”

  You love these tarts so much you bounce on your chair, knocking your doll to the floor. When you’ve settled her back on your lap, your eyes widen. Half the tarts are gone! Tears spring into your eyes as Iracebeth grabs a tart in each hand and shoves them quickly into her mouth.

  “You’re eating all the tarts!” you complain. You yank the platter toward you. Iracebeth yanks it back. “You can have the crusts!”

  “No fair!” you wail.

  “No fair!” Iracebeth mimics you and stuffs another tart into her mouth.

  The queen turns from the stove and shakes a buttered finger at you. “If you can’t get along, there will be no more tarts for either of you,” she scolds. “Now out of my kitchen!”

  “But—” you protest.

  “Scat!” your mother orders.

  You and Iracebeth trudge out of the kitchen. You didn’t even get to have a single tart.

  “Do you want to play with my ant farm?” Iracebeth asks, heading to the staircase.

  “Uh, no, I think I’ll go pick some flowers,” you say. You hope she doesn’t decide to join you. She shrugs and climbs the stairs.

  You sneak back into the kitchen. You know your mother would give you a tart if she knew that Iracebeth had hogged the platter. But you don’t want to get Iracebeth in trouble. She’s already been scolded for not sharing.

  Your mother is noisily washing dishes with her back to you. Now’s your chance. You snatch the last tarts from the platter, leaving behind only scattered crumbs.

  You scurry to your room. It’s empty. Iracebeth must be getting supplies for her ant farm. You sit at your shared desk, pushing aside the farm and the tiny flea circus. You gobble down the last tart, your eyes closing with the deliciousness. You savor every scrumptious bite.

  Uh-oh. Footsteps! You leap up from the desk in a panic. Did your mother see you take the tarts? You swallow the evidence and lick your lips to get rid of every crumb. Then you notice the crusts on the floor. You must have dropped them.

  Oh, no! The footsteps are almost at the door! There’s no time to do anything but sweep them under the nearest bed—Iracebeth’s bed.

  The door opens and you spin around. Little Iracebeth comes in with a jar of ants. She stops and cocks her head, studying you. ‘What are you doing?” she asks.

  “N-nothing,” you stammer.

  She shrugs, opens the top of her ant farm, and drops in the ants. “Here you are!” she coos. “A nice new home! I hope we’ll be friends!”

  Your eyes land on a crust you didn’t notice before. You race out of the room.

  Uh-oh. Your mother is striding down the corridor toward you with a very serious frown on her face. “Mirana,” she says, “come with me.”

  You slump back into your room, where Iracebeth stands, staring at the crust.

  Your mother steps inside and crosses her arms. “What did I tell you? No more tarts!”

  “I didn’t eat any tarts!” Iracebeth declares.

  Your mother’s eyes roam the room. Her forehead wrinkles and she crosses to Iracebeth’s bed. Oh, no. She’s going to find out! You squirm.

  Your mother kneels down a moment, then stands back up. “Why’re these crusts under your bed?” she asks Iracebeth.

  Iracebeth turns and looks at you with hurt eyes. She knows you betrayed her. She waits for you to explain. You shrink far into the corner. When you don’t respond, Iracebeth whirls around to face your mother. She points at you. “She put them there!”

  Your stomach twists. You are in so much trouble!

  “Did you, Mirana?” Queen Elsmere asks you.

  Your heart pounds and your tongue feels like it’s swollen.

  Your sister stamps her foot. “You did! Tell her!”

  “Tell the truth, Mirana,” your mother says. “Did you eat the tarts and put the crusts under Iracebeth’s bed?”

  They both look at you, waiting.

  Your lips tremble. What do you do? Do you tell the truth? Or do you lie?

  IF YOU DECIDE TO TELL THE TRUTH, GO HERE.

  IF YOU DECIDE TO LIE, GO HERE.

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  YOU KNOW it’s wrong to lie. You have only one option: tell the truth. You stand on the bed and take a deep breath.

  “My sist
er’s name is Iracebeth!” you state confidently.

  Hmmm. This is true but not actually the truth you planned on saying. You try again.

  “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, couldn’t put Humpty together again.”

  Also true. Odd…

  You continue to spout facts about Underland and its inhabitants until everyone grows bored and wanders off, unable to remember what the question was in the first place. Including you.

  Go here to continue.

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  “NO. I didn’t take the t-t-tarts.” You drop your head. You can’t look at your mother or your sister.

  “But you did! You’re lying!” Iracebeth shouts.

  “The crusts are under your bed!” your mother tells Iracebeth. “Don’t blame your sister. She’s innocent.”

  You feel even worse. Your stomach contracts. You didn’t know lying would make you feel so ill.

  “No!” Iracebeth screams. “It’s not fair!”

  Your mother takes Iracebeth by the arm. Your sister pulls away angrily and runs out.

  “Oh, dear.” Your mother sighs.

  You want to take back the lie, but your mother has gone looking for Iracebeth.

  How can you make this right?

  You run outside, hoping to find Iracebeth to apologize. You dash through the snowy night toward the town square. You swipe at tears streaming down your face. Poor Iracebeth. How could you betray her this way? You have to find her; you

  Go here to continue.

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  Well, at least you told the truth—even if it wasn’t exactly the truth you had in mind.

  THE END

  HMMM, MAYBE YOU SHOULD HAVE JUST LISTENED TO YOUR MOTHER IN THE FIRST PLACE….GO BACK TO THE BEGINNING AND START OVER.

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  have to say you’re sorry, tell her she can have all your dessert from now till eternity. Anything, if only she’ll forgive you.

  “Oh, no!” you gasp. You skid to a stop at the edge of the town square and watch helplessly as Iracebeth slips, falls, and hits her head. She sits up, holding her head as folks nearby rush to her aid. You wince, seeing her head swell. This is all your fault. She never would have run into the night if you hadn’t lied!

  You watch sadly as your father picks up your weeping sister. He carries her away with your mother holding her hand. A large tear rolls down your cheek. You wish you could take it all back.

  From that day, your sister is different. And as you grow older, her head grows bigger.

  You don’t think telling the truth now will make any difference. After all, it won’t unswell her head. And you don’t want to bring up anything that will remind her of that awful evening. Now what you have to do is try to keep her as happy as possible to make up for what you did. But she sure does make that difficult. She grows meaner and meaner as the days go by.

  But maybe there is something you can do. Maybe you can go back to the past, before all this heartache began. Or go to the future to see if there’s something you can do there—er, then.

  TO GO TO THE PAST, GO HERE.

  GO TO THE FUTURE BY GOING HERE.

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  IT IS the day your sister will officially be given the crown by your father. To everyone’s dismay, and Iracebeth’s extreme embarrassment, the tiara Zanik Hightopp tries to place on her head is too small. When he tries to force it to fit, it breaks.

  You wilt inside, thinking about how upset she must be. Your own face flushes with embarrassment as the crowd chuckles. You wish they wouldn’t snicker. But now they’re laughing even louder. Your stomach twists in sympathy. But the way she treats everyone makes her a target. You wish she’d listen to you. You’ve tried to make her see that if she were nicer to them, they’d be nicer to her.

  The crowd’s chortles and guffaws incense her. “Off with their heads!” she cries.

  Your father thumps the arms of his throne as he stands. “Enough, Iracebeth,” he exclaims. To your horror, he declares you the successor instead of Iracebeth.

  She grows enraged, and her head grows even larger. You hear her threatening the Hightopps. You try to calm her down, but she turns on you, declaring everything to be your fault.

  That stops you. Could she be right?

  DO YOU GO TO YOUR FATHER AND EXPLAIN THAT THE CROWN SHOULD REALLY GO TO IRACEBETH—AND MAYBE EVEN CONFESS YOU’RE THE REASON HER HEAD IS SO…UNGAINLY? GO HERE.

  OR DO YOU GO TO THE HIGHTOPPS AND TRY TO MAKE AMENDS FOR YOUR SISTER’S BEHAVIOR? GO HERE.

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  YOU LIE in your crib, playing with your toes. You peer through the bars and see your sister, Iracebeth. She’s chewing on a teething ring.

  Maybe going back in time wasn’t such a good idea. There’s not much you can do as a baby.

  You do wish someone would do something about your sister’s stinky diaper!

  THE END

  GROW OLDER AND WISER BY GOING TO THE BEGINNING AND STARTING OVER.

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  YOU FIND your father in a tower room, where he is reading a large book. You hate to disturb him, but if you don’t say something now, you never will.

  “Father,” you say, “there’s something I have to—”

  A courtier bursts in. “Your Majesty! They’re at it again! The Lion and the Unicorn are battling for the crown!”

  Your father slams his book shut. “I have told them over and over: their battle will not be tolerated! They have no right to fight over the crown. The crown is mine!”

  He stands and announces, “To arms!” then strides out of the room.

  Oh, dear. This is not the time to make your confession. You should help your father!

  You quickly don armor and grab a sword, then run to the stables. You’re not used to getting a horse ready on your own, so it takes you a while to get saddled. By the time your feet slip into the stirrups, the army has gotten far ahead of you.

  Still, you press on.

  The horse gallops through meadows, across fields, and then into a forest. Still no sign of the army—or any fighting at all, for that matter.

  At least the enemy hasn’t found me, you think, always wanting to put a good spin on things.

  But it’s hard to stay optimistic as the sun goes down, the air turns cold, and you realize that you were in such a hurry you didn’t pack lunch. Or even snacks. Or purplemelon fruit tarts. Mmmmmm…

  You can’t pretend anymore. You’re thoroughly lost. Even the horse wears a quizzical expression.

  Oh, dear.

  You eventually find your way home. The Lion and the Unicorn agreed to settle their differences over a nice cup of tea; the crown is on your father’s head, where it belongs; and you are eating a bowl of soup by a cozy fire.

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  YOU LAY a hand gently on Zanik Hightopp’s arm, hoping to mak
e up for Iracebeth’s rude behavior. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hightopp,” you say. “My sister wasn’t always like this. But…something happened when we were small.”

  “It’s fine, Your Majesty, really,” Mr. Hightopp says.

  You know your sister can be, well, impossible. But if people only understood the reason…You’ve always felt guilty about her bad fortune and your good fortune. And now…now it has cost her the queendom.

  “You see,” you continue, “it happened many years ago. It was snowing that night. She ran out because…” You stop, unable to say the words. You just can’t tell him that she ran out because of you. Not here. Not now. “Well, anyway, she slipped in the snow and hit her head. In the town square. Right at the stroke of six. I’ll never forget it….”

  “I’m sure it has been difficult for her,” Mrs. Hightopp says sympathetically.

  “The tiaras are beautiful,” you add. You glance at the younger Hightopp, still holding hatboxes. He was one of the

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  Something nags at you, though. You were going to do something before war was declared. You just can’t remember what it was. You shrug. Oh, well. Whatever it was couldn’t have been that important. It probably all worked out just fine in