Charmed, I'm Sure

by Sarah Darer Littman

  Magic Mirror, need to upgrade.

  Views go back to the Middle Ages.

  It’s a lame rhyme, but I don’t have the courage to say it directly to the Mirror anyway.

  I sigh and breathe in the crisp fall air, the smell of leaves starting to decay, and warm pretzels on the street carts. Time to pull myself together. Time to be Mirror Girl, smiling, happy, full of school spirit, whose only interest is that Manhattan World Themes Middle School wins the upcoming soccer match.

  Go, Team!

  I check my phone to see if Nicole or Katie has responded yet. There’s a one word text from Nicole: SERIOUSLY?!

  There’s still no answer from Katie. Maybe she’ll be at the game to cheer for Quinn, so maybe we can talk things through.

  I text back to Nicole: Seriously what?

  Have you forgotten something?

  Forgotten what? I reply.

  She doesn’t answer. Whatever. I don’t have time for her hissy fits right now. I’ve got to go fake some team spirit and hopefully snag myself a Fall Festive date.

  When I get to the soccer field, Katie is nowhere to be seen. Genny Krulinski, on the other hand, is front and center. She’s got a lawn chair set up right behind our team, and she’s done her hair with ribbons in the school colors, complete with a matching scarf and gloves. I’m wearing a Manhattan World Themes sweatshirt, but my jacket covers it up. Sound the spirit fashion faux pas siren!

  “Hi, Genny,” I say, walking up to the sidelines.

  “Oh . . . hi,” she says. “Surprised to see you here.”

  “Hunter said I should come,” I tell her.

  “He did?” Genny clearly doesn’t believe me. “When was that?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. At Starcups.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you come to a lot of games?” I ask her.

  “Every home game,” she says. “And some away games too.”

  “Wow. That’s dedication,” I say.

  “I actually like soccer,” she says.

  And Hunter, I think.

  But she’s got a point. I’m the fraud on the sidelines, not Genny.

  Then Hunter comes over.

  “Hey, you showed up,” he says.

  “Yes,” Genny and I chorus together.

  He laughs.

  “I knew you’d show up,” he tells Genny. “You’re always here. It’s Rosie I wasn’t sure about.”

  See, Princess, you must listen to me.

  This young swain has eyes for thee.

  He’s handsome, strong, he’ll do for now.

  So smile and look pretty—you know how.

  I don’t want to hear the Mirror right now, especially because I see the hurt expression on Genny’s face before she recovers and smiles brightly.

  “I’m always here, because I’m your biggest fan,” she says.

  Hunter laughs.

  “You girls can fight it out on the sidelines over who’s my biggest fan,” he says. “I’ve got a match to win.”

  With a cocky grin, he runs onto the field with the rest of the team to warm up. I’m surprised the size of his ego inflated head doesn’t cause him to topple over.

  “There’s no competition,” Genny says. “I’m his biggest fan.”

  I’m not about to argue with her. She’s right. I’m becoming less of a Hunter fan the more I get to know him.

  “I know.”

  She stares.

  “You’re agreeing with me?”

  “Of course.”

  She looks like she’s about to say something, but the referee’s whistle blows, signaling it’s time for kickoff. What comes out of her mouth is: “Let’s go, Vikings!”

  Yeah, we’re the Manhattan World Themes Middle School Vikings—an odd mascot for a school whose mission statement is “to foster peace and understanding among all nations,” right?

  Whatever. I’m here to show my school spirit and get Hunter to ask me to the dance, not to ponder the ironic nature of our school mascot.

  “Go, Vikings! Woo-hoo!” I shout, jumping up and down to denote extra enthusiasm. Also to increase the circulation in my toes, which are already starting to freeze, and the game has barely started.

  And then I stand there, watching Hunter and the rest of our team run up and down the field, back and forth and forth and back, kicking the soccer ball. There’s a lot of whistle blowing and corner kicks, and something happens where the other team gets to kick straight at our goal while our guys stand in front of the goal with their hands over their private parts, which I find really amusing. But then Genny tells me it’s called a penalty kick, and it’s actually really bad for our side, especially when our goalie can’t tip the ball away and it goes into the net and they score.

  “I guess it’s not that funny, then,” I conclude.

  “Uh . . . no. It’s not funny at all,” she says, shaking her head, like I’m a clueless soccer fan, which I am, basically.

  I stick to following Genny’s lead after that.

  At halftime we’re down 1–2. Our coach has the team huddle around him, and it sounds like he’s giving them a cross between a pep talk and a reading of the riot act.

  My toes are starting to freeze. I’m not sure if I can handle another half. At least the players are running around, so they get to stay warm.

  Genny came prepared. She’s obviously done this before. Not only does she have the chair, she’s got a stadium blanket covering her legs, snacks, and a thermos of hot chocolate. My stomach is rumbling, and I’d give anything for a hot drink.

  I try doing jumping jacks and running in place. At least I can feel my toes again.

  My fingertips are numb, but I take out my cell and check to see if my friends have texted me. There’s still no word from Katie, and nothing more from Nicole. Something is definitely up with them. I just wish I knew what it was.

  The second half goes more quickly. Well, not really, but maybe it seems that way, because we start scoring more goals, and I’m finally starting to understand what’s going on. It’s easier to cheer when you know what to cheer for. If I didn’t feel like parts of my body might fall off from the cold, I might actually enjoy myself. Note to self: Cute little flats are not optimal soccer watching wear. Warm boots and thick socks are more appropriate.

  Hunter scores a goal in the last two minutes, making the score 4–2 in our favor. He’s carried off the field in triumph. I go over to congratulate him while Genny’s packing up all her soccer watching gear.

  “Thanks for coming,” he says. “Looks like you brought good luck.”

  I laugh, because the idea of me, who barely knows anything about the game, bringing any kind of good fortune, is pretty hilarious.

  “I doubt that, but thanks.”

  “Listen, how about going to the Fall Festive?” Hunter asks, like it’s no biggie.

  Goal! Score! Go, Rosie!

  “Sure, okay,” I reply, trying to sound equally as laid back.

  “Cool,” he says. “Well, I gotta go.”

  He gestures toward his teammates.

  “We always go for pizza after the game.”

  “Yeah, sure. See you at school.”

  Genny is coming toward us, and I take off down the path toward home before she arrives.

  I kick a stone along the path as I walk away from the playing fields, letting my foot vent my frustration. I finally have a date for the Fall Festive! I’ve achieved what I set out to do.

  So, why don’t I feel happier about it?

  I actually feel guilty about Hunter asking me instead of Genny. She really likes him. She’s the one who goes to every soccer game to watch him play. She knows what’s going on, while I’m laughing when our side has a penalty kick against us.

  But Hunter asked me. It’s what I wanted, I remind myself.

  I should text Nicole and Katie to tell them the good news, but since Nicole has been sending me cryptic messages and Katie is giving me the cold shoulder, I don’t know who to tell.

  Besides, my to
es feel like they’re about to break off with each step, and my fingertips are numb inside my gloves. I’m not sure I could text anyone, even if I wanted to.

  None of this has turned out the way I expected.

  “Is that little Rosie Charming I spy on the path before me?”

  The familiar deep voice comes from a huge clump of bushes beside the path.

  “Harold? Is that you?” I call out. “Where are you hiding?”

  Leaves rustle and part. Harold the Huntsman emerges from the bushes, dressed in his usual forest-green wool, with bits of shrubbery sticking to his sleeves and twigs caught in his long, graying hair and beard.

  “Rosie,” he says, his weathered face split with a wide smile, which reaches his focused green eyes. Harold’s eyesight is famous; he can spot prey at an incredible distance—or at least he could in his youth, according to my parents and the uncles. “What brings you to this part of Central Park?”

  “A soccer game,” I say. “What about you?”

  “Rat stalking,” Harold sighs. “It’s a comedown after being a royal huntsman chasing deer and wild boar, but it works as a retirement job.”

  He sits on the nearest bench and pats the seat next to him, gesturing for me to sit down.

  I slump onto the bench. He takes one of my small, chilled hands into his big ones. I can feel the warmth even through his worn leather gloves embossed with the same royal crest that’s on my compact.

  “Have you got your horn on you?” Harold asks.

  “Yes,” I say, pulling the small gold horn he gave me out of my bag. I never go anywhere without it. Harold gave it to me when I was six. He said it’s for emergencies—to call him with when I’m in danger. Like a super old-fashioned cell phone.

  Harold smiles.

  “Good. Don’t ever leave home without it. You never know when evil might strike.”

  “I’ll say,” I agree as I put the horn back in my bag. “Especially when you live in New York City.”

  “You look more like your mother every day,” Harold says, shaking his head wonderingly. “It’s uncanny. Brings back memories . . . of that day in the forest. . . .”

  He shudders. Clearly, these aren’t good memories. Then I realize what he’s talking about.

  “You mean the day you were supposed to kill Mom?”

  “Yes, Rosie. The day that haunts my dreams. I still see my arm raised, holding the knife, and her face looking up at me—so innocent, so confused, so . . . terrified.”

  He’s so upset that I don’t have the heart to tell him that Mom still dreams about it too. I’ve been woken up by her screams: “No! Please don’t kill me! Please!”

  I decide to ask him a question that’s been bothering me ever since I heard the story—and especially since I read The Tale as it’s told in books.

  “Did you really just let her go because of her looks?”

  Harold looks shocked, and I wonder if I’ve upset him. But then he laughs.

  “Well, her face certainly was the fairest I’d ever seen,” he admits. “But that wasn’t the only reason I let her go.”

  “So, why did you?” I ask.

  “Well, because unlike her stepmother, Snow White was kind. She spoke to everyone at the Castle with respect, whether they be a highborn lord of the court or a lowborn servant scrubbing the floor,” Harold tells me. “She thanked people for their service, instead of taking it as her due.”

  I think about how I treated the girl behind the counter in Starcups. If Stepgrandmom sent Harold to kill me, would I have been nice enough to be spared?

  “Your mother could have been like the Queen, her stepmother—beautiful on the outside but rotten to the core. But she wasn’t,” Harold continues. “She still isn’t. She’s good inside and out. I didn’t spare her because of her looks. It was because of her deeds.”

  I don’t know who or what to believe anymore. What I do know is that the storybooks lied.

  Chapter Ten

  KATIE AND NICOLE DON’T RESPOND to me on Sunday, either. I text asking what is wrong, but neither of them reply. I call, but they both let it go straight to voice mail. I get the impression I’ve done something really, really bad, but I have no idea what it is.

  Mom’s excited to hear I have a date though. Dad, on the other hand, wants to meet him and interrogate him before I’m allowed to go to the dance. Mom tells Dad to lighten up. She wants to take me to Très Cher to go dress shopping right away, but I put her off, even though the dance is less than a week away. I’m just not in the mood for more shopping and beautification.

  “At least find out what color flower he needs for his boutonniere,” Mom says. “We need to order it.”

  “Can’t we just get a flower from the corner store and stick a pin in it?” I ask.

  Mom gives Dad an Ivan, you deal with this look.

  “No, dear, you can’t. It would get flower stem residue all over his jacket,” Dad says.

  Silly me. How could I have ignored the dangers of flower stem residue?

  “Men have sartorial considerations too, you know,” Dad reminds me. “You ladies aren’t the only ones who have to cut a fine figure.”

  “Sar-what?”

  “We care about clothes and looking good too,” Dad explains.

  “Yeah, but it’s easier for you,” I complain. “You don’t have to wear makeup or heels, and no one gives you confusing advice like: Be charming and funny—but not too flirtatious or you might get a reputation you don’t want.”

  My parents stare at me.

  “Who gave you that advice?” Mom asks.

  “Um . . . I googled it,” I mumble.

  There’s silence. Mom’s face looks like she swallowed a lemon. Dad’s is slowly turning a darker shade than Mom’s Red as Blood nails.

  “What?” I ask.

  Dad explodes into guffaws, and Mom into helpless giggles.

  My parents are laughing at me. So hard, in fact, that Mom can barely stand up, and she has to cling to Dad’s arm for support.

  “She . . . googled . . . it!” Mom gasps, wiping tears from her eyes.

  “I don’t need Dear Old Dad! I’ve got The Google!” Dad says in a high voice that is supposedly me.

  I’ve had enough.

  “It’s GOOGLE, not THE Google,” I shout, stomping out of the kitchen to my room. I make sure to slam the door to my room extra hard so they hear it over their Laugh at RosieFest.

  If I make a pros and cons list of my life at the moment, it would look something like this:

  Pros

  An old family heirloom tells me I’m the Fairest in the Land.

  My Kookie Kindness Day lie made school a nicer place for a day and gave Damien Wolfe the courage to ask someone to the dance.

  I have a date for the Fall Festive.

  Cons

  I don’t like my date for the Fall Festive all that much.

  My parents are laughing at me because I googled dating advice.

  I’m being frozen out by my best friends, and I don’t know why.

  Mystery Shakespeare Boy thinks I’m a jerk.

  I’m starting to wonder if maybe I am one.

  I take out the Mirror and gaze at my reflection. What is the matter with me? Even if the Mirror is wrong, and I’m not the Fairest in the Land (there are 320 million people in the United States, so you have to admit that’s a pretty tall order), I’m not bad-looking.

  So why has everything in my life started going so spectacularly wrong?

  Mirror, what use is being fair

  If my besties do not care?

  And people think that I’m not nice.

  Is beauty just too great a price?

  The Mirror takes its time giving me an answer, and I get even more depressed, wondering if it has ditched me too. I’m considering throwing the stupid thing across the room when finally it speaks:

  Rosie Charming, Princess, Teen,

  The Fairest Girl I’ve ever seen,

  Ignore the haters, they just envy

 
’Cause the boys, they being friendly.

  Ugh. The Mirror is starting to sound like Dad when he’s trying to be cool and failing miserably.

  But I wonder if it’s right, and Katie and Nicole are jealous about the attention I’ve been getting since my appointment with Phillipe.

  I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.

  As I look out the bus window two blocks before the school stop, I see Katie walking alone, and I ring the buzzer so I can get off and walk with her. She’s half a block ahead of me by the time I push my way out of the rush hour crowd, so I have to run to catch up.

  “Hey, Katie!” I gasp.

  I might be the Fairest in the Land, but I need to get into better shape if I’m going to be chasing after friends while carrying a full book bag and wearing ballet flats. These shoes aren’t made for running.

  “Rosie.” Katie says my name with all the warmth of a polar vortex. “Hey.” She picks up her pace.

  “Katie, what’s wrong?” I ask, grasping her arm so she has to stop.

  “Seriously?” she asks, wrenching her arm away. “Like you don’t know?”

  “Seriously. If I knew, I wouldn’t have to ask.” I look into her eyes, hoping that she’ll see the sincerity in mine. “Please. Why are you so mad at me?”

  My friend stares at me as if still unable to believe I don’t know.

  “Well, first of all, you blew us off on Saturday.”

  Saturday? What is she talking about? I was at Hunter’s soccer match, freezing my butt off and scoring a date to the dance.

  Katie starts walking away.

  “You still don’t remember that we were supposed to go dress shopping, do you?”

  Her words hit me like a slap across the face—one that I deserve. I can’t believe I forgot. I am the worst friend ever.

  “Katie, I’m sorry. I’m a total idiot,” I call out. “Please, wait up.”

  She slows but doesn’t stop, and I hurry after her, trying to explain.

  “I’ve been so obsessed with trying to get a date for the Fall Festive that I spaced,” I grovel. “I feel awful. I’m so, sooooo sorry.”

  Katie stops finally, and I experience a second of hope.