Misspelled

Narrator: Meet Brandie Myers. She’ll tell you everything that’s wrong with her life. It’s tough being a teenager—the endless decisions and responsibilities, without any power. It’s so not fair. All Brandie wants is a little control over her own destiny. Bad idea, you think? She’s not listening.

The package arrived late Thursday afternoon, the return address blurred where the ink had gotten wet somewhere along the way. I ran down the stairs when I heard the doorbell ring, beating my little brother by only a second.

‘‘Hi,’’ I said, a little breathless as I answered the door. I only had the door open about halfway, and Elliot tried to get past me by ducking under my outstretched arm. I let go of the door to shove his head back and then grabbed it again before it swung wide. The UPS guy snickered. I rolled my eyes. I’d bet good money he was somebody’s little brother.

‘‘I have a package for Brandie Myers,’’ he said, holding out his electronic signature pad.

‘‘That’s me,’’ I said, and gave up the struggle to keep boy and door under control in favor of signing the pad.

‘‘Thanks,’’ I said, as I handed the pad back and reached for the package. Elliott grabbed it first and ran back into the house.

The deliveryman shrugged, lips twitching. Boys, I thought, shutting the door in his face to go after the brat.

Fifteen minutes and two dollars in ice-cream truck money later, I shut myself in my bedroom with my prize. The room didn’t look like it belonged to a seventeen-year-old girl, at least not like it belonged to the other seventeen-year-olds I knew. I thought of the differences as my own good taste. There were no posters or knickknacks, just books upon books covering every available surface. The only clear spot in the room was the four-poster double bed, and half of that was piled high with clean laundry I had yet to put away.

I locked the bedroom door and climbed over piles to sit on the bed, ripping at the package as I went.

The box was about a square foot across and three inches deep. Inside there was an envelope, a booklet, and a candle. I couldn’t help grinning as I flipped open the booklet.

Congratulations on your purchase of a New and Improved Fairy Tale Life! Yours for only $19.99, this deluxe package includes this complete instructional booklet, the spell of your dreams, and our patented spell-delivery system capable of making your wildest fantasies come true!

I put down the booklet and picked up the envelope. Inside was a computer-generated bubble form, like the ones we always had to fill out at school. I scanned the questions for a second, then put it down and navigated my way to the window to grab a number two pencil from my book-buried desk. I grabbed a book at random to write against and returned to my seat on the bed.

The first couple of questions were pretty obvious: name and address, shoe and ball-gown sizes; then it was a series of yes or no questions. Is your mother alive? Do you have any stepparents?

WARNING: If you have a living mother or step-parent, please call our Customer Service Department at 1-800-HRAFTER before casting spell.

My mother died when I was ten, Elliott’s current age, come to think of it, and Dad had yet to remarry, so I skipped past the rest of the warnings and went down to the next section.

SELECT the fairy tale you would most like to experience.

I chewed on my pencil, scanning the choices, then filled in the circles next to ‘‘Cinderella’’ and ‘‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.’’ I had seen the Disney cartoons of both when I was little and had a vague memory of singing and handsome princes. Plus, both the villains had been stepmothers and I didn’t have any steps, so there was no downside.

I flipped through the booklet to the section on the ‘‘patented spell-delivery system.’’ I read the instructions doubtfully, wondering for the first time if maybe I was being scammed.

Too late now if I was. I’d already paid for it, anyway, so I might as well finish. I was pretty sure there were no refunds on mail-order spells.

I opened the bedroom door carefully, looking from side to side in case Elliott was waiting to ambush me— he liked to hide behind doors and jump out screaming bloody murder—but the coast was clear. He wasn’t back from the ice-cream truck yet. I took the form and the candle with me across the hall into my bathroom, then lit the candle over the sink and held the form over the flame. The paper combusted, but it didn’t smoke. It was gone in a flash.

I waited for a couple of minutes, but that was it.

‘‘That was anticlimactic,’’ I said. I didn’t even feel any different. I put the lid down on the toilet and sat down, hugging my knees to my chest. It had been a stupid idea anyway.

There was a knock on the bathroom door. I leaned over and unlocked it to let Elliott in, then returned to my seat.

‘‘So what was in the package?’’ he asked, smears of chocolate darkening the sides of his mouth.

‘‘Come here,’’ I said, and dampened a wash cloth in the sink to wipe off his face. ‘‘It was a stupid mail-order thing I saw on TV. Just a scam, though. It didn’t work.’’

‘‘You were sure excited about it.’’

‘‘Yeah, well, I’m not anymore.’’

‘‘What was it supposed to do?’’ he asked.

‘‘Don’t laugh,’’ I said.

He sat down on the side of the tub and looked at me with solemn brown eyes. ‘‘I won’t,’’ he said.

He was pretty cool when he wasn’t being a brat, so I told him.

‘‘It was supposed to give me a fairy tale life.’’

‘‘Why’d you want one of those? Do you want dresses or something?’’

‘‘Not really,’’ I said. ‘‘I thought it’d be nice to have the decisions all premade, and happily ever after guaranteed.’’

Elliott nodded, not understanding, but supportive nonetheless. ‘‘Brandie?’’ he said.

‘‘Yes?’’

‘‘Why do you think it didn’t work?’’

‘‘Because I’m still not sure which college I want to go to or if I want to say yes and go with Peter to the prom.’’

‘‘Peter’s a doofus.’’

‘‘What’s for dinner?’’

So much for fairy tales. I held out my hand, and Elliott pulled me up.

‘‘Let’s go see.’’

I pulled my car in the driveway the next afternoon a full hour before Elliott’s bus was due to arrive. There was a moving van parked in the street in front of our house.

‘‘Aunt Mags?’’ I called, as my dad’s sister strode past carrying a box into the house. She turned her platinum blonde head and glowered at the car.

‘‘About time you got home,’’ Mags said. ‘‘Don’t just sit there, get out of the car and help me.’’

‘‘What are you doing here?’’ I asked, scrambling out of the car and hurrying over to give her a hand.

‘‘What does it look like? We’re moving in.’’

‘‘We?’’

‘‘Us, too.’’ Daphne and Dru, Mags’ daughters, met us in the foyer.

‘‘Mom,’’ said Dru, ‘‘now that Brandie’s here, can we go to the movies?’’

‘‘Sure, dears. Brandie, don’t just stand there, go get a box out of the van and bring it in.’’

‘‘What do you mean you’re moving in?’’ I asked, still stuck on what seemed to be a very important point.

‘‘Your father needs help taking care of Elliott, and with you going off to college soon, he asked the girls and me to move in and lend a hand.’’

‘‘He didn’t say anything to me.’’

‘‘Well, he called me last night,’’ Mags said. ‘‘I’m sure he was planning to tell you eventually.’’

‘‘Last night?’’ I asked, bewildered. Dad hadn’t even gotten home until after Elliott was in bed.

‘‘Boxes, Brandie. Work while you whine, please.’’

An engine started as I walked back out to the moving van. It took me a moment to realize that Daphne and Dru were pulling out in my car.

‘‘Hey!’’ I shouted, but the girls waved and kept moving. I patted my pockets in alarm and realized I’d left the keys in the ignition.

‘‘Aunt Mags,’’ I said, running back into the house. Mags was in the kitchen mixing herself a rum and Coke. ‘‘Daphne and Dru just took off in my car!’’

Mags took a seat at the kitchen table and settled in with her drink and a magazine. ‘‘Well, it’s not like you could use it right now anyway,’’ she said reasonably. ‘‘You have to finish unloading the truck.’’

I stared at her.

‘‘Get a move on,’’ Mags said. ‘‘We wouldn’t want your father to come home and find out you’ve been shirking your responsibilities, now, would we?’’

Somehow I found myself nodding and doing as she said.

It took the full hour, but I had the remaining boxes unloaded and stacked in the living room and guest room before Elliott got home. When I heard the bus pull up, I ran outside and met the crowd of kids at the corner.

‘‘Elliott, can I talk to you?’’ I said, as the school of children parted and flowed past me like fish around a rock in a stream.

My brother stopped in front of me. His brown hair was sticking up in every direction, and his T-shirt read, ‘‘You make me throw up a little.’’ Maybe he could use a better chaperone, but Aunt Mags wasn’t it.

‘‘What’s up?’’ he said.

I looked over my shoulder at the house, then started walking in the other direction, motioning Elliott to follow. ‘‘We have a problem,’’ I said.

‘‘Yeah?’’ He stopped and turned to look back. ‘‘What’s that moving van doing there?’’

‘‘Keep moving,’’ I hissed. ‘‘It’s Aunt Mags. She’s moving in.’’

‘‘Why?’’ he said, investing the single syllable with all the horror a ten-year-old could muster. That was a lot.

‘‘Dad called her and said he needed help with you after I go away to college.’’ We cut through the Henderson’s yard to get to the public park and headed for the swing set. I used to take Elliott here after school back when Dad first said I could be the babysitter.

‘‘Are you going away?’’ Elliott asked. ‘‘I thought you hadn’t decided.’’

‘‘I haven’t,’’ I said, ‘‘but apparently Dad isn’t waiting.’’

‘‘Did you call him?’’

‘‘Not yet. I haven’t had time.’’

‘‘Do you have your cell?’’

‘‘Yeah.’’

‘‘Well, call him then.’’ We sat on swings next to each other, and I took out my cell phone and dialed. Elliott twisted around in his seat until the chains were wound tight and then let go, circling in the air as the chains unwound.

‘‘Hey Lanie, it’s Brandie. Is my dad in? Could I talk to him, please? It’s kind of important.’’ I waited while my dad’s secretary tracked him down. ‘‘Elliott, you’re going to make yourself dizzy.’’

Elliott grinned and started twisting again.

I shrugged.

‘‘Dad?’’ I said. ‘‘Hey, um, did you call Aunt Mags last night? Yeah? Okay, well did you know she’s moving in?

‘‘When were you going to tell me?’’

Elliott stopped spinning and listened to my side of the conversation with interest.

‘‘But Elliott doesn’t even like her. She made him eat brussels sprouts last Christmas.’’

He made a face. I made one back until something Dad said made me start.

‘‘Lisa?’’ I said. ‘‘Who’s Lisa?’’

I hung up a few moments later and stared at the phone.

‘‘Well?’’ Elliott prompted.

My shocked gaze went from the phone to my brother. ‘‘Lisa’s moving in, too,’’ I said.

‘‘Who’s Lisa?’’

‘‘Dad’s new fiancée.’’

‘‘Are you serious?’’

I nodded, numb. ‘‘There’s more.’’

‘‘What?’’ Elliott said.

‘‘She’s moving in tonight.’’

‘‘Holy—’’

‘‘Elliott!’’

‘‘I wasn’t gonna say nothing bad.’’ We swayed on the swings for a moment in perfect unison.

‘‘Brandie?’’

‘‘Yes?’’

‘‘Is Lisa going to be our stepmother?’’

I stopped swinging; Elliott put his feet down and skidded to a stop next to me.

‘‘Elliott?’’ I said.

‘‘What?’’

‘‘I think I know what’s going on.’’ I stood up. "C’mon, we’ve got to go home."

Elliott got up and went to stand next to me. I started forward and stopped again when I felt his hand on my arm. I turned.

‘‘I am not eating brussels sprouts,’’ Elliott warned.

I nodded. ‘‘Neither am I,’’ I said, meeting his seriousness with my own. I didn’t know anybody who liked brussels sprouts, no matter how old they were. ‘‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’’

We went back together.

‘‘Here it is,’’ I said, digging out the spell booklet from under the remaining pile of laundry. ‘‘Okay, there’s a number here that you can call if you have any questions—’’ I scanned the table of contents and flipped through the pages until I found it. ‘‘Hand me my cell phone.’’

Elliott tossed me my cell and went back to listening at the door. We had snuck in past Aunt Mags during the confusion caused by the arrival of a brunette woman with a piercing voice and her own set of boxes—a woman who could only be Lisa. The two women were currently downstairs arguing loudly enough to be overheard even with the door shut about the arrival of a giant mirror Lisa claimed had been her mother’s.

I had a bad feeling about all of this.

I dialed the number and got an automated system. I pressed one for customer service, two for fairy tale life, two again for mail-order center, and three to report a product malfunction. The hold music was kind of nice, a sort of eighties pop blend. I recognized George Michael.

Downstairs, the yelling stopped. Elliott and I held our breath for a second. Then it started again, louder than ever.

I gave Elliott a thumbs-up, and went back to tapping my foot to the hold music.

‘‘This is your friendly Fairy Tale Life Customer Service Representative! My name is ANNIE! How may I assist you today?!’’

My god, she spoke in permanent cheerleader.

‘‘Hi, Annie,’’ I said, keeping my voice as quiet as I could without whispering. ‘‘I think my spell malfunctioned. I’ve got some weird stuff happening.’’

‘‘Don’t you worry, because I WILL help you! What’s the problem?!’’

‘‘My aunt just moved in with her two daughters, and they’re acting really strange—’’

‘‘No problem!’’

‘‘Wait,’’ I said, ‘‘there’s more.’’

The silence had an exclamation point.

‘‘My dad just got engaged to a woman we’ve never even heard of, and she’s moving in, too.’’

Annie waited!

‘‘That’s it,’’ I said. ‘‘Did you guys send me a broken spell or something?’’

‘‘Our merchandise is one hundred percent effective! We guarantee a FAIRY TALE LIFE!’’

‘‘What kind of fairy tale is this?’’

‘‘Why don’t you tell me first exactly what you did when you got the spell?!’’

‘‘I filled in the little bubbles on the form and I burned it over the candle. Nothing happened at first, then all the adults went twilight zone.’’

‘‘And which fairy tale did you select for your life?!’’

‘‘Cinderella,’’ I said.

‘‘Cinderella!’’

‘‘And then Snow White for second choice.’’

‘‘SECOND choice?!’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ I said. ‘‘Second CHOICE!’’

Elliott made frantic hush motions and I waved at him to show I understood.

‘‘So what’s gone wrong?’’ I said. ‘‘How do I make everything normal again?’’

‘‘You didn’t read the instruction booklet, did you?!’’ She was scolding me in cheerleader.

‘‘I skimmed,’’ I said, annoyed.

‘‘If you had read the instruction booklet, you would have realized that you are required to choose ONE fairy tale, and one alone for the spell to work properly! I’m afraid you’ve got a PROBLEM!’’

‘‘I KNOW I have a problem,’’ I said, ignoring Elliot’s wildly waving arms. ‘‘How do I FIX the problem?’’

‘‘I’m afraid this is one we can’t fix over the phone, we’re going to have to send a Mobile Customer Service Representative!’’

I gritted my teeth. ‘‘When can they get here?’’ I asked.

‘‘I should be able to send someone out tomorrow afternoon!’’ Annie said.

‘‘Nothing sooner?’’ I asked.

‘‘That’s the earliest I can do, but don’t worry! We’ll be sending DAVE!’’

I gave her the address and hung up. Elliott turned.

‘‘You suck at being sneaky,’’ he said.

‘‘Shut up,’’ I said halfheartedly.

‘‘So?’’ he asked.

‘‘They’ll be sending DAVE!’’ I said. ‘‘But not until tomorrow afternoon.’’

We both became aware of silence downstairs.

‘‘That did it,’’ Elliott said, pressing his ear back to the door. The stairs creaked as someone climbed them. The brat looked to me for rescue.

It was my fault.

‘‘Get in the closet,’’ I said. ‘‘I’ll tell them you’re spending the night with Jay and sneak you something to eat as soon as I can.’’

He nodded and scrambled into the closet. ‘‘Good luck,’’ he said, and then hid.

The bedroom door opened just as the closet door closed. The overhead light sputtered and died, and Mags loomed, backlit by the hallway. Her eyes glittered menacingly.

‘‘It’s time for dinner,’’ she said, and stood to the side so that I had to squeeze past her to get out the door.

Sure enough, dinner was brussels sprouts.

I did the dishes after dinner, then helped Lisa unpack her boxes in my dad’s room. He wasn’t home, yet, as usual, so Mags and Lisa had divided me out between them.

I managed to sneak Elliott some saltine crackers and a jar of peanut butter and tell him where my cola stash was, but that was the last moment I had to myself until well after dark.

Lisa seemed okay at first—weird, but okay. She had dark brown hair the color of chocolate and big blue eyes, and I could totally see why my dad was into her, looks-wise at least. She did sit-ups next to the bed and watched me work for a while, but she didn’t try and make conversation beyond directing where things went.

Then she got chatty.

‘‘You have a great figure, Sandy. Do you work out?’’

‘‘Brandie,’’ I said.

‘‘What?’’

‘‘My name is Brandie.’’

‘‘That’s nice. So do you?’’

‘‘Do I what?’’

‘‘Do you work out?’’

Lisa was maybe a size two. Half the clothes I’d unpacked so far had been spandex.

‘‘I take gym at school,’’ I said, halfheartedly trying to bond. I was pretty sure she’d go away when the spell did, but my dad wouldn’t have been the first guy to have a midlife crisis, and Lisa sure looked like one.

‘‘I always work out at least two hours a day,’’ Lisa said disapprovingly. ‘‘You should, too, you know. Don’t worry, it’s never too late to start.’’

Scratch bonding. I longed for the arrival of Dave.

Sure enough, Lisa woke me up at 5 a.m. to do aerobics with her in front of the ridiculously huge mirror she’d inherited from her mother. She’d set it up in the basement in what had been the TV room, along with a full set of weights and an exercise mat. The couch had been moved against the wall so we had more room to move.

Elliott came down at seven and found me with my head in my sweat-soaked hands at the kitchen table. He had slept in his own bed, having snuck back into his own room the night before while I’d been at dinner.

‘‘Is the coast clear?’’ he whispered.

I nodded without looking up. Mags had left strict instructions not to be awakened before noon, and Lisa had gone to yoga.

‘‘Are you okay?’’

‘‘No,’’ I said. ‘‘That Lisa is crazy.’’

‘‘What do you mean?’’

I tried to raise my head. Too much effort. I settled on turning my head to the side and letting it loll. ‘‘She’s a loon, a wacko, a certifiable nut job who’s had some sort of mutation reaction from too many Slim-Fast bars and too much spandex.’’

Elliott poured himself a bowl of cereal and some milk. I swung my arm around and fished a spoon out of the silverware drawer to hand to him.

‘‘What’d she do to you?’’ he said, munching.

‘‘What didn’t she do?’’ I said. ‘‘Jumping jacks and running in place and push-ups and sit-ups and these weird dance moves that supposedly worked muscles I didn’t know we had. And the longer we were at it, the more competitive she got. I started hyperventilating at one point and she laughed. I swear to god. And what’s weird is I think the mirror was laughing too.’’

Elliott nodded sagely. ‘‘She’s a bad guy, all right.’’

‘‘Gee, you think?’’

There was silence but for the clink of Elliott’s spoon against the bowl.

‘‘Hey Brandie,’’ Elliott said after a while.

I opened a single eye. ‘‘Yeah?’’ He was looking over my head at something.

‘‘Have you looked out the window this morning?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Maybe you should.’’

I dragged myself over to the window.

Mrs. Amueller, my ninth grade English teacher, was on the front lawn facing off against seven of the younger neighborhood kids. It looked like there was going to be a rumble.

I’d Googled fairy tales last night before bed and had a better handle on my plots now.

‘‘I’m guessing what we have here is a standoff between my fairy godmother and the seven dwarves,’’ I said. I went back to the table and put my head down again.

‘‘Just tell them to keep Lisa away from me,’’ I said, and fell asleep.

It was Saturday, so we didn’t have school. Elliott set up a lemonade stand in the front yard and called some of his school friends to come over and watch the show.

I spent the morning and early afternoon locked in my room trying to read, but I couldn’t concentrate. Around two, I unlocked the door and tried to open it, but it was barred from the other side. Unbelievable. I pushed the screen out of the window and climbed down the drainpipe instead.

‘‘Brandie,’’ Elliott called, and motioned me over to the little seating area he’d set up in the bushes. His buddies grunted admiring hellos, and I figured he must have told them I was responsible for the mayhem they’d come to see.

I figured DAVE should be getting here soon, and I could do worse than hang with the rugrats until he showed. Elliott offered me some lemonade free of charge.

I sipped and studied the playing field. Three of the kids lay in a stunned puppy pile over by the sidewalk, early victims. The remaining four had put up a patio furniture barricade and were defending their position with water pistols, spitballs, and slingshots.

Mrs. Amueller had always hated spitballs.

‘‘So these guys are all supposed to sweep in and make your life better?’’ Elliott asked a little skeptically.

‘‘Theoretically,’’ I said, as Mrs. Amueller took out yet another rugrat with a well-aimed shoe. She had a sort of boomerang-throw thing going that I attributed to magic run amuck. Shoes had a habit of taking on undue significance in fairy tales.

The remaining three kids didn’t stand a chance. I hoped that didn’t mean I was going to the prom next week in a pumpkin coach, although I was more in favor of that than of taking on seven more kids as full-time babysitting charges. Somehow I didn’t see cooking and cleaning for seven short males as the pleasure cruise it was made out to be; one was hard enough.

A green Volkswagen Beetle pulled up and parked on the street. Now that’s a car, I thought.

A tall, thin guy in Dockers and a button-down shirt got out of the car and walked our way. I hoped this was our repair guy, excuse, me, I meant Mobile Customer Service Representative.

‘‘Hi,’’ I said when he got close enough. ‘‘Look out!’’

He picked a spitball out of his hair with aplomb. ‘‘Hi!’’ he said, and I winced. Then, ‘‘I’m Dave,’’ completely exclamation free.

‘‘Thank God,’’ I said. ‘‘Can you fix this?’’

He surveyed the carnage in my front yard. ‘‘This isn’t what you had in mind?’’ he asked, deadpan.

‘‘Not so much,’’ I said.

A spandex-clad Lisa came to the front door with a basket of apples, and waved one in my general direction. ‘‘Natural fruit sugars!’’ she called. ‘‘They’ll help cleanse you!’’

I looked at Dave. ‘‘Help me,’’ I said.

It was simple enough after that. There was another bubble form to fill out, another patented spell-delivery system to light, and then a couple of forms to sign.

‘‘They’ll all wander home pretty soon,’’ Dave said, indicating the thoroughly confused teacher and children now looking around themselves in confusion. One of the kids kept shooting spitballs even without the spell driving him. I squinted. That was Billy Pendergast. He always had been a pain in the butt.

‘‘I’m sorry to say I can’t offer you a refund,’’ Dave continued as I handed him back his pen. He capped it and returned it to his shirt pocket. ‘‘But I can offer you an exchange. Any spell in our catalog.’’

I considered it. Lisa had disappeared from the doorway. I figured she was looking around at our horrible carb-filled house and packing her bags. Dave walked with me back toward the house. ‘‘Just to be sure,’’ he said.

Mags appeared in the doorway, and called me over. I left Dave with Elliott. ‘‘I feel terrible about this, hon, but I don’t know what I was thinking bringing the girls over here and promising we’d stay. I can’t possibly move them into this neighborhood. It’s a war zone. Do you think your dad will be horribly upset?’’

I grinned. ‘‘You know this is probably for the best,’’ I said. ‘‘I think I’m going to stay local for school, anyway.’’ And there the decision was, made without my even having realized it. I’d miss Elliott if I left anyway. I couldn’t abandon him to brussels sprouts.

She hemmed and hawed a little bit, but she was as eager to be gone as I was to have her leave. She turned to go back into the house and get their things. Lisa almost ran her down.

‘‘I’ll send movers for the rest!’’ Lisa called in passing, and threw her bag in the front seat of a taxi I hadn’t noticed pull up. It pulled away with tires squealing.

Mags and I shared a wry look. She wasn’t so bad when she wasn’t bewitched. Dru and Daphne were, but Mags wasn’t.

‘‘Your young man is waiting,’’ she said, and nodded back to where Dave stood with Elliott and his sticky-fingered pals.

‘‘Oh, he’s not—’’ I said, turning back to face her, but the door was already closing.

I shrugged and walked over to Dave. He was young enough, I supposed, maybe twenty? If one ignored the unfortunate bowl haircut, he was even borderline cute.

‘‘So, thanks,’’ I said. ‘‘I think everything’s going to be o—’’

‘‘Brandie, guess what?’’ Elliot interrupted.

‘‘What?’’ I said absently.

‘‘Dave plays the banjo.’’

‘‘Yeah?’’

Dave blushed. Scratch borderline. He was cute.

‘‘Yeah. And he does this puppet show, and he’s doing it tonight at the library.’’

‘‘Really?’’ I said, fascinated. I’d never met a banjo-playing puppeteer before. Dave was turning out to be way more interesting than high-school boys.

‘‘So can we go?’’

‘‘Do you mind?’’ I asked Dave.

He shrugged. ‘‘No, of course not. I mean, it’d be nice. If you want to—’’

‘‘I do want to,’’ I said.

‘‘I’ll get the keys,’’ Elliott said happily, and ran into the house.

‘‘Cool kid,’’ Dave said. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants.

I smiled. Who would have thought?

Even a misspelled fairy tale ends with Prince Charming.

Narrator: And they all lived happily ever after. (I’ve always wanted to say that.)

SHANNAN PALMA is a writer, filmmaker, and academic. She was involved creatively in the production of over forty short films before deciding to move toward a more eclectic career integrating all three of her passions. Since eclectic careers take time to establish, over the years she has racked up a number of odd jobs in her ongoing quest to Pay the Rent—including flower seller, secretary, kitty litter cleaner, shoe seller, make-up artist, and court-reporting instructor. She currently lives in Atlanta, Georgia, and is working on her Ph.D. in women’s studies. She has previously published nonfiction and poetry.