The Fairest Kind of Love Read online

  Curses! I knew having friends would get me into trouble in the long run. I dig deep to keep calm in the presence of a child. “He’s eighteen, though. Can’t he take care of himself?”

  “I just want to know he’s all right, that’s all,” she sobs. “Please? For me?”

  I sigh. Saying no to Jane would be like smothering a baby kitten, and I don’t need “cat killer” added to my long list of transgressions. “Fine! Fine. I’ll see what I can do. But I can’t make any promises.”

  She wraps her tiny arms around me, squeezing tight. “Thank you, Amber!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I grumble just as her parents call for her somewhere in the distance. She waves me away, and I run toward the exit, twinkling lights pointing the way. Rose catches up with me, grabbing my shoulder from behind.

  “Hey, are you okay?” she asks, wiping sweat from her brow. From the way she’s breathing heavily, I’m guessing she didn’t have luck chasing down Peter.

  “Yeah, um, sorry for ruining the party. Wish I could say it was my first time.”

  Half her mouth curls in a smile. “Well, fairies are pretty good at ruining good things anyway.”

  “Did you find Peter?”

  “I caught up to him, but he told me to buzz off.” She sighs. “Whatever. Jane’s my priority, not a pouty man-baby.” A flock of panicked fairies fly by. It’s really time to go. “Keep in touch, okay?”

  “I will,” I promise, resuming my exit. But just as I’m about to bid fairyland good-bye forever, another barrel of dust catches my eye, its gleaming treasure stopping me in my tracks. So much power shimmers below, taunting me with its life-changing abilities. So close and yet out of my reach, the threat of consequence keeping me from making a wish. I wanted so much more out of this trip, to walk away whole and free from magical dilemmas. But I’m leaving right where I started, with no answers and nothing to offer.

  Offer . . .

  Out of wishes and out of time, I decide to make what I’m sure will be an Amber Sand Top Five Worst Choice Ever and take some dust to offer to Roscoe in exchange for his services. Fairy dust has to be a good payment, right? It’s not a dragon egg, but he could use it to wish for one! Or for anything his gross little heart desires. While I didn’t think it would come to this, he really and truly is my last resort.

  After tossing out the treats, I carefully scoop up a one-wish portion of fairy dust with the little cookie box I’d tucked in my pocket, making sure not to physically touch the granules with my skin. It’s harder than it looks, but once I have a decent amount (I’m not actually sure how much it takes to make a wish come true, but based on the handful Peter used for Ivy, this looks about right), I shake off the excess, securing the top before tucking the glowing container back in my dress. Will I give this to him? I’m not 100 percent sure. But I’d rather have the option.

  Everyone’s ready and waiting in Amani’s minivan, with Charlie in the driver’s seat. I slide into the passenger seat, sparkly contraband at my side. No one says a word until the giant sequoia gate slams behind us. We careen onto the highway, staring off into the miles and miles of dark farmland stretching on every side, looking even more eerie after days of rainbow bright.

  Amani and Ivy lie in the back seat, exhausted. “That was nice of you to step in and speak up like that,” my best friend says to me.

  “Well, I thought maybe it’d be easier if it came from me.” The wreckage of the scene plays violently in my head. “Guess not, though!”

  “You really know how to kill a party, babe,” Charlie teases from the driver’s seat. “That may have been your biggest matchmaking disaster yet.”

  “Hmm. Top five at least.” I flip my barely shoulder-length hair in an act of pride. “I don’t like to brag, but I am Queen of Catastrophes.”

  “Well done, Your Highness,” my boyfriend says with a laugh.

  “I thought it was amazing,” Ivy pipes up, unable to dim her megawatt smile. “I mean, I’ve always thought matchmaking was complete and utter garbage, but man . . . the spectacle! The drama! I loved it.”

  “Probably didn’t hurt that you were at the center of it all,” I say.

  “Obvs, that was the best part. Everything’s coming up Ivy!” We stifle a collective groan. While I’m happy she’s psyched about her match, leave it to Ivy to find the joy in a total train wreck of an evening. “But, like, how does this work now? Peter is my match—which I’m definitely into, BTW—but how do we make it happen? What’s the next step? Does the happily-ever-after just kind of start automatically, or . . . ?”

  I snort at her cluelessness. Of course Ivy has no idea how to engage in a relationship; almost everyone she’s ever hung with (present company excluded) has been forced into friendship by her sireny will. “That’s all you. Jane and I just see the ending, not the journey. You’ll have to get there on your own.”

  She thinks on this for a minute. “It shouldn’t be a problem, right? I mean, he could barely keep his hands off me back there . . . see?” She wiggles around in her seat, showing off Peter’s golden fingerprints all over her body.

  “Barf,” Amani says.

  “Double barf,” I repeat, burying my face in my hands.

  “What’s the problem?” Ivy asks. “You had no issue being all up in our love life back at the farm.”

  “Hey, I have an idea,” Charlie begins. “Let’s play the quiet game. Give everyone’s hearts a chance to return to their regular rhythm?” He turns the radio to a jazz station, and seemingly seconds later, the back-seat passengers fall asleep, an unlikely pair snuggled and slumped against each other. With one hand, I lightly touch the box of dust in my pocket, hoping the shimmer within won’t glow through my garment. With the other, I take Charlie’s hand, piano riffs mixing in the dark, as headlights guide the way, and try not to worry about Jane and Peter.

  Sweet home Chicago, here we come.

  IT’S PAST MIDNIGHT WHEN we finally roll up to my apartment building. “Exhausted” doesn’t even begin to reach the depths of our collective fatigue. I feel like a three-ton sack of potatoes getting out of the car. With dead legs, I’m dragging myself to my door when Charlie calls out, “Hey!” from the passenger-side window.

  “What?” I laugh deliriously.

  “Can I see you later?”

  “It’s like one a.m.; it is later.”

  “I mean for dinner.”

  With everything that just happened, I can barely think past taking off this dumb dress and snuggling into my sweatpants, but I appreciate where his head’s at. “I kind of need to decompress for a bit? But after that, sure.”

  He blows me a kiss. “Okay, love you.”

  Once I survive the three-story stair trek, I open my apartment door just a crack, reaching to disengage the witchy alarm system my mom devised: a bell that detects magical DNA. I rub the brass fixture, located to the left of the doorframe, letting it sense me. Ever since Mom’s evil witch-nemesis, Victoria, tried to storm the castle, Mom figures we can’t be too careful.

  It’s so dark, I wish I could snap my fingers to make candles flicker like all the cool witch kids can, but instead I stumble over a stray shoe and go crashing into the hardwood. Seconds later, Mom flies out of her bedroom, sleep-mangled braid trailing behind, broomstick wielded like a baseball bat. She’s wearing her “Resting Witch Face” pajamas I bought her last Christmas.

  “Amber?” she cries, shaking away dream remnants. “What in the world?”

  I pick myself up off the floor. “A broomstick? Really, Mom? Can you be more of a cliché?”

  She looks at her weapon as if she’s seeing it for the first time, then sets it aside, drowsy eyes examining me. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

  I strategically place a hand over my right dress pocket, hoping to hide the bulge of stolen fairy dust. “Well, I’m on the no-fly list in fairyland now, so I needed to make a quick exit,” I explain.

  Mom’s expression hardens. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “I’ll give
you the scoop, but can I get some jammies on first? This is the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever worn.”

  “Yes. I’ll go start some sleepytime tea.”

  “Blech!” I scowl as Mom’s slippers scurry off to the kitchen. Quietly locking my bedroom door behind me, I pull out my contraband, a slight golden halo emanating from the cardboard packaging. Now, where can I put this without Mom accidentally discovering how I completely went against her rule? Under the bed seems too obvious. . . . My closet is pure chaos. My desk has gone virtually unused since school let out, so I pull open the bottom drawer, burying the world’s most powerful magic under unused notebooks and knickknacks. The perfect crime! I slip on some sweatpants and a hoodie (good-bye forever, strapless peasant dresses!) and get ready to raid the fridge.

  Mom’s messing with the teakettle as I pull out my secret stash of dark chocolate peanut butter cups from the back of the pantry. After all that crunchy granola fare, I enter a state of euphoria as the candy crosses my lips. All hail processed sugar!

  “I don’t know why you made a whole pot,” I say once I’ve downed a few treats. “I’m not drinking that tea.”

  “Well, I need it. You scared me half to death.” Mom yawns. She pulls out her hair band and starts shaking out her braid, long gray waves framing her tired face. “A text would’ve been nice.”

  “As if you would’ve heard it! You’re one foot in the grave when you’re asleep. Besides, my phone died. It doesn’t run on fairy dust.”

  Over a steaming mug, Mom asks me all about our adventure, frowning as I describe the Wisterias’ weirdness toward magic. She props her cheek in her palm, head (and heart) heavy.

  “Their feelings toward magic are not without merit,” she observes sleepily. “Fairies have had to endure misconduct for centuries. Magical creatures used to enslave them, forcing them to harvest fairy dust for their own devious spells. Witches, warlocks, and even more peaceful creatures have gone over the edge after getting a taste while fairies have been forced to watch from the sidelines, witnessing self-destruction and perilous paths caused by their own dust. Even today, fairies hide their wings to avoid danger, to keep themselves from getting pulled into supernatural traps.”

  I nod, thinking of Rose trying to stay on the DL while out in public.

  Mom continues, sipping her tea. “It’s certainly true that fairies have had it rough, though they’re not alone. Every magical bloodline has had to endure some sort of persecution or unethical behavior over the generations.”

  “Totally! I mean, hello? Salem, anyone?” I ask.

  She doesn’t smile, clearly too tired for my wit. “Witches have been tortured, feared, and misunderstood, not to mention how even the word ‘witch’ is synonymous with ‘evil.’ So I sympathize with what the fairies have been through, and understand where their strict views on magic use are coming from. I don’t like to judge other parents, though I worry their overbearing rules will lead to their children making rash decisions.”

  My thoughts go to Peter, disappearing into the canopy the second he used magic without approval. Where is he now? And how I am supposed to find him?

  “Yeah. I told Jane I’d look after her brother, though I’m not super sure how to achieve that.”

  This does make her grin. “I’m proud of you, you know?”

  I almost choke on my chocolate. Mom is not one to dole out praise, especially before dawn. “What?”

  “Unless you’re exaggerating, it sounds like you really stood up for both Jane and what you believe in.” She chuckles to herself. “Your professors are going to love you next year.”

  “They’ll definitely love my baking. . . . Jury’s out on what they’ll think of me.”

  “Jane needs a friend like you, someone to look up to.”

  “Her fairylike height means she pretty much has to look up to me,” I quip.

  Mom rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah.” I squirm. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the compliment, but praise is so rare, I never know what to do with it. Flattery makes my insides all twisty. When you’re accustomed to insults and ridicule, good sentiments need to break through a thick outer layer of protection before they can land. Still, her words make me feel nice, in the most awkward way possible. I’ve never been someone’s role model. How does one fill those shoes?

  Mom gets up, kisses me on the top of my head, and pads back to her bedroom, leaving me in my now-wired state. When you’ve consumed a week’s worth of sugar in a few minutes’ time, that manic energy needs an outlet.

  BY DAWN, I’VE WHIPPED up cinnamon-sugar pancakes, nutella beignets, and vanilla peach scones, all of which I’ve laid out on the kitchen table like I’m the proprietor of the world’s most dreamy bed-and-breakfast. And honestly, that imaginary life sounds pretty amazing: I love bed, and breakfast is the birthplace of such gifts as donuts, waffles, and coffee, so what’s not to love? I’m already planning to take some business classes so I can find the best possible way to release my culinary gifts into the wild. While I’ve always envisioned owning a bakery like MarshmElla’s, maybe a decadent B&B would be the way to go. Or a food truck, spreading smiles and sugar across the land. Or maybe I’ll steal Jane’s idea and become an Internet personality with my own cooking show. Only the Fates know for sure.

  I’m pouring my third cup of French press when Mom the Zombie stumbles into the kitchen, still wearing her jammies, sleepiness lingering in her lashes.

  “Good morning, starshine!” I sing in the too-chipper tone of a madwoman who stayed up all night baking. “Coffee? Beignet?”

  She wipes some sleep from her eyes, yawning. “Yes, please.”

  I guide her to my bountiful table like the gracious chef I am. “There’s syrup, honey, jam, powdered sugar—everything.” Mom wraps her hands around a freshly poured mug, taking it all in. “C’mon, now, someday people will be paying for all this splendor, and you’re getting it for free!”

  Mom bites into a pastry, lips instantly spreading into a smile. “Oh, wow,” she garbles through vanilla glaze. “That’s amazing.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” I actually bow, which is ridiculous. Someone needs to shoot me with an elephant tranquilizer. “The secret is to use vanilla bean shavings in addition to extract.”

  “You were shaving vanilla beans before sunrise?”

  “Yeah, well, some people go for runs before five a.m. That’s truly crazy.”

  She laughs. “Agreed.” We load up some plates (not that I need any more sugar) and plop down to eat. A thought makes her pause before grabbing another scone. “Oh, you got a letter from the Culinary Institute,” she continues through a mouthful of pancake.

  “What? Where?” She nods toward the living room, where we usually drop our mail after walking through the door. I dash across the apartment, fueled by caffeine and delirium, returning with the envelope in no time flat. If my gym teachers could see me now! I’m going to crash so hard later, it’s going to be tragic.

  The letter doesn’t say much—some basic information about orientation and how to log on to the school’s student portal—but thoughts of the fall rile up my nervous system (though maybe it’s the countless cups of coffee—hard to tell). I’m excited to start school; no, excited is putting it too gently. I’m ECSTATIC to finally spend my days doing what I love instead of suffering through a curriculum I could care less about. High school was a curse to my existence, and college is my reward for surviving. Still, this is probably my last summer to linger in the kid world, as starting school will unlock the door to all the responsibilities and burdens of adulting. Yay? Now that I’ve successfully aided in preventing Ivy’s death, I can focus again on fixing my own magical drama so I can then FINALLY achieve the slothlike levels of laziness I intended for this summer. #goals

  Speaking of random messages, I hear my phone start buzzing incessantly from my bedroom now that it’s once again charged. Heavy with the pounds of pastry in my belly, I trudge back across the apartment to grab i
t, scrolling through a stream of texts.

  Oh good Gods.

  “What’s up?” Mom asks when I return.

  “It’s Rose. Peter reached out to her. He . . . hurt his wing somehow. He needs help.” Laughter is the wrong response, but I can’t help it. “And now she wants a favor.” Oh, really, Rose? Now YOU want a favor from ME? I want to type back, thinking of her super-judgmental eyes the second I started to ask for help. “Apparently he has no one else to turn to.” I flop to the floor in dramatic fashion, posing for a chalk outline. I don’t have time for any more supernatural nonsense right now! I need to sleep for like five days straight. But I did agree to be there for Jane, and, by extension, Peter. “Mom, do you have something?”

  “To repair fairy wings?”

  “Maybe? Or at least to help with the pain, assuming he’s in any. I don’t really know about the central nervous system of wings. . . .”

  Mom, purveyor of all that is right and just, purses her lips in thought. “Maybe if you help him, and that news gets back to his parents, they’ll all see that magic isn’t that bad,” she suggests. A pinch too much smugness, if you ask me.

  “Yeah, and maybe if I wish real hard, a unicorn will appear at the front door!” I snark back. Mom stands over me, syrup bottle in hand, threatening to pour it all over my face. Joke’s on her, though, because that’d be awesome. There is no part of me that wants to get up and assist a runaway fairy. I’d rather him stagger around, wingless for the rest of his life. See how he likes it!

  “We’re obviously going to help him, so you may as well just get up,” Mom says. I press myself into the floor, willing gravity to pull me down harder so I can stay here forever. “Find out where he is and we’ll bring him a magical remedy, whether he likes it or not.”

  TURNS OUT THAT AFTER his tantrum, peter flew all night and conveniently ended up in Chicago. Since modern-day fairies don’t usually fly such long distances anymore, his wings gave out from his weight, nearly tearing in half. How he was able to fly the whole way without being seen is my real question, since seeing a fairy blaze through the sky would make anyone do a double take, including me, and I’m enlightened to fairy existence.