Fairytales for Wilde Girls by Allyse Near

eyes than a pamphlet was being pressed into her hands, and Isola resisted the urge to chuck it into the gutter.
    â€˜Hey, have you heard about our church?’ the man said, his smile seemingly stickered-on. ‘You, miss, look like you could use a little saving.’
    â€˜I’m happy with my bank, thanks,’ said Isola, sidestepping the man as Grape hopped off the bus amidst the sea of blue-plaid dresses.
    He fastened his white fingers around her wrist, shocking her, and said, ‘You need to be saved, witch.’
    â€˜Gertrude!’ Grape called in a put-upon accent. ‘Darling! It’s me, Millicent! Oh, what have I told you about your wild church-joining habit?’ She snatched the pamphlet, tsking as she looked down her nose at its contents. ‘Gertrude, Gertrude – fifth one this week, dear! Restrain yourself – remember your twelve-step program!’ Crushing the pamphlet in her fist and tossing it towards the public dustbin, Grape linked her arm with Isola’s and pulled her away, telling the man quite sternly over her shoulder, ‘And you, sir , are an enabler!’
    Cake, Grass, Glasses: An Interlude
    Unlike most people in Avalon, Mieko Grace Tomoyaki wasn’t christened at birth. For one, her parents were Shinto Buddhists, and for another, she received her name at the age of eight.
    A fortnight after she’d first moved into the village, an inexplicable letter with hyperactive font arrived in the mail – it was an invitation to some girl’s eighth birthday party. Her name was Isola Wilde.
    Mother Wilde had turned Mother Goose and invited the lonely new girl on her daughter’s behalf. Grace clutched Father Tomoyaki’s hand nervously as a woman and young girl greeted her at the gate.
    â€˜Hi!’ said the birthday girl, bouncing on the balls of her feet. ‘I’m Alice Liddell!’
    â€˜No, you’re not, Isola. Hello, Grace, I’m so glad you could come!’ Mother motioned Grace’s father towards a lawn chair. ‘Mr Tomoyaki, please, sit down –’
    â€˜I’m kidding, I’m Isola.’ The birthday girl beamed at the Japanese wallflower. ‘I love your glasses.’
    Grace tugged self-consciously at her newly fitted spectacles and didn’t answer, as though the little glass circles were walls, not windows.
    â€˜Do you like purple, too?’ Isola’s saucer eyes grew rounder. ‘Oh! They’re grape-coloured! Like your name, Grape!’
    â€˜It’s not Grape ,’ corrected Mother Wilde. ‘It’s Grace.’
    Grace giggled, and from that moment on it was Grape. Grape, the new girl from Japan with the glasses and the shyness. Now she was Grape Tomoyaki with the motor mouth and sleek black bob. She still had purple-framed glasses and she was still Isola Wilde’s best friend, and the name had stuck so steadfastly that even the essays she got back from teachers were marked with a red X, exasperated corrections and scrawled notes saying, ‘GRAPE, SEE ME AFTER CLASS.’

 
    The Children of Nimue
    Growing up, Mother Wilde had never been allowed a birthday party. Her own devout mother insisted the only person special and sinless enough to deserve an annual celebration was the baby Jesus. As an adult, Mother Wilde became famous in Avalon for throwing beautiful birthday parties for her only daughter – green lawns in high summer and sumptuous cakes frosted with Isola’s newly achieved age. Mother Wilde invited everyone.
    Isola’s last birthday party had been her tenth. Mother was too sickly afterwards – after what happened.
    But, in Isola’s memory, the parties raged on. One of her favourites was her fifth. It was faerie-themed – the traditional kind, with traditional spelling – and all the girls wore floral crowns handcrafted by Mother, and the boys held kingly corsages and brandished Oberon sceptres.
    Isola was busy greeting guests at