from.”
It remains silent for so long, I start to think I’ve imagined it. The well doesn’t speak, it’s my own addled mind.
Then it says, “It came from me.”
I stare into the shadowed space. “You?”
“It’s the same magic, after all. Granting wishes.”
“Then I’ll bring it back, I’ll throw it in—”
“Don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“It came from me, but it can’t come back. I didn’t give it to you.”
“Then who did?” My voice is taut, nearly hysterical.
“The girl who left it in your locker.”
It speaks in riddles. Of course it does. “I don’t understand.”
“The tiara came from me, but it’s been handed down ever since, for more than fifty years now. From girl to girl to girl. From Cinderellas to Snow Whites to Sleeping Beauties and back again.”
“But why? Why did it come to me? There’s a dozen other girls who play Cinderella.”
“But you believe.”
I come to the wishing well. Been doing it all along. I’m marked.
“Then . . . then I have to pass it along, if I don’t want it any more.”
However enigmatic the well is, it seems kind. A voice whispering through a cave on a breeze. “Yes. The wishes aren’t free, Maddie. Each one takes a little bit of you with it. You were never meant to sacrifice yourself for so long. I can even tell you who comes here to make wishes, who you can give it to next. Then you can replenish what you’ve given away.”
“How?”
“You have to remember your own dreams.”
So. Time to write a note, tie it to the tiara, and hide it in a locker. Find the person who believes like I do, who sneaks into the park at night to make wishes at the well. Pass the burden on to her. And when she puts the tiara on her head, will she see Abby’s aunt praying by the hospital bed, wishing away her own life? Will the next girl grant that wish?
“What’s your dream, Maddie?” the well breathes. A chill air rises from it.
I stare vacantly at the stones on the wall, concrete painted with fake lichens. “I don’t remember.”
“It’s not so hard to give the power up,” it says, sounding frustrated now. “Sara, who plays Snow White in the parades. Choose her.”
And while I wait, frozen, unable to decide, maybe Abby will die, taking the decision out of my hands. Then we, those of us still living, can all be miserable.
“It’s very cruel,” I say, “To grant someone power, then make sure it kills them.”
“But that’s the way of fairy tales.”
I push myself away from the wall. Travel the cobbled path around the castle, run from the sound of rustling leaves, and flee the park.
Can the princess who wears the tiara ever see herself?
I stand in front of my bathroom mirror and put it on.
The scene has changed, but only a little. Abby looks worse, if that’s possible. Her skin has a yellow cast to it, as if internal organs are in the process of failing. More tubes, more wires, more drip bags are attached to her. Her aunt Christine sits back in her chair, hugging a thick cardigan around her. Abby’s mother leans on the bedside, clinging to the girl’s hand.
The wish is still out there. I see it there, in the mirror in front of me. Mirror, mirror on the wall . . .
I touch the tiara, preparing to take it off again, knowing the well is right. This isn’t my decision to make. The tiara has spoken. But I don’t have to be the one to see it happen. Let Sara do that.
But I don’t take it off. Blinking, I can bring myself into focus. I study the image: a twenty-one-year-old college dropout with shadowed eyes and gaunt cheeks. I look like one of those girls who starves herself to be thin enough for Hollywood auditions. I haven’t realized I haven’t been eating. Short hair, bleached blond. Pale skin. A crown on my head, its gemstone sparkling. A princess in the midst of her worst challenge, before the happily ever after finds her.
But I can’t see that road before me anymore. I can’t see how my story ends. I only
It remains silent for so long, I start to think I’ve imagined it. The well doesn’t speak, it’s my own addled mind.
Then it says, “It came from me.”
I stare into the shadowed space. “You?”
“It’s the same magic, after all. Granting wishes.”
“Then I’ll bring it back, I’ll throw it in—”
“Don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“It came from me, but it can’t come back. I didn’t give it to you.”
“Then who did?” My voice is taut, nearly hysterical.
“The girl who left it in your locker.”
It speaks in riddles. Of course it does. “I don’t understand.”
“The tiara came from me, but it’s been handed down ever since, for more than fifty years now. From girl to girl to girl. From Cinderellas to Snow Whites to Sleeping Beauties and back again.”
“But why? Why did it come to me? There’s a dozen other girls who play Cinderella.”
“But you believe.”
I come to the wishing well. Been doing it all along. I’m marked.
“Then . . . then I have to pass it along, if I don’t want it any more.”
However enigmatic the well is, it seems kind. A voice whispering through a cave on a breeze. “Yes. The wishes aren’t free, Maddie. Each one takes a little bit of you with it. You were never meant to sacrifice yourself for so long. I can even tell you who comes here to make wishes, who you can give it to next. Then you can replenish what you’ve given away.”
“How?”
“You have to remember your own dreams.”
So. Time to write a note, tie it to the tiara, and hide it in a locker. Find the person who believes like I do, who sneaks into the park at night to make wishes at the well. Pass the burden on to her. And when she puts the tiara on her head, will she see Abby’s aunt praying by the hospital bed, wishing away her own life? Will the next girl grant that wish?
“What’s your dream, Maddie?” the well breathes. A chill air rises from it.
I stare vacantly at the stones on the wall, concrete painted with fake lichens. “I don’t remember.”
“It’s not so hard to give the power up,” it says, sounding frustrated now. “Sara, who plays Snow White in the parades. Choose her.”
And while I wait, frozen, unable to decide, maybe Abby will die, taking the decision out of my hands. Then we, those of us still living, can all be miserable.
“It’s very cruel,” I say, “To grant someone power, then make sure it kills them.”
“But that’s the way of fairy tales.”
I push myself away from the wall. Travel the cobbled path around the castle, run from the sound of rustling leaves, and flee the park.
Can the princess who wears the tiara ever see herself?
I stand in front of my bathroom mirror and put it on.
The scene has changed, but only a little. Abby looks worse, if that’s possible. Her skin has a yellow cast to it, as if internal organs are in the process of failing. More tubes, more wires, more drip bags are attached to her. Her aunt Christine sits back in her chair, hugging a thick cardigan around her. Abby’s mother leans on the bedside, clinging to the girl’s hand.
The wish is still out there. I see it there, in the mirror in front of me. Mirror, mirror on the wall . . .
I touch the tiara, preparing to take it off again, knowing the well is right. This isn’t my decision to make. The tiara has spoken. But I don’t have to be the one to see it happen. Let Sara do that.
But I don’t take it off. Blinking, I can bring myself into focus. I study the image: a twenty-one-year-old college dropout with shadowed eyes and gaunt cheeks. I look like one of those girls who starves herself to be thin enough for Hollywood auditions. I haven’t realized I haven’t been eating. Short hair, bleached blond. Pale skin. A crown on my head, its gemstone sparkling. A princess in the midst of her worst challenge, before the happily ever after finds her.
But I can’t see that road before me anymore. I can’t see how my story ends. I only
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