With a Kiss (Twisted Tales) (2 page)

It was time to execute another typical Halley Starr photo finish—as my dad liked to call it—I had to get ready and out the door in record speed. I ran out of the bathroom and tripped on a dumbbell then stumbled against the back of my computer chair. It hit me in the shin. I hopped on one foot and stubbed my toe on the desk for good measure. My legs buckled and I landed catlike on the ground. It
would’ve
been catlike if I hadn’t landed on a pile of dirty clothes. It was hard to be graceful when I was such a slob.

That was
not
a typical Halley Starr photo finish.

My bedroom was a veritable landmine of clothes and shoes. Some sociopaths turned to serial killing—I turned to shopping. Cover me in color, and it hid the drabness inside, except now there was something even worse hiding inside me, an evil lurking that I couldn’t explain. I tried to keep my mind off that hideous face, and rummaged through the clothes on the floor until I plucked out a flip-flop. I found a wing to my faery costume and then dragged out another from the hamper. It was a little wrinkled, but not beyond redemption.

The chimes at my window crashed merrily together and I winced, digging around my computer for my cell phone. The messy room was the closest thing I had to being just another bratty teenager. I spent my life mimicking them—their concern with others, their crushes, their meaningless cares. I was fascinated with their emotions and relationships, even watched my sister’s favorite show,
Hot Club
, for tips. I thought I could get in some good practice being a real girl when I tried out for the play, but that’s what triggered the crying and plunged me into these nightmares in the first place.

Lately my dreams were filled with hands. I had a feeling that something about the hands made me into the cold person that I was. The hands felt so real, almost like memories because in my dreams, I remembered how to feel . . . and it seriously hurt when they reached out and ripped that out of me. Afterwards, there was nothing. Like a void in my heart covered with rusty chains. The only thing that touched a nerve now was that baby’s cry.

My mom leaned on the horn outside, completely oblivious to my inner drama. I gave a deep sigh, fished for my other shoe, and hobbled for the door, gathering my blue tutu hanging on the knob on my way out. I ran through the house and shoved open the back door to the driveway. The heat of the summer slapped against my cheeks and I winced against the bright sun.

My mom lifted her hand from the horn seconds before I jumped into our gray minivan. The moment I slid the door shut behind me, she shifted the rearview mirror so she could look at me. “You still look tired, honey. After this play, you’re getting some rest.”

My younger sister, Daphne, sat up in the front. She was already in her Peaseblossom costume, pink feathery wings, and glittery make-up. Her blonde hair whipped around her face when she circled in her seatbelt to smile at me. Daphne was always smiling. She was the typecast of the sweetest faery in existence, that’s why she got the part of Peaseblossom. We were complete opposites; she felt everything I couldn’t. Sometimes I tried to get her riled up to see what she would do, but she never let it get between us—I guess that’s why I got the part of the mean faery.

“Dad and the twins are coming later,” Mom said. “He’s picking them up from swimming lessons.” Now that I was safely ensconced in the car, she was back to her loving ways. She backed out of the driveway, tucking her graying blonde hair behind her ear. I was responsible for quite a few of those grays. “We are all so excited to see your play tonight. You girls look so gorgeous. And you’re so talented! No wonder you both got main parts.”

 If things weren’t so serious, I would’ve laughed. The Starr family, of which I was strangely a part of, thought everything I did was great. Not only were they the nicest, most oblivious family in existence, they were also beautiful, blonde long-legged things. I stuck out like a sore thumb. I had dark hair and I was short—not just short compared to them, but compared to
everyone
. Family pictures in the Starr home always made me laugh. I was the emo among cheerleaders.

After a three-minute drive down the only main street in Omak—that just happened to be called Main Street—my mom turned the car into the parking lot of Omak High. The parking lot was filled with Buicks and beat-up Chevy pickups. Everyone supported the Arts here, ritzy and redneck alike. No, we weren’t in New York or California; we were in Omak, nestled in the shire of Washington with our once-a-year Suicide Stampede to keep us occupied in the summers. Besides that, we had nothing else to do.

Mom dropped us off at the high school with a cheerful wave, and a minute later, I found myself trudging down the newly painted halls with Daphne. It was silent until we passed the auditorium filled with people. Being on stage in front of my entire school and their parents wasn’t a problem. I knew how to put on an act, but I didn’t want to catch sight of that shadowy corpse again. It had better keep its distance during my scenes or I didn’t know what I’d do.

A herd of faeries passed me in the hall and I waved along with Daphne. I nodded back at a few black dressed techies, mirroring their energy. I tried to return a teacher’s smile, but pretending to be like everyone else was getting to me. I felt my head hang the closer I got to the dressing room. Why did everyone look so happy and excited? Instead of going through the motions, I wanted to feel what they felt, too. I pushed into the dressing room and threw on my faery costume, knowing my face mirrored the dullness inside.

“Faeries!” Our stage manager poked her head into the messy dressing room. “You have fifteen minutes until curtain.”

Shoes and props lay scattered over the floor. I shoved my way to a make-up stool to put on the finishing touches. My legs dangled inches above the ground. Blush. I needed plenty of blush. Anything to cover the paleness of my face.

“Hurry. Hurry.”

Girls disguised as faeries stared into a mirror that had been placed cruelly above my reach; I could see my forehead. They danced around in a flutter of agitated skirts. I caked my eyelids with blue eye shadow. My lipstick was a shade too red and I tried to wipe it off. The other actresses took nervous breaths, darting glances at our frazzled stage manager.

It all faded into nothing when I heard the faint sound of that crying baby again. My heart sank. I splattered too much glittery faery powder under my gray eyes, and turned cautiously to my neighbor. Her brush hovered over her face and she tilted her head. It gave me sudden hope. “Hey,” I said. “Did you hear that?”

She gave me a blank look. Nope.

“What’s the matter?” My younger sister was the only one paying attention in the crowd of gossamer wings. She waded through our street clothes piled on the dressing room floor to get to my side. “Hear what?”

“Nothing!” I felt my voice hit a hysterical note.

Daphne cocked her ear to catch a trace of it. Then she shook her head and dimpled. “Sorry, Halley. What does it sound like?”

“It was nothing.” I glared up at the bottom corner of the mirror, my tight control unraveling as I pushed up to my tiptoes. My sleep deprived eyes gave my face a sinister contrast. Yeah. I looked the part of the haughty faery queen alright, and I didn’t like it.

My sister stood next to me, easily a foot taller than me. Her concerned eyes met mine. “Is it that baby you used to complain about?”

I shook my head again. Harder.

“Oh, honey. What did you do? Did you hit your eye?” The girl playing Cobweb grabbed my chin and dabbed yellow make-up under my eyes while Mustardseed plaited my dark hair. And no, I hadn’t bothered to learn their real names.

Cobweb fluffed my skirts. “Did you even
try
to iron this?” I shook my head and she gave me a stern look while trying to undo all the wrinkles. Everyone babied me. Maybe it was because of how short I was compared to these long-legged ballerinas. I slid back to the makeup stool and took the treatment out of habit.

Moth danced past me in her puffy skirts. I actually knew her real name, since she had crashed our house almost nightly this summer to watch
Hot Club
reruns. Kolby was Daphne’s best friend, and the two were inseparable. I listened to their giggles, feeling dead compared to them. “Maybe it’s the ghost of the theater,” Kolby teased. “You’ve finally made him mad.”

I gave a scornful laugh.

“He’s tired of your bad singing and he’s trying to drive you crazy so you’ll run off the stage screaming like a Banshee.” Kolby stretched her arms up. Light glinted across the beautiful coppery skin that she inherited from her Colville tribe. She practiced a pirouette. I gave her a tired smile. If she knew what I was really hearing, she’d know I was already crazy.

“You need to appease the phantom of Omak High with a sacrifice.” Daphne’s eyes twinkled. “Here.” She tucked a peacock feather in my hair, finishing off my costume. “He left this for you to wear. Sorry. The phantom was all out of roses.”

Kolby giggled. “Daphne, do you want your sister to fall flat on her face? Peacock feathers are bad luck on stage. Who brought those?”

Daphne frowned and tried to pull the feather loose, but I wouldn’t let her. I didn’t believe in bad luck, or good luck. I never wished on a star. I didn’t believe in happy endings or charming guys . . . or faeries for that matter. Sorry, Tinkle Bell.

“Places, faeries! It’s your cue.”

That was our stage manager. I slid off the makeup stool. “Good luck,” I told Daphne.

All the actresses gasped in horror. Daphne let out a little scream. “Halley Starr! You never say good luck in the theater! Quit trying to ruin the play!”

“Faeries!” Our stage manager tried again. “Curtains are going up with or without you. Move!”

Another excited murmur filled the cluttered dressing room at the announcement, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the baby’s cries. My heart sank when, this time, I heard whispers too. They added to the confusion in my head. I groaned. There was no way I could deliver my lines like this. I couldn’t make out the words, but the voices sounded close by, like they were just outside my dressing room. My fists clenched. Maybe they were. I stormed through the door, my layers of blue skirts floating airily behind me.

“Halley.” As soon as I stepped out into the narrow hallway, the guy who played Puck tried to get my attention. “Hey, I’ve been looking for you.” A single florescent light sputtered over us, glistening strangely off the black painted walls. Puck had discarded his usual red hoodie in exchange for his faery costume, which wasn’t much, just a black hand mark on his bare, sculpted chest and some black cut-offs.

He was tall and fairly good looking in a drama geek sort of way. All the other faeries loved him, but there was something about him that made me feel like a porcupine. No kidding. He actually made my hair stand on end. Somehow he sensed this, which was probably why he couldn’t leave me alone. I nodded at him and tried to slip past.

“Where are you going, Ice Queen?” He stepped in front of me, blocking my way. “Aren’t you going to talk to me?”

I managed a sickly smile. “Well, if it isn’t . . . uh Puck?” His was another name that eluded me. I think it was Ren, but it was strange enough that I didn’t want to chance it and get it wrong. “I’m on call, so . . .”

“Wait, you look good enough to touch.” And he did. He flicked at my dangling earrings and I jerked away.

We had a cat-and-mouse thing going on, but I never had the stomach for it. Human contact felt awkward at its best. Even though I didn’t quite reach his shoulder, I easily flounced from him. “Save it for the other faeries,” I told him over my shoulder. A beautiful wing smartly whipped him back. He made an angry hiss, not that I cared, but I still took note. It meant he wasn’t as nice as everyone thought he was. Not that anyone would believe that from the girl with no compassion.

The whispers carried through the hall, and I chased after them, rushing to the end where the lockers were, only to find it all empty. My shoulders sagged. The whispers weren’t real. Nothing was. My entourage of faeries swept past me and dragged me backstage with them.

After a conspiring nod to each other, my sister and Puck rushed onto the stage, eager to depict Shakespeare’s faery war. I watched with dead eyes, resigned to a confusing night of a crying baby, whispers, and human interaction at its strangest.

The play was the usual war-of-the-sexes plot by Shakespeare: boy versus girl, they fight, they cause trouble, they fall in love. I played the faery queen fighting the faery king over a baby, and since all my loyal subjects were involved in the battle, I got to listen to Puck and my sister banter onstage. I could barely concentrate on their lines.

“A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king,” Puck said. “She never had so sweet a changeling.”

The baby cried out again. Wait! I sagged in relief. This was a play after all and we needed a baby to play the
lovely boy.
The kid was totally real this time, except—“I thought we were just going to use a doll for the part of the changeling,” I whispered to Kolby.

My sister’s best friend didn’t answer, unable to tear her gaze from the guy who played Puck. She was part of his fan club who watched breathlessly from the wings as he executed his lines.

“Jealous Oberon would have the child,” Puck said, puffing out his chest. I supposed it was impressive for a high schooler’s.