Cyn Balog - Fairy Tale

I dont have fairy powers, but I know this book wouldnt be possible without the help of some amazing people Im pretty sure do have them.

Thank you to all the writers Ive met online, especially the Why Eh Writers and the 2009 Debs. Im eternally grateful to my writing BFF, Mandy Hubbard, and to Brooke Taylor for keeping me sane day after day. Thanks to Nadia Cornier for believing in Fairy Tale when it was just a glimmer. To my editor, Stephanie Lane, copy editor Kate Oschner, cover designer Marci Senders, and everyone at Delacorte Press for taking a chance on Fairy Tale and making it shine brighter than I ever imagined it could. To Mom and Dad for buying me that desk and word processor and for never forcing me to go out and get some fresh air when I wanted to write. To Jen, the inspiration for my early writing pursuits where would My sister Jen is talented be without you? To my husband, Brian, for having unwavering faith in me, and to Sara for filling every one of my days with smiles. Thanks for the wings.

EOPLE CALL ME spooky.

Maybe because by eleven oclock on that day, Id already told Ariana Miles shed starve to death in Hollywood, Erica Fuentes shed bomb history, and Wendell Marks that he would never, ever be a part of the A-list, no matter how hard he tried.

Now, sitting in the bleachers after school, half watching a meaningless Hawks football exhibition game and waiting for some nameless freshman to bring me my French fries (psychics cannot work on an empty stomach), Ive just about reduced my fourth client of the day to tears (well, Wendell didnt cry; he just pretended to yawn, covered his mouth, and let out a pathetic snurgle). But hey, sometimes the future is scary.

Sierra Martin wont look at me. Instead, shes taken an unnatural interest in the Heath bar wrapper wedged between the metal planks her sequin-studded flip-flops are resting on. A tear slips past her fake-tanned knees and lands perfectly on her porno-red big-toe nail.

Sorry, I say, offering her a pat on the back and a couple of orange Tic Tacs for consolation. Really.

Sometimes this gift does suck. Some days, I have the pleasure of doling out good newsBMWs as graduation presents, aced finals, that sort of thing. Today, its been nothing but total crap. And yes, it obviously must have come as a shock that Id envisioned Sierra, whose parents had bred her for Harvard, walking to Physics 101 on the Middlesex Community College campus, but its not my fault. I just deliver the mail; I dont write it.

Are you su-ure? she asks me, sniffling and wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

I sigh. This is the inevitable question, and I always answer the same thing: Im sorry, but Ive never been wrong.

I know that probably makes me sound like a total snob, but its simple fact. Since freshman year, Ive correctly predicted the futures of dozens of students at Stevens. It all started way before that, though, in junior high, when I correctly guessed who would win the million-dollar prize on every reality-TV show out there. At times I would have to think, really think, to know the answer, but sometimes I would just wake up and, clear as day, the face of the winner would pop into my mind. Soon, I started testing my abilities out on my friends, and my friends friends, and before long, every other person at school wanted my services. Seriously, being a psychic will do more for your reputation than a drivers license or a head-to-toe Marc Jacobs wardrobe.

Sierra tosses her frizzed-out, corn-husk-blond spirals over her shoulder and straightens. Well, maybe you saw someone else. Someone who looked like me. Isnt that possible?

Actually, it isnt possible at all. Sierra has a totally warped sense of style, like Andy Warhol on crack. Everyday things lying around the house do not always make attractive accessories. I shrug, though, since I dont feel like explaining that hell would have a ski resort before two people on the face of this earth would think it was okay to tie their ponytail up in a Twizzler, and crane my neck toward the refreshment stand. Im starving. Where are my French fries?

I mean, I did get a twenty-three hundred on my SATs, she says, which is something shes told me, and the rest of the student body, about a billion times. She might as well have broadcast it on CNN. However, she hasnt taken into account the fact that there are thousands of other students across the country who also got those scores, and took college-level physics or calculus instead of Dramatic Expression as their senior extracurricular activity. Everyone knows that Sierra Martin screwed herself by deciding to coast through her classes this year.

See, Im not that spooky. Truth is, most people dont use enough of their brains to see the obvious. Part of it is just being keenly aware of human nature, like one of those British detectives on PBS. Its elementary, my dear Watson. Colonel Mustard in the Billiard Room with the candlestick, and Sierra is so not Harvard material.

We need to do the wave, Eden says, grabbing my arm. She doesnt bother to look at me; her attention is focused totally on the game, as usual. They need us.

I squint at her. Its an exhibition game.

She pulls a half-sucked Blow Pop from her mouth with a smack and says, So?

Okay, you go, girl, I say, though I wish she wouldnt.

She turns around to face the dozen or so students in the bleachers, cups her hands around her lips, and screams, Okay, lets do the wave! Auburn hair trailing like a comets tail, she runs as fast as her skinny, freckled legs can carry her to the right edge of the seats, then flails her arms and says to the handful of people there, You guys first. Ready? One, and two, and three, and go!

I dont bother to turn around. I know nobody is doing it. Its human naturedoing a wave during an exhibition game is totally lame. Actually, doing a wave at all is totally lame. And nobody is going to listen to poor Miss Didnt-Make-the-Cheerleading-Squad.

She scowls and screams, Morgan! as she rushes past me, so I feel compelled to half stand. I raise my hands a little and let out a woo! Sierra doesnt notice Edens fit of school spirit, since shes still babbling on about her three years as editor of the yearbook, as if giving me her entire life story will somehow get her closer to the Ivy League.

Eden returns a few seconds later, defeated, and slumps beside me. The spray of freckles on her face has completely disappeared into the deep crevasse on the bridge of her nose. This school has no spirit.

Its trueand ironic, reallythat, though my best friend, Eden McCarthy, probably has more school spirit in her pinky than the entire student body put together, she didnt make cheerleading. Being a cheerleader, though, isnt just about having spirit. Eden could make a cow look graceful. I say, Well, good try; A for effort, and pat her back.

But, Morgan, she whines, its Cameron out there. Hes about to score another touchdown.