 
The Story of Awkward

By R.K. Ryals

Copyright © 2014 Regina K. Ryals

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To anyone who has ever felt awkward, this is for you. Embrace what makes you unique.

~R.K. Ryals~

Acknowledgements

I have an entire cast of awkward people to thank for this book. This project was a special one for me, a book about discovering yourself and learning to be happy the way you are. A book, like many things in life, takes an entire team.

Thank you to my husband, who spent many nights listening to awkward stories about my youth while I wrote this. He might be a little awkward, too, though he may not admit it. To my children, who truly inspired this story. To my oldest daughter who came home with tears in her eyes because someone made a comment about her glasses. You are unique and beautiful and the reason this story came to life. To my best friend, Audrey Welch who is one of my staunchest supporters. You are beautiful and amazing, and inspire me every day. To my sisters, I love you. We had many awkward and wonderful moments growing up. To my personal assistant, Christina Silcox, because together we are awkward and fun and full of laughter. You are an amazing friend and one of the hardest workers I know. There is never a shortage of laughter between us. To my editor, Melissa Ringsted. You are one of the strongest people I know and certainly one of the most caring and meticulous. To Regina Wamba, because you are one of the most brilliant and talented people I know. You gave the cover of this book life, and for that, I will always be grateful. To Melissa Wright, because you sent me an awkward book full of curse words so we could email them to each other. You are a light, and such a talented woman. To Whitney Deboe, because you are more than just a friend and a fellow writer, you have become a partner in this crazy literary world. To Bree High, because you inspire me; every day your strength, your love, and your friendship inspire me to the fullest. To Elizabeth Kirke, because you have left the most amazing messages for me. They make my day and warm my heart. To everyone who supports me every day: you are all brilliant. To Jessica Johnson, Lisa Markson, Nanette Bradford, Katherine Eccleston, Ashley Ubinger, Beth Maddox, Vicky Walters, Katy Austin, Amy McCool, Julia Roop, Pyxi Rose, A.J. O'Shell, Anne Nelson, Jessie de Schepper, Derinda Love, Jodi O'Brien, Merisha Abbott, Tina Donnelly, Jesse Daniels, and so many, many more. All of you truly inspire me! And to the fans: you make every day worth it. Your words and your kindness mean so much. I can't thank you enough for reading. It truly means the world. Sharing the love of reading one book at a time! From my heart to yours! Embrace your awkward.

"Great endowments often announce themselves in youth in the form of singularity and awkwardness."

~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe~

Prologue

If you are looking for a happy book about beautiful people, this is the wrong story.

If you are looking for a narrative without emotion, without regrets, and without mistakes, this is definitely the wrong story.

This is by no means an uncomplicated tale about uncomplicated people. It is by no means sweet or light.

This story is ugly.

This story is complicated.

This story is emotional.

This story is tragic.

This story is about discovery. It is about hope. It is about one girl's perception of reality. It is about me, a girl named Peregrine Storke. A girl thought to be named after a bird, but really I'm not. Peregrine means "traveler" or "pilgrim". I've always liked that idea. That I was meant to go abroad. That I was meant to see great things. Instead, I am as awkward as my surname, Storke. It would be better if I were named after a bird. A bird with clipped wings.

In short, this story is about being awkward.

When I was a child, I had an imaginary world I used to escape to in my head. If the fighting in my house was too much or the sound of my mother's frustrated yells too overwhelming, I went there. I carried a notebook full of pictures; some I'd drawn, and others I'd clipped out of storybooks or magazines. My book was full of pretty faces, fancy clothes, and fantastical creatures. All of it belonged inside of my fantasy world. And yet, despite the beauty inside of my world, there was also awkwardness. Always awkwardness.

"Watch it, Perri! You good for nothing, half-wit!"

I was a clumsy child, and my father forever despaired of it. Dad had an imaginary world, too. It was alcohol and sin; cup after cup of forgetfulness and too many nights spent with women who smelled like cheap perfume. It was why my mother turned to other things for comfort.

"Dammit, Perri! Can you do nothing right?"

My father was a master of verbal tongue lashing. It was a weapon, and he used it well. I'd heard it all before I'd even started school. For a long time, I thought my full name was Dammit Damn Perri. I'd even introduced myself that way once, to my mother's horror.

I was five when it was discovered I needed glasses. My glasses were magic, beautiful windows into a clear world. I drew spectacles onto the pretty princess in my book full of pictures. Her name was Princess Elspeth. She was clumsy, too. She was tall, lean, and strong—despite her clumsiness—with wild, uncontrollable honey-colored hair and turquoise eyes. Across the bridge of her nose, she wore thin, golden spectacles, and she had an obsession with birds. All kinds of birds: colorful ones, plain ones, loud ones, quiet ones, and strange ones. She had little gold cages full of song birds that flew free most of the time, but always returned to their perches to sleep. Elspeth had a turret bedroom because even princesses with happy families should have a tower.

"Dammit, Perri! What kind of mess is this? Clean it now! Fix it before I tan your hide!"

Dad's voice was a constant reminder of how wrong I was. I couldn't do anything right.

In my fantasy book, I drew a short queen with stubby fingers, a rotund body, and a pleasant voice. She squinted a lot and was always misplacing everything. Beside her stood a tall, noble king who forever despaired of his wife's ability to lose things and his daughter's bird fascination. He was perfect, except for his nose. His nose was large with a freckle right at the end because imperfections often hide true beauty. They were Queen Norma and King Happenstance. In my story, I was Elspeth, and I wasn't the daughter of a man lost in alcohol and a mother who was too afraid to interfere.

"Dammit, Perri! Quit eating! You eat all the damn time! Look at yourself!"

I was twelve when I started gaining weight. It wasn't that I ate too much. I just liked sugar ... a lot. By the time I was thirteen, I was really overweight, my cheeks puffy, my glasses a size too large because anything smaller wouldn't fit on my face.

In my fantasy world, I drew a troll. He was a fat troll with green, leathery skin and lots of pock marks. He was Elspeth's truest friend, and he loved candy. His name was Weasel.

At fourteen, I found a friend at school. Her name was Camilla. She was as thin as a reed with knobby elbows and knees, curly red hair, braces, and a ton of freckles. We were both shy, and a lot awkward. In the end, we were snidely dubbed by the kids in our grade, Connect the Dots and Chub-a-Lub.

Camilla had an older brother, Foster. He was everything Camilla wasn't. Like his sister, he had auburn hair, but it wasn't curly. He had no freckles, and he was athletic. I hated him. Camilla and I were reading The Secret Garden when Foster came up with the rhyme, "Perri, Perri, quite contrary, my how your stomach grows." The rhyme stuck, spread, and followed me through my freshmen year in high school. I hated Foster.

In my fantasy world, I drew a villain. He was a tall villain, gangly and hawkish. He had bright scarlet hair and black eyes. He wasn't entirely human. He was a bullygog, a monster who spoke in hideous rhymes and had rotten teeth with breath that reeked of smelly cheese. His name was Reemis.

I was fifteen when I started throwing up. It seemed the right thing to do at the time. I'm not sure what made me do it. The ridicule maybe. The stupid rhyme, the nicknames whispered behind my back. While Camilla started scrubbing her cheeks with lemons and pressing her tight curls between flat irons, I vomited. There was nothing pretty about it, just toilet bowls and cold linoleum floors. And yet, I'd found peace. Bathrooms were a haven. They were places I could purge everything awful I put inside my body. They were my salvation. Bathrooms taught me the agony of rising bile. They taught me about the warm rush of adrenaline that dulled all pain. Bathrooms were my happy place. It was the one place I controlled what I did while everything else in my world spiraled.

In my fantasy world, I drew a well. It was your typical fairytale well, a stone circle built around a hole with a pole-lifted wooden roof and a pail hanging from a rope. However, this was no normal well. The waters within twirled, loud and tumultuously. No one drank from this well. No one pulled water from its depths. Only those in desperate emotional pain came to the well. Only those in desperate need drank the water. It was the Well of Forgetfulness.

By the time I was sixteen, I was too thin and throwing up blood. My chest and throat were constantly sore. I wasn't chubby anymore, but what I had become was worse. Now I was something different. I was the walking dead, and it scared me. It scared me enough to get help. My parents were divorced by then, but they confronted me together. Mom sulked and Dad yelled.

"Dammit, Perri! How stupid can you be?"

I started seeing a counselor, someone who understood the depths I'd fallen into. The man I saw was a sweet man. He wore grey suits, glasses, and black shoes that always looked freshly shined. He smelled like peppermint and cigars. His name was Jack. He'd just started wearing bifocals when I met him, and he was always walking into walls.

In my fantasy world, I drew a fairy. She was a petite, pretty fairy with sparkling violet wings, but she couldn't fly straight. She flew at an angle because her wings were somewhat disproportionate, so that she was always flying into things. Her name was Nimble, because anyone who isn't naturally graceful should be given a graceful name. Nimble had a pet bookworm, an honest to goodness bookworm with eyes too big for his small green body and glasses that made them even larger. He ate paper and memorized facts. His name was Herman.

When I was seventeen, I went on my first date. It was an awkward affair. He wasn't an ugly boy, although he suffered from acne and had a thing for drinking lime sodas. He was taller than me and fairly handsome. I had gained enough weight back, I didn't look sick anymore, and I'd grown more confident. I'd begun to shirk my awkwardness, and it was being noticed. Andrew Lieberman became my first steady boyfriend. It was a yearlong relationship that ended when he went off to college.

In my fantasy world, I drew a prince. He was a handsome prince, charming and debonair. He had beautiful brown hair and blue eyes. Everything about him was perfect, except for a small scar on his cheek because all women know there is nothing sexier than a scar. His name was Prince Dash. He was a master swordsman and rode a beautiful black stallion he called Shadow. Prince Dash fell in love with Princess Elspeth despite her obsession with birds. He gifted Elspeth a beautiful white unicorn because all princesses should ride unicorns rather than horses. Elspeth named her Glory. The only fault Glory had was that she had two horns instead of one.

By the time I was eighteen and graduating high school, I'd created an entire world of characters. All of them mine, all of them awkward. Even their world was awkward. It snowed during the summer and was hot during the winter. Rivers flowed backward and the clouds in Awkward were always shaped like roses. The trees had leaves that could wrap an entire person inside of them, and the rain always tasted like caramel-flavored coffee. No one yelled in Awkward. No one was stupid in Awkward. No one was ever lost.

At nineteen, I packed my bags to head for my first year away at college. Camilla and I were both attending an art school in New York City. Camilla had a passion for pottery and sculptures, and I had a passion for drawing and painting. Neither of us were awkward anymore. Camilla's braces were gone, and her red curls suited her peaches and cream skin. She had a lithe figure, and the freckles she'd once tried to hide made her look charming. I wasn't as tall as Camilla, or as lithe, but I was lean, fit, and confident. I'd turned my obsession with throwing up into exercise and wise choices. I was leaving the world of awkward behind.

The old, faded sketch book full of pasted photos, scraps of memories, and drawings of specific characters stared up at me from my desk as I zipped my suitcase. I gazed at it, at the curling pages and crude childish drawings on the cover. Inside of those pages, Elspeth was playing with her songbirds and being courted by Dash. Herman was following the fairy, Nimble, dutifully as she flew into trees. The king was forever despairing over his absentminded wife, and Weasel was eating candy and sharing confidences with the princess. Dash's horse, Shadow, was chasing Elspeth's unicorn across fields of wildflowers, and the villain, Reemis, was hiding amongst the trees and spouting horrid poetry. There were tiny dragons the size of butterflies and neon flowers in Awkward. I'd miss it all. I'd miss them.

Instead of packing the notebook, I simply patted the cover, flipping through the pages one final time. I thought I saw movement within the illustrations, but when I squinted, it was gone. I wore contacts that helped control my astigmatism, so I chalked the movement up to my eyes. Closing the book, I ran my fingers down the cracked cover. This was a hard departure. It was a new beginning. Turning, I walked away from the world of Awkward.

Chapter 1

"That awkward moment when you realize you've lived your entire life inside of a picture."

~Peregrine Storke~

It was raining when my mother pulled up to the simple two-level brick home. Drops of water pounded on the roof of her beat up red Toyota, the sound both ominous and comfortable, before tunneling down her windows in rivers and tiny tributaries. The damp infiltrated the interior, soaking my skin despite the vehicle surrounding us. Rain was never simple this time of year in Louisiana. It always came followed by lightning, thunder, and a myriad of warnings. Leaves blew against the windshield, still full and green from summer, and I watched as one of them stuck against the glass, the leaf's veins prominent. I wanted to sketch the way it looked now, alone and surrounded by tears, but there was no time.

"Don't forget to call me when you get there," Mom murmured.

Her knuckles were white against the steering wheel, her lips pinched. She wouldn't cry. Mom seldom cried, she stewed.

I nodded, my gaze going to the concrete wraparound porch just beyond the curb. Camilla stood in front of a whitewashed screen door, her feet surrounded by suitcases, her long arms waving, a grin plastered on her face. Her mother was smoothing her hair, and Camilla kept trying to brush her away.

My mom simply shooed me from the car. "You won't get there any faster sittin' here."

I grabbed a large duffel bag from the backseat, lugging it over my head before pushing at the car door. The door was barely closed before Mom pulled away from the curb and drove away. Cold rain sluiced down my face, leaving my long, dark blonde hair in a twisted, stringy mass around my face. Mom wasn't good at good-byes.

"Get inside before you get soaked," a male voice ordered gruffly.

Throwing the strap of my duffel bag over my shoulder, I glared at the auburn-haired man leaning against the porch railing, his muscled arms crossed. Foster Evans was good at handing out orders. He'd joined the military straight after high school, and after four years active duty, he relished issuing commands. He'd always been that way. The stint in the military just gave him an excuse to be worse. I didn't like him any more now than I had at fourteen.

"I like the rain," I mumbled. I wasn't any good at witty comments.

Foster's eyes tracked me from the yard to the stairs. Mud sucked at my weathered tennis shoes, murky rain water seeping slowly down into my socks from the slick front yard.

The screen door slammed open and a breathless, red-faced Mrs. Evans rushed forward. She'd pulled her crimson hair on top of her head. Stray wisps of it had fallen on to her forehead, most of the strands more grey now than they were red.

She blew at her hair, her eyes raking my figure. "Your mama couldn't send you with an umbrella?"

I shrugged.

Mrs. Evans ushered me inside, her tongue clicking. "Never mind that." Her gaze took in the ratty duffel bag slung over my shoulder. "Is that all you have?"

I shrugged again.

Camilla exhaled. "Really, Mom, not everyone has to take an entire supermarket, department store, and pharmacy with them to college."

Mrs. Evans blew at her hair again. "You're not everyone, Cammy."

Laughing, Camilla brushed a kiss over her mom's flushed cheek. Mrs. Evans' eyes filled with tears, but she held them in check.

"You two need to go," she muttered. Her gaze slid to the porch beyond the kitchen. "This weather isn't getting any better."

The door swung open and Foster shuffled in, the faint scent of soap and rain tickling my nose as he lifted two of Camilla's suitcases.

"It's a good thing we're taking the TrailBlazer." Foster swore, his head shaking as he kicked the last two suitcases toward the door, his mother on his heels.

Grabbing the back of Camilla's yellow blouse, I pulled her toward me, ignoring the fact that I looked like a drowned street peddler next to her in my faded GEEK sweatshirt and hole-ridden jeans.

"We're?" I hissed.

She grimaced. "Mom wasn't comfortable with us driving all the way to New York alone."

My stomach churned. "Camilla—"

She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door. The sky beyond had grown more ominous, the thick clouds more black now than grey. Lightning streaked across the heavens, the loud boom of thunder that followed causing us both to jump.

"I know how you feel about him, Perri, but he's my brother. And he's changed. Really, he has."

The look I gave her was full of skepticism, but I had no room to argue. As it was, I depended on Camilla; my scholarship didn't cover travel expenses.

Foster returned to the porch and hefted the last two suitcases onto his back before trudging toward Camilla's black TrailBlazer. It was an older model, a long scratch marring the paint from a run in with a fence two years before. It was far from luxurious, but Camilla kept it tuned and clean. Each air conditioner vent had those little aromatic air fresheners clipped into it, giving the interior a distinctly coconut scent.

My grip on Camilla was broken by her sobbing mother. Mrs. Evans paused just long enough to kiss my forehead and ruffle my damp hair before she enveloped Camilla in a hug tight enough to cut off oxygen. Camilla sniffled, and I turned away to find Foster standing next to me, an umbrella open in his hand. He was as wet as I was now, his white T-shirt plastered to his chest. I caught a glimpse of a tattoo on his bicep, but he turned and gestured at the TrailBlazer before I could determine what it was.

My eyes skirted his as I ducked beneath the umbrella's cover. The pounding rain drained out all other noise. Our feet splashed through shallow puddles, his black combat boots better protection against the elements than my worn, marker-covered shoes. I doodled on everything.

Foster pulled open the vehicle's back door, and I scooted in, my clothes sticking instantly to the dry interior. He left me then, the door closing between me and the sight of the small family now gathered on the porch. Water blurred the scene, but it didn't obliterate it. Mrs. Evans embraced both of her children, her pale skin splotchy as she swiped at tears on her cheeks. Mr. Evans worked construction and was working a contract job out of town, but I'd been there two days before when he'd said good-bye to Camilla.

Foster winked at his mother, saying something that made her slap him on the arm, her tears temporarily replaced by hiccupping laughter. My hand found the rain-covered window, the glass cool against my palm. I wanted to capture the scene and make it mine. Turn their reality into my fantasy. I wanted to draw the window, the rivulets of rain with mirrored images of love reflected in it—hugs, kisses, and sorrow. True sorrow like true happiness comes from love. I was seeing that now in Mrs. Evans face, my fingers splayed over the image of her through the glass.

Foster's head shot up, and I let my hand drop, my eyes moving forward. I was intruding in a moment that wasn't mine.

A gust of wind blew into the TrailBlazer, chilling me to the bone, as Foster pulled the passenger side door open for his sister. She climbed in, her lips moving with excitement, but I didn't hear her words. I was thinking about Camilla and her family, and a sketchbook I'd left behind. Those pictures were my family. Those characters were my siblings, the parents of my heart, and friends that knew me like no one else ever would. I could see them now, all of them, gathered beneath the cover. They were patting me on the back, their smiles hiding tears as Elspeth and Queen Norma brushed my cheeks with kisses. Nimble sprinkled me with fairy dust, something that made my tongue taste like watermelon and lightened my heart.

"You sleeping back there?" Camilla screeched.

I started, my eyes finding the back of her head. Foster's gaze found mine in the rearview mirror. We'd already pulled out of the driveway, the TrailBlazer eating the road beneath us hungrily. Surprisingly, despite my excitement, I was afraid. Even though I was scared to stay behind, scared to turn into my parents, I was just as afraid of leaving.

Glancing behind me, I watched the road transform from uneven pavement to blacktop, rolling black clouds chasing us, lightning burning away the past.

"New York!" Camilla cried. She threw her arms up, a laugh escaping.

Her enthusiasm was contagious. My lips parted, and I captured her hand with mine above the back of her seat. She squeezed, her fingers trembling, and I realized her excitement hid as much fear as I felt. I squeezed back.

A scream shattered the moment, the sound chasing us. Dropping Camilla's hand, I twisted around, my heart pounding. No one else in the TrailBlazer reacted, but I was almost certain I saw Princess Elspeth's face in the storm clouds outside of the rear window, her spectacles askew and her mouth open in horror.

Chapter 2

"That awkward moment right before you die when you realize you haven't done enough in life to be considered living."

~Peregrine Storke~

For a long while, there was no conversation, only the repetitive sound of rain and nervous silence as we drove. This wasn't a vacation. It wasn't a carefree jaunt out of state. This was the next step in our lives heralded by gloom and thunder.

"I think the storm is getting worse," Camilla murmured.

Her gaze moved to the window, to the rolling black sky and cloud-to-ground lightning. We were surrounded by a web of bright electricity, like flies being drawn in by a supercharged spider. Unexpected storms, especially bad ones, weren't a rarity in Louisiana, but there was something about this one ...

"Maybe there's an update on the radio," I suggested.

Foster turned the windshield wipers on high, but it didn't help. The rain was coming too hard and too fast to keep up. He tuned the stereo, but the only thing that emanated from the speakers was a high-pitched buzz. An emergency alert.

Camilla began shaking. "Tornado?"

Foster looked up, his eyes widening before his foot hit the brakes. "No!" he cried. "Flood!"

The car began to spin, the sound of Camilla's scream filling the cab. It was eerily similar to the one I'd imagined from Elspeth an hour before.

"Hold on!" Foster ordered.

I watched him in the rearview mirror, took in the calm expression on his face. Despite the danger, despite the spinning vehicle, and despite the water I glimpsed rushing toward us, he remained composed.

Time stood still, the sound of rain loud, the continuous buzz from the radio creating a strange, mesmerizing static. My fingers gripped the door, but I didn't scream; there wasn't any time to scream.

I knew before the water struck us that we weren't going to make it. Foster hit the buttons on the door, rolling down the electric windows, and I knew he was giving us our only possibility of escape.

Water lifted us, tilting the vehicle forward before rolling us down an embankment and into an even deeper body of water. Water wasn't just water in Louisiana; it was alive and dirty, full of danger and hidden secrets.

"Get out!" Foster shouted.

I scrambled for my seatbelt, pulling at it desperately. Water seeped into the open windows, flooding the floorboard before climbing up my calves. There was splashing and a bright flash of lightning as Foster broke free of the vehicle, pulling himself through his window just as Camilla released her seatbelt.

My belt wouldn't discharge!

Water climbed up to my knees, the dark, murky depths consuming the bottom of my legs and gripping my thighs. It was evil, the water, staring at me with a brown gaping mouth filled with drool.

"Perri," someone whispered.

I was alone in the vehicle. Camilla had gotten free, and I caught a glimpse of Foster pulling her to the embankment before the water began eating my stomach, its cloying fingers reaching for my breasts.

I was going to die before I'd even gotten a chance to live.

"Perri."

Cold liquid swallowed my chest, lapping at my neck before sucking at my hair. Something moved against my leg, and I fought not to cry out, tears leaving a trail down my cheeks. My fingers pulled at the seat-belt, tearing at it until my fingernails bent painfully, my flesh raw.

"Perri!"

Foster's hand swept into the TrailBlazer, his fingers searching my lap. Water kissed my lips, a chilling good-bye. It was too late.

"Damn it!" Foster swore.

My eyes met his, and I saw the defeat there. It seemed a sick sort of justice, really. My last sight the hazel eyes of a guy who'd shamed me once with his unkind jingle, "Perri, Perri, quite contrary, my how your stomach grows."

The water stole any chance I had to speak, the dark monster seeping into my nose, my ears, and my eyes. It blinded me, pulling me down to a watery grave inside of a metal coffin.

Foster's hand slipped away, and I drifted, the only sound the gurgling water as my chest filled with fire. The instinct to breathe was too strong, and I took in a mouthful of water, the liquid stealing any breath I'd had hope of saving.

Something gripped me under the water, but I'd closed my eyes against the liquid onslaught, an unconscious need to save my contacts. Silly, really, that I thought to maintain something as unimportant as contact lenses even in death.

The grip on me tightened, and I realized Foster had followed me down, his hands still digging desperately into my arm. Maybe it was the military that had done it to him, drilling in him this innate need not to leave someone behind.

It was too late.

There was only blackness now, a desperate need to breathe, a burning fire inside my chest as visions floated through my mind. Crazy visions. I wasn't supposed to picture sketches in my final moments. I was supposed to see a reel of my life, not the awkward faces of Princess Elspeth, her parents, her prince, and the creatures of the world I'd drawn into a sketchbook. And yet, there they were waiting for me, in all of their awkward glory, their arms open.

Chapter 3

"That awkward moment when you discover your delusions are real."

~Peregrine Storke~

Dying felt like being tickled. It felt like tiny fingers running across my body in a dark world where it was okay to laugh loudly and badly.

"She's coming around," someone murmured, the voice low and excited.

Trying to turn over in death, however, was like trying to mow down a brick wall with a shovel. It felt like a truck backing over me in a dark world where it was okay to moan inappropriately.

"Totally attractive," a familiar voice sneered.

"Of course," a sweet, lilting tone agreed happily, "she's one of us."

"It wasn't a compliment," the first voice offered.

It was this familiar voice that made me sit up too quickly, my head spinning. My weight couldn't support the sudden movement, and I teetered forward, my nose going into the damp, white T-shirt of my best friend's brother. I'd know that voice and scent anywhere. Sarcasm and Dove, the kind for sensitive skin because the Evans' household didn't use any other kind.

My hand found his abs, my cheeks heating, my vision blurry.

"Camilla?" I wheezed.

Foster gripped my arm, using his shoulder to support me. "I'm assuming she's still in Kansas. Time to wake up, Toto, we're stuck somewhere between unbelievable and Hell."

I pushed at my eyes, hoping to maneuver my contacts into focus. The astigmatisms made wearing lenses an uncomfortable nuisance.

I'd just managed to regain vision in one eye when I saw the fairy staring at me. She was violet with disproportionate wings. The scream, when it came, shouldn't have happened. The fairy wasn't a stranger, after all, but she also wasn't real.

Foster clamped a hand over my mouth. A whiff of damp, stagnant mud infiltrated my nose. Soap just didn't smell nice mixed with dirt.

"It's not a dream. I've already pinched myself," Foster hissed.

I stared, my half blurry, half decent vision taking in the crowd of people in front of me. It was impossible. They were real. All of them. My drawings. My characters. I'd died, and instead of going to Heaven, I'd landed in Awkward.

Nimble was the first to speak. "Our creator," the fairy breathed. The way she said it reminded me of the dramatic introduction I'd seen at a magic show once. Only I wasn't the Great Whamboozler ... I was their creator, the person who'd given them life.

It was impossible to do anything other than gawk at her, my hand lifting hesitantly to brush the corner of her wing. It didn't feel anything like I'd imagined it would; it felt like a cross between satin and paper.

Pushing Foster's hand away, I murmured, "Nimble?"

The fairy grinned, her teeth as purple as her body.

Foster's horrified gaze found the side of my face. "You know these," he glanced at the fairy, "these things?"

It wasn't possible.

Pushing myself off of the ground, my eyes roamed the scene—the gold spectacled princess, her freckle-nosed father, her absentminded mother, the green pockmarked troll, and Nimble. We were in a grassy field full of neon orange and yellow wildflowers. A castle with misshapen towers and emerald ivy climbing up the slate walls sat in the distance, a pink flag flying from a turret.

It wasn't possible.

My hand found my chest, my palm feeling the slow, steady beat of my heart.

"I drew them," I whispered.

It felt strange to say it out loud. I'd drawn them. I'd sketched them into a book, and now they were alive.

For a long time there was silence, marred only by silly grins and heavy breathing. The breathing was Foster.

He stood up slowly, his height overwhelming me. He made this world, my world, feel smaller. "You drew them?" he asked. His hand went to his auburn hair, his fingers digging into the strands. There were specks of mud across his cheeks, fanned out like earthy freckles against tanned skin.

My gaze skirted his face. "Remember the sketchbook I used to carry everywhere?" I cleared my throat and swallowed hard. "This is what was inside. This world. These people."

Disbelief warred with logic in his gaze. "This?" He gestured at the sunny skies and rose-shaped clouds. "Do you hear yourself? We were drowning, Perri! Drowning! And I couldn't save you. I couldn't save myself. The TrailBlazer pulled you under, and I got dragged by the current. We're supposed to be dead. Dead!" He squinted at the rose-shaped clouds. "Screw that, I am dead. This isn't real."

It was Princess Elspeth that broke the tension, her index finger pushing up her glasses. "You were never going to die. We brought you here. More specifically, we brought her."

Foster stared at Elspeth, his gaze raking her figure. She was, in all honesty, a pretty young woman. Elspeth squirmed.

Foster laughed. "Brought her here?" He pointed at me, silence stretching once more as he glanced between us. "Oh, that makes it better." Sarcasm dripped from his words. He snorted. "Well, that's great then. You can send me back home. My sister is stuck on the side of an embankment, alone and defenseless."

The princess shook her head. "It's not that easy. We exhausted all of our powers to get Perri here. You were unexpected, but not entirely unwanted. Your sister is fine." She pushed her glasses up again. "The storm ended soon after you disappeared, and she was rescued by men in big red contraptions who tried to pull her conveyance from the water."

"Contraptions?" Foster repeated.

"Fire trucks," I mumbled.

He shook his head. "Conveyance?"

I glanced at him. "It means transportation."

He glared. "I'm not an idiot!"

"Then quit repeating everything," I bit back.

He advanced, his eyes stormy. "I am stuck inside of a picture you drew! Excuse my bewilderment." He glanced at the castle, the people, and the creatures in front of us, his gaze resting finally on the clouds. I was beginning to regret making them into roses. "What's wrong with you, Perri? Do you ever do anything normal?"

It was a slap in the face. It was like standing face to face with my father, his breath hot on my cheeks. "Damn it, Perri! Can you do nothing right?"

My jaw clenched. I avoided looking at him, my gaze going to the characters in front of me. They looked just as real as Foster and me. I wanted to touch them, to run my fingers down their skin to see if I'd find paint on my fingertips when I pulled them away. This was unbelieavable.

"How?" I asked. "Why?"

Princess Elspeth's gaze went to the sky, her shoulders going back. "Not here," she said. "It's not safe here."

My lips parted. "Everything is safe in Awkward."

Elspeth's eyes were sad when she looked at me. "Not anymore."

The group turned, their wings and legs carrying them toward the castle. We had no choice but to follow.

Foster took me by the arm. "Awkward?" he asked quietly.

I didn't dare look up at him.

Chapter 4

"That awkward moment when a grown man is suddenly a part of your childhood fairytale."

~Peregrine Storke~

Foster's eyes were heavy on the back of my head as we approached the castle, a multitude of unanswered questions hanging between us. Heat climbed up my neck; not from passion or lust, but from embarrassment. Somehow, we'd managed to travel through a raging storm in Louisiana only to be carried away by a flood that deposited us in Awkward. While it seemed impossible, it was too vivid to be a dream. This was worse than having someone read your diary. Foster Evans, the boy whose words tormented me years before, was walking through something so much more personal than a journal ... he was walking through my dreams.

Nimble swooped downward, her violet wings tickling my cheeks. "Are you okay, Creator?"

Foster snorted.

"Perri," I insisted, my eyes going to the fairy. She was more dimensional than she was in my sketchbook; her small cheeks fuller and her violet eyes darker than I remembered. "I'm just uncomfortable. Jeans, underwear, and water don't really mesh well."

I was pretty sure I smelled, too, but I left that unsaid. The faint stench of foul mud and unclean water hung over me like a cloud. My hair had dried against my cheeks; stiff and darker than its original dirty blonde.

Nimble threw me a look, her brows creased. "Underwear?"

Foster laughed. "What? You didn't draw panties and boxers for your collection of freaks?" He paused, and I glanced over my shoulder to find him perusing the back of Elspeth's periwinkle dress. "This could get interesting," he muttered. There was underwear in Awkward, but things here were just things. Nimble most likely saw panties as pretty pieces of fabric.

None of my characters seemed fazed by Foster's crude behavior, but I was incensed on their behalf. I turned on him as we reached the palace's entrance. There was no moat around my castle; there didn't need to be. Awkward was a safe place, a haven. Large trees with man-sized leaves stood like sentinels along the path, faint glimpses of colorful wings moving in and out of the foliage.

"I'm scared, too!" I told Foster, my gaze meeting his. Fear not only bred rudeness, it also bred anger and hatred. I knew that. I'd often lived it. My jaw muscles hurt from clenching my teeth.

Foster grunted. "You think I'm afraid?" He waved his hands at the palace. "This is a fairytale, Perri. A child's story! Am I supposed to be afraid of this?"

Anger lit his features, but his ire had found its way into my blood, causing my anger to answer his. This was worse than a silly rhyme about my weight ... worse than having my hair pulled or being cornered in dark classrooms by boys bigger than me just because they knew they could.

"You're right, it is a fairytale," I admitted. "It's my fairytale. It's the story that carried me through childhood. Do me a favor, Foster, and go hang yourself." I glanced at Elspeth, Happenstance, Norma, Nimble, and Weasel. Their eyes were wide, Norma's hands poised to cover Elspeth's ears. It was an innocent gesture. So much innocence.

My gaze returned to Foster. "I don't know how we ended up here, and I don't know why, but you won't destroy this. You won't be another reason to hate myself. This is my world! These people are my family."

I didn't realize I was crying until Weasel approached me. The troll was smaller than I pictured, his head stopping at my shoulders. He was bald and stocky, his entire body a leathery green mass of thick skin and pock marks. He wore plain brown clothes fastened with gold buttons down the front, and he held a top hat in one bulky hand. His eyes were dark as his free hand reached for my face.

. "He doesn't look like he'd taste sweet, but I would be willing to try something new," Weasel remarked, his large eyes full of understanding. Everyone understood everyone in Awkward. It was what I loved most about this world. Weasel had a deep, booming voice that sunk down into my skin and touched my heart.

My gaze slid to Foster. He was quiet now, his handsome face still and expressionless.

"I wouldn't suggest it," I told Weasel. "He doesn't have enough nutritional value."

Foster's lips parted, but a dark shadow cut off his words, a squeal of fright from Elspeth causing us to startle.

King Happenstance pulled at the castle door. "Quickly, everyone! Inside now!"

I was too shocked to move, my eyes going to the sunny Awkward sky. There was something wrong with the clouds. The white fluffy roses looked different, somewhat darker on the edges, as if they were real roses beginning to wilt and die.

"Perri!" I heard Elspeth scream.

She was too late. The overwhelming stench of cheese preceded the dark figure that suddenly barreled into me, stealing my breath for the second time that day as my back hit the ground.

"Roses are orange, violets are green, you've made a mistake starting this scene. Turn and flee. Get far away from here. There's something far darker in this kingdom to fear."

Reemis' dark eyes peered down at me; his rotten teeth bared, his bright scarlet hair like fire on top of his head. He was too heavy, his arm cutting off my oxygen. He was the bullygog I'd drawn when I was fourteen. He looked scarier brought to life.

"Get far away from here," he repeated. "There's something far darker in this kingdom to fear."

Any response I would have given him was cut off by the strange, high-pitched scream of the bullygog as he was thrown backward.

Foster's hand replaced the villain's weight. "Come on!" he commanded.

I took it because fighting him now would have been ridiculous. Foster pulled me upward, his hand guiding me into the palace. As the door closed, I caught a glimpse of scarlet hair slinking into the cover of the forest leaves. Everything was wrong. In Awkward, bullygogs were the outcasts, horrible creatures who spouted awful poetry, but not strong enough to hurt anyone.

"What was that?" Foster asked.

It was Queen Norma who came to stand beside him, her short figure swallowed up by his height. She wasn't the least bit intimidated; her blue squinted eyes sparkling and her rotund cheeks rosy. "That, my dear sir, was you," she said cheerfully.

If there was ever a moment for an earthquake in Awkward, it was now.

Chapter 5

"That awkward moment when you're forced to tell a person you've known for years that you don't particularly like them."

~Peregrine Storke~

Foster froze. "Me?" His eyes found mine, but I didn't meet his gaze.

I glanced at King Happenstance instead. "Why are we here?"

The king watched me, his perfection marred only by the large freckle on the end of his nose. It reminded me of Christmas, of old television replays of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. I'd drawn King Happenstance during the holidays, giving him life during a time when I wanted a father the most.

"It's Awkward," the king said. "It's disappearing."

My brows creased. "Disappearing? Awkward can't disappear. It's not even real."

Princess Elspeth approached me, her hand taking mine. She gripped it hard. "You can say that?" she asked. Her fingers squeezed mine. "You can say that after seeing us? After touching us?" She gestured at the group. "You may have drawn us, but it was much more than you that gave us life."

Nimble landed on Elspeth's shoulder, folding her violet legs Indian-style beneath her. "This is Awkward," the fairy said, her tone level, as if her words explained everything. "You drew this world, but it was thousands upon thousands of boys and girls that brought us to life and kept us here."

Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Foster rubbing his forehead, disbelief warring with unease on his face.

Weasel lifted his top hat and settled it on his bald, green head. "This world is built on awkwardness, on the idea that there is someplace where it's okay to be different. Where it's okay not to be perfect," the troll said. "This world lives in more than one imagination. It was simply your hand that finally gave it a face."

Queen Norma pointed at Foster, her face hard and unfriendly. It was startling. I'd never seen Norma with anything other than a smile. I'd never drawn her without one. "And it is people like him," she accused, "that kept Awkward alive. Bullygogs."

Once again, I dared not look at Foster. He'd been my tormentor once, but we'd been young. I may not like him much better now, but we weren't children anymore. Foster was twenty-two years old. This was wrong. This was a child's world. It wasn't meant for adults.

King Happenstance shook his head. "Do you think it matters that you aren't a child anymore?" he asked.

I stared at him, my face full of horror. I'd not said the words out loud, but this was Awkward. These were characters that often understood me better than I understood myself.

The king smiled. "Even when we grow up, the child remains. It's the child that shapes the adult. What happens to you when you are young shapes what you become later. Whether you think you belong here or not is beside the point. The little girl that drew Awkward still lives inside of you."

My cheeks were hot; not from embarrassment this time, but from the threat of tears. It was true. The child inside, no matter the horror a person lives through, never died. Sometimes, the child became jaded and unfeeling, but he never died.

Foster said nothing behind me, his silence a heavy blanket over the room. He was an outsider. I didn't care what he thought anymore. I didn't care if he belonged here.

My shoulders lifted. "What's wrong with Awkward?" I asked.

Queen Norma gestured at Foster again. "Once, it was people like him that kept this world alive. Now, it's people like him that is destroying it."

Foster held up his hands. "Now, wait a minute. I'm not the enemy here. I don't know what this is, and frankly, I don't care. But I am not the enemy."

I ignored him. "How?" I asked.

Elspeth frowned. It made her spectacles slide to the end of her nose. Her turquoise eyes sparkled. "There is darkness spreading across Awkward. An evil sorceress has risen here. Her magic is strong, destructive." Elspeth paused and swallowed hard. "It's ... seductive. She's already captured ..." Elspeth's shoulders shook. "She's ..."

Nimble patted Elspeth's cheek with her small hand while Queen Norma wrapped an arm around her daughter's waist, her mouth parted as she whispered, "Shhhhhhh."

Nimble's violet eyes grew sad. "The sorceress has bewitched Prince Dash. She's drawn him away from here. He believes he's in love with her."

My heart dropped. "And this sorceress?" I asked. "Who is she?"

King Happenstance embraced his daughter from the opposite side. "Perfection," he answered. "Her name is Perfection."

Foster huffed. "This is ridiculous! Do you hear yourselves? Perfection? Really?" He faced the king. "This is some sort of play on reality, isn't it? An awkward world where perfection is a risk? Do you have a problem with perfection?"

The king's eyes narrowed. "She has a daughter much more dangerous than she is. It's why she drew the prince away. Perfection wants Dash to marry her daughter."

Foster shook his head. "And the daughter's name?"

The king didn't falter. "Stereotype."

Foster laughed. "You've got to be kidding me." His gaze skirted all of us. "Are you trying to tell me that you wouldn't want to be perfect? Do you think people should be awkward?"

The king's head rose. "No," he answered, his dark, royal gaze finding my face. "It isn't about being awkward. It's about not being ashamed to be awkward. It's about embracing what makes us different. Perfection and Stereotype are threats to that."

Something flared inside of my chest. Anger maybe. Hope possibly. Foster had grown close to me during the confrontation, and I placed a hand against his dirty T-shirt, my gaze on the princess, on her sad face and downcast eyes. It had been Elspeth I'd seen screaming in the clouds back home. Her heart had been broken. Hearts weren't supposed to break in Awkward. In Awkward, princesses, even awkward ones, had a prince. In Awkward, princes, even damaged ones, had a princess.

"Tell me what I can do to help."

Chapter 6

"That awkward moment when you find yourself the center of attention and the villain becomes awkward."

~Peregrine Storke~

Foster's agitation was growing. I could see it in the way he looked at me, in the way he looked at all of us.

"We died in that flash flood," Foster mumbled, his fingers running through his hair.

I looked up at him. "You sound so convinced."

His gaze met mine. "Admitting otherwise means acknowledging the rest of this tripe. Tripe. T-R-I-P-E. It means rubbish, garbage, nonsense, drivel, rot, and whatever else you want to call it."

Foster's face was different up close. I'd always thought he didn't have freckles—like his sister had—but I was wrong. The ones he had were faint, disguised by tanned skin and wary expressions.

King Happenstance glanced between us. "You should get cleaned up and changed. We can talk more then," the king said. Louisiana was full of stagnant, swampy water. It didn't make good perfume.

Nimble hopped off of Elspeth's shoulder, her unfortunate wings causing her to fly directly into Foster's neck. To his credit, he didn't blanch or attempt to swipe her away. She sneezed and a shower of violet dust spread outward around us. The taste of watermelon bloomed across my tongue. Foster's fingers touched his mouth in bewilderment.

"Yes, a bath," Nimble muttered, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. She flew backward, motioning for us to follow.

It was strange seeing the palace brought to life. It was as cluttered as I remembered it, the walls stone and painted ivory. Colorful tapestries hung from the ceiling, the woven threads full of discarded pictures I'd drawn growing up. The rest made me flinch.

Three floor-to-ceiling arched windows faced us, the glass overlooking fields of neon flowers and dancing fairies. I'd never focused much on the interior of the palace. I'd mostly used pictures from magazines pasted to fill in the space. It showed.

The palace had electricity because I'd drawn it that way, but where it came from was beyond me. At least a dozen chandeliers hung above us, all of them different, all of them replicas of lighting from home publications I'd found appealing. It was the same with the furniture. Two thick, brown leather sofas sat facing each other along the walls. A matching leather recliner was perched on a dais where a throne should have been. The castle wasn't one of my shining artistic moments.

Foster stared as we followed Nimble, his gaze taking in the winding mahogany staircase she led us to. I had a thing for stairs, especially twisted ones. All staircases should wind, upward and far, so that you always wondered where it led.

Foster glanced at me. "I pity the man you marry, and the house he builds for you," he uttered.

I winced. "I'm an artist, not an interior designer."

"They're not the same thing?" he asked.

My eyes stayed forward, my gaze tracking Nimble. She flew haphazardly up the stairs, her hands outstretched for balance. Guilt swamped me, the emotion warring with pity in my gut. Nimble's wings were different because I'd drawn them that way.

The fairy glanced over her shoulder, her beautiful, bright eyes finding mine, a smile on her small face. She didn't fly into anything, but this was familiar territory for her. Even with a bad wing, it was unlikely she would falter.

There were more stairs, more mismatched chandeliers, and paintings lining a well-lit corridor. Foster's fingers brushed one of the drawings on the wall. It was a charcoal sketch of a girl sitting cross-legged on a simple bed in front of a full-length mirror. The reflection she saw was obviously different from her reality. Her reflection wasn't sitting. In the mirror, she was standing, her body encased in a long, elegant gown. She was in a room, a school gym maybe, surrounded by dance partners.

"Your's?" Foster asked.

The painting was titled Perception. I'd drawn it my sophomore year in high school.

When I didn't answer him, Foster cleared his throat. "It's good," he murmured.

Nimble paused in front of another staircase. It was shorter than the one we'd climbed up before, but just as twisted.

"Your tower," she chirped.

My breathing grew erratic, Foster's presence behind me much heavier than it had been before. "There's another one, right?"

Nimble's brows creased. "You never drew more than two towers. Why would you need to? One for Elspeth, and one for ..."

I cleared my throat. "So we'll share then?"

Nimble glanced between us. "That's not okay?"

My characters were innocent creations, drawn before I'd ever thought about sex. And once I had thought about sex ... well, it just seemed wrong to draw anything pertaining to those fantasies in Awkward. Even if I had, it wouldn't have been with Foster Evans.

We traversed the stairs in uncomfortable silence, the door to the tower opening on to a painfully beautiful scene. It was the only room I'd taken time to draw. It was my room. There were two towers in the castle. Two towers for two princesses, Elspeth and Peregrine Storke.

My room was a circular stone tower with an impressive chandelier hanging from the conical ceiling. A large, arched window overlooked mountains, fields, and waterfalls. It was the waterfalls that drew the eye. Their pounding cascade threw rainbows into the air, the spray visible even from the room. Huge, elaborate painted murals of trees with low hanging limbs and vines full of white roses climbed the tower walls. A gauzy, white lace canopy was draped over a massive bed with a mattress thick and soft enough to sink into. No less than eight satin-covered pillows leaned against the headboard.

A domed doorway to the side of the bed led to a grand claw-foot tub sitting within a recessed part of the tower. There was no door to hide the bath. Everything was overly large in my room because the idea of sleeping and bathing in something too large made me feel smaller.

Foster gaped, spinning slowly as he stepped into the room. "Well, you certainly had no delusions of grandeur."

Nimble flew over his head, leaving a trail of violet sparkles falling over his mud speckled hair. Foster swiped at his mouth.

"All princesses should have a tower," Nimble said. She gestured at a large whitewashed vanity and armoire. "There are clothes within. I even stowed a few of Prince Dash's things in there once I became aware the boy was being brought into Awkward, too."

Foster's gaze grew sharp. "Boy?"

Nimble shrugged, more sparkles fanning out behind her as she exited the tower, her lips curling upward.

The closing door was too loud, the click final.

Foster faced me. "Have you ever considered therapy?"

His words mocked me, but his eyes were full of something different. Confusion, maybe. Pity. Guilt.

"Don't," I whispered.

It was all I said, my feet taking me to the arched doorway and claw-foot tub. Water rushed from the faucet, steam rising from the basin. Plumbing and light poles didn't exist in Awkward, but it didn't matter. Things still worked. Awkward wasn't sensible. It was easy, comfortable, and different. It was my life's easy button.

When I turned toward the armoire, I found Foster watching me, his brows creased.

"Who are you?" he asked.

I moved past him, opening the doors of the wardrobe to find what I'd always known was there—fancy, full gowns made of silk, satin, and velvet. I'd always wanted dresses like these, but I was older now, and they seemed less important. What once seemed beautiful appeared too heavy and uncomfortable now. I opted for one of the tunics left for Foster. It was a blue tunic, the fabric lightweight and long. It would reach my knees. Panties also lined the shelves. They were beautiful scraps of lace and cotton I'd found in Victoria's Secret magazines. Awkward was a strange mix of modern, bizarre, and antiquity.

"You know who I am," I mumbled, moving past him once more.

Foster's voice followed me. "Do I?"

He gave me his back when I glanced at him, and I stripped out of my damp, muddy clothes before climbing into the tub. There was no time to enjoy the water. Rose-carved soap rested inside a groove in the basin, and I scrubbed with it, running the suds through my hair and down my skin before rinsing. There were pale stretch marks on my waist, too light to be visible from a distance. It was a myth that only pregnant women had stretched skin.

"This is unbelievable," Foster remarked.

I was beginning to discover something about Camilla's brother. He didn't like silence.

"What?" I asked. "The fact that we're alive or that we're inside a series of drawings?"

Terry cloth towels engraved with a P hung on a rod behind the tub, and I wrapped one of them around myself. Bruises from the TrailBlazer marred my skin, the fabric pressing into them, and I winced as I lifted the tunic. I'd just managed to pull it over my head when Foster faced me again.

"It's unbelievable you drew this world in the first place. What is this, Perri?"

There had been a belt in the wardrobe, and after cinching it around my waist, I slid on a pair of underwear and brown boots.

My gaze met Foster's. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"

Foster watched me, his hands reaching for the hem of his T-shirt. He pulled it over his head, letting the dirt-streaked material fall to the floor. He had broad shoulders, his muscled chest smooth. The skin there was lighter than the skin on his arms. Faint freckles stained his shoulders, mingling with an inked Celtic wolf on his bicep.

My gaze followed the design as Foster pulled the remaining tunic from the wardrobe. The white, folded fabric rested on top of fawn-colored breeches. If Foster seemed reluctant to wear the clothes, he gave no sign of it.

The sound of running water filled my ears, steam rising once more from the tub. I gave Foster my back.

"It's a fantasy," I said. "Awkward is a fantasy."

Water splashed. "A fantasy where I'm a smelly poet called a bullygog?" Foster asked.

His words forced a laugh from me. "You were always good with rhymes after all."

Silence.

"Perri—" he began.

"Don't," I pleaded.

More splashing. "We were children."

I whirled, my eyes flashing. He remained sitting in the tub, the lower half of his body hidden by the porcelain. Even as large as the bath was, he still filled it.

"I was fourteen," I snapped. "And seventeen-year-old boys aren't children."

His eyes lowered, the wolf on his arm howling at me as he gripped the tub.

My gaze dropped to the floor as he stood. "Don't attempt to validate your behavior or mine," I told him. "Awkward is a fairytale. It was my fairytale. My world. It was never meant for anyone else to see. Don't make this place more than it is."

More silence.

"And yet," he said finally, "we're here, and there's something wrong in your awkward world. Was your childhood that bad? You had friends, Perri. You had Camilla, a friend you could trust."

My gaze followed his bare feet as he stepped from the tub and pulled on the breeches, the hem of the tunic falling over the fawn-colored pants. He left it untucked.

"It must have been a strong fantasy," he continued, "if you were able to bring it to life. A kingdom threatened now by perfection. You fear it so much?"

My gaze slid to his. "You're wrong," I pointed out. "This is perfect. This world has always been perfect to me. Perfection is how you perceive it."

"Is it?" Foster asked. "Then why create a world where nothing is perfect?" He approached me, his fingers rolling up the tunic's long sleeves, leaving the fabric bunched around his elbows. "It was a rhyme, Perri. A stupid rhyme made up to tease my sister's friend."

My gaze held his. "Words take on a life of their own. What started as a stupid rhyme for you became a weapon for an entire school. Your words were sung to me while I was cornered in empty classrooms. It was hummed behind my back as empty candy wrappers fell from my locker taped to notes that read, 'Starve, bitch, starve'. I'm not that fourteen-year-old girl anymore, but don't play off something that once scarred the girl I left behind."

I attempted to brush past him, but his hand gripped my arm, his eyes scanning the room. There was something familiar about this tower, and he knew it. I'd often envied Camilla her home, her room. Foster and Camilla's parents weren't wealthy, but they'd managed where my parents hadn't. There weren't piles of empty liquor bottles stacked inside of their kitchen sink or prescription pain killers lining their cabinets.

The Evans' bedrooms were havens. Camilla's had been full of sunshine, her walls covered in decals of bright sunflowers, her bed covered in a gauzy, yellow canopy. My real bedroom, the one outside Awkward, was nothing more than hand drawn sketches and a mattress with a broken box spring. But when I closed my eyes ...

"Perri—"

Foster's words were drowned out by the sound of something exploding, a scream echoing through the palace.

"Fudgepucket!" someone yelled.

I couldn't breathe; my chest was covered by Foster's heavy weight. He'd flown into me, his body knocking mine to the ground at the sound of the explosion. His arms were shaking, and his eyes were wild and distant. It was several moments before he looked at me, his breathing slowing. His arms kept his weight from crushing me.

There was something in his gaze, something marring his beautiful brows. I'd always thought of Foster as perfect, his rhyme having cemented him in my memory not only as a villain, but a devastatingly beautiful one. The horror on his face now sent niggling doubt vibrating down my spine.

He ruined the moment before it even began. "Fudgepucket?" he sneered.

I cleared my throat. "That," I said slowly, "would be Herman."

Chapter 7

"That awkward moment when you meet a worm more intelligent than you are."

~Peregrine Storke~

Foster followed me out of the tower, our thudding boots echoing on the stairs. "Let me guess, Herman is a cross-eyed monkey with a penchant for causing trouble?" he asked.

Despite my best efforts not to smile, my lips twitched. "I applaud your sudden creativity, but no."

"A pixie with bad allergies whose snot tastes like licorice?" he tried again.

This time I chuckled. "So you tasted Nimble's fairy dust? Tastes like—"

"Watermelon," we finished together.

He frowned. "I don't like watermelon." I would have snorted, but he followed it with, "So no pixie then? A mermaid with scaly legs rather than a tail?"

There weren't many rooms or doors inside of my palace. Outside of the castle's main hall, the two towers, and a room for King Happenstance and Queen Norma, I'd only drawn one other space. The door, like all of the doors, was arched.

My fingers found the wood, and I pushed it open. "No," I told Foster. "Herman," I gestured at the chaos within, my gaze falling on splayed books and overturned tables littering the floor, "is a worm."

There, in the midst of what looked like an explosion of colorful paint, sat a small green shape lounging on an open book, his overly large, black glasses askew. Herman, the bookworm. Nimble flew chaotically around him, her hands wringing and her expression flustered.

Herman frowned. "I told you to wait before you mixed it. The pink doesn't go with the green."

Nimble shrugged. "It looked so pretty."

"Tittletat!" Herman swore.

Behind me, Foster muttered, "A worm ... of course."

Herman glanced up sharply, his gaze peering over his glasses at Foster's incredulous face. "A lumbricus libri," he corrected.

Sheepishness prompted me to translate. "A bookworm," I explained.

Foster's lips parted, a small laugh escaping. "Were you dropped on your head as a baby?"

My gaze met his. "No head injuries, I'm afraid. My mother taking too many painkillers ... maybe."

Foster grew still, his eyes searching mine. "I'd laugh, but that doesn't sound like a joke."

My gaze held his. "It isn't."

Awkward silence in Awkward wasn't any less awkward than it would be in the real world.

Foster's eyes narrowed. "Perri—"

"This is all wrong," Herman exclaimed. He straightened his glasses, his small body sliding across the page of the book he rested on. I'd drawn him tiny arms when I created him. It was at odds with his wormlike body, but the arms were useful now.

My gaze fell on the worm. "What are you trying to do?"

Herman sighed. "Create a resolution potion," he answered, his small hand running across the page.

Foster drew closer to me. "Magic?" Foster asked. He glanced at all of us. "A resolution potion? Do you really think magic can fix this?"

Herman's magnified eyes widened. "Not in your world, but this is Awkward."

Unease filled my gut, my gaze taking in the spewed paint. "Magic," I murmured. My heart sank. "Your magic is paint."

"It's imagination," a voice answered from the library's entrance. Elspeth crossed the threshold, her eyes sad, her body enfolded in a silver gown that emphasized her honey-colored hair and turquoise eyes. It seemed at odds with her golden spectacles, but then again, there was always something odd about everything in Awkward. "And creativity," she added. "Paint is a part of that. Words, too, and dreams."

Foster stared at her. Elspeth was beautiful. Her spectacles only made her more so, not less. "And yet," he said, "you now have enemies in your little world that shouldn't belong here. Perfection and Stereotype. If they don't belong here, do you really believe they can be destroyed with something that does belong here?"

Elspeth frowned. "Imagination can fix anything."

I was beginning to see where Foster was going with his words, and my shoulders fell. "Not everything," I remarked. "If something is perfect, then there is nothing to fix."

My awkward characters were innocent and naïve, but they weren't stupid.

Elspeth's face fell. "Then there is no way to defeat Perfection?"

Foster glanced between us. "Would you want to?" he asked.

Anger roared through my veins. "I certainly wouldn't want Perfection to win a war."

Foster's eyes met mine. "So, this is a war, then?"

There was something in his gaze. Wariness, maybe?

It was Elspeth who broke the tension. "We need to free Prince Dash." Her voice was full of determination and choked sobs.

Foster sighed. "Do you know where he is?"

Elspeth laughed, the sound verging on hysteria. "He's locked inside of a tower, trapped in Perfection's kingdom. Her kingdom has many names. Utopia, Eden, Flawless ..." Her words trailed off.

Foster watched her. "And you think this Prince Dash wants to be set free?"

Elspeth's head shot up. "Of course he does!"

"And yet he believes he's in love with Perfection?" Foster asked.

Elspeth sputtered, a tear leaking from her eye. It left a trail of sparkles down her cheek. Tears didn't belong in Awkward, but when they came, they were beautiful.

My hand found the crook of Foster's elbow, and I gripped his skin, my fingers pressing into his flesh, my gaze going to his face. "Tell me," I whispered, "if you were in love would you want it to be perfect love? Would you want it to be the kind of love where nothing could ever be awkward between you, where you could make no mistakes? A love where you never argued?"

Foster stared. "I've heard a little about your family from Camilla. I would think you, more than anyone, would want perfect love," he answered.

I laughed, the sound short. "It was trying to strive for perfection that destroyed my parents, Foster. I wouldn't want perfect love. I want true love, the kind that doesn't depend on pretending to be better than I am." I glanced at Elspeth, my gaze soft. "Love isn't roses. It's those little square caramels and a root beer from the gas station because he knows that's your favorite snack. It's watching a musical with you without groaning. It's handing you your glasses at night because he knows you're too blind to find your way to the bathroom without them. Love is awkward."

Elspeth grinned, her eyes watery. She was beautiful.

"Let's save Dash," I declared.

Nimble clapped, violet dust flying.

Foster's hand covered mine on his arm. "If I'm being forced to join your war, do me a favor." He glanced at Nimble. "Make her dust taste like a quarter pounder with cheese."

Chapter 8

"That awkward moment when you realize men are much more agreeable after they've eaten."

~Peregrine Storke~

It surprised me that there was food in Awkward. Candy, yes, but food ...

"You're not hungry?" King Happenstance asked.

We'd left the library a somber group. Occasionally, Elspeth sniffled, but mostly she frowned, her cheeks covered in glitter. Her sniffles were wrong. Awkward had always been my escape from tears. Dreams were dreams, reality wasn't supposed to intrude.

"The food?" King Happenstance asked again.

I glanced down at the bowl in front of me, my lips pinched. We'd been led to a dining room on the first floor, the space brought to life by more pasted pictures. The table was long and mahogany with a shining, polished surface, but none of the chairs matched. All of them were cushioned, each of them with a different color. My chair was yellow.

My fingers gripped a silver spoon, the end of it twirling through a murky liquid inside of a white porcelain bowl patterned in green vines.

"What is it?" I asked.

Steam tickled my nose. Foster didn't share my reservations. He ate greedily, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

He caught me looking and shrugged. "Have you ever eaten an MRE?" he asked.

MRE's were prepackaged foods handed out to soldiers in the field. I'd seen them lying around Camilla's house when Foster was in residence, but we'd never been interested in trying one.

Foster saluted me with his spoon. "Compared to those, this is fine cuisine."

His words prompted me to eat. Hot liquid slid down my tongue. It tasted distinctly Asian, the flavor blossoming and growing.

Queen Norma gestured at the bowls. "It becomes whatever you wish it to be."

The warmth was comforting, the taste was amazing, and the rumble in my gut was appeased. The fog lifted from my brain. We were in Awkward, my characters were alive, and I was going on a strange fairytale quest with a guy I'd always viewed with distrust and hatred.

My gaze found the side of Foster's face. He was Camilla's brother, a teasing prankster in high school, an athlete, a warrior, and a man. We'd both grown up. Although he'd seen more of the world, tasted its harsh reality, I'd been raised in its shadows. He strove for perfection, but he was still willing to help fight for a world he'd been dragged into and forced to believe was real.

Foster glanced up, his gaze meeting mine before sliding down the table. "Do you have a plan for getting this prince out?"

King Happenstance's eyes found my face. "There's really only one way to save Dash." The rumble in my gut—relieved by the strange soup—was replaced by queasiness. "Awkward is a beautiful place," the king continued, "a sanctuary for those who feel uncomfortable in their own world. It's a place that embraces differences."

The king wore a long blue robe, the neck made of fluffy white material that ended just below his chin. It brought more attention to his nose. His hand vanished inside the folds of his robe. "The prince is being held in Flawless. The trip there is fraught with peril. Nothing will change that. The journey is full of obstacles created to test the most awkward of people." Happenstance pulled an empty sketchbook free of the blue garment, a pencil attached to its cover. "And yet, it is only those who are awkward who can defeat her, for those who are truly awkward are rarely seeking perfection."

He slid the sketchbook down the table, the leather bound volume guided by many hands before pausing in front of me. I stared down at it.

"You drew Awkward," Queen Norma added. "Our story isn't over yet."

Foster cleared his throat. "She's supposed to draw the prince to safety?"

My palm found the sketchbook's cover, the cool feel of it sinking into my fingers. "No," I whispered, my gaze finding the awkward faces at the table. "I'm supposed to record it, to make his rescue more than a simple adventure. I'm supposed to make it real."

Nimble smiled. "Your pictures have created a safe haven. Now, they create something deeper."

Foster's gaze filled with confusion, but it was enough that I understood. Tucking the sketchbook against my chest, I stood. "How long do we have?" I asked.

Everyone rose. "Things aren't measured by time here," Norma remarked, "but you don't have long. Maybe a week by your standards. Use this to gauge your progress." She handed Foster a glass ball just large enough to fit in the palm of his hand. "It changes color," she explained. "Once it turns black, you are out of time. Each time it changes, the closer you are to defeat."

King Happenstance ran a finger down the polished mahogany table. "You'll begin in the Swamp of Sadness. It starts just beyond Awkward. Parts of our kingdom have been destroyed by Perfection, our people turned into creatures we no longer recognize. There are creatures in the swamp, beautiful creatures that will lure you to your death. They are the Sirens of Shame." He glanced at Foster and me. "The swamp is just the beginning. Flawless is a kingdom created to test all men, and it's eating Awkward alive. Only those who are truly perfect are meant to succeed."

My face fell. "Only those who are truly perfect?" I asked.

The king watched me. "Don't forget that you drew this kingdom, Perri. Don't forget that perfect means different things to different people."

Happenstance was the father of my heart. He hadn't raised me. It hadn't been his words that often tore me down, berated me, and shamed me. It was his picture that had carried me through childhood, his smiling face and freckled nose. I'd always wondered what it would be like to hug him.

"The only way to save the prince is to survive whatever Perfection throws at you, to make it to his tower, and then overcome his Dungeon of Despair. His dungeon, his tower, is different things to different people. For some, it is full of light. For others, it is full of darkness," the king muttered.

I was afraid of the dark. My father had made me afraid of it. He'd been paranoid of darkness, of the things hidden within it. He was a strange man, my father. He'd made me afraid of things no child should ever be afraid of. I saw what the dungeon would mean for me in the king's expression, and I shivered.

King Happenstance smiled, his eyes sad. Pushing away from the head of the table, he moved to embrace me. I let him, because if he was right, I was about to face a journey full of my greatest fears. He didn't have to tell me what I should be afraid of. I knew.

My cheek rested against the king's robe, the blue velvet tickling my nose. He smelled like blueberry tarts and sunshine. For the first time, I didn't have to wonder what it would be like to be embraced by my imaginary father. Right now, in this moment, I let myself enjoy the reality.

Chapter 9

"That awkward moment when you find yourself sleeping next to the enemy."

~Peregrine Storke~

Day bled into twilight. Even though the sun rose and fell in Awkward, time was different here. There were no days of the week, and nothing to determine what time of year it was. It's why the seasons in Awkward were so odd. Awkward had a long fall and spring with a shorter summer and winter. It was fall now. I could feel it in the air, the mild temperature and blooming flowers an Awkward trademark. It was never chilly in fall. It was never cold in winter.

Night had fallen in Awkward while we convened in the dining room. It was a warm, fragrant night, a large full moon visible from the tower where I stood now. The vines crawling along the bedroom wall were made pale by the moonlight, the white roses luminescent. In Awkward, the moon was always full, the stars always bright. It was never truly dark.

"The Swamp of Sadness," Foster mumbled.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed when I faced him, his elbows on his knees, his fingers in his hair. He'd removed his tunic and draped it on the headboard. The wolf on his arm yawned at me.

"Don't start," I muttered.

He glanced at me. "What prompted you to draw this place?"

There was no censor in his tone, no sarcasm in his words. There was only curiosity.

The bed creaked as I sat opposite him, my back facing his back. "Haven't you ever felt ... I don't know, outside of things?" I asked.

Foster shifted, the bed dipping as he reclined against the pillows piled on the bed. "Everyone does at one time or another, but they don't draw kingdoms where nothing is normal."

I leaned back, my bare feet resting next to his on the comforter. I'd found a white linen gown in the armoire, the hem stopping just below the knees, and I sported it now. The tunic I'd worn was folded and waiting for the sun to rise.

"No," I agreed, "most people work too hard to try and fit in. Most people change themselves. They'd rather strive too hard to fit into a perfect world than belong in one where no one is perfect."

There were three pillows under Foster's head, and he removed two of them, throwing them on to the floor next to him. I never slept with less than three pillows.

His hazel eyes found mine. "There's nothing wrong with fitting in, Perri."

My eyes narrowed. "Maybe ... but Awkward is more than that for me. I didn't create it just because I wanted a world where everyone wasn't normal. It wasn't just about belonging. These characters are the family I never had. They accept me for who I am."

Foster's eyes searched mine. The teasing boy he'd always been lay inside that gaze, but there was also something harder. Not cruel, but honest. Too honest. The kind of honesty that hurts. "They accept you because they're different, too," he pointed out. "It's good to want a world where you fit in, but the real world is full of people who believe they are perfect. You can't live here, Perri."

I looked away, my gaze tracing the gauzy canopy over the bed. Through it, the climbing vines and moonlit roses stared at me. "And you can't be perfect," I told him.

Silence stretched. Foster was a heavy weight next to me. The only person I'd ever shared a bed with was Camilla, and she didn't smell like her brother. She smelled like lilacs, and she snored. Loudly. I'd also owned a dog once that slept with me. He was a stray with springy brown hair I'd found outside of a dump. Even after a bath, he'd had fleas and smelled faintly of cabbage. That relationship had ended with scabbed over bites on my legs and ringing ears from my father's yells. He'd sent the dog to the pound. I never saw him again.

"Did your father hit you?" Foster asked suddenly.

My gaze shot to his face. "What?"

He didn't look at me. "You look for acceptance in an awkward world, and you shy away from people. It makes sense."

I stared. "My father hitting me makes sense?"

Even as large as the bed was, Foster took up a lot of room. He propped one arm under his head, the other falling to the comforter beside my hip. "Did he?" he asked.

My lips parted. "No. He wasn't that kind of drunk. But what he couldn't do with his fists, he did with his words. There were times I'd rather have bruises than his stinging opinion."

Foster's fingers tapped my hip, and I glanced down at his tanned skin. The contrast between his flesh and my nightgown was startling. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

His apology shocked me, his words washing over me like a fine wine, leaving me warm and confused.

"Sorry?"

He sighed. "I'm not your father. I was just a boy who lived to tease his sister and anyone who hung out with her. The rhyme was cruel. It was wrong."

There's nothing worse than having someone you've villainized admit he was wrong. There's nothing worse than admitting someone's words had done more than tear you down, they'd made you angry enough to fight back. There's nothing worse than having to forgive someone whose words gave you strength.

I swallowed hard. "I don't know what to say."

I didn't want to tell him it was okay. I didn't want to tell him that I thought he was better than his words. I knew who Foster really was. Camilla had often talked about her brother, about the way he'd helped her pass math and about the time he'd cornered her ex, Roger Philips, outside school because Roger had cheated on her with Daisy Beaumont. Foster wasn't evil, he was arrogant. Arrogance wasn't a sin.

The corner of Foster's lips twitched. "I didn't think you would," he said.

I couldn't tell him it was okay, and he knew that.

He rolled onto his side. "Go to sleep, Perri. We have to find a Swamp of Sadness tomorrow."

There was humor and a touch of sarcasm just beneath his words. It was funny. Trying to be serious inside a world of neon flowers and fairies with watermelon-flavored pixie dust felt like trying to laugh while watching a sad movie. The worst part: I kind of liked lying next to Foster. His arrogance didn't keep me from wondering what it would be like to share more than a bed with him. And thinking about sex inside a world of candy loving trolls and bespectacled bookworms was just plain ... awkward.

Foster grew still, his breathing deep before growing uneven. He didn't snore like his sister. He thrashed. A lot.

Chapter 10

"That awkward moment when you discover the guy you never wanted to know becomes the guy you want to understand."

~Peregrine Storke~

I woke up tangled in the sheets, Foster's arm and leg a heavy weight on my chest and hip. My gown had ridden up to my thighs and was bunched under my back. Foster's skin was hot, leaving my flesh clammy where his arm rested. It wasn't the least bit comfortable or romantic. Horribly tangled hair rested against my shoulders, my chin stiff from dried drool. I might not snore, but I often slept with my mouth open.

Foster stirred, his auburn hair in spiky tufts. A crease from his pillow marred his cheek. Waking up with a guy wasn't anything like the movies. It wasn't stylish or heartwarming ... or maybe it was if you had sex with them. Otherwise, it was just embarrassing. Self-consciously, I cupped my hand over my mouth and blew into my palm. It was as close as I was getting to checking for bad breath.

Sunlight slanted across the room, slowly climbing over the bed, the soft orange glow turning the comforter more cream than white. A breeze pulled at the gauzy canopy, its early morning chill raising goose bumps on my neck.

"You kick when you sleep," I complained.

Foster wasn't the only one who didn't like silence. Silence was louder than noise. I often filled it with awkward, nonsensical conversation.

Foster sat up, his gaze sweeping my face, his body no longer weighing me down. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and ran his hand across his jaw. There was stubble on his chin, the short bristles the same color as his hair.

"You drool," he muttered.

Heat climbed up my neck.

He pulled the tunic he'd worn the day before from the headboard and tugged it over his head, his gaze finding my face. "Drooling is nothing. I dated a girl once who liked to slather mayonnaise on her face right before bed. Some fool notion about mayo and smooth skin. She smelled like the mess even after she washed it off. It was like sleeping with a sandwich."

He shuddered, his reaction breaking the tension in the room.

I stood and moved to the armoire. "You don't like mayonnaise I gather."

Foster exhaled. "Not mayonnaise, tomatoes, or watermelon. Nor cabbage, carrots, or seafood. And definitely not anything with those in it."

Yanking the gown straps down my arms, I pulled the blue tunic over my head before letting the gown fall to the floor. I wore lacy panties beneath, but no bra. I might have pasted pictures of girlie underwear into my fantasy world, but what girl truly wants to wear a bra unless they have to? I was paying for the oversight now. It had been easy to overlook the day before, but sleeping next to a man, even without truly touching him, made me more aware of my body. Now I'd worry about my nipples showing.

I crossed my arms. "You live in Louisiana, Foster. What the hell do you eat?"

He pulled on his boots. "Asks the girl who draws fairytales."

Laughter bubbled up, escaping my lips before ending in a snort.

Foster glanced at me. "Did you snort?"

My palm came up to cover my mouth, leaving my braless chest exposed. My mother used to tell me I laughed like a hyena. She was right. My laugh was terrible and almost always ended on a snort. Like a hyena wrestling with a pig.

I was saved by a fairy.

Nimble burst through the window, violet dust flying. Foster scowled.

"Good morning!" she greeted, her purple teeth flashing as she flew into the bed's canopy. The gauzy lace caught her. She struggled, her giggle loud as she untangled herself. "We're ready to go!"

Foster's eyes widened. "We're?"

Nimble pulled herself free of the lace. "Well, of course! You can't go alone, you know. Elspeth, Weasel, Herman, and I are traveling with you!"

There was too much chirpiness in her statement, as if her cheerfulness would somehow dispel the thunderous frown marring Foster's face. I wanted to laugh-snort again, but swallowed it. He didn't need a reminder of why Awkward was a perfect place for me.

Foster stood, his height and breadth causing Nimble to fly backward, her gaze wary. She crashed into my tangled hair, her thrashing and violet dust causing me to rethink my love for watermelons. Nothing tasted good in large quantities.

"You should really brush that," Nimble said, her small fingers jerking at the strands and tugging the roots from my scalp.

I plucked her free and searched for a comb.

Foster pulled the glass ball Queen Norma had given him out of a pocket in his tunic. The small orb had been a cloudy yellow the day before. It was shot through with green now, the colors just beginning to mingle.

Nimble gasped. "We need to hurry!" she said.

Foster's gaze met mine.

I glanced at Nimble. "What exactly happens if we don't make it to Prince Dash before the ball turns black?"

Her face fell. "Awkward dies." This wasn't new; I knew Awkward was in danger of disappearing. Nimble brushed her wings against my cheek. "It's not just Awkward," the fairy added, her gaze finding mine. "If we die, then you die. Perfection isn't just defeating our kingdom. She won't chance leaving alive the girl who brought us to life."

Chapter 11

"That awkward moment when you realize the world you thought would last forever could be the world that destroyed you."

~Peregrine Storke~

"You're beautiful," I told myself, my voice deep, mimicking the way I thought King Happenstance would sound. My pencil scratched the paper in front of me, my finger pausing occasionally to smudge a line or trace a feature. The king was smiling, his eyes watching me. There were words in his gaze. Simple words. Three words. "I love you."

"Damn it, Perri!" My father's yells enveloped me, the words terrible even from a room away. "What did I ever do to deserve you?" he asked. "Can't you try to be normal?"

While Dad yelled, King Happenstance grew, his features becoming more prominent, the look in his eyes growing deeper. There was understanding in his gaze. I gave him a flowing robe and a regal nose. Christmas lights from the house next door threw a glow into my room, the multicolored illumination transforming the king into something magical.

"Damn it, Perri! Do you hear me?" Dad yelled. "Don't you have friends? Can you manage that much at least?"

The freckle on King Happenstance's nose was born from those words, the imperfection suddenly beautiful to me. Like a human version of Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer, a perfect king with an imperfection that helped rather than hindered him. Happenstance was the father of a princess who wore spectacles and was obsessed with birds. He was proud of her. He cared about her. He encouraged her. He embraced her. I named him Happenstance because it was chance that chose my parents. Chance chose my father, and I chose to create another ...

The memory washed over me as we stood outside of the palace, early morning light creating a halo around everything. Songbirds surrounded us, their lilting tunes filling the air as King Happenstance and Queen Norma embraced Princess Elspeth. Her spectacles were askew, sparkling tears glistening on her cheeks. For the first time since I drew them, I felt like an outsider.

"It's going to be okay," the king told his daughter.

Too many times in my life, I'd wanted to hear that from my parents. Instead, I'd heard things like, "Buck up!" or, "You won't make it in life if you don't develop a tough skin."

Nimble flew back and forth above me, her presence leaving that omnipresent taste of watermelon, her eyes glistening. I couldn't help but wonder what fairy tears tasted like. What flavor would I give them? My tears tasted like salt, but a fairy ...

King Happenstance pulled Elspeth into a brutal embrace, hard enough to make her both laugh and cough. I felt it all the way to my bones.

"You were supposed to be Elspeth, weren't you?" Foster's voice asked from beside me.

Shrugging felt the only safe thing to do.

Foster grew silent, his gaze on the group before us. Weasel lifted his top hat. It was a crooked hat with a wilted sunflower on the brim. The hat was too small for the troll's head, but it never fell off. It wasn't supposed to fall off. The buttons on his brown jacket were strained, his belly dangerously close to forcing them open. But no matter how big his stomach grew, his clothes would accommodate him. Everything in Awkward was accommodating. Except Perfection.

I'd drawn a world I would die in. It seemed ironic really, an awkward world becoming an awkward coffin for an awkward girl. Even Foster wasn't laughing now. This wasn't just a fairytale anymore; it was a dangerous story with real consequences.

The sad part was neither Foster nor I believed we were capable of winning. Perfection could not be defeated. It was impossible to defeat something that was perfect. I was convinced I could never be flawless, and Foster saw nothing wrong with wanting to be perfect. It was a lose-lose situation.

And yet, I wasn't ready to let go. This was my world, my people. The captain of a ship always went down with his crew if his vessel sank, and he went down fighting.

King Happenstance's eyes met mine over Elspeth's head. "Remember, the way we perceive ourselves is often nothing like what we really are," he said.

His lips brushed his daughter's forehead before he stepped away, his hands clasped behind his back. Even as silly as Foster thought this world was, there was no missing the overwhelming emotion and sense of desperation that filled the air. The songbirds circled us, their wings fluttering, their beautiful tune becoming shrill. Two of them landed on Elspeth's shoulders. A faint breeze tugged at her honey-colored hair, the strands pulled across her face. Light danced off of her spectacles. I'd once seen glasses as something to be ashamed of. Why I ever thought they made her awkward was beyond me. She was beautiful.

Queen Norma sniffled, her hands patting a pocket in her elaborate rose-hued gown. It made her look slightly larger than what she was, like an over ripe tomato, and yet she glowed.

"Now what did I do with my kerchief?" she murmured.

King Happenstance tugged a folded scrap of fabric from his robe and offered it to his wife. She blew into it noisily.

"Be safe, my dear," Norma sobbed. She clutched Elspeth's hand.

Foster began to move, but I stopped him, my fingers twisted in his tunic. "Let them be."

He ignored me, his jaw tight. "The princess doesn't have to go. None of you do," he insisted.

Elspeth stiffened. "We may not know a lot about danger in Awkward, but there is one thing we know well." With her arms crossed, she glared at him. "Love," she announced proudly. "We know love."

She walked away then, her head held high, her loyal songbirds trailing after her. Weasel ambled in her wake, Herman the bookworm peeking out from under the troll's hat. A pack full of food and water bobbed up and down on Weasel's back. Nimble flew above them.

"Don't forget to draw," King Happenstance said, his gaze on my belt.

I'd refastened the leather girdle I'd found in the armoire around the blue tunic I wore and rigged it to carry the sketchbook the king had given me. Patting it, I smiled. Happenstance inclined his head, something akin to pride in his gaze. It was a new emotion for me, pride.

A hand at my elbow prompted me to move, and I pursued the group ahead, Foster at my side. His fingers played along a belt similar to mine, the strap stretching from his shoulder to his waist. He'd left me after Nimble's dire announcement earlier that morning, returning maybe twenty minutes later with a pouch attached to a rigged leather belt, the strings pulled closed. By the shape of the object within, I knew it held the ball Norma had given him. Opposite the pouch was a dagger, the blade covered by a plain scabbard and tucked into the belt. Where he'd found it was beyond me. His resourcefulness, however, didn't surprise me in the least. It was Foster that suggested I rig my own belt.

"If we go through here—" Herman began.

"The swamp is this way," Weasel cut in.

The worm scoffed. "I'm looking at the map right now, Weasel. The swamp is that way."

The troll's top hat lifted, revealing the book worm, and a wrinkled piece of parchment beneath.

Nimble hovered over Weasel's bald head. "I concur with the worm simply because he's never been wrong," the fairy chirped.

Elspeth slowed. "Never wrong, true, but things are changing in Awkward. The land is being swallowed by Perfection. What once used to be in one place may now be in another."

Herman slid across the page. "This is the most recent map available."

Foster and I caught up with the group, our eyes skirting the crude drawing laid out on the troll's head.

Recognition made me wince. "Herman, I drew that map six years ago."

Foster plucked the page off of Weasel's head. Herman cried out, his small arms grabbing at the troll's skin. It was Nimble who righted him, her purple teeth flashing as she straightened his glasses.

Foster's dubious gaze scanned the scrawled lines and rough sketches. "Recent, huh?" he asked.

My gaze went to the sky, to the rose-shaped clouds and the strange blackness pervading them. Awkward was being eaten by darkness.

"I never drew a swamp in Awkward," I murmured.

Elspeth came to stand next to me, her shoulder touching mine. The smell of honeysuckle tickled my nose. "You drew a beautiful glade full of waterfalls and shallow pools."

I gasped. "The Glen of Gladness."

Elspeth winced. "It was once. Many are drawn in by Perfection. She offers them the chance to be completely without fault. While it's a nice thought, this precision she offers isn't without sacrifice. They get perfection, but each time, part of Awkward dies.

My fingers brushed the sketchbook at my waist. "The mermaids in the glen?" I asked.

Elspeth nodded. "They are the sirens now. They are perfect, beautiful, and dangerous."

My gaze passed over the group, my eyes meeting the downfallen expressions and wistful frowns surrounding me.

Determination filled me. "Come," I said, "I don't need a map."

Elspeth started to sputter, but my sharp glance made her pause. "This is my world," I pointed out. "No matter how many awkward people helped bring it to life, I drew it. Even if it's changed, I know where everything is here."

Silence answered me, their heads bowing. For the first time since waking up in Awkward, I felt like a princess. It didn't matter that I was wearing a man's tunic like a dress with no bra, my hair more tangled than straight. It didn't matter that there was no makeup here, no way to hide behind beauty products. I had drawn Awkward because this was the one place I felt comfortable being me.

My feet moved, my back straight as I walked. The sun was high in the sky, but it wasn't hot. The air was warm, a slight breeze playing over our group. Trees loomed before us, a meadow full of wildflowers between us and the forest. Small dragons and fairies danced above waist high grass. There were no dangerous insects or creatures in Awkward. Not in the parts yet untouched by darkness.

My fingers ran over the high grass, my lashes brushing my cheeks as I inhaled.

"Miniature dragons?" Foster asked. "Don't you think that's a little demeaning to the species?"

I glanced at him, a smile playing over my lips. "Do I detect some resentment?"

He grimaced.

I gasped. "Why, Foster Evans! Are you a fan of dragons?"

His gaze moved to my face. "The huge, fire-breathing ones," he answered. "These," he gestured at the small dragons flying above us, their skin a myriad of shades: blue, green, red, and gold, "are not dragons."

I shrugged. "Do you think size makes them any less fierce?"

"These are fierce?" Foster scoffed.

Nimble giggled. "They can roast an entire bullygog alive if they wanted to," the fairy revealed.

Foster's eyes narrowed on the creatures. "Impossible."

I kept pushing through the grass. "Would you like to test them?" I asked.

"Ohhhhh!" Elspeth cried. "Let me!" She sprinted ahead, her dress swirling around her ankles, her tinkling laughter surrounding us as she ran for the trees. Her songbirds soared ahead of her, their bright yellow, blue, and red wings a blur against fair, blue skies.

"So you plan to roast a bullygog then?" Foster asked.

I smirked. "Nothing so dramatic, I can assure you."

Elspeth reached the tree line, her small arms tugging a man-sized leaf from a tree before lugging it back toward us, her cheeks flushed from the exertion.

"This should do!" she cried.

Herman clucked his tongue. "Pyrotechnics are neither anodyne nor engaging."

Foster stared at the worm. "I'll pretend I understood what you said after we burn something."

My palms covered my mouth, closing in my horrendous laughter as Elspeth propped the leaf up in the grass, sweat glistening on her nose.

"Let's do this!" she called out.

She backed away, and I glanced at the dragons. "The leaf!" I cried. "Burn the leaf!"

The dragons circled the large green foliage, their murmurs drifting on the wind.

"They really expect us to do this?" one of them asked.

"It's for the boy," another answered.

Foster glared. "Really, the whole boy thing is getting insulting."

"To the man or the ego?" I teased.

He winked. "I wouldn't be a man if I didn't have an ego."

The dragons chose that moment to exhale, flames darting from their small mouths, blue fire growing to envelope the leaf. In a mere second it was gone, leaving the grass around it untouched. Theirs was interesting magic, well controlled and powerful. There was nothing left of the leaf. Even ash.

Foster whistled. "Who would have thought you had a dangerous streak."

It was my turn to wink. "Never judge a girl by her appearance."

We'd killed enough time playing in the meadow, and I moved on, warmth blossoming in my chest. It may be a dangerous venture we undertook, but it was amongst friends. True friends.

"Awkward is full of surprises," Weasel proclaimed, his voice bursting with pride.

Foster's gaze was heavy on my back when he murmured, "I'm beginning to see that."

Chapter 12

"That awkward moment when you are forced to face the thing you are most ashamed of."

~Peregrine Storke~

The day passed quietly, our group growing more pensive the closer we came to what used to be the Glen of Gladness. We'd traversed the meadow, entering the forest with high spirits, but the shadows in the trees soon wore on us. Eyes peered at us from the foliage. Familiar, frightening eyes.

"Bullygogs," Elspeth whispered.

We'd all grown closer to Foster without realizing it, as if the fact that the bullygogs were crafted after him would make them less dangerous.

"Bullygogs," Foster snorted, his head shaking.

"March now, your feet on firm ground. Die later, your feet bound by a marshy sound."

The bullygogs' rhyme rose through the vegetation, their hoarse tune sobering us. Even the songbirds no longer sang.

"Their tune will drag you down, down, down. In blackness, you will drown, drown, drown."

Nimble settled on my shoulder, her small hands trembling as she grasped my tangled hair.

"For shame, for shame, you will see. They'll show you what you regret to be."

Elspeth scooted between Foster and I, her eyes on the trees, her spectacles fogging up as she pressed further into our group. Weasel made a strange, growling noise under his breath, and Herman peeked at us from beneath the troll's hat.

"They have the vernacular of fools," the worm muttered angrily.

Foster's hand hovered above his knife. "Vernacular?" he asked.

"Language," I answered. "Vernacular is language."

Foster's brows rose. "Did you read dictionaries as a child?"

I shrugged. "I preferred the thesaurus. It's a lot more fun."

"And that makes you much less strange," Foster murmured, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Tears, Tears, tears ... drowning in pain, pain, pain. Weeping, weeping, weeping ... pouring down like rain, rain, rain."

The forest was growing darker. It should have opened up by now, the thinning trees revealing a glade full of flowers and cascading waterfalls.

A strange mist curled along the ground, snaking around our ankles and climbing up our legs. Firm grass became softer, more pliable. The stench of decay and mold grew strong, the scent tickling our noses. Mud sucked at my feet. All noise ceased. There was the faint sound of twigs snapping and foliage shifting as the bullygogs melded into the forest, their own fear driving them away. It was what bullies did ... they harassed and goaded those weaker than themselves, but ran in fear when faced with true danger. True courage belonged to the weak.

"I'm scared," Nimble admitted.

I wanted to hug her, but was afraid I'd crush her instead.

Elspeth inhaled sharply. "We have nothing to fear," she stated, her voice less sure than her words. "Only those who have something to be ashamed of are at a disadvantage here."

Unease lifted the hairs on the back of my neck.

The mist climbed higher, the fog circling our heads and blinding us. There were voices in the mist, indistinguishable murmurs that grew louder and louder.

"Come," a soothing whisper called. "Here you have no troubles."

The voice was beautiful, the sound sweeping over me, cloaking me with a strong sense of security. It was love, deliverance, and salvation all in one sentence. Next to me, Foster exhaled, his face blank.

"Perri?" Nimble asked. She tugged on my hair. "Perri!"

Nimble's words tickled the corner of my brain and melted away. There was only the mist and the voice ... the sweet, soothing voice murmuring, "Come." The pain from Nimble's tugging didn't affect me.

"You can do no wrong here," the voice continued.

It wasn't just one voice. It was many, the soft tones mingling into one beautiful declaration. How wonderful the words sounded! I could do no wrong here.

"Come," it soothed.

The mud grew thinner and deeper, the water swirling to mix with the dirt, the cold feel of it climbing up my boots to my knees.

"Perri!"

I couldn't discern the voice. Who yelled? Nimble? Elspeth? Weasel? Herman?

Foster marched next to me, his hand clenching the dagger against his chest until his knuckles were white.

Thin, brittle grass surrounded us, the stench of stagnant water, mud, and rotting vegetation sharp in my nostrils.

"No shame, no shame," the multi-voice sang.

It drowned out the fear in my heart, and pushed away the scent of death and decay.

"Come."

The water caressed my thighs, the sound of splashing broken by sobs. Tears, so many tears. A flash of sparkling tails and flowing green, pink, and blue hair untouched by the mud moved past us so quickly it blurred into the swamp like a beautiful phantom.

"No shame, no shame."

A face appeared suddenly in front of me, a face so beautiful it brought tears to my eyes. It was a woman with unblemished pale skin, mud free and flushed with pink. Slanted, black eyes stared at me, my reflection visible in her blank gaze. Startling blue hair fell over naked shoulders, her body uncovered to the waist where it disappeared into the dark water. Her hair covered her chest, her full pink lips curved.

She tilted her head, and my world disappeared.

"It feels good," I cried, tears rushing down my cheeks, my arms wrapped around my waist. My pelvic bone dug into my skin, my ribs pressing against my flesh. I was wasting away, my body becoming as invisible as I often felt.

"You stupid, no good idiot! Are you trying to kill yourself?"

My father's face was red, his chubby cheeks on fire. My chest burned, dried blood tingeing the corner of my mouth. Even the fear of seeing my own blood didn't stop me from wanting to purge myself of my father's yells, his disappointment. I wanted to drown him in the bliss of painful adrenaline. I wanted that lightheaded moment of rightness.

"What have we ever done to deserve this, Peregrine? We just wanted a normal child!"

Normal? I wasn't normal.

The beautiful girl grabbed my face, her fingers digging into my skin. Liquid swirled around my hips, its cold fingers gripping me. Like the water back home, this water was alive. The girl forced my gaze to hers.

"Perri, Perri, quite contrary, my how your stomach grows."

The classroom was empty, the boys' taunts echoing against a dry erase board marred with half erased notes. The boys were a blur to me, all of them large, all of them angry. Fear curled like a snake ready to strike in my gut, causing me to tremble despite every effort not to. I didn't speak because I knew if I did, I would cry. I didn't want to cry. Not here in front of them.

"That fat make your boobies any bigger?" one of the boys sneered.

He pinched my chest and pain lanced down my torso into my feet.

My eyes fell closed. "Please leave me alone," I begged.

It was lunch, and I'd left my food in the classroom. It had been a mistake entering the room alone. I knew that. Every day, Mrs. Perlman chose a few volunteers to clean her classroom during the lunch period. Anyone who stayed behind could eat after they finished sweeping the floors and clearing the board. The four seventh grade boys standing in front of me had tormented me the entire year.

"Let's play a game ..." the largest boy suggested.

Water curled against my belly, wet and slimy. The same girl stood before me, her beautiful fingers tugging my jaw. Shame washed over me, my stomach churning, the nausea breaking the spell she held over me. I pushed against her hold, hearing the frantic cries of my friends behind me. Nimble flew above, hissing as she spat furiously at the siren holding me in her grip.

"No shame, no shame."

The words didn't come from the siren holding me captive. This multi-voice belonged to an equally beautiful girl swimming in front of Foster, her hair pink and silky, the strands barely covering her naked breasts. Her grip was tighter than the one the blue-haired young woman had on me.

"Don't look!" I yelled.

Foster didn't hear me. He was lost to her gaze, pain filling his features.

The girl in front of me snarled, her mouth opening to reveal a toothless grimace and blue tongue, her beauty lost in the horror of her reality. Her fingers became a vice on my face, her fingernails drawing blood.

I thrashed against her, my eyes falling closed as she dragged me backwards. Water licked at my chest.

"Release her, you fiend!" Elspeth screamed.

"Higgletooth!" Herman swore, anger making his voice tight.

"Please," I begged.

The classroom again, a victim of a childish game. I was a human bowling pin. The boys gathered the old glass Coke bottles Mrs. Perlman liked to collect, and then they used the broom to sweep them toward me from across the room. The bottles made contact with my thigh, my stomach, and the side of my head.

Teeth grit against teeth as I dug my fingernails into the siren's hands, my shame replaced by anger.

"Is this what you traded your humanity for?" I asked the siren.

She'd been a mermaid once in the Glen of Gladness, a beautiful mermaid, her only fault being too human. Instead of a tail, she'd had fused scale-covered legs with webbed feet, her pale cheeks sprinkled with freckles. I'd crafted the mermaids after Camilla, and they were beautiful.

Kicking furiously, I attacked the siren, my knees traveling through mud to connect with her stomach. She barely flinched.

"Damn you!" I cried.

Somewhere behind me, Elspeth gasped. It was something else I could add to my list of shame, corrupting the innocent mind of a princess.

Mud sucked at my breasts, and I kicked harder, my screams becoming shrill and desperate. I'd almost drowned once, and I wasn't doing it again.

"Hold on!" Nimble cried.

The fairy flew backward and up, her face scrunched as she dove back toward the swamp, her fist clutching a handful of fairy dust. She released it, the purple powder filling the siren's eyes just as a pale hand rose from the swamp and grasped Nimble. She disappeared into the mud.

I screamed. The siren in front of me released me to clutch at her eyes. Her sweet, haunting voice transformed into a piercing, unearthly yell, the harsh sound breaking the spell the other siren held over Foster.

I dove into the murky swamp, my fear of being pulled under by the sirens canceled by Nimble's disappearance. Water closed over my head.

"Nimble!" My mind screamed what my mouth couldn't, my fingers searching the dark waters desperately, my lungs burning.

Nothing. There was nothing.

Resurfacing, I gasped, greedily sucking in air before diving again. Bubbles broke next to me, the whisper-soft feel of fingers brushing my skin. Panic made me thrash.

Shoving away from the groping hands, I surfaced again.

Arms closed around me, and I screamed.

"Shhhh ... Perri, it's me," Foster muttered, his arms tightening.

I tried to pull away from him. "Nimble!"

Tiny bubbles broke on top of the water, and a porcelain hand breaking surfaced. A mud-covered violet fairy dangled from the fingers.

I screamed again.

Foster released me and dove into the water. His hand grasped the porcelain wrist, his grip forcing the siren to release Nimble. The fairy fell to the water, her limp body beginning to sink. I dove in after her, my fingers capturing her before bringing her small, fragile body against my chest.

"Nimble," I cried.

She wasn't moving, her chest still.

Tears streaked down my face. "You can't die," I sobbed. "No one dies in Awkward."

Elspeth was screaming from the edge of the swamp, mud climbing the hem of her dress as she moved into the water. I waved her away, my boots digging into the mud as I pulled Nimble free of the swamp.

Laying her lifeless body on the bank, I fell to my knees, my shoulders shaking.

Herman slid down Weasel's arm, his glasses fogged with heat and tears. "No," the worm breathed.

Weasel knelt in the mud next to us. "She isn't gone," the troll insisted. "Fairies can't die here."

Elspeth hiccupped. "Maybe not before."

I shook Nimble. "Wake up!" I begged, but she didn't move.

I bent over her, my mouth coming down to cover hers. She was so tiny, her violet-hued skin cold against my lips as I exhaled. Her chest lifted.

"Come on, Nimble," I coaxed.

I exhaled again, my finger pumping her chest.

Herman slid next to Nimble's face. "Let me try," he said.

Sobs shook my frame as Herman replaced me, his green face calm.

"You're not going to die," the worm promised, his body sliding up Nimble's.

A splash sounded behind us, and I pivoted to find Foster waist deep in the swamp, his face blank. He was surrounded by sirens. They were singing to him, their melodic voices weaving a hypnotic spell as their naked torsos undulated. Black eyes stared into Foster's hazel gaze. Pain etched his features.

The sirens were coaxing him further into the water, the stagnant mud beginning to close around his chest.

There was no time to think, no time to evaluate the best course of action. There was only time to react.

I was waist deep before I'd even realized I'd gone in to save him, my legs pumping furiously through sticky mud and clinging moss. The sirens were completely mud free, whatever perfect spell had been cast over them keeping them clean and beautiful.

Foster's steps were taking him deeper and deeper ...

I dove, my body slamming into the siren opposite him. It was her stare that held him trapped, mesmerized. The force of the impact broke her spellbinding gaze.

The siren hissed, her mouth opening and her tongue darting forward. She was the blue-haired siren, her blue tongue stretching and stretching until it fell into the water. My eyes widened. It was too late by the time I realized what she was doing. Her tongue wrapped itself around my throat, pulling me backward against her.

The tongue was dry and felt like leather against my skin. The siren drew it toward her mouth, and the pressure around my throat intensified. My fingers clutched frantically at the tongue. My throat and chest burned, my eyes widening as my face heated. It was impossible to breathe.

"The hell you will," Foster roared, his anger a palpable thing.

My vision blurred, black spots dancing in front of my eyes. There was a swish and a flash of silver. Foster's arm came down next to my head, an enraged bellow emanating from his chest. Suddenly, a screech filled the air. Blue liquid slid down my chest and into my tunic, the pressure around my neck loosening.

Foster grabbed me, his fingers tugging at the blue tongue left dangling against my skin. The blue-haired siren wailed, her once whole tongue a severed piece of flesh. Blue blood covered her lips and chin.

Her wails grew louder, the sirens drawing close, their posture defensive. Foster pulled me backward with one arm, his gaze on my neck to avoid the sight of the sirens. In his free hand, he brandished the dagger, the blade covered in blue.

"This is a strange world you've created," he growled. "One moment I feel like a kid again, the next I feel like I'm back in the military."

My body sagged against his, my chest heaving as I drew in breath after breath of stagnant air. The sound of squishing mud was replaced by Elspeth's concerned gaze. Foster lowered me to the shore, his face appearing next to Elspeth's.

"Nimble?" I choked.

Elspeth's gaze fell, her lips twitching. "Herman is a very smart worm."

It was all she said. The next words came from Nimble herself. "Don't give up on me yet," the fairy chirped, her tiny mud-spattered face flying in front of mine.

The sob came before I'd even realized it had escaped, the sound emulated by the swamp, the echo of tears ever present around us. The Swamp of Sadness.

Weasel reached for my hand, his bulky palm taking mine. He tugged me upward. "Come," the troll commanded. "This swamp isn't safe for you. The sirens are only dangerous to those who feel shame. It's obvious there is shame in you and the boy. We must hurry."

Guilt suffused me as I stood, my legs shaky as we pushed through the swamp. My palms came up to cover my ears in an attempt to drown out the sirens' tunes. Foster clutched his blade, his jaw tense. I'd felt shame in the swamp, shame over my eating disorder and shame over the bullying I'd once received. It ate at me even now.

And yet, it wasn't just me.

Foster had also been dragged into the murky waters. He'd felt shame, too. I'd seen the pain on his face.

I felt a sudden kinship toward the guy who'd once likened me to a rhyme about growing bellies. My gaze moved to the side of his mud-tainted face, the dirt clinging to the stubble on his clenched jaw.

Elspeth, Nimble, and Weasel surrounded us, their eyes searching the swamp. They were protecting us, keeping us away from the sirens' gazes. Elspeth chattered cheerfully about nonsensical things—gowns, Prince Dash, and birds. Her voice rose and fell, the sound drowning out the call of the sirens. She talked until she was hoarse, her tongue stumbling over the different variety of birds that existed in Awkward.

We were all exhausted by the time we reached the edge of the Swamp of Sadness, our bodies sagging against grass that was suddenly green and plush. Healthy trees lined a lane covered in the golden light of afternoon. The sinking sun turned everything yellow, orange, and gold.

"The Lane of Loveliness," Nimble whistled.

Elspeth no longer had a voice, her hand sweeping her neck. It was a beautiful gesture. She'd talked herself voiceless to protect us.

Weasel offered her a piece of something small and golden. "A honey drop," he said. "Very delicious candy."

Herman peeked at us from beneath the troll's top hat. "We need a respite," the worm announced, his too-large gaze traveling over the group.

Foster had been quiet during our march. I wasn't sure how many miles we'd walked, but the sun had been high when we'd left and it sat on the horizon now.

The mud covering us had dried, making our clothes stiff and our hair stringy. My neck hurt and my chin burned. I didn't have a mirror, but I knew by the stinging pain that my chin was covered in half-moon impressions, my neck swathed in bruises.

My lashes swept my cheeks. "Just a little rest," I whispered.

No one argued. Elspeth sucked on the candy, her body settling on the supple ground. The songbirds perched on her dress, their singing low and soft. Weasel leaned against a tree, his eyes falling closed. Nimble landed on his shoulder, her small frame curling up against his neck. Herman joined her.

"Thank you," I mumbled.

Nimble grinned. "It's the least we can do for the girl who gave us life."

I stared at her. She'd almost lost her life because of me. I didn't know what Herman had done to save her, but I was grateful. Sometimes it was better not to know things ... it was simply best to appreciate what life handed us, no questions asked.

My hand found the sketchbook in my belt, and I pulled it free. Settling against a tree away from the group, I opened the leather cover. Mud coated the binding. Water had seeped into the cover's interior, but there was no damage to the pages. Magic, maybe?

"That's handy," I whispered. "Waterproof paper."

"It should be patented," a male voice said.

Foster sat beside me, his long legs stretching out next to mine.

My fingers played with the pencil attached to the cover. Pulling it free, I placed it against the first empty page. Neither Foster nor I spoke. There was only the soft sound of lead against paper, the growing lines converging into something dark and dreadful; The Swamp of Sadness. In the swirling water, I drew Foster facing off with the beautiful sirens. Nimble floated on the surface, limp and unmoving. On the shore, Elspeth was screaming. Weasel was trying to walk into the mud, his large feet causing him to sink, rendering him completely helpless to follow us. Herman cursed at the sirens from his place on Weasel's head.

"The Sirens of Shame," Foster mumbled next to me.

The sun was almost gone now, the light too dim to draw by.

I glanced down at the page. "You felt shame?" I asked.

My question was met with silence. Foster lifted the pouch from his belt, pulling the strings before letting the ball within roll into his palm. Even in the dim light, I knew it was green. No more yellow remained. Time was running out.

"I saw some action when I was in the military," Foster admitted suddenly. "My unit was stationed in Afghanistan. There was some trouble with insurgents, and a guy in my unit was shot. We were forced to abandon our position. We had to leave him behind."

I glanced at him. "If he was dead—"

"He wasn't," Foster revealed. "He was alive. He wasn't going to make it. We all knew that, but we shouldn't have left him behind."

There were no words, nothing I could have said that would have made it better. Instead, I did what I did best. I flipped the page in the sketchbook. It was too dark to draw now, even with the large full moon rising above us. It threw silver light over everything. Truth was, I didn't really need light to draw. My fingers knew what to do.

My pencil moved over the page, forging lines only I could see. In my head, there grew a portrait of a man, pain filling his gaze, his forehead creased with anguish. It was Foster. It was his face, the way he'd looked when he'd been facing the siren. I didn't know what leaving a comrade behind made a person feel. Guilt, I'm sure. Maybe it robbed them of humanity.

Foster may feel shame, but he wasn't a terrible person. Terrible people felt no anguish, and they certainly felt no shame.

My eating disorder was no secret. Camilla had been one of the people to confront me when it had gone too far, but the rest ...

"I'm ashamed of my weaknesses," I said suddenly. "I'm ashamed I let myself be harassed and touched without fighting back."

Foster grew still. "Touched?"

I wouldn't look at him. "Seventh grade. They were bullies, all of them. They thought it was fun to corner me, t-to squeeze my breasts, to tell me how much bigger my weight made them. The touching ended with the breasts, but the abuse didn't."

The memory of the glass bottle hitting my head made my chest tight.

Foster let his head fall back against the tree. "You weren't weak inside the swamp."

I tore the picture of Foster I'd drawn out of the sketchbook and folded it carefully. My hand found his, and I forced the paper into his grip. "And you're more human than you think you are," I said.

With that, I curled up against the tree, my eyes on the full moon above. The moon was light. I didn't like the dark.

"Your creations—the princess, troll, fairy, and worm ..." Foster said suddenly. "I was wrong about them. They may not look like much, but they have the heart of lions."

I fell asleep with those words echoing in my head.

Chapter 13

"That awkward moment when you realize fairytales are much more than simple stories."

~Peregrine Storke~

Foster tossed and turned next to me during the night, his low moans and constant thrashing making it hard to sleep. Sweat beaded up on his brow, his mud-spattered cheeks growing damp. I didn't know what he was dreaming about, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon when Elspeth joined me, her honey-colored hair unkempt. Dark circles marred the skin beneath her eyes.

She nodded at Foster. "He doesn't sleep well, does he?" Her voice had returned, hoarse but strong.

My gaze found Foster's strained expression. "I suppose not."

Elspeth tugged at her dress, settling the mud-stained hem around her legs. "There was no such thing as nightmares in Awkward until Perfection came," the princess revealed, "but lately we've all been having them.

I glanced at her. "Why is it so important we save Dash?" I asked. "Why does the survival of Awkward depend on him?"

Her eyes grew dim. "Awkward has been dying for a long time now, destroyed by the world's attempt to be perfect. No one wants to be awkward. If people can't change themselves, then they pay to have themselves changed."

"Like plastic surgery and Botox," I mumbled.

Elspeth shrugged. "Among other things. Awkward thrives off those who don't feel like they fit in otherwise. Prince Dash is one of its main citizens. If he is bespelled by Perfection and agrees to marry her daughter, then Awkward has lost their prince. I've lost my prince."

Awkward was a fairytale world, albeit a twisted one. Nothing worked the same way as a traditional fairytale in Awkward, but it still worked. There was a prince and a princess, there was a love story, and there was a lesson waiting to be learned underneath the strangeness. There was a happily ever after. Fairytales, if not played out, ceased being fairytales.

"Save the prince from his tower, and the fairytale lives on," Foster mumbled from the ground. Startled, we glanced at him, at his disheveled hair and weary eyes. He pushed himself up. "And here I thought white knights were supposed to save princesses."

I grinned. "This is Awkward, after all."

Foster smirked, amusement dancing in his eyes. His gaze dropped to my neck, and his amusement fled.

His hand found my collarbone, and I winced. "Awkward is a dangerous fairytale," he murmured.

Neither Elspeth nor I argued with him. The skin around my neck throbbed, and my throat felt scratchy. Foster's fingers slid to my chin. His was a gentle touch that made me shiver.

"These abrasions need cleaned," he said firmly.

Pulling free of his touch, I muttered, "I'm okay."

Foster's gaze lingered on my face far longer than I was comfortable with before he stood. Weasel, Nimble, and Herman began to stir, their bodies stretching. The need to be clean was suddenly strong.

"If nothing has changed, Fuschia Falls shouldn't be far," I offered.

Foster froze. "Fuschia?"

My lips thinned. "I had a thing for pink once."

Nimble rose, her wings fanning, her cheeks flushed. "Oh, it's the most beautiful waterfall in all of Awkward!" she exclaimed, her hands clasped.

Weasel grinned. "The water tastes like cotton candy!"

Foster grimaced, his gaze swinging to my face. "Cotton candy?"

I fought back a laugh. "Let me guess, you don't like spun sugar either?"

Elspeth stood. "We're running out of time, and we have a long way to go."

She stalked away, her tired eyes lowering. I'd never known Elspeth to be anything other than sunny. Her songbirds followed, but they kept to the air, their whistles low.

Nimble landed on my shoulder. "Something's wrong," the fairy remarked.

My gaze tracked Elspeth's movements, my eyes tracing her regal back and swan-like neck. Her shoulders were slumped, her eyes on her feet.

Nimble shrugged, lifting from my shoulder to fly ahead. Weasel lumbered behind.

Foster joined me. "I'm guessing the princess's mood wouldn't have anything to do with hormones?"

I threw him a look. "That kind of thing doesn't exist in Awkward."

Foster whistled. "Lucky Prince Dash."

We followed the group, our eyes searching the Lane of Loveliness and forest beyond. It was quiet, the only noise breaking the silence was the sound of birds trilling and water rushing in the distance.

Foster's fingers brushed my neck again. Pain resonated down into my shoulders.

"Does it look rough?" I asked.

His gaze met mine. "It looks fine."

His words said one thing, his eyes said another. "Liar," I scoffed.

There was silence after that. We paused only to relieve ourselves and to nibble on the food in Weasel's pack. There wasn't much, just cranberry scones and a thermos full of the strange soup we'd had at the palace. It tasted like spaghetti and meatballs.

The sun was high when we stumbled on the waterfall. The name suited it. Fuschia water rushed over rocks, a large, dark pink waterfall throwing a light spray into the air. Frothy pastel-pink bubbles gathered around the base of the falls.

Weasel dropped to his knees next to the pool, dipping his head and drinking deeply. Nimble skipped on the surface, her purple teeth flashing as she giggled. Herman tried desperately not to fall off of Weasel's head, his mouth twisting as he murmured something that sounded a lot like, "Gogglebits!" Elspeth waded into the pink liquid and cupped her hands. Foster paused on the shore.

I waded in after Elspeth. "It won't turn you pink," I promised.

Dipping my hand into the water, I lifted my fist. Loose mud slid into the pool. There was splashing as Foster joined us, each of us sinking to our necks in the cool water, our hands scrubbing away the mud from the Swamp of Sadness. My hair floated on the surface, my gaze going to the sky. The rose-shaped clouds above us were darker.

Tension floated away with mud, the pink water soothing aches and bruises. The taste of cotton candy lingered on my tongue. The sun moved higher in the sky. The temptation to linger was strong, but Elspeth's strange mood brought everyone down, her rushed movements making us anxious.

Elspeth's dress dripped onto jade-colored grass as she returned to the shore, her eyes despondent. There was no hesitation; she simply began to walk again.

We followed more slowly, our feet carrying us from the water to the trails beyond. The sound of the falls grew weaker and weaker as we marched. My gaze stayed locked on Elspeth's back. She'd been chirpy even in the Swamp of Sadness, her cheerful voice carrying us to safety. Her recent mood worried me.

Elspeth's words from that morning rang through my head, the sight of her shadowed eyes startling as she said, "There was no such thing as nightmares in Awkward until Perfection came, but lately we've all been having them."

Nightmares. What kind of nightmares had she been having?

I was distracted by my thoughts when the rumbling began, the ground shaking beneath my feet. The force threw me into Foster. His arm went around my waist, his gaze sharp.

"There are no earthquakes in Awkward," I whispered.

Foster's breath tickled my ear as he breathed, "It's not an earthquake."

Chapter 14

"That awkward moment when you realize you're more awkward than you thought you were, and it turns out you're kind of okay with that."

~Peregrine Storke~

So many things often seem larger than life. Certain personalities for one, but I'd never met anyone who was ... well, actually larger than life. Until now.

"Did you have a thing for Jack and the Beanstalk as a child?" Foster hissed against my ear.

He started backing away slowly, his arm dragging me with him. Nimble squeaked, her small frame ducking behind Weasel. The troll looked ready to hurl, his green face two shades greener than it was supposed to be.

"I never drew a giant," I muttered.

My gaze moved up, up, and up again, my eyes meeting the terrible expression of a very beautifully terrible creature.

"That thing was an elf once," Elspeth whispered. She was edging toward the woods, her eyes wide behind her spectacles. "I'd heard some of them had been turned, but ..."

The creature that stared down at us was no elf. Like the sirens in the swamp, he was beautiful in a brutally enticing way. His head stopped just below the clouds, his masculine body broad and muscled. He wore no shirt, his skin pale and sculpted. Loose, red cotton pants stopped just below his knees. His feet were bare. Silver hair flowed past his shoulders, pointed ears poking through the silky cascade.

"He's brilliant," Nimble breathed.

The awe in her voice scared me, but it didn't terrify me half as much as the longing in her gaze.

Midnight blue eyes lingered on our group. Our chance of escape was slim. The trees were no sanctuary from an elf as large as the one in front of us.

"Let me tell you a story," the elf-giant bellowed. His voice boomed, but it didn't hurt. It was a beautiful voice, melodic and deep. He inclined his head. "There was once an elf named Gunther. He was a little elf, his ears too pointed, his mouth a little too wide. He wasn't much different than the other elves in the glen where he lived, but he was sad. There were things he wanted—ears that were less pointy, a mouth that wasn't too wide, and loftiness. He wanted to be tall, tall enough to see the world."

The elf-giant stepped forward and the ground shook. Foster was thrown against the grass with me on top of him.

"Wouldn't you like to be larger, less disproportionate?" the elf-giant asked, his gaze on Nimble. There was recognition in his eyes and in hers. They knew each other.

The fairy trembled, her hands clasped together.

I reached for her. "Nimble ..."

She stared at the elf-giant, her violet eyes large and beautiful. "Gunther?"

The elf-giant laughed, the reverberation causing the trees to sway and the ground to shiver. "Not anymore, sweet Nimble. Gunther is gone." He lifted his hands toward the sky. "I've been reborn. I am the Beast of Belonging."

Foster's palm covered my lips to mask my sudden gasp.

The Beast of Belonging knelt, his large knee sinking into the soft earth. "Wouldn't you like to be less ... purple?" he asked. "More graceful?"

Herman shoved at Weasel's hat. "She's perfect the way she is," he argued.

The beast's eyes slid to the worm, his midnight gaze narrowing. There was danger hidden beneath his beauty, his heart as superficial as his face and body. I remembered drawing Gunther. He had been a funny little elf, kind and friendly. In my sketch, he'd been peeking at the castle from beneath a fallen leaf.

"What about you, worm?" the beast asked. "Wouldn't you like to be more mobile? Longer arms maybe?" He gestured at Herman's body. "Legs?"

Herman grimaced. "I'm quite capable the way I am," he sniffed.

A knowing glint lit up the beast's gaze. "Maybe you'd like to be smarter?"

Herman faltered. The Beast of Belonging had stumbled on something the worm had never been able to refuse: more knowledge.

"If I say no?" Herman asked.

The beast stood, a wry smile touching his lips. "You'd want to refuse?" His gaze scanned our group. "You'd want to refuse a chance to change yourself, to make yourself better?'

Stiffening, I pulled Foster's hand away from my face. "Better? For who? What would it change?"

The beast eyed me, his gaze feral. "It could change your entire lives."

"To what end?" Foster inquired.

The elf gazed at him, surprise lighting his features. "The bullygog," the beast marveled. He harrumphed. "It amazes me that you've joined this lot. You, a creature created because this girl," he pointed at me, "thought you were perfect. Do you see what she does?" His smirk grew as his gaze skirted my face. "She makes perfect creatures ugly."

Foster's voice was low when he answered, his arm tightening even more on my waist. "Perfect creatures are often ugly."

His response surprised me, and I glanced at him. Foster didn't look anything like he'd looked when we'd been drawn into Awkward. Two days' worth of stubble marred his jaw. His hair was disheveled; his white tunic stained tan by mud and tinged pink. I'd been wrong. While the Fuschia Falls didn't dye skin, it wasn't as forgiving on clothes. And yet, he'd never looked more handsome.

Foster gestured at us. "Do you think changing them will make them better?" He snorted. "You're wrong. Give them a taste of perfection, and they'll never be able to stop. No matter how much a person changes, there will always be something he feels he needs to improve. It's an addiction."

Was he speaking from experience? I'd certainly walked down that path; the eating disorder and countless hours in the gym a weary way to change my appearance, to stop what I thought caused the bullying. I'd been dishonest with myself about so many things. There was nothing wrong with wanting to be healthy, but there were many paths to achieving something. Not all of them the right one. I'd gone about a lot of things wrong in high school.

The Beast of Belonging threw his shoulders back, his pale skin almost white in the sun. His beauty was transfixing.

Foster's words had shaken the group, but the envy was still there. The need to belong, to be perfect, was strong. They'd never known anything but awkwardness. It was like doing drugs. It was so much easier to say no to something if you knew what you were saying no to.

"Do you all agree with the bullygog?" the beast asked.

It was Elspeth who answered, her shuttered eyes dark and unforgiving. "We'd rather die than change," she told him.

The Beast of Belonging chuckled. There was something eerie about his midnight gaze, as if he could see straight down into your soul. "Would you, Princess? You want your prince, but the truth is he left you for Perfection. He left you for something more dazzling than you could ever be. You could change that."

Elspeth frowned, her pretty eyes downcast. The darkness was calling to her. The need to change was obvious in her sober mood and hurried pace. Whatever nightmares she was having, they were calling to her, compelling her to be different the same way the Beast of Belonging was now.

"You'd let him talk you into changing?" I asked her.

She ignored me, her gaze going to the elf. "You have the magic to transform us?" she asked.

The Beast roared, the howl full of triumph. "I have that and more," he promised.

I fought against the grip Foster had on me.

Weasel stepped toward the princess. "No! We can't give in! We can't! Awkward will be destroyed if we give in. Nothing would matter anymore, including the prince. This world, the way we know it, would disappear. Is it true love if Dash doesn't love you for the way you are?"

The beast growled, the snarl full of anger. He was a hormonal creature, our elf-giant.

Nimble landed on the troll's shoulder. "Weasel's right. What happens if we decide to give in to perfection, to belonging? Do our emotions change? Do we change for the better or for the worse?"

Herman scooted next to the fairy, his green body rubbing up against her violet wings. She scratched him on the head.

Elspeth's gaze slid from her friends to the beast, her shoulders rising. "We won't do it," she said.

Her voice sounded less convinced than her words. There was a battle raging inside of the princess. Her heart had been broken. Love could be blind and unforgiving. It often made us feel like we had to change in order to be loved.

The beast's face transformed, his lips pulling back to reveal sharpened teeth.

"Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum," Foster muttered. He was dragging me now, my heels sliding across the ground toward the woods. Nimble dove after us. Weasel passed us—his speed surprising for a stocky troll—as Herman clung to his hat. Elspeth trailed us, her dress hindering her.

A mighty roar rose into the sky, the anger causing the ground to roll, the trees to shake, and the spongy soil to crack.

Foster released me. "Run!" he yelled.

We took off into the woods, our heads down to keep from tripping over tree roots. It didn't help. The quaking grew, the trees stumbling into each other like drunken vagabonds. My knees met the ground, my hands digging desperately into the soil.

"Come, Peregrine Storke!" the Beast of Belonging cried. "I've seen your pain. I've seen what caused you to create this world. It will hurt less if you come to me!"

Nimble flew toward me, but I waved her away. "Go! All of you! It's me he wants."

Elspeth paused, her chest heaving, her gaze wild. Weasel hurried to her side, his hand reaching for her. She accepted his support. The ground continued to quiver.

Foster was ahead of us now, and he turned back, his gaze going to the tree line. I didn't have to look behind me to know what he saw.

His gaze slid down to mine before moving to the others. He pointed into the woods. "Go that way!" he ordered. "All of you. I'll go with Perri, and we'll lead him away."

Nimble would have argued, but Foster shushed her. Rushing to my side, he helped lift me, his chest rising and falling quickly.

"No time," he gritted. "Go now!"

Weasel pulled Elspeth into the trees with Nimble hovering above them, her worried gaze tracking us as we moved away. The smile I threw her was an encouraging one.

"A damned giant," Foster panted.

There was a ravine ahead, and we slid down the side, dirt and rocks falling after us. Loose soil rained down, our knees buckling as the shuddering ground exhaled. With each step, the beast was bringing the earth to life.

"Your father never wanted you!" the beast shouted. "And your mother preferred the fog of painkillers over dealing with your existence. If you had been born different ... a boy maybe? Or a great beauty?"

I stumbled.

Foster caught me, his firm grip. "They're just words, Perri! Ignorant words!"

They were painful, sharp words that sliced at my soul. What if I had been born different?

"Perri, you've got to help me here," Foster grunted.

He was bearing both of our weights over a trembling landscape. My blood pounded through my veins, anger propelling me forward. I was better than this, so much better than callous words.

We ran and ran, our legs taking us further down the ravine, but no matter how fast we sprinted, the elf-giant was faster. He roared.

A large hand struck the ground next to us, the pale skin mere inches from my face. Foster swore. I rolled, coming up on my knees in the ravine, my back up against a tree. Foster followed, each of us shimmying around the trunk, the huge leaves hiding us. Above us, the Beast of Belonging's gaze searched the forest, the rumbling in his chest a constant droning sound in the silent woodland.

"A bloodthirsty giant," Foster grunted. "It's like a messed up Twilight-inspired Brother's Grimm."

I couldn't help myself. Even with the danger, I found myself chuckling.

Foster pulled me in front of him; his back against the tree, my back against his chest. "Let's just hope he doesn't sparkle."

My chuckles turned into full throated laughter, my fear, anger, and anguish twisted into one long, maniacal cackle. It was a laugh-snort even I was ashamed of.

The giant above us paused, his head lifting. There was no controlling the laughter now. The danger didn't matter. There was only me and madness. Behind me, Foster's body shook, his silent laughter joining my loud howls.

The ground beneath us shuddered, the soil rising and falling, the tree we leaned against swaying as the elf-giant moved past us. Two steps later, and the Beast of Belonging was out of sight, his bellows continuing, his large feet taking him deeper into the woods.

Foster shoved me away gently, his hand taking mine as he guided us back into the trees. We ran in the opposite direction, our pounding feet carrying us away from the beast.

"He left!" I panted, my voice full of awe as I glanced over my shoulder. "He left! But the laughter ..."

Foster chuckled. "He thought you were a wild animal," he revealed.

I stumbled, my wide eyes on his back. Neither one of us slowed down. "A wild animal?"

Foster glanced at me. "Have you ever been told your laugh sounds eerily like—"

"A hyena?" I finished for him. Realization washed over me, and I glared. "You planned this!"

Foster kept running. Stopping seemed wrong, as if staying still would bring more danger than moving forward.

"It worked," he called back to me.

I snapped, "You ... Neanderthal!"

Foster glanced at the sky. "Get mad at me later, Perri. The laughter worked. Your awkwardness kept us safe."

The impact of his words hit me like a ton of bricks. My awkwardness. My laugh. It was my awkwardness that had fooled the Beast of Belonging. This was Awkward. What made us different worked for us here, not against us.

For the first time since I'd woken on the ground outside King Happenstance's palace, I felt triumph. If I was being honest, it was the first time in my life I'd felt truly proud of something that made me different.

Chapter 15

"That awkward moment when you realize the person you once hated has been made a friend by circumstance."

~Peregrine Storke~

Sweat dripped down my shoulder blades, causing the tunic I wore to stick to my back as we walked, our feet scurrying over vegetation, massive fallen leaves, and slippery moss. Fall in Awkward was the same as spring in the real world. It was damp, cool, beautiful, and over laden with pollen.

Foster pushed a leaf out of the way and held it back so that I could duck beneath it.

"Why did you draw these so big?" he asked.

He fell into step next to me, our eyes searching the foliage for our lost friends.

"It seemed right," I answered.

His gaze was heavy on the top of my head. "Can we be honest with each other?"

His question startled me. "I would hope so."

He stopped walking. Perspiration beaded his brow, his tunic clinging to his chest. To be honest, we were both a mess. The air surrounding us smelled strongly of sweat, dirt, and cotton candy.

"This world," Foster said, his hand gesturing, "it shocked me. At first, I thought you were insane. If I'm being truthful, I'm still somewhat on the fence about that. But this," he glanced at the refracted light pouring through the gaps in the trees, "it's amazing, Perri. An entire world. Make me understand this."

I stared. "You want to understand Awkward?"

Foster's gaze searched my face. "I want to understand you. You're Awkward, Perri. Something made you create this place. Not just because you wanted to belong. It was something else."

Swallowing hard, I started to walk again, my eyes tracing a series of yellow vines. They circled the trunk of a nearby tree, the golden stalks concealing tiny creatures I'd drawn into Awkward. There were a lot of things I'd added to this world—gnomes, nymphs, centaurs ... anything I'd ever had a fascination with.

"My dad," I began, "he's mentally unstable."

It was the first time I'd ever admitted this to anyone. I'd never even told Camilla. Mental issues of any kind were so full of stigma. It only took saying the word "mental" for people's eyes to change, for their expressions to go distant, even fearful. It was easier blaming the alcohol.

Foster took my elbow. "Mentally unstable?"

I shrugged. "He's got a lot of issues. It started with a nervous breakdown when he was in high school. Later, after he married my mother, he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. If there is anything else wrong with him, we wouldn't know because he refuses help." I glanced at Foster. "I don't hate my father. I know it seems like I do. I'm afraid of him. I'm afraid of being like him, of turning into what he has become. The mood swings, the yelling, the gambling, the alcohol, and the women. There are times he considers himself superior to everyone. It's then he yells and criticizes everything, and then there are times he hates himself. Really hates himself. It's hard to remember that it's not always him talking."

Foster didn't say anything, his silence a balm to my nerves. If he'd spoken, I wouldn't have been able to say anything more.

"It's difficult growing up with someone who doesn't think he has a problem. It changes you. My mother wanted to pretend his issues didn't exist. It drove her to hide behind anything that would dull her senses."

Foster's hand tightened on my elbow. "And you?" he asked.

I exhaled. "As a child, I didn't understand him. I just wanted to be perfect for him. I wanted to do everything right so he wouldn't have an excuse to tell me what I was doing wrong. The older I became, the more I realized it wasn't all me, that he had other problems, too. By then, however, I'd started having anxiety attacks. I was obsessed with being what I thought was perfect. He'd made me afraid of so many things." I pointed at the trees. "In Awkward, there was nothing to be afraid of. Until now."

Foster's silence made me aware of other noises: birds chirping, bugs trilling, and the wind whistling down through the trees. The light in the forest was growing dim.

"You are every creature you've ever drawn into this world," Foster murmured.

There was no need to respond. He hadn't asked me a question; he'd simply stated the truth.

Pulling me to him, he forced me to turn around. His fingers brushed my cheek, where my glasses would have sat if I'd been wearing them. "You're Elspeth with her spectacles." He glanced at my feet. "You're Nimble with her clumsiness." His finger tapped my forehead. "You're Herman with his love of knowledge." His gaze settled on my face, my lips. "And you're Weasel with his love for sweets."

I couldn't make my gaze meet his. "Is there anything awkward about you, Foster?" I asked. "I mean really awkward."

Foster's hands fell away from me. "I'm perfect."

It was a bad joke made at the wrong time. I tried to pull away, but he stopped me.

"Wait! That was wrong." He inhaled. "I don't know how you want me to answer that. I don't think of myself as awkward or not awkward." He smirked, his fingers forcing my chin up. "I certainly don't laugh like a hyena or drool in my sleep."

If he hadn't smiled, I would have been offended. Amusement replaced my irritation. "No, you just don't like eighty percent of the food in Louisiana, and you go all ninja when you're resting."

He released my chin. "You have me there," he agreed.

We started walking again. Wariness crept up my spine, the conversation with Foster distracting me from my fears. It was getting darker in the forest, and we hadn't found Elspeth, Nimble, Weasel, or Herman yet. The oncoming night was making me jumpy and apprehensive.

Foster cleared his throat. "Since we're being honest here, I also won't go on a second date with a girl unless she kisses on the first date." He pulled Queen Norma's ball from the pouch on his belt. It was changing color again, the green bleeding into blue. He replaced it. Neither of us mentioned the change.

"So a girl has to be easy for you to date her?" I asked.

Foster grinned. "No, she just has to kiss. A kiss says a lot about a person. You can tell a great deal about the way they are just from the way they kiss."

I gaped. "Wow, no pressure or anything. Most people just ask questions."

Foster's hand fell against my waist as we maneuvered through the forest. There were shadows everywhere. The sound of creatures stirring was more eerie than it had been before.

"I'm sort of squeamish about my feet," Foster admitted. "I blame the military."

My heart rate was rising. I was seeing things in the growing darkness, things that weren't there. Glowing eyes and bloodthirsty men.

Foster's fingers tightened on my waist. "Come on, Perri," he soothed. "Play the game with me." He didn't need to sense my uneasiness, it was written all over my face. Every muscle in my body was taut. Foster drew in a breath. "You don't want to see what feet look like after a long time in the field." He shuddered. "And when you share a bathroom with a lot of guys, you start wearing shoes in the shower just on principle."

He pinched my waist, and I jumped. "Your turn, Perri."

He was trying to distract me. I gulped, my eyes wide in the dim light. "I twirl my hair when I'm in a crowd too long, and if I get nervous, my stomach rumbles. Really loudly."

Foster drew closer to me, his hand guiding me to a tree. "We're not going to find them tonight, you know that, right?"

I exhaled, the sound shaky. Faint light from the full moon trickled down through the trees, but it wasn't enough.

"If we keep walking, we might break out of the forest," I insisted.

"Into what?" Foster asked. "Another swamp? Another giant? A man eating succubus?"

I glanced sidelong at him. Most of his face was in shadow. "Light. There will be light."

Foster forced me to sit before tugging a man-sized leaf down over us both. Chilly dampness seeped into my bottom from the spongy earth. "What makes you fear the dark so much?"

"It's not the dark," I answered. "It's the monsters in it."

Foster huffed. "That's irrational."

Shame ate away at my gut. "Maybe," I agreed, "but it's hard not to be afraid of something when you've been taught to fear it."

Foster scooted in close, his shoulder touching mine. "Your dad?" he asked.

Foster's body was warm, his presence reassuring. I looked down at my hands. "He tried to kill himself once. He was interrupted by a friend, a minister who told him it had been God that led him to our house that day." I inhaled. "I'm not saying it wasn't a higher power, but Dad takes everything to the extreme. He suddenly felt called to be a preacher. He does things like that. He comes up with these hare-brained, spontaneous ideas and just runs with them. A jack of all trades, he calls himself." I snorted. "He went to seminary school and did whatever he had to do to become a preacher."

Foster laughed. "Your dad? A preacher?"

A twig snapped, and I grabbed Foster's arm. His bicep tensed against my palm.

"Your dad," Foster prompted.

"It lasted two years," I told him. "For two years, he wouldn't let us watch anything on television. He wouldn't let me listen to any music that wasn't gospel. He'd stay up late at night and play heavy metal records backwards, listening for messages. Dad also held meetings at our house. But the worst part was Halloween."

Foster pulled the leaf closer around us, as if he thought the barrier would ease my fears. "Halloween?"

"The devil's holiday, my dad called it. He used to tell me that there were bad men and women who liked to take blonde-haired little girls and sacrifice them to the devil on Halloween. He'd turn off all of the lights in the house and make me sit in the middle of the floor. For the entire night, I couldn't make a sound. They'd hear me, he'd say. All night long, I'd wait for someone to come into the house and take me away."

Foster whistled. "On Halloween? Wow."

"Bet you've never met anyone afraid of a holiday before," I said lightly. There was really no way to turn it into a joke, but I tried anyway. How much more awkward can a person get? Afraid of a holiday children should love. Candy and costumes and festivals.

"That's why you would never come to our annual Halloween party." Foster's voice was full of awe. "Camilla always invited you, and you never came. Here I thought you were just uptight."

It's a shame you can't glare at a person in the dark.

"It's a stupid fear," I murmured. "I'm not afraid of much, just the dark and Halloween. Logically, I know it was just a part of my dad's mania, but I was seven. At that age, you don't understand mania. You just understand fear."

Foster leaned back, his arm falling across my shoulder. It was a familiar gesture, one I'd seen him do many times with Camilla when she'd been upset.

"Blood makes me queasy," he admitted suddenly. Just like that, he made the conversation better. His effortless acceptance didn't make my fears go away, but it made them easier to accept.

Something howled in the woods, and I pulled my knees against my chest. "Blood? But you were in the military."

Foster chuckled. "I didn't say it made me pass out, it just makes me queasy. It felt like a weakness to me when I was younger. I saw a lot of blood in the military. In a way, by facing what makes me sick, I discovered that even as much as it bothers me, I was able to stand up against it."

He was a sensible man, Foster. "You grew up," I said abruptly.

He knew what I meant. The rhyme he'd come up with at seventeen would always hang between us, a childish reminder of how young we'd been.

"Everyone does, Perri. Some just don't do it well."

It was a logic I couldn't disagree with.

"Sleep," Foster prompted. "There's no telling what your world will throw at us next. For a fairytale, it's brutal." His brows rose. "There are no wolves dressed like grandmothers waiting to eat us, is there? No evil queens with poisoned red apples?"

I fell against him, my head awkwardly positioned between his shoulder and the tree. My back and bottom hurt. "Let's hope Elspeth eats the apple if there is one. She has a prince who can kiss her awake."

Foster's chest shook with silent laughter. "That's truly insulting, Peregrine Storke. Are you saying my kisses aren't powerful enough to break a spell?"

I grinned. "Can the princess get past the smell? You kind of stink, Foster Evans."

He sighed. "Hence reality. In the real world, we sweat."

In the real world, we did a lot of things. In the real world, princes didn't ride on stallions and save princesses from towers. In the real world, they smelled a lot like dirt, sweaty skin, and cotton candy. In the real world, they were friends first. They didn't fall in love over a first kiss and no conversation. In the real world, they were kind of awkward.

Chapter 16

"That awkward moment when you wake up next to someone you've told entirely too many secrets to and you're suddenly illogically afraid they'll tell someone."

~Peregrine Storke~

Morning brought light. Wonderful, beautiful, brilliant light. It also brought rain. It was the drop on my nose that woke me. The sun blinded me. In Awkward, the sun shone even when the weather was bad. The drops came harder and faster.

Foster groaned, his fingers rubbing the place on his arm where I'd been laying. "I'm not sure what's worse," he complained. "The fact that the rain is making my sudden need to pee worse, the feel of pins and needles in my arm, the hunger in my gut, or the fact that the rain is making you look naked."

My head snapped up, my gaze following his to my chest. The tunic was growing wetter, the fabric clinging to my braless torso.

I crossed my arms. "The need to pee can be fixed," I pointed out.

He pushed himself off of the ground, his hand rubbing his face. "True that."

As he sauntered into the trees, I ducked into the forest, using the opportunity to relieve my own bladder. This had to be the least idealistic adventure ever. To say I was uncomfortable would be an understatement.

"Does this rain taste like coffee?" Foster called out.

"The caramel-flavored kind," I replied.

I was back at the tree when he reappeared. "You couldn't add a little chicory in there?" he asked. He lifted his head, his mouth open. Water slid down his face, beading up around the stubble on his jaw before sliding down his neck. His shirt clung to his chest. It reminded me of my tunic, and I crossed my arms again.

My gaze slid to his arm, to the tattoo on his bicep. "Why the wolf?" I asked.

He dropped his head and lifted his arm to glance down at the design. "It's a Celtic wolf," he said.

I knew that. The Evans had a strong Irish heritage. Camilla and Foster's grandparents were born in Ireland. I'd visited their grandmother on several occasions with Camilla. She was a very superstitious woman full of interesting stories. Their grandmother had passed away a few years back; I'd been with Camilla when they went through her things. I'd seen a lot of Celtic knick knacks around her home, and she'd had a necklace with the wolf on it.

Foster and I started walking, an unspoken urgency in our steps. We were running out of time, and we knew it. The rain kept falling.

"The wolf is many things," Foster said suddenly. "He is loyal, strong, and friendly. He is cunning and compassionate."

I stared at the tattoo. "Did you mean for it to represent you?"

He hadn't had the tattoo before the military.

Foster glanced at me. "You sound so skeptical."

I stiffened. "No, it's just—"

Foster chuckled. "It's what I'd like to be. We both know I certainly don't fit that entire description."

My head lifted, my tongue catching the rain. It wasn't enough to quench my thirst, but it helped to fool the stomach. "You fit it better now," I muttered.

Foster watched me. "The wolf is a source of lunar power," he added. "In Celtic lore, he hunts the sun at the end of the day and swallows it to make way for the power of the moon."

As Foster walked, the wolf moved with him, his open jaw toward the sky. "That's ... poetic," I murmured.

Foster laughed. "A poet I'm not."

The rain grew heavier at moments and slackened at others, the water seeping into our clothes and down into our shoes. My hand found the sketchbook at my waist. My fingers itched to draw, to sketch the way the elf-giant had looked, to recreate Foster as he was now.

Foster's gaze followed my hand. "You're talented, you know."

My fingers rubbed the end of the pencil. It was just as sharp as it had been when I'd recreated the Swamp of Sadness in a sketch.

"Do you have anything you like to do?" I asked.

Foster threw me a look. "You mean other than being a jackass?"

I stepped carefully over a fallen log, the top of it covered in silver moss. Another not shining artistic moment of mine.

"You know, during those moments when you take a break from making up rhymes," I teased.

There was forgiveness in my voice, a token of friendship. He'd made up the rhyme, but he hadn't abused me with it.

Foster glanced at me, surprise in his gaze. "If you were Camilla, you'd hold a grudge for much longer."

I snickered. "She never forgets anything. She'll throw the smallest disagreement into an argument two years after it happened."

"My mother's worse," Foster revealed. He turned away.

I stared at his back. Foster was a tall man. He looked strange walking through a fairytale, like an imposter. It made me wonder if I looked the same way. The last time I'd sketched in the original story of Awkward, I'd been seventeen. That was two years ago.

"I like to build," Foster said suddenly. He slid down into a ditch, and I followed him. He offered me his hand, his grip strong as he tugged me up the other side.

"Like your dad?" I asked.

"Yeah," Foster answered. "It's not a lofty ambition, but I like doing things with my hands. Making something. It feels useful."

"I think it's great," I told him.

I stood next to him on the edge of the ditch, my eyes meeting his. Rain slid down our faces like tears, our eyes red from lack of sleep.

"Perri—" he began.

He was interrupted by a scream.

Chapter 17

"That awkward moment when you discover peer pressure isn't tempting anymore, it's annoying."

~Peregrine Storke~

"Ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly ..." The yell was repeated over and over again, the word echoing through the forest. Birds took flight in nearby trees, their startled cries loud.

"Ugly!"

Foster and I glanced at each other before stumbling forward, mud sucking at our feet. Rain pelted us, our hands swiping at our faces as we ran.

"Ugly!"

I tripped, my knees going down hard. It wasn't spongy, wet earth that met my flesh, it was rock.

"Ugly!"

Foster knelt next to me, our eyes lifting to stare at a gaping hole. In the middle of the forest, standing like a cavity inside a mouth of perfectly good teeth, was a cavern.

"A cave," Foster breathed. Vines hung over the opening, tiny black flowers covering it. They swayed as the rain cascaded over them. A cave in the middle of the forest where it didn't belong. This wasn't a part of Awkward.

My chest heaved. "It's dark in there."

There was another scream, this one different and familiar. "Perri!"

I'd know that scream anywhere. Scrambling to my feet, I yelled, "Nimble!"

Foster's hand wrapped around the top of my arm. "It could be a trick."

The strange echoing scream was our only answer. "Ugly! Ugly! Ugly!"

My hand covered Foster's on my arm. "We're running out of time," I whispered.

"Perri! Elspeth's in trouble ..." Nimble's voice floated from the cavern, distant and afraid. My heart pounded, blood rushing through my veins.

"Ugly! Ugly! Ugly!"

Foster inhaled. "Something tells me this is going to get ugly."

I threw him a look.

His hand slid from my arm, but instead of falling away, his fingers threaded with mine, his palm meeting my palm. I stared at our entwined hands.

Foster squeezed. "It's dark, remember?"

He pulled me into the cavern, the awful yell continuing to echo around us. "Ugly! Ugly! Ugly!"

At first, there was nothing except darkness, the reverberating shriek, and an eerie, uncomfortable feeling in my gut. And then there was light, a faint light floating in the distance. It illuminated the corridor, the glow dim and unforgiving. Shadows surrounded us.

"You see them?" a female voice asked.

Laughter enveloped us, the sharp sound climbing up my spine before digging into my skull. It filled me with despair.

"Well, she sure hit every ugly branch falling out of the tree," another feminine voice answered.

Foster's fingers tightened. This close to him, I could feel his tension, and it scared me.

"Ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly ..."

The light in the distance moved, gliding toward us with excruciating slowness. Instead of stopping, Foster tugged me toward it, his fingers tight enough to cut off my circulation.

The light broke, dividing into two pieces before twirling like two lightning bugs attempting to outshine and outmaneuver the other.

"Uggggllllyyyyy!" The voice was a hiss now; a low, feminine hiss.

Light exploded, surrounding us in a brilliant glow both beautiful and terrifying. Foster swore, his body falling against the cavern wall. I fell with him. We were blind, the light too bright and painful to look into. My hand grew numb, Foster's fingers tight against mine. Pain lanced through my head. Even with my eyes squeezed shut, the light hurt.

A cackle surrounded us. "You are right, sister. She is ugly. So ugly, she'd have to sneak up on a glass of water to get a drink."

The other woman giggled. "A face only a mother could love."

The sister howled with laughter. "Ugly as a mud fence."

Cold flesh brushed my cheek, and I winced, my body leaning closer to Foster's. He didn't let go; his fingers painful but reassuring and unyielding.

"Who are you?" Foster cried.

"You cannot see us?" the voice asked. It was a rough voice, but sweet in a strange, earthy way. "Is the light too bright?" She laughed. There was no apology in the tone. Nothing but cruel derision.

Cold flesh brushed mine again. "So ugly ..." one of the voices breathed. Her breath fanned my face.

"Is she?" Foster asked. "Could it be you that's ugly? You hide behind the light. Why? Because you're too ashamed to be seen?"

The woman giggled. "A chivalrous one, he is. Should we play with him?"

The other woman huffed. "Leave him! We have no time for petty human men. But the girl ..." She chortled. "She's worth something. More beauty, sister. She is worth more beauty."

Cold hands moved over my clothes, my skin, and my hair. I thrashed, slapping at their invasive touch with my free hand even as Foster tugged me against him, his arm going around my waist. The smell of sweat, dirt, water, coffee, and cotton candy invaded my nostrils. Even as unpleasant as it was, it was the best scent I'd smelled in a long time. It was the smell of safety.

"Cowards," Foster accused. His chest vibrated against my cheek. "Hiding is cowardice."

One of the women clucked her tongue. "Really?" she asked. "You'd rather face us without the light?"

There was something eerie about her question, something terrible and terrifying.

"Your wish, my dear man," she breathed, "is my command."

The light dimmed. The pain in my head lessened, my lashes beginning to rise.

"No! Don't open your eyes!" Nimble's voice rang out, her cry frantic.

It was too late.

In the dim cavern light, my gaze locked with the transfixing sight of a beautiful woman. She was tall and willowy, her body enfolded in ivory silk and lace. She had long white hair that trailed to the floor, her young face smooth and unblemished. Her eyes were colorless, her skin pale.

"Hello, dear." She grinned, her pasty lips revealing sparkling white teeth. She was blindingly beautiful, but it was her gaze that held me. Her colorless eyes drew me in.

The attack was sudden, the emotional impact staggering. Loneliness and despair overwhelmed me, filling my heart with pain. I would have buckled under the pressure had Foster's arms not been wrapped around me.

Loneliness, pure loneliness ...

Even leaning against Foster, I was lonely ... so lonely.

Foster shook me. "What have you done to her?"

The woman smiled. "Has your heart ever been broken?" she asked me.

Foster tried to cover my eyes, but an invisible force held him still, his body going rigid behind me.

"Don't!" Nimble called to him. "There's no way to stop it now. You'll be frozen until they've finished with her."

I could feel Foster, and yet he was so far away. So very, very far away. Images bombarded me.

"Did you really think he'd want to go out with you?"

My cheeks were stiff when I looked up at Maribeth Richardson. She was the most beautiful girl in the eighth grade, her skin clear, her breasts more developed than most of the other girls. She could have passed for a sophomore.

"I—" My breath came out ragged and heavy. There truly were no words. There was nothing I could say to make it better.

Eyes stared at me. So many eyes. In my hand, I held a red Valentine shaped like a heart, a sweet card from an avid admirer. It was signed: Yours truly, Ryan Bradley.

Ryan Bradley, the eighth grade equivalent of a male god. Popular and athletic with a smile that could change the world. He had a dimple in his cheek and brown hair the color of chocolate.

My cheeks flamed, my chest growing tight and my mouth going dry. I kept swallowing, as if the action would stop the nausea and the tears.

And then there was the laughter, so much cruel laughter.

With that, I ran, my shorter legs pumping, the mascara I'd borrowed from my mother running down my cheeks.

"So lonely," the beautiful woman whispered.

My knees buckled. It didn't matter that I'd actually had a steady boyfriend later in high school, and even a few dates after that, the memory still stung.

"Let me go," I commanded, my voice cold. I wasn't sure if I was talking to Foster or the woman. I'd spent years building up walls and telling myself I wasn't alone, that I had friends. I'd spent years defeating the kind of loneliness the woman was attacking me with now.

I stared at her, my mouth twisting into a wry grin. "Do you really think you can attack me with loneliness?"

The woman's smile slipped, her colorless eyes narrowing. The empty, desperate feeling eating at my gut didn't ease. If anything, it grew stronger, but it was a familiar feeling. It was a feeling I had made a truce with a long time ago. I'd made a friend of the feeling, turning it into something I could live with. You couldn't attack someone with something they'd learned to deal with.

The woman's head lifted. "Ugly!" she cried. "Ugly as a toad!"

Foster stiffened. "What's with all of the ugly insults?"

The phrases the women kept throwing at us were familiar ones.

Nimble's voice rang through the cavern, the sound of it echoing off of the stone. "We're in the Cavern of Clichés, and these are the cliques. They were changelings once."

I gasped. "The changeling sisters, Harper and Violina."

I'd drawn the changelings as beautiful young women, their only awkwardness their tendency to stutter and lisp when they spoke. Because of this, they sang instead. Beautiful, enchanting music, their songs accompanied by a harp and violin.

"Why?" I asked them.

The changeling sisters had been twins. They still were, their transformation having changed them into beautiful, cold young women.

"You'll die," one of them said suddenly. "There will come a time when you won't be able to overcome all of us, the loneliness, the need to belong, the shame ..."

I stared at her, pity swelling my heart. Had I, in an attempt to create a world where I could feel safe, created a world where everyone questioned themselves the same way I'd often questioned myself?

"You were perfect," I told her. "You didn't need to change."

She placed her hands over her ears, her sudden shriek deafening. Foster relaxed behind me, her hold on him broken. The clique's sister shrieked with her, the sound loud and excruciating.

Nimble cried out, "Hurry! Elspeth!"

The cliques were still shrieking when we pushed past them into the cavern, Foster's hand gripping mine as we slid over dampened stone. Our wet clothes hung on us, the fabric dripping onto the rock below.

Wings flew at us from the dimly lit corridor. They were purple wings, the fairy attached to them weeping.

The cliques followed us, their shrieks turning once more to laughter. "You won't save her!" they cried.

The cave opened up suddenly, the interior transforming into a beautiful ballroom made out of glass. Everything was glass; the walls, floors, and even the ceiling. Our reflections were everywhere. It was the first time I'd seen myself since we'd landed in Awkward. My face was streaked with dirt, my dark blonde hair wet and hanging down my back. The blue tunic I wore clung to me, the fabric stained with siren blood and mud. My nipples pressed against the blue material, the sight heightening my embarrassment. On my chin were the half-moon impressions left by the Siren of Shame, my neck covered with green and yellow bruises from her strangling tongue.

Beside me, Foster didn't look much better. His white tunic no longer white, his hair curling around his ears and his jaw shadowed. His face, like mine, was marred by scratches from the siren who'd held him entranced. And yet, it didn't take away from his appeal. It seemed cruel that no matter how dirty a man seemed to get, he still managed to look decent, as if he just woke up one morning and said, "I'm going to rock the dirt look today."

"Perri!" a distressed voice called. Weasel lumbered toward me, his face twisted with worry. Herman lounged on his hat, his big eyes sad.

Beyond them stood Elspeth. She was in the center of the ballroom, her hands clasped to her chest, a worry line forming between her eyes. Her mud spattered gown sagged, the hem scraping the floor.

"She's changing!" Weasel insisted.

His gaze moved to the princess, our eyes following his. My lips parted. Her honey-gold hair hung down her back, the curls sporting strands of silver.

"Her hair," Foster murmured.

Laughter surrounded us, the sudden sound of sad piano music filling the room. It was loud music, full of sorrow. It was the kind you heard at the end of operas when the hero has died. Like a waltz for the dead.

"Elspeth!" I cried.

She remained frozen, her cheeks covered in tears and her spectacles sitting at an angle. Her songbirds were missing, and she clutched at her heart.

"Awful things, broken hearts," one of the cliques sneered. "They leave shattered pieces behind ... lonely pieces."

Loneliness ... crippling loneliness.

I'd taught myself how to overcome that empty, desolate feeling in my gut, but the creatures in Awkward were never meant to feel lonely. They were never meant to feel broken.

"We can't stop it," Nimble sobbed.

The cliques had attacked Elspeth because her heart had been broken by Prince's Dash's disappearance, his enthralling obsession with Perfection. They could abuse her with the lonely, unbearable feeling. That falling feeling, the same kind that people often dreamt about. The one where hitting the ground before waking up meant death. I'd seen what a broken heart could do, had felt my own heart break after my last relationship. It was a lonely, I wish I could die feeling.

Elspeth started to dance, her feet moving with the sad music, her hands holding herself as if she were in the arms of a partner.

"We are not deadly creatures," one of the cliques said. "If you figure out a way to release her, we will let her go." She laughed. "But if you don't, she will become one of us, beautiful and cold. Her prince could not deny her then."

I stared at Elspeth, my heart hurting. How did you show someone that the pain of heartbreak would pass? How did you show someone that loneliness was often normal? That loneliness was only lethal if we let it be.

It was Foster who stepped forward, his gaze on the princess.

"Your messed up world may mean saving princes from towers instead of maidens." He glanced at me, his gaze falling to the bruises on my neck. I'd saved him in the swamp, but then he'd gotten us away from the Beast of Belonging by tricking me into laughing. "But I think this one," he gestured at the ballroom, "demands a prince."

He sauntered away, his feet carrying him across the glass ballroom floor. He stopped in front of Elspeth, his finger lifting her chin. Her cold eyes met his gaze.

He inclined his head and offered her his hand. "Can I have this dance?"

It was a lonely dance in an empty, glass room filled with sad music and eerie laughter.

Chapter 18

"That awkward moment when you realize you've kind of fallen for a guy who'd make a better huntsman than a prince."

~Peregrine Storke~

Foster was a surprisingly good dancer. Their dance wasn't a fancy one with elaborate moves, like those written into a regency romance novel. It was a simple dance with Foster's palm on Elspeth's waist, her hand in his. He seemed taller standing next to her, his frame broader. Even as unkempt as he was, he looked chivalrous and charming. He wasn't Elspeth's prince—he wasn't Dash—but he twirled her anyway, his eyes on her face. My heart clenched.

"Elspeth," Foster prodded, his gaze searching hers.

She didn't respond, her body rigid even while dancing.

"Is this because of your prince?" Foster asked. "I know it hurts, but there's more to you than just being Prince Dash's princess."

There was no privacy in an echoing glass room. Princess Elspeth stared up at him, but her gaze was blank and glassy. She might as well have been dancing with a ghost, her hair swinging as she twirled, the strands getting more silver.

The cliques giggled. "Talking ..." they giggled harder. "Keep trying pretty words, substitute prince. The harder you try, the funnier it will be to watch you fail."

Words ... they wanted him to use words ...

I saw the intent in Foster's gaze; saw what he intended to do before he even did it. It should have surprised me, but it didn't. This was, after all, a fairytale. As a child, I'd often swooned over the romantic ending of Snow White or Sleeping Beauty. Later, as I grew older, I began to doubt it. What was so special about a kiss? What made someone fall in love without ever uttering a word?

Foster stopped dancing, his fingers pulling Elspeth's face up to his, his gaze finding mine on the side of the room. There was a wry glint in his eyes, an unspoken reminder of our conversation the night before, of his words when he'd asked, Are you saying my kisses aren't powerful enough to break a spell?

I wanted to look away when his lips met Elspeth's, but my gaze was riveted to the scene. It was a fairytale come to life starring a guy I suddenly realized I didn't dislike as much as I thought I did, and a girl I suddenly wished I could replace. It was an unexpected thought, and my hand lifted, my fingers finding my lips.

The kiss was a simple one, an undemanding brush of lips, but I felt it all the way to my toes. Foster was kissing one of my drawings. It was a surreal moment made even more unreal by her sudden recognition. Her glassy gaze cleared, her eyes meeting Foster's.

He stared at her. "Elspeth?"

The cliques screeched, the sound ugly and angry.

Elspeth touched her lips. "Why did you do that?"

Foster's mouth quirked. "Because talking wasn't doing me a damn lick of good."

Nimble clapped gleefully, her troubled face clearing, her purple grin at odds with the sad strain of music still swelling in the ballroom. The song was drawing closer to a crescendo, as if the music was seeking a tragic finale.

Elspeth gazed at Foster. "You're not Dash," she murmured.

Foster choked. "I hope not." Elspeth's face fell, and his grip on her chin tightened. "I didn't mean it that way," he soothed. "I'm not in love with you because I kissed you, Elspeth. Kisses can be tricky things. A kiss, even when it's shared by two people, can sometimes mean different things to each of them."

Princess Elspeth held her heart, her palm pressing against her chest. "I've kissed Dash," she admitted. I'd drawn them kissing once. It had been a sweet scene. Beautiful. Elspeth exhaled. "Could it have meant more to me than it did to him?"

Foster glanced at the side of the room. Nimble looked away. Weasel ducked his head and Herman blushed. The cliques were fighting, throwing angry clichés at each other. I was the only one who didn't look away, my eyes meeting his.

Foster sighed, his gaze sliding back to Elspeth's. "I'm going to tell you what I told my sister once after she discovered her boyfriend kissing another girl." He lifted Elspeth's hand. "It hurts, the pain, but ask yourself this, is love worth destroying yourself over? You have an amazing amount of love in your life." He gestured at us. "It's enough. If Dash truly loves you, then it only makes your life fuller, but if he doesn't, it doesn't make your life less rich."

Tears spilled over Elspeth's cheeks, her nose turning red. Her glasses slipped down her nose.

Foster straightened her spectacles gently before winking. "If he doesn't love you, it's not because you can't kiss."

His statement startled Elspeth, and she laughed in surprise, the sound breaking the tension in the room. The music met in a final tragic series of notes. Weasel, Herman, and Nimble chuckled, the sound sending a tinkling echo through the chamber. Laughter, like yawns, was often contagious.

My heart swelled, the mirth causing me to snigger. My gaze moved to the glass walls, and I froze. Horror gripped me. It wasn't horror at my reflection. It was fear.

Water slid down the glass, as if the walls had been made out of ice, the frosty surface melting with each joyous giggle. The laughter was destroying the room!

"No!" I shouted. "Stop!"

Joy, once begun, isn't easily ended. Foster's gaze locked with mine in the glass, his eyes widening.

"Run!" he yelled. He grabbed Elspeth by the wrist, forcing her across the room toward the exit. Behind them, a wall of glass shattered and fell.

Nimble screamed, her wings propelling her into Foster's side. He snagged her by the tiny dress she wore and threw her onto his shoulder. Weasel shoved me from behind, his quick, lumbering form driving me into the cavern corridor beyond. Behind us, glass continued to crash to the ground.

My gaze went over my shoulder, my eyes watching the way the glass sparkled as it fell. Instead of dying, the music inside the cavern swelled again, growing dangerous and eerie. It chased us, its haunting tune burning its way into my soul.

A lonely dance in a cold, glass ballroom.

The cliques cried out, their pain-filled screams breaking my heart. Even as evil as they'd seemed, they'd been characters I'd drawn, and had been deceived by Perfection. My steps slowed, and I fell behind. The music increased, the tune a harbinger of doom.

A kiss ... a spell broken ... a reminder that love doesn't depend solely on being in a relationship.

The cavern shook, small rocks and dirt rolling down the sides of the cave, loose fragments raining down over our heads.

"Faster!" Foster yelled. He was practically carrying Elspeth and Nimble now, Weasel on his heels. The cave's opening sat just ahead, rain and sun greeting us in a gleaming downpour.

The cave trembled and Foster went to his knees. The movement threw Nimble into the open forest, her small frame free of the grotto. Foster shoved Elspeth after her, his eyes searching the darkness.

The quaking forced me to the ground, a wall of dirt covering my legs and pinning me. I kicked furiously, fighting to pull free.

Ahead of me, Foster helped Weasel and Herman through the cave's opening before sliding backward, his hand searching the darkness. I reached for him, my fingers grazing his. There was no more light behind us, just gloom, haunting music, and collapsing rock.

Foster slid further back, his hand gripping mine, his face strained as he worked to pull me free. I thrashed harder, the dirt falling away from my legs. It trapped my boots, and I kicked free of them, leaving the shoes behind in the rubble, my fingers digging into Foster's biceps.

He grunted. "Never let it be said knowing you is boring."

I coughed, dust cloaking my laughter as we pushed through the exit. Rain beat down on us, my bare toes sinking into the cool mud. The cave collapsed, the rock dissolving, the debris blending with the ground as if it had never existed. There was a final strain of music.

My gaze searched the ground where the cave had been, my chest heaving.

A lonely dance. A kiss. A cascade of shimmering glass.

My world—my beautiful, awkward world—was falling to pieces, the characters within seduced by the promise of perfection. I inhaled, my gaze finding the group in the forest, my fingers still clutching Foster.

The harsh reality slammed into me. My world was dying, and I was dying with it.

Chapter 19

"That awkward moment when the bullygog suddenly becomes a rather interesting prince."

~Peregrine Storke~

There was little conversation following our experience in the Cavern of Clichés. We'd simply walked, our feet finally carrying us out of the forest into tree-covered lanes and open fields full of wildflowers, occasional small homes, dancing fairies, and tiny dragons. The rain continued to fall, drowning us for most of the day before slowing to a drizzle. The bright sun made everything sparkle.

Elspeth was quiet, her thoughts occupied. Nimble whistled simple tunes that sounded an awful lot like modern alternative music. Weasel kept sneaking sweets from a pocket in his clothes, the candy wet but no less edible. He offered us some, but we refused. We drank the cold soup in his pack instead. It was tasteless, my weariness making it impossible to crave any kind of food. For water, our heads lifted, our tongues catching the rain.

Foster marched beside me, his hand holding Queen Norma's ball, his fingers rolling it carefully over his palm. The colors in it swirled, cloudy and beautiful. From yellow to green to cerulean. Tiny wisps of red smoke invaded the blue. Foster stared at it, his brows furrowed, as if gazing into the crystal could tell him how to make it stop. He looked older, tired. It seemed strange that the one place that should make us feel like children suddenly made us feel aged.

My bare feet hurt, the mud, sharp twigs, stone, and uneven ground taking its toll on me. Hunger ate at my gut. My grimy scalp itched, my body stiff in places it hadn't been stiff before.

Herman lifted Weasel's top hat, his eyes watching me, his silent stare unnerving.

"We should stop," the bookworm insisted suddenly, his gaze moving from my face to my feet to the sky. The sun had climbed during our walk and then begun to sink again, turning a deep orange that touched everything with gold. "This is Farmingdale, isn't it?"

I glanced at the open fields, the rows of tilled soil, the patches of flowers, the orchards, and the wooden windmills. All fairytales should have farmers. There is something fanciful about rows of cultivated land and trees heavy with fruit. In reality, it was hard, back breaking work. In my fantasy, it was easy labor full of rosy-cheeked women, smiling men, and skipping children.

My gaze found Herman's. "You ate the map I drew, didn't you?"

He flushed. "The hunger ..." The blush deepened. Eating paper meant learning things for Herman. It was like having a photographic memory in reverse. Instead of looking at a piece of paper and memorizing it, he ate it. Anything he consumed became a part of him, facts and pictures that were never forgotten.

Foster glanced from the ball in his hand to the horizon. Three days of walking, and it felt like we were no closer to finding Perfection than we had been the day we'd left the palace.

"It can't hurt to stop," Foster admitted, his gaze sliding back to the ball.

It was all we said, our exhaustion leaving no room for conversation. We shuffled forward, our feet carrying us to the nearest cottage. It was a small home with a green thatched roof and purple walls. I cringed at the sight of it, but if Foster felt inclined to turn the odd color choices into a joke, the fatigue kept him from actually doing it.

Elspeth rapped on the door, her shoulders thrown back, her head held high. The woman who opened it was middle-aged with a smile too large for her face, hair the color of cinnamon, and unnaturally rosy cheeks. She was short and stocky, her braided hair lay over her shoulder. Around her waist she wore a white apron, and her hands were sprinkled with flour.

She stared at us. "Can I help you?" she asked.

"We need a place to rest," Elspeth said, her sweet voice firm but gentle.

The woman's eyes grew large. "The Princess!" she gasped. The crack in the door widened. "Of course! Please, come in. What is ours is yours, Your Majesty. Whatever you need." She stepped back, her hands twisting the apron. Her rosy cheeks flamed. She had an accent, the kind I'd heard in an old Oliver Twist movie once simply because I liked the sound of it.

Elspeth nodded. "Thank you. Can we trouble you for some food and maybe a bath?" she asked.

The woman grinned, her hands swiping at her face. Strands of hair framed her cheeks.

"It ain't much, but I've got some bread. There's a bath in the barn. We can fill it with warm water for you." She perused our figures. "I don't have much in the way of clothes here, but I can send my man to the neighbors. We'll get you right as rain." She flashed us a smile, her concerned clucking and frenzied movements reminding me of Mrs. Evans.

Foster must have come to the same conclusion. A smile lit his features, something akin to longing in his gaze.

"Come," the woman insisted.

She ushered us to a small building behind the house. It was an airy structure, the second level loft and floor below covered in hay. There were no horses. It seemed wrong that I'd drawn this cottage and barn with no animals, but that was Awkward. It was a strange mix of finished and unfinished sketches, creatures, people, and pasted pictures. It was, in a way, the story of my life. Strange and unfinished.

There wasn't much to remember after that. There was steaming water, a small metal bath, a cheerful woman who scrubbed, clucked, and soothed. She sent Foster and Weasel away, her hands gentle as she helped Elspeth and I in and out of the tub before allowing us to dry. Again, I chose to wear a man's tunic over a dress, the light, airy feel of it preferable over the ankle length gowns the woman showed us. It was Elspeth who surprised me, the princess choosing to wear a similar tunic, both of us fastening belts around our waists. We braided each other's hair, our silence heavy. Above the barn, birds sang. Elspeth's friends had returned.

There was a ladder after that, a blanket, and a pile of straw. I sank into the hay, my fingers pulling the sketchbook free of my belt. As the others washed and changed, I drew, my pencil flying over the page, my finger smudging and blending.

Everything else was forgotten. There was only me and a piece of paper. The elf-giant grew, his pointed teeth and angry expression an odd addition to Awkward. The glass room in the cavern came next, Foster's broad form standing in front of Elspeth, her chin raised and his lips meeting hers. It was a true fairytale moment, the beauty corrupted by the shattering glass behind them.

Each new picture surprised me, the violence and darkness so unlike anything I'd ever drawn in Awkward. And yet, no matter how strange it felt to draw these pictures, it was the one I drew of Foster that shocked me the most. He was leaning against a tree in a dark forest, a man-sized leaf pulled up to his chin. The moon peeked at him through the foliage. His gaze stared at the place next to him, but there was nothing there for him to look at.

"You left something out."

I looked up, my gaze meeting Foster's. He was freshly bathed, his damp, auburn hair hanging on his forehead. His dirty, white tunic had been replaced by a turquoise shirt. The color should have looked ridiculous on him, but it brought out the green in his hazel eyes instead.

He motioned at the picture on my knees. "Unless my memory fails me, you were sitting there." He touched the spot next to him on the sketch.

I lowered the book and placed it on the hay. "I can't draw myself."

He sat next to me. "Why?"

There was no ready answer. "It doesn't seem right."

Reaching over me, he picked up the sketchbook. "So you'd draw me into your fairytale and leave yourself out?"

I grinned. "I could draw Elspeth there."

Foster stared at the picture, a furrow forming between his eyes. "I'd rather you drew yourself," he said.

He glanced up, his gaze meeting mine.

I took the sketchbook away from him, a numb, desperate feeling filling my gut. I'd never had trouble talking to the opposite sex, but flirting with them was a different story. Somehow, I'd been born without the gene. Foster had left me the perfect opening, and the only thing I could do was search his gaze.

"I can't like you," I said. It was the worst possible thing a girl could say.

Foster laughed. "Did I ask you to?" It was the worst possible thing he could have countered with.

My face flushed. "You're my best friend's brother."

His lips quirked. "I'm a bullygog, too." He exhaled into his palm. "You know, smelly breath and all that."

My laugh was followed by a snort, my lips pinching together.

Foster stared. The look he gave me was unnerving. "You know, you're the first person I've slept next to since I returned from Afghanistan," he told me.

I picked at the hay. "You didn't have much of a choice."

"Maybe," he answered. "But you're also the first person who hasn't asked me why I don't sleep well."

My gaze met his. "It's none of my business."

He smiled before tapping my nose. "And that's why I like you."

My eyes narrowed on his. "Because I don't ask you about the way you sleep?"

He chuckled. "No, because you're undemanding."

"Oh." My gaze traveled down his face to his chest and back up again. "So, if I just started needling you for information, you'd suddenly decide I'm unlikeable?"

He shrugged. "Probably so."

I laughed. "Well, then ..."

He lifted my hand and placed it against his face. It was an unexpected move, and I sobered instantly, my stomach clenching.

"No more barriers," he said.

I swallowed hard. "You're Cam—"

"Camilla's not here," he interrupted.

The direct way he said it sent shivers down my spine. His jaw was rough, the stubble like tiny needles against my hand. It didn't feel anything like I thought it would.

I watched him. "I don't kiss on the first date," I said firmly.

His brows lifted. "This isn't a date." He placed his hand over mine on his face. The clenching in my stomach grew worse.

I knew only one way out of the conversation, and I ran with it. "Why do you thrash when you sleep at night?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Perri!" Foster swore, his free hand grabbing the back of my head, his lips coming down firmly on mine.

This kiss was nothing like the one he'd given Elspeth. It wasn't simple. It was bruising, his cool lips pressed firmly against mine. I moved when he moved, my fingers falling from his face to the front of his tunic, the fabric bunched in my palm. His hand tightened on the back of my head, his fingers digging into my scalp. I felt it everywhere, my lips parting. His tongue met mine, the moist feel of it both wonderful and awkward at the same time. He wasn't my first kiss, but kisses are never the same. Foster's kiss tasted like coffee-flavored rain and felt like an invasion. His kiss was a lot like the man. Sometimes he demanded, other times he teased.

His teeth grazed my bottom lip, his eyes on mine when he pulled away. I couldn't have looked away even if I wanted to.

"Tear down those damn walls, Perri." He picked up the sketchbook and laid it in my lap. "Quit hiding behind these. Draw yourself." I started to say something, but he stopped me, his finger pressed against my lips. "Don't make it perfect. Make it awkward, as awkward as you think you are. If you were perfect, you wouldn't be interesting."

I stared. "Says the guy who thinks we shouldn't fight Perfection."

He leaned close. "I never said we shouldn't fight her. I just don't believe wanting to be better is wrong."

My brows rose. "Then tear your own walls down, Foster. Not everything's a joke."

His gaze searched mine, his gaze falling to my lips. "No jokes?" he asked. "You want me to be perfectly candid?" He leaned even closer. "If we were the only two people here right now, I'd have no trouble sleeping with my sister's best friend."

My heart pounded. It was the most inopportune place to be having this conversation. It seemed wrong. We were in the middle of a messed up fairytale, and he was talking about sex.

"Wrong story for that," I whispered.

Foster grunted. "Really? If a writer took the time to ask his male main character what he was thinking, I promise he'd tell the writer he wasn't thinking PG thoughts about eighty percent of the time. It doesn't matter how inappropriate. Do you really think Prince Phillip saw Sleeping Beauty in that bed and thought about just a kiss?"

I threw him a look. "And here I sensed a chivalrous man when you asked Elspeth to dance with you in the cave."

Foster eyed me. "Please tell me you didn't learn about romance from trashy romance novels."

I grinned. "No, I learned about romance from fairytales. I learned about sex from trashy romance novels." My gaze slid down his abdomen. "Just please don't tell me your ... um ..." I gestured at his pants, "... you know is like brandished steel. Cause the thought of a rod of metal there is frankly quite terrifying."

Foster howled, his laughter filling the loft. "Oh, and that's not awkward?" he asked.

A sound separated us, our gaze going to the loft ladder just as Elspeth's head appeared. Nimble flew over her, her clean face full of joy. Violet dust fell everywhere.

"What was this about brandished steel?" Elspeth asked.

Foster groaned, shifting so that he was facing away from the ladder. I choked, the startled chuckle coming out more like a hiccup than a laugh.

"This is Awkward, after all," I mumbled. Romance in fairytales was different from the real world. It was chaste and uncomplicated.

I glanced at Foster.

In the real world, romance was complicated, terrifying, and uncomfortable. In Awkward, Foster was a smelly villain who thought he was a poet. In the real world, he was my best friend's brother and almost as awkward as I was. It's funny how different life is after high school, how different people start to look later.

If I was being honest with myself, I was beginning to like reality better. However, if I was also being honest with myself, I'd have to admit, it would have been awful nice to see Foster climbing an ivory tower to save me.

Chapter 20

"That awkward moment when you realize running away from life doesn't mean life won't pack its bags and follow."

~Peregrine Storke~

There was a window in the loft, the shutters thrown open to the night. Moonlight poured through the opening. I lay within the ray of light, my body surrounded by silver. Hundreds of stars winked down at me. It was the kind of night that made me want to climb a tree, the moon begging for me to get closer. Up, up, up, until I was sitting on top of the world, a lunar queen.

"Moon-kissed," Foster mumbled next to me.

I didn't even glance at him. It was dangerous to look at Foster Evans. There was a fire in his gaze that scared me. He teased and he was passionate. There were things he could teach me I wasn't sure I was ready to learn. Life until now had been an awkward occasion for me. My parents, bullying in school, and the world I'd drawn coming to life. Having Foster be a part of it had complicated things even more.

"You sort of intrigue me," Foster said suddenly.

My head fell to the side, my startled gaze finding the side of his face. Half of his features were in shadow, the other half bathed in pale light. It turned his red hair black, his skin effervescent.

"I intrigue you?" I asked.

Foster's gaze stayed on the window. "I drive people away, Perri. I push them away. Everyone except family. Never family."

His confession surprised me.

"You have friends," I pointed out, "and you date. I know. You've brought a lot of girls home. Remember, I've been there. Camilla and I had this game ..." My words trailed off, my cheeks blazing.

Foster's head fell to the side, his gaze meeting mine. "A game, huh?"

I grimaced. "It was stupid ... it was kind of like one of those betting boards you set up for Super Bowl Sunday. We wrote the names of the girls you dated on it, and then we'd guess how long you'd actually stay with her."

Foster smirked. "And who won?"

My brows rose. "Oh, it was Camilla. It was always Camilla. She was much better at numbers than I was. She had this whole equation she came up with to figure it out. I suck at math." My gaze searched his. "For someone who drives people away, you certainly had a lot of them around you."

Foster laughed. "Do you want me to put this delicately or bluntly? I didn't have friends, I had people I hung out with. I didn't date, I had girls I fu—"

"I've got it, thank you," I interrupted, my gaze moving away from his. "Let's not ruin this," I said, my hand gesturing at the window. Even as tired as I was, I didn't want to close my eyes and shut out the beauty. I was afraid I would wake up to find all of it gone, destroyed by Perfection. "What's intriguing about me?"

There was silence, and then, "You push people away, too."

I sat up. "I do no—"

"Yes," he insisted, "you do. It's an awkward trait we both share. You were seventeen when I started noticing the way you withdraw. Hell, you were seventeen when I first started noticing you. Even Camilla is only allowed so close before you retreat."

I wasn't sure which surprised me the most, the fact that he'd noticed me or the belief that I was unapproachable.

"I don—"

Foster cut me off, his hand gesturing. "Look at the way you are with Elspeth, Weasel, Nimble, and Herman ... I know you'd do anything to save them, I know you care about them, but you still push them away. Other than helping them, have you once hugged them? Showed them any affection? Have you thought about them as anything other than drawings even after touching them, seeing them?"

I stared down at him. "I hugged King Happenstance," I muttered.

Foster didn't miss a beat. "Because you wish he was your father."

My mouth fell open, my eyes narrowing.

Foster sat up across from me. "I'm not judging you, Perri. I told you, I'm the same way. It's why you intrigue me. Every time I've come home the last couple of years, we've been pushing at each other. I'm sure the rhyme had something to do with it, but it wasn't just that. There's a brick wall between us, and every time either one of us tries to cross that line, we run straight into it."

"I let you kiss me," I pointed out.

He smiled. "Kissing has nothing to do with walls."

I frowned. "Seemed pretty wall shattering to me."

Foster clutched his chest. "I think I'm flattered by that."

There was something about Foster that made you want to laugh even when he was insulting you.

My gaze went once more to the window. "You have family," I said.

My knees were pulled up to my chest, my arms wrapped around them when Foster tugged one of them loose, taking my hand in his. He didn't come close, he just held my hand.

"You do, too, Perri," he whispered. My gaze—when it met his—must have been too serious because he shrugged, a familiar glint in his eyes. "Of course, the whole my wanting to have sex with you thing kind of complicates things."

I kicked him. "Damn fine brick wall you have there, Foster Evans," I said when he winced.

His hand squeezed mine. "I've killed people," he said abruptly.

I froze, his words shattering barriers I never knew were up. I'd let being in Awkward fool me into feeling younger ... innocent, and I'd viewed Foster that way, too. His words crumbled it all.

"Foster—" I began.

He squeezed my hand again. "You told me about Halloween. I figured I owed you one."

My jaw dropped. "Halloween seems kind of lame right now after that confession." My palm was growing clammy, but I didn't let him go. "Foster, what you had to do in the field—"

He inhaled. "Doing what you have to do doesn't make it any easier."

I didn't know what to do. My father often had moments of true despair, but he drowned them in alcohol and criticism. His was made worse by his condition, by the mania he suffered. I'd not seen anything like that with Foster. His was despair of a different kind. Something not caused by madness, but something real that could cause madness if he let it.

I just didn't know what to do.

In movies and books, fantasy and fiction, there were scripts for things like this. There were words the actors made look right. In reality, life was full of awkward moments with no right words.

"C-can I hug you?" I stuttered.

It seemed like such a stupid thing to ask. I felt like he needed it, but didn't want to do it if it was the wrong thing to do.

Foster tugged me toward him, and I fell into him, my arms wrapping around his neck. Even grown men have scared children inside of them. If I died in Awkward, I would die with a whole new realization.

"Life kinda sucks, doesn't it?" I asked against Foster's neck.

He laughed into my hair. "It kinda doesn't sometimes, too."

There was silence, heavy silence, the quiet broken only by our breathing. My arms were cramping and my neck hurt, but I wasn't going to be the first to let go.

Foster exhaled, the breath hot against my head. "So I gotta ask, are you still a virgin?"

I choked, swallowing my laugh until tears pricked my eyes. My father drowned his madness and despair in awful things. Foster drowned his with humor.

"Brick wall, Foster. Remember that damned brick wall."

Silence.

Breathing.

Shifting hands.

Clammy skin.

The smell of hay, soap, and watermelon.

Both of us refused to let go first. Maybe it was a test. See, there's this odd thing about fairytales. Most of the time, there's something to compete against—a tower to climb, a wall of briars to cut away, a poison apple to dislodge, evil queens, wolves, and nasty stepparents—but the true test isn't what we have the courage to fight. It's what we have the courage to admit. True courage is admitting when you're vulnerable.

Silence.

Breathing.

In the end, when the darkness was too much and sleep overcame, neither one of us had let go.

Chapter 21

"That awkward moment when the past meets the present, and they don't agree with each other."

~Peregrine Storke~

There are things in the darkness, scary things. I'd been afraid of the shadows since the first time my father turned the heavy locks on our front door, switched off the lights, and coaxed me into sitting in the middle of our living room. Mom had fought with him, her irritation driving her to bed early. Outside, children laughed, the sound of pounding feet on pavement as they ran from house to house begging for candy.

"Trick or treat!"

The yells were everywhere, but my father would always say, "Stay away from the door, Perri. The treat sounds nice, but it's the trick you've got to be afraid of."

Monsters ... people who'd take me away and slice me into pieces.

The darkness terrified me.

In Awkward, I'd always been safe from the darkness. Until now.

It was still night when Foster shook me awake, his arms pinning me against him. We'd fallen asleep clasped in an embrace, my body falling over his. My face was against his chest, and I lifted my head, my eyes searching his gaze.

He wasn't staring at me. He was staring at something beyond my shoulder; his jaw tense, his expression hard and cold.

"Don't look," he breathed.

Cold numbness swept me, every fear I'd ever had about the dark slamming into me. My body trembled, my hands shaking against his arms. If he noticed, he didn't react.

Somewhere beyond us, Weasel stirred, his moans loud as he rolled over. There was silence followed by his sudden loud exclamation.

"Griddlesticks!" Herman breathed, his gasp joining Weasel's.

"Go to Elspeth," Foster called out, his voice low. Feet slid across the loft's wooden floor, Weasel's lumbering body heavy and loud despite his attempt to remain quiet.

"Oh!" a waking Nimble cried out, her grogginess making the exclamation sound worse, as if she'd woken up caught in a nightmare she had no hopes of escaping.

"Foster?" I whispered.

He swallowed hard, his arms tightening around me. "I'm going to roll over," he told me. "I'm going to roll over and you're going to get beneath me, you understand?"

There was something about his gaze, something terrifyingly calm and resolute. It wasn't a new look for him. It was just the first time I'd seen it.

I nodded against his chest.

"One," he counted. There was an eerie shriek in the darkness, the earsplitting yell drowning out everything about the night I'd ever thought was beautiful. Elspeth screamed. Foster ignored her. He shook me. "Two." His eyes found mine. "Three!"

He rolled, his body heavy, his broad chest and back shielding me from whatever stood behind him.

There were sobs in the darkness.

My curiosity was making the fear worse.

"Foster?"

He stared down at me. "Trust me," he hissed.

There was a low whir, the sound met by an oomph from Foster. He exhaled, his eyes widening, his hand going up to grip his shoulder. Between his fingers, blood seeped. I screamed, my hands pushing at him, my fingers frantic as they pressed against his shoulder.

He pushed me away. "Don't," he panted. "It's not fatal."

Foster fell to the side, his arms still tight around me, his body a shield. Despite all of his efforts, his movement left me exposed, my gaze meeting the glowing red eyes of a creature just beyond his shoulder.

There in front of the open window—the moon behind him—stood a man cloaked in black, his face covered in a heavy black cowl. The only thing visible was his eyes, two glowing red orbs against the darkness.

His arm lifted, a bow held steady in his grip. On his back, he carried a sheath of arrows. The earsplitting shriek from before filled the room, the sound following the creature as he turned, his feet carrying him toward the window. He stepped out of the casement, his body disappearing into the night. I didn't look to see if he flew or fell. His shriek disappeared with him.

I shoved Foster off of me, my body rolling over his, my hands frantic as I pulled at his tunic. Popping the buttons loose, I shoved the shirt up his chest and over his shoulders. His skin was pale in the moonlight, the wound on his shoulder smothered in black. Protruding from his flesh was an arrow. It was a small arrow, a familiar one.

I choked on a sob. "Cupid."

Foster watched me, his hands bunching his shirt before pressing it against the wound. "Cupid?" he asked me. "You drew a cupid in Awkward?"

I ignored him. "We've got to get the arrow out."

I started to reach for the shaft.

He grabbed my arm, his hand wrapping around my wrist. "No, it has to be broken first. The head of it has to be broken off."

I wasn't strong enough, and we both knew it. My gaze sought out Weasel in the darkness. The troll lumbered toward us, the floor shaking as he settled next to Foster's shoulder.

"Steady now," Elspeth soothed. She knelt behind Foster, her hands gripping the sides of his head. His gaze stayed locked on mine. There was something wrong with his eyes.

Nimble landed on my shoulder, her small hand pressing against my cheek. "Perri," she whispered, "those arrows were poisoned."

My gaze dropped to hers, my chest burning. "I don't understand."

Her tiny lashes fell against her cheeks. "I've heard of cupid's change," she said. "When the darkness took him, he became the Reaper of Regret. He's beautiful beneath his hood, perfect. Even so, he hides behind the cowl as if he were ashamed of his choice to turn."

My breath came in spurts, my vision blurring. "The arrow, Nimble," I prompted. "What does it do?"

Her sad, violet eyes found mine. "Regret," she answered. "It's full of regret. It's most dangerous to those with a guilty conscience."

Foster's words from hours before ran through my head. I've killed people. His regrets were deeper than anyone in this room, and he'd taken the arrow for me.

"My God!"

My gaze found Foster's face, my hands gripping his as Weasel broke the tip off of the arrow. Elspeth lifted Foster gently while Weasel shoved the shaft from his arm. Foster should have screamed, but he didn't. His face was eerily blank, his pupils dilated. There was sorrow in his gaze, sorrow deeper than any I'd ever seen.

"Foster?" I whispered.

His gaze found mine, but there was nothing there. No recognition. Nothing except sorrow and guilt.

He sat up, his shirt falling from his wound. It began to bleed again, and I scurried to replace the tunic. He tried pushing me away, but Weasel held him as I wrapped his shoulder, tying the cloth tight around the hole left by the arrow.

"Foster?" I asked.

He pushed me away, his strength suddenly too much even for Weasel. Getting to his feet, he sauntered to the window, his gaze on the ground below. I knew what he was going to do even before he did it, and I screamed.

It was too late.

There was no warning. Nothing to prepare any of us for his sudden step into the night.

Chapter 22

"That awkward moment when you realize love doesn't always come full of sweet joy, but tainted with regret."

~Peregrine Storke~

There was no time to scream, no time to do anything but stare, my vision clouded with tears. My cheeks were cold, the moisture on my face chilling me as I walked to the window. It was a slow walk, a walk full of disbelief, fear, and pain.

My hands gripped the window's frame as I leaned out into the night, my gaze searching the ground. The barn wasn't a tall building, just a short structure made to look pretty behind the purple and green cottages. It wasn't a long drop, I knew that, but it didn't make the fear any less.

There below, his body swathed in silver, the muscles in his back tense, knelt Foster. One hand rested against the ground, his fingers digging into the soil, his gaze on the sky.

I didn't know what he saw in the moon, but whatever it was, he keened. It was an indescribable sound—guilt, shame, and remorse rolled into one awful moan that tore my heart to pieces. Tears fell, the liquid sliding down my cheeks before hitting the windowsill.

I climbed up into the window.

"Perri!" Elspeth cried.

I ignored her, my body leaning forward. The drop wasn't a far one. I'd jumped further from a low hanging shed roof once on a dare.

One step, and I was falling, my feet slamming into the ground before I had a chance to second guess myself. Nimble flew down after me.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

Foster began to run, his gaze wild. I cried out his name, but he didn't hear me.

I took off after him, my heart pounding. "He's going to kill himself," I told Nimble.

She gasped. "He wouldn't!"

She didn't know the demons possessing him. She didn't know the images he saw when he shut his eyes. None of us did, but I had no doubt they were bad enough to destroy him. I did the only thing I knew to do. I followed him, my feet pounding the soggy earth, my gaze locked on his back. I was suddenly thankful for all of the time I'd spent in the gym.

He paused near a tree, his fist going into the bark. Beside me, Nimble gasped, the violence in his swing frightening her.

I approached him slowly. "Foster?"

His head lifted, his eerie, pupil-blackened eyes meeting mine. "Blood," he said. "So much blood."

He drew his hand back again. There were gashes on his knuckles, but he either didn't feel them or he didn't care. He drove it into the tree.

A fine sheen of sweat coated his back, the wolf on his arm undulating as his biceps tensed and relaxed.

My fingers brushed his arm. He froze, his muscles tensing against my hand.

"Get away from me!" he yelled.

I didn't move. There were a lot of things that intimidated me, but yelling wasn't one of them. My father had made sure of that.

My fingers brushed his skin again. "Foster—"

I didn't know what to say. I had no idea what to say! My hand fisted against my stomach, my voice low when I whispered, "I forgive you."

There was more to his guilt than a petty rhyme he'd made up to tease a fourteen-year-old girl, but I didn't know what else to say. There were ghosts ruling him now, ghosts I didn't know how to defeat.

Foster drew back his arm again. Nimble yelped, her small hands yanking at me, her eyes full of fear.

My gaze found hers before landing on a cottage just beyond her shoulder. There—next to the small, squat building—sat a stone well, a wooden roof built to cover it, a pail hanging from a pulley system above it.

I gasped. "The Well of Forgetfulness."

Nimble's gaze followed mine. "You can't!" she cried. "If he drinks from it, he'll forget more than just his regrets. He'll forget everything, even his family."

My gaze stayed locked on the well. "It's not for him to drink," I breathed.

I was running before I'd even realized I'd moved, my feet pounding the earth. Thudding footsteps followed me, and I glanced over my shoulder to find Foster trailing me, his distant gaze on the moon.

The stone well was cool against my fingers when I reached it, my hands scrambling for the pail. It fell with a splash to the twirling water below.

"Come on," I begged, my arms pulling the rope, the heavy water-laden pail slowing me down. My arms burned, but I didn't stop.

Foster was next to me now, his gaze on the hole the well made in the ground. I saw what he wanted to do in his gaze, and I pulled harder. The pail knocked against the side of the well, and I lugged it out, the water splashing over the sides. Foster began to climb, and I nearly dropped the bucket pulling him back toward the ground. He fought me, his strength an advantage I didn't have.

He pushed me aside, and I grabbed the pail, using it to douse the wound on his shoulder, my lips murmuring the silent plea, "Please! Please let my instincts be right!"

"I'm not leaving you," I told him.

Foster froze, confusion filling his gaze. Water dripped down his shoulder, the drops sinking through the tunic and down into his wound.

His brow furrowed, his gaze clear one moment and disoriented the next, the guilt and sorrow mingling with lucidity in his eyes. He began to climb the well again.

I jumped onto his back, my legs and arms pulling on him as hard as I could, my chest heaving, my breath against his ear. "I won't go home without you. Please, Foster."

He paused, his body shaking. Despite his chilled skin, it wasn't the cold that made him tremble.

My fingers tightened on his flesh. "Foster."

Something broke in him then, something I don't think he even realized he'd been holding back. It was anger, but it wasn't violent anger. It was desperate anger, self-loathing, and the need to be free of it all.

He managed to make it on to the side of the well, his arms flinging outward. He was supposed to fall then, I could see it in his eyes.

My feet touched the well's low wall next to him, and I flung myself against him, the force throwing him backward. I lost my balance, the stone too slippery to hold me.

I threw my hands out, my fingers desperately seeking some kind of hand hold. It found the pail's rope, but my weight was too much for it to bear without a stronger counterweight.

Above me, Foster's gaze cleared, the well's water having fought the poison in his wound. Horror filled his eyes, his frame bending over the well as I fell. He'd saved me from the arrow, and I'd saved him from himself.

Below me, the water twirled, a stark reminder of my own history, a time when twirling water once made me forget everything.

Chapter 23

"That awkward moment when you realize the well you once drew because you wanted to forget things scares you now. It scares you because you don't want to forget anymore. You want to remember it all."

~Peregrine Storke~

My fingers clung to the rope, the rough fibers tearing into my skin. My heart felt like a heavy lump in my throat, my chest tightening. It made it hard to breathe, and I sobbed, my lips pinched together.

My bare feet hit the water first, my legs sinking into the twirling blackness. It was cold, the water, its hungry swirls eating me alive.

Despite every effort not to, I began to cry.

The rope in my hands went rigid, and I grit my teeth against the sudden pull, my skin protesting. My arms burned.

"Hold on, Perri! For God's sake, hold on!" Foster yelled.

There was a violet glow, and the overwhelming taste of watermelon. "I'm here," Nimble murmured, her lips pressed together, her wings beating furiously. She was taking a risk flying down into the well. One drop of water, and she'd forget everything.

I shook my head frantically, my lips tight. I was too afraid to speak, too afraid a spray of water would make it into my mouth. There'd been a lot of things about my life I'd wanted to forget. I didn't anymore. The bullying, the struggle with my weight, my father's yells, and my mother's indifference ... they'd all made me into the person I was now. Rather than weakening me, they had made me stronger.

My frantic gaze went to the surface, to the face peering down at me from above. I didn't want to forget Awkward. I didn't want to forget Foster.

His face was too far away to see clearly, but I saw his arms tighten, his elbows bracing as he began to pull on the rope. The muscles in my arms ached, the throbbing pain unbearable. My arms weren't strong enough to support the rest of my body.

The rope continued to lift. Nimble fluttered near my face, her lips as tightly closed as mine, her worried gaze searching my face. Even if she wanted to help, she couldn't do anything other than be there. It was enough.

My hips cleared the water, my dripping tunic weighing me down.

Foster kept pulling. "Hold on!"

Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, my lashes falling against my cheeks, numbers flying through my head. It's what I often did when running or working out, when the pain got too much. I closed my eyes and counted, each number taking me closer to the finish.

My fingers began to slip just as my feet cleared the water.

"Don't you dare let go, Peregrine Storke!" Foster ordered, his voice firm and unrelenting. "Don't you dare let go!"

I scrambled to keep my grip on the rope. There was blood now, the fluid making it hard to maintain my hold. My palms burned, and my muscles were stretched to their limit. My sobs increased, my lips trembling.

Nimble flew close, her hands rubbing my cheeks. There was love in her touch. Simple, innocent love.

Foster's breath came in spurts, his arms bulging. The opening grew closer, the light from the moon sending silver tendrils down the slick stone walls. I could see Foster's face now, could make out his tense jaw and sweat-covered brow. He stared down at me.

My fingers slipped again, sliding an inch down the rope before my hands caught me. More tears slid down my cheeks.

"Look at me, Perri!" Foster cried.

My face lifted, my gaze finding his. The pain wasn't limited to my arms anymore. It was in my shoulders now, too. My legs hung below me, completely useless. My feet had kicked the bucket loose on the way down, and there wasn't enough rope for my legs to grab a hold of. There were only my arms.

"You can do this," Foster called down. "Hold on, Perri! Don't you dare give up on me now."

My hands tightened on the rope, my eyes squeezing shut. The blood was making my palms slick, and I felt them beginning to give. There was nothing but me and the darkness, the fear of falling, and the knowledge that one drop of water could make me forget everything.

A breeze touched my face, my lashes beginning to lift when my arms gave up the fight, my palms sliding down the rope.

Tears.

A rope.

Nothing except air.

A hand grasped my wrist, the hold tight and uncomfortable.

"Your other hand, Perri. Give me your other hand," Foster ordered.

I exhaled, the sound shaky.

My gaze lifted, my eyes meeting his. I reached for him. My abused palm stung as his hand closed around mine.

He tugged me upward, my feet clearing the top of the well before he finally let go. I fell into him, my battle with tears long lost. The sobs weren't pretty. They were ugly and loud. They were awkward tears, the kind followed by hiccups and choking gasps. My hands touched Foster's chest, my palms leaving streaks of blood on his skin.

He grabbed my face. There was guilt in his eyes, but neither of us said anything. His bloody knuckles, my palms, the horror in his gaze ... it was enough. The memory of the night was forever burned into our flesh. There'd be scars we couldn't erase.

His thumb swept my cheek. "After everything we've been through here, and a well full of water makes you cry?"

It was Nimble who answered him. "It's not a normal well," she said. "It's the Well of Forgetfulness. One drop of water and you forget everything."

Foster's eyes searched mine. "Perfection?"

"No," I choked, "the well is all mine. I drew it."

The tears kept coming.

"The Well of Forgetfulness," he murmured.

The words when they came were almost incoherent. "I don't want to forget anymore," I sobbed. "I don't want to forget any of it."

There were hidden meanings in my words. Too many hidden meanings.

Foster's hands tightened on my face, the blood from his knuckles mixing with the tears on my face.

He shook his head. "Damn these walls."

With that, he kissed me.

It wasn't a pretty kiss. It was ugly, his lips catching my sobs, his kiss swallowing my tears.

Behind us, the well continued to churn, the water hitting the walls. It sounded an awful lot like a toilet flushing. The Well of Forgetfulness.

Somehow, laughter replaced the tears. It was hysterical laughter mingled with desperate kisses, blood, fear, and relief.

I didn't want to forget.

"Damn these walls."

Chapter 24

"That awkward moment when you realize the villain you should have drawn into your story was yourself."

~Peregrine Storke~

We had just enough time to wash the blood from our hands and replace our tunics before the sun began to rise, the night wasted by a Reaper of Regret. The woman who lived in the cottage offered us fresh bread and water.

She was handing me a piece of the steaming food when I realized I'd never named any of the people who lived in Farmingdale. They were simply happy people who lived their lives without complication.

Her eyes met mine, and she smiled. "Water?" she asked.

The liquid felt good sliding down my throat, and I peered at her over the rim of my cup.

"Your name is Patience," I told her.

She eyed me, confusion warring with surprise in her gaze. I lifted the sketchbook from the belt at my waist. It had endured a lot of things on this journey. If we survived, I was going to beg Happenstance for another one.

With the pencil, I sketched the woman in front of me, making her eyes gentle and kind, her mouth curved in a smile. Strands of hair framed a face full of understanding.

Turning the book around, I flashed her the portrait. "Patience," I repeated. "Your name is Patience." I scrawled the name under her picture.

She beamed, sudden understanding dawning on her face. "Patience," she breathed.

I made a mental note to name the rest of the cottage dwellers.

"Perri," a gentle voice prodded.

I looked up to find Foster waiting by the door. In his palm, he held Queen Norma's ball. The smoke within was completely red now. It reminded me of blood.

Elspeth gazed at me from over Foster's shoulder. "We should go," she said.

Weasel, Nimble, and Herman met us in the yard, their tired eyes full of something I'd never seen in them before ... hopelessness.

My head lifted, my shoulders thrown back. "We can do this," I told them. My gaze went to the sky. The rose-clouds had been growing darker with each passing day, their wilting shapes a herald of evil. My eyes traced them.

Foster's gaze followed mine. "Have you noticed some of them are darker than others?" he asked.

I stared. He was right.

The implication of it dawned on me. "We follow the dark clouds."

Our feet began to move. There was no prodding, no conversation; just movement. Above us, Elspeth's birds sang, their songs a spot of cheer in an otherwise gloomy situation. We watched the sky.

"Is Foster your prince?" Princess Elspeth asked suddenly, her voice tinged with curiosity.

My head snapped up. "Ummm ..."

Herman snorted. "He couldn't be. He's a bullygog, remember?"

There are moments in life when a hole opening up in the ground wouldn't be a bad thing.

Nimble glanced at me, her violet cheeks growing a darker purple. She'd witnessed our kiss the night before. I saw in her eyes what I couldn't say out loud.

It was Foster who saved me. "It's complicated," he said.

Elspeth frowned. "How?" she asked. "If you like each other, then you're her prince."

I'd learned over the last week that Foster was good with words, but Elspeth was my creation ... no, she was my friend.

"Where we come from, it's complicated," I answered. "Our world doesn't work that way. There's ... obstacles."

It was all I said. In the real world romance didn't work the same way it did in fairytales. There wasn't love at first sight. There wasn't a prince who rode off into the sunset with you, and then spent the rest of your lives frozen in marital bliss with no arguments. There were past relationships, college, jobs, war, distance ... in the real world, princes weren't the brothers of your best friend. In the real world, life often interfered. We had our whole lives in front of us and there were no guarantees.

Princess Elspeth stared at the sky. "I'm not good enough for him," she said suddenly.

My gaze found her face. "For Dash? Elspeth, that's not true."

Broken hearts weren't something that mended overnight. Perfection often caused self-doubt. I'd come to realize a lot of things on this journey. I'd learned that too many people thought they had to change to be loved. That they had to be like everyone else to belong. Perfection depended on losing weight, on having sex when everyone else did, on parental approval, and on so many things that didn't matter.

The princess looked at me. "Why did you draw the Well of Forgetfulness? If we were enough, then why draw it?"

The pain in her gaze took me back. She was right. I'd drawn an awkward world, but instead of loving it completely for what it was, I'd drawn them and myself a way to forget.

I stared at her, my gaze sad. "Because I'd needed it," I answered.

It was a selfish answer. I'd drawn Awkward because I'd needed it. I'd drawn what I needed into it. It was my fairytale. It was my escape.

Foster was right. There was nothing wrong with trying to be better. But I was right, too. It was okay to improve myself, but it was also okay to live life feeling worthy just the way I was. Improving me should be a personal decision.

I inhaled. "The first thing I plan to do when this is over is tear up the picture of that damn well."

Elspeth's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

The look I gave her was confident. "Because avoiding the things that hurt us doesn't fix us," I told her. "There's only so long you can hide from life. Don't worry about being enough for Prince Dash. Worry about being enough for you. In the end, that's what counts. He or someone else will love you more for that."

My feet carried me away from them, my heart and head needing the distance. There are moments when tears are all you have, when crying releases everything and leaves you fresh. It gives you a clean slate to work with.

I glanced over my shoulder at Elspeth. "You know what?" I said. It wasn't just her eyes that met mine. It was all of theirs. "I grew up believing in fairytales. They're beautiful and simple and sweet, but I don't really care for them as much as I used to." I glanced at the clouds. "Let's write a different fairytale or die trying."

There was a moment of silence before Foster broke the solitude with a whistle.

"Well," he announced, "that was sexy as hell."

"Sexy?" Elspeth asked.

"That's another story," I called over my shoulder.

Foster laughed. "I thought we were changing it."

My lips curved, my hips swaying more than they used to. The Well of Forgetfulness wasn't the only thing being destroyed. There was a new wall being built, but this one wasn't for defense. It was, brick for brick, a wall of confidence.

Chapter 25

"That awkward moment when you discover the way you've always perceived yourself was wrong."

~Peregrine Storke~

The longer we walked, the darker the clouds became, the roses above us steadily wilting. I felt like Chicken Little waiting for the sky to fall.

"He loves me, he loves me not ..." Foster joked, his gaze going from the rose-shaped clouds to the glass ball he held in his palm. His jaw tensed, his hand slipping the orb back into the pouch he kept on his belt. His movements weren't fast enough. I caught a glimpse of the black tendrils of smoke invading the crimson, and I knew our time was almost up.

"It's getting dark," Nimble breathed, her voice tinged with awe. It was never dark in Awkward. There was always light.

"The trees," Weasel gasped.

There was more than just darkness in the world of Awkward, there was death. The full, towering trees and man-sized foliage I'd drawn into the kingdom were changing the further we marched. In their place were intimidating, thin trees with delicate branches full of small leaves the color of silver. In a strange way, they were beautiful.

Nimble flew toward them, her tiny fingers touching the silver leaves before backing away. What was once familiar territory for her wasn't anymore, and she flew backward into the trunk of another tree, her small frame sliding down the sparkling bark. It was a cold kind of beauty, this part of Awkward. Everything surrounding us sparkled. There were jewel-like colors, glittering gold, and sparkling silver. The clouds above us had wilted away, replaced by luminous silver-tinged clouds shaped like cotton balls. They were perfect. They were terrifying.

Elspeth froze. Weasel bumped into her, his large hand going to his top hat. Herman lifted it, his small, scared face peering out at us.

"Look," Elspeth stammered.

Our gazes followed hers. There, standing like a wicked beacon of stunning light, was a tower. It was an ivory tower, a shimmering pearlescent stone that drew the eyes and held the gaze.

"I think I expected something darker," Foster murmured.

Between us and the tower, there stood a bridge. It was a breathtaking bridge made of curved onyx. Beneath the structure was a pool of water. The small lake was an oval shape, the surface as smooth as glass. It threw back the reflection of the tower, the silver-tinged clouds above it, and the shimmering trees beyond. It was like walking inside of a jewelry store. Everything glittered, and I wasn't sure what to look at first.

Nimble shivered. "I have a terrible feeling about this."

Even though it was still daytime, we stood beneath a night full of trillions of twinkling stars. Foster's hand lingered over the pouch on his belt.

"There's not a lot of time," he said.

There was a collective inhalation of breath before we started walking again. Foster took the lead, his coolness in dangerous situations making the rest of us feel stronger.

Foster glanced at me. "Where's that newfound confidence?" he asked.

I threw him a look. "It died with the light."

A smile tugged at his lips. It was becoming a habit for the two of us, using humor to overcome that awful feeling of desperation.

"We just march in?" I asked.

Elspeth stared at the tower. "We have to convince the prince to come back to Awkward. That's what we're here for."

My gaze followed the tower up, up, and up some more. "Marching right in, it is," I mumbled.

Our feet touched the bridge. It was like walking on black ice surrounded by mirrors. We were halfway across when the water surrounding us began to toss, small waves pounding the bridge. It sloshed onto the onyx, making the surface slippery.

"Faster," Weasel called out, his voice full of panic.

I tried to run and couldn't. Every step was a challenge. My legs felt heavy, my body weighed down. Invisible ropes wrapped my arms and legs.

"Faster," Weasel repeated.

His voice sounded slower, groggy. I tried to move my head and couldn't. There was an overwhelming urgency to run, but my legs refused to listen to the warnings in my head. It felt like a dream. I was stuck in invisible quick sand. The enemy was coming, and I couldn't get away.

"Save me," a voice cried out. I stiffened. It was my father's voice, his speech slurred by alcohol.

"Save me," another voice shrieked. This one belonged to my mother, her speech slow and erratic, as if she were having trouble remembering how to form the words.

Foster froze in front of me, his shoulders lifting, his jaw tight. There were voices inside of his head, too. They were inside all of us. I could see it in the way Nimble, Weasel, Herman, and Elspeth stared, their gazes full of worry and hard determination.

My feet suddenly came unfrozen, the unseen chains around my legs loosening. I stumbled forward, my hands catching the side of the bridge.

Foster slammed against it next to me, his gaze going to the water. In moments, we were joined by the rest of the group, the tossing waves below beckoning us.

"Save me," my parents' voices echoed.

The rolling water began to settle, the waves evening out, the surface returning to its eerie iciness. Our reflections stared back at us. And yet ... it wasn't our reflections. It was something different. I didn't see myself in the water, I saw an atypical version of me. My hair was down, the strands lighter. There were large glasses on my face, my cheeks puffy. Acne marred my skin. There was fear in my gaze, dread and discomfort.

Each reflection next to me was different. Nimble appeared broken; one of her wings much larger than it actually was while the other wing was torn in half. She wasn't beautiful, she was broken and unsure. Weasel's green face was covered in holes rather than pockmarks, his belly more swollen. His otherwise friendly face was angry and surly. Herman's head was the size of a watermelon balancing on top of a tiny body, his cranium too heavy and large for him to carry. Elspeth's wild hair looked like slithering snakes, her cheeks sagging.

Our reflections were awful renditions of ourselves, but it was Foster's reflection that surprised me the most. Instead of the broad warrior I knew he was, I saw a tall, thin man, his muscular arms stringy. He was all rotted teeth and scarlet hair. His gaze was distant and lonely. For the first time, I realized something. Foster Evans didn't feel like he belonged here. Not the same way we did. The rest of our reflections were uncommon and out of character, but there was no loneliness. We belonged in Awkward. Here, Foster was the outsider, the bullygog, and I'd made him that way.

"What an awful mirror," Elspeth bit out, her tone hard.

"You don't like it?"

We stiffened at the sound of the voice behind us. It was a beautiful, feminine voice, the kind that promised sin and seduction.

We spun, our gazes finding the stunning figure of a woman. She had a tall, hourglass figure, her nose and lips perfectly formed. Her peaches and cream skin was smooth, her lips red. She had thick, shining blonde hair, her body enfolded in a black, body contouring dress.

She smiled at us. "Is there something wrong with our bridge?" she asked.

My parents' voice rang out again, the sound of it echoing in my skull. "Save me."

The woman's gaze found my face. "So many burdens amongst this group," she sneered. "So many burdens and so many skewered perceptions." She gestured at the bridge and lake. "The Bridge of Burdens and the Pool of Perception. They tell you a lot about yourself. There are so many things about you that should be changed. You've come to the right place for change."

She took a step toward me. "You," she held up her hands as if she were framing my face, "I'd call you artistic, but other than your talent for drawing, you don't seem to fit that profile." She grinned, the movement transforming her face, turning her into an angel. "I think you're more of a nerd, aren't you? Judgmental, maybe? An introvert?"

Her gaze skipped over Elspeth, Nimble, Weasel, and Herman, as if none of them mattered to her. Maybe they didn't. They weren't from the real world. They were from my fantasy world, and she thought she could persuade them to change without insulting them.

Her eyes landed on Foster. "But you," she breathed. She sauntered toward him, her perfectly manicured nails running across his chest. "You're perfect. You could join us here, you know."

Foster gazed down at her, his expression unreadable. "Let me guess," he said. "You're Stereotype."

She smirked. "How clever you are, too. Tell me, do you really consider yourself a part of this lot?" She tugged on his shirt. "You could do so much better. You could be great." There was greediness in her gaze, an insatiable hunger to have everything she wanted.

Foster grinned, his eyes glinting. "I think you mistake me for someone else."

Stereotype stepped back, frowning. "Mistake?" She eyed him.

His smile grew. "Some awkwardness is more than skin deep. Just because the outside of something looks pretty, doesn't mean the inside isn't a mess."

My gaze found his face. He didn't look at me, but he didn't have to. Stereotype was right; I was judgmental. Foster had made up a teasing rhyme about me years ago, but instead of blaming the people who had bullied me, I'd made him the villain. I'd blamed one person for the sins of many.

Stereotype stepped away from us, her beautiful face as hard as granite. "You came here to save a prince." She laughed. "Don't expect us to fight you. We won't need to. He won't leave with you. You're too late."

Elspeth exhaled on a sob, her lips pinching together in an attempt to rein in her emotions.

Stereotype beamed, her greed fed by despair. "You could change," she told the princess. "You could be so much better."

She disappeared, her body fading like fog into the hauntingly beautiful background. For a long moment, no one moved. We stood on the bridge, our faces avoiding the water. There was no more weariness, the bridge's grip on us having loosened. The Bridge of Burdens. My burden was my parents, my fear for them and my fear of being like them, and my burden was also myself. Everything I'd ever believed about myself was wrong.

Foster was the first one to move, his steps taking him away from the bridge toward the tower.

"It's pointless," Elspeth called after him.

I stared at her. "Is it?" I asked. "Do you really believe that?"

She returned my gaze. "Says the girl who misjudged a man who could have been her prince."

Her words were cruel. They were right. They were real.

My hand found her shoulder, my throat tight. "You're right. I did. I've misjudged a lot of things, but my reason for drawing Awkward hasn't changed. The world needs this place. It needs all of you. It needs your awkwardness. It needs you to be real."

I glanced at the end of the bridge. Foster had paused there, his gaze on us.

My eyes met his. "True courage isn't about being brave. It's about being real. It's about being able to admit our weaknesses so that we can turn them into strengths." My gaze went back to Elspeth. "Everyone belongs somewhere. Embrace what makes you awkward. We all should."

Weasel's large, green hand fell on my shoulder. "Friends belong together," he pointed out. "Even when we're angry at each other."

Nimble landed on my opposite shoulder, her hand reaching for Elspeth. "They're right," she said. "I like that I'm different. I want to be okay with it. I love that I have friends who love me for who I am."

Herman lifted Weasel's hat. "This is where I say I want to rule the world, right?"

My awful laugh was loud, the sound ending on a snort. "Let's go get Dash."

Together, we moved from the bridge. Foster waited on us.

I glanced up at him. "I'm making you a white knight," I told him, my fingers tapping the cover of the sketchbook at my waist. The next time I drew him, he was going to be a prince. Princes should never be perfect. They should have nightmares. They should be picky eaters and made queasy by the sight of blood. They should be blunt and occasionally a little arrogant. They should be loyal and determined. Most of all, they should be awkward and real.

Foster winked. "I can't be a maiden?" he asked. "I kind of like the idea of sitting on my rump while you slay all the dragons."

His words had all of us glancing at the tower, at the pearlescent prison holding Prince Dash. Elspeth's head lifted, her eyes narrowing. She was stronger because of this journey. I saw it in her gaze. Something was changing inside of her.

Chapter 26

"That awkward moment when you realize not all fairytales end the same."

~Peregrine Storke~

The tower was easily accessible. There were no soldiers guarding the entrance, no booby traps, or fire-breathing dragons. There was a door in the stone, yet there was nothing to keep us from entering. No need to conjure up a magic staircase or a long braid of hair. Stereotype was right; they had no intention of stopping us.

Foster opened the pouch on his belt and gazed down into it. His face was hard when he closed it, and I felt the first tendrils of fear grip me.

"Let's go," he ordered.

Foster was the first to enter, his feet carrying him up a dark, winding staircase. We followed more slowly, our feet taking each step as if it were our last. Maybe it was. It was certainly our moment of truth. I inhaled through my nose, my heart beating wildly. I was afraid. I was afraid of the darkness. I was afraid of failing the people I'd helped create.

The stairs ended at a simple arched door.

"I'll do it," Elspeth insisted. She brushed past us, her face full of determination. Foster allowed her to take the lead.

The princess inhaled, her chest expanding. She held it, her small, delicate hands pushing at the door. It creaked open, the wood swinging into a pitch black room; The Dungeon of Despair.

Elspeth sighed. "It's beautiful," she said.

I gaped. "It's dark!" I cried.

Foster glanced down at me, his brows furrowed. "No," he leaned closer. "it's not dark, Perri."

Elspeth stepped into the room, Nimble, Weasel, and Herman behind her. All of their eyes were wide and full of wonder.

I stared. There was nothing except a black hole.

I took a step backward. "I can't."

Foster looked from my face to the door and back again. "What do you see, Perri?"

My breath came in spurts, my heart rate increasing. "It's dark," I repeated.

Foster glanced at the door again. "We've got to go in."

I shook my head.

Foster tugged me toward him, his arms wrapping around me. "I'll carry you then, but we're out of time, Perri. There's no more time."

I kicked and screamed as he dragged me into the room. We were standing in the middle of nothing. There was no light. None. There was no ceiling, no floor, and no walls. There was only blackness.

I curled into a ball inside of Foster's arms. His grip was comforting, but I couldn't see him.

From the darkness, someone whispered, "Trick or treat."

There was no sound. I was too afraid to move, speak, or even breathe. I was in the middle of my living room, my father whispering about the dangers of the night, about the monsters that waited for me outside in the dark. There was the sound of pounding feet and children screaming.

Foster's arms tightened. "I don't know what you're seeing, Perri, but whatever it is, you aren't there. You are inside of a tower and surrounded by the whitest walls you have ever seen. There are windows everywhere. Each of them look out over fields of trees blooming with gemstones."

"She won't see it," a voice said. It was a male voice, low and beautiful.

"Dash!" Elspeth cried.

The prince ignored her. "Perfection rules this tower."

Foster's arms stiffened. "Why doesn't she see what everyone else does?"

The prince laughed. "Because she fears perfection. Only those who fear being perfect see it as something terrifying."

Darkness ... there was so much darkness, the eerie whispers of trick or treat loud in the gloom. Did I fear being perfect?

"No," I mumbled.

Foster knelt, his arms taking me down with him. We were sitting in the middle of nothing.

"There's no such thing as perfection," Foster said, his voice hard.

"Are you so sure?" the prince asked. "If there was no such thing as perfection, then why is she afraid of it?"

I could feel Foster's gaze on my face even if I couldn't see it. I could hear everything they said, could feel their presence, but I was terrified to move. It was that illogical, childish fear that the darkness would find me and destroy me if I made any sound.

"She isn't afraid of perfection," Foster said. "She's afraid of what wanting it will turn her into." He shook me. "You aren't your father, Perri. You aren't your mother. Don't let the fear defeat you. Be you," he said. "Be the creative, snorting, strong person I know you are."

I concentrated on his voice. He was right. I wasn't afraid of perfection. I was afraid of what wanting it made people.

There were other hands on me now. Familiar hands. "None of us want to be perfect," Nimble whispered into my ear.

There was a sudden light in the room, a small light that was beginning to grow larger and larger.

Foster leaned closer. "You don't have to be perfect to be better. You taught me that."

The tower was taking shape in front of my eyes, the windows and walls Foster had described coming into view. In the middle of it all stood a prince, a handsome prince with brown hair and blue eyes. His only imperfection was supposed to be a small scar on his face, but it was gone. Elspeth was standing across from him, her gaze on his face.

I looked at Foster. "I see you now."

His thumb swept my cheek.

The prince watched us all, his gaze full of indifference. "Why did you come here?" he asked.

Elspeth took a step toward him. "We came to take you back home."

The prince smirked. "Home? I am home."

A tinkling laugh filled the room, the sound beautiful and terrible all at the same time. "You dare come here and attempt to change things?"

A woman even more beautiful than Stereotype materialized, her lithe figure cloaked in gold. She was statuesque, her face smooth and her eyes large. She had long lashes, the kind people were always trying to imitate with fake eyelashes. There wasn't a single wrinkle, scar, or blemish anywhere on her. Even her breasts were perfect, perky and full.

She gazed at us. "You came here for nothing. Look at your prince. He's perfect now. He doesn't need your world." She smiled. "But our world could use you. I could change you. I could protect you. Don't you want that? There'd never be any reason for anyone to doubt you, to question you, or to think you are awkward. You would belong. You would be perfect."

I stared at her. "We would be unhappy," I said.

Her gaze found mine. "Would you? I could give you everything. You could be beautiful, smart, popular, and admired. You could be extraordinary. The sky's the limit. There'd be no shame."

The sky outside of the tower windows began to change. It was growing darker, more concrete.

Foster lifted the ball from the pouch in his belt. It was black.

Perfection laughed. "You're too late. Either you choose to be perfect, or you belong nowhere."

Elspeth stared at Prince Dash, something dawning in her eyes. She'd been struggling with herself since the beginning of our journey, but I didn't see a struggle in her eyes anymore. I saw acceptance, and it scared me.

"No," Elspeth said.

The word surprised everyone, especially Dash. He glanced at her, his eyes narrowing. Her gaze met his head on, her golden spectacles suddenly more beautiful than they'd ever been. "We rewrite our story," she said. She looked at me, her gaze falling to my sketchbook.

I inhaled, my fingers plucking it from my belt, the cover snapping open before I even had time to consider what all of this meant. Elspeth was right. Awkward was different now. It was changing, but it wasn't gone.

My pencil sped across the page.

"You see," Elspeth continued, "we've had this story wrong the whole time." On the page, my fingers drew Elspeth as she looked now, tall and confident. The things that made her awkward were still the same, her love of birds and her spectacles, but they also made her more beautiful. They made her unique. They made her stand out. They made her strong.

Elspeth stepped toward the prince. "You broke my heart," she said, her words stumbling, but no less brave. "I thank you for that."

He gaped at her, and I drew him that way, taking a grim sort of satisfaction out of his shock.

Elspeth glanced at Foster. "In Awkward, a princess doesn't always need a prince. She doesn't always need saving." She glanced back at Dash. "But when she does, it shouldn't be by someone who is so easily seduced by a pretty face and beautiful words. Because in the end, those are always deceptive." She stood tall, her gaze going to Perfection. "Do what you want to us and to this world. Drown us. Burn Awkward alive. Destroy us. We'll rise again. We can be replaced. You can't destroy what is indestructible. Everyone belongs somewhere, even if it's not in your perfect world." She gestured at Perfection and winked. "Embrace your awkward, Perfection. Embrace it. Because everyone, no matter how hidden it may seem, has something awkward about them. Our world will always outlast yours."

My fingers finally paused on the page, the sketch finished.

Foster's mouth was near my ear when he whispered, "It's beautiful."

And it was.

There, on the paper in front of me, was an awkward world full of beauty. There were sketches full of turmoil, sketches full of our journey to Perfection's kingdom. It was supposed to be a trip to rescue a prince, but it changed. It became a journey that taught us to embrace ourselves, to love what was unique about each of us. It taught me that I wasn't just awkward. I could make mistakes. I could love, and I could be me without feeling wrong for being that way.

It taught me that I was beautiful. It taught me that princes, like princesses, came in all shapes and sizes. That no matter how much I loved the stories about white knights, sometimes the prince wasn't the handsome guy with the deep dimple and charming personality. Sometimes, the prince was the guy you least expected.

I glanced between Foster and Dash. How wrong I'd been. I'd drawn an awkward world with an awkward princess, but I'd still made my prince perfect.

Perfection wasn't laughing anymore. Her face was changing, her mouth open in horror.

"Oh, my!" Nimble exclaimed.

"Holy dingbats!" Herman swore.

There were wrinkles on Perfection's face now. Her eyelashes fell away to reveal shorter lashes beneath. Her hair grew duller, her boobs smaller.

Dash stared in horror, his gaze taking it all in before a new understanding began to dawn on his face. He turned to Elspeth. "Princess ..."

She stiffened, her gaze regal, beautiful, but kind. "I'm not angry at the choices you made," she said. "I was wrong, too. I cared about you once, but I didn't really know you. This wouldn't have happened if I had. Let's start as friends," she said. "Maybe someday that can change. Not now. Right now, I'm kind of happy being me."

She turned to me, a smile on her face.

Her expression changed when she saw me, her smile slipping. "Perri!" she gasped.

I felt light, my body no longer enfolded in Foster's embrace. When I looked behind me, he was gone.

"Foster!" I cried. Panic seized me. Foster was gone! He was gone!

A sob escaped me, and I started to stand, my gaze falling to my feet. They weren't there anymore. My gaze found the princess, my eyes wide, shock causing me to freeze. Awkward wasn't disappearing but we were.

"Perri!" Elspeth called out again.

My gaze went to my hands. They were translucent, my skin vanishing.

"Perri!" Nimble echoed. Weasel barreled toward me, his sweet, pockmarked face sad.

It was last thing in Awkward I saw.

Chapter 27

"That awkward moment when the world as you once knew it changes forever."

~Peregrine Storke~

"Perri! Come on, Perri! Don't you dare give up on me now!"

My lungs burned. My body was a heavy weight, my blood full of liquid fire. Knife-like pain sluiced through my arms and legs, and I bucked. A hand pushed against my chest, the feel of it heavy before something soft and chilly pressed against my lips.

I'd know those lips anywhere.

I coughed.

"Oh, my God!" Camilla sobbed. "She's okay."

There were sirens in the distance, the sound of thunder rumbling and cars squealing as they came to a halt on slippery asphalt.

Hands rolled me. Water gushed from my mouth, my head feeling full and uncomfortable. I gasped, my chest heaving.

"She's over here!" someone yelled.

My hands groped at the ground, my shaky fingers digging into mud. A hand fell over mine, and I clutched at it. Fingers threaded with my fingers.

"Hold on, Perri," a voice said.

My eyes opened, my blurry gaze locking with Foster Evan's hazel eyes. Beyond his shoulder was a ditch full of water, a black TrailBlazer sunk below it. The only thing visible was the roof.

I rubbed at my eyes, but they wouldn't clear. Coughing made my body shake. My ribs hurt. Everything hurt.

"Elspeth," I whispered.

My vision was too blurry to make out anything, my world too shaken for me to do anything other than stare blankly. Someone lifted me. There were hands, a lot of hands. I couldn't see!

"Foster!"

The cry came unbidden, the sound of it weak but audible.

Camilla gasped. "Did she just call for you?" she asked.

There was something hard against my back now, more hands, an oxygen mask pulled over my face.

"Can you tell me where you are?" a female voice asked.

I couldn't answer her. All I could see were blurred images. All I could hear was static.

"She wears contacts," Foster's voice called out. "She may have lost them in the flood."

Somewhere in the distance, I could hear Camilla throwing questions at her brother, but I couldn't make out what they were or how he answered them. There were so many hands, dizzying movement, and a throbbing chest. My heart hurt. Elspeth. Weasel. Herman. Nimble.

"Peregrine," the woman prodded gently. There was the sound of slamming doors and screaming sirens. "You were in an accident. We're taking you to the hospital. Just breathe. I know everything seems scary right now, but you're going to be just fine."

Breathing hurt. Everything hurt.

"We need to get her warm!" the female voice called out.

I blacked out to more hands and the continuing scream of sirens.

Chapter 28

"That awkward moment when you realize you're only human."

~Peregrine Storke~

"What the hell were you thinking?"

I'd know that yell anywhere. My brain woke groggy and uncomfortable, my body covered in blankets, a world of blackness shrouding my gaze. I refused to open my eyes.

"Mr. Storke, we're going to need you to keep it down, or we're going to have to remove you from the premises," someone said firmly.

My father chose to ignore him. "You shouldn't be allowed to drive, you good for nothing—"

"Robert," my mother interrupted, "he saved her life."

"How is she?" another voice asked. It was Mrs. Evans, her voice full of warning. Mrs. Evans was an easy going woman until you messed with one of her children.

"She's going to be fine, right?" Camilla's voice inquired.

There was a moment of silence, the sound of paper rattling, and then, "She's going to be fine. There's some irritation from inhaling the amount of water she did and ..."

Sleep pulled at me, the drowsiness drowning out the voices.

A moment of sleep induced silence, and then, "There seems to be a little confusion, which isn't abnormal after an accident of this magnitude. She keeps repeating the word 'awkward' and 'nimble' among others." The doctor paused, his throat clearing. "She also keeps calling for you."

I didn't have to open my eyes to know the "who" the doctor was referring to.

"Of all the crazy, stupid things for her to say." My dad laughed. "Awkward? Nimble?"

"My face was the last face she saw in that vehicle, Mr. Evans," Foster's voice said suddenly. "As for the rest, the only awkward person in this room is you."

There was dead silence. No one dared breathe.

"Foster," Mrs. Evans murmured, the warning still present in her voice.

"Why you—" my father began.

"Robert, please," my mother begged.

"I really think everyone should leave," the doctor interjected. "She doesn't need this right now."

There was quiet murmuring, my mother's apologies, and then the sound of a door falling shut.

I waited for the click before I opened my eyes, my gaze on the ceiling. Images bombarded me. Awkward ... King Happenstance ... Queen Norma ... Elspeth ... Nimble ... Weasel ... Herman ... Foster ... The sob came before I even realized I was going to cry, my blurry vision made even worse by the tears. Had I imagined it all?

My heart protested. The Sirens of Shame, the Beast of Belonging, the Cavern of Cliques, the Reaper of Regret, the Bridge of Burdens and the Pool of Perception ... they couldn't have been part of a dream. They couldn't.

There was the memory of the TrailBlazer, the rushing wall of flood water, and then Awkward. Real or induced by the accident?

"This is not a movie," I said, my eyes falling closed. "It happened. I didn't dream it."

My heart swelled at the images that came next ... Nimble facing off with the Beast of Belonging, Herman's strange curses, the sound of songbirds, the taste of watermelon, Foster's grip, Foster's kiss, Elspeth standing up for herself and for Awkward, and the sketchbook.

The sound of the door opening startled me, and I froze. There were thudding footsteps, the sound of a chair scraping across the floor, and the brush of fingers against my cheek.

My breathing came faster.

"Open your eyes, Perri."

It was Foster's voice. My eyes shot open, my blurry gaze going to his face. He lifted his hand, something black dangling from his fingers.

"These might help," he murmured. The glasses slid onto my nose, the familiar frames comfortable against my cheeks. Hazel eyes met mine. "And this," he added.

A picture was suddenly thrust in front of my face, the paper dry and unharmed. On it was my sketch. Elspeth stood facing off with Prince Dash and Perfection in an ivory tower. She was strong, my princess, and her friends stood with her. All of them looked stronger, their differences making them formidable, more vibrant. Behind them sat Foster, his arms embracing me. For the first time since I'd drawn Awkward, I'd sketched myself into the story.

My gaze met Foster's. I didn't have to ask him if everything that happened had been real. I knew by the wink he gave me that it was.

My fingers touched the sketch.

Foster released it. "They're all safe," he said. "All of the sketches." He held something else up. "Even these."

In his hand he held the original Story of Awkward, the sketches within a varying mix of childish stick figures, pasted magazine clippings, and sketches done by an older, burgeoning artist.

I took it from him, my fingers flipping through the pages. They stopped on the picture of a stone well with a wood-covered roof, a hanging pail, and churning water.

Memories assaulted me—sobs, burning arms, Foster's face above me as he tugged on the rope.

Ripping the page from the book, I held it up, my fingers shaking.

My eyes met Foster's. "I never want to forget," I said hoarsely.

The sound of the page ripping was loud in the quiet room, the noise a harbinger of things to come.

Foster tapped what was left of the sketchbook. "Don't tell me you learned about romance from trashy romance novels."

I started to giggle, my palm covering my mouth to hide the laugh.

Foster pulled it away. "Laugh, Perri. Laugh as much and as loudly as you want. Snort and all." His gaze dropped to my lips. "You know after all of the ... ahem ... awkward adventures, dating kind of seems lame." His gaze came back up to my eyes. "So we could just skip to the sex part." He winked. "Brandished steel and all."

I laughed. "Do you think I like you?"

He leaned close. "I think you do ... a lot."

There was a serious glint in his eyes that went well past the teasing. I'd known Foster for six years, but I'd never truly known him. Not really.

"New York," I managed.

His hand slid up my face. "Maybe this will work, and maybe it won't. This is the real world, and we're only human." He leaned even closer. "But I think it's worth a shot."

"Ugh," I grinned. "I can't date a guy who doesn't eat anything!"

He returned the grin. "I can't date a girl who's afraid of Halloween." His lips hovered just above mine. "Then again, there's lot you can do in the dark while everyone else is collecting candy."

This kiss, when it came, was gentle and unhurried. There was time in this kiss, a lot of time. There was understanding in it, there was hope, and ...

Foster pulled back. "You know, you kind of taste like the Louisiana swamp."

There was even a little awkwardness.

The laugh when it came was followed by a snort.

Chapter 29

"That awkward moment when you embrace your awkward."

~Peregrine Storke~

"I'm not saying I'm against it," Camilla said, her voice high. She kicked at a box and scowled. "I'm just saying it's a little weird, that's all. I thought you couldn't stand my brother."

I shrugged. "He's kind of growing on me."

Camilla stood, her hands on her hips. "After two months here, you'd think we'd have unpacked everything by now. She lifted a black dress from a nearby Rubbermaid container. "You're sure you don't want to go? It's a costume party, Perri."

I shook my head. "I'm good, really."

She eyed me. "What's with you and Halloween?"

She scowled when I didn't answer her, and quickly disappeared into the bathroom. When she returned, she was dressed as a witch, a wide-brimmed, black pointy hat on her head.

She twirled. "What do you think?"

I shuddered. "You look great."

Her eyes narrowed. "This Halloween thing—"

A knock on the door saved me. Camilla pulled it open, her sigh audible when Foster pushed through the opening.

"It's just weird," Camilla mumbled. She glanced between us, her eyes narrowing before she grabbed her purse and let herself out of the small off-campus apartment.

Foster shut the door behind her. His hair was damp, and he smelled like soap. Foster was working a construction job not far from the college. It wasn't a permanent job. It was a contract, but it meant having him close for the next couple of months.

"Remember that conversation we had in the hospital a couple of months ago?" he asked.

My lips twitched. "The one about Awkward?"

He locked the door. "Not exactly," he said. He stalked me, his broad form backing me into the wall. There were boxes everywhere, and he kicked the one nearest me out of the way. "I seem to recall something about brandished steel," he added.

"I don't know," I laughed. "I seem to recall something about sketchbooks and a guy who doesn't like to eat anything."

"Perri—" he warned.

I glanced at his face. "Tell me, why do you thrash in your sleep?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Perri!"

His kiss pressed me into the wall, his hand skimming the bottom of the over-sized white button down shirt I wore when I was painting.

"You smell like acrylics," he murmured.

I sighed. "The pitfalls of dating an artist."

He drew back, his gaze finding mine. "Do you ever paint nude models?"

My hand slid up his face, the light stubble there pricking my skin. It was a familiar feeling, his face. This relationship should have gotten old by now, but it hadn't. We didn't have the perfect relationship. We fought more often than we got along, and there were obstacles—his nightmares and my occasional insecurities. But those didn't matter. What mattered was the way he'd looked in Awkward, the times we'd leaned on each other, the things each of us knew that no one else ever would. What mattered was that he liked me for who I was, snorting laugh and faint stretch marks included.

"I can be persuaded to paint a particular model," I teased.

His hand slid under my shirt. "I might take up an interest in painting," he said.

My head fell back against the wall, my lips parted. Words were lost to me. There were only his hands, soft murmuring, and sensation. He kissed the line of my jaw, the stubble on his face making me giggle. I was ticklish everywhere.

"I kind of miss Awkward," Foster murmured. "You never wore a bra there."

I elbowed him, his answering laughter swallowed by my sudden kiss. My tongue danced with his. His hands cradled me, his fingers sliding over my waist, my stomach, and my breasts. I had faint stretch marks on my hips, and he touched those, too. There was nothing soft about Foster, nothing except his heart.

"Foster," I whispered.

There'd been other times before this with Foster, awkward moments, embarrassing ones. He always laughed them off and made them better. Even if we weren't together years from now, I'd made the right choice for me.

A knock on the door startled me, and Foster slid his hand into my hair, his fingers tangling with the dark blonde strands.

"Shhhh ..." he whispered against my ear.

"Trick—" a voice called out.

There were no other words after that.

Foster lifted me, his hand pulling my leg over his hips, his eyes on mine when he pushed against me. Neither one of us looked away. Neither one of us let go. Outside, the dark pressed against the windows, but the only thing I felt right now was heat.

There may have been other knocks, the sound of pounding feet down the hallways and in the streets below, but I didn't hear them. The only thing I heard was Foster's breath in my ear when he said, "Treat. Never trick. Always treat."

Epilogue

"That awkward moment when you rewrite a fairytale."

~Peregrine Storke~

The picture was a new one, the canvas covered in charcoal and pastels rather than paint. There was a spectacled princess, a pockmarked troll, a clumsy fairy, and a bookworm with overlarge glasses. All of them were standing on a bridge in front of a large lake. It was a mirrored lake, the surface so smooth it threw back their reflections.

In the water, the only thing they saw was their faces. They didn't see themselves as better than what they were, and they didn't see themselves as any worse. They were simply themselves, their lips curved in a smile.

Behind them, there rose an ivory white tower. It was a pristine tower surrounded by beautiful trees with man-sized leaves and clouds shaped like roses. There was a prince in the tower. He gazed down at them, his face full of confusion. He was, in retrospect, a sad and insecure prince. There comes a time when everyone must learn to embrace who they are. For some, it takes longer than others.

I titled the drawing Acceptance. Beneath it, I signed, Peregrine Storke. My name meant "traveler" or "pilgrim". I've not traveled to many far off places, but I have made a pilgrimage.

The journey taught me something.

Perfection is seductive.

In the perfect fairytale, the minority wins. The princess snares her prince. The villain is vanquished. The victim is always beautiful, her good heart triumphing over wickedness. True goodness is always beautiful. The villain is almost always ugly. Or so we would like to believe.

In truth, it is evil beauty that is most devastating. For beauty isn't always good and ugliness isn't always bad. It is how we perceive ourselves that matter. True courage isn't about being brave. True beauty isn't about being beautiful. True courage is about being real. True beauty is about being happy.

The story of Awkward was my fairytale. In a world where no one was perfect, but everyone was happy, perfection wasn't seductive. There was no such thing as true perfection.

I make mistakes.

Awkward taught me to embrace my awkwardness, but it was Foster who taught me that it was okay to strive for something better. To be better than what I am. There is no such thing as perfection, but there is such a thing as success. Awkwardness is about embracing what makes us unique and using that to make us different, better.

The world will always be full of obstacles. It will always be full of pain and awkwardness. But I will never forget that moment when Elspeth stood before Perfection and said, "Do what you want to us and to this world. Drown us. Burn Awkward alive. Destroy us. We'll rise again. We can be replaced. You can't destroy what is indestructible. Everyone belongs somewhere, even if it's not in your perfect world. Embrace your awkward, Perfection. Embrace it. Because everyone, no matter how hidden it may seem, has something awkward about them. Our world will always outlast yours."

And like all fairytales, mine ended with a happily ever after. It ended with confidence. It made me stronger. It even ended with a prince. Will he always be there? Maybe not. Relationships are as much a work of art as a drawing. It takes time. It takes a lot of erasing, smudging, and redoing. In the end, it's usually worth it. Sometimes, it's not.

In the end, my happily ever after wasn't a carriage with "Just Married" on the back, or songbirds carrying a fairytale sign over our heads. It was embracing my awkwardness and a whisper from Foster that said, "Let's take this where ever it goes."

It was enough.

And we lived awkwardly ever after ...

The End

Author's Note

This book is a special book for me. I was, in many ways, Peregrine as a child, bullied incessantly. The scene in the classroom cornered by four boys really happened. The glass bottles kicked at her head, they really existed. This book may not be the perfect story (pun intended). It may not even be everyone's cup of tea (cliché intended). But it is my fairytale. It is the fairytale I wanted to pass on to my children, the one that tells them it's okay not to be perfect. The one that tells them it's okay to embrace what makes them awkward. This is the Story of Awkward. It's about a girl who created a world where she felt like she belonged. Loneliness often fools us into believing everyone is bad. This is where Foster comes in. He is a hero who has made mistakes, a hero who has seen terrible tragedy and has been damaged by it. He is, in short, awkward. Peregrine made the mistake of drawing everything in her world as perfect except her prince. When we read a book or escape into a story, we want to look like the character we're reading about. We want to be that beautiful woman with the gorgeous man. I know I do! I enjoy writing beautiful stories about beautiful people.

And yet ...

One afternoon, my daughter came home from school with tears in her eyes. She'd been bullied because she wore glasses and she wasn't thin enough. She'd been teased because she was too smart. She is only ten years old. This, along with my own experiences growing up, were my inspiration for the Story of Awkward. Even if it isn't your kind of fairytale, I hope you walk away from it with a smile and remember to embrace what makes you awkward.

I truly hope you enjoy Perri and Foster's story as much as I enjoyed writing it. It was as much a personal journey as a story, a true joy to put to paper.

Massive hugs and love,

R.K. Ryals

About the Author

R.K. Ryals is the author of emotional and gripping young adult and new adult paranormal romance, contemporary romance, and fantasy. With a strong passion for charity and literacy, she works as a full time writer encouraging people to "share the love of reading one book at a time." An avid animal lover and self-proclaimed coffee-holic, R.K. Ryals was born in Jackson, Mississippi and makes her home in the Southern U.S. with her husband, her three daughters, a rescue dog named Oscar the Grouch, A Shitzsu named Tinkerbell, an OCD cat, and a coffee pot she honestly couldn't live without. Should she ever become the owner of a fire-breathing dragon (tame of course), her life would be complete. Visit her at **<http://rkryals.com/>** or subscribe to **R.K. Ryals' Newsletter**

Other works available:

The Redemption Series

Redemption

Ransom

Retribution

Revelation (coming 2014)

The Acropolis Series

The Acropolis

The Labyrinth

Deliverance (Coming 2014)

The Thorne Trilogy

Cursed

Possessed

Dancing with the Devil (2014)

The Scribes of Medeisia Series

Mark of the Mage

Fist of the Furor

City in Ruins (Coming 2014/2015)

The Singing River

Retaliation Bridge (Coming 2014)

