Remember how I'd said I'd deal with whatever hand fate dealt me at the beginning of this tale? And remember how I'd thought the worse fate would do was embarrass me in front of a post-shower Luke Mezaretti?

Well, now I can say with absolute certainty I wasn't expecting to fall into a portal, learn of a curse and its attached trope-loving demon, and speak to my future self, but it appears fate likes to make fools of us all.

But that happened yesterday, and it's a new day and I'm hopefully optimistic, which is to say, even if there is a situation, I'm game to ignore it. Best way to deal with a problem? Pretend like there isn't one. Even if the problem has the potential to be apocalyptic.

Today starts like a typical Saturday, which is a blessing compared to the atypical acid trip my Friday had taken.

I don't bother getting up before sunrise and instead, sleep in until well past noon and it is glorious.

But the sun wants to ruin my morning reverie, so a sliver of itself spills through the crack in my curtains, coloring the insides of my eyelids. As I open my eyes, the sun sets to gilding my already golden hair.

Wait a second. Though my mind's a drowsy mess, and I'm still feeling the residual horniness and fear from last night's confusing dreamscape, something's not right.

Gold hair? Is that what I glimpsed? Reaching up, I pull a lock of it in front of my face, but it's blurry. I blink and look again. Still just a blurry blob of color though yep, it's undoubtedly golden.

Yawning, I rub the last remnants of sleep from my eyes, hoping to clear up my vision, but it doesn't work. Putting my hand in front of face, palm pressed against the tip of my nose, I can barely make out my individual fingers.

What's happening? My vision's always been 20/20, my hair always light brown.

My pulse quickens as the skin of my right wrist tingles. No. No way. Not that.

Become the trope, save the world.

I shake my head. Ignore the problem. Ignore it and it'll just go away. But I can't ignore anything when everything more than an inch away from my face is a shapeless blob.

Steeling myself, I breathe out and sit up in bed. Then, I reach across to where I know my nightstand is, hoping to stumble across my cell. I'll dial Mom or Dad and tell them everything. They'll help calm me and get me the help I needed.

Instead of finding my phone, my fingers wander across something hard and thin, with slightly rounded edges and- glasses. It's a pair of glasses.

"What the Faust?"

Wait. Why'd I just say, Faust? I'd meant to say Faust. No. Not Faust. Faust. F-a-u-s-t. Shakespeare.

Hold up.

Why can't I swear? Why am I spewing literary figures' names instead? Oh Fausting, Shakespeare Faust. Holy H. P. Lovecraft.

Great. The curse's nerfed my ability to swear.

Shaking, I pick up the glasses and throw them over my face. They improve my vision instantaneously and with the room in rigid clarity; I gasp.

At the foot of a bed, that's better suited for a princess what with its four posts, gauzy pink curtains and mountains of satin pillows, is a floor-length mirror which shows me what I feared - flaxen-colored locks, all straight and lifeless, curtaining either side of my face.

And all the stuff shoved into my bookshelves lining the walls, all the movies and games that I loved? Actual books had replaced them. Hardback books, the doorstop variety, written by the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen. Holly Black and Leigh Bardugo.

How the Fausting Faust did this happen? Was this all the curse? Gritting my teeth, I glance at the tattoo staining my skin. I want to yell at it, and ask if it thinks it's funny, but all it does is send a tingling warmth across my skin.

"I can't believe this." I throw off the covers and stampede toward the mirror, examining every pore on my face. My eyes are the same brown, my cheeks just as round, my chin pointed, my nose a little too big.

The only actual difference is my hair, which I can dye back to its original shade, forgetting this happened.

I can pretend this is a usual day, though, if I do, the world ends, won't it?

"Dahl," I mutter under my breath. Talk about being stuck between a rock and no-swearing hard place.

Just as I think things can't get worse, a clatter comes from the downstairs of an empty house save for its one, lone occupant.

And since I'm upstairs in my room going through a crisis, something or someone else is making all that racket.

Another clatter climbs through the vent from downstairs. Chills run up spine. I'd locked the door yesterday, right? I hadn't made some newbie mistake and am now starring in my own horror movie?

No. I shake my head. I'd locked the door. I'm sure of it.

Grabbing the thickest hardcover book off the shelf nearest to me, something written by Stephen King, I brave the downstairs noise and make for the stairs, careful not to make a sound. My breathing's low even while my heart threatens to shoot from my body, and I'm impressed with my ability to stay calm when a flash of blonde and light blue skirts in front of my vision. I yelp and jump back, heart a jackhammer in my chest.

A young woman, a little older than me, sporting similar gold-blond hair, stops at the base of the stairs. Her heart-shaped face tilts to one side on a neck so long and elegant it'd make a swan weep.

"Did I wake you?" she asks, reaching an elegant hand up to flip her hair off one shoulder. Thick waves of it tumble down the small of her back. I shake my head. She smiles, bright and cheery as she bounces from one foot to the other. "Sorry, bout that, but Brad's on his way over. Last-minute thing. We're going up to his parent's cabin to-"

"-Faust?" I finish.

She wrinkles her forehead, her thin eyebrows threading over her incredible emerald eyes. "Faust," she repeats.

"Sorry bout that," I wrap my fingers around the frayed hem of my nightshirt, "Up late reading last night. Guess I've still got it on the noggin." Unable to control the situation, my body takes this opportunity to revolt. Without being instructed to, my finger taps my temple in what I can only describe as a 'full-on doofus' move.

"Sounds like you." She rests against the bannister, eyes sparkling. "Always reading, aren't you, Addie Bean?" A chuckle escapes her naturally, plump lips.

I nod, while trying to suppress the scream clawing up my throat. "Yep, that's me alright." I glance around. Nothing about the house is strange. There's not a votive candle, antique doily or crystal vase out of place. Was this intruder really just that? Or was her peppy, bright exterior a facade to lull me into a false sense of security before she lopped off my head with an axe? Best course of action? Get to know her, and sniff out her purpose for being here, but instead of doing that, I dumbly ask, "Who's Brad?"

Her smile broadens. "Brad, silly." I shake my head and her expression sours. "Brad Sawyer? Remember? I brought him to Thanksgiving."

"Why?"

"Uh," she rolls her eyes, "Because I wanted my family to meet my boyfriend, duh."

Family? I blink. Us? Was she...No, though, why not? I swore in literary figureheads now. Might as well have a sister. Throwing caution to the wind, I ask meekly, "Cam?"

"Yes, Adds?"

Holy Shakespeare. This major Bronte was my sister. Cameron, just like Alternate Me had said.

There's no more turning a blind eye. This curse had rolled up to my house, dyed my hair and given me a drop-dead gorgeous older sister. This is my nightmare.

I swallow hard and bite back another scream. I have a super hot sister that shouldn't exist. I can't swear, have crap eyesight, and books I'll never, but will probably be forced into, reading. All of this landing on my plate because of a demon and Luke's bathroom floor.

"Adelaide?" Cam asks.

I shake my head to get rid of the maelstrom of my thoughts and force a smile. "Sorry, Cam. Had a rough night. You have fun with Brad. I'll see you later." Without a second glance, I turn tail, fly back toward my room and head straight for my book bag.

I nearly break the zipper as I open it.

"Please, please, please," I plead, pulling out my latest test papers, fingers shaking as I flip through them. It's exactly as I fear. All A's. One or two A +'s. Didn't even know those existed. I fall to my knees, frowning as I pick up an essay marked "Extra Credit." The entire thing's filled out in elegant cursive, which I'm guessing is to be my handwriting from now on.

Faust. I'm a nerd.

My breaths come quick, my temperature rising. Black spots swim across my vision. I need to calm down. Calm down and get to Luke. Then figure something out.

I scramble to my feet, fling open my closet, and grab what's closest - a plaid skirt, scratchy matching sweater, knee-length white socks and brown loafers, all while thinking I'd hit rock bottom. Things couldn't get worse.

They did, though, those blasted things. Soon as I style my hair, realization hits that it will only stay in one style - wound into twin braids, one on each side of my face.

I'm now a blond version of the Wendy's girl.

Grimacing, I fly from my room and tear open the front door, with every intention of marching over to the Mezaretti's, when my face collides with something hard and warm.

The books I had not grabbed yet were definitely in my arms, clatter against the porch. Without thinking, I reach down to pick one up, when someone's fingers touch mine. Electricity zips across my skin on contact.

"So-so-sorry." I'm quick to retract my hand and stand.

He straightens too, closing the gap between us, arm outstretched, offering the book. "No," he says in an irresistible baritone, "I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

Luke Mezarretti's fierce gaze burrows into my skin and my cheeks erupt into flames. The hottest boy in school stands on my porch, his gaze making me feel like I'm the only girl alive. And I'd run into him. What a great first impression.

Hold up.

There's nothing 'first' about this. We'd met years ago. I'd frequented his house, watched him from a window which sounds worse than it is. We chatted it up in a portal. So why then are my thoughts like muddled garbage?

I grab Luke's hand. His eyes widen at my unexpected movement. "Luke," I whisper. "What the hell's happening to me?"

He averts his gaze, gnawing on his lower lip, though he looks as though he wants to speak. Instead, the silence speaks for him.

He will not break character. He will not help.

I tug on his sleeve. "Please, tell me what's going on."

After opening and closing his hands a few times, he relents. Leaning into me, his shadow dwarfing my body, his angled face and blemish-free complexion inches away, he says, "Adds," the seriousness in his tone drives me back to my senses, "You're the nerdy girl."

I frown, eyeing the scuffs on the square-toed abominations I'd shoved my feet into. "No." I shake my head.

Luke's grip tightens. "Addie, please." The ground rumbles. He frowns. "Addie, be the--"

"No!" I scream, wrenching free of his grasp. "I will not be some blond-haired, straight A getting, straight-laced, invisible nerd!"

The front yard undulates, mounds of grass cresting and falling like an angered ocean. Tree branches shake, littering the ground with their leaves. "I have a sister now, you know? A real hottie and I'm supposed to accept that?" I level my gaze at Luke's face. His somber expression tempers the wispier flames of my fury, but I don't plan on giving up and living a cliched existence just to amuse some demon. I wring the hem of my skirt between my fingers to prevent the tears forming in my eyes from falling. "I'm not doing this."

Behind us, more of the yard rises like a mountain before bursting apart. Chunks of sod explode upward. Dirt and clay rain down on us. The street splinters with enough cracks to resemble a cobweb. Where the road's integrity has been compromised, it creates a sinkhole. One after another, a line of cars falls prey to its depths.

Next door, Mr. and Mrs. M's Honda Accord blares. I shake my head harder, so hard my brain feels like it's rattling around inside a jar. "I know," I whisper, my voice faltering, "I know what I have to do, but I can't." My grip tightens around my skirt, the flesh around my knuckles stretched to its breaking point.

Luke grabs a hold of my shoulders. "I'll be with you," he forcibly hugs me, "every step of the way." Hands stroke my back. "Trust me."

Could I? Could I trust the town bad boy?

Smiling and trembling, I hug him back. Then I pull away. His warmth fades and in a blink, it's like it wasn't there at all. "No," I say, turning from him. "I refuse."

Luke steps toward me. I barely dodge his arms. "Adds-" His voice cracks.

Something inside my chest constricts, chasing the air from my lungs.

Geysers emerge on the lawn, and in the street, each expelling giant clouds of smoke into the air. Then, in a frenzy of quakes, a hole the size of a swimming pool opens up. An unearthly shriek bubbles from its depths.

Luke's gaze flits from me to the hole. He reaches for me again and this time I'm too enthralled by the hole and whatever's screaming inside it to avoid his touch. He locks his fingers around my wrist and yanks me into him.

Before I can register what's happening, the warmth and wetness of Luke's lips explode across my own.

Without thinking, I push him away. He flashes a satisfied, smug grin as I wipe my lips. "What was that-"

Oh, Faust.

A humongous purple tentacle unfurls from the hole. It's at least two stories high and riddled with suction cups the size of beach balls. My throat runs dry as the tentacle crashes upon the ground with enough force to knock me to my knees.

Luke screams. "Addie, play the part! You have to!"

My tattoo grows hotter until it's searing. I wince, the pain unbearable. Be the nerdy girl. Read literature instead of books, have flat, lousy hair in constant braids, get good grades, be ignored in school and deal with the jealousy that comes with having such a bubbly, beautiful older sister.

Become the trope, that's all. Save the world.

Getting to my feet, I rip out the ties holding my braids in place.

The tentacle rises into the sky, its sheer enormity blotting out the sun before it slams into the ground once more. The impact splits a maple tree in half, creating a tornado of splinters and leaves. A family of dad's lawn gnomes sail through the air before shattering, chunks of their ceramic bodies impaling the ground.

Giving my hair a final shake out, I brace for what I'm about to do. Maybe I'm petulant. Or idiotic. Or maybe I'm just being a teen.

I take off, sprinting, not away from, but toward the beast.

"Adds!" Luke yells. "What are you doing?"

I glance over my shoulder and shoot the town bad boy, my biggest, brightest smirk. "I'm becoming the trope!" With steady fingers, I yank a shard of gnome out of the ground and barrel toward our town's hell beast.

I'm becoming the trope, I think to myself as I sink the shard into the beast's hide. The creature howls, its tentacle flailing, black ooze pouring from the wound. Before it can slither back inside its hole, I bring my weapon back down on it with all the force I can muster. It spasms. Blood catches in its suction cups.

I'm becoming the trope. Only thing is, I'm choosing which one.

And I choose Badass.

🎃THE END🎃