𝐸𝓂𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓃, 𝒩𝑒𝓌 𝒥𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑒𝓎

𝒫𝓇𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒟𝒶𝓎

Floating through life like a feather with no clear destination is me every day. Life is my wind. This sensation—whatever it is—is something everyone goes through. At least, I hope. I don't want to be the only one stuck in this position. For now.

There're two more years to slog through.

Today I have to keep pretending I'm at school. So far, so good. Curt and Diane don't suspect a thing. I suppose I could go to the record shop again. Mama likes me. People who do are uncommon around here.

"Not it!" Max and Chrys holler from the living room, making me lose the pillow feather I've been blowing.

"Bella, get the door," Agatha bellows.

I reach for my phone. It's six twenty-five.

I roll out of bed, even though I didn't hear the obnoxious doorbell like they did. It must have been a knock, but who could be at the door this early in the morning?

Agatha sits on the couch, and Chrys and Max play checkers on the coffee table when I enter the living room. Not sure what they're waiting for. They're the ones who have to go to school.

"None of you could get the door?" I say in the archway.

"It's too far," Agatha says while on her phone, waving me off.

"And we're busy," Max says.

Agatha crosses her legs. "That's why we have 'Not It.'"

I hate that game. And, yes, it's because I always lose. The dumb chimes attached to the doorbell throw me off. I'm too busy covering my ears or flinching to touch my nose and yell, "Not it."

There's no light outside, except for the slight brightening of the purple-black sky. No stars. No moon. Just webs of clouds.

I call, "Thank you," to the mailman as he walks back to his truck. He doesn't turn. Instead, he starts the vehicle and drives away. Another person floating through life. At least he gets paid. I wish I got money for being a feather.

"It's a package," I say into the house, looking at the cardboard box on the stoop.

"That's mine." Agatha darts over and shoves me into the doorbell chimes. I don't dare say anything as she bends to pick up her delivery.

"What is it?" Chrys asks, wonderstruck, when Agatha goes inside with the box.

"Nothing that concerns you."

"Leave her alone," I say, pushing the door shut.

Agatha moves for the kitchen but turns around with a mischievous grin and says, "Go to your room."

I angle my ear toward her. "Excuse me? You can't tell me to go to my—"

"I just did." I want to hit her. If Chrys and Max weren't here, I probably would.

I suck in a breath because she thinks she's the dictator of this lousy household. "Just because I'm a year younger than you, doesn't mean you have authority over—"

"Should I call Curt and Diane and tell them how you're acting up..." she lowers her head to intimidate me, "again?"

My cheeks burn, and I keep silent. Anything... Anything but that.

"I didn't think so."

My jaw tightens until my teeth grind into each other. Any harder, they'll chip. The fire crackling clicks in my ears as Agatha stares me down. With a stomp, I march back to my room and slam the door. Two of my jackets fall off the hook. I don't bother picking them up. It's best to let them join their friends on the musky carpeting.

Throwing myself onto my bed, I gaze at the dreary ceiling. Besides the bathroom, this is the only place in the house where I can be alone, but it never brought me any joy. How could it when its walls weep water stains? The paint peels off them like it's trying to make a getaway. I feel bad for it, though. It doesn't get to leave after two more years. It's stuck here. Forever. Who knows how long this room's been this way before I arrived?

What's even worse is how this room is full of my clutter. I don't want any of my things around those people. Every item of mine either gets ruined or destroyed when I bring them outside this space. And no one ever says they're sorry.

A tear slips and slides down my face. I wipe it and sit up. I will not be weak.

My legs swing off the side of my dense bed, and I look around the pigsty I call my bedroom. It's a disgusting and wretched place, like the rest of this house. No worries.

It matches the personalities of the owners.

I move to grab one of my books from the stack in my nightstand's cabinet, which has proven to be a decent hiding place so far. The short piece of furniture wobbles when I open the little door and pull out the novel. That reminds me—I have to switch the book under the back leg.

In my hands is Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. How come he can escape his miserable life and have magic-filled adventures, and I can't? Not that I need magic. I could go on any type of adventure. Anything's better than here.

I blame Irene. She just had to run someone over, huh? But it's surprising to remember my life wasn't always this way—loveless and alone. I had happy times in the past. Few, but they're there, and this book is proof of that. It sends me back six years ago when I first discovered the wonderful Wizarding World. That's the only real thing I can thank Irene for. Okay, fine. I can thank her for a lot of things, but this one's at the top with developing my love for Disney.

The foster home I was in then was far better than this one. I give Irene credit for being able to do that as a single mother. She's the sweetest woman I've ever met to this day. She inspired me. Her hope, her Catholic faith, her fears, and her dreams.

I had always loved Disney, but she furthered the affection by having the movies on repeat all the time. Peter Pan, The Little Mermaid, and Sleeping Beauty were big hits. Life was never better because I didn't watch those films—I lived them. I was Wendy, flying over Neverland. I was Ariel, swimming through the ocean. I was Aurora, dancing in the forest.

And then came along the Golden Trio. I was the unofficial addition to the squad. It became Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me—the Golden Quartet.

I open the front cover. Irene's message is what makes this book so much more special. This copy is part of my history, which is special on its own, but her message multiplies the value by a million.

𝑀𝓎 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝐻𝓊𝒻𝒻𝓁𝑒𝓅𝓊𝒻𝒻,

𝒩𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒸𝒾𝒶𝓁 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝒶𝑔𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓁 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒. 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝓂𝑒 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝒹𝒶𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝑜𝓅𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝓊𝓃𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉. 𝒟𝑜𝓃'𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒.

𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒,

𝐼𝓇𝑒𝓃𝑒

How disappointed would she be to find out I did change? Where there was hope is now despair. Where there was sunlight is now moonlight. I'm not special. How could I be? I'm the reject of Life.

I set the book on my bed and reach for another. This time it's my vintage copy of A Collection of Fairytales by The Grimm Brothers. I turn to the dog-eared page, where the story of Beauty and the Beast begins. It's inspiring how Belle isn't a damsel in distress who is saved by a kiss. She believes beauty is found within. Who needs a shallow prince who only cares about outward beauty or foot size? Not me, that's for sure.

But wouldn't it be amazing if I could live in a fairytale? Everything would work in my favor, and I'd never be alone. I'd have an entourage of allies supporting me. They'd always be with me.

Sometimes there's an urge to pull back my curtains and wish on a star, hoping it will come true. It's foolish—just as foolish as the Summer I turned eleven. It's the same reason I never tried searching for the "second star on the right." Why waste time on childish dreams? Says the girl who's been dreaming of a family her whole life. Pathetic.

Max barges into my room, sending more of my clothes onto the floor.

"Get out," I shout at him. This is my territory. They have the entire house. Can't I have a room to myself that isn't a bathroom?

"Have you seen my Science book?"

"No," I say with a firm tone.

"Is that Harry Potter?" He leaps onto my bed and steals the book.

I lunge across the mattress to reclaim it. "Hey. Give that back."

"Nyah, nyah," he teases, waving it above his head. He runs out of my room, and I chase after him. He's so fucking lucky I'm not a witch and can't go all "Petrificus Totalus" on his ass.

"Stop. Give it," I yell down the hall.

Max continues to laugh as he speeds into the living room. I grab him by the shoulder and spin him around. I try to yank the novel from his hands, expecting it to be easy, but he holds on strong for a ten-year-old.

"Give it back," I lash out.

"No. I want to read it."

"Get your own copy," I say, pulling the book to my side.

He yanks it back. "Diane won't let me. She thinks it's nonsense and evil."

"She thinks everything is nonsense and evil."

"Please." He slides a little on the rug from the force I'm using.

"No. Stop."

We play tug of war until we let go at the same time, throwing it into the fireplace.

My heart shoots into my throat. In too much shock to scream, I fling myself to the fire to fish out the masterpiece. My hand keeps flinching on instinct, but there's no pain. I take out the book, which is still ablaze, and drop it on the floor. I use my hand to smack out the flames, but the fire claimed it as her own. She charred the paperback. I gaze at it, my eyes burning. I refuse to blink. This did not just happen.

The room's gone quiet, except for the monster, Fire.

The book's destroyed. There was no point in saving it.

I toss it back into the fireplace and watch it burn as my blood is under my skin.

"Didn't that hurt you?" Max asks about my hand.

My hand... is okay? I don't look at it, though. I know it's okay, but why is it? "The fire? No. Watching one of my prized possessions turn to ash? Yes."

"Thanks a lot. It smells toxic in here," Agatha says.

Can I please, please, punch someone? Something?

"You shouldn't have let go," Max says as I stand like it's my fault. How dare he? He let go, too. He stole it in the first place. If he wants to read it so bad, why can't he borrow it from one of his friends?

"You shouldn't have stolen my book."

I go to my room and slam the door again. How could so much pain be caused before seven a.m.? What could I have done in my past life to be punished like this?

My eyes sting with fresh tears, which I hold back. I can always buy another copy... I don't want another copy. A new, crisp one would be sad... like my life.

My Potter books lost one of their kind. A family member. A friend. Literature's a fantastic escape from reality. Living in a character's shoes instead of my own is something that helps. It makes me forget. I don't care if the character is in an apocalypse. They make it through. That gives me hope. I'll make it through, too.

What does it take to escape reality besides reading? Besides listening to music? Besides binging Netflix? I can picture my younger self, who always found an escape. The girl whose hope was stronger than mine. Mine is dwindling. I hold on to it like a kid clinging to their last moments of childhood. Her hope was infinite, despite being an abandoned orphan. She deserved better. She deserves all the happiness in the world. Her and all the others.

She deserves a family.

* * *

I stare at my hand for the millionth time. No burns. No blisters. It's not even red. I don't understand how it's unaffected. I put my hand into the fire. I touched fire. There's not a mark to prove it. There was no pain. I didn't feel the fiery heat, only warmth.

In remembrance and to restore a crumb of hope, I draw a lightning bolt on my wrist with Sharpie. Before I can fill it in, a hard knock comes from the front door, and three "Not it"s echo from the living room.

"Bella, get the door!" Agatha yells again.

With my remaining strength, I push myself off the bed. It isn't until I enter the living room that I realize I'm still in my pajamas and my braids are falling out.

I open the front door a crack, and it swings the rest of the way, almost hitting my face.

"Hurry next time," Diane says, walking in. "It's cold out there."

Well, maybe if you didn't keep forgetting your keys...

Curt steps into the house after her, rubbing the top of his head. Before the two of them head upstairs, he sniffs the smoky air like a hound dog and asks, "What's that smell?"

I shut the door and tiptoe further into the room. Agatha sits between Max and Chrys on the couch.

"What did you kids burn?"

Max looks at me and pleads with his big brown cow eyes. At least he knows it's his fault, but he doesn't have to stare at me like that—like a puppy. I was planning on doing what I'm about to do. What I fucking do for people?

I could blame it on the fireplace, but then they'll see the book. So, here goes Plan 2.

With the hair on my arms becoming quills, I say, "I lit a scented candle earlier."

"You did what?" Diane asks, her face becoming stern. "Why?"

"...Just because." It's all I could think of. It doesn't matter, anyway. No matter what I said, she'd still punish me for even having a scented candle, which I don't.

Diane strides over, her grey eyes scorching with hatred. She raises her hand, and a sharp slap comes across my face. "You fucking bitch. Go to your room."

My cheek is warm against my fingertips and tingles.

"Now!" She points as if I don't know where it is.

I amble to my room and close the door. I want to ignore the red handprint on the side of my face and my swollen, tear-filling eyes in my dresser mirror, but I can't. My cheek grows hot and inflamed. It hurts. Bad. With that Sharpie, I could make a hand turkey on my face. Not to trace the outline. No. I'd use the Sharpie to draw in the turkey's face.

Yeah. Humor doesn't help.

My face turns the same color as the mark on my cheek. I do my best to hold my tears inside and disregard the sharp pain in my chest.

I'm a bottle, ready to explode with emotion and anguish. I've kept it sealed for a long time. I can wait a little longer.

I don't deserve this. None of it. No one does.

I'm still waiting for my letter to Hogwarts. Someone, please save me. A prince, a letter, a spell, something.

Anything.