My Fairy Godmonster (3 page)

“Winifred, mind your manners.” Dad frowns at
me.

Mrs. Dudley’s back straightens. She has dark
hair, a sharp pointed nose, small ears and a long, skinny neck. She
smiles. It doesn’t reach the black holes of her eyes. Eyes that
seem to suck you in. As much as I try, I can’t see her as anything
but a weasel.

That’s how I think of people. Like what kind
of animal they’d be. Dad is like a horse: strong and handsome, a
member of the herd who knows his place. David is like a cougar:
smart, with grace and power. Not sure what I’m like. Maybe a deer,
ready to run at the sign of trouble, but with porcupine quills if
I’m pushed into a corner.

“How do you do, Winifred,” Mrs. Dudley says
in a sweet, quiet voice.

Uh-oh, I think. Cinderella’s wicked
stepmother has nothing on Mrs. Dudley.

Weasel continues, a slight Eastern accent to
her voice, “I do hope you don’t mind our staying here. We want to
get to know our extended family and it would be inconvenient to
drive fifty miles back and forth to town while planning the
wedding.”

“I hope you’ll be comfortable.” I hold out my
hand.

Mrs. Dudley raises her nose an inch. She
takes the ends of my fingers and shakes them - like I’m
infected.

“Sorry. Been shoveling manure.”

Mr. Dudley’s cell phone rings. He grabs my
hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m sorry, I need to answer this. It’s
the only way I can leave my business for a month.”

Mr. Dudley looks like the Angus bull on our
neighbor’s ranch, lots of beef with little feet for someone so big.
His southern twang is way different than his wife’s proper
accent.

“Daria is already in your room,” Dad
says.

Weasel sniffs, “She likes to get settled
right away. Charles said you wouldn’t mind.”

Charles! She’s already calling Dad by his
first name? “Sure.” I force a smile. “It’ll be fun having someone
to share a room with.”

My brother and John come in from the garden
laughing and smiling. David is holding hands with a girl. I gasp.
Claire is perfect with a slender body and abundant curves in the
right places. Her honey-blonde hair frames a face that is beautiful
and sweet. I worry when her big, blue eyes seem to look into my
soul. Can she see my wretched, jealous heart?

“Win, this is Claire,” says David
proudly.

Claire hugs me, not even caring how dirty I
am.

“I am so happy to meet you.” Claire beams at
me. Her voice sounds like music. No wonder David loves her.

“Welcome to Oregon,” I say to Claire, half
won-over in spite of myself.

David whispers in my ear, “Isn’t she
great?”

Mr. Dudley hangs up his phone and John shakes
his hand.

“Hi, I’m John Masters, the best man.”

“Otis Dudley and my wife, Erminia.”

“Happy to meet you,” John says.

“Let’s get you settled into your room, Sir.”
David picks up some suitcases.

“Call me Otis, David.”

“Think I’ll go meet my new roommate,” I
announce.

I catch the look that passes between my
brother and Claire. What is in my room, an evil stepsister?

Racing up the stairs, I wonder what Daria is
going to be like. It might be fun having a younger kid around. I
peek inside my bedroom door. Daria is unpacking. Putting her
clothes in my drawers. My things are piled on the bed.

I stomp inside. “Hey, what are you
doing?”

Daria turns around. She’s small for seven, a
clone of her mother. I shiver.

“I need more space,” she says.

I want to throw this alien into space. My
prized collection of horse figurines is pushed into a corner of the
bookcase.

“I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t touch
my things.” My voice cracks from trying to hold my temper. “This is
my room.”

Daria looks at me and smiles, like a
crocodile.

“Okay.” She takes out another drawer and
pours my clothes onto the bed.

She smiles, “See, I didn’t touch
anything.”

Heat flames inside my body like wildfire. Red
flashes behind my eyes. It takes all

the control I have not to slap her sassy
face. Shaking from holding my temper, I turn away and lean over to
pick up my pile of clothes. Something underneath wiggles. A huge
black paw shoots out from underneath. Sharp claws rake across my
hand.

Chapter 6: Not An Exit - Memories

“Ow!” I yell. The scratches start to
bleed.

“You scared my baby!” Daria pushes the
clothes off the creature to uncover the biggest black cat I have
ever seen. Twenty pounds at least. Long fur makes it huge.

Daria scoops up the cat. It’s almost as big
as she is. “Oh, poor babykins, did she scare you? This is Gazella,”
Daria croons.

Godzilla, more like it.

“She’s a pure-blooded Persian.” Daria hugs
it. Blue eyes stare at me over a squished nose.

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

“Sure.” No way am I going to share a room
with Cat Girl and Godzilla. I grab an armful of clothes and start
out the door. I look back. Daria and her cat are picture perfect.
My gut tells me they won’t ever look like that again.

The scratches on my hand throb. I head for
the bathroom and put the clothes on the sink. After I wash off the
blood, I smear on aloe vera cream to disinfect the wounds. The
second floor of our house has my large bedroom and a bathroom.
There is only one place left to go - the attic.

I lift the clothes and trudge down the hall.
At the end, I climb a small staircase. An old- fashioned key sticks
in the lock. Turning it, I hold my breath and open the door. It
squeaks. Hair rises on the back of my neck. I haven’t been here in
years. I peek inside.

Sunlight from the dormer windows filters
through cobwebs and dust. The attic is so quiet, I shiver.
Heartbeats thump in my ears.

Dad stuffed everything that belonged to Mom
up here because he couldn’t bear to look at it. The furniture looks
lonely. When I’m grown, it will be mine and I will love it. I wipe
the dust from an armoire. The rich, deep reds of the mahogany wood
still shine. There is an oval mirror in a floor stand, a dressing
table with matching chest, a carved bed and three trunks. The
sunlight shines through Mom’s crystal clock, making rainbows on the
wall. I open a window. Lilacs sweeten the summer breeze and fill
the room. Leaning over, I see Mom’s garden far below. The angel
sculpture in the corner seems to looks right at me.

“Well, Mom,” I whisper. “I gotta’ use your
things. Hope it’s okay.”

I’m surprised how excited I am to get settled
in. I leave to get the vacuum.

It takes a couple of hours to clean the
attic. When I’m done, I knock on my bedroom door. No answer. I
sneak in. Daria’s things cover every surface. Stuffed animals,
books and awards for spelling contests. There’s even a different
bedspread and matching curtains on my rods. Clothes from my closet
are heaped in a pile on the floor. Godzilla stares at me from the
middle of my bed.

A hot bolt of anger shoots like lightning
into my head. I look around in panic. Where is my horse
collection?

Then I see a leg. Under the pile of clothes.
I carefully lift them and freeze. The

palomino stallion that Mom bought me before
I was born has a broken leg. I scream from a scary place deep
inside me. My body shakes in fury. I can hardly think or move.

Godzilla hisses. Her tail and fur puff up
making her even bigger. She growls, baring her teeth. Her blue eyes
are human-like. Goosebumps shiver up my arms.

Daria pokes her head out of the closet. She
sees the broken horse in my hands.

“It was a accident,” she whines. “Mommy can
buy you another one.”

I can’t speak. Hot air engulfs me like fire.
I pick up my clothes, careful not to break the other horses.

“Don’t touch anything else. I’ll be back in a
minute to take everything.” I hear my voice, but it sounds like a
growling monster, low and dangerous. A flicker of fear shoots into
Daria’s eyes. I hiss at her, my arms trailing clothes, and stomp
out of the room.

She pushes past me, screaming like a fire
engine, “Mommy, Mommy!”

I’d give anything to have a mom to run
to.

Chapter 7: Do Not Stop On Tracks! Loose
Feelings

I hurry to the attic, throw my clothes on the
bed and race to retrieve my horses.

Trudging back to the attic, I arrange the
horses on the chest of drawers, carefully laying the broken horse
next to them. Loss sweeps through me. I didn’t think a heart could
break. It can. Pain and heaviness fill my chest.

I drag to put my clothes away.

There’s a loud knock on the door.

“Come in,” I say.

Dad storms inside. He spots Mom’s things and
stops. “Why are you in here?” His voice sounds strange. Kinda’ mad
and sad at the same time.

“I can’t stay with Daria and her cat. She’s
taken over my drawers and everything.”

Dad ignores my words. “She is downstairs in
tears and says you yelled at her. Is that true?”

I heave a great sigh. I can’t compete with
Daria.

“I didn’t yell at
her
,” I say
quietly.

“It doesn’t matter. Daria is a guest in our
home.” His voice is like steel.

“I didn’t yell on purpose. I freaked when I
saw she broke the horse Mom gave me.”

Tears fill my eyes and I blink to hold them
back.

Dad sees the palomino’s broken leg. Pain
crosses his face. “I’m really sorry, Winifred.”

I sag on the bed. “That is the only thing Mom
ever gave me.”

“She gave you more than you know. You look
just like her.”

My insides clench. I have never seen pictures
of Mom when she was my age because they burned in a fire. She is
beautiful in her wedding pictures, but nothing like me.

Still mad and hurt, I say, “Daria should have
left my things alone.”

“Accidents happen. Daria is only a
child.”

Boy, does she have him conned.

“You’re almost a grown woman. Your mother was
the gentlest soul I’ve ever

known. She never yelled and she would have
taught you that things don’t matter as much as people.”

“Thanks for that tidbit of knowledge,” I say.
“Why haven’t you ever told me about her?”

He ignores my question. Typical.

“I’m sorry she’s not here now. Come
downstairs and apologize to our guest,” he orders.

“I thought we were family.”

“That’s enough.” Dad stares me down.

“Okay,” I say. “But I’m staying in the attic
until those people leave.”

“Suit yourself.”

He walks out of the room. I stare at his back
and wondered what happened to my real dad.

I choke on the lump in my throat. Tears burn
my eyes. I glance at the horse’s broken leg. They should shoot me,
to make the pain go away. I plod downstairs.

Dad looks relieved when I come in. I wonder
if he feels as bad as I do. Everybody is there except Scott. John
is glued to the television. Mr. Dudley talks on his cell phone.
David kisses Claire, which makes me sadder than ever. Weasel
finishes fixing Daria’s hair and glares at me.

I feel like a squished ant and walk up to the
brat. “I’m sorry I yelled, Daria.”

She smiles sweetly, victory all over her
face. “I accept your apology.” She hugs me and whispers so only I
can hear, “Do it again and you’ll really be sorry.”

I barely control my desire to punch her out.
Instead, I turn, red-faced, and walk out of the room. Then race
through the kitchen and out the back door.

My head pounds and my eyes burn like hot
coals. I run around the corner and stop. The garden glows in the
rays of the setting sun.

I take a shaky breath and walk to a rocky
pond, sinking down on the warm, spongy moss. A tear rolls down my
cheek. I swipe it away. I don’t cry. Well, not since I was eight
when a soccer ball smacked me between the eyes. It hurt so much
tears poured down my face. One of the boys on the other team said,
“Girls always cry.” I vowed then not to let anybody ever see me
cry.

“You all right?”

I hop up, heart slamming into my ribcage.
Scott is sitting on a bench under the lilac tree.

“Go away!” I yell.

“Sor-ry,” Scott bolts away.

I run after him. “Wait.” I grab his arm and
electricity shoots through me.

He gets a funny look on his face and yanks
away.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you.
It’s been a crummy day.”

Scott turns away mumbling, “I know what
that’s like.”

“You don’t have to go. I didn’t expect anyone
to be here.”

He hesitates and then says, “I come here
everyday when the sun sets.”

“How come?” I ask.

I don’t think he’s going to answer me. He
looks as sad as I feel. I wait.

“I-I like what happens to the angel,” he
stammers.

Hmm. Didn’t think he could ever lose his
cool.

I look at the sculpture. The ascending angel
stands in a secluded alcove. Her arms are flung back, her radiant
face turned to the heavens. Her dress and wings shimmer in shades
of red and orange sunlight.

“I didn’t know boys liked angels.”

Scott stares at the ground. “She reminds me
of my mom.” He chokes up. Throws his words at me. “A stupid drunk
driver killed her!”

I feel awful. I don’t know what to say. To
have a mother and lose her seems even worse than not having one at
all. “I’m really sorry.”

He straightens his back, fighting the tears
in his eyes.

I squirm and blurt out, “My mom died when I
was born. This is where I come to talk to her.” Why did I say that?
To a complete stranger. I haven’t even told my best friend.

Scott looks into my eyes. I melt inside.

“That’s awful,” he says. “I can’t imagine not
having a mother when I was little. I thought maybe your dad was
divorced or something. Your brother didn’t tell us.”