Page 36

T he curtains were drawn, aluminum foil backing them, but the sunlight still found a way to slosh into the room, determined to do violence.

Ev crawled out from under the covers. Her shitty bedroom, in her mom’s shitty trailer, hadn’t transformed overnight.

She hadn’t gone to bed a frog and woken a princess.

Which meant that behind the balled-up mass of t-shirts, socks, and underwear in her top drawer, the dresser remained papered with letters informing her that the Royal Academy didn’t have a spot for her, nor did Tower, and that even her back-up schools could offer little to no financial aid.

Even if she wanted to settle, she couldn’t afford it.

Ev’s mom worked her ass off at the plant, and had in fact just switched to night shifts for the pay raise. Ev herself worked at the local Gas Stop, and it still wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Unlike the light battering her windows, her future wasn’t particularly bright. In short, she was fucked.

It felt pointless, but Ev prised herself up, showered, dressed, and got on the bus regardless. Last semester, senior year. She’d come this far; even though there wasn’t anything waiting for her on the other side, she might as well stick it out.

The hallways buzzed as Ev stood at her locker.

The loudest, brightest cluster surrounded Carissa Hotthorpe – aka Princess Carissa – heir to the Hotthorpe Pharmaceutical fortune.

Not an actual princess, but as good as. And – if Ev understood the rules correctly – if about twenty-some-odd people happened to meet unfortunate ends, Carissa could in theory inherit the throne.

Ev’s shoulders rose, but voices from the knot surrounding Carissa found her regardless – cooing over her latest socials.

Carissa dutifully tilted her phone, as though her coterie hadn’t already seen and liked every single post. Now, though, they had the opportunity to shower their praise in person – Carissa’s hair, her clothes, the light, her angles, all of it too perfectly perfect.

And of course the gem in her social media crown, her ever-present, best accessory of all time, in the background of each picture – her dragon.

Ev hate-followed, since the algorithm seemed determined to shove Carissa’s posts in her face regardless.

It was barbaric, keeping a dragon as a pet.

Worse still, Carissa’s father likely harvested its scales, teeth, and claws on the regular, grinding them into potions and powders and tinctures, selling them to a diet-pill-popping, skin-tightening, glow-up-hungry public.

Then again, Princess Carissa would probably never allow anything that might damage the aesthetic of her oh-so-perfect photos.

Ev kicked her locker shut. The bottom was dented inward where she’d once done so with enough force to jam it shut.

The custodian had to pry it loose with an extra-long screwdriver, giving her the stink-eye the entire time.

Princess Carissa’s locker was probably perfectly smooth; she probably didn’t own boots stompy enough to kick it inward, and if she did, she probably had magic flowing from her fingertips that would unstick it without any outside intervention needed.

Ev slouched down the hall, exclamations and cooing following her and tempting her to look back. She kept her eyes firmly forward, and her phone firmly in her pocket. Carissa Hotthorpe was too beautiful, too perfect. People like that shouldn’t be allowed.

Normally she had a free period after her first two classes, but today the time was reserved for a session with the guidance counsellor.

Ev scowled her way through those classes, dreading the thought, wondering if it was too late to cancel.

But her bad mood wasn’t enough to overcome the guilt that would inevitably follow if she failed to show.

She went, book bag heavy, dropping into the chair across from Ms Averill’s desk, already glancing at the clock behind it. Just because she’d turned up, didn’t mean she had to listen. Ev let Ms Averill’s words wash in and out.

“…financial aid and scholarship opportunities from outside sources.” Ms Averill’s voice remained bright; Ev sank lower in her chair, arms crossed.

“What’s the point?” The words slipped out; she’d meant that to be an inside thought.

“Okay.” Ms Averill didn’t miss a beat and Ev looked up. She’d expected an argument. “How about this, then? Rather than thinking about next year, let’s think about the rest of this semester. Your marks in chemistry are incredibly strong – how do you feel about tutoring?”

“I already have a job.” Ev didn’t mention that her hours had been drastically cut.

“It’s one hour right after school, twice a week. If you can fit it into your schedule, it’s a little extra cash in your pocket. That’s not a bad thing, right?”

Ms Averill turned her screen to let Ev see the details. The contact information should have been temporarily hidden, but it glared out at Ev from the screen.

“Carissa Hotthorpe? Are you fu—I mean, are you serious?”

“Sorry.” Ms Averill turned her screen back, flustered. “Pretend you didn’t see that.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want the job.”

She could think of no torture greater than spending her remaining after-school hours locked up in the castle with Carissa Hotthorpe.

Besides, the princess couldn’t possibly need a tutor.

She was a legacy kid, her admission to the Royal Academy guaranteed; even if she decided to skip college, as her father’s sole heir she could probably slide right into the fucking CEO position at Hotthorpe Pharmaceutical when he retired.

Unless it was a weird pride thing? Like it would reflect badly on the family name if she got anything less than A+ across the board, especially in chemistry?

The only classes Ev shared with Carissa were drama and PE, not enough to determine whether she was a good student.

But even if she was a genius, what incentive did she have to care or try, with her future all laid out for her?

She could float through life, posting selfies and reels and collecting likes without a care in the world.

“Just think about it?” Ms Averill said.

“I need to get to my next class.” Ev stood, shouldering her bag and heading for the door before Ms Averill found a way to wear her down.

***

Ev cut through the scrappy strip of trees dividing the cul-de-sac, where the bus let off from the trailer park.

Once upon a very long time ago, the trees had been part of King’s Wood, home to a whole host of magical creatures.

Then the Royal Alchemical College, and its direct offspring, Hotthorpe Pharmaceutical, had discovered how much more useful magical creatures could be if they were cut up, skinned, and ground.

The woods had been emptied, then razed. Shitty sub-developments had grown up in their place, and instead of being home to magic, they were home to potholes that never got filled and storm drains that backed up every time it rained.

Since her mom was on nights, she’d probably be sleeping.

The trailer wasn’t big enough to keep Ev from feeling that every creak and rustle of motion she made would steal her mother’s rest. She swung to the right, stomping on in her stompy boots toward the train tracks at the edge of town.

A straight line out to a glittering future, but only for other people, it seemed.

On the far side of the tracks, the plant loomed – blocky buildings and tanks, pipes and catwalks, all glittering with lights like a miniature city unto itself.

It used to belong to the Hotthorpes too, until they spun off the household division of cleaning products – everything from bleach to floor wax – and sold it in a multi-billion-dollar deal to Wodehouse & Farmer, so they could continue focusing on cosmetics, and what Ev thought of as vanity drugs.

Hotthorpe no longer made things that were lifesaving or necessary, but things that people wanted desperately all the same.

The air here smelled like asphalt and identical houses, strip malls and parking lots and, of course, the plant itself – the stink of disappointment and failure.

The plant where Ev’s mother had spent her days, and now spent her nights.

The plant where Ev’s future lay, too, the only possible one she could see.

A beer bottle sat propped upright on the platform.

After checking to make sure it was indeed empty and someone hadn’t pissed in it and left it as a trap, Ev hurled it as far as she could.

Of course it would never reach the plant, but it was the ‘fuck you’ gesture that counted.

It arced short, struck the rails with a soft pop, and sent satisfying shards of glass spattering outward.

Maybe tomorrow would be the day that she didn’t bother to go to school at all. Maybe tomorrow would be the day that she would blow it all right the fuck up. Maybe tomorrow would be the day to…

Slay the princess, save the dragon .

The idea rose up, terminally stupid and oh-so appealing.

Not literal murder, of course, but how glorious would it be if Ev could somehow free Princess Carissa’s dragon and annihilate, or at least mortally wound, her online presence?

If she got caught, then it would be a wondrous blaze of glory to go out on.

And being dragged off by the Royal Guard was a better excuse for failure than a bevy of schools not wanting her.

If she did, by some wild chance, succeed, then the dragon would be back in the skies where it belonged. Win-win for everyone.