Page 10 of The Underachiever’s Guide to Love and Saving the World

brYCE

I should have known going to apologize to Courtney would lead to disaster.

After I’d left her outside with her Christmas lights, I tried to lose myself in work, but the memory of her hurt expression haunted me.

I’d crossed some sort of line, and I had to make it up to her.

I wasn’t a monster. I only wanted her safely out of my life forever and ever and ever.

Besides, the angrier she was with me, the less open she’d be to accepting my suggestion of moving.

I’d taken the bus to the big-box store because buses were fifty times safer than driving by car.

As I rode, I Google searched how many house fires were caused by Christmas lights.

The answer was frightening. I hated the holidays.

Fire hazards and increased motor vehicle accidents aside, the Christmas commercials filled with happy, smiling families never failed to make me feel more alone than ever.

When I got to the store, it didn’t take me long to find her.

Courtney wasn’t a train wreck, but rather, the avalanche that caused train wrecks.

All I had to do was follow the trail of foil condoms, jars of peanut butter, and pizza rolls.

I felt like Hansel from the fairy tale. Except, instead of breadcrumbs and a witch’s gingerbread house, there was garbage and… well, still a witch.

The trail of junk led me to a coatrack in the middle of the lighting department. It looked odd there and strangely ominous, lit in beams of shimmering golden light. A circle of trash surrounded the coats like they’d scattered out from the center as a result of a small explosion.

A half-squished pizza roll by my toe suggested Courtney had eaten her lunch in a coatrack. I didn’t like how that made me feel.

“Courtney?” I asked, gently sliding aside a few coats.

And that was when it happened.

I’d waved my hand into empty space.

One second, there’d been hundreds of sweltering lights, Courtney’s trash, and a coatrack.

The next second, there were stars—real twinkling stars—flecked across a dimming pink and purple sky.

I was in some kind of central courtyard, standing on the outskirts of a gathered crowd.

Around me were slatted cottages, swinging shop signs, and gross ditches that would send an OSHA inspector into hysterics.

I blinked. Hard. Then I compulsively blinked twice more because three blinks felt more complete than one.

This was a dream. It was the only explanation. I must have fallen asleep on my couch while I was trying to work and dreamed about going to the big-box store.

And then I saw her, and my stomach dropped.

There, standing in the middle of the crowd, was Courtney.

Her gaze locked on to me, and for a second, she looked downright murderous.

Then her expression cleared, and she winked before climbing onto the back of a nearby wagon like it was a stage.

She smiled benevolently down at the crowd and began doing an honest-to-god cupped-hand rotating princess wave.

A guy wearing a crown and an old man with sickly white skin that looked like wrinkled tissue paper climbed up next to her.

The old man addressed the crowd, talking on and on at a barely audible volume.

I caught the word prophecy a few times, and every time he said it, he got more and more worked up with excitement.

I decided I would not freak out. There was no reason to; I was dreaming and had clearly conjured up a world from one of my video games—one with kings, ancient wise men, and villagers aplenty.

My breathing remained regular, my pulse steady.

Dreams were preferable to reality. Safer.

In dreams, I could be Bold Bryce. Daring Bryce. Irresistible Bryce.

I lifted my hands. They looked normal. My vision was sharp and clear. I’d heard about dreams where you were self-aware and free to make your own choices—lucid dreaming. Well, if I was in a lucid dream with Courtney, there was only one thing left to do—

No. Not that , perv.

Granted, she’d wormed her way into my dreams before in rated-R ways that left me extremely hor—horrified.

Her being in my dreams was yet another sign that she was getting too close.

At least this time, I was in control, and I was going to kick her out of my head.

It would be a nice consolation since I couldn’t get the real Courtney out of my actual life.

“Courtney?” I called.

A few villagers closest to me at the edge of the crowd turned. Their eyes widened as they took me in, gazes lingering on my Walking Dead T-shirt. I took a few steps forward.

The nearest villager gave me a wide smile. “I am sorry to tell you that I’m certain the Chosen One cannot hear you, as she is positioned many meters away, and you stand here… many meters away.”

“The Chosen One ,” I repeated. “You’re joking.” This must be because I watched The Lord of the Rings the other night.

The villager shook his head. “Verily, I do not jest. The lady simply appeared out of thin air whilst we were gathered here witnessing the public shaming of Winston.”

Somewhere in the distance, someone, presumably Winston, let out a scream of agony.

The villager’s eyes narrowed. “Now that I reflect on the matter, she appeared much as you have, out of nowhere and clothed in strange garments I have never beheld the likes of before.”

“Wordy bastard, aren’t you?” I muttered under my breath.

By then, my conversation with Villager #1 caught the attention of a few more villagers. Still, the old man talked on, and Courtney gazed at him with glazed, unblinking eyes, nodding occasionally.

It was my dream, not hers. Time to channel Bold Bryce and take control.

Pushing past a cluster of villagers, I strode for a barrel outside of a blacksmith’s awning.

The blacksmith worked in the shadows, poking a fire, totally oblivious that the devil incarnate was portraying herself as some kind of Chosen One outside.

He was like an NPC, doing his villager duty to create a medieval backdrop while everyone else lived their lives.

I clambered onto the barrel, drawing a lungful of air.

Clang, clang, clang.

The blacksmith’s work ethic was admirable but inconvenient.

Clang, clang, clang.

I crouched on the barrel to peer under the awning into the darkness. “Excuse—” Clang. “Excu—” Clang. “Excuse me?”

The blacksmith looked up, eyes stark against his soot-smeared face.

“Sorry, but I’m having a big moment here,” I said. “Do you mind?”

The blacksmith blinked. “?’Ello, sir. Might I interest you in a blade, then? If you don’t have coin, mayhap we can arrange a trade. You look like a strong warrior. My daughter…” He wiped a dramatic hand across his brow. “She was taken by a band of giants not far from here, and—”

Years of video games and a brief D I didn’t want to share a title with her too. Maybe if I convinced everyone she didn’t belong here, she’d vanish from the dream.

I walked forward, the crowd parting to let me through. A few villagers bowed as I passed. Now I was having fun, doing things I’d never dare to in real life.

“You’re right.” I smiled, spreading my arms as I walked. “There is only one. And I am”—I paused for dramatic effect, then did a single head bang like I was a rock star and the beat dropped—“the Chosen One.”

The villagers gasped, playing their part of background noise/setting/ambiance/etc. beautifully.

“To be sure, whenever we have faced strife and needed saving in days past, there has only ever been one hero,” the old man said.

“And yet, even though we only have one ancient sword with a great deal of meaning attached to it that we’re prepared to bestow on the first person who comes by claiming to be the Chosen One, one great bedchamber and fattened calf, limited sword trainers on standby, and only one World’s Greatest Stallion, perhaps we could make accommodations. ”

Courtney turned on him and smiled that dangerous smile of hers that made me wish I carried bear spray. “I don’t want your medieval participation trophies.”

The old man chuckled even though he couldn’t have a clue what a participation trophy was.

Mid-laugh, he had a moist coughing fit and came alarmingly close to asphyxiating before finally recovering.

“Relax, child. All is well. It seems the gods have given us two to save us. One to lead, and one to assist.”

“You mean whichever one of us isn’t the Chosen One is the sidekick ?” Courtney’s eyes bulged.

That simply wouldn’t do. Turning, I addressed the crowd like a president about to make a lot of promises I didn’t intend to keep.

“In addition to her obvious anger issues, Courtney is, in general, a menace to society. She’s lazy, legitimately doesn’t believe in birds, and regularly uses the word jelly in place of jealous .

I don’t know about you, but I think a Chosen One should be able to express her emotions without turning a sugary breakfast spread into an adjective.

In conclusion, if Courtney is the Chosen One, she’s the poorly Chosen One. ”

Murmurs spread through the crowd. There was a lot of nodding and arm-crossing.

“You need to leave,” Courtney snapped, jumping off the cart, nearly stomping my toes. “I don’t know how you followed me, but you’re not needed here. This was always my dream.”

Cute she thought I was in her dream. “This is my dream, actually,” I said because I would not allow her to assert her dominance in my head.

She smirked. Come to think of it, her lips spent most of their time smirking at me, and it was annoying. “Stop pretending you want to be the Chosen One,” she said. “We both know you don’t. You use safety scissors. There’s no way you want to arm yourself with sharp objects and go to war.”

It was true. But if I pretended I wanted this, it might make Courtney angry enough that she’d march out of my head. “This is my destiny,” I said. “Need I remind you it’s my birthday? When have you ever heard of a main character getting swept into an adventure on someone else’s birthday?”

“I’ve never heard of a Chosen One having a magical awakening at thirty .”

“I’m not thirty.”

By this time, the prophecy-obsessed old man had slowly worked his way off the cart.

Three villagers had to assist him. His joints practically creaked as he clambered to the ground, but he managed.

I wasn’t sure what his role in the kingdom was—mentor or mage perhaps—but I didn’t want to ask because Courtney seemed to know.

I couldn’t let her know she knew more than I did, even for a second. Especially because it was my dream.

“We’ve…” The old man paused for a good thirty seconds to catch his breath.

Crickets chirped. Someone in the crowd coughed. Winston let out a bloodcurdling scream from where he was being tortured on the other side of the courtyard, and a few villagers craned their necks to watch.

The old man straightened at last. “Your claims that Bryce secretly does not wish to be the Chosen One do not alarm me, Lady Courtney. We’ve had marvelous luck with reluctant heroes in days past.”

I beamed. Resident Old Man was an absolute unit of a wingman.

“Exactly.” I gave him a hearty slap on the back, then winced when I felt something crack.

“More evidence that proves I’m the Chosen One, and you’re…

” I gave Courtney a look. “A damsel in distress? Or, at best, the wimpy sidekick who dies.”

“Says the guy who’s scared of paper cuts,” she snarled. “Real hero material.”

I only smiled, cooking up my next verbal volley. The game was on, but this was one round she would not win.