Into the Wild(10)

Obviously seizing the opportunity to shift the conversation, Zel said, “I heard they opened a Big and Tall franchise in Manhattan.”

“Oh, good grief,” Julie said. It sounded like a bad joke. Were these people for real? Honestly, you’d think they wanted the world to know who they were.

“Even the son?” one of the seven asked.

Julie couldn’t resist: “Not him. He’s trying to break into the pro-wrestling circuit, but he only wants to fight Englishmen.”

“Really?” another said.

Julie rolled her eyes. “No, not really. It was a joke. ‘I smell the blood of an Englishman’?”

Snow’s seven didn’t laugh. Some of them looked angry.

“He does interior design,” Zel said, shooting her daughter a look. Julie poked at her quiche. They were all so touchy.

Gothel wasn’t deterred. “Do you think I’d abandon the wishing well, even if the economy failed?” she said. “Someone has to guard it.”

If Julie had the well here, she’d wish the seven were gone. Not that her grandmother would let her make that wish—or any other. Like the items in the linen closet, the wishing well was off-limits.

Once, Julie remembered, she had tried to make a wish. From her sentry point in the main office, Grandma had seen her. It was the only time Julie had witnessed her grandmother truly angry. Do you want to feed the Wild? she’d said. Do you want to destroy everything? And she had sat Julie down and proceeded to explain why the Wild was so dangerous. No one had ever done that before. For weeks after that, Julie hadn’t been able to sleep in her bed for fear the Wild would trap her in one of its little puppet plays. The Wild, Grandma had said, takes your free will. Every fairy-tale event that is started must be completed. Is your wish worth your freedom? Everyone’s freedom? Julie had cried. It was only a little wish, she’d lied. She’d said she wanted to wish for straight hair.

Of course, she had meant to wish for her father.

“People need that motel,” Gothel said. “It’s a haven for our kind.”

“Our kind can’t mingle too much with the non-Wild,” one of the dwarves agreed. “They just don’t understand. To them, we’re Sneezy and Dopey. They don’t understand: we didn’t get a happy ending. We never got to save Snow. We worked while she died, and then we watched while some boy who never appreciated her carried her away.”

“How can they understand?” another said. “You shouldn’t blame them.”

“Oh, I don’t blame them,” the first dwarf said. “In fact, I envy them. To have always known who you are, to be able to change who you are, to shape your fate, to make your own story . . .” He nodded at Julie in reference.

All of a sudden, everyone was looking at her. Julie shrank back. She felt her face turning bright red. She knew she wasn’t like them, just like she knew she wasn’t like Kristen and her flock. Did they have to point it out? Worse, did they have to point it out in her own home?

Zel cleared her throat. “Julie? Help me clear the table?” An escape route. Thank you, Mom. Quickly, Julie collected a few of the dishes and fled into the kitchen. Following her, Zel set out the pies for dessert—berry pies, because the dwarves would not eat apple. “Honey? Are you all right?” Zel asked.

“Just great,” Julie said. She turned the water on and squeezed the soap bottle over the sink as if wringing its neck. The unfairness of it all—everything she had to go through, the secrets she had to hide, the humiliations she endured . . . and she wasn’t even one of them. Her world could be ruined because of their secrets, and she didn’t even get to be “our kind.” Why did the seven have to remind her? She’d almost started to have a good time.

Gothel appeared in the doorway. “Can I help with anything, dear?”

“We have it all covered,” Zel said. “Besides, I think the seven would feel better if you weren’t near their dessert. It’s not apple, but still, no need to upset them.”

Gothel smiled but didn’t argue. “In that case, may I use your phone? I told Ursa I would call after dinner.”

“Please.” Zel waved at the phone.

Julie scrubbed at the dinner dishes. Behind her, she heard her mother stop slicing the pies. Her mother was watching her—Julie could almost feel Mom’s eyes boring into her back. “Dishes without even being asked,” her mom said lightly. “I should invite Snow’s seven more often.”

In the other room, their sexist guests were condemning the Princess and the Pea Mattress Company commercials, in which the princess wore a low-cut nightgown. Julie scrubbed the plates savagely.