I could totally flit around inspiring art and music. I mean …” She waved a hand over herself. “I’m completely inspiring.” Clover let out a snort. “Oh, right. That’s what’s causing me head to ache right now. It’s all the inspiration.” I fingered the scroll, feeling awkward for interrupting them, but I had to ask the question that had been on my mind since Chrissy 50/356
popped into my bedroom. “Why do I get a fairy godmother? I’ve never had anything good happen to me in my life.” Chrissy and Clover stopped arguing. Clover pursed his lips, then muttered, “Well, you certainly didn’t earn one because of your over-whelming gratitude for all the good things that have happened in your life.”
Chrissy stepped toward me. “I’m glad you brought that up. It’s true most maidens earn their fairy godmothers by doing good deeds or by helping poor beggars who turn out to be fairies in disguise. But to tell you the truth, I’ve never been big on dressing up in rags and waiting around in the snow to see if someone offers me their coat. If I’m out in the snow, it’s because I’m skiing with some buff elf guys.
However …” She reached into her purse and pulled out a disk that was a little larger than a CD. “I needed an extra-credit project, and your life qualified according to the pathetic-o-meter.” She handed me the disk, which had a picture of me in the center of a pie-shaped graph. A large portion of it was colored blue, a small portion was yellow, and little lines dotted the circumference like minutes on a clock. At the edge between the blue and yellow, it read: Dated a hoodlum. 78 percent pathetic. Beneath this line, in smaller print, was the sentence: Willingly listened to dreadful band music.
And underneath this, in even smaller print: Refuses to read novels, simply to aggravate her father.
I couldn’t read the other sentences. They were too small. “That’s really … nice,” I said, staring at the disk. “You’ve got a pie chart of all the ways I’m pathetic.”
“You can keep it,” Chrissy said. “That way you can track your progress.”
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“Great,” I responded, without enthusiasm. How can you be enthu-siastic when you find out your fairy godmother thinks you’re 78 percent pathetic?
“Since you didn’t technically earn your fairy wishes in the traditional way,” Chrissy went on, “you should know about the dishonesty clause.” She took the scroll and unrolled it to a place in the middle.
The ends of the scroll lay across my carpet like lolling tongues. “Here, read this.”
I squinted at the elaborate lettering. Until the terms of thy wishes are met, if thou shalt tell an untruth, in consequence of such an act, a reptile or amphibian shalt grow upon thy tongue until such instance when thou spittith it out. Or if thou art an animal rights activist and considereth such an act to be inhumane to reptiles or amphibians, thou mayest choose instead to have flashing lights above thy head de-claring thou art a blasted liar.
“Oh,” I said.
“The animal rights option is new this year,” Chrissy said. “The UMA is very progressive.” She waved her hand, showing a set of lavender fingernails. “Personally I’ve always thought telling the truth is overrated. Lies make the world a happier place, but rules are rules. So until I’m done being your fairy godmother, you need to choose. Which will it be—frogs or lights?”
“Lights,” I said. I couldn’t bear the thought of spitting out a frog.
She checked a box by the clause, and I skimmed through the next few paragraphs. Between the long sentences and old-fashioned phras-ing, I couldn’t make sense of them. “What does the rest of this say?”
“Telling lies is really the only thing you need to watch out for,” Chrissy said. “The rest basically states that all wishes you make are permanent and binding, their consequences lasting. Also you may suffer certain side effects, such as drowsiness, headaches, lethargy, or an 52/356
intense desire to eat bugs if, during your magical journey, you’re turned into a frog.” She didn’t even pause for a breath before she went on. “You can’t wish for more wishes or for vague generalities like happiness that are impossible to grant. Your wish has to be something specific enough that I can use my wand to make it happen. Oh, and recently there’s been a ban on inserting yourself into the Twilight series.
The Cullens are tired of different teenage girls pinging into their story every time they turn around.”
Chrissy opened her lavender sequined purse and pulled out a quill. “It’s your standard fairy godmother contract. You make a wish, and I watch over you. Sign where it reads, ‘Damsel in distress.’ ” I hesitated. It seemed risky to sign a magical contract I hadn’t read.