The Enchantress Returns (7 page)

But in the final weeks leading up to the conclusion of her teaching career, Mrs. Peters received the offer to become a
principal
. As appealing as a life of gardening and relaxation was, a life as principal gave her the essence of what she loved the most about being a teacher:
authority over impressionable youngsters
.

Needless to say, she didn’t hesitate to take the job. She thrived in the powerful position of administering punishment, and occasionally something would come up that allowed her to do what she loved more than anything, which was why she called Conner Bailey into her office.

“Have a seat,” Mrs. Peters ordered.

Conner sat across from her so obediently he reminded himself of Buster, but didn’t expect to be rewarded with a biscuit. His eyes wandered around the room; he noticed Mrs. Peters decorated her office in the same patterns and floral prints as the dresses she wore.

“Do you know why I’ve called you in here today?” Mrs. Peters asked. She wasn’t even looking at him. Her eyes were busy scanning through a stack of papers in her hands.

“Not a clue,” Conner said. He could almost see what the papers were in the reflection of her glasses.

“I wanted to talk to you about the writing you’ve been doing in your English class,” she said, finally making eye contact.

Conner realized the papers she was going through were in his handwriting. He panicked.

“Is this about my essay on
To Kill a Mockingbird
?” he asked. “I know I wrote, ‘One of the saddest parts about this book is that a girl is named Scout,’ but I talked to Ms. York
about my approach and understand why it could have been better.”

Mrs. Peters’s eyes squinted and her brow flexed in a judgmental manner; this was bound to happen at least once when she was in the same room as Conner.

“Or maybe this is about my report on
Animal Farm
?” Conner said. “I know I said, ‘I wish George Orwell had used something to represent politics that didn’t give me a major craving for a bacon cheeseburger,’ but that’s really how I felt; I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

“No, Mr. Bailey,” Mrs. Peters said. “I called you to my office to talk about the
creative writing
you’ve been working on in Ms. York’s class.”

“Oh?” Conner asked. Creative writing was actually his favorite part of the class. “How am I screwing
that
up?”

“You’re not,” Mrs. Peters said. “It’s
fantastic
.”

Conner’s head jerked in disbelief.

“Did you just say what I think you just said?” Conner asked.

“I believe so,” Mrs. Peters said, almost as surprised as he was. “Ms. York was afraid your stories might have been plagiarized, so she sent them to me to look over, but they’re unlike anything I’ve ever read. I assured her they appeared very original to me.”

Conner was having difficulty processing it all; Mrs. Peters of all people was complimenting
and
defending him.

“So I’m in here for a
good thing
?” Conner asked.

“A very good thing,” Mrs. Peters said. “Your stories and
perspectives on fairy-tale characters are wonderful! I loved your stories about the Charming Dynasty searching for the long-lost Charming brother and the Evil Queen’s long-lost lover being trapped in her Magic Mirror. And Trix the misbehaving fairy and Trollbella the homely troll princess are such imaginative new characters. It’s very impressive!”

“Thank you?” Conner said.

“Can I ask you what inspired these stories?” Mrs. Peters said.

Conner gulped. He didn’t know how to answer. Technically he had used the class to write about
his experiences
, so the stories weren’t necessarily “creative writing.” Was it considered lying even if he
couldn’t
tell the truth?

“They just came to me,” Conner said with a shrug. “I can’t really explain it.”

Mrs. Peters did something Conner had never seen her do before:
She smiled at him.

“I was hoping you would say that,” Mrs. Peters said. She retrieved a folder from the inside of her desk. “I took the liberty of looking at the student profile you filled out at the beginning of the school year. I found it interesting that under ‘future career aspirations,’ you simply wrote ‘something cool.’ ”

Conner nodded. “I stand by that,” he said.

“Well, unless you have the goal of becoming a professional snowman, is it safe to presume you’re open to suggestions?” Mrs. Peters asked.

“Sure,” Conner said. He still hadn’t thought of any jobs that fit the description.

“Mr. Bailey, have you ever considered becoming a
writer
?” Mrs. Peters said. “If these stories are any indication, with time and practice, I think you may have what it takes.”

Although they were the only people in the room, Conner had to remind himself she was talking to him.

“A writer?” Conner asked.
“Me?”
The thought had never crossed his mind. His head instantly filled with doubts regarding the prospect, like white blood cells attacking a virus.

“Yes,
you
,” Mrs. Peters said and pointed at him for further distinction.

“But aren’t writers supposed to be super smart?” Conner asked. “Don’t they say things like,
‘I concur’
and
‘I don’t identify with the likes of this’
? Those kinds of people are writers, not me. They’d laugh at me if I tried being one of them.”

Mrs. Peters exhaled a small gust of air through her nose, which Conner remembered was her version of a laugh.

“Intelligence is not a competition,” she said. “There is plenty to go around, and there are many ways it can be demonstrated.”

“But anyone can write, right?” Conner asked. “I mean, that’s why authors get judged so harshly, isn’t it? Because technically everyone could do it if they wanted to.”

“Just because anyone can do something doesn’t mean everyone should,” Mrs. Peters said. “Besides, anyone with an Internet connection feels they have the credentials to critique or belittle anything these days.”

“I suppose,” Conner said, but his defeated look said otherwise. “What makes you think I’ll be a good writer? My stories
are so simple compared to other ones out there. And I don’t have a very good vocabulary—and I’m worthless without spell-check.”

Mrs. Peters took off her glasses and massaged her eyes. Conner was still a challenging student to get through to.

“Having something worth telling and a passion to tell it are what make you a good writer,” Mrs. Peters said. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read novels or articles that used complicated words and witty wordplay to cover up the fact that they had absolutely no story to tell. A good story should be enjoyed; sometimes simplicity can go a long way.”

Conner still wasn’t sold on the idea. “I just don’t know if it’s for me.”

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Mrs. Peters said. “I’m only asking you to think about it. I would hate it if somebody with your imagination graduated and didn’t do ‘something cool’ with it.”

She locked eyes with him and another rare, small smile appeared on her face.

“I have two loves in my career: reprimanding and encouraging,” Mrs. Peters went on. “Thank you for letting me encourage today. I don’t get many opportunities.”

“No problem,” Conner said. “It’s nice to be in the other category for a change.”

Mrs. Peters put her glasses back on and handed Conner his stack of papers. He figured their meeting was over now and headed to the door, relieved not to be in tears like his principal’s prior guest.

“I am so proud of you, Conner,” Mrs. Peters said just as he reached for the door handle. “You’ve come a long way from napping in my class.”

All Conner could do was smirk sweetly at her. If you had told him a year and a half ago that one day Mrs. Peters would become one of his greatest supporters (or refer to him by his first name), he would have never believed it.

Conner mulled things over as he walked home. His thoughts soared into the realm of possibilities and sank into the realm of uncertainty. Had Mrs. Peters gone mad or was he,
Conner Bailey
, actually capable of becoming a writer one day? Could he actually make a career out of writing about the experiences he and his sister had had in the fairy-tale world?

Would anyone want to read his stories about Trollbella and Trix, or the Evil Queen and the Big Bad Wolf Pack, or Jack and Goldilocks? Would
those people
mind if he wrote about them? If he ever saw her again, would Goldilocks beat the living daylights out of him for writing about the love triangle between her, Jack, and Red Riding Hood?

Conner figured people had been writing the same stories about them for centuries; surely they wouldn’t mind if he gave the world little updates here and there.

But what about Alex? She had as much ownership over their experiences as he did; would it bother her if he started sharing them with the world?

Alex had always been the one with a future, not him. Planning had always been
her
specialty; Conner always expected she would grow up to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or president.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t given his own future very much thought, so any prospect seemed like a stretch.

Conner realized he wanted to get Alex’s input on all of this. But as he reached their house, he came to a halt. There was something there he didn’t expect to see.

“What’s Bob doing here?” Conner asked himself, recognizing the car parked outside their home.

The front door flew open before Conner could open it himself. Alex was standing on the other side, wide-eyed and white-faced.

“Finally!”
she said in relief.

“What’s going on?” Conner asked. “Why is Bob here?”

“He wanted to talk to us before Mom got home,” Alex said. “He knows that we know and said he wanted to ask us something. I’m pretty sure I know what it is.”

“What?” Conner asked, completely oblivious.

“Just get inside,” Alex told him. “I think there’s about to be a
major
development.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE PROPOSAL

Alex and Conner hadn’t looked like identical twins since they were four years old. It was around that age when Charlotte stopped dressing them in the same outfits every day and they started growing into their own unique features. But as they sat on the couch both staring daggers at Bob with their arms crossed, it was once again hard to tell them apart.

“So…” Bob said and shifted uncomfortably in a chair across from them. “Your mom said she finally spilled the beans about us.”

It was brave of him to take the situation by the horns.

“She sure did,” Conner said.

Bob nodded pleasantly, like it was good news. The twins didn’t even blink—they were an intimidating pair.

“I apologize that those flowers came to the house. They were supposed to have gone to the hospital,” Bob said.

“Yes, they should have,” Alex said. Bob had done thousands of difficult surgeries over the course of his career, but he found being stared down by the children of the woman he was dating to be the most stressful experience of his life.

“I understand why this is difficult information to process,” Bob said. “But it’s still
me
, guys. I’m still the same Dr. Bob who you’ve had dinner with a dozen times. I’m the same guy who takes you to see the movies your mom doesn’t want to see. I’m still the same guy who brought you Buster. I just happen to be—”

“Dating our mother?” Conner asked. “Nice try, but everything you listed makes the situation worse. We
thought
we knew you.”

“Are you admitting that Buster was some sort of dowry, Bob?” Alex asked.

“Alex, what’s a dowry?” Conner said out of the side of his mouth, not breaking his stare at Bob.

“It’s a settlement of sorts,” Alex said. “Like, in ancient times, a man would be promised a dozen camels or something in exchange for his daughter’s hand in marriage.”

“Gotcha,” Conner said, diverting his full attention back to Bob. “You don’t think our mother is worth a dozen camels, Bob? One dog and you think the deal is sealed?”