Of Giants and Ice (Ever Afters, The)

To Mom and Dad,
who always picked me up on time
and encouraged me to go on every adventure,
especially this one

n my first trip to Yellowstone National Park, I threw a rock at a dragon. It wasn’t my smartest idea.

I’m not telling you this to brag, or to scare you away from national parks and their fire-breathing inhabitants, but you need to know: at some point in your life, you stop acting like a side character in someone else’s life story and start being the main character in your own.

Look. If you’re like me, you’ve dreamed of it already—your real life, I mean. Maybe it happens when you scan the whole carpool line and realize that no one has come for you. Or maybe when your parents are shouting at each other so loud you can hear them three rooms away. You look out the window and wonder when the good stuff happens—when your life gets jump-started. You might not be sure what that real life will be, but you know that this really isn’t it.

Well, you’re right. It’s not. Just around the corner lurks the beginning of your story.

And I’m here to tell you: It won’t be much like you think it’ll be. It’s always more terrifying and more awesome than you can ever imagine.

My life story, for example, started when I threw a rock at a dragon.

Of course, I didn’t know it at the time. I was kind of busy running for my life.

You might not recognize yours, either.

•  •  •

No one could give this presentation to a bunch of sixth graders and get away with it. Maybe to grown-ups, but not us.

“Ever After School offers a wide range of activities between three and seven every afternoon. You can do your homework in our reading room, hang out with your friends, or even take a special afternoon class—all without the hassle of a babysitter or a nanny.”

A few of my classmates snickered.

Definitely a mistake to bring up the nanny.

Ms. White, the representative from EAS, slammed her briefcase on our teacher’s desk so hard that the students in the front jumped.

“I have handed out an application form for those of you who are interested,” she said. “Please complete it with your name, physical address, e-mail address, and phone number, and bring it to the front when you’re finished. Are there any questions?”

I watched it all from my desk, a row from the back, against the wall farthest from the window. That part of the classroom attracts the least amount of attention. (Trust me, I know. I had avoiding attention down to an art form.)

Then one kid raised his hand. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

“Yeah, me too,” said his buddy, seated behind him. “I have to go too.”

They both struggled to keep a straight face. A clear sign that they wanted to goof off out of class.

Ms. White wasn’t fooled. “No, but I will speak to Mrs. Coleman
about the next student who wastes my time,” she said in a cold voice. “She can send you to the principal.”

After that, all my classmates bent over their papers silently. Even if the only thing they did with the form was make a paper airplane.

I had only been in Mrs. Coleman’s class for a week and a half, but I had met plenty of recruiters before. They were usually friendly people who introduced themselves and whatever program they promoted in a ridiculously upbeat voice.

Not Ms. White. For one thing, she was beautiful in a scary way—with very pale skin and dark hair and bright red lipstick. With one sharp look, she had sent Mrs. Coleman scurrying to the teacher’s lounge of Ridgefield Middle School. Then Ms. White passed out a stack of photocopies while silently and creepily glaring at us all. She obviously didn’t even
like
kids.

She also kept weird things in her purse. After threatening us with a visit to the principal, she pulled out a mirror—not even a whole mirror, just a shard about the size of her hand, diamond-shaped with jagged edges. She laid it carefully at the edge of the desk.

That mirror convinced me I was seeing things.

I filled my form out politely. When I finished, I took it up to the front like Ms. White had asked and placed it on top of the stack.

The mirror’s reflection caught my eye. It had a girl’s face in it, but not
my
face—someone older and very pretty. Long hair fell over her shoulders, a blond so pale that it looked almost silver. She stared into the mirror, like she was waiting for something she wanted very badly and couldn’t decide if our classroom could help her get it faster. She also wore a crown made of towering icicles, which made her even weirder than Ms. White.

I glanced over my shoulder toward the door.

No one was there.

I looked back at the mirror to check again, but the picture had changed: Now a wrinkled man in spectacles struggled to open a leather-bound book. He was either a very small man, or it was one enormous book. I didn’t bother to look behind me this time, because once the book was open, the picture in the mirror changed again. It centered on the man’s face like a camera zooming in during a movie. The man’s mouth moved, and even though there was no sound, I was sure he said, “Rory Landon.” My name.

I jumped away, rubbing my eyes.

The entire room stared at me. Even Ms. White. I felt my face heating up, like it always did when I was the center of attention.

I glanced at the mirror one more time, but now it only showed the speckles on the ceiling tiles.

“Are you feeling all right, Rory?” Ms. White asked.

“Fine.” I hurried back to my seat. It was hard enough being the new girl in April. I didn’t want to also become the girl who started hallucinating after one too many fish sticks in the cafeteria. Especially if it might end up in a tabloid someplace. People were still looking at me, so I added, “I, um, thought I was going to sneeze.”

A couple kids snickered, but Ms. White just turned to the rest of the class. “Any more forms to turn in?”

By the time school ended, I had let the whole mirror incident slide. The weirdest thing that happened after Ms. White left was Bobby Fuller getting a bloody nose during P.E.

Then, after the bell rang, I turned my phone on and found two messages.

My heart sank. Getting voice mail ten minutes before you’re supposed to be picked up is
never
a good sign.

“See you tomorrow, Rory Landon,” someone said behind me.

I turned. Two seventh graders passed by, in cleats and shin guards, on their way to soccer practice. They had the exact same hairstyle—blond in a high ponytail—and I had no idea who they were.

I saw the faraway glaze in their eyes, and I knew they were thinking of my parents, maybe remembering Mom’s Oscar acceptance speech or the poster for Dad’s latest film.

“See you,” I said with an awkward half-wave. I could pretty much guarantee that before they started practice they would tell at least three separate people that they’d talked to the daughter of the famous Maggie Wright and Eric Landon. I tried to look busy listening to my voice mail so no one else would talk to me.

“Hi, sweetie! It’s Amy.”

Amy, my mother’s assistant, always tried to sound cheerful when she told me bad news. I braced myself.

“I’m so sorry. We’re running a little late today. The director changed the shooting schedule around. I don’t think we’ll be able to pick you up until maybe six o’clock.”