Over the next two years, Sadie learned how to play the piano and the guitar, and they became her best friends. Music could take her away from the clang of slamming lockers and the incessant noise of people talking. She made up lyrics as she walked to class, invented tunes as she drove home, and decorated her bedroom with posters of singers. They were her people—the ones who understood her—even if they didn’t know her.

She dedicated an entire wall to teen rock star, Jason Prescott. He had dark brown hair, a square jaw, and smoldering brown eyes that, even in poster-form, looked into her soul. She stared at him while she sang, pretending he heard her. Her songs grew stronger then, sweeter and deeper.

When Sadie sang solos in choir performances, the audience drank in her voice. It was as if the entire world opened up to welcome her. Each clap was a cheer of approval.

If her parents had known Sadie better, they wouldn’t have been surprised when Sadie announced she wanted a singing career. College wasn’t necessary. In fact, if an opportunity presented itself, she didn’t care that much about finishing her senior year of high school.

Her parents, unfortunately, didn’t know Sadie very well.

Fairy’s side note. This wasn’t completely her parents’ fault. Sadie never told them what school was like. When someone is branded “unpopular,” it’s not a label they’re eager to show off. Sadie didn’t want her parents to think less of her. Deep down, she feared the brand was true.

Mr. and Mrs. Ramirez insisted their daughter go to college and get a practical major. Accounting, engineering, business. Something that would allow her to earn enough money to do a few nice things—like eat and pay rent.

Sadie and her parents talked, and disagreed, and Mrs. Ramirez applied to colleges for her while Sadie researched talent agents and recording labels.

And then Sadie got her break.

Fairy’s side note: Mortals should be cautious when wishing for big breaks, but generally aren’t. It never occurs to them that the word ‘break’ has several meanings, some of which are quite painful.

A reality talent show announced auditions in St. Louis, a six-hour drive from her home. Sadie went to the show’s website, brought up the audition page, and filled out the questionnaire. Name. Age. Current career. All of them were really asking: Who are you?

She wasn’t entirely sure. Was she an awkward girl destined to be overlooked her whole life, or was her talent worth more than that? Sometimes when she sang, the music seemed to reach inside and tug at her soul, stretch it into a taut line connecting to the sky, to hope, to a dazzling future.

She wasn’t just searching for an audience clapping politely. She was looking for redemption.

A couple months before school ended, Sadie and her mother drove to St. Louis for the first round of auditions. Her mother read off descriptions from college catalogs during a good portion of the trip. She also muttered things about Sadie’s grandparents who “came to this country with nothing and worked hard their entire lives so their children could have an education.” This was inevitably followed by the instruction “Don’t throw that gift away chasing after a silly dream.”

Sadie had learned to tune out those sorts of comments.

Fairy’s side note: Children are as careless with their parents’ sacrifices as they are with slinkies. Both will only stretch so far. Both are easily tangled and ruined by people who don’t know how to use them.

Sadie passed the preliminary audition round and was asked to come back that night to participate in the show, and thus she stepped out onto the tightrope of hope. It was a tiny tenuous chance for fame, for escaping the pecking order. And it was a long way to fall if the rope didn’t hold.

Fairy’s side note: Ropes made from hope rarely hold.

This time was no exception.

Falling is hard for teenage girls: falling from grace, falling in love, falling to pieces. All hurt on impact, which is why mortals need fairy godmothers to help put back together the shattered remnants of their lives. And if fairies can help the fairy realm at the same time, all the better.

In other words, I think you’ll agree I have mastered the fine and extremely important art of multitasking while being a godmother. Please accept this extra credit project as proof I will make a valuable addition to Fairy Godmother University.

From: the Honorable Sagewick Goldengill

To: Mistress Berrypond

Dear Mistress Berrypond,

I received Chrysanthemum Everstar’s report on Sadie Ramirez, and despite her assertions, I read it. I can’t help but notice that her reports continue to grow shorter and offer less detail, which makes it difficult to properly assess her role. I’m afraid I must ask you to have the Memoir Elves delve into Sadie’s memories and write a more detailed report.

With the utmost enchantment,

Sagewick Goldengill

PS: Many thanks for the nectar and crumpets. No one can crumpet like you, my dear. I’m so refreshed I can almost forget Miss Everstar. Almost.

The Department of Fairy Advancement

To the Honorable Sagewick Goldengill

Dear Professor,

As you requested, I sent Memoir Elves to Sadie Ramirez’s home and had them delve into her mind while she slept. The Memoir Elves bravely faced this task, even though they have a resolved distaste of submerging themselves into teenage girls’ minds. The elves inevitably come out of the experience feeling insecure, hating their hair, and feeling fat. Also, they have an unhealthy desire to spend hours texting and surfing the internet. The Memoir Elves are currently in detox and doing well, although Blinka Ruefeather continues to laugh about several unflattering memes she created of members of the Unified Magical Alliance. We are doing our best to speed her recovery. Their report follows.

Twinkling regards,

Mistress Berrypond

PS I so enjoyed our soirée. You’ll be happy to know that the bluebells you sent chime beautifully every hour.

Chapter 1

My prerecorded number for America’s Top Talent followed two tap-dancing grandmas and a bowling pig. This would probably not be my proudest singing moment, or one I hoped would define my career, but hey, when you’re chasing fame, you can’t be picky where you start.

While Peppy the Porker pushed a bowling ball across the stage with his snout, I stood in the wings doing relaxation exercises. Deep inward breaths. Calm thoughts. Don’t think about the slightly carnivorous crowd out there. Don’t consider that a TV audience can turn faster than a figure skater.

A buzz cut through Peppy’s bowling music—the sign the judges had Xed the pig. Peppy wouldn’t advance to the next round in Las Vegas. I hoped his short-lived show biz fame didn’t mean he was destined to become bacon.

A flurry of stagehands went out to clean up the bowling props. I couldn’t see them. From where I stood, only a slice of the black gleaming floor was visible. I wondered if it was slippery. And then I wondered why I’d thought three-inch spiked heels were a good idea. I’m not used to them.

The show’s host, Rudger Zeeland, a bald guy with hipster glasses and no patience, motioned me to come closer to the entrance. “Ten seconds,” he said. “Are you ready?”

No. How could anybody ever be ready to face TV cameras? Millions of people watched this show. Millions. I couldn’t conceive how big of a group that was. My whole city only had eighteen thousand. Could you fit a million people in twenty football stadiums? Fifty stadiums?