Misfortune and Fortune are eerily identical, although Fortune is a better dresser and much more fun at parties.

The mayor of Rock Canyon announced that due to a budget short-fall, the library branch where Mr. and Mrs. Miller worked would close in December. Not only would the memories of their courtship be torn down with the shelves, but in a few months, they would be out of jobs.

The community took the news with only a whimper of protest.

Very few people in Rock Canyon stood up to the mayor, and he listened to even fewer. Unfortunately, none of the people he listened to liked to read.

Frank and Sandra Miller talked about petitions and appeals, but when they thought the kids were asleep, they talked about where they could go. Sandra’s sister lived in Los Angeles, and they could move in with her for a while. Nick could share a room with his cousin John, and Tansy …

And Tansy …

Well, the only place for Tansy would be the couch. And who knew how long it would take for them to find jobs again. They wouldn’t be able to buy another house until they were settled someplace. Perhaps it would be best, more stable, if Tansy went to live with her grandmother in New Jersey and finished school there.

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Tansy wasn’t thrilled with this solution. Her grandmother was not especially fond of children, and she had a few quirks. For example, she liked having vacuum-cleaner lines in the carpet proclaiming its spot-lessness and revacuumed if someone messed up the pattern. She wanted anyone who ate at her table to keep their silverware laid in parallel lines, and she didn’t talk much during dinner because she was busy counting how many times she chewed her food.

As her father and stepmother discussed the matter, they said things like, “We don’t have a lot of choices,” and “Tansy has only been to school at Rock Canyon High for a month; it won’t be hard for her to move in December,” and “It will get her away from that jerk of a boyfriend.”

In Tansy’s dark moments, she wondered if her father had ever at any point really wanted her around.

To his credit, Bo was angry about the library closing, or at least he was angry about Tansy leaving. He took her to city hall to settle the score.

Which only made things worse.

Fairy’s side note: Mortals often do more damage than good when attempting to fix things. They also firmly believe that problems can be solved with money. Mortals think if they stack up enough dollar bills, they can buy happiness.

Happiness, of course, is more expensive than that. Which is why people need magic.

As Tansy’s fairy godmother, I helped her learn these things.

Please accept this extra-credit project as proof I am more than ready to enter Fairy Godmother University.

From the Honorable Master Sagewick Goldengill To Mistress Berrypond

Dear Mistress Berrypond,

I’m in receipt of Chrysanthemum Everstar’s report on Tansy Miller Harris, but it seems to be missing some crucial details. Can you have the Memoir Elves look into the matter and write their own report so I can better assess Chrysanthemum’s role as Tansy Miller Harris’s fairy godmother?

Most magical thanks,

Sagewick Goldengill

From the Department of Fairy Advancement To the Honorable Sagewick Goldengill Dear Professor,

The Memoir Elves submerged themselves into Tansy’s mind while she slept, and, after several nights of observation, have composed her story in her own words. I remind you that sending Memoir Elves into teenage girls’ minds is unhealthy for the elves.

Even after short amounts of exposure to the jumble of impulses and hormones that make up a teenage girl’s mind, the Memoir Elves are apt to pick up bad habits, grow obsessive about their hair, and giggle when boys pass by.

All the elves involved in Tansy’s case are in detox and are recovering well—except for Blinka Ruefeath-er, who refuses to give up her iPod and keeps belting out Taylor Swift lyrics. But then, Blinka always was susceptible to love songs. She may need stronger intervention.

At any rate, you should be able to see Chrysanthemum Everstar’s role as Tansy’s godmother from the following memoir.

Flitteringly yours,

Mistress Berrypond

Chapter 1

Bo’s text message to me was short: “I hope you like surprises.” It was all he would say about our date tonight. He was probably trying to be romantic, but that’s the thing about guys. They don’t understand that it takes girls some thought and effort to get ready. Was I supposed to wear heels? Tennis shoes? Waterproof mascara? A para-chute? He could have at least given me a category for the night’s activity.

After changing outfits three times, I decided on dressy casual—it worked for most things—then went out to the living room to put on my shoes. My shoes were in the closet by the front door because Sandra, my stepmother, insisted we take off our footwear as soon as we came inside. It was better for the carpet.

Sandra was one of those immaculate housekeepers that I hope never to be. I’m all for cleanliness, but I draw the line at immaculate.

Sometimes it’s okay if the light fixtures have streaks.

My stepbrother, Nick, was sprawled out on the couch reading a book. He has reddish blond hair and so many freckles that Sandra refers to them as “the stars dotting the sky of his features.” Nick just calls them the freckle convention that showed up on his face.

Out on the street, Bo honked his motorcycle horn. At the noise, Nick looked up from his book. “Classy way to signal the beginning of a date.”

I grabbed my shoes and slipped them on. “If he rang the doorbell, he’d have to turn off his motorcycle.”

“And?” Nick asked.

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I rolled my eyes, like Nick was making a big deal out of nothing, but to tell the truth, it was starting to bug me too. I stopped at the entryway mirror to check my appearance. I had pulled my long blond hair back in a french braid, which is one of the few hairstyles you can wear on a motorcycle and not look like you’re impersonating a sea anemone at the end of the ride. Since I started dating Bo, my hairstyles have become all about wind control.

Behind me in the reflection, Nick stared at me. Slowly he said,

“The problem with dating a guy to tick off your father is you end up having an idiot for a boyfriend.”

“I’m not dating Bo to tick off anyone.” This was partially true.

Ticking off my father was an added benefit. “Bo accepts me for who I am. He cares about me.”

The horn blared again.

“He cares about you, but not enough to get off his motorcycle?” Despite my best intentions to hate Nick for becoming my replace-ment—he was, after all, the kid my dad had lived with for years—I actually liked Nick. He felt like a brother.

Nick was still staring at me, waiting for some response. Really, he should have been happy I was dating Bo. Bo’s friends had become downright nice to Nick lately. They would nod to him in the school hallways like they’d always been on good terms.

I asked Bo once why he had picked on Nick before I’d moved in.

Bo had looked surprised at the question. “Guys mess around,” he said.

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

And it probably didn’t to Bo. It means a little more if you’re the one getting messed around with.

The horn honked again. Nick went back to his book, shaking his head. “Have a fun time. If that’s possible while you’re out with a troglodyte.”

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