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

As you requested, we sent Memoir Elves to the mortal Savannah Delano’s home. Madame Bellwings, Memoir Elf Coordinator, was not at all pleased with this request, because elves who write the memoirs of teenage girls have the unfortunate habit of returning to the magical realm with atrocious grammar. They can’t seem to shake the phrases “whatever” and “no way,” and they insert the word “like” into so many sentences that other elves start slapping them.

They also pick up the bad habit of writing things in text message form (e.g., R U going 2 the mall?) and for no apparent reason occasionally call out the name Edward Cullen.

Currently the Memoir Elves who delved into Savannah’s mind while she slept are in detox.

They are doing well in their recovery process, although one still occasionally stands in front of the mirror and asks, “Do you think I look fat in this?”

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Savannah is none the wiser and the elves were able to compile a thorough report. You should be able to find out exactly what part Chrysanthemum Everstar played in granting wishes and whether she did indeed follow all fairy/mortal protocol.

The memoir report follows as told to the elves by the subject Savannah Delano.

Chapter 1

Here’s my definition of a bad day: your boyfriend of four months—who, until twelve seconds ago, you thought was the most perfect guy to set foot on earth—breaks up with you.

My definition of a truly horrible day: the aforemen-tioned boy dumps you for none other than your sister.

The definition of my life: he does all of this right after you inform him that you blew your last dollar buying your dream prom dress. He asks if you can get a refund.

It turns out he’ll be taking your sister.

• • •

I stared at Hunter across the restaurant table, so many thoughts shooting through my head that I didn’t know which one to pick first and aim in his direction.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Jane and I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Really?” How do you not mean to ask your girlfriend’s older sister to prom? Do the words just trickle out by themselves? Was someone else in charge of your lips when this happened? I didn’t say any of this, 36/431

because there wasn’t a point. What he meant was: I didn’t mean to like her better than you.

I wanted to ask him why he did—like Jane better than me, that is—but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to ask the question. The answer would hurt more than not knowing.

Almost as if he’d read my mind he added, “It’s just that Jane and I have more in common. We’re both more

. . .” He moved his hand in a rolling motion as though trying to catch the right word somewhere over the tabletop.

During the pause, I thought of my own adjectives.

Smart? Talented? Good-looking? No, it probably wasn’t looks. Jane and I look too much alike for that. She’s pretty, true, but I always get noticed first. Jane always has been content to be known as the quiet, studious one.

The quiet, studious one who had now stolen my boyfriend.

“Organized,” Hunter said.

“Organized?” I repeated. “You’re dumping me because I’m disorganized?”

“I guess ‘responsible’ is a better word,” he said.

“So I’m disorganized and irresponsible?” He leaned toward me but his eyes distanced themselves. “Don’t take it the wrong way. You have lots of great qualities: you’re fun and you’re pretty, you’re just .

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. .”—more hand rolling, as though this somehow un-wound his tongue—“always late for everything.” I stared back at him, stunned. This was how guys chose girlfriends—based on their punctuality?

“I’m not late for everything,” I said, even though I hadn’t been ready when he came to pick me up that night. But I’d had a good reason. One of Mom’s hair clients had needed an updo for a fancy night out and Mom hadn’t finished with her perm appointment, so I’d stepped in to help out.

I nearly pointed this out, but then stopped myself. It hadn’t been tonight’s ten-minute wait that had decided my fate with Hunter. He’d only scheduled this date to break up with me. I should have sensed it by the way he’d hardly looked at me while he ate his dinner.

“Jane and I both want to go to college,” he went on.

“You don’t even want to go to high school.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I have never said I didn’t want to go to high school. I enjoy high school.

Well, at least the socializing part. Geometry I could do without. Ditto for world history. And really, why should I care what the symbolism in The Grapes of Wrath stands for? Do employers ask those kinds of questions during job interviews?

He shrugged. “You don’t take your grades seriously.”

“I took us seriously,” I said.

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That made him flinch. “I’m sorry,” he said.

I pushed my chair away from the table. “Take me home.”

We drove back to my house in silence. Inside my head a whole orchestra of thoughts played out, competed with each other, blared so loudly I could hardly think.

He drove looking straight ahead and I caught a glimpse of his profile. I hated myself for still thinking his wavy black hair had the perfect amount of gloss to it, that he looked more like a knight preparing for battle than a high school senior. A girl shouldn’t have thoughts like that about the guy who just dumped her.

My throat felt tight and I willed myself not to cry. I wanted to point out all of Jane’s faults to him. She was the most unspontaneous person in existence. She had no imagination, no creativity. When we were bored as kids, could she come up with a decent game using a box of macaroni, a tube of toothpaste, and the kitchen table?

I think not.

I didn’t say anything though. I had enough pride not to beg him to reconsider. I just sat and listened to the orchestra in my mind playing loud and clear: your sister is better than you. Finally he pulled up in front of our house. Without a word I opened the car door, stepped outside, and slammed it shut.

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I didn’t walk across the lawn to our house; I walked down the sidewalk. I was not going inside. I didn’t want to talk to Jane right now, or hear the same type of apologies I’d just heard from Hunter.

Instead of driving off, Hunter pulled up alongside me and rolled down the car window. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t see why that concerns you.”

“If you don’t go inside, it will look like I never brought you home. Your family will wonder where you are.” What he meant was, Jane would worry where I was.

Heaven forbid she experience any guilt over this. “Well, you know me,” I told him. “I’m the irresponsible one.” He kept following me. The car inched along beside me going about two miles an hour. “Come on, Savannah, don’t be this way.”

I wasn’t supposed to have a reaction to this? I was just supposed to smile and wish them luck or something? I didn’t answer. I looked straight ahead and kept walking.

I had meant to go over to my best friend Emily’s house but I couldn’t go there with this one-car parade following me. When I came to the corner of our street I walked straight instead of turning right.

Hunter leaned toward me, a mild reprimand in his voice. “It’s dark and you didn’t even look for cars before you crossed.”

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“I didn’t have to. If a car was coming they’d have hit you first.”

He let out a sigh. “Get back in the car.” I kept walking.