I don’t need to see him all the time. Just sometimes.
He grabs her by the elbow. “You don’t have the foggiest clue what type of family you’re up against, June. Quit with your spitfire attitude and listen to reason. Come here, let’s talk inside.”
Mom is saying something, but I don’t hear them as he pulls her through the huge door.
I drag my foot over a pebble and walk to the car, my head dropping to my chest. But I stop when, through the gaps between the perfectly cut square trees, I catch a glimpse of the garden.
The grass is so green, it feels alive, dotted with so many colorful flowers that look painted on.
I bite my lower lip. Dad won’t mind if I pluck a few and give them to Mom, right?
She loves flowers, and I always take her some from the side of the road. These are so much prettier and brighter, maybe they’ll make her feel better.
I take a look at my surroundings, then carefully step between the bushes but pause because, wow, there are so many of them!
Flowers of all shapes, colors, and sizes are perfectly arranged in round and square patterns around the trees and bushes.
I hop from one bed to the other, changing my mind about which one is the prettiest the moment I see the next. Maybe I can take a few to Mom. There are countless flowers, so Dad won’t notice if some are gone.
My feet carry me between the trees as I follow the trail of flowers. I crouch by every bed and pluck a few colorful ones, mostly roses. Mom loves roses.
A thorn pricks me, and I wince, standing up and sucking on my pointer finger. The copper taste of blood explodes on my tongue, slowly easing the pain.
As I’m about to carry on with flower picking, I hear movement from above. I look up and pause, my grip on the bouquet loosening.
Wow. Dad has a fairy in his garden.
A small, beautiful fairy.
It sits on the branch above me, its feet dangling and swinging, its white sneakers all smudged. The wind lifts its white-blond hair, brushing it against the rustling leaves. Beams of sun slip through the gaps and wash its face in a soft glow. Its eyes are so green, they blend into the garden, turning almost yellow where the light hits them.
But wait, hold on. Where are the fairy’s wings?
I tilt my head to the side, but I don’t see them. Wings, Imean. There’s no glitter on its face either. This fairy is wearing pastel-green shorts and a white shirt as it sucks on a lollipop while looking up.
Do fairies like lollipops?
A squirrel scurries up the tree’s trunk, and the fairy grins and jumps up, then grabs onto a branch and climbs after the squirrel.
“Why don’t you use your wings?” I ask, almost blurting.
The fairy looks down at me, its green eyes going wide as it slips on the branch.
My own eyes widen when it drops, and then we’re both crashing into the grass. My head hits the ground, and the flowers I was gathering scatter all around us.
“Ow.” The fairy shuffles on top of me, then lands beside me.
I sit up as well and pick up the flowers one by one, dusting them off. One of them, the most beautiful red rose, is a bit crushed.
My lips pull downward. I wanted to give Mom this one, then put it in a glass of water, and place it by her bedside table.
“Ahh, my lollipop is ruined!” the fairy says.
No, he’s actually a boy—or a girl. I can’t tell for sure, but I think he’s a boy. Up close, he looks as pretty as a girl, with chubby cheeks and the biggest, most gorgeous green eyes I’ve ever seen.
They’re greener than the grass and every tree in the garden.
Greener than Mom’s spoiled houseplants.
