Briar Blackwood's Grimmest of Fairytales Read Free

were legendary among the scoffers, side-mouthed whisperers, and hallway chucklers at Gluteus High. And true to the legends, it seemed like every Renaissance-fair-loving, pimply misfit who had ever been a lunch-break target was dying to humiliate himself by dressing as a fairy in
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
.
    Briar gave them the once-over.
Oh yeah, this ought to do wonders for their reputations. Screw that. What about mine?
She realized it with a snarl of her tar-black lips and a dramatic roll of her crayon-thick, ebony-lined, eyes.
    Briar had to keep reminding herself of her purpose. Seeing as it was just weeks away from her sixteenth birthday, she came to the slow, but burning realization that change was necessary. After all, sixteen was reputed to be some kind of magical number. She read about it in a weird old book she found while hiding out among the tall musty stacks of a used bookshop. She learned that you add the digits one and six to make seven. That was a number representing transformation. It had something to do with fire and alchemy and who the hell knows what. It was mostly gibberish, to be honest. And really, the best part of reading a book like that for Briar was the fretful glances she’d get from soccer moms and tea-toddling bookworms.
    That being said, the number and its meaning stuck in Briar’s head because nothing in her life really worked and she knew that she was due for an overhaul.
    She had never really fitted in, even from a young age. But it wasn’t really her fault. There were, well, circumstances. True, she was in foster care. She bounced from one home to another since birth, finally landing in one that “took.” They kept her for a good ten years now, at a profit.
    But there was more to it than that. Sure other kids could sniff out the ones that had the distinct scent of “reject.” Foster kids, once they were discovered, often fell into that category. But eversince she could remember, she had always been associated with bizarre occurrences. For example, there was the time in third grade when a Lucky Girl tried dumping her in a trashcan only to end up with third degree burns all over her body. Then there was the Lucky Boy in fifth grade who tried to covertly cut her hair, but instead found himself in the emergency room, needing surgery for snipping his own tongue in half.
    No one knew how these things happened. Not even Briar. But there were innuendos. Words like “witch” and “evil” were whispered around her. And as time passed, the other kids pulled further away until there was no bridging the gap. As the years passed, Briar decided that if they were going to call her a witch, she was going to give them the scariest damned witch they’d ever seen.
    Her sullen demeanor and perpetual pout, the capes and black lace veils she’d wear around town had become trademarks. Once she overheard some kids in the bathroom referring to her as the “Queen of Darkness.”
Not bad
, she thought.
If you’re going to be queen, it might as well be of something spectacular, like the dark
. She with her ash-tone rouge, her nose, eyebrow, lip, and tongue piercings and forbidding demeanor—it was social suicide for anyone to venture near her vortex of doom.
    Despite its obvious disadvantages, the whole charade had an upside. It kept the wrath of the Lucky Ones at bay for the most part. But despite it all, Briar held to secret fantasies. She imagined that by the age of sixteen, the other kids would have outgrown their distaste for her differences—whatever they may be. Or they might have at least matured enough to politely ignore them. No such luck.
    So maybe there would never be all-night texting sessions with scores of girlfriends, or invitations to parties and school dances. Hell, maybe there would never be basic acceptance. But what Briar hadn’t planned on in this whole scenario—what made her absolutely crazy—was the fact that