Description: Chapter 1: Tamar 1 Columbia, South Carolina, Present Day TAMAR Y OU KNOW WHY FAIRY TALES suck? Not because they create unrealistic relationship ideals for girls, even though they do; it''s because Cinderella and those other hags just sat around and waited for something to happen. They waited and talked to birds and wished and hoped, and eventually some handsome kidnapper appeared out of the blue sky and set their life in motion. In real life you have to actually do something. You have to get off your butt and send Prince Charming a text if you want a chance at happily ever after. "Mirror, mirror, on the wall. I wish I didn''t look like shit before the ball." Fay pulls my hand away from the passenger-ceiling mirror and kisses the back of it. My palm presses against his palm, and my fingers fold into the soft warmth of his grip. He doesn''t disagree with me, and for that I''m grateful. That whole back-and-forth about how beautiful I am when I know I look like day-old gas-station chicken Alfredo is tiring. I close the mirror, my fingers brushing against Fay''s rosary beads, a gift from his dead father that he loves more than clear skin on picture day. He never goes anywhere without them, despite the fact that he doesn''t like to talk about his dad, ever. I''ve always assumed it''s just too painful. They''re hanging from the rearview mirror and swish with every turn the car makes. I settle back into my seat and watch as the ribboned citrine sky filters through the windshield, glimmering and aggressive. It''s the kind of light that outlines moments so they can''t be lost to time. Six thirty p.m. As perfect a moment as it gets these days. Fay makes a sharp turn, and a freshly graded report slides across the dash. I pick it up and read the cover: REINCARNATION ACROSS ANCIENT CULTURES BY FAYARD DANIELS, WORLD CIVILIZATION. I flip through, scanning the essay, and I have to give it to him--it''s pretty good, and with more than double the pages he needed to turn in. He got an A. Mr. Sato even tucked in a brochure for the Museum of Natural History in DC, glossy and inviting with a little sankofa bird superimposed over the building for some new excavation exhibit. The seniors class is supposed to be taking a trip there during spring break. Just another thing I won''t be attending. I throw the report in the back seat and adjust the heat to ninety, then turn the vents so they blow in my direction. I can see the little beads of sweat building on Fay''s temples, but I can''t help it. I need the heat on blast, even though the temps are climbing to over sixty in February. My body is like a Volkswagen Beetle climbing Mount Everest with a faulty engine. It''s trying hard, but it''s just not happening. I''m still cold. "I know you had to study, but Andrea''s tiat threw the sickest Super Bowl party at their neighborhood clubhouse. You remember Rick from Mock Trial regionals, right? He''s got that gray patch on the back of his head?" Fay says. "From Richland Northeast?" I ask, trying my level best to sound upbeat and interested in whatever the hell Rick did at yet another party I missed. "... and then we sacrificed a cat. It was lit!" "What about a cat?" I ask, and he just smiles at me. I''m caught. "Ha-ha," I say dryly. "I have perfect pitch, remember? I hear everything. I was listening." I don''t sound very convincing. "No, you weren''t, but it''s cool. I ignore you sometimes too," Fay says, and winks. "You do not. You hang on every word I say." "Psssh! You make me sound whipped. And your boy is never that," Fay chides. "Take me to Krispy Kreme," I say, and he doesn''t even respond. Fay just makes a U-turn like it was the direction we were supposed to be going this entire time. The red neon sign in the window glows to let us know the doughnuts are hot and ready, but we turn down the drive-thru instead of going in. Fay turns to place our order. "Can I get two decaf coffees, one black, the other with four sugars and two creams; one blueberry doughnut and two plain." I fake the sound of a whip cracking. "How ''bout that," I say, fighting back the grin spreading across my face. "Now, now, that''s just me being an accommodating date. Besides, when is a little doughnut break ever a bad idea?" Fay hands me my coffee. I wrap my hands around the steaming cup and let the warmth rush into my skin as the track changes to "Smooth Operator" by Sade. Fay places the bag of doughnuts next to me and slides his coffee into the holder, then switches to the next song and gives me a pitying look. He knows it''s my absolute favorite melody to play on the saxophone, but my lungs can''t handle the exertion anymore. Now my instrument sits in its case in the corner of my room gathering dust. Fay backs into a spot right by the front door so we can watch all the other couples on cheap dates. There are at least half a dozen cars in the parking lot, with more in the drive-thru, but the cutest pairs are the older folks sitting inside by the windows. "Those two are on a date," I say, pointing my stirrer at two middle-aged guys in New Balance sneakers and fraternity sweatshirts standing in line. "The guy on the left is recently divorced, and the other just moved back to town to take care of his elderly parents." "You take point if the Q orders and pays. If the Sigma pays, the story changes." I draw in the rich scent of the coffee beans and blow out a breath. "Why?" "?''Cause the two organizations have fundamentally different personalities. Q''s gotta be the alpha, no pun intended." "My granddad would beg to differ, but you''ll find out once Morehouse sends you that acceptance letter," I say, and stick out my tongue to one side, imitating the countless Omega Psi Phi members I''ve seen strolling at barbecues, weddings, and at least one funeral. He doesn''t laugh like I expect him to. Fay turns his head and looks out the other side of the window. He''s been avoiding the college conversation but won''t tell me why. I decide not to press him today. "What do you think they''re talking about after forty years of marriage?" I ask, turning my gaze, and attention, to a couple who look to be in their sixties. Dressed in matching red polo shirts. "Well, he''s just retired from the post office, and she''s just sent the last of their six children off to college. He''s talking about how he wants to relax, and she''s dreaming about seeing the country. She''ll let him talk a bit, because she''s learned how to let the old man tire himself out after all these years, before she springs the RV plan on him. He won''t say too much about it now, but he''ll bring it back up in a few days like it was his plan all along, and she''ll let him believe it was," Fay narrates, his voice full of warmth. "Wow! That''s very detailed." "It''s a love story. That''s us in fifty years," he adds. I snort. "Let me stop you at six kids." "What I wouldn''t have done for a little brother. I hated being an only child," he says before inhaling his second glazed doughnut in a single bite. The pastries are pillowy soft when they''re warm, but the plain ones make my stomach hurt now. It''s one of those things I''ve only had to tell Fay once. "But you got all your mom''s attention," I say, slightly jealous. "I don''t know about that," he says sadly. "So, it''s your only-child powers that allow you to see into the future of Krispy Kreme''s patrons?" "Nope. I''m psychic." I open my mouth wide to sneeze--"Bullshit." We both laugh. Fay switches the music to a playlist we made together sophomore year for a songwriting elective. He was the only non-band member taking the class. It was almost two years ago, and even then, people assumed we were together. "Boyfriend" has always seemed too light a word for him--thin and arbitrary, like wrapping paper. "Girlfriend" is even worse. It comes with expectations. I don''t like labels. I just like him. The playlist is full of super old-school cuts our grandparents love, like Sade, Prince, Donny Hathaway, stuff like that. Love songs. My gaze settles on the horizon. All that''s left of dusk is a coin''s sliver of gold in the distance. The lo-fi rhythms are like a sun-warmed lake lapping the shore, calming and perfect. And, just like that, I don''t care that I''ve got a purse full of inhalers or that the dress I bought only a month ago is a little loose. I''m just happy to be alive and seventeen. My eyes are closed and I''m grooving to "All this Love" by DeBarge when sugar-scented fingers tenderly glide against my chin, urging my lips toward a boy with soft eyes; he tastes like lemon glaze and sweet urgency. Someone honks next to us, and he pulls away with the biggest smile on his face. I smile back. "You''re not getting into my panties tonight," I tease. "So you say. I''m the panty wizard," he jokes as he settles back into his seat and starts the car again. We slowly drive out of the parking lot. It''s better to pop the sexual-tension bubble early. Otherwise we''ll be playing the will-we/won''t-we game all night. Not that I don''t want to, it''s just... complicated. Fay would never urge me to do something I wasn''t wildly excited about doing. I guess I take sex off the table so bluntly more for my benefit than for his. "Isn''t that what they called that guy who was sneaking into people''s houses in Winslow and stealing dirty drawers?" "I''m a hustler, baby. You know how much lightly used panties go for on the internet?" he says as he gives me a wi

Please Wait