The final sound in my ears before going under is a crack of thunder, an angry whip snapping in the air above me.

  And the taste of hazelnuts on my tongue.

  part two

  “Shiver and quiver, little tree,

  silver and gold throw down over me.”

  "CINDERELLA"

  BY THE GRIMM BROTHERS

  one

  Iawake to a hushed chorus of insects, the chirping gradually growing louder until it seems as if one has set up camp inside my ear.

  Am I dreaming?

  Not wanting even an inch of this soft fluff around my face to disappear, I sink deeper into the covers, hoping to muffle whatever rude creature is trying to wake me.

  Chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp.

  Ugh . . . it’s only getting louder.

  Why are there crickets in my room? Has my window screen fallen out again?

  I pop my head up and open my eyes to pitch black, blindly shooting my hand at the noise in an attempt to knock dead whatever it is. But I miss the nightstand altogether and swing straight through, smacking into the side of my bed.

  Groaning, I scoot closer to the edge of the bed and swipe again, this time my hand stopping hard as my fingers brush over a flat, smooth surface.

  What is that?

  Despite my brain still floating around in a fog, I run my hand across the top of the object again, tracing its sides and edges, trying to guess what it is.

  “What the . . . ?”

  I fumble with the sleek, oblong object, confused. It almost feels like . . . a phone. Not my crappy flip phone with its small joke of a keyboard, either. A freaking iPhone.

  My mind awakes and I snatch the phone up in my hands, sliding the cricket noise to a stop with the swipe of my finger. It’s 5:12 a.m. As in, nobody should be up this early. I think I’m going to pass out I’m so tired.

  But an even more pressing issue—what’s an iPhone doing at my bedside?

  Two knocks rap on the door, adding to my confusion because the noise is coming from the wrong direction. My door is supposed to be at the foot of my bed, not to the left of me.

  Am I still dreaming? Am I high?

  Did someone slip me a . . . I don’t know . . . what kind of drugs do people slip?

  Before I come to a sensible conclusion, the door swings inward, revealing a figure in the doorway, the towering shape silhouetted black against the lit hallway. “Time to get up.”

  Dad.

  Except, why does his tone sound so . . . so not like Dad? Where is his usual upbeat “Up and at ’em, Kenzie-bear!”?

  I rub my eyes. “What?”

  “I knew you’d have trouble getting up. Shouldn’t have stayed up so late,” is all he says, as if every part of this scenario is normal. Did he already forget the whole reason I was up late in the first place?

  Indy . . . Spencer . . .

  I shoot up, my heart leaping to my throat. That’s why Dad tore me from sleep at such a hellish hour—something terrible has happened, I know it. Why else would Dad be waking me up so early? No, no, no . . .

  “Dad, are they okay?” I ask, terrified to hear the truth.

  “What are you talking about?” he says, a thread of irritation in his voice.

  “Indy? Spencer?”

  He only gapes at me. “What are you talking about?”

  Okay, good. So both Indy and Spencer are safe. Relax, relax. Everything is fine. Until Dad flips on the light and the room blazes to life.

  I gasp, stunned by this strange, enormous bed I’m tucked into, all covered in layers of sheets and blankets and more fluffy stuff, all in a billion shades of white or sea foam green. It’s a wedding cake in bed form.

  I flip my head back and forth, not sure what I’m looking at. Where am I? Unlike my own room, this room is the size of a house, the ceiling shooting way up to the sky. Everything is too bright, every wall painted turquoise or white or flanked with pristine, white plantation shutters. Above me, a glass chandelier hangs from the ceiling, its graceful, swooping arms dripping in bits of pink-stained glass, like stars greeting a sunset.

  “Why are we here?” I ask Dad while pulling the covers up to my mouth.

  “Knock it off, Mackenzie. No excuses this time. We leave in ten minutes.” And then he turns around, leaving me to flounder in my confusion.

  “Wait . . . Dad!”

  He stops, his eyebrows jutting together, creases cutting his forehead in half. Tension pulls at his jaw, making it appear more square and rigid than usual—a look he only gives when something is stressing him out at work.

  “I’m so confused,” I start to say but don’t know how to finish. Especially when he stares at me so blankly, like he’s ready to give me up for adoption. “Sorry. It’s just . . . ” I scan the room and stick out my hands, trying to gesture at the enormity of this . . . situation.

  But all he does is shake his head and disappear down the hall, leaving me hanging.

  Not knowing what else to do, I slide out of the sheets and land on a plush, white rug. It stretches halfway across a dark wood floor—the biggest rug I’ve ever seen in my life. At the side of the bed I linger, falling spellbound to my surroundings, trying to figure out where I am and why.

  I start across the rug, but stop when a hint of wind purrs through the room, bringing with it the powerful smell of hazelnuts and cinnamon. Above me, the sound of rustling paper floats downward. I look up as a yellow sheet of paper drifts about the room in the dying breeze, flitting around me until it finds its way into my hands.

  I turn it over to find my list of wishes from last night’s wish session with Aly. My hands fly to my neck, to the necklace still at my collarbone. When I release the charm, my fingers are covered in a fine residue of gold dust, and I’m almost positive I can hear some kind of ticking sound coming from it . . . almost like a real, working clock. Bird Lady’s voice from last night floats through my ears again. “Is this what you want?” she had asked. Yes. I’d said yes.

  When was that? Yesterday?

  Maybe she is some kind of fairy. Or angel. Or a mystical being who pops in and out wherever she desires, merely going about granting wishes for people . . .

  I laugh at the absurdity of it.

  Can this really be happening?

  I spin around and run across the room to the wall of shutters, pulling them open. The sky behind the glass slumbers in an inky black, a hint of the moon trying to materialize through the gauzy fog. But even in the dark, the view from up here is unmistakable—twinkling lights dotting a descending hill folding out below me, and in the distance, the topmost tips of the lit-up Bay Bridge boring through the fog.

  The kind of view you can only get at the top of Sea View Drive.

  Trying not to hyperventilate, I hold my breath and read through my wish list again.

  1. The biggest, fanciest house on Sea View Drive.

  2. Nike Flyknits.

  3. A ski-jump nose.

  4. My own car. A new BMW.

  5. Be a total pro at the piano.

  6. James Odera to like me. Be James Odera’s girlfriend.

  7. Get Spencer’s lungs fixed.

  Did all my wishes come true? Is this the house I think it is?

  Is it mine?

  I inch my way across the rug, stopping in front of an open door next to the closet. At the dark opening, I peek through, trying to guess what’s inside. The floor is cool and smooth beneath my feet as I step in and flip on the light, not sure where to hold my gaze. It’s the fanciest bathroom I’ve ever been in, made almost entirely of pewter, glass, and slabs of gray stone.

  When I catch my reflection in the oval mirror above the countertop, I about die. “No. Way,” I say out loud, bringing my hand to my face as I draw closer to the glass. I can’t stop gawking. I want to stand in front of the mirror the rest of the morning and stare at my nose. My beautiful nose. It is so perfect without that big bump in the middle. Gone. Just like that.

  I might actually be kind of pretty.

  Maybe.

  The sudden thought of showing up at school in new clothes and a new nose (and possibly a boyfriend named James Odera . . . I hope so I hope so I hope so . . . ) nearly throws me into a tailspin. Aly is going to flip when I see her. I am so excited. Nervous. Terrified. Happy . . . all at the same time. My heart blossoms inside, my hands scrunching my wish list against my chest.

  All of a sudden I’m afraid to move. To breathe. To do anything, for fear of the Bird Lady suddenly appearing and magically swiping away this bedroom, this perfect nose and whatever other wishes still await me.

  “Mackenzie!” Dad’s voice, right behind me.

  I spin around. “What?”

  “Why aren’t you ready yet? You know I have to be back by six. Hurry. UP!” he says with a half-eaten banana in his hand, his pale legs screaming for attention from the sun. The only thing more show-stopping than his legs are those new fluorescent Nikes I didn’t know he had.

  Lucky.

  “When did you get those?” I ask, sensing a hint of jealousy rearing up inside of me.

  He looks down. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your shoes. Why didn’t you tell me there was a Nike sale?”

  He stops chewing, deadpans me like I asked the dumbest question in the world, and then marches out the door. “Get dressed!” he yells on his way out, leaving me standing there, wondering if he is even my dad at all.

  “Okay,” I say, figuring the closet is as good a place to start as any.

  It happens to be twice as big as my old bedroom, and I find it almost impossible not to linger inside this temple made just for clothing. Still, I hurry and suit up in a sweet new Lululemon exercise outfit folded neatly inside one of many drawers, the whole time terrified that any second New Serious Dad is going to barge in and strangle me before I have a chance to fully appreciate the moment.

  It isn’t until I pull open the bottom drawer that I’m fully convinced this whole wish-making situation is for real. Lined up in a perfect row are three pairs of running shoes (yes, I have a drawer for shoes). Three pairs of the same running shoe too—each in a different color. Not just any shoe, either. Nike Flyknits.

  Wish number two.

  I pick the pink ones and slip them on—yes, these are running shoes you slip on—before checking them out in the mirror. I’m impressed. I don’t think my feet could look any better if they tried.

  Reluctantly, I give up admiring my Nikes and venture out into the hallway, but after one turn I’m already lost, with no staircase in sight and my sense of direction completely shot. I also can’t find a single recognizable landmark (or housemark, I guess), and the air smells unfamiliar too—unquestionably a different scent than my other house. This strange house is as dark as it is foreign, and I’m afraid to turn on any lights, for fear of waking someone up. Every direction I turn has me bumping into walls and furniture and sharp corners, colliding with anything one could run into when one doesn’t know the layout of her own house.

  At last, I spot the outline of a stair railing and make my way toward it. With one hand gripping the cool, slick railing for support, I descend the spiral staircase with caution, taking each step one at a time until I reach the bottom. When I step out onto the hard floor at the base of the stairs, a dim light comes to life along the perimeter of the room, bleeding through the darkness like a tiny glowing sunrise.

  I gasp at the enormity of the shadowy room as it comes into focus. We’re talking vaulted ceilings with enough space to kick and miss a field goal—the kind of square footage that would make the Sistine Chapel jealous.

  I take a few steps and stop, unsure exactly where to go next. Something about this place feels familiar, but I’m still too stunned by the newness of this situation to connect any dots forming in my head. I’m also pretty positive that somewhere in this “house” an irritated man in knee socks and running shoes claiming to be my father is impatiently waiting for me to show up.

  Where? That’s what I want to know.

  To the left of me, about twenty yards away, a bright beam of light seeps out of a dark hallway. Not having any better leads, I follow the light, stopping at the entrance to the bright kitchen where Dad is sitting at the counter, staring into his phone. I am frozen in place, my hand covering my mouth because the dots in my head have connected and all at once I realize the room in front of me isn’t just any kitchen. It’s the exact kitchen in which I practically spent the entire night last night working my butt off while trying to please a bunch of rich kids.

  This is Brecke Phillips’s house.

  For a second I think maybe I’m wrong, that maybe I’m imagining things. Everything looks so different this morning without the bright lights and constant noise of the wait staff running back and forth. But the longer I stare, the more obvious it becomes. This is the view of an average morning in the kitchen belonging to the biggest, fanciest house at the top of Sea View Drive.

  Wish number one.

  I pivot on my heels to take in my surroundings, freaking out just a teensy bit. This is . . . drumroll, please . . . MY HOUSE. Not Brecke’s house. Mine.

  I can’t help it; I start laughing. But then I stop when Dad raises an eyebrow and shakes his head at me.

  Ignoring his uptight attitude, I stretch my leg on top of the countertop, checking out how sweet my shoes look on the sleek granite.

  They look good, by the way.

  “Get your foot off the counter and let’s go,” Dad says, nudging me out of the kitchen to the front door.

  Outside on the porch, I stand under a pair of hazy lights, waiting for Dad to start out with a few stretches or something low-key like that. But he takes off running down the walkway and vanishes into the darkness before I even realize he’s gone.

  Shoot.

  I run after him, but stop at the end of the driveway where an over-the-top display of professionally arranged pumpkins and jack-o’-lanterns sit atop two big bales of hay. The jack-o’-lanterns glow in the moonlight, their carved smiles seeming to mock my incompetence, a hint of evil hiding inside their rotting cores.

  “Mackenzie, what’s your problem today?” Dad pops out of the shadows, making me scream. I can’t help it; I still have evil on my mind. “Let’s go!”

  “Right.” I sprint toward him.

  We join the same creek path route we always run. But it takes us a little longer to get there since we have to start all the way at the top of Sea View Drive.

  Dad is much quieter than usual, bumming me out a little because part of the fun of running with him is all the challenges he invents, like whoever reaches the guy in the red jacket last has to do fifteen pushups. Or running backwards until the next mile marker, or telling jokes and making me laugh, which of course always gives me side stitches and then I have to stop and let him beat me to the finish line.

  Just stuff like that.

  By the time the sun crests the top of the hill, I am wiped out and have to slow to a jog on the way back. We ran twice the distance I’m used to, and an hour earlier, too, though I’m not sure why because none of my wishes said anything about being an overachiever.

  When I lope into our long, circular driveway five minutes later, Dad is already stretching on the top step, not even breaking a sweat. I stop short at the edge of the lawn, mesmerized by its perfection, running my palms across the top of the velvety grass. The blades are perfectly even and plush, with just the right amount of bounce, even in November. None of my lawns ever came close to such excellence, not by a mile. It takes money to look this good.

  “Nice run, Mackenzie,” Dad says when he sees me. “Next time, though, get up on time so we don’t have to cut it short, okay?”

  That was short?

  “Who are you?” I say under my breath, following him inside. And where’s my real dad? I want to ask. But the monster house we live in has already swallowed him up, and I don’t know what else to do now, other than find my way back to my room and get ready for school.

  It’s the kind of moment that calls for music—you know, the pump-me-up-while-I-try-on-twenty-new-outfits kind of moment.

  My first instinct is to look for an iPod. But then I remember I have an iPhone. Who needs an iPod? I thumb through the songs in my phone, relieved my taste in music hasn’t changed since . . . well . . . since I turned rich. It’s nice to know that certain things are off limits.

  After picking some dance music, I scour my unfamiliar bedroom for a speaker dock, figuring the rich me would’ve never skimped on something as important as that. No matter where I look, though, I come up with nothing. So I settle for the next best option—turning up the volume on my phone and pressing my song of choice.

  Bad idea.

  The room explodes with music, igniting the air like I stepped onstage at a concert. My hands fly to my ears. It’s still way early, and if today’s schedule is anything close to the norm, my mom and little brothers still have another hour to sleep.

  The music seems to chase me at every turn as I race around the room, picking up anything that can pass for a speaker—a shiny jewelry box . . . no . . . a vase filled with pale pink flowers that aren’t artificial nor is the water in which they are soaking . . . no . . . a laptop computer . . . no . . . an iPod mini with attached headphones (good to know for future runs) . . . no . . .

  “What are you doing?” a jarring voice yells from behind me, barely audible above the music.

  I spin around to face a barely-awake Spencer. His bedhead hair is twice the height of his normal hair, which already has about four inches on the rest of us. Half-opened eyes and wrinkled boxers clue me in to the probability that he didn’t wake up on his own, either. Oops. But, gosh, I love that hair, and it is so good to see my brother again.

  Smiling, I throw my arms around his neck. But he detaches my arms before I realize what’s happening, and steps out of my reach. Then he grabs my phone, stabs his fingers into the screen, and the room is silent again.