Chapter 4

Trust me. I was in such shock that I almost ruined the perfectness of the situation. I was about to call out to Alice, like she was an old friend. Well, she is an old friend, but it’s kind of a one sided friendship. I know her, but she doesn’t know me. Which is okay, I guess.

Wouldn’t that be cool if Alice was like my BFF?

That would be so cool.

We could talk about books, and share stories about our cats. She would love Tylee. 

For about a minute, I imagined all the things that Alice and I could do together...and then I remembered that she was a child, about 9 years old, and it would be weird for an 18 year old to be besties with a 9 year old. So I stayed quiet.

I watched silently, like a leopard watching its prey. I was basically stalking her, and her sister. I was waiting for the White Rabbit in a waistcoat to spring up out of the emerald grass, and take Alice down the Rabbit Hole, and onto her adventure.

So I waited.

And waited. 

Looked around. 

And waited. 

The Rabbit wasn’t coming. That’s when I knew that there was seriously something wrong with the whole situation. Like, seriously wrong. Wasn't he supposed to be here by now? 

I was with Alice and Dinah in the field where the entire Alice franchise started. Nothing was happening. There was no wistful thinking on Alice’s part.

She just sat there. Completely contempt with watching the clouds roll on by, every once in a while making a comment about what the clouds resemble.

“Cat,” she would sigh. Every so often her sister would look up from her spot under the tree and look at Alice with both awe and sadness.

“Alice!” I decided to break my silence. I was getting frustrated with the whole situation. I was finally in a book! I wanted to meet Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, tiptoe through the tulips, and get called a weed. Okay, I didn’t want to be called a weed, but you get the picture.

 She didn’t respond.

“ALICE!” I tried again, this time louder. The only thing that moved was the grass in the wind. Now I was curious.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” I quoted, walking towards Alice and Dinah.

As I stood over them, I noticed something.

I didn’t have a shadow. For a moment I panicked.

How could I not have a shadow? I was standing in the direct sunlight, looking over Alice, and there was not a thing that alerted her to that undisputable fact.  So I nudged her with my foot. Surely physical contact would be the best way to alert her that something was wrong. That she needed to go looking for the thing that nudged her.

Again, nothing.

“Well, isn’t that weird,” I know that I tapped her leg with my shoe. I know because I watched myself do it. I willed myself to take my TOMS-clad shoe and nudge her stocking-d leg. I watched her leg move.

Or did it? Now I wasn’t so sure of my own sanity, or my own lack of strength. I totally nudged her. Totally.

Maybe.

Chapter 3

I'm glad you're still with me. It would have been a shame to lose a friend. I've lost plenty. I'm not going to go into that sob story. This is not the time for you to pity me. I don't want your pity. I want your faith. Your belief. Your attention. 

Do I have it?

Well, at least your attention?

Good.

Finally.

It was just like any other Saturday morning. I was home from college for the weekend. I had just started the second semester of my junior year, and I felt like I was finally getting into the work I had always planned on studying. I was working on a research paper about the Book of Kells and the significance of the mythology that was drawn on its pages. I would have stayed at the college but it was unappealing to me. 

I should have known it was strange. My college was my home. It was where I finally felt like I belonged. It was a liberal arts college about two hours from my hometown. It wasn't the exotic international university that I had hoped for, but it was mine. It was filled with the works of Shakespeare, Milton, Chaucer, Woolf, Christine de Pizan, Whitman, Lord Byron, and other authors that I just couldn't get enough of. Ultimately, I decided that I was going to study them all. Since the discovery of fiction and my classical counter-parts, I knew I was going to be an English major. I think I was about eight-years-old. They day I decided to declare my major to my parents did not go as planned. I ended up calling them, excited to tell them that I was going to study Literature. 

Boy, was my dad thrilled to hear that. 

"Stories?!" He fumed over the phone.

"You want to study stories? Why, in God's name, would you want to do that?"

I could hear the frustration in his voice and I left the air pregnant for a while. I didn't really have an answer for him. I never knew what I wanted to study, not really. I poured over AP Chem textbooks, AP Lang essays, AP Spanish conjugations, and not to be immodest, excelled at them all. So I went to school hoping to just "find myself" and go from there. That, apparently, was not what my parents had expected from me, and I was just finding this out. 

"Why would I want to do that? Seriously, dad? You were the one who always listened to my stories, who gave me books as presents for as long as I can remember. Why wouldn't I want to study books and stories? Don't books show humanity who they really are?" I countered. I was so ready for this fight.

I had read up on why English majors would save the world. Why we needed fiction in our lives to rationalize the crap we had to deal with on an every day basis. I scoured the internet for some kind of explanation that would allow me to explain to my "the world is black and white, Cassie" dad, why I needed to study literature. 

"I thought I was doing you a favor, as a child, Cassandra."

Oh, lord. He only called me Cassandra when he's mad at me. How could he get mad? I was basically groomed for this. Years of solitude in reading nooks, years of book projects and library cards should have warned him that his precious daughter was destined to become an English major. 

I had nothing to say to him. I didn't know what I could say at this point to make him understand why I needed this. Why I needed to do this. For me. 

"We talked about this, sweetheart," my mother's voice cooed over the phone.

She was the calm one of the two. It's why she was a successful shop owner. She was good under pressure.

"I thought you had decided that you were going to study business or marketing so that you would one day run the coffee shop."

I sighed into the receiver. I did not want to have this conversation. It had not gone as I had imagined. In my brain, both parents where like "That's wonderful, dear. I hope you enjoy your books!" I was so stupid to think it would have gone my way. I should have known. I should have seen this coming. There were numerous discussions about me getting a business degree. Each time the same, boring lecture came up; I would take out my binder of evidence, and convinced them to see it my way. It would last until they forgot about my research and got on my case again. I told them numerous times that I wanted to become an English major. They just wouldn’t listen.

"I'm not arguing with you." The volume of my voiced dropped -- hoping they would understand why this was about me, not them. At that moment, I did something so very unlike me.

I hung up.

I couldn't wait for their response. My father would try and use reason -- his black and white world -- to show me that I was making the "wrong" decision. I didn't want reason. I wanted unrealistic stories of witches, wizards and things-made-right-by-love. My mother would try to calm him down, but in her own way, make me feel guilty for not taking over the shop in the process. I hung up because I knew I couldn’t handle either of them.

I needed to control my own destiny. I needed to be in charge of my life, for this once. It was time for me to become independent and handle my own decisions. 

Like the ebb and flow of the ocean, the urge to return home was not something that I could ignore. Like a moth to a flame, I packed a bag and made the journey home. 

My car ride was like a dream, I truly think that humans have a natural "autopilot" so when you go along a route time, and time again, you won't make any stupid decisions. I jammed along with Adele, grooved with the Beatles, and laughed to myself when Bon Jovi said, "Who says you can't go home?" Because, at the moment, it didn't feel like I had one. 

When I walked through the front door, I noticed that my parents were both waiting for me in the living room. It's my favorite place in the house, so I wasn't surprised that they were there. The room smelled of old books and apple pie candles. It has floor-to-ceiling book shelves lined with every volume of fantasy I could get my hands on. They were sorted by genre, then by size, and I loved to go though and make sure they were all in the right spot. I had to make sure my friends were okay. Today, they were not there to comfort me, they were there to watch. 

"Hello." I stared into the center of the room, daring myself to not make eye-contact. I lowered the bad of clothes in my hand, and shifted my feet uncomfortably. What do you do with your hands, again?

"Cassie." My father's voice filled the room. "I'm glad you're home." Ugh. Not what I wanted to hear. I was prepared for a knock-down, drag-out fight. I did not want to hear that they were glad I was home. 

"Hi." I repeated, not trusting myself to put together full sentences. 

"Your father and I have something we would like to say to you," my mother got up from her seat and walked towards me. I immediately tensed up. When she toughed my shoulders, I wanted to sink into her touch and sob. I didn't want to need my mother, but it was nearly impossible to resist. I had to stay strong. 

"How are your classes?" What?!

"Huh?" I asked before I knew what I was saying. Way to stay cool, Cass. 

"We've decided that you were right." I was? "You need to do what is best for you. If you think that studying literature is where you need to be, then you have our full, and unwavering support." I cried.

I don't think you really care about the moment I had my parents support. Sorry for the following tangent. It's important. It's important because you needed to know why I was reading Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. It was for class. 

After the conversation with my parents, I was left alone in the living room, being cheered on by my oldest friends. I suddenly felt like I needed to do something that didn’t involve thinking. I shut the doors to the room -- a universal "try not to disturb" sign, and I opened up a book that was just lying on the coffee table. Which was weird. My parents are super anal, and they don't just leave things lying around. I hadn't read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland in years, and it just happened to be the next book for my class. 

Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the riverbank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, 'and what is the use of a book,' thought Alice, 'without pictures or conversation?'

That’s when the strangest thing happened. It went from being a sunny New England day, to a stormy one. Which, I know doesn't seem weird for some, but here? You can see a storm rolling in for miles. It doesn't just change. 

I ignored it. 

I wished I were on the riverbank with Alice, and her sister, and her cat Dinah. I sighed the sigh of a wish and shut my eyes, trying to drown out the thunder and pounding of rain. 

When I opened them, I was not on my couch. Which was not okay. It's a really comfortable couch. 

I was on a riverbank, staring at a young blonde girl who was asking her sister about the use of a book without pictures. 

Chapter 2

Like I said earlier, you're never going to believe me. 

I have to tell someone. So will you listen to me? You must have a moment to listen to a desperate girl. 

Really?

You will?

You're the best, like, ever. 

I should tell you that this is new to me. I've never talked to a reader before. I've never had to. Well, I talked to myself (don't you do that? You do? Yay! Okay, good, I'm going to continue) while reading, but I've never been the storyteller before.

Please, be kind. I know that this is going to sound crazy. Like an episode of Supernatural crazy.

You haven't seen Supernatural? It's a show about these brothers -- who are both really cute -- and they slay demons and other supernatural creatures. 

So yeah, that crazy. When I tell you where I've been, it's going to sound like I'm on drugs. It's going to sound like a bad LSD trip. 

I can promise you that it is all real.

All of it.

The lands, the people, the characters, they are all real. I've met them! I've been to Neverland with Peter, Wonderland with Alice, to Pemberley to see Darcy, and millions of other places with beloved characters. And wait...

Don't go. 

Please, I can prove it!

Would you like to hear what happened in Wonderland? It was my first literary adventure of this kind. I don't know if you'll believe me after hearing this story. I hope you will. 

You'd be the first. 

Chapter 1

Once upon a time...

Why does that sound weird? I'll just start again.

It was a dark and stormy night. And...

But it's sunny and noon! So, no.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...

Nope. That's Star Wars.

It was a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

YES! Finally! Wait, not again. Damn you, Jane Austen.

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of Number 4 Privet Drive were happy to say they were perfectly normal thank you very much.

Shoot. That's Harry Potter.

Why are beginnings so difficult? All the good ones are taken. So I guess a good ol'-fashioned, simple introduction will have to do.

My name is Cassandra Doran. You're never going to believe me. Trust me when I say that. No one ever believes me.

I suppose the "no one ever believes me" is my own fault. As a child, I loved to tell stories. I would make up silly tales of bears in the woods, creepy men in the park, and monsters under my bed. After a time, people stopped believing me. I was "calling wolf" as my parents scolded me. All I wanted was to be listened to.

I couldn't help it! I have an overactive imagination. I was, I am, a natural storyteller. The problem was, the problem still is, that I never had an outlet for my stories. I'm an only child. After years of making up stories about monsters, ghosts, ghouls, and other scary things, not many children around wanted to play with me. I begged for friends on the playground. I tried being friendly with the girls in my elementary class. They just laughed at me. Or they politely turned me down. Kids are mean, but some are mean with impeccable manners. My games were always the best. I just shrug it off now. I have friends, I promise. My friends now are the best. But back then, I was that crazy little girl playing on the swings with my imaginary friends.

Reading became my solace. I would read in the car, on the driveway, on the swings, late at night under the covers, and in school when I was finished with my work. I gobbled up books like most children gobble up sweets. I didn't need candy -- I needed fiction.

I longed to be the heroine of my own story. I wanted to rescue the Prince, and also be rescued by him, too. I wanted to meet witches (both good and bad), dragons (I kind of wanted my own), elves, talking animals (especially Mr. Tumnus!), beasts, and any kind of magical creature I could lay my eyes on. To me, our world was too boring, too predictable. I had met good guys, seen bad guys on TV, and had acquainted myself with all the animals around my home. I wanted more. I wanted to get out of there.

My parents were not the adventurous types. They preferred the quietness of our small, New England town. My father, an accountant, craved order, and routine. A smart man, numbers, and their patterns comforted him. He stayed close to home, favoring the state college in our town over the traveling even an hour away. He's a handsome man, with soft brown eyes, and dark hair streaked with gray. He always made time to listen to my crazy tales and my re-workings of known stories. My mother owned local coffee shop owner. Her shop was a comfort to our town, a place of community and warmth. She held karaoke nights, poetry slams, and knitting nights. The townsfolk preferred the comfort of her shop to the Starbucks that tried to take over. The Starbucks lasted a year.

On the other hand, we never really went anywhere. Our "vacations" were to New York City once a year to see a show and walk around. It was always during Christmas Break at school; we would get hot chocolate, ice skate, and see the tree. There were a couple of times where I went on vacation during Spring Break with my friends to Orlando. Those trips were awesome. Of course my parents never thought it was a good idea. Sending a bunch of 18-year-olds to Florida for a long weekend was equitable with foreign prison and bad tattoos.

I do cherish all those trips. I wanted, I want more. I wanted (want) to see the places in my textbooks. Mount Rushmore. Westminster Abbey. The Grand Canyon. The Coliseum. The Great Wall of China.

So I just kept reading. Reading allowed me to visit those places, and places that didn't exist. I got to travel from the comfort of my own bedroom, in my pjs, with a cup of tea. It worked for a while, but it always left me dissatisfied.

I wished upon falling stars, the North Star, the "second star to the right," dandelions, wishbones, eyelashes, and any thing that could possibly have wish-granting powers. I am a superstitious person. I wished for adventure. Romance. Travel.

I wanted to be a hero.

And once, I wished that people would believe me.

Unfortunately, none of my wishes ever came true.