What if the seven dwarfs never really existed and were just branches of Snow White's personality? Happy for the good days, Grumpy for the bad, Sneezy when under the weather and Bashful around that special someone. What if every time you looked into...
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❝We wish with our hands, that's what we do as artists. ❞
~Jandy Nelson (I'll Give You the Sun)
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"I need a good book, pronto," I bustled in, snapping straight into Ted's surprised face.
"Not until you ask nicely," he said childishly, to which I crossed my arms over my chest and frowned.
"I'm wai-ting," he sang smugly. I groaned, blowing a piece of stray hair off my face in the process.
"Please?" I asked, through gritted teeth.
He chuckled. "See, that wasn't so hard. Was it?"
I rolled my eyes and gave him a half smile. He moved out from behind the counter and led me towards the back of the store, where I was greeted by a pile of books on the table, as if they were waiting for me to come and give them a new home.
"Riley called a half hour ago to tell me that you were in a bad mood and that I should expect to see you any minute," he said, by way of explanation.
I laughed. "She did?" I asked incredulously. "That girl knows me too well."
"So what put you in a bad mood?" Ted asked, moving towards the table to show me the books.
"I can't seem to write this stupid script for the annual production and Mr. Todd and Ms. Violet are so insistent that I do something for it because apparently no one else wants to write it," I pouted.
"Well, do you?" Ted asked seriously.
I thought about it for a minute. "Honestly, no," I sighed. When Ted gave me a baffled look, I ventured towards explaining myself.
"Okay, this is going to sound really weird, I know, but I have these alternate phases where I'm either obsessed with my music or obsessed with my writing. There's no in between. Either I'll be at Riley's twenty-four-seven writing music or I'll be glued to my window sill writing stories or poetry. The phases never overlap. Obviously I'm not physically incapable of writing during my music phase or vice verse, but it's like this crazy writer's block. Nothing I write comes out good," I ranted.
Ted burst out laughing. "If you expect me to deny it and go all 'no Elody, that's not crazy at all', then I'm sorry, because that's insanely weird, my friend."
I shrugged. "That would be the most accurate thing anyone has ever said to me."
It's funny how Ted and I bonded over my love for books and his job at the store. Frankly speaking, I never would've befriended him otherwise. He was popular, I was...sort of. My school wasn't like the ones I read in teen fiction novels; it's not like our social patterns depended on the status quo. It's just that the unpopular kids were usually the shy kids and the ones everyone knew were the ones that excelled in a particular field, were incredibly good-looking or were especially talkative and amicable.
