Call Me Rumpel

Chapter Twenty

William doesn't speak. He hasn't for what feels like half an hour, but he's trying to. His mouth is opening and closing like a fish out of the water, but there's nothing comical about it. His eyes have darkened and his fists are curled by his sides, and it's only by sheer willpower I can keep looking at his face.

I knew he'd be pissed. Worse, I knew he'd be disappointed.

Whilst Rumpel has been fairly kind to our group, William has the rare quality of actually caring about what happens to other people. He's neither been a fan nor a hater of my app, swaying from admiration of its inventiveness to disapproval of its execution.

I'm sure it's betrayal I see in his eyes as he struggles to process it. He has no legs to stand on to judge me given he cheated and all, but this is just as bad, at least in terms of sneaking around.

I'd been harbouring the tiniest hope telling someone my secret would make me feel better. Yet when he clears his throat, I wince, expecting to be chewed out.

"Shit. You're Rumpelstiltskin? You?"

He's swearing—not a good sign. Still, amidst the guilt I've become accustomed to wearing like a second skin, anger also bubbles inside me.

"You don't have to be so surprised. I am smart, you know."

"I never said—but shit. You are Rumpel. You?"

My indignity gives way to relief. It's not the relief of revealing the truth, but that his shock is genuine, which means there's no doubt in my mind now he isn't behind the murder or threats. He's never been a great actor—except when denying kissing that girl. No one can make their eyes nearly pop out of their head like his are.

"Yes, me," I say, sinking onto another hay bale.

I pull out more strands of straw as I watch him, wary I'll need to call an ambulance if he continues to eat air like he is.

He finally closes his mouth and walks over to me. When I scooch over, he sits, his solid arm pressing into mine. He, too, pulls out straw, and I watch as he twists the pieces into different shapes.

"So, you're Rumpel. Huh. Out of everyone in our school, I wouldn't have ever guessed you were behind it."

"That's me, exploiting our peers' innermost desires for cash." My cheeks burn; putting it like that makes me sound less like an entrepreneurial genius and more of a wicked witch out to trick innocent children.

I kind of get why Rumpelstiltskin was cast as a villain by the Grimm brothers. In the original story, he wasn't given a redeemable backstory, like being some poor peasant overtaxed by the king. He was just bad—clever, cunning, and cheeky, but bad.

William is still playing with the straw, braiding the pieces together. It should make me happy to think I taught him how to do that, but all I feel is overwhelming sadness the memory is now tainted by what I've done. What we've done.

"Did starting it have something to do with your father?" he asks.

I look from his hands to his face and now it's my turn to chew air. "Wha—what, um, what makes you say that?"

He shrugs, his eyes still on his work. "I figured money might be tight lately. It's none of my business, and it's certainly not my father's, but it's the little things I've noticed. The garden, the cars, your grandmother..."

His cheeks are also flushed. He'd know his father's firm paid handsomely, well above any other legal practice in the state. He'd know that, even if my father had come up with a successful plan and stuck to it, it would still take years to earn what he would've if he'd remained a solicitor.