The Faerie Fountain

Chapter One

The next morning is Monday. I put on jeans and a tank top and tie a thin blue hoodie around my waist just in case. The forecast calls for scattered showers according to my phone’s weather app, and in Seattle rain any time of year isn’t unheard of. 

Salmon River High is only twelve blocks from my house, which takes me ten minutes to walk. When the weather is nasty, sometimes I wait for the bus, but now that it’s sunny and warm, walking is pleasant. Especially because my backpack is light. Books have been returned to the library. Finals are over. The last week and a half of school is pointless, government sanctioned days where teachers screen movies and let skipping class slide. It’s a magical time of year. 

My first class is Art, which means two things. One, we’re still doing actual work in the class, since it’s painting and making art, not theory. And two, I get to see Jordan Meyers. 

He’s already in the studio that serves as our classroom when I arrive. He stands behind a canvas on an easel, gliding his paint brush over it. His face is hard with concentration, his gorgeous dark blue eyes moving with the paint brush. I watch him for a minute. Then I set up my own canvas. I’m not very good at painting but the last month has been a free unit, i.e., paint whatever you feel like painting. 

For me, it’s a sunset, or an attempt at one. The colors are pretty, shades of oranges and purples, with a landscape done in “ultramarine blue,” a shade that matches Jordan’s eyes. I wonder if he knows, if he’s matched his eyes to the shades on the palette. 

Most of Jordan’s paintings this month are shades of red, monochromatic depictions of flowers and every day objects that look haunting. His newest, the one Mrs. Foster hung on the wall, is a red backpack with stuff spilling it out. It looks like it’s bleeding paper and pens. It’s amazing. I stare at it sometimes and wonder what it’s like to be in his head, to see things the way he does. 

People trickle in until the bell rings. Mrs. Foster tells everyone to get to work and starts walking around the room. 

My canvas is a hot mess. I’m not an artist. I took art as an elective because last year I took chorus and part of the class requirement was to sing on stage in front of people at the quarterly band concerts. I threw up before every show. I was not meant for the stage. Art seemed like it’d be less of a strain on my system. And, yes, I knew Jordan would be in the class. He always has paint under his fingernails and little globs of it stain most of his clothes. He has short, spiky hair and high cheekbones. If I could paint one perfect thing, it would be him, the way he looks when he’s painting. Like there’s nothing else in the world. I want him to look at me like that.

I’m dipping my brush in Cadmium Orange acrylic when I catch Jordan’s eye. Because he’s looking right at me.

My heart picks up speed. For a moment, I’m caught in the laser focus of his gaze, frozen. Then I manage to smile. And the weirdest thing happens. He smiles back. 

My smile breaks into a grin and I hide behind my canvas. My cheeks are probably “Rose Petal Red.” After a few seconds of pretending to paint, I peak around the canvas and he’s still looking at me. I do this three more times, and even though he goes back to work, he keeps sneaking glances at me. Finally, I can’t take it anymore and I ask Mrs. Foster for a bathroom pass. 

In the girl’s restroom, I examine my face for scars or dirt or any reason why he’d be looking at me. But other than the blush in my cheeks, there’s nothing. I look like I always do. Messy chestnut hair, dark eyes, olive skin. I’m pretty enough but not drop dead gorgeous. Girl-next-door pretty, not model pretty. And absolutely nothing about my appearance has changed.

So why is he looking at me now? 

I remember the coin and the cracked fountain. Coincidence, it has to be, but the timing is incredible. Too bad the stupid thing broke. If it works, I’d love to go back and make a few dozen more wishes. I could use a car and a new computer, to name a few. 

When I get back to class, Jordan’s attention has returned to his work and he doesn’t look at me again. Maybe he was just staring off into space and it only looked like he was staring at me. 

But he smiled. 

Five minutes before the bell, people start cleaning up their supplies, recapping paints and washing brushes in the industrial sink along the back wall. I put my wet painting in against a wall with the others, where it can dry. 

Jordan walks up behind me and stops mere inches away. 

“Hey,” he says. His voice is soft, delicate. I’ve heard him speak hundreds of times but never to me. “You’re Leah, right?” 

“Yeah,” I say. My throat feels dry. I turn and point to his canvas. He holds it with one hand. He’s moved on from shades of red. This one is a blue seascape. “Nice one.” 

“What?” He looks down at the painting. “Oh, yeah. Thanks. It’s okay.” He props it against the wall. It’s more than okay. It’s magnificent and I’d give anything to hang it in my bedroom. “That one yours?” He points to the lines of color that make up my art. In my head, they blend together into a beautiful scene but the actual product is lacking and amateurish.

“I’m not very good.”

“It’s a sunset.”

“Yeah.” I’m impressed he can tells. “It is. Kind of a bad one, but…” 

“I think it’s stunning.” 

His smile is stunning. He has a smear of blue paint on his ear. I stare at it, resisting the urge to touch it, to wipe it off. “Thanks.” 

“So, school’s almost over, and I was sort of hoping—” He looks fiddles with the black leather band he wears on one wrist. It’s miraculously free of paint, like it repels it. “Do you want to go out some time?”

YES! 

It takes all of my resolve not to scream it. “That’d be great.” 

His eyes meet mine. “Awesome.” He hands me a folded piece of notebook paper and then retreats quickly. 

I watch him go so long the warning bell rings and I have to rush to my next class, which is history. I’m a minute late but Mr. Galloway doesn’t chastise me. He takes attendance and then puts on this week’s movie. The class voted and we’re watching Titanic. I wait til the lights are down before spreading the sheet of paper out on my desk. 

Jordan’s handwriting is neat, bold letters. He put his name and sketched a cell phone along side the contact information. The sketch it detailed and shaded. I grin at it the whole time and completely ignore Leonardo DiCaprio running around the doomed ship on the classroom’s television.