All the best stories start with “once upon a time.”

Even at the tender age of 4, Coralie had known that.  Now at 14, she was old enough to know it but also old enough to know she shouldn’t talk about it.   She was too old for fairy tales, too young for boys and too freaked out by the idea of adult romance.

So instead, she stuck with her fairy tales.

Fairy tales were simple, easy.  You knew who was good, who was bad.  The boy, who was always handsome and charming,  always fell in love with the girl, who was always beautiful and kind.  Justice was served, kingdoms were saved and everyone lived happily ever after.

It had taken her until she was 8 years old to finally admit that wasn’t the way the real world works.  Because when your parents divorce, it’s hard to pretend in fairy tales and Santa Claus when you’ve got your head buried in a pillow to drown out the screaming over Christmas carols.

There was only one person who knew of Coralie’s love of fairy tales, besides her mutt Mo.  Her best friend Aurora was as equally devoted to them, being lucky enough to have been named after her mother’s favorite fairy tale.  Aurora had the room of Coralie’s dreams–a frilly canopy bed, pink quilt, pink walls plastered with posters of unicorns and mermaids and an entire collection of Disney snow globes.

But Coralie had the library.  And every day after eighth grade, they would escape a cruel world of tests and terrifying mentions of high school on the school bus that always smelled like rotton bolgna, until they could hope off at Sierra Cove.  From there, they trekked down the sidewalk and cut through the creek to Coralie’s castle.

“You’re so lucky,” Aurora would always sigh, flopping down her backpack before digging into their secret stash of snacks.  “I didn’t even get a treehouse.  You got a castle.”

“It’s called divorced dad guilt,” Coralie corrected, gazing happily around the tiny castle.  Instead of an ordinary playhouse, her father had made his subordinates at his architecture firm design and build Coralie a miniature castle in her mother’s backyard, shrouded by oak trees and hidden from prying eyes.  It had a moat, a turret, a drawbridge, two stories and seven tiny rooms, with even a working “water closet.”   Faded pink flags flapped from the top, while terrifying koi drifted around the moat, Coralie’s only protection against invasions.

Aurora tore open a package of oreos, pulling out a cookie.  “What shall we read today?”

“I don’t know.”  Coralie gnawed on her lower  lip, brushing her fingers over the worn titles crowding the shelves.  While most girls their age spent weekends at the mall, Coralie and Aurora hunted through flea markets and garage sales to find books that matched their secret dreams.  “I think I may draw.”

“Really?”  Aurora’s shoulders slumped in relief.  “Oh good.  Then you don’t care if I write.”

“You’re not writing our book right now, are you?” Coralie asked with a frown.  “Our fairy tale?”

Aurora shook her head.  “You know we only work on that on weekends!  I thought of a short story about elves during lunch I wanted to jot down.”  She reached for her backpack, her fingers wiggling in anticiaption.  “You don’t mind?”

“Nope.”  Coralie eyed the oreos, but picked up her box of sidewalk chalk instead.  “I’ll be on the terrace.”

“I’ll be in here.”  Plopping in a worn arm chair, Aurora flipped her notebook open. By the time Coralie had pulled open the terrace door, her friend’s pen was already flying over the paper, her eyes focused on the story spinning from her fingertips.

Stepping into the warm sunshine, Coralie sank to her knees, pulling out a blue piece of chalk.  Without hesitation she sketched, her thin fingers deftly sketching across the rough surface.  When she was younger, Coralie had spent hours drawing scenes of her favorite fairy tales on sidewalks, lining both sides of the street with her dreams.

Now, her drawings were restricted to the castle floors and walls of the library, where her father’s associates had painted select squares with chalkboard paint, to mimic windows staring out into the world.  Professional artists had drawn scenes, which Coralie had later quietly erased and filled with her own.

Because now, her sketches were the only place where fairy tales were real.

At least, that’s what she thought.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a week full of whimsy coming up!

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