Fern sat on the front steps leading to her kindergarten classroom, looking more pensive than a five-year old should. She had perched herself in such a way that her velvet skirt nearly covered the entire width of the steps. Anyone would have described the sight as strangely regal for the height of the Great Depression. Fern might have assumed the same thoughtful air were she posing for a royal portrait under Queen Victoria. But the image soon dissipated. The girl’s large, dark eyes flickered when her teacher, Mrs. Tunis, called her name. 

“Fern! Time for the class tea party! Remember, you’re the hostess, dear!” 

The little girl popped up and whipped around, careful not to trip over her long dress. 

“That’s right, child. In. Your grandmother brought cupcakes, the ones with the pink frosting you like so much.”

Fern nodded and took her place at the head of the miniature table. Eleven other boys and girls surrounded the table, with their chubby hands in their lap. All of them looked remarkably well behaved---more like wax children than real, breathing ones.

Without saying a word, Fern lifted her teacup to her dollish lips and sipped. Her classmates followed her lead and started to eat and drink, too. Two boys began bickering over a cinnamon croissant and one of the girls spilled honey all over her silk blouse. Fern ignored the other children. Instead she continued drinking, rather solemnly. When she finished her tea, she abruptly placed the cup on the table, stood up, smoothed out her skirt, and ran toward the open classroom door. The rest of the children nibbled and quarreled accordingly. Mrs. Tunis was so busy scolding Linus about putting his elbows on the table that she almost didn’t notice Fern scurrying out of the room. Almost.

“Fern! Come back here! FERN!” Mrs. Tunis had nearly darted out the door when she skidded and faced the tea party. “Alright children, I’ll be right back! Please don’t move.” They were too consumed with their sweets that none of them thought anything of eleven five and six-year olds left alone in a room by themselves. 

Fern scampered into the woods at the edge of the schoolyard. She pushed through knots of thorns, reeds, and honeysuckle. She left no plant within her path untrampled. Pushing deeper and deeper into the brambles tore up her beautiful dress and scraped at her face but Fern was determined. She kept going.

Meanwhile Mrs. Tunis trailed several yards behind the girl. A thick, middle age woman, the teacher could not match Fern’s agility. She was too slow and too big to move through the brambles as swiftly as Fern had. The woman could only guess where the child was so desperately heading based upon which plants laid flat on the ground.

Finally Fern arrived at a clearing marked only by the presence of a dozen burgundy toadstools boarding its edge. The toadstools were tall and bloated, thanks to the previous night’s rains. Fern paused, breathing heavily, and then ran some more until she reached the cemetery at the center of the clearing. The number of gravestones making up the cemetery could be counted on a single hand. The girl tumbled toward a new tombstone and flung herself before it, onto the freshly turned soil. Then Fern curled up as coolly as a millipede and started to drift off as her mother’s ghost watched over her. 

By the time Mrs. Tunis found Fern, the child was asleep. Her back gently rose up and down as her minor lungs filled and emptied. The teacher caught her breath and admired the girl, then slumped down to the silt and clay. She stroked Fern’s soft head. The child was hot with a nascent nightmare on her mind.

The teacher’s eyes locked on the alabaster tombstone before Fern. Its freshly engraved words read: HERMOINE GLENN. (1910-1936). DEVOTED WIFE OF JAMES AND LOVING MOTHER OF FERN. The outline of the hole dug up for the woman’s coffin was still visible; the earth there smelled moist.

“Oh, Fern…I’m sorry, Fern.”

Mrs. Tunis sighed and picked up the child from her somber nap. The girl felt very light in the woman’s thick arms, as if a small part of her had evaporated. Then Mrs. Tunis headed toward the school, praying that her class had not entangled themselves in any mischief during her absence. She had to get back before they smeared cupcake frosting all over the walls.

The next day, Fern was sitting in the school’s courtyard, parked on a bench sized for children. The bench was nestled in the beginnings of a garden. Marigolds 

tickled the girl’s ankles. Fern’s only company at the bench was a yarn and cotton rag doll. The rest of the girls played jump rope but they knew better than to invite Fern. She was too melancholy for their taste.

“Miss Mary Mac, Mac, Mac! All dressed in black, black, black! With silver buttons, buttons, buttons! All down her back, back, back!” the girls sang in unison. The lyrics echoed into the sky.

But their songs did not tempt Fern. She remained on her bench, clutching her teacup from the previous day’s party. While the other girls hopped and skipped, she kicked her little legs back and forth but her pretty mouth did not smile. Her face sagged into a frown. 

Just as Fern finished her final drop of tea, a tiny ray of light, like that of a firefly, caught her eye. It glimmered in the distance, at the opposite end of the courtyard where Mrs. Tunis oversaw her students. Fern focused on the ray of light as it grew larger and larger, presumably drawing closer to her. The girl perked up but her face remained serious. Something, the five-year old realized, was amiss and it made her nervous. The light came closer and closer to Fern until it reached her.

“Hello, Fern,” the tiniest voice in all the world said.

Fern nodded her somber nod.

“I see you’re not playing with the other children.”

Fern shook her head no.

“You needn’t explain why.”

The girls’ eyes widened slightly.

“You’re sad, aren’t you?” The words came slowly, beat by beat. “Sad about your mother?”

Fern froze, precociously suspicious of this ray of light and its accompanying voice. 

“No need to worry,” the voice continued, “You can trust me, Fern.”

The girl stayed silent. She was at the very least curious about what this voice had to say. 

“I won’t hurt you. In fact, I want to help you. I know your mother died an awful death. I know what you saw---I know that your father murdered her. He was so embarrassed about losing his job, the house. All he had left was his family name. You remember how angry he was, right? How frustrated he was for weeks and weeks? And then, one day, he just…had to take it out on someone. Find someone else to blame. So he chose your mother. Because she wouldn’t sell her mink stole! You know what stole I’m talking about---the one with the eyes you always said glowed in the night and scared you? It had those funny ears you hated? Your mother wouldn’t sell that stole or her locket or her pearls or any of her pretty things, even though your father begged and pleaded that you family needed the money. And then that day, three days before Easter, he shot her, then tried to make it look like an accident. So you had to go to her funeral on Easter instead of going on the egg hunt with Linus. The whole funeral, you didn’t say anything because you were afraid to blurt out what you saw. But you don’t have to be afraid anymore, Fern. I saw what Daddy did. I saw. See? You’re not alone, Fern. You’re not alone.”

All the while, Fern shifted uncomfortably, looking down at her Mary Jane clad feet and plucking imaginary lint off of her skirt. When the voice stopped, Fern stared directly at the ray of light, speechless. She squinted her eyes and, upon closer inspection, realized that the ray of light was actually a bantam being, a shimmering fairy. It had black, shining eyes and fuzzy-tipped antennae, like those of a moth. Dragonfly-esque wings sprouted out from its body. A plain white tunic covered its bony frame, down to its toeless feet. Perhaps other people would have gaped in disbelief but the sight somehow did not surprise Fern. The girl didn’t even blink. She believed.

“See, Fern,” the fairy’s high-pitched voice began again, “We can become great friends, you and I. I can help you with your problem---the guilt you feel for not telling anyone about how your mother really died. I can make that guilt melt away.”

Just then, as the fairy uttered the word “melt,” the being pointed at a spider web stretched out on the brick wall behind Fern. Fern turned around to look. The web shriveled into a single drop of dew and disappeared into a glitter cloud. Still Fern did not gasp. She turned around again and gazed at the fairy.

The fairy said, “You’re quite jaded for a little girl. Other children might have shrieked out of amazement or delight.”

Fern blinked in response.

“Let’s just get on with it,” the fairy sighed and fluttered onto Fern’s round shoulder. The being overwhelmed Fern’s nose with its mixed rose and orchid scent. “I have a deal for you, something that will rid you of all your guilt.” 

Again, Fern fidgeted, this time with her curly hair. She slid her fingers in and out of each of the ringlets grazing her neck.

“So, my offer is simple. I promise to help you with all of your schoolwork---every worksheet, every reading assignment, every project, everything---everyday for the rest of your school days, until you graduate from high school. And, in allowing me to help you with your schoolwork, you will never feel guilty about holding the secret to your mother’s death.”

Fern nodded.

“But,” the fairy said, “You must never thank me. If you ever thank me for helping you with your schoolwork, your guilt will haunt you for the rest of your life. 

You will never forget how your mother real died and you will especially never forget that you were too cowardly to tell a soul the truth. Do you understand, Fern?”

The girl nodded very earnestly.

“As soon as you return to class, our agreement shall take into effect. I hear you have to read a story today---and we both know how much trouble reading gives you.”

For the first time since the fairy’s arrival, Fern expressed a shade of nervousness. She gulped at the mention of reading. 

Not a minute passed before Mrs. Tunis rang her bell, signaling the end of recess. The girls dropped their jump rope and the boys abandoned their kickball. All the children filed in front of Mrs. Tunis and trailed behind her as she led the class to the library. It, like all the rooms in the school, opened to the courtyard. 

Once the last child entered the library, Mrs. Tunis gathered the students to the middle of the room by waving her long arms.

“Alright, boys and girls, if you all recall, it’s Fern’s turn to read the story of her choice. So why don’t we all sit down while Fern takes a few minutes to find a book she likes.”

The children, tired from playing outside, gladly fell to the floor. A few of them broke into chatter but most of them were fairly quiet. Mrs. Tunis smiled at Fern and 

escorted her to the storybook shelf. Already the girl felt anxious---heart galloping, skin sweating. Fern halted before the shelf, closed her eyes, and snatched “Rumpelstiltskin” at random. The book felt heavy in her hands. 

The fairy whispered in Fern’s ear, “Good girl, good. Now walk over to the rocking chair. I’ll take care of the rest.” 

“Oh, that’s a scary story, Fern,” Mrs. Tunis said, in that saccharine voice only elementary school teachers can muster, “A scary story indeed. But it has such beautiful illustrations! The other boys and girls will love it.”

Fern didn’t reply and ambled toward the rocking chair facing the pile of kindergartners on the floor. The girl settled into the big chair after arranging the pillows to her liking. Mrs. Tunis towered over Fern as she situated herself to the right of the chair.

“Alright, children,” Mrs. Tunis announced, “Let’s all listen to Fern.”

The children wiggled to and fro, restlessly. They all anticipated another one of Fern’s lackluster performances. Only Linus sat in rapt attention. No one else harbored courtesy or faith.

The fairy began reading word for word everything on the front cover of the book for Fern to repeat. The girl waited a beat. Then she cleared her pint-sized throat and pronounced the book’s title and author loudly and clearly. This newfound confidence and articulation startled more than one of Fern’s classmates but none of them were genuinely amazed until Fern got into the story. From “Once upon a time” to “The end,” Fern did not stumble over a single syllable. 

“A late bloomer, I suppose,” Mrs. Tunis muttered under her breath and then clapped. “Fern! That was excellent!” The rest of the class joined their teacher in applause.

Fern beamed. She slowly rested the book on her lap and basked in her momentary fame. Had she not remembered the fairy’s command, she would have embraced it between her palms and shouted, “Thank you!”

The rest of the afternoon, the fairy helped Fern perform her best. He whispered the answers to her math worksheet, reminded her of the lines to five different nursery rhymes, and calmed her nerves during her French lesson. Again and again, Mrs. Tunis praised Fern, astonished by her seemingly overnight transformation. The shy, stuttering girl had changed into such a sure-tongued sprite. The next day and the day after that, the fairy kept its promise and Fern kept hers, as well. Not once did she thank the fairy. 

As Fern became more popular with Mrs. Tunis and her reputation improved, Linus began spending more time with Fern. He never played with her during recess but he sat next to her during story hour and occasionally offered her one of his crackers at snack time (but only the ones in which he had already bitten and decided 

he disliked.) The rest of the students continued to avoid Fern but at least none of them teased her anymore. 

For weeks, the fairy and the little girl honored their pact and Fern no longer felt guilty about keeping the reason for her mother’s death a secret. Sometimes she even imagined her mother had killed herself, just as her father told her grandmother and their priest. She sometimes doubted if she had witnessed her father shoot her mother at all. A new source of guilt, however, developed in Fern’s sweet head.

One day, about a month after the fairy had first approached Fern, the girl confessed what now ailed her. She was in the courtyard, nibbling on the crust of her toasted sandwich, when the fairy appeared on her knee. Recently, it followed her almost everywhere she went, like a tick clinging to a fawn.

“What’s the matter, child? You look glum,” the fairy said. It crossed its slender legs, brought its elbows up to its knees, and plunked its chin into its hands.

Fern swallowed and placed the rest of her sandwich on her lap. A black fly landed on it but she didn’t care. Usually she would have swatted it but this time the girl had something to say. “I-I d-don’t like h-h-how you’re h-helping me so much w-with all my schoolw-work. It’s like I-I’m tricking everyone into t-thinking I l-learned things I haven’t learned at all.”

“But don’t you like all the attention you’re receiving? You’re Mrs. Tunis’ favorite student now. She’s even promoting you to third grade. You always wanted to grow up faster, didn’t you?”

Fern didn’t reply. Both she and the fairy already knew the answer. Ever since her first day of school, when everyone but Linus taunted her for her stuttering, Fern wished to grow up as quickly as possible to escape the classroom.

The fairy scoffed, “Really! If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. You’re never happy, are you Fern? I rid you of one guilt and now you feel guilty about something else!”

Fern bolted up and stomped her foot. “I j-just don’t like t-tricking everyone! I like b-b-being honest!” Her curls shook in fury.

“You weren’t honest about your mother’s death,” the fairy shot back. “Look, Fern, I promise you that the guilt you felt about not telling anyone how your mother died was far greater than what you feel now---and it would have only grown larger in time. If you know what’s best for you, you’ll keep up your end of the deal. Don’t risk doing otherwise.”

Fern began to sniff. She didn’t want to feel guilty about anything at all. She started to wail loudly enough that her teacher heard her from the other side of the courtyard. Mrs. Tunis came racing toward the girl.

“What’s the matter, Fern? Did a bee sting you? How many times have I told you not to play in those flowerbeds?”

Fern shook her head and continued sobbing. Streams of tears zigzagged down her Botticelli face, making her cheeks and nose bright red. The child buried herself into her teacher’s chest. All the while, the fairy teetered on the top of Fern’s left ear. 

“Remember our deal, Fern,” it murmured in an abnormally deep voice, “Remember our deal.” 

That afternoon, Fern chose to listen to the fairy and remember their agreement, as much as it pained her five-year old conscience. She posed at her desk, the picture of the perfect student, with her hands daintily folded. Anytime Mrs. Tunis called on her, she delivered the answer so earnestly that it almost didn’t matter if it were wrong---not that it ever was. She could have convincingly fooled even her teacher at that point.

“Here,” Mrs. Tunis said as she pulled Fern aside at the end of the school day, “A cookie for the smartest cookie I know.” She administered a succulent chocolate-chip confection to the little girl. The gooey cookie nearly covered the span of Fern’s face. She thanked her teacher and took a greedy bite. But the cookie tasted no more appealing than sawdust. As soon as Fern stepped out the door, she spat it out on the 

ground and handed the rest of the cookie to Linus, who had been waiting for her. Fern’s guilt had even conquered her tongue. 

A week later, Mrs. Tunis officially bade Fern farewell. She walked the girl down to the third grade classroom and introduced her to her new teacher, Mrs. Carlucci. 

“I’m not ready, ma’am,” Fern told Mrs. Tunis.

“Yes, you are, child. Trust me. And don’t worry about leaving Linus. You can still see your friend at recess.”

Fern gulped, said good-bye to Mrs. Tunis, and stepped into her new classroom. None of the students even greeted the new student. The girl took the desk with a piece of paper bearing her name. Mrs. Carlucci smiled politely and continued scribbling very quickly on the chalkboard. Puffs of chalk dust flew into Fern’s face from her place in the front row. Soon Fern began reciting multiplication tables and proceeded through the rest of the day without once incorrectly answering a teacher’s question. 

“You are quite a clever girl,” the teacher told Fern at recess. As usual Fern was sitting on the bench half-hidden in the flowerbeds, alone, when her teacher approached her. She no longer even brought her ragdoll to school anymore. The fairy warned Fern that doing so would ruin her ‘intellectual image.’

“Thank you, ma’am,” Fern replied, frowning.

“What’s the matter, dear?”

The fairy hissed in Fern’s ear, “I have a stomachache.”

“I have a stomachache, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry, child. Would you like to go to the clinic?”

“No, thank you, ma’am. I think I’ll rest here.”

At the end of the day, as Fern gathered her coat and lunch pail, the fairy grinned and asked, “How did you like your first day of third grade, Fern?”

The little girl sighed, “I didn’t l-l-like it very much at all. I still feel like a f-fake.”

“But you certainly impressed Mrs. Carlucci. You charmed her! Give it some time, Fern. Give it some time.”

Fern nodded a sad nod, the way a drooping daisy might, and trudged home to her father and grandmother.

The next morning, Mrs. Carlucci engaged the students in an art lesson. She passed out charcoal and sketching paper for each child. Fern grasped her piece of charcoal very eagerly, happy that at last she would have the chance to do something on her own without the fairy to guide her every movement. But her delight vanished when the fairy seized the piece of charcoal. Fern gasped.

“When I told you I’d help you with all of your schoolwork, I meant all of it,” the fairy scolded. 

“This not schoolwork!”

“You’re in school, aren’t you?”

Fern’s didn’t answer. Instead, her hand shot up and called to her teacher. “Ma’am, could I please have another piece of charcoal?”

“What’s the matter with the piece you have?”

Just then the fairy nipped Fern’s thumb. A drop of bright blood gushed out. Fern leapt up and yelped, “Ow!”

“Fern?” The teacher glanced over, concerned.

“Ow, no. It’s, um, n-nothing. T-thank you, ma’am.”

“Alright.” Then Mrs. Carlucci turned her attention to the rest of the class. “We’re drawing this still life, boys and girls.” She pointed at an arrangement of a blue-and-white vase, a couple of leather-bound books, and a glass paperweight. “You will have one hour to complete your piece and then present it to the class.”

“Grab onto the charcoal,” the fairy barked. Fern reluctantly wrapped her hand over the piece, as the fairy held onto the very top. The fairy began directing the 

charcoal this way and that. Beautiful forms emerged and shadows in all the right places soon followed. It was the kind of delicate work only a fairy could create.

“I want to draw,” Fern muttered.

“I told you: the deal was that I would help you with ALL of your schoolwork.”

“But this isn’t math or reading. It’s art. Nobody can help me with art.”

“Shut up! I’ll be done soon enough and your teacher will love it.”

“But---”

“SHUT UP!”

Fern squeezed together her lips so tightly that they took on a purplish shade. Then she let go of the charcoal. The fairy kept drawing, unaware of what Fern had done. The students sitting on either side of Fern stared at the black chunk swaying to and fro seemingly by itself.

“Hey…” one of the students said and nudged the student beside him. One by one, each student in the class turned to the floating charcoal. 

But before any of them thought to ask the obvious question, Fern jumped up and screamed, “THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!”  The words lingered in the air.

Everyone gawked at the hysterical child. Nobody was drawing now. Suddenly the fairy shrieked and shriveled away, along with the charcoal. The fairy’s charcoal sketch burst into flame without a sound. Not even a wisp of smoke ensued. Then Fern ran out of the door, toward the woods, with only one destination on her mind.

She thrust herself into the cluster of trees and weeds at the edge of the school property and tore every plant in her sight. Every part of Fern went flying as she sprinted. Her hair bounced; her skirt swung around wildly; she flapped around her arms, aimlessly. Further and further she went until again she stumbled upon the cemetery. 

Fern threw herself on top of her mother’s grave and bawled. She pounded her firsts against the earth, as if demanding that someone open the portal to the other side. As she pounded, crimson toadstools spurted up from the soil and encircled her. The girl cried and cried until a cold air engulfed her. Something pushed into her skin until it completely seeped into her small body. It was her mother’s ghost, brandishing the bullet hole where her own husband had shot her. But Fern could not see her. She felt her entire being tingle, shiver, and violently shudder but she never questioned the reason. She kept crying until her eyes dried out and throbbed.For the rest of her days, no matter where Fern went or what she did, the truth of her mother’s death lived within her. And just as the fairy had predicted, Fern’s guilt grew with everyday.