i believe in magic

When I was, oh, about twelve or so, I played a starring role in the school’s yearly play. I’d been hoping for a romantic affair, where I would kiss the leading boy. 

Unfortunately, our teacher decided we should properly re-enact the kingdom’s most famous legend instead. 

“But that’s boring,” a girl protested. 

“That’s what Seeking Night is for,” a boy yawned. 

“There’s no romance in there!” I whined, crossing my arms and pouting. “And what’re the boys going to do? It’s only girls.”

“There’s the Spirit. He’s a boy,” the teacher noted. “And we’ll need some guards.”

“Oh!” I said, brightly. I’d have preferred a prince, but a guard would do.

“I was thinking we could do an adaptation,” our teacher went on. “Wouldn’t that be fun? It’ll be our class project.”

A hand shot up. “What’s an adaptation?” 

“A re-telling of a story.” 

“…That’s just Seeking Night!” another boy protested, and we all nodded in agreement. 

She laughed. “Well, we don’t have to stick to the myth. We could come up with a new part for it. Maybe we can have a play about rescuing one of the princesses!”

That got her some excitement, and chatter filled the classroom. That sounded fun. That sounded interesting! Intrigue, adventure, and romance, too, perhaps?

“Who’re we rescuing?” asked a friend, and the delighted chattering quickly became a heated debate, children arguing for the best princess of myth. 

“It’s gotta be Princess Selene!” Rover insisted, hands drumming on his desk. “She’s the coolest one, with the dreams and the moonstuff!”

“No, no!” Lilypad interrupted, shaking her head. “Princess Sunshine is better! She was the strongest one!”

“The Spirit could be guarding her!” the teacher chimed in. “We could have a fight scene!”

“Oh, hm…” Rover and the rest of the Selene fans faltered in their resolve. 

The teacher clapped her hands together. “Looks like we have a winn—”

I raised my hand. “But, what about Princess Booky?” 

(She was my favorite, you see, and my father’s, too. How often had I fallen asleep to his stories of a princess and her endless library, fighting monsters who came to desecrate her sacred home? More times than I could count.)

The reaction was immediate, Rover grimacing before I’d even finished my sentence. “What? No. Princess Booky is lame,” he said firmly, most of my classmates nodding along. 

I frowned. “No, she’s not.” 

I remembered Seeking Night, my classmates laughing with glee as ‘Princess Booky’ pushed up her oversized glasses and asked math questions, a complete mockery of the grand stories my father told me. I often came home ranting and raving as my dear father gave me a cup of tea and commiseration. 

“She’s not lame,” I continued, huffy. “She’s clever.”

“She’s a dweeb!” another boy insisted. 

I stood up, slamming my hands on my desk. “You’re the dwe—!”

“I think,” my teacher interrupted before I could finish my scathing insult, “we better stick to Princess Sunshine. Trying to rescue her might be a more interesting story. Princess Booky doesn’t have much going on.”

I slumped down into my seat, cross. 

Who cares, I thought, only just a little bitter. It was all silly. They weren’t even real. 

They were only silly bedtime stories I’d outgrown, anyway.