Book Review: My Fairly Dangerous Godmother, by Janette Rallison

Rating: 3.5/5 stars (I reserve 4 and 5 stars for books that really struck me on a personal level or stuck with me in some deep way. This book was lots of fun but not, for me, super deep. I almost feel bad rating it only 3 stars, though, because it makes my feelings sound lukewarm. I wholeheartedly recommend Rallison as good solid fun, just not generally as particularly life-changing.)

Clean rating: G, totally G. Rallison tends to be that way. Super squeaky clean, which is something I love about her. I rarely have to worry that there’s anything offensive in her works.

Short summary: This is book 3 in a young adult series (but they are all stand-alone, just united by the same really lousy fairy godmother). Sadie has a horrifically embarrassing experience on a reality talent show, which earns her a pity fairy godmother and three wishes. Chrissy, her godmother, interprets her wishes in a predictably dreadful manner and sends Sadie to live in a fairy tale. It just gets worse from there.

Recommend it? Are you looking for something light and fluffy and fun? Also, can you tolerate painful embarrassment—as in, situations so dreadfully embarrassing, you cringe for the characters who are living through them? Do you think it would be fun living in a famous fairy tale? (You’re wrong, by the way.) Then this is good series for you to try.

Janette Rallison novels in general: In fact, especially if you enjoy the painfully embarrassing teenage scenes, I would recommend most of Janette Rallison’s novels. My favorite was Fame, Glory, and Other Things on My To-Do List, mostly because it had an absolutely fantastic, completely ruined staging of West Side Story. I would totally pay to see that performance. Just One Wish was also hilarious and one of my other favorites, while touching on more serious stuff than most of the others (the main character’s little brother has cancer). Mostly when I read Rallison, I think, “Wow, I’m glad my teenage years were not that horrendous.” But in a funny-painful way, not in a drama-angsty way.

What I liked: I enjoy the utter absurdity of Chrissy’s interactions with her charges and also how she interprets their wishes. I know I’ve already said the word “painful” several times, but that’s how it feels—painful the way that lots of people love America’s Funniest Home Videos (which I actually can’t stand; I prefer fictional emotional embarrassment to real physical pain). I also enjoy how Rallison addresses the inherent plot holes in our famous fairy tales—which I like to do as well—but in a very humorous way.

What didn’t work for me: I’m happy that Rallison has enough of a fan base that she makes money now independently publishing a lot of her books, but in this case I think she needed one more person to copyedit. There are just some minor things, and mostly they’re not distracting (well, except for one spot which was clearly marked as a sort of “to fix” item that didn’t get fixed). But to me they’re distracting, even though minor. Otherwise, I’m sure I could nitpick, but because it’s just a fun, fluffy novel, I’m not going to.

Last words: I really hope I never get Chrysanthemum Everstar as a fairy godmother. And if I do, I’m going to choose the wording of my wishes very, very carefully. I advise you to do the same.

Baubles, a character intro

Note: The following is a character sketch/opening sequence I wrote for a project I’ve been occasionally working on. It’s a contemporary YA fantasy very very loosely based on “The Princess and the Frog” (the fairy tale, not the Disney version), and I’m calling it Baubles at the moment. As always, with works in progress, pretty much everything is subject to change.

Shiny is bad. This is my mantra—I don’t like shiny, shiny is bad—but even as I lie to myself, I know it won’t work. I can feel the pressure building. It’s been coming on for the past few days, and while I try to convince myself that this time I can ignore it, my control is slipping.

Everywhere I look, things sparkle. It’s like the hallways of my high school were made to torture me, and not just in the usual school sort of way. Huge windows let in sunlight that seems to reflect off every single surface. There’s Lisa Emerson’s new diamond earrings, the latest gift from her richy-rich parents. There’s a guy with a Texas-sized belt buckle that screams, “Stare at me!” There’s even Boozy Benny sneaking his metallic “water bottle” into his locker with a furtive glance.

Of course, it’s not just shiny that’s the problem. Other objects catch my eye—the bright red scarf hanging from a girl’s coat pocket, the occasional paperback peeping out of a partially zipped backpack. But it’s the glisten, the shimmer, the gleam that’s hardest to resist.

“Hey, Si-Wai,” a voice calls. I turn my head. I know my mom would be annoyed at the ultra-Americanized way he says my name, “See Why,” without a whiff of what Mom calls “the melody of Mandarin.” But honestly, Dad was born in the States, Mom is about as white as they come, and the only time I feel Chinese is when I eat with chopsticks. Dad and I even joke that we don’t see why Mom cares so much when neither of us—the ones with the actual Chinese blood—do.

Plus, right now I’m just grateful for anything to distract me.

“Hey, Kent. How’s it going?”

He’s walking next to me now down the hall toward our next classes. He’s also fishing through the junk in his backpack. I try to ignore the luster of the fancy Cross pen he’s carrying. “Did you get the math homework last night?”

Good old Kent, no small talk for him. “Yup. You have problems?”

He pulls out a paper and thrusts it at me. “I don’t get how we were supposed to do number five.”

I glance at it. I resist calling him a moron. I also resist the pull of that pen. We spend the next minute or two with him trying to wheedle an answer out of me while I explain the problem.

“But what’s the answer?” he finally begs.

“Figure it out yourself.”

He scowls and flips me off as he runs down the hall to catch his next class on time. But just like clockwork, he’ll be back tomorrow.

Now that he’s gone, there’s nothing to distract me—not that math and Kent were sufficiently distracting in the first place. Not even the knowledge that the bell’s going to ring soon is enough to keep me from scanning the students ahead of me as I walk. Just as I’m hoping nothing will catch my eye, I see it.

A little dangling keychain, no keys attached, about the size and shape of a golf ball. It’s hanging from the zipper pull of a girl’s faded blue backpack. It’s clear, with faceted sides, and the facets catch the light from the windows. I can’t even blink, I’m so mesmerized by it. It is perfect, right down to the convenient carabiner latch that hooks it to the zipper.

This will be ridiculously easy.

I speed up, just enough to pull even with her back, then stumble a bit and brush against her. She turns, and I mumble a “sorry” but don’t make eye contact. The classic klutz-in-a-hurry posture. My hand curls around the ball as I pass her. By the time she notices the keychain is missing, she will have forgotten me. She’ll probably assume the latch was faulty.

I turn down the final corridor to my class, no longer caring if I’m a little bit late. A feeling of release floods through me, and I close my eyes for a moment, reveling in the rush of pleasure.

The guilt will come soon enough.

I sneak a glance at the ball in my possession. Even in the hollow of my hand, it feels like it gives off rainbows. Shiny is bad, I remind myself, and it begins to sink in. At least this bauble is clearly cheap, probably some dollar store purchase, hopefully without any sentimental value. Regardless, I’ll make sure it gets to the Lost and Found box in the school office later today, so if the girl thinks to look, she might even get it back. No harm done. At least that’s what I tell myself.

Because otherwise all I can tell myself is that I’m a thief. That it’s not shiny that’s bad.

It’s me.

Was It You?

February 2000. We dance, awkwardly, my palm sweaty in his, his hand no doubt sticking clammily to the waist of my dress. The friendship is old, but the dancing is new. We are close enough that looking up into his face kinks my neck, so we just shuffle, the music playing, the heat of nervous skin radiating between and around us.

A gentle shove from invisible hands in the middle of my back propels me forward, and my head is suddenly resting on his chest. His cheek comes down to settle on my hair, and I am trying not to hyperventilate. The feeling is so right, it makes my head float. This is the closest I have ever stood to him, and I can barely understand how I got here.

With the hands, I feel-hear the echo of giggles from someplace in heaven. If we left them to their own devices, I can almost hear a voice say, it would take them absolutely ages to get together. I think there may be an eye roll somewhere in there. Wait a minute, is there really eye rolling in heaven?

Apparently.

***

August 2005. We kneel facing each other, grinning. I am finally his; he is finally mine. I’m too nervous, too excited, too happy to notice it, but I suspect that somewhere up above there is a collective sigh of relief. See? They took ages anyway.

***

February 2007. He knows immediately. “Something is different,” he tells me, and naively I laugh. “No way. All the leaflets say it takes three or four months for the body to come down off the pill. We’ve still got a while to wait.”

***

March 2007. I stare at the stick that I’m holding as the little positive sign grows clearer. But . . . but I was expecting a little more time to get used to the idea! And I feel the brush of a soul against my own, so impatient, so excited for life. And I remember those ghostly hands.

Was it you? I wonder.

Yes, definitely me.

But there was more than one set of hands.

And the moment passes, the time passes, and I know this soul has been waiting for her chance.

***

October 2010. I am caught up in this birth, the perfection of this moment. And I suspect that here too is an owner of ghostly, nudging hands. Another impatient child who knew her parents needed a little shove. Waiting for the first opportunity to jump to this earth life. And here she is.

***

May 2012. More nudging, but we’re not ready. Just wait, please, just wait.

***

October 2013. I didn’t know those words would make the waiting so long. The discovery of this child’s existence is a relief and a wonder, a little miracle in a world of miracles—but our very own miracle, which makes it special.

Was it you? I wonder again. I don’t know this time. I feel a little sadness in not knowing what happened to that May soul, not knowing if that soul will become my July baby or if it’s gone somewhere else for good. But the sadness is swallowed in the joy of this new life, coming whether or not I have ever felt this soul’s hands pressing against my back, nudging me to the future.

***

September 2015. I stare at myself in the mirror, my hand on my abdomen. Absolute terror and quiet peace do battle in my heart.

And the question comes again, and I laugh because really? How many of you were really necessary to get the job done? Was it you? I ask again.

And I’m pretty sure the answer is yes.

Some Restrictions Apply

The following is a rough draft of a silly bedtime story I wrote for my kids as part of a project I'm working on right now. Enjoy!

            You have probably heard of genies, have you not? Powerful, mystical creatures who have the ability to grant wonderful wishes! They usually live in bottles and lamps, and when you rub the lamp, a genie appears to grant you three amazing wishes. Yes, that is the story of most genies.

            But not all genies are quite like that. This is the story of a different type of genie.

            Samarzin was a young man who lived in a little village. He was walking along the road between his village and the next one day. He was going there as a trader to trade cloth and pots and various trinkets, and suddenly as he looked down, he saw a lamp.

            Interesting, he thought. Maybe I can trade it for something.

            So he picked up the lamp and rubbed it on his shirt to clean it off so he could examine it better.

            No sooner had he rubbed it on his shirt than a mysterious smoke came billowing out of the lamp. The smoke formed itself into a figure, and the figure was a man.

            “Who dares to rub my lamp?” the man’s voice boomed, loud and deep.

            Samarzin squeaked, “Me, Samarzin.” He shivered in fear and asked, “And who are you?”

            “I am the great genie Erequat,” he boomed again. “Since you are the possessor of my lamp, you are now entitled to three wishes.” Then, in a tiny voice that Samarzin could barely hear, he muttered, “Some restrictions apply.”

            “What was that?” Samarzin asked.

            “Oh, nothing,” Erequat said. “Now what is your wish?”

            Samarzin thought for a few moments. “I would like to be wonderfully healthy all my life.”

            Erequat scratched his head. “Hmmm . . . That’s a problem.” His voice got a little whispery again. “You can’t wish for anything that directly affects your person. Sorry, no blue hair, no immortality, and no perfect health. So,” he added, again booming, “wish for something else!”

            Samarzin thought again. “How about a beautiful woman to marry and love all my life!”

            Erequat shook his head sadly. “Oh, no no, we can’t have that. The rules strictly forbid influencing someone else’s ability to make their own decisions. Can’t make someone fall in love with you.”

            Samarzin considered and realized that was only fair. He probably wouldn’t want a woman who had only fallen for him by magic anyway. So he thought some more. “I know! A big pile of money!”

            Erequat looked distinctly uncomfortable this time. “Well, you see, I’d like to. It does sound like an excellent wish, but I can’t create something out of nothing. Laws of science and all that.”

            Samarzin wrinkled his brow. What was he going to wish for? “Well, can’t you just take some money from somewhere else? Or how about some jewels or gold or something?”

            This time Erequat looked appalled. “Steal something? You want me to steal?”

            Samarzin hastily retracted his statement. “No, never mind, of course not.”

            He continued to suggest various wishes—nice weather for his vacation, a good deal in his trading today, maybe just a little good luck?—and for each wish, Erequat shook his head.

            Finally, fed up, Samarzin threw his hands up into the air. “Never mind, I do not want any wish at all!”

            Erequat’s booming voice was back. “Who dares to rub my lamp but not receive his wishes?”

            Samarzin sighed and rolled his eyes. It wasn’t good to anger genies, though, no matter how ridiculous their rules, so he thought he’d try again. He cast his eyes around him. He was standing on a dirt path, and on the ground near his feet were three round stones. He pointed. “How about those stones? Can I have those stones?”

            Erequat thought for a moment, muttering to himself something about rules and restrictions and requirements. After a moment, he boomed out, “Yes!” Then he bent to pick them up and hand them to Samarzin. “And for your next wish?”

            Samarzin shook his head vigorously. “Oh no, I’m sure there must be a rule about how many items I can receive per wish. I’m sure each stone takes up one wish, so I’m all done.” He was backing away now, hoping to get back on the road to the next village.

            Erequat nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, you’re probably right. Yes . . . ” He drew himself up big and proud again. “Be thankful for this day, the day you met the great and powerful wish-granter, Erequat.”

            Samarzin plastered a smile on his face. “Yes, of course. Thank you ever so much.” Erequat’s smoke sucked back into his lamp, waiting for the next lucky traveler to make a wish.

            Samarzin tossed the rocks back on the road and hurried on his way.