Christine Johnson - Grim anthology

Inspired by classic fairy tales, but with a dark and sinister twist, Grim contains short stories from some of the best voices in young adult literature today:

Ellen Hopkins

Amanda Hocking

Julie Kagawa

Claudia Gray

Rachel Hawkins

Kimberly Derting

Myra McEntire

Malinda Lo

Sarah Rees-Brennan

Jackson Pearce

Christine Johnson

Jeri Smith Ready

Shaun David Hutchinson

Saundra Mitchell

Sonia Gensler

Tessa Gratton

Jon Skrovan

Edited by Christine Johnson

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This is for you.

Table of Contents

The Keyby Rachel Hawkins

Figmentby Jeri Smith-Ready

The Twelfth Girlby Malinda Lo

The Raven Princessby Jon Skovron

Thinner Than Waterby Saundra Mitchell

Before the Rose Bloomed: A Retelling of The Snow Queenby Ellen Hopkins

Beast/Beastby Tessa Gratton

The Brothers Piggettby Julie Kagawa

Untetheredby Sonia Gensler

Betterby Shaun David Hutchinson

Light It Upby Kimberly Derting

Sharper Than a Serpent’s Tongueby Christine Johnson

A Real Boyby Claudia Gray

Skin Tradeby Myra McEntire

Beauty and the Chadby Sarah Rees Brennan

The Pink: A Grimm Storyby Amanda Hocking

Sell Outby Jackson Pearce

About the Authors

THE KEY

by Rachel Hawkins

High school is hard enough without having a psychic for a mom.

And no, I don’t mean she has that uniquely Mom-like sixth sense. I mean she’s literally a psychic. Reading your palms, telling you your future, all for the bargain price of fifty bucks a session (a hundred if you want a full hour, but no one ever does).

Momma runs her business out of our trailer. I know there are people who say that trailers can be nice, fancy even.

Those people had never been to our trailer.

It isn’t even a double-wide, which would have at least given us enough space for more than one ratty couch. I think the couch had belonged to my nana at some point. I knew whoever had had it before us had smoked on it, though. It carried the scent of thousands of cigarettes, millions even, deep inside every cabbage rose on its stained and burned cushions.

Momma’s “studio,” as she liked to call it, was in the second bedroom. When she wasn’t reading people’s fortunes, I slept on an air mattress on the floor in there. It was either that or share with Momma, which no, thank you. And like I said, the couch stunk—and was haunted besides—so I made do with the air mattress, no matter how big a pain in the ass it was to pump it up every single night, only to roll it back flat every morning.

The studio was the one nice room in the whole trailer. In there, the linoleum didn’t have duct tape over the cracks. In fact, you couldn’t see the linoleum at all. Momma had bought a real nice rug from Walmart years ago. It was a little too big for the room, curling up against the walls, but Momma kept it so dark in there that no one ever really noticed.

There had been a beaded curtain separating the studio from the rest of the trailer, but I’d talked Momma into getting rid of it. It looked cheap and trashy. I realized that was kind of an ironic statement, considering the rest of our place, but I had some limits. She’d hung a paisley shawl in the doorway instead, and while that wasn’t great, at least it didn’t rattle every time you walked past it.

Momma was standing in front of that shawl on Saturday morning, yawning as she cradled a cup of coffee in her hands. I stood at the sink, washing last night’s dinner dishes and looking out the window. On the porch of the next trailer over, a little girl with hair nearly the same white-blond as mine was playing with a water hose, giggling as she sprayed the vinyl siding. I was smiling at her and nearly missed what Momma was saying. Only when she said, “So you’ll need to stay close by today,” did I turn around, frowning at her.

“I can’t,” I told her, the dish in my hand dripping water onto the stained and faded linoleum. “I have track practice at noon.”

Momma scowled. Years ago, she had been pretty, but there was something hard in her face now that had nothing to do with aging or wrinkles. “You had track practice last weekend.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “Yeah, I have it every weekend. And three times a week after school. Come on, Momma. Use your powers and envision me jogging around the track.” I wiggled my sudsy fingers at her. “Because trust me, that’s my future today.”

Momma sighed, crossing over to me and dropping her nearly empty mug in my newly cleaned sink. I bit my lip as coffee splashed over the enamel. Then she held her hands out to me and I groaned. “Oh, come on, Momma, I was joking.”

Moving closer, Momma insisted, “Give ’em here.”

Still grumbling, I laid my palms flat on hers, and taking a deep breath, Momma closed her eyes. Almost immediately, she frowned. “Girl, you weren’t kidding.”

“About what?”

“The running. You are gonna run and run today. Fast.”

I took my hands back even as I smiled a little bit. “I am trying to beat my best time today—4:07. School record is 4:01, so I’m almost there.”

“Well, if what I saw was any indication, you’re gonna sail right through it, sweetheart. You were runnin’ like your life depended on it, from what I could see.”

Turning away from her, I started to rinse her coffee out of the sink. “In that case, I guess I’ll be going to track practice today, after all.”

Momma patted my shoulder blade. “The appointment is at ten, so we’ll definitely be done by noon.”

They’d be done by 10:30—10:15, probably. Usually once people got a look at our place, they didn’t like to stay long. I glanced at Momma, still in a mismatched set of pajamas, before looking at the clock on the microwave. “It’s nearly ten now—you might wanna go get into character.”

I’d expected another comment about making fun, but Momma just swatted me with a dishcloth and snorted. “I will. Thanks for cleaning up for me, baby. You’re a good girl.”

She said that to me a lot.

As Momma drifted off to her bedroom to drape herself in scarves and eyeliner—People expect a certain look, Lana—I busied myself straightening up the living room. There was only so much I could do, but I could at least make sure things were clean. I always hated the looks on Momma’s clients’ faces when they first walked in. Like, hello, maybe you shouldn’t be so disgusted when you’re the one driving out to the boondocks to get your palm read, you know? That seemed way more offensive than an ugly couch and some fake paneling.

Still, I swept up and fluffed the throw pillows on the couch and sprayed some air freshener. The scent of incense was already wafting out of Momma’s studio, and I knew I’d have a headache before the day was over.

At exactly 9:57, I heard the rumble of a truck outside. “Momma, they’re here!” I hollered as I shoved last night’s pizza box into the trash can. The truck’s ignition cut off and I glanced out the front window, wondering which kind of client this one would be. Momma’s main business came from bored ladies in Auburn, the nearest town over. They were almost never under the age of fifty, and they looked so similar that I couldn’t swear Momma hadn’t just been seeing the same client over and over again for the past few years.