A Curse Spindly and Sweet

By Chynna Pace

A CURSE SPINDLY AND SWEET is a creepy middle grade fairytale perfect for fans of quirky protagonists, golden trios, and magical romps full of humor and spooks!

Molly longs to have an adventure like the ones in her favorite stories. Piper wants to break the horrible curse she's under. And Felix has a secret burden of his own. When a fateful night brings the three of them together, Molly and her new friends are swept into a dangerous quest to break a strange and sugary curse, and defeat the witch who created it. They must face a wicked wonderland straight out of their worst nightmares, and the sinister force behind it, if they even have a chance of finishing the quest and living to tell the tale. But with wits, imagination, and the power of their friendship, they just might make it through.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chynna Pace
• Release date: May 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201220686

Book preview

Chapter 1

The afternoon before I met my future best friend and then watched her turn into a tree that same night, I swore I saw my dentist try to kill my English teacher with a baseball bat.

Don’t worry, you don’t need your eyes checked. You read that right.

But I was totally wrong.

Dr. Wingate was not trying to kill Mrs. Tate.

I’m not that lucky.

Actually, before we go any further, I should probably elaborate on that. Get it out of the way, so you know what you’re getting into.

My name is Molly Boudreaux, and I have the worst luck in the entire world.

No, seriously. I can prove it.

Take my first name for instance. You thought it was Molly, didn’t you? You thought wrong, my friend. My first name is Carol. Yeah, you read that right. Carol.

I was taken in almost immediately after my birth and raised ever since by my grandmothers: Grandma Roberta, and her mom, my Great-Grandma Eunice. They are the ones who named me Carol. Now tell me, can you point to any thirteen-year-old of this century named Carol? Case in point. Bad luck.

I go by my middle name, Molly, which is still not the best, but it’s a heck of a lot better than the alternative.

I looked up the name Molly one day. Apparently, it means bitterness. That fits, honestly. When you’re as unlucky as I am, bitterness is, like, a given.

Anyway. That’s just one example.

Another is the fact that I’m so drastically different, and a weirdo to most people. I’m weird because I’m raised by my kooky eccentric grandmothers. I’m weird because I love books and poetry and big words.

I’m especially weird because I don’t have a cell phone, I’m not interested in anything on TV, and I prefer chicken livers to pizza.

But that last one might not actually have to do with my chronic bad luck—it’s probably just because Grandma Roberta makes some dang good fried chicken livers. Like, seriously. She should win a Michelin star.

Anyway. Back to the baseball bat murder.

It was Friday, the official last day of school, and I was riding home on my bike, a rickety decades-old thing with a giant basket in front. Normally the basket stored flowers, but right now it gave my heavy backpack a cozy resting place. I say resting place because my backpack was officially RIP-dead! Now that school was over, there was no way I’d be using it ever again.

At least, not for another two and a half months anyway.

So there I was, cruising through town. Leaving behind good ole South Kingsley Middle School, passing the public library and the cemetery, and clinging to the sidewalk that ran past Sunny Mart, our town’s mom and pop grocery store.

That’s when I saw Mrs. Tate standing in the parking lot with Dr. Wingate. Dr. Wingate was opening the trunk of his car, and pulling something out of it. It all looked very hush-hush and mysterious, so of course I had to slow my bike down.

Then I saw the dentist pull out a whopping wooden baseball pat.

He brandished it, raising it high above his head, and I hastily ripped Betty Jane out of my bag, realizing I was moments away from witnessing a murder and seriously needed to make sure I jotted down every detail.

Sorry. I hate to interrupt right in the middle of the action, but I think I should pause here to tell you more about Betty Jane. No, it’s not a poodle skirt wearing lady from the fifties. It’s a thick, leather-bound journal my grandmas got me for Christmas three years ago. I named it Betty Jane because I loved it so much, it didn’t seem right to just call it journal. That’s way too impersonal. It’s filled with all my favorite poetry lines, quotes from books, fancy words, and snippets from all my failed adventures. Failed, because South Kingsley is the most boring town in the world. That’s even more proof of my bad luck. Yet even with all the failure, I don’t think I could ever stop writing in Betty Jane. It’s my favorite thing in the entire world.

But just when I was turning to a clean page and pulling out my pen, it happened.

No, Dr. Wingate didn’t bash my English teacher’s head in. Instead, he laughed. A happy, big laugh. Mrs. Tate started laughing too. Dr. Wingate handed her the bat. She held it like it was a trophy, and stroked its smooth wooden surface. I thought I heard her tell Dr. Wingate thank you.

Then I remembered. There was no mystery here. Dr. Wingate was a carpenter in his spare time. He liked to craft things out of wood, like baseball bats. And I knew for certain that Mrs. Tate had mentioned a few weeks back that her eight year old son was getting ready to join a Little League team. So the dentist must’ve made that bat for him.

Of course. Because Dr. Wingate was the nicest dentist in the world, and that’s saying a lot considering dentistry is like the worst job ever invented. Seriously, how could anyone genuinely want to spend their days poking around in people’s nasty stinky mouths?

Mrs. Tate was super nice too. Way too nice to make anyone want to kill her with a baseball bat. She was my favorite teacher, except I never understood why she was so insistent on telling me I’m going to be a writer when I grow up. How could she possibly know that? As far as I know, she’s not psychic, and I know she doesn’t like Chinese food so there’s no way she got that from a fortune cookie. But I swear—just because I wrote a few good essays, she’s convinced she knows how my life’s gonna turn out.

But she’s wrong. I could never write stories. For one thing, I don’t have any imagination. And for another, my luck is way too bad for me to have any chance in publishing.

Speaking of my luck.

I’d thought realizing my dentist was actually just gifting my teacher a baseball bat instead of murdering her with it would be the unluckiest thing to happen to me that day. After all, there’s not much worse than a boring day with absolutely no adventure in it.

But I was wrong.

My luck was about to get way worse.

Chapter 2

My town is actually two towns smooshed into one. Another bit of bad luck? Well, kinda. I’ll let you decide.

It’s a mountain town, but it’s divided. North Kingsley, the tiny town that’s way more like a village, sits on top of the mountain crest. As far as I know, nobody really lives up there, except for maybe the original Kingsley family, but mentioning the Kingsley family, or North Kingsley in general, is kinda equivalent to conjuring demons around here, so I don’t ask many questions.

But I wonder. Why did the city divide itself? Or…why did North Kingsley isolate itself?

I guess it doesn’t matter, because whatever happened, happened like a million years ago, and most days people don’t even realize the little village hovers above them.

South Kingsley, the big portion of town, lies at the bottom of the mountain. Way, way, way at the bottom.

My grandmothers are horticulturists and florists, which are two of the words on my fancy words list that mean they spend way too much time obsessing over flowers.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I think what Grandma Roberta and Great-Grandma Eunice do is pretty cool. I love the shocking beauty of the fields by our house when all the flowers are in full bloom. I love the sweet smells that start to waft through my window at this time of year. Even more than all that, I love seeing the happiness a bouquet of flowers brings people, and as my grandmas’ official flower delivery girl, I get to see that kinda happiness a lot.

But…in actuality, that last part is kind of a blessing and a curse. A little bit more of my bad luck peeking through.

Here’s the thing: our town is more like a big community than anything else. You know, the tight-knit kind where everyone knows everyone and sees everyone? Yeah, that’s South Kingsley. I’m told our town was always that way, even back before the divide, but even more so now.

That’s not necessarily a bad thing. But it is when you’re in middle school and all your peers for whom making fun of you is their favorite pastime live so close by. Especially when one of them lives in the house you’re delivering to. And especially at this time of year, when it’s warm and kids are outside a lot.

I’m telling you this so you’ll know what kinda crappiness awaited me the moment I rode up to the house, parked my bike out front, and walked through the front door.

I’d been inside for just two seconds when Grandma Roberta informed me I had a whole slew of deliveries to make in town.

A slew! In town!

Ugh.

Seriously, Grandma? Why are so many people ordering flowers today? I whined. I stood in the doorway of our messy farmhouse, still wearing my heavy backpack on my shoulders. The long day of school had already been a headache, and now I was starting to feel another one coming on. Plus I was annoyed that I hadn’t actually witnessed a murder, or anything else remotely mysterious or interesting.

Grandma Roberta shrugged. Girl, don’t ask me questions you already know the answers to! It’s summer, our busiest time of year. What more do you want me to say?

Okay, let me stop here, and tell you a little bit about Grandma Roberta. She’s not being mean or snippy right now—this is just how she talks. She’s one of those blunt types who spout the first things that come to mind, and sometimes that stings, but she never means to hurt anyone. She’s actually one of the most bighearted people I know.

Anyway. Sorry. I’m rambling again.

Back to Grandma Roberta.

So, at this point, while I was standing on the scraggly welcome mat and building up a good rant in my head, Grandma Roberta stood a few yards away, at the foot of the creaky oak staircase. She wore her usual garb: old, denim shorts, faded tank top, and lemon-yellow sun visor over her bushy brown-and-gray curls. Her dark skin glowed like it always did when she spent hours out in the sun. She looked like what she was—a devil-may-care farmer.

She was carrying a thick stack of notecards, which were the makeshift receipts Boudreaux Bouquets used to make note of customer orders.

These, she shoved at me without even so much as a Hey, Molly, how was your day at school?

Better get a move on, she barked, waving at the door I literally just came through. I want you back in time for dinner. Chicken livers tonight.

Okay, so that was one bright spot in the day. One rare stroke of good luck.

But I was still tired, hot, sweaty, annoyed, and desperate to just veg out with a good book. At least if I couldn’t have a real life adventure, I could read about one.

I couldn’t do anything about it though. Even if speaking my mind could make a difference (which it couldn’t), I wouldn’t have been able to anyway, because Grandma Roberta was already marching off into the next room.

But then, when she’d just stepped into the kitchen, Grandma Roberta stuck her head out again and called, Oh, and stop by the drugstore before you head home. Your Grandma Eunice needs her denture glue.

Fifteen minutes later, I was back in the blazing heat, blowing the pesky curls out of my face as I mounted my bike again.

Instead of my school bag, the basket attached to the front of my bike was filled with half a dozen brown paper-wrapped bouquets. The peonies, snowdrops, buttercups, calendulas, marigolds, and bluebells gave a little shiver of protest when my movement rustled them. But they didn’t move much more than that, because as Molly Boudreaux, Boudreaux Bouquets’ official delivery girl, I was an expert. They were strapped in impeccably.

I was weird like that. Even without caring that much about the business, I cared a lot about it.

Oh yeah. In addition to fancy words, I like oxymorons. You’ll find a lot of those in Betty Jane too.

Once everything was in place, I set off for the first destination—the Harpers on Candlewick Road. They were getting the marigolds.

But of even more importance than that was the fact that Jeremy Harper lived there.

Yay!

Jeremy Harper was one of my…critics, to use a nicer word. He was also incredibly stupid. No, seriously. I have proof.

One time in History class, we had to do this heritage project thing where we built a family tree. Our teacher, Mrs. Frank, told us to bring in pictures of our family, if we had them. That was no problem for me, because my grandmas were obsessed with pictures. They were everywhere—pictures of my grandmas themselves throughout the years, pictures of me, and pictures of my Great-Aunt Katherine, who was Grandma Roberta’s sister. There weren’t that many of her though, and I could understand why. Neither of my grandmas ever told me the details—actually, if I even dared ask about Aunt Katherine, I got my head chewed off—but I knew the basics: Great Aunt Katherine had gone missing a few decades ago. Right around the time South Kingsley and North Kingsley separated.

Sometimes I think about Aunt Katherine, and about North Kingsley, and I can never shake the feeling that they’re connected.

Anyway. There’re especially a lot of pictures of my dad, who had been a handsome guy with dark curls a lot like mine, but puffier, and skin even browner than the forever-suntanned Grandma Roberta.

There were also lots of pictures of my mom.

Now, I’m biracial, which is one of my favorite fancy big words which means mixed, which just means I’m half black and half white.

My mom was as white as they come, with blond hair and shocking blue eyes. She was also extremely beautiful.

When I brought in my pictures and Jeremy Harper saw the one of my mother, he showed off his stupidity by being completely unable to understand how a person who looked like me could have a white mom.

He just kept saying, over and over, "Wait…so your mom’s white? And your daddy’s black?…But your mom’s white?"

I called him a vacuous dingleberry.

He called me Boudreaux Weirdo and said I would never have any friends.

The whole time I rode through town on my way to Candlewick Road, I was praying with all my heart that Jeremy Harper wouldn’t be outside when I pulled up.

And for once, luck was on my side. I delivered the flowers to his mom with zero incident.

But I kept thinking about what he’d said. About me having no friends.

Good, I thought as I pedaled away. Having no friends was fine by me. The less social engagements one had, the more time they had to put toward important stuff, like reading books. My books were my friends, and they were the best I’d ever have. They were the best adventures I’d ever have too.

But…as it turned out, both Jeremy and I were wrong about that.

Chapter 3

Idelivered to four more houses after that. It would’ve been five, but two of the bouquets were going to the same people. Dr. Sorenson, the town doctor, who I knew was a super nice guy even though I hated him (for obvious reasons) had bought the peonies for his wife, but he’d ordered the buttercups for his nine-year-old daughter so she wouldn’t feel left out.

It’s amazing how the same people who give you the most disgusting medicine and jab needles in your arm turn out to be some of the kindest people you’ll ever meet.

Dr. Sorenson’s house was the last one on my route, which was good because he lived on a sleepy side street about a hairsbreadth from Main Street, where the drugstore was.

I used part of the money from all the payments I’d just collected to buy Great-Grandma Eunice’s denture glue, and a little treat for myself from the booth at the back of the store where Old Man Tiger sells his homemade candies. I had no idea why his name was Tiger, but I never bothered to ask because I was always too busy eating his yummy wares. Like my personal favorite, the butterginger drops, which tasted like caramel that’s been spiked with cayenne and maybe even a little liquor, the kind that makes your stomach feel like a warm spiced fruitcake—whiskey or something. Honestly I wouldn’t be surprised if Old Man Tiger did put alcohol in his sweets. He seems kind of eccentric, like me.

After I left the store with the tooth glue under my arm and the butterginger drop melting on the center of my tongue, I mounted my bike again, and turned it to head back home.

And that’s when it happened.

A U-Haul truck appeared.

We don’t get many moving trucks coming through our little town, like ever, so when I saw it, rumbling up at a slow, hesitant speed, I took notice.

Well, actually, I practically glued my eyes to the truck, not even bothering to hide my nosiness.

The truck was coming from a southerly direction. There wasn’t much in that direction except one or two fast food places, a bank, and beyond that, a long stretch of highway that would eventually take you far away from Kingsley, both South and North.

So…it was obvious. Someone was coming from outside town, and moving into it.

Weird!

But interesting.

And I lived for interesting.

Maybe this was it—the moment my boring little town turned exciting. Maybe my luck was finally looking up.

For a while I just stood there on the sun-drenched sidewalk, sweating so much my curls stuck to the nape of my neck in a gross, clammy way. I was so focused I didn’t even notice the candy in my mouth dissolve completely.

The truck rode past me, and even though it was going slow, I wasn’t able to see whoever was in the front seat. Then it passed, but I kept watching it.

See, the thing about our town is that it’s kind of like one giant downhill slope. North Kingsley, at the top of the hill, is high, high up, as tall as the loftiest treetops. Further down the middle of the slope, but still on a bit of an incline, is the residential part of town. The neighborhoods, the schools, the flower farm I live on. Pretty much everything.

Then you go even more southward and reach the main town center, which is the bottommost point of the hill. Here, the roads are flat, and everything uphill can be seen clear as day.

So I could tell, as I leaned against the fiery metal of my bike and ignored the sweat droplets sliding down my spine, that the U-Haul was heading north.

Of course. Most houses were a little bit uphill. I watched the truck as it twisted and twined up the roads, expecting it to stop somewhere around Edley Lane or Casey Street, but instead it just kept going.

And going.

And…going.

It passed the schools. It passed the homes, all the people I delivered for.

It even passed the Boudreaux Bouquets’ farm, and the old colonial house I lived in.

The U-Haul went up, up, up, going further north than anyone had probably ever gone in a good five decades.

It went straight to the top of the mountain.

To North Kingsley.

"I’m telling you, Grandma, the U-Haul went straight up the mountain and didn’t stop!"

Be quiet, child, and let us watch our stories, Great-Grandma Eunice snapped in her low, gravelly voice. She sat in her wheelchair, head lolled to the side as she soaked up the corny soap opera playing on the TV like a zombie.

On the couch next to her, Grandma Roberta sat on the edge of her squishy cushion, chewing on her fingernails as a pre-dinner snack. She was slightly more alert than my great-grandma, but she still waved me away like my voice was no more than the buzz of a pesky gnat flying around her head.

Carol, she said. Go get the cornbread out of the oven. And stir the greens. And take the foil off the plate of livers. And set the table. Soon as this episode’s over, we’ll eat.

Ugh!

I stifled a groan and swiveled on my heel. On my way to the kitchen, I mulled over my frustrations, both the one at being called Carol (my grandmas refused to call me Molly), and the one at being ignored.

I knew I could’ve gotten their attention in an instant, had I actually said the words North Kingsley.

But, truth be told, I was scared to. I didn’t know how they’d react, but I figured it wouldn’t be good.

See, both my grandmas were actually around back then, when all the hush-hush stuff happened that everyone refuses to talk about now. When Aunt Katherine went missing. When the town split in two. Grandma Roberta was about ten, Aunt Katherine was in her early teens, and Eunice was in her late thirties.

They both saw firsthand what caused the tension that led to the divide. They knew, but they wouldn’t talk about it. Nobody would.

Nobody dared even mention North Kingsley, let alone talk about what happened for the town to be separated in the first place.

Of course, that made the fact that someone was moving up there all the more interesting. Like a case in an Agatha Christie book or a Sherlock Holmes story. A mystery.

And boy, did I love mysteries.

Chapter 4

Only, nothing happened to give me any indication that I’d be solving one any time soon.

Nothing happened for hours.

But then the phone rang.

It was six o’clock, about an hour after dinner. Grandma Roberta was in the fields, taking advantage of the remaining sunlight to pick flowers. Great-Grandma Eunice was taking her late afternoon nap in front of the living room TV. I was sprawled belly down on my bed, reading my old dusty copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s complete tales and poems, with Betty Jane open next to me so I could make note of the quotes I liked. So far I had jotted down three new ones.

I was about to write down another when, startling me like a bucket of ice water, the shrill rings rose up through the house from the phone in the kitchen downstairs.

Immediately after my shock, I laughed at myself for getting so spooked, then went back to my book.

The phone rang twice more before I realized I had to answer it. Grandma Roberta was outside, and even though Great-Grandma Eunice was in the house, nothing—I mean, nothing—could wake her up from one of her naps. And Grandma always told me to answer the phone if no one else was around to get it, since it was most likely a call from one of our customers.

So I abandoned my fun and ran downstairs, barely making it in time to skid to a stop in the kitchen, snatch the phone off the hook on the wall, and say, Boudreaux Bouquets, how may I help you? before the rings stopped.

Then the soft, timid voice of a woman answered.

Hello, she said.

Expecting more, I waited for her to finish. But she didn’t. So I said, politely, Hello, ma’am. What can I do for you?

Um…I was just wondering…are you still open for deliveries? I know it’s probably last minute, but I need a bouquet for my daughter’s birthday. She’s thirteen today.

I didn’t recognize the lady’s voice. She didn’t sound like any of my women teachers, or any of the people I delivered flowers to. And if her daughter was turning thirteen today, why hadn’t I seen any of the attention-seeking girls in my class flaunting the fact that it was their birthday today?

Oops. I was taking too long to answer her question.

Um, yes, we are open for deliveries, ma’am, I said quickly. The words tasted like vinegar, but I knew what my grandma would say. ("Girl, I don’t care if you’re butt naked in a bathtub full of bubbles—you get your butt on that bike and don’t turn down a delivery for nothing!")

Oh, that’s great, that’s wonderful, the woman said. Her tone sounded like shoulders dropping in a heavy, relieved sigh. I’d like to place an order then.

Great! I reached into a nearby drawer and pulled out a notecard and pen, then leaned against the countertop and readied myself to write. What kind of flowers does your daughter like?

When the woman spoke again, her voice was all quiet and muffled, like she was whispering into the palm of her hand. Do you have periwinkles, cornflowers, and blue hydrangeas? She likes blue flowers.

We have all of those, I said. We also have bluebells, forget-me-nots, blue poppies, and love-in-a-mist.

Wow, really? Could you do a mix of all those? Two dozen or so?

Sure. When do you need them delivered?

Um…as soon as possible, preferably.

No problem. I just need your name and address, and then I’ll head that way after I gather the flowers. You don’t have to pay until I get there.

Part of that was my grandmothers’ old-fashioned aversion to technology and credit cards and taking payments the modern way. But it was also part of their policy that the customer was king and had a right not to pay for any flowers that arrived in unsatisfactory condition. Of course, when that happened, it was on my head.

Okay, the woman said. I poised my pen to start scribbling beneath the list of flowers she’d asked for. My name is Jenna Kingsley. The address is 1804 Peppercorn Lane…in North Kingsley.

I sucked in a breath and almost dropped the phone.

"I’m sorry, ma’am, did you say North Kingsley?"

Yes, she said. My daughter and I just moved up here today.

I gasped again. The woman on the other line probably thought I was choking on my own throat.

All at once, the rush of the unsolved mystery came back to me, full force. So the people who’d moved to North Kingsley had a kid my age. A girl, whose birthday was today. And now, the woman was ordering flowers from me, which meant I had an opportunity. An opportunity to go up to North Kingsley myself. Maybe even to meet the girl who