Pumpkin Run Read online

  Author’s Note:

  Welcome to the first book of the Castlewood High Tales series, “Pumpkin Run”. This story is a retold version of Cinderella inspired by “Grimm’s Fairy Tales” by Jacob Grimm and Wilhelm Grimm and by the classic animated Disney movie, “Cinderella.”

  This book is a clean, sweet romance with no swearing and a Heat Level of 1.

  Pumpkin Run

  Castlewood High Tales, Volume 1

  Mary-Kate Thomas

  Published by Mary-Kate Thomas, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  PUMPKIN RUN

  First edition. June 22, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Mary-Kate Thomas.

  Written by Mary-Kate Thomas.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  COMING SOON!

  Author’s Note:

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  About the Author

  For Knute, who always believed.

  Chapter One

  "Get UP, Cici!”

  My bed shook, the wooden frame shuddering with an ominous creak as my eyes flew open. Above me, my stepsister Drew loomed over me, her wide face splitting in an evil grin before she reared back, kicking the bedpost a second time.

  “Get up, NOW!”

  As the mattress beneath me swayed, I bolted and jumped out of bed, heart thudding. My stepsister Drew packed a hefty kick. From the angle of the sun in my tiny attic window, I knew I had overslept my alarm. I’d missed my one and only chance for a quick escape.

  Stupid, I thought, glancing at the clock next to my bed. It was already past eight o’clock. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  With the flat of her heel, Drew kicked the bed one more time just for show, then snorted. “This bed is just as ridiculous as you are.” She turned away from my bed, the same childish white four poster complete with a canopy that I’d been sleeping in since I was four, and moved into the small patch of morning sun from my high attic window. Her platinum blonde hair shone in the light. Most of her hair. As she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, I caught an unmistakable glimpse of dull and mousy brown roots zigzagging down the center of her scalp.

  Oh, no, I thought. Not her roots. Please, not the roots. I stifled the urge to groan. Doing that will take all morning.

  "What do you want Drew?" I asked, rubbing my eyes, pretending I was still sleepy while mentally making a quick list of what I needed to grab if I wanted to be on time to the library. There was a pair of jeans and a t-shirt tossed across the end of my bed; that was a start. My Chucks were underneath my bed - well, one of them was. I could see its royal blue canvas toe poking out and hoped the other one was down there, too. Socks would be the trickiest to grab since they were in a bin on the opposite wall. With Drew firmly planted on the round rag rug in the middle of my cramped room, my daily forecast was shaping up to be mostly sunny with a chance of blisters.

  I calculated the time it would take to grab my gear, hop down the stairs from the attic all the way to the back door off the kitchen, then dash to the shed for my bike.

  I can still make it in time for my shift if I leave soon, I thought. I might even have time to grab a muffin from the coffee truck.

  My stomach rumbled loudly while I wondered how much spare change I had in my backpack. Drew snorted again, flipping her long hair over her shoulder, then smirked.

  “What’s-wrong-Ci-ci?” she asked, her voice sing-songing the words as she struggled to push her hand into the pocket of her pink polka-dotted bathrobe. The belt strained around Drew’s waist, barely holding the two sides of the robe together over her stocky frame. “You’re not hungry, are you?”

  I stared back, face blank, as I watched her fingers pull a half-melted chocolate bar in a crumpled wrapper from the depths of her pocket. As she unwrapped it and shoved a chunk into her mouth, I shook my head.

  “Nope,” I said finally, then paused, tapping a finger against my chin as I stared back at her and smiled slowly. “I mean, I might be a little hungry but you... well, you look like you’re starving.”

  “Shut up, Cici!” Drew huffed, wiping smeared chocolate from the corner of her mouth. “For your information, loser, I’ve been getting ready for today’s pageant and I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning!” Drew said, her voice getting shriller with every word as she crumpled up the wrapper and threw it on my floor.

  I turned away, pulling up the covers of my bed so Drew wouldn’t see me roll my eyes.

  Behind me, I heard Drew move closer and felt the attic floorboards bounce beneath the balls of my feet. Her voice dropped to a threatening whisper. “You’d better pick that trash up, Cici, or I’ll tell Mama that you’re not doing your chores and you’re being mean to me.” A triumphant note of victory hung on every word.

  I sighed. The smart part of my brain knew I probably shouldn’t have said anything at all, but the moments when I had the upper hand over Drew, or my other stepsister, Stacie, were practically nonexistent. Between home and school, the two of them made ruining my life an ongoing contest to see who could come in first place as the meanest stepsister ever in the history of messed up families.

  And then there was my stepmother...

  “Whatever,” I said, trying to make my voice sound bored and unconcerned as I grabbed my clothes from the end of my bed and stepped to move past her. “Tell her whatever you want, Drew, I’ve got to go-”

  “Uh, no you don’t,” Drew shot back, hands on her hips. “Mama said you need to help me, so get moving.” Drew kicked the bedpost again and dust floated down from the canopy. She jumped to the side, swatting over her head. “Gross! I just washed my hair!”

  She waved an arm around my room. "How can you even sleep in here, anyway? This room is hideous! Why would you even want this room?!"

  “Like I have a choice,” I muttered under my breath as I leaned down, groping beneath my bed for my shoes. I threw my clothes on in a rush, then shoved my feet into my Chucks. Drew’s eyes narrowed when I grabbed my backpack from the floor.

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head and stepped back to block the door. “I told you, loser, Mama says you’re helping before you go to your stupid freebie job at the library.”

  That stupid job is my only escape and my only chance at a real escape, I thought. Just 636 - no, wait, 635 - more days.

  I moved to dart past Drew, but she stepped into my path, and locked my arm in a vice-like grip. Digging her fingers into my wrist, she twisted hard, her nails cutting into my skin. Drew was strong, but I was much taller. With a whipping motion, I wrenched my arm away, and she stumbled, then plopped on the floor, crying out, “Owww!” with an utterly unconvincing dramatic shriek of pain.

  I leapt past her toward the d
oor, looping my backpack over my shoulders with a thud and leapt past her, then stopped, frozen by the sound of the voice that floated up the attic stairs.

  “Girls! What is all that racket up there?”

  Chapter Two

  High heels click-clacked against the wooden boards as the drifting, overwhelming scent of her floral perfume filled the room, growing heavier and more cloying with every step. I swallowed hard, my heart sinking. There was no point in running now.

  The sound of her heels stopped as she reached the top of the stairs. From the other side of the closed door, I heard the telltale sound of her compact mirror pop open followed by her gentle humming of the theme song for the Miss America pageant.

  Waiting, even though I knew that this was all part of her pregame ritual, I could feel the panic close in on me. I forced myself to take one deep breath after another, but the sudden SNAP of her compact mirror startled me and I gasped out loud. Behind me, Drew sniggered and on the other side of the door my stepmother laughed - a soft, playful laugh full of merriment.

  My stepmother was always at her most cheerful at the prospect of tormenting me.

  The glass doorknob on my attic bedroom door spun, slowly. I drew one last deep breath and lifted my eyes.

  Just let her play her games, I reminded myself. And you play your part.

  The door swung half-open, the hinges squeaking, her face still hidden. Her voice floated in, the words soft and the tone light-hearted.

  “Drew, darling, I certainly hope you don’t have a sourpuss on to match all that angry shouting I just heard from up here. You know how important it is to save your face.” The door opened a little further. The light on the attic stairs over her head cast my stepmother’s shadow on the floor of my bedroom, a long, dark shadow that lurked, ready, waiting for its cue to pounce.

  “You can get as mad and nasty as you want, darling, but do try to keep a smile on your face. It will keep you from getting those dreadful frown lines.” The door trembled open a fraction of an inch more, then stilled. “You’ll look just as awful as Cici if you’re not careful.”

  Behind me, Drew pulled herself up from the floor with a heave, panting from the effort, then shoved me hard as she whispered in a fury, “You’ll pay for that, loser!”

  I nearly lost my balance and grabbed the end post of my bed to steady myself. As I turned, steadying myself, Drew screwed up her mouth, nostrils flaring, then gave herself a sharp slap to the face and started wailing.

  “Mama! Cici hit me again!”

  With a final bump against the wall, the door opened all the way. My stepmother sighed, shaking her head at me as she stood in the doorway.

  “Oh, Cici, when will you ever learn?”

  Behind me, Drew blubbered on, fake tears rolling down her cheeks and dripping onto the edges of her bathrobe. My stepmother flicked her eyes over my shoulder toward Drew, tut-tutted once, then looked at me again, and smiled.

  That smile.

  It was the same smile that peered down at me from picture frames on every wall of my house, the smile that filled the portraits of my stepmother as a beauty pageant winner from her childhood through her twenties. My stepmother’s portraits had replaced all the pictures of my father, my mother, me - my family - when she had married my dad and moved into my life.

  When she had taken over my life.

  My charming childhood home had received the ultimate pageant makeover and now was simply a gaudy museum to the decades-long competitive pageant career of Tammy Ainsworth.

  Her smile still dazzled, thanks to the wonders of modern cosmetic dentistry, but I had lived with my stepmother long enough to learn the work that goes into creating a beauty pageant face. My stepmother had spent years trotting Drew around to junior pageant weekends, doing all she could to get Drew win her first crown and follow in her footsteps, but Drew had yet to win a sash or a tiara or even the Miss Congeniality consolation prize.

  After my father’s death and my quick reassignment from beloved bonus daughter to the all-purpose house servant - complete with my very own drafty attic bedroom - I had received hands-on training on how to use makeup, body tape, face putty, and an array of household chemicals to help Drew achieve, and my stepmother maintain, the crafted facade of pageant pretty.

  Sometimes I found myself wondering what my Dad had been thinking when he had married her. What he had seen in her beyond the face and the laugh and the beauty pageant titles. They had met when my dad, overwhelmed by all the choices, had called the travel agency where she worked, looking for help with booking a trip to Disney for us after the first anniversary of my mom’s death. Whatever the reasons he’d had for marrying her, it didn’t matter; he was dead and gone. I was the one left living with her.

  Without thinking, my fingers moved to my neck only to find nothing there. Panic rose in my chest. Where is it? My fingers frantically searched, fumbling, trying to grab what wasn’t there.

  Across the room, my stepmother smiled, her glittering eyes tiny slits of icy blue. She held out her hand and let fall from her fingers the only possession I had left that mattered to me -

  My mother’s cone shell pendant.

  “Looking for something?” she asked sweetly, swinging it slowly by the gold chain before snatching it back into her fist. “You left it in the girls’ shower last night.”

  That was a lie. I had worn that pendant since my mom’s funeral and I never took it off. And I had been cleaning the hair out of the clogged drain of my stepsisters’ bathroom last night, not taking a shower. How had she gotten it?

  Behind me, Drew laughed. I turned to see her pull the freebie plastic Castlewood Library water bottle I kept upstairs out from behind her back. “Forget something?” she asked, tossing it at me. Then she pretended to sneeze and my stepmother laughed again, in on the joke.

  “Allergy season can be dreadful, darling,” she said, stepping over to stand next to Drew. “Be sure,” she paused, then trilled, “To take your medicine!” The two of them dissolved into a fit of giggles.

  I cradled the water bottle, thinking how thirsty I had been the night before after scrubbing the shower clean for the third time, since the first two times hadn’t met my stepmother's demanding standards. I had gulped down the entire bottle down after I had finally finished cleaning the bathroom last night, not noticing if the water had tasted funny.

  I glanced around my room, mind racing and heart pounding. Next to my bed, my clock sat staring at me, and for the first time I saw that both hands were frozen, pointing to the six, the cord dangling loose instead of plugged into the only outlet in my attic room.

  It didn’t take long to put it all together.

  I bet I’ll find the empty bottle of clear liquid allergy medicine in the trash, I thought, remembering how my head had barely hit the pillow before I was sound asleep.

  I hadn’t overslept my alarm after all. I’d been ambushed.

  I made a mental note to plug in the clock again later as I stared back at my stepmother. She cocked her head to one side, her brassy blonde hair artfully bouncing around her face as she considered me before shoving the pendant into the back pocket of her skintight jeans.

  “I know you planned to spend your morning mooning around at the library, Ce-ceel-ia, but I need you here.” She rolled the three syllables of my name slowly, her nose wrinkling like she had just smelled a whiff of rotten milk. “You have responsibilities to me that are far more important than shelving dusty old books.”

  My stepmother gave Drew a quick squeeze on her arm then let go quickly, a momentary grimace creasing her face before her sparkly smile flashed back into place. “I’ll consider returning it to you and sending you on your way, after,” she paused again, holding up her index finger, “And only after you do Drew’s tanner. Do you understand?”

  I said nothing but wanted to scream inside. Spray tanning Drew was the last thing I wanted to do, ever, especially on a Saturday morning when I was already running late for work.

  My stepmother tapp
ed the toe of her shoe in a quick beat on the floorboards.

  “I didn’t hear your answer, Cecelia.”

  I took a deep breath, willing myself to say the words as I lifted my eyes to meet my stepmother’s.

  Just remember the plan, thought, as I heard myself say the words I hated.

  “Yes. Yes -”

  I swallowed hard.

  “Yes... Mother.”

  Chapter Three

  As much as I hated the hassle of doing Drew’s tanner, the upside was that it was faster than highlighting her roots; I was sure I could speed spray her, clean up the mess, and still get to the library by nine.

  The downside, however, was considerable. Nothing says stepdaughter servitude like being trapped in a homemade spray booth in the garage, aiming a huge airbrush spewing a violent shade of orange mist dye at my stepsister who, in the interest of maximum coverage, wore an old bikini that was at least one size too small.

  Luckily for me, Drew was already still tan from last week’s attempt at pageant glory. In less than five minutes, I finished and took apart the airbrush to soak in the utility sink.

  “Get out!” she yelled, grabbing for the old and orange-stained towel hanging on the hook next to the mishmash of household leftovers my stepmother delusionally referred to as, “our in-home tanning booth.” I was only too happy to oblige. Turning my back on Drew, I let the future Miss Podunk Pageant Princess contestant have her privacy to climb out of the oversized storage tub and through the plastic sheeting draped from a rod on the garage ceiling. Grabbing the last part of the plastic tubing from the airbrush, I turned to dump it in the utility sink but not fast enough before a last bubble of orange dye escaped, coating my hands.

  “Oh no,” I groaned, and turned the faucets on full blast, reaching for the soap. I scrubbed my hands over and over, but it was too late. The orange tanner dye had already soaked into the skin. My palms were blotchy and patchy, but my fingers were the worst. They looked like skinny carrots with fingernails.