Into the Wild by Sarah Beth Durst Page B

in gym class. I’m not afraid of heights, she told herself. Just a wee bit terrified of falling. But she could do it if it meant finding Grandma. Slowly, she climbed up the rungs.
    One, two, three . . . don’t look down . . . nine, ten, eleven . . . At the top, Julie swung her leg up and flopped onto the porch like a beached fish. “Oof.”
    Knees shaking, she got to her feet.
    “Well, now, what a fine, plump girl you are. I think I’ll have you basted with a dash of oregano and a sprig of rosemary. And perhaps a squeeze of lemon.”
    Julie didn’t hear her. Her own mind was shouting too loudly: it was Grandma! She was alive! She wore a billowy black dress rather than her usual sweats, and her hair was frizzed like a thundercloud, but it was unarguably Gothel. Julie threw her arms around the witch’s neck. “Oh, Grandma, I’ve done everything wrong! I lost the Seven League Boots! And then I helped the ants and the bird and the fish . . .”
    The witch squirmed. “Release me, child.” She peeled Julie’s arms away.
    Gulping down a sob, Julie let go. “Grandma?” Wasn’t she glad to see her? Or was she angry because Julie was in the Wild? Did she think Julie shouldn’t have come? Julie was beginning to think she shouldn’t have come—she’d probably made the Wild grow with the story bit with the animal helpers. “I’m sorry,” Julie said.
    “Unprecedented. Inappropriate,” the witch muttered. She flattened her hair and straightened her dress. “Let’s start over, shall we?” The witch tapped a crooked finger on Julie’s arm. “Well, now, what a fine, plump girl you are,” she said. “I will have you basted . . .”
    Basted? Plump? Grandma called her plump ? “Grandma?”
    The witch scowled. “Stop calling me that, child.”
    For an instant, Julie didn’t understand. Didn’t Grandma recognize her? Staring at her grandmother in confusion, she noticed Gothel’s eyes were their natural color: red. She wasn’t wearing her tinted contact lenses, Julie realized with relief. That explained it! She probably couldn’t see Julie as more than a blur. (A plump blur, Julie thought.) Julie leaned in so Gothel could see her better. “It’s me. Julie. Grandma, don’t you recognize me?”
    The witch squinted at Julie. “You weren’t the one I turned into a flower, were you?”
    Stricken, Julie opened and shut her mouth. It wasn’t just the lenses: Gothel didn’t know her. Her own grandmother didn’t know her.
    “Or, I know,” the witch said, “you’re the squirrel.”
    No, no, no! She had to recognize her! “It’s me! Your granddaughter! Julie Marchen!” Julie clutched her grandmother’s wide sleeve. “Don’t you remember me?”
    The witch pried the fabric out of Julie’s fingers. “This is not how it is done,” she said. She drew herself up to full height, and Julie instinctively shrank back. “You must perform a task for me,” the witch said.
    Julie felt as if she’d been hit in the stomach. “T-task?” she repeated.
    “I have emptied a dish of lentils into the ashes for you. You must separate them out,” the witch said. She pointed to a gray pile of dust and a silver bowl. “Succeed, and I shall reward you. Fail, and I shall have you for my dinner.” And then the witch took her broomstick and leapt off the lip of the porch.
     
 
Dazed, Julie sank down on the porch. What had just happened? Did her own grandmother really just threaten to eat her? Why didn’t Grandma remember her?
    Julie thought of the New Little Red, blithely picking flowers. Grandma had acted like that, consumed by the fairy tale. Was it because she was in a fairy tale?
    But that didn’t make sense. Julie was involved in a fairy-tale sequence now too, but she still had all her memories. She knew who she was. Why did Grandma have this weird amnesia but not Julie? What did the Wild do to her?
    Maybe the Little Red woman had just cracked under the strain, but Grandma was one of the strongest personalities