At sixteen, getting shipped to a summer camp was not Guinevere Levitt's first choice on how to spend her two school-free months. She all but threw her school bag against the lilac-painted wall of her bedroom, feeling the rage bubble up into her chest. "Couldn't even give me a week, could you?" She shouted through the closed door, knowing her parents could hear from across the hall. "You just had to get rid of me as soon as possible!"

She heard footsteps approach the door, followed by a hard rattle of her doorknob. "Don't you throw your bag around, young lady!" Her father's voice had reached the gravelly octave it often took when angered. "Unlock this door right now! You know it's not supposed to be locked! Jenny!"

"What does it matter?" Her voice hit another high pitch. She was convinced this was her father's idea, honestly, so let him get the brunt of all her rage. Especially if he was going to call her by that hideous nickname. "You're going to have it wide open for two whole months, because you're robbing—" She grabbed her pillow and whacked it against the door, rattling the wooden frame. "Me—!" Another whack. "Of my summer!" A final punch to the feather-filled sack before it fell to the floor.

"Sarah!" Her father's voice echoed. "Sarah, talk to your daughter!"

"Oh, sure!" Guinevere threw herself onto her bed. The springs gave an ungainly squeak as she squirmed and kicked her way underneath two layers of flower-patterned sheets. "Call Mom into this! Like you always do!"

There were a few moments of silence, followed by a tentative knock. "Princess?" Her mother's voice was soft contrast to her father's. Airy, but not breathy, soft and refined. "Can I come in, please?"

"It's not even locked," The teenager spat. "He was just being dramatic."

The door twisted open. Guinevere looked up just in time to see her mother settle down on the bed next to her, taking one of her daughter's few remaining stuffed animals into her hands. Sarah Levitt was still beautiful at forty—Guinevere was jealous of her mother's long, dark hair, pin-straight and glimmering in the early morning light.

Sarah offered her daughter a gentle smile as she turned the stuffed cat over in her hands. "So," She began. "Do you want to tell me why your father demanded my presence in the middle of my work?" She set the cat down against the pink pillows to gently slide her hand under Guinevere's cheek, turning her eyes forward.

The teenager sniffled. "Mom, it's not fair," She ignored the way her mother gave a little flinch at the hated term. "I don't want to go away to a summer camp. Talia invited me to spend a week at her place for a camping trip! Joshua and I were planning movie marathons!" She squirmed up and allowed her mother to brush strands of her wavy hair from her eyes, pale fingers curling in the black strands.

Sarah took a moment to answer. Her green eyes had a soft look to them as she spoke, still brushing Guinevere's hair back into place. "Evie, I thought you wanted to go to this camp. I mean… Backstage Resort. It's not something to sniff at," Sarah smiled. Her mother always had a calming quality about her—something that Guinevere did not inherit. "You were all for it a few years ago."

"Yeah," Guinevere lamented, feeling shame burn in her cheeks. "A few years ago! Mom, all the rich kids go to Backstage Resort. There are kids that have been going there since they were, like, four!" The girl pulled her knees up to her chest, looking down at her thing legs. "I haven't got a chance to compare."

Sarah turned her daughter to face her again, lips pursed in a frown. "Now," She gave a shake of her finger. "Don't you dare say that. You've been in how many plays since elementary school? How many times did you volunteer at the performing arts center?" The woman's eyes narrowed, transforming her face into a mask of determination. "You have as much talent in your pinky as some of those kids have in their whole bodies. Besides, you won't necessarily standout," She offered a smile. "You just have to say Sarah Williams is your mother."

Guinevere couldn't stop the weak smile that quirked her lips up.

Before marrying her father, Sarah Levitt had been Sarah Williams; accomplished fantasy author and illustrator. Like her playwright mother before her, Sarah had several awards pinned to her winning books—her first, a novelization of her mother's part in the play The Labyrinth, had been the thing to pave her way to success. As well as pave the way for Guinevere to have a cushy life and a one-up on most kids her age.

That thought sobered the teenager. She was being selfish and bratty, she knew. But the thought of having made plans with her new-found high school friends, only to have them ripped away by her uncaring father—

She turned her eyes back to her mother. "Why did you guys suddenly decide to enroll me in the camp now, of all times? Dad pitched a fit over me going when I first asked when I was ten."

Sarah bit her lip in return, the red skin flushing darker between her teeth. "It's not coincidence," She revealed. Guinevere scowled. "Your father is working on a new project, and he's been thinking about heading out of town. And, well, with how often I'm traveling for my new novel…"

"And you don't trust me home alone," Guinevere curled her arms around her knees.

Sarah wrapped her daughter in a hug, cooing softly into dark waves. "No, princess. I trust you. It's just such a scary thought. We live in a nice neighborhood, but if something were to happen to you, because of your father and I not being here," Her mother inhaled softly. "I'd never forgive myself, if you were taken away."

Her mother had always been paranoid about that. She had an irrational fear that, someday, Guinevere would just—up and vanish. Poof. Gone, without a trace.

"Fine," Her voice was muffled by Sarah's shirt. "I'll go to the stinkin' rich kid camp. But you gotta promise me one thing, Mom."

The brunette pulled away to meet her daughter's dark eyes. "You have to tell the counselors to call me Evie," She stressed the name. "Instead of Jenny."

"Well. Jennifer is the romanization of Guinevere," Sarah attempted.

"Doesn't matter," Guinevere sneered. "At least Evie's closer."