"Once upon a time", as you know, has been used for centuries as a way to begin what society labels "fairy tales." These fairy tales are stories passed down through both spoken and written word. They are widely regarded as the best way to put your scared-shitless four year olds to bed in hopes that they might actually have a night without any nightmare-induced bed wetting incidents, which you really don't feel like dealing with due to the fact that the washing machine is broken and any soiled sheets would need to be carried two and a half blocks down to the Laundromat where washing them will cost you your first born child's weight in quarters.

What I, as the author, am about to describe to you, is not a fairy tale. It is not fact, nor is it fiction. It is simply a journey. As to whether or not this journey actually even existed is up to you. As most fairy stories do, our journey begins in a magical place, where the unexpected is simply to be expected, and wildest dreams come to life.

New York City.

"Pythagoras was in no way a mathematical genius." This was why Daphne Asher was Alice Daniel's best friend. She made no sense. Unless you were stoned. Or asked her for an explanation.

"Really, Daph? You don't thank this guy every time you finish a math equation?" Alice smirked and twirled the combination dial on her locker with the long white fingers of her left hand. The other arm hooked tightly around textbooks, squeezing them to her chest to keep them from tumbling to the scuffed linoleum.

Daphne snorted and hooked her thumbs around the loops of her backpack straps. "Yes," she said sarcastically. "Yes, Alice. I do. I have a shrine above my bed and burn triangular incense in his name every night at midnight. Honestly? If he'd just had a life, he might not have been sitting in, night after night, playing with triangles and squares. A, B, C, F, U, C, K…"

The locker clanged open and Alice piled books inside of it. "Luckily I didn't have Geo today," she sighed. "But Mr. Davis is really cracking down on this Poe stuff. Five page essay on Dramatic Irony use in The Cask of Amontillado. Hell, the entire story is dramatic irony."

"It's a good thing you read it when you were like, five," Daphne countered, tucking a strand of electric blue hair behind one heavily pierced ear. She glanced down the hallway, where the yellow buses awaited behind the rain streak ed windows of the double doors. "I have to go, Liss. See you later."

"Bye," Alice said, but the clang of her locker closing eclipsed her farewell.

Alice made her way down the corridor to the girl's bathroom, where she knew that she could relax for a few minutes before meeting up with her friend Rink.

Two girls in Abercrombie sweatshirts brushed past her as she entered the restroom, but she was alone inside. Alice wrinkled her nose at the smell of their perfume; it still seemed to linger in the air. She could picture them, rooting through their shopping bags that depicted half-naked men—too old for them anyways—and trying on clothes. I don't understand why those brands advertise their clothing by showing pictures of people that don't wear any. She let the thought flutter away and dropped her bag onto the tiles, before leaning over the porcelain sink and staring at herself in the mirror.

She held her breath for a moment or two. Her hair was darker than ink, and fell into messy, tentacle-like curls around her shoulders. One might call her beautiful, but her moonlight pale heart-shaped face and delicate features were—in her eyes—nothing short of plain. Two green eyes gazed back at her from the glass. Once, they had been like emeralds, burning with passion and excitement. Now they were drained, and a dull green, the color of pond scum. Lovely. "Hey."

Alice turned to face Rink and grinned. Alexander "Rink" Rinkowski was Alice's best guy-friend. Ever. He was tall and lanky, with straight ginger hair that fell neatly over one blue eye. Twin gauges glimmered slightly in his ears, and, as usual, he was wearing more eyeliner than she was.

"Where were you A period?" Alice asked, moving in for the secret handshake. They pounded right fists, drew them back, and interlocked their fingers. Then, they lifted their left hands, slapped their intertwined hands, snapped, and pulled away with fluttering fingers.

"Mr. Farber's office," he said. He lit a cigarette and leaned back against the tiled wall of the restroom. "They didn't like my clothes."

"You've been in uniform all day!" Alice said, giggling. "What did you do?"

"Tore the sleeves off of my jacket and sewed a Dropkick Murphy's patch on the back during Calculus." Typical Rink. He was quite possibly the smartest student that attended Hanlon Academy, and yet he just didn't seem to give a damn about behavior. He was a straight-A student, so in his opinion, it was pointless not to goof off a little. He took a drag of his cigarette and grinned at her. "They gave me an order form for a new uniform, but I'm not gonna get one."

"Didn't think you would," Alice said, slicking lip-gloss onto her mouth. She glanced at Rink behind her in the mirror. Sure enough, his white shirt was on, but his pale green Hanlon Academy blazer was stuffed unceremoniously into his backpack.

"Oh, and Happy Birthday," said Rink, tossing a thin package at her. Alice whirled around and caught it just before it crashed into the mirror.

"You remembered," Alice said softly, smiling at him. "I didn't think anyone remembered."

"I always remember, Liss. You know that. Open it."

Alice's fingers tore gently at the silver paper. It ripped, and her fingers brushed satin. She paused. Her eyes flickered over to Rink. He was grinning.

In one fluid motion, Alice slipped the paper off, and gasped in shock. "A White Rabbit!"

The White Rabbit patch was a collector's item. Only one hundred thousand were manufactured, and patch-collectors everywhere were breaking their life savings to get one. The Rabbit Patch trend had started when Alice was only thirteen. She'd been collecting patches since she was seven, and her Uncle Scott had treated her to a Gray Rabbit, the White Rabbit's close but more common cousin. The White Rabbit was truly rare. Flawlessly seamed satin in the shape of a beautiful winter hare was punctuated only by a single black spot of silk embroidery that formed the eye. She turned it over, her heart soaring. "…how?"

"I have my sources," said Rink with a smile. "I know that sounds cliché, but whatever."

"Thank you," Alice whispered, still caressing the soft, pearly fabric.

The White Rabbit seemed to smile at her.