Текст книги "If I Have a Wicked Stepmother, Where's My Prince? "

Автор книги: Melissa Kantor

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Chapter Twenty-one

When Connor finally got around to calling, it was easy to tell that my paranoid fantasies of him

riding off into the sunset with Kathryn Ford were a little misplaced.

"Hey, Red," he said. He sounded really bad. "Sorry I haven't called. I've been kinda sick."

"Yeah, you don't sound so good."

"I don't feel so good. Me and Matt and Dave started throwing back shots of tequila." There was a pause, and I heard Connor swallow. "I can't even talk about it." His voice was thin, as if it took effort to speak.

I felt terrible for him. "Are you okay?" I'd never been hung over, but I once spent twenty-four

hours throwing up from a bad clam.

"I'll live. But what's your good news?"

For a second I couldn't remember, then it came back

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to me. "Oh, I was potentially grounded forever, but now I'm not."

"That's awesome, Red."

There was a knock at my door. "Lucy," called Princess Two, "dinner."

"Connor, can I call you back? My stepmother goes insane if I'm not upstairs for dinner at seven

on the dot."

Connor groaned. "Don't say dinner. Please."

Like the painting of a masterpiece, the search for the perfect prom dress is not a matter to be

undertaken lightly. One must have the single-mindedness of purpose, the courage, the blind

devotion to the task at hand of a true believer. One must have strength. One must have vision.

One must have one's father's credit card.

To obtain said father's credit card, I spent the first Saturday of spring break being ordered around

by Mara, who wanted to see what the living room would look like if the couch was where the

love seat was and the love seat was in the den. As I moved glass figurines, end tables, and a

hideous grandfather clock around the house, I knew Jessica and Madison were at Miracle Mile,

wrapping themselves in silk and satin, being waited on hand and foot by obsequious salesladies

catering to their every whim. But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, and Monday, when I

walked into Roses Are Red with my dad's Visa in the back pocket of my jeans, I knew my blood,

sweat, and tears had paid off.

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"This one is nice," said Madison, extracting a pale pink dress from where it was wedged between

two other pink ones. We were waiting for the saleslady to come back with the dress Madison had

put on hold Saturday. "I tried it on but it made me look all washed out."

I looked at the dress. "I don't know, Madison," I said. "Pink?"

She put the dress back and came over to me. "You know what you have to do?" She stared

intensely into my eyes. "You have to picture yourself on prom night, okay?"

The saleslady came out from the back. "I'm sorry, dear, I just don't think we have the dress you're

describing."

From across the store, Jessica rolled her eyes at me and spun her finger next to her temple.

"Are you kidding?" asked Madison, turning to the woman. "I was just here Saturday."

The saleslady smiled vaguely. "Are you sure you have the right store? Because there are so

many–"

"Oh my god," said Madison, "can I just come back there and look?" Before the woman had a chance to answer, Madison had pushed past her, through the curtains and into the nether regions

of the store. I gave the saleslady a little shrug, and she smiled at me, fluttering her hands in the

air nervously.

"It's right here" said Madison, emerging from the back with a garment bag. "It's here."

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"Oh, yes!" said the saleslady. She clapped her hands together. "Now I remember. You're having it taken in."

"She's deciding whether to buy it," corrected Jessica.

"Of course," said the woman, moving toward Madison and taking the dress from her. "Just

follow me." She disappeared behind the curtains.

Madison came back to where I was standing. "Think about what I said. You have to picture it."

"Okay," I said. "I will."

She gave a little hop of excitement. "Just wait until you see my dress!" she squealed, turning

toward the dressing area. "It's amazing." Halfway to the curtain, she stopped and turned back to us. "But you have to swear you'll say if you hate it, okay? Be brutally honest." I placed my hand over my heart.

"Scout's honor," I said.

While Madison was in the back, Jessica and I plunged into the racks of dresses. Most were really

tacky–tulle, sequins, tulle and sequins, more tulle. The store's selection and Madison's reverence

for pink was starting to make me a little nervous about the dress she'd chosen. What if she

emerged from the dressing room looking like a Hostess cupcake? Just as I was about to ask

Jessica to define what Madison meant by "brutally honest," Madison stepped out from between

the curtains.

She looked like a movie star.

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"Oh my god, Madison! It's ... you're ... wow." The dress was claret silk, strapless, with a

sweetheart top and a tight bodice that ended in a full skirt. There was not so much as a speck of

tulle. The saleslady hurried over and expertly pinned up Madison's hair.

"Madison, you look amazing," said Jessica. "It's definitely my favorite."

Madison spun around "Don't I look thin?"

"Emaciated," I said.

"Basically, you're like the thinnest person on the planet," added Jessica.

"So should I get it?" she asked.

"Are you kidding?" I said. "Buy it immediately."

She did a little shimmy of excitement. "Okay, I'm going to," she said, checking herself out one

more time in the mirror and smiling at what she saw. Then she turned around and faced me.

"Jessica's got two dresses on hold at Kewpid," she said. "So you're next."

Madison made me sit down on a tiny love seat in the dressing area, close my eyes, and picture

the prom. She walked me through the whole night, starting with cocktails at her house, ending

with my romantic slow dance with Connor as we were crowned prom king and queen.

"Now," she said finally, "quick: what are you wearing?"

I opened my eyes and looked at her. "I'm sorry,

Madison," I said.

"Nothing?" I could tell she was really disappointed,

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so I closed my eyes for another minute. Then I opened them again and shook my head. "Sorry."

She sat down next to me, letting out a sigh. "Wow, I really thought it would work."

I patted her knee. "It's not your fault. I'm just not a very spiritual person." I wanted to sound reassuring, but suddenly I was fighting back panic. What if my inability to picture myself on

prom night was a sign? What if I spent every free minute between now and prom searching for a

dress, but I never found the right one? How can you be prom queen in jeans and a T-shirt?

Just then, Jessica poked her head through the curtains. "You guys aren't still trying that

visualization crap are you?"

"It's not crap," said Madison. "The Dalai Lama says–"

"When His Holiness gets a Vogue column, Lucy will take his fashion advice," said Jessica, stepping through the curtains. In her arms was a long, dark blue dress. "Until then she needs

more worldly assistance." Standing in front of me, she tossed the bottom part of the dress onto

my lap, stepping back so the whole thing unfolded between us.

"I don't know, Jessica," I said. Jessica's selection wasn't doing much to alleviate my growing

sense of panic. Even though I know a dress looks different on a person than on a hanger, I was

pretty sure I didn't need

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to see this particular dress on my particular person to know it was not the dress for me. The

bodice, which seemed to be made out of a heavy silk, was probably okay, but the skirt looked

like it had the potential to be extremely tacky. "Chiffon?"

"It's the new velvet," said Jessica. "Trust me."

I didn't want to be rude, but chiffon reminds me a whole lot of tulle. Were there sequins on it? I

took the hanger from Jessica while working on the wording of a polite refusal. Remembering

how passionately Jessica and Madison had fought for me to buy the red dress, I realized I'd have

to have more in my arsenal than, It's not quite my style. How about, I hate it because I look like a tacky whore}

But as I dropped the dress over my head and felt the rich fabric slide smoothly down my body, I

wondered just how tacky such a delicious-feeling dress could be. And when I checked myself out

in the mirror, I didn't have to wonder. The answer was clear–not tacky at all.

The bodice was tight silk, straight across in front, low-cut in the back, and strapless like

Madison's. I'd expected the skirt to be poufy, just right for an extra in Gone with the Wind, but it hung almost straight down to the middle of my calves. It wasn't see-through, but you could just

make out the shape of my legs through the filmy, delicate fabric. My skin seemed to glow

against the dark blue silk. I couldn't believe it. I looked ... beautiful.

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When I stepped out of the dressing room and saw the expression on Jessica and Madison's faces,

I knew I'd been right about how I looked. I twirled around, just like Madison had.

"Lucy, you look amazing," said Madison. "I can't believe you found the perfect dress on the first try!"

"Who found the perfect dress?" corrected Jessica.

"Ladies, I'm going to the ball," I said.

I started to laugh, and so did Jessica and Madison. "You mean the prom," said Madison through her laughter.

I shook my head, still laughing, and didn't bother to correct her.

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Chapter Twenty-two

It wasn't until the end of the week that Jessica found a dress she liked, so we wound up spending

every second of spring break shopping. I'd kind of planned on using the vacation to do some

sketches for the landscape I was supposedly ready to start (now that the class, with the single

exception of me, had finished self-portraits, we'd moved on to landscapes). But how can you tell

your friend she's on her own after she helped you find the world's perfect prom dress? You can't.

Which is why, as soon as we were back at school, I not only spent every one of my free periods

in the studio frantically sketching my landscape and working on my self-portrait but also decided if I just cut math one little time–

"Done," I said.

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Sam, the only other person in the room, was sketching on the couch.

"Did you say something?" he asked.

I didn't turn around, too amazed by what had just happened to move. "I'm done," I repeated, my

voice flat. For the past two months, I'd been dreaming of this moment, fantasizing what it would

feel like to put the whole horrible, impossible, frustrating project behind me. I'd thought as soon

as I completed the final brushstroke I'd dance down the halls of Glen Lake, tipping my top hat at

passers by. I'm done! I'm done! But now that I'd actually finished, I didn't feel like celebrating at all. I just felt... nothing.

I could hear Sam applauding. "Can I see it?"

"Um ... Yeah, sure." The irony of his asking if he could see it was that even though I was

standing less than a foot away from my easel, I couldn't see what I'd painted. Shapes and colors

swirled around on the canvas in front of me, refusing to form themselves into a coherent image.

Was this my self-portrait, this series of meaningless blobs?

Sam came over beside me and studied the painting. He stared at it for a long time, not saying

anything, and I wondered what lies he'd use to assure me that my abstract mess wasn't an abstract

mess. "Lucy," he said finally, "it's incredible."

I wanted to ask him what he meant, how he could say that, what he thought he was looking at,

but I was afraid he'd think I was fishing for compliments. What do

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you mean, what do I mean? I just told you it's incredible.

And then, as if he could read my mind, Sam started to talk. "It's great how all the Lucy figures

are holding hands even though they're looking off in different directions." I looked from one

Lucy to the next as he talked, following his voice, watching his finger float above the canvas.

"And that one"–he pointed at the smallest Lucy– "the way it's barely holding on to the one next to it." He nodded. "You can feel her trying to catch up. It's brilliant."

"Actually, that one's a mistake." I tried to laugh. "See, I started in the wrong place, so I couldn't get the hand right."

Without taking his eyes off the canvas, Sam shrugged. "So?" He bumped his shoulder into mine.

"It makes the painting, Lucy. Believe me."

He stayed there, leaning against me for another minute before going back to the couch. Even

after he walked away and left me staring at my canvas, I could still feel the soft cotton of his T-

shirt against my bare skin. And then, all at once, as if Sam had been speaking not words but

brushstrokes, I saw my painting, saw it just the way he had. And as the shifting maze of shape

and color solidified into forms, I realized that last Lucy didn't look like a mistake. It did make the painting better. Because of her, because she looked like she was running to catch up, the whole

line of Lucys seemed to be moving. Sam was right. It really was a brilliant mistake.

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I was so focused on my painting, I'd almost forgotten about Sam still being in the room with me,

when suddenly he said, "You know, I've been meaning to–"

Just then the door flew open. It was Madison and Jessica, and when they saw me, they high-

fived.

"Told you she'd be here," said Jessica.

"Hey, guys," I said. I was glad they'd shown up. Thanks to Sam I couldn't wait to show off my

painting. It was just how I'd imagined finishing it would feel.

"Hey, Sam," said Jessica.

"Hey, Jessica," said Sam. He and Madison nodded at each other.

"Okay," Madison said to me from the doorway, "you can cut math, but you can't cut lunch."

"Yeah," said Jessica, as her cell started ringing, "no starving artists allowed at prom." She dug around in her bag for her phone.

"Hello? Hang on." She turned to Madison. "My mom wants to know if your mom wants her to

do anything for the cocktail party at your house. Should she call her?"

"I thought they talked already," said Madison.

I turned back to Sam on the couch. "What were you going to say?"

"I've been meaning to ..." he stopped and shook his head. "I've been meaning to get going for the past half hour." He stood up. "But I really like your painting." He grabbed his bag off the floor.

"No, Mom, I said fifty," said Jessica. "Not fifteen."

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"Thanks," I said to Sam's back. "Your critique almost makes me feel like an artist."

As he pushed open the door of the studio, Sam turned around. "You are an artist," he said. Then he disappeared into the hall.

Jessica hung up the phone. "Okay, my mother is officially retarded." She turned to Madison. "I hope your mother is prepared to plan this cocktail party with an actual retarded person."

"Please," said Madison, "my mom's so retarded she makes your mom look like Einstein."

Jessica went over to where my bag and Connor's jacket were lying on the floor and picked them

up. "Lunch, madam?"

"Sure," I said, reluctantly stepping away from my painting. "I could eat."

"Good," said Jessica. "Because we have an official prom update for you."

"What?"

"Which homecoming queen has reunited with her million-year-old boyfriend and is therefore

bagging the Glen Lake prom?"

"No way!" I said.

Madison nodded. "Totally," she said.

As Jessica came over to where I was standing she glanced at my easel. "Wow, I like your

painting." She– pointed at the biggest of the Lucy figures. "Is that you?" When I nodded, she smiled. "It totally looks like you."

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Madison came over to see what we were looking at. "Ohmygod! Did you paint this?" asked

Madison, looking from me to the painting. "It's amazing."

"Yeah," I said. "It's the self-portrait I was telling you about."

"Oh!" Madison exclaimed. "That's you!" she pointed at one of the smallest of the Lucy figures.

"Wait," said Jessica. "I thought that one was you."

Madison looked where Jessica was pointing. "Hey," she said. "That is you."

Jessica turned to me. "How come there are so many of you?"

"It's kind of how–"

"Is it like clones?" asked Madison.

"Well, not exactly. It's more–" Why had this seemed so much easier when I was talking to Sam?

"It's really cool," said Jessica. "You're mondo talented. Now–" She took me by the arm and steered me away from the easel. "We must discuss Kathryn's skanky boyfriend and post-prom

Hamptons clothing options."

"As in, what do we need to shop for," Madison explained, following us.

"So, come along, Prom Queen," said Jessica, as she pulled open the studio door. "Your loyal court attends you."

As we walked along the hall, I linked my arms through theirs. Maybe Jessica and Madison didn't

get all the nuances of my painting that Sam did. But I was still glad they were my friends.

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Chapter Twenty-three

A few hours later, as I stood in front of the open freezer debating the nutritional benefits of

chicken nuggets versus sorbet as an after-school snack, my cell rang. It was my dad.

"Hey," I said. I looked at the wall clock. "It's Friday. Aren't you supposed to be on a plane right now?"

"Hi, Goose. I'm still in San Francisco," he said. "We're fogged in."

"Big surprise," I said. I opened the sorbet. There was about half a spoonful left in the container. I put it back.

"Is Mara there?" he asked.

"Nope." I took the chicken nuggets out of the freezer.

"Well, I'm having trouble getting her on her cell: could you just leave her a message that I'm

stuck here

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and I'm hoping to get a flight at least as far as Chicago tonight?"

I tossed the nuggets on a plate and put it in the microwave. "Check, chief."

"How about you, Goose, big plans with your big man?"

"Big plans, big man," I said. Really we were just going to Piazzolla's and a movie. But it was big enough.

"Sounds like fun," said my dad. "Hey, did you get my e-mail about the Andy Goldsworthy?"

Andy Goldsworthy is an artist my dad and I both love, and he had a sculpture show opening on

the roof of the Met this weekend.

"Um ..." Was I really up for a repeat performance of Dad and Mara Ignore Lucy at the Museum?

Luckily the kitchen phone started ringing before I could answer him. I looked to see who was

calling.

"It's Mara," I said.

"Oh, great," he said. "Tell her my plan, okay? And tell her I'll keep trying her on her cell."

"Okay," I said. "Love you."

"Love you, too, honey. And tell Mara I love her."

That was so not part of the message I'd be delivering. I tossed the nugget box back in the freezer

and grabbed the phone.

"Hi, Lucy, it's Mara. Is your father home yet?" I could tell she was calling from her car. "My battery's all messed up on my cell. I think he's been trying to reach me."

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The microwave beeped. "He's in California."

"What?" From her high-pitched wail, you'd have thought I'd said, He's with his divorce lawyer. If only.

"He's still in California." I took the plate of nuggets out. "They're fogged in. He said he tried to call you."

"Oh, Jesus. We're supposed to be meeting people in the city tonight. I'm already in Manhattan."

I wasn't exactly sure what Mara expected me to do. Maybe she thought I, like Superman, could

stop the world from spinning on its axis and reverse time, thereby enabling my father to catch an

early plane out of San Francisco. Unfortunately, Cinderella's powers are limited to serving meals

and snagging princes.

Through the phone, I could hear a horn honk. "Okay, okay," she muttered. I heard some more

honking. Even when she's not distracted and talking on her cell phone, Mara's not exactly the

most focused driver.

"Listen," she said. "I'm going to try the girls. If you see them, will you let them know the situation? Tell them your dad can't drive them to their dad's and they should just call a cab or call

their dad to pick them up?" She continued to think out loud for another few minutes, going

through the logistics of her night. I just sat there eating my chicken nuggets, not saying anything,

like she was a character on a TV show I was too lazy to get up and turn off.

"Well, okay, you have fun tonight," she said, finally

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remembering she was actually talking to someone. "Thanks," I said.

"What's that?" she shouted over the sudden static. "I'm losing you, Lucy."

"I said thanks,'''' I repeated, louder this time.

"I can't hear you, Lucy," she said. Then, "Lucy? Lucy?" Then silence.

No sooner had I hung up the phone than the front door flew open and slammed shut. I heard a

cell phone ringing, but it wasn't mine. I returned to eating my nuggets.

"Hello? Hello?" Princess One appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, cell phone pressed to her

ear. She dropped her backpack onto a chair. "Mom, is that you?" She listened for a second before shaking her head and hanging up.

"I think that was Mom," she said over her shoulder. "But I have, like, no idea what she said."

Princess Two materialized by her sister's side.

"I think she was telling you my dad's flight's trapped in San Francisco, she's in the city, she's

going out for dinner, you're supposed to call a cab or ask your dad to pick you up."

"WHAT?" Princess One screamed. She stared at me openmouthed, then grabbed her sister by the arm.

"What?" I repeated. Was she really that freaked out about the change of plans?

"What?" Princess Two asked.

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Princess One was still clutching her sister. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Princess One turned to her sister and spoke very slowly. "Mom said Doug can't drive us to dad's

and we have to take a cab."

"So?" asked Princess Two.

"So we can go to the–" Princess One made fists of frustration as her sister continued to stare at her blankly. Then she leaned over and whispered something in her ear.

"OHMYGOD!" said Princess Two, just as her phone started ringing. She put it up to her ear.

"Hello? ... Oh, hi, Mom.... Yeah, we got your message.... Sure ... Yeah, we'll just take a cab." She jumped up and down, screaming silently. "No, you don't have to call him. Really, Mom, don't

worry about it." She was trying hard not to laugh at something her mother said. "Okay.... Okay....

I love you, too." She hung up and turned to her sister. "Oh. My. God. Let's go."

Even without a degree in child development, you could tell the Princesses were up to no good. I

wasn't sure what I was supposed to do. I mean, it wasn't like I was some kind of authority figure.

Still, if they were about to do something really stupid, maybe they could use some adult

intervention. Or at least some pre-adult intervention.

"What's up?" I asked. I tried to keep my voice light, as if I just wanted to chat. "Big date tonight?"

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"Wouldn't you like to know, Lucy?" asked Princess One, turning on her heel and flouncing out of

the kitchen. Her sister followed with an equally indignant flounce. "Get a life, Lucy," Princess One called over her shoulder.

Ever since attending Jason Goldberg's QM Two extravaganza, the Princesses had been

complaining there were no good bat-mitzvah party themes left, but their parting shot gave me an

idea for one.

Something wicked this way comes ...

I ' d have to remember to suggest it.

When Connor picked me up to go to Piazzolla's, he was in a really bad mood. Apparently his car

was in the shop again, and his parents blamed him for not taking good enough care of it.

"Like I want to be driving this piece of crap," he said, hitting the dashboard of the Lexus.

I didn't say much for the whole ride to Piazzolla's besides, "Mmmmhmmm" and "Yeah" and

"Really?" As we pulled into the parking lot across from Piazzolla's, Connor finally said, "But enough of my bitching. How's by you, Red?"

Just as I opened my mouth to say something, he gave a shout. "Oh, yeah! A spot!" And a second

later he was explaining why the Lexus was easier to park than his SUV. By the time we were out

of the car and crossing the street, we'd gotten back on the subject of his parents.

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"Oh my god," said Madison, waving us over to the table where she, Matt, Jessica, and Dave were

already sitting. "You have to hear about the bags my mom saw at a store in SoHo. They're

insanely cute. I think we should each get one for prom."

"Great," I said. Suddenly I had an idea. "Wait, you know what we should do?"

"What?" asked Madison, leaning toward me.

Connor, Matt, and Dave were deep in conversation, but I pulled oh Connor's sleeve to get his

attention. "Do you want to all go into the city tomorrow? We could get the bags, and then there's

this cool Andy Goldsworthy exhibit at the Met. It's on the roof." I couldn't believe how brilliant

my idea was. How perfect would it be to see the Goldsworthy exhibit with people who didn't

spend our time together ignoring me?

A silence fell over the table. For almost a full minute, nobody said anything.

"I'm not really the museum type, Red," said Connor finally. "But I bet you can answer this. Dave says LeBron James played high school in Cleveland. That's not right, is it?"

Was this Connor's not-so-subtle way of telling me to drop the museum talk? "Akron," I said.

"The Cavaliers drafted him out of Akron."

"Totally!" said Matt. He turned and pointed at Dave. "Who's a loosa!"

Connor laughed. "That's right," he said, slipping his

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arm around my shoulders. "Is my girl great, or is my girl great?" Then he leaned over and made a big show of kissing me. Everyone was watching, so I kissed him back, but something was

definitely wrong.

Instead of feeling like the luckiest girl in the world, I felt like a well-trained dog who'd just won

best in show.

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