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

Автор книги: Melissa Kantor

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Chapter Twenty-four

As I walked from Connor's car to my front door, I was glad I'd told him I thought I was coming

down with something, so he'd better not kiss me good night. What if his good-night kiss made

me feel like his earlier kiss had, only this time it was just the two of us there, and I couldn't

blame it on our having an audience? My stomach hurt, and all I wanted to do was get into bed

and stay there. Maybe I really was getting sick. I put my hand to my forehead. Did it feel a little warm? Probably all I needed was a cup of hot tea. I went into the kitchen to make some. The

light on the answering machine was blinking.

"Hey, guys." It was my dad. "The good news is, I'm about to board a plane to Chicago. The bad news is, that's where I may be spending the night. I'll be home tomorrow late morningish. Early

afternoon. Somewhere

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in there." The second message was from the Princesses' dad. "Hi, girls, it's Dad. I got your

message. I don't know why you're not answering your cells. Anyway, tomorrow's fine. But your

mom's going to have to drop you off because I have a squash game. All right. Sleep well."

Well, well, well. So the little Princesses were up to no good. I took some Mint Medley out of the cupboard, wondering where they'd gone. Maybe on a date? Or to a boy-girl party? I pictured a

bunch of seventh graders at the movies or playing spin the bottle. It was kind of cute, actually.

My cell started ringing, and I reached into my bag. But it wasn't there. I felt around frantically.

Where was my cell? The ringing stopped. I dug through the pockets of Connor's jacket. Hadn't I

taken it with me when I left the house?

Just as I was about to call the number myself, it started ringing again. I listened for a second,

then opened the freezer. There, next to the chicken nuggets, was my phone. I grabbed it, noticing

that in addition to having a Popsicle for a cell, I had four missed calls.

"Hello?"

"Lucy?" It sounded like more than one person was saying my name.

"Who is this?" I asked.

"Lucy? Is that you?" There were two distinct voices, both of them speaking just above a whisper.

"This is Lucy," I said. I spoke very clearly and

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loudly, like I needed to compensate for their whispering. "Who is–"

"Lucy, you have to come get us!" said one of the voices. And now that she was speaking solo, I

knew who it was.

"Emma?" I asked.

"Lucy, come get us, please," she said. "Please, Lucy, will you come and get us?" echoed Amy.

"Where are you?" I put my hand over my ear, as if the reason I was having trouble hearing the Princesses was the silent house I was standing in.

"We're at ..." there was a muffled conversation between them and then a pause.

"Where are you?" I repeated.

"We're at Bobby's house," said Amy.

"Eighteen Mill Road," said Emma.

"But what are you doing there?" I demanded. "You're supposed to be at your dad's."

"We came to the ... to the ..." Amy started to cry, and I heard Emma say, "Give me the phone."

Then there was another pause, and finally Emma's voice came on the line.

"We're at a party," she said, and her voice started to waver, too. "We're scared, Lucy," said Emma. Now she was crying, too. As much as I disliked my stepsisters, it was terrible to hear

them crying like that.

"Look, just call your dad and tell him to come

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get you. He can probably be there in, like, five minutes."

"We ... we ... can't." Emma started crying harder. Amy got back on the phone.

"If we call Dad, we'll get in trouble. We're not supposed to be here."

"Why don't you just call a cab and come home, then?" I suggested.

Rather than comforting them, my suggestion sent both Emma and Amy into a fresh round of

sobbing. By now all they could say was "We can't," and "We're scared," and "Lucy, please come get us." They sounded so plaintive I almost forgot how annoying they usually are. By the third

time Emma said, "We're scared, Lucy," I started to worry that maybe they really did have

something to be scared about.

"Okay," I said finally. "Look, I'll come get you."

My saying that only made them cry harder, though in between sobs one or the other of them

managed to say "Thank you, Lucy" a few times.

"Look, just stay where you are," I said. "I'll be there as fast as I can."

I hung up and dialed the Glen Lake Cab Company.

Eighteen Mill Road turned out to be a Tudor-style mansion set way back from the road. An

enormous beech tree with gnarled branches towered over the front lawn, and I felt a flicker of

anxiety as the cab turned into the circular driveway and pulled up to the dark, creepy

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house. What if the girls were in some kind of trouble that I couldn't handle? I told the driver I'd

be right out and asked him to wait.

I tried to see in one of the small side windows by the front door, but in addition to being about

seven feet off the ground, it was stained glass. I rang the bell. No response. And again. It took

three more rings before a voice finally asked, "Who is it?"

I squeezed my hands into fists. This was it. "Open the door," I said firmly. Nothing happened for a few seconds, and then the door swung open.

Standing before me was a skinny boy in baggy jeans who couldn't have been more than thirteen.

Seeing him made me feel ridiculous for having been scared about what I'd find in the house, but

seeing me obviously didn't have the same effect on him. His face grew instantly paler. He held

the door, nervously toying with the lock.

"I've come to get Emma and Amy," I said. My voice sounded parental even to me, and the boy

stepped aside to let me pass.

"I think they're in the back," he said.

"Fine." I started to walk past him authoritatively before I realized I didn't actually know how to get to "the back." A hallway branched off to the left, and I followed the sound of pulsating rap until I found myself in a dimly lit room.

The air was thick with smoke. Empty bottles were scattered around the floor along with what

looked like

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shards from a broken glass. On the sofa a girl was sitting on a guy's lap, kissing him. Her legs

were around his waist, and his hands were up the back of her shirt. In the corner, three guys and

a girl sat around a glass-topped table on which a ball of tin foil sat beside a razor blade.

The whole thing was so gross I felt sick. Was this what seventh graders were doing for fun

nowadays? What was wrong with a little spin the bottle?

Baggy Jeans came up behind me.

"We're just–" he started to say.

I held up my hand to stop him. "Save it," I said. "I don't want to know." He jiggled some loose change in his pocket nervously. "Just find my sisters and tell them to meet me by the front door."

When Emma and Amy met me in the entryway, they wouldn't look me in the eye. "See you,

Bobby," they said as we stepped outside.

"Yeah, see you," he said, closing the door and locking it.

"Hi," I said as soon as we were alone. Neither of them said anything; they just examined the

gravel at their feet. "Are you okay?" I asked finally.

They nodded, still not looking up.

Finally Emma spoke. "It wasn't supposed to be like that," she said. "It wasn't supposed to be just eighth graders." Instead of looking at me, she stared at the cab.

"Those were eighth graders?"

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Amy winced, misunderstanding my tone. "Are you mad at us?" she asked.

I said. "I'm mad at them." I turned toward the house. "They're all such ..." But remembering how Emma and Amy had cried into the phone earlier made me doubt they were in need of a major

anti-drug lecture. Maybe this was one of those times to leave well enough alone. "I'm not mad at

you," I said firmly. "And I'm glad you called me."

"Thanks, Lucy," Amy said. Suddenly she took a step toward me and threw her arms around my

waist. A second later, Emma did the same.

"We thought you'd be really mad," Emma explained.

"But we didn't know what to do," Amy added. "We didn't know who to call."

"Then we thought of you," Emma said. "We left you like a million messages."

"And then you answered." They both still had their arms around me. When I tried to walk, I felt

like I was in a three-legged race.

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Chapter Twenty-live

It had been a long time since I'd woken up on a Saturday morning without one of Connor's

perfect kisses from the night before running through my mind. But instead of thinking about his

imperfect kiss, I found myself thinking about Emma and Amy. I was in shock–they had been so

... nice. Right before they went upstairs to bed, they'd each given me a huge hug, and Emma had

said, "You're the best, Lucy." Then Amy said, "Yeah, Lucy. We're so lucky to have you as a big sister."

I got out of bed, brushed my teeth, threw on some jeans and a T-shirt, and headed to the kitchen,

actually looking forward to breakfast with my family.

The first thing I heard when I pushed open the door of the basement was Emma and Amy's dad.

"The only lesson you'll learn from that is how you can get away with doing whatever you want."

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I stepped into the kitchen. Mara was standing up, leaning against the sink. Emma, Amy, and their

dad were sitting at the kitchen table, Emma and Amy on one side, their dad on the other. Mr.

Gilman was wearing white shorts and a white-collared shirt, and as he sat there he bounced a

racket against his knee.

Emma's face was tear streaked. "No, Daddy, that's not true," she said.

You didn't have to be psychic to put two and two together. I wanted to help, but it occurred to me

that maybe the story they'd told their parents diverged from the truth; the last thing they needed

was me "defending" them by blurting out salient details they'd chosen to omit. I nodded hello to Mr. Gilman, went over to the fridge, and took out the orange juice.

"Lucy, I'd like to talk to you about this," said Mara. "The whole thing is quite upsetting to me."

I looked toward my stepsisters, but their eyes were down. I felt really bad for them. "Well, I

know it's none of my business, but I think you should go easy on them." I walked over to the

cabinet and got a glass. "They had kind of a rough night."

"That's very generous of you," said Mara. "But I think Amy and Emma need to pay for what

they've done. And I'd like to know more about the role you played in their little ... adventure."

I put the glass and the container down, totally confused. Why did I suddenly feel like a suspect

on CSI: Long Island?

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"I don't quite follow you," I said. "The girls told me you knew they were at the party," said Mara.

I was sure I must have misheard her. "Excuse me?!"

She repeated herself, carefully enunciating each syllable. "They said you knew they were at the

party. Apparently you even picked them up in a cab when it was over."

I looked down at my stepsisters. Clearly they'd decided trouble is like a pie–the bigger my piece,

the smaller theirs.

"Are you implying that's not what happened?" Mara asked. She tried to make it sound like she actually cared about my answer, which was a total joke. No way was she entertaining the

possibility that her precious angels were lying through their teeth.

It was a good thing I'd put the glass down on the table because if I hadn't, I might have thrown it

at her. Was it only a few minutes ago that I'd been happy about the prospect of a meal with my

family? Now I had the urge to leap across the room and strangle all of them– Mara, Emma, and

Amy. No, wait. Maybe what I should do was strangle my stepsisters, then rip one of Mara's

expensive Italian leather boots off her foot and drive the heel like a spike right through her heart.

The refrigerator clicked on in the silence. As its engine whirred, I picked up the juice glass, put it

back

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into the cabinet, walked over to the fridge, and put the juice away. The whole time, nobody said

a word.

When I got to the basement door, I turned and faced my stepmother. "You know what, Mara? I'm

not implying anything."

I opened the door to my dungeon and pulled it shut behind me.

It was almost noon by the time the cab pulled up and I heard my dad walking into the house.

"Hello?" he called. "Hello, anybody home?" Mara answered him, but I didn't. I just lay on my bed, listening to Roxy Music on my iPod and thinking about how mad I was. How mad I was at

him.

It didn't take long before there was a knock at my door.

"Lucy?"

"Yeah?"

He opened the door and started downstairs.

"Lucy, I need to talk with you," he said, his foot hitting the bottom step. His voice sounded tired, and I remembered he'd spent most of the night in an airport.

"I don't really feel like talking, Dad," I said. I didn't sit up, and I didn't take off my headphones.

For a second I let myself enjoy the insane fantasy that he wasn't coming to talk to me about what

had happened with Emma and Amy, he was coming to talk to me about something completely

different. Lucy, last night at O'Hare I had an

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epiphany. What a nightmare you've been living. I am so incredibly sorry for everything I've put

you through, and I hope you can forgive me. Mara and I are getting a divorce. You and I are

moving back to San Francisco. Please pack up your stuff and be ready to leave for the airport in

an hour.

"Lucy, this is all very upsetting to me. What exactly happened last night?"

I sat up. "What is it you'd like to know, exactly}"

He seemed surprised by my answer, or maybe it was just my tone. Either way, he hesitated for a

second before saying, "Well... I guess I'd like to know what's going on."

I took my earphones out. "Really, Dad? Would you really like to know what's going on?"

He shook his head from side to side, already annoyed. "Lucy, you–"

"Okay, Dad, why don't I tell you what's going on. Here's what's going on. You get married. You

move me out here, you leave me with these people I barely know, you act like we're all supposed

to magically become this family, and then you run back to San Francisco so you can get to work

on your 'big case.' So you can get to be the happy, bi-coastal newlywed who doesn't have to give

up the biggest, greatest, most important, most fabulous, most incredible, most important, most

mind-boggling case in the universe. You just dump me here and–"

"Lucy, I didn't dump you here. You live here. This is your–"

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"Oh, wait, wait, wait!" I said, waving my arms. "Let me guess. Um ..." I put my hand up to my forehead and closed my eyes, like a game-show contestant who just needs a few seconds more to

think of the right answer. "It's my ... home. Right? Am I right, Dad?" I nodded my head with

fake enthusiasm.

He crossed his arms and leaned against the banister. "Lucy, I thought we'd talked about how

sarcasm isn't really helpful."

"Oh really, Dad? Then you tell me. What's helpful? What's helpful, Dad? Because let me tell you

something. This is not my home." I pointed at him. "You're my home. You, Dad. Not Mara. Not Emma and Amy. You. Or you were. But I guess I don't really have a home anymore, now do I?

And I guess that's not all that important to you, is it? That's just not as big a deal as your great big

case." I stared at him for a long minute, and then I lay back down and felt around the bed for my

headphones.

For a long beat, my dad was quiet, and then he said, "Lucy, it's–"

"You know what, Dad, I really don't feel like talking to you anymore. So if you don't mind, could

you please leave me alone?" I slipped my earphones back on and turned up the volume as loud as

I could stand it.

My dad didn't move, and I closed my eyes. When I opened them, he was gone.

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Chapter Twenty-six

I spent almost the whole weekend downstairs, sleeping or pretending to be asleep, not bothering

to pick up my cell when it rang or to check my voice mail. The last thing I could deal with was

telling Connor, Jessica, and Madison that I'd chosen the week before prom to tell my dad off in a

way that guaranteed I'd be grounded for life. When I heard my dad and Mara go out for dinner

Saturday night, I went upstairs and made a peanut-butter sandwich, then grabbed two bags of

baby carrots and a box of Muslix to see me through. Sunday afternoon, Emma and Amy's dad

dropped them off; later one or both of them knocked at my door, but I didn't respond.

I got up early Monday morning; the house was quiet and my dad's briefcase was still in the

downstairs hallway, which was unusual but not unprecedented. Once in a while he flew out to

California on Monday morning

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instead of Sunday evening. How ironic–the first time in months he was around for an extra night

and we weren't speaking to each other.

At lunch on my way to the studio, I ran into Connor.

"Yo, Red," he said. "Why didn't you call me back?" He slung his arm around my shoulder and started walking me in the same direction he'd been headed.

"Oh, god," I said. "I was having the worst weekend." It felt really nice to have Connor's arm around me as we walked together.

"That sucks, Red," he said. "You want to come to the gym with me?" He mimed lifting a set of free weights. "You know–root for the home team." He adopted the posture of a bodybuilder

posing for admirers. "Me and Dave and Matt are gonna lift for a while. It'll be so much cooler if

you're there."

Connor circled me, dribbling an imaginary basketball. "And he moves it up the court. He sets up

the shot. He scores!" Connor threw his hands over his head, victorious, and made the sound of a

crowd cheering wildly.

"Nice one," I said.

"Thanks, Red," he said, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist.

It felt so good to stand there with Connor holding me. It was like the whole horrible fight with

my family hadn't even happened. Tie nuzzled the back of my neck.

"I missed you, Red," he said.

And right then and there, I made a decision. Even if

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my dad grounded me, I was going to the prom. If I had to run away and live out the rest of my

days on the streets, so be it. Connor was taking some other girl over my dead body.

I turned around and we kissed. "I missed you, too," I said, when we finally came up for air. Had I really been grossed out by his kiss Friday night? Clearly my brain had experienced exposure to

some toxic chemical or something.

I went in for another kiss.

"Mmm, nice," he said, pulling away. "So you gonna come to the gym?"

Watching Connor, Dave, and Matt lift weights didn't exactly sound like the most exciting way to

spend a period, but Connor was the only bright spot in my otherwise dismal life. If he wanted me

to watch him work out, I'd watch him work out.

"Let me just finish this one thing," I said. My landscape was going about a million times faster than my self-portrait ever had, but I was still behind since I'd started on it so late. I'd sworn to

Ms. Daniels that I'd have it finished by the end of the week, and one section was proving almost

impossible to get right. "Give me twenty minutes."

"You know it," he said, backing away. God, he was handsome; I could still feel his lips on mine.

"Be there or be square."

Sam was leaving the studio as I was walking in, and since

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I was in my usual post-Connor-kiss haze, I barreled right into him.

"You know, art is not normally a contact sport," he said.

"I'm really sorry," I said. Clearly Connor needed his own warning label: do not attempt to resume normal activity within five minutes of kissing this person.

"No, it was all me," said Sam. "I'm running late."

I bent down and picked up the pen he'd dropped on the floor when we collided. "For a very

important date?"

"Thanks," he said, taking the pen and slipping it into his back pocket. "For a very unpleasant date, actually. I've got to get my tux."

I remembered how much fun Madison and Jessica and I'd had shopping for our dresses. "That'll

be great," I said, smiling both at the memory and my recent decision to go to the prom no matter

the consequences. "You'll probably really like it."

"Actually, I probably really won't," he said. Then he laughed, but it sounded forced. "Sorry, don't let me rain on your prom parade." He patted me on the shoulder and started down the corridor.

"See ya."

"See ya," I called after him.

The studio was totally empty. I set up my easel and started working, focusing on the tiny corner

of the canvas that had been giving me trouble. The green I'd mixed looked good, and I smeared it

a little with a sponge. Then I dipped my brush into some blue and swirled a small line in the

green.

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Yeah. I blotted the edges until the blue was a fuzzy shadow on the grass. Perfect. Dip, swirl, blot.

Dip, swirl, blot.

When I looked up at the clock, half an hour had passed. Damn. I totally hadn't meant to keep

Connor waiting. I put my painting away and pushed the easel back against the wall as fast as I

could, then brought my brush over to the sink to wash it. Of course the paint took forever to

come out; no matter how hard I scrubbed at the bristles, the water refused to run clear. Just as I

started to get really stressed out about how long everything was taking, I noticed that the rich

blue running down the drain was almost the exact same color as my prom dress. Like Connor

was going to remember I'd once been ten minutes late to meet him at the gym when he saw me in

that dress. The dress. I pictured my dress, pictured myself wearing it as I floated across the dance

floor toward a tux-clad Connor. How awesome was it going to be to feel his arms around me as

we slow danced the night away? Connor and Lucy at the prom. I closed my eyes to better see the

image.

A second later my eyes flew open. My heart was pounding and I couldn't catch my breath. I'd

just done what Madison told me to do at Roses are Red–pictured myself at prom, having the

most romantic time of my life, slow dancing with my perfect prince.

The only problem was, in my picture, I wasn't dancing with Connor.

I was dancing with Sam.

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