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

Автор книги: Melissa Kantor

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Chapter Twenty-nine

"Whoa, dude," said Connor, as we stepped into the lobby of the Plaza. He shaded his eyes with

his hand. "That's bright."

While we'd all sipped genteely at our flutes during the champagne toast at Madison's, like

consuming alcohol was no big deal, as soon as we got in the limo everyone started chugging

from flasks that Connor, Dave, and Matt had brought. Unfortunately one sip of whatever they

were drinking was all I could handle. It burned my throat and I gasped.

"What is that?" I asked.

"J.D., baby," he said, tapping the flask against his chest and belching. "Your good ole friend Jack Daniel's."

We'd been warned that once we arrived at the prom, we couldn't leave, so everyone wanted to

drink as much as possible on the thirty-minute drive to Manhattan.

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Kathryn, who apparently was a good friend of Jack Daniel's, sat on Connor's left, while I sat

squeezed between him and the door of the limo. The closer we got to Manhattan, the further

Kathryn's dress edged up her leg and the less aware of my presence Connor seemed to be.

I don't know what I'd expected, but prom wasn't exactly turning out to be the most magical night

of my life. If anything, it seemed to be like a lot of other nights. As soon as we arrived at the

hotel, all the girls went into the bathroom and all the guys went into the Palm Room. It was

almost as if we'd come together and they'd come together. Standing in the bathroom with

Madison and Jessica, I had the strangest feeling that we weren't even at the prom; we were just in

the bathroom at Piazzolla's. When we walked out, we'd be in the familiar linoleum and wood

dining room, and there'd be Dave and Connor and Matt sitting at a table littered with pizza crust

and crumpled paper napkins.

The table didn't have any pizza crust on it, but by the time we got there, the guys had thrown

their dinner rolls at one another. Madison went ballistic, and Matt looked sheepish. We sat down,

and without thinking, I took my napkin off my plate and lay it on my lap. Jessica hit Dave on the

shoulder and gestured for him to put his napkin on his lap. Then we all just sat there, not saying

anything.

Across the room I saw Jane come through the doorway. Her dress was bright yellow, long and

tight, with a

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plunging neckline, and she looked gorgeous. She paused to survey her domain as Sam walked in

behind her. Even though he was backlit by the bright light of the hallway, I knew it was him

because his hair was standing almost straight up, like he'd been pulling on it nonstop for hours.

When the door shut behind him, I saw he was wearing red Converse sneakers with his tuxedo,

and I couldn't help laughing to myself, as if Sam had just told me a great joke. I began to stand

up, planning to walk over and tell him I thought the sneakers were a good call, but just as I did,

he put his hand on the small of Jane's back to lead her to their table.

And all of a sudden, I got a sick feeling in my stomach. Because seeing Sam guide Jane across

the room, I knew. I knew. I knew why, that day in the studio, he was the person I'd imagined

slow dancing with. I knew why I'd missed him when he wasn't in class this week.

Most of all, I knew why tonight felt like the least magical night of my life.

I stayed where I was, half standing, half sitting, frozen for the long minutes it took Sam and Jane

to find their table. Then I forced myself to stop watching them, dropped to my seat, and took a

deep breath, unable to get out from under the hot wave of sadness that had washed over me.

"They really look great together, don't they?"

"I know. I love her dress."

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"It's sooo sexy."

Like everyone else, I had my eyes on the dance floor, where the prom king and queen were

dancing. Their crowns caught the reflected rays of the twirling disco ball and sent diamonds of

light around the room. Their arms were around one another, and I was trying to think if I'd ever

heard of a culture where brothers and sisters danced as closely as Kathryn and Connor were

dancing. Every few seconds someone whistled or yelled, "Go for it!" or just started clapping.

Kathryn was clearly relishing the attention. She kept smiling and waving, and when her crown

nearly slipped off, she caught it and dropped it back onto her head in a single graceful gesture

without missing a step.

I could feel Madison and Jessica's concerned stares even without looking at them. From the

second the prom committee chair had announced the names of the prom king and queen, they

hadn't left my side, telling me how crazy the committee was, how they'd just wanted seniors to

win, how Connor was totally in love with me.

"Connor's not even having a good time," Jessica said. She had her arm around me, and she

squeezed my shoulder.

"I think they look really awkward together," said Madison. "She's way too short for him."

"Excuse me," I said. "I'm going to go to the bathroom."

"Do you want us to come?" asked Jessica.

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I shook my head. "I'll be right back."

The hallway was quiet and empty. I trailed my hand along the elaborate chair rail, enjoying how

my heels sank into the soft carpet.

It was the first thing I'd enjoyed all night.

Jessica and Madison couldn't have been more wrong: Kathryn and Connor looked great together.

She'd been born to be prom queen. And he'd been born to be prom king. That they were fulfilling

their destinies was undeniable.

Equally undeniable was how little jealousy I felt.

The only thing I felt was relief. Total and complete relief. I didn't want to go to the Hamptons

and watch Connor and Dave and Matt get wasted. I didn't want to worry about whether or not I

liked kissing Connor anymore.

And most of all, I didn't want to talk about basketball. Not now. And not for a long, long time.

The season was over. It was time to get a real life.

As I approached the corner, I heard a girl's voice. She wasn't yelling, exactly, but she was

definitely pissed off.

"... believe it when you say that."

I turned the corner. Sam and Jane were in the hallway, halfway between me and the bathroom.

He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, and she was sitting on a low sofa across from

him.

"Jane," he said, "you're not listening to me."

I stopped in my tracks. Even though my overhearing

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them was a total accident, I felt sneaky, as though I'd been spying. As quickly and silently as

possible, I slipped around the corner and walked back in the direction I'd come from.

Kathryn and Connor were surrounded by other couples crowding the dance floor, but because of

their crowns it was still easy to spot them. Her arms were around his shoulders, and she had the

fingers of one hand buried in his hair. I went over to them and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey, Red," he said. "How are ya'?"

"I think I'm gonna go, Connor," I said.

Connor looked at me, his eyes bloodshot. "You're leaving, Red?"

"Yeah, I just don't think I have it in me to go to the Hamptons." Kathryn didn't bother concealing the fact that she was listening, nor did she try to hide the Cheshire-cat smile my announcement

elicited.

"Sure, Red," he said as they swayed back and forth to the music. "No worries."

I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the cheek, wondering if he'd even notice that

someone else would be saying I am when he asked, Who's my girl?

"See ya, Connor," I said.

"Yeah," he said, still dancing with Kathryn. "See ya."

Crossing the ballroom of the Plaza Hotel, I realized that

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at school on Monday everything would be the way it had been before Connor noticed me. I could

already see Jessica and Madison running off to meet Kathryn, too busy befriending Connor's new

girlfriend to bother with his old one. For a second I felt sad, thinking about how lonely lunch was

going to be. But then I remembered– dinner. My dad would be home for dinner. And at lunch I

didn't have to sit alone in the cafeteria if I didn't want to, I could just go to the studio and work

on my landscape. So maybe everything was going to be okay. Maybe in the end it was better to

have an annoying stepmother and no prince than a wicked stepmother and an annoying prince.

Just before I pulled the door open, I felt a hand on my back. I turned around, Connor's name

already on my lips.

"Connor, I don't–" But it wasn't Connor. It was Sam. "Hey," he said, slightly out of breath.

"Hey," I said.

"I just ..." He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "I just have to ..." He looked at me, looked away, looked back at me. "I ..." He laughed. "I can't believe I'm doing this." He put his hand up to his glasses and took them off. "This is going to be way easier if you're blurry." I had a second to notice how dark his eyes were before he looked away again. "Look, I know this is

going to sound crazy, but the thing is, I like

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you." He laughed at what he'd just said. "I know that's an incredibly seventh-grade way of

putting it, and I know you have a boyfriend, and I had a girlfriend up until a few minutes ago.

And I know this is totally the wrong moment for everything I'm saying, but it's been on my mind

for weeks, and now I'm about to leave, and if I don't say it tonight, I'm never going to get up the

guts to say it again. So. I like you. And if you ever want to dump your current Prince Charming, I

hope you'll consider letting me interview for the position." WHAT? "Sam, I–"

He popped his glasses back on his face and took a step toward the door. "Okay," he said. "Now that I have thoroughly embarrassed myself, I'm going to let you return to your fairy-tale life." He

made an elaborate bow and turned to go.

"Sam, wait!" I practically had to run to catch up with him. The heel of my shoe caught on the

carpet, and I would have fallen if he hadn't grabbed me.

"Whoa," he said, holding me by the elbow. "Careful."

"Sam?" I said, looking into his eyes.

"Lucy?" he said, looking straight back at me.

I took a deep breath. "Sam, let's blow this fairy tale."

He laughed uncertainly, then stopped when he saw the expression on my face. "Seriously?" he

asked.

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"Seriously," I said.

But as we turned to go, I realized there was one more thing I needed to do. Just because I was

sure they were going to start ignoring me big-time on Monday didn't mean it was okay to leave

without saying good-bye.

"Could you give me a second?"

"Sure," said Sam. "I'll meet you by the door."

I looked around, finally spotting them on the dance floor. As soon as she saw me, Madison

grabbed my arm. "Hey," she said, "where were you? You weren't in the bathroom."

"Are you okay?" asked Jessica. "Connor's being a total ass." I looked past her to where Kathryn and Connor weren't dancing so much as they were standing in one place, arms around each other.

"No, he's not," I said. "I think he really likes her."

"Are you crazy?" Jessica took both my hands in hers. "He likes you."

"The thing is, Jessica, he doesn't even know me." I let go of her hands since I knew the next

sentence out of my mouth would probably make her want to let go of mine. "And anyway, it

doesn't matter because I don't really like him."

Jessica's eyes grew enormous, and Madison clutched her hands to her chest. "You don't?" they

asked in unison.

"Then, who do you like?" asked Jessica.

"I like ..." Without my meaning them to, my

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eyes found Sam standing by the door. He waved at me.

Jessica saw. "You like Sam Wolff? No way.''''

I gave her a tiny smile. "Way," I said.

Jessica considered what I'd said. "But doesn't he just stare at you and not say anything? How can

you know you like him?"

I laughed. "He doesn't not say anything."

And then, like a character in a comic strip who suddenly gets an illuminated lightbulb over her

head, Jessica shouted, "Oh, I know! It's because you're both into art and stuff." She nodded to

emphasize the accuracy of her insight.

"Totally," said Madison, nodding too. She looked over at Sam and narrowed her eyes. Then she

looked back at me. "Actually, he's kind of cute," she said.

"Thanks," I said. I let my eyes rest on Sam for a second before turning back to Madison and

Jessica. "Well, have fun in the Hamptons."

"I wish you were coming," said Madison. "You have to call us while we're there."

"And you'll come over Sunday night," said Jessica. "So we can debrief."

"Really?" I said, surprised.

"What do you mean, 'really'?" Madison looked confused.

"Yeah," said Jessica. "I mean, we're not going to see you all weekend." She and Madison both hugged me. Before letting go, Jessica gave me one last piece of advice.

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"If your stepmother says you can't come Sunday, just tie her up and lock her in the closet."

"I don't think it'll come to that," I said. "I'll see you Sunday."

And as I crossed the ballroom, I felt a tremendous surge of joy. Who knew you could dump your

prince and still keep your loyal court?

Outside the wind was whipping a few pale clouds across the sky, which was bright with the

nearly full moon. A row of horse-drawn carriages was lined up across the street, waiting to take

people on rides through Central Park.

"I can't believe this is happening," Sam said. He took my hand and gestured with it toward the

horses. "So, what do you think? Want to ride off into the sunset on a slightly anemic steed?"

I took his other hand in mine and turned him to face me. "Look, you should know. It turns out I

don't really have a wicked stepmother," I said. "So I don't believe in fairy tales anymore."

"Really?" He furrowed his forehead. "No magic spells?" I shook my head. "No fairy godmothers?" I shook it again. "What happened? Ding-dong the witch is dead."

I laughed. "She's not dead." I looked across the street, as if the answer to Sam's question was

hiding somewhere in the park. When it didn't emerge, I just

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shrugged. "I don't know," I said. "It's like everything changed but nothing changed, you know what I mean?" Sam shook his head. "Yeah, I don't exactly know either."

Sam put his hands on either side of my face. "Well, anyway, I'm glad," he said. "It must really suck to have a wicked stepmother." He kissed me lightly on the lips. "Then again, I wouldn't

have minded being your Prince Charming."

I slipped my arms over his shoulders and touched his soft, curly hair. "Oh, yes you would have,"

I said.

Sam wrapped his arms around my waist and leaned his forehead against mine. "Well, if you still

want to be a princess, that's okay by me."

I considered it for a second. "You know, I think I'll pass," I said.

"Suit yourself," said Sam. And then, just as we were about to kiss, he froze. "Wait, we still get to have the happy ending, right?"

"Oh, definitely," I said, tilting my face up to his. "We definitely get to have the happy ending."

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I am lucky enough to owe thanks to Ben Gantcher, Neal Gantcher, Elizabeth Rudnick, the Saint

Ann's Community, Angle Sheldon, and my extraordinary editor, Helen Perelman.

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Check out Melissa Kantor's newest story...

The Breakup Bible

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***

I Am Trying to Break Your Heart

In nineteenth-century novels, characters die of heartbreak. Literally. A girl gets dumped, and

she's so grief-stricken she suffers a "brain fever," or goes wandering out on the moors, and the next thing you know the whole town is hovering by her bedside while a servant gallops on a

desperate midnight ride to fetch the doctor. Only, before you can say Bring on the leeches!, the

guilt-ridden rake who abandoned our heroine is strewing rose petals on her grave and begging

God to Please, take me, too, because his ex is dead, dead, dead.

According to Mrs. Hamilton, my English teacher, this is known as a "convention." After writing

convention on the blackboard, she gave us a lecture explaining that conventions are things we

accept when they happen in books and movies even though they never happen in

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real life. Then she asked us to think of some modern conventions, like how characters on soap

operas get amnesia constantly, and in teen movies the only thing an ugly girl needs to be pretty is

contact lenses and a new haircut, when in real life if an ugly girl gets contact lenses and a new

haircut, she's just an ugly girl with contact lenses and a new haircut.

But when Max told me that he'd "been thinking about it a lot lately" and had "decided it would be better if we were just friends," it occurred to me that dying of a broken heart might not be a

convention. I unbuckled my seat belt, slid out of his car, and shut the door. As the freezing

February air slapped my cheeks, I thought, That's the last time I'm going to get out of Max's car.

And right after that I thought, I'm never going to kiss Max again. And then I thought, Max isn't my boyfriend anymore. And that's when I knew I was going to be sick. I got inside with barely

enough time to drop my bag and make it to the upstairs bathroom before I hurled. And then I

spent about an hour lying on the cold tile floor trying to get up the strength to walk from the

bathroom to my room, which is a distance of roughly ten feet. And when I finally did manage to

make it to my room, I just got into bed without taking off my clothes or anything. Right before I

fell asleep, I decided that whoever made the brilliant so-called medical decision that death by

heartbreak was

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only a "convention" of nineteenth-century literature clearly never had her heart broken.

Because if anything can make death feel like a truly desirable alternative, it's getting dumped.

***

I'd had an insane crush on Max Brown since I first joined the

Hillsboro High Spectator

as a

lowly freshman reporter. By this fall, when I was a junior and the newly appointed managing

editor of the paper, and Max was a senior and editor in chief, I liked him so much I could hardly

read in his presence (which, as you can imagine, made editing the paper something of a

challenge). But even though we were constantly engaging in flirty banter, and he was forever

saying stuff to me like "Jennifer, you know I'd be lost without you," nothing ever happened.

Until.

Until the third Saturday in September, when Jeremy Peterson chose to honor the trust his parents

had placed in him by throwing an enormous kegger at his house while they went out of town for

the weekend.

Jeremy Peterson and Max are really good friends, so there was zero doubt Max would be in

attendance (and, by extension, zero doubt I'd be there). Arriving fashionably late, my friends

Clara and Martha and I passed Max's Mini Cooper parked in the driveway. Both of

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them gave me significant looks as we walked by the car, but none of us said a word; good secret

agents know better than to discuss a mission in progress.

The three of us hung out in the kitchen for a while drinking beers, and then I said I was going to

go to the bathroom, which we all knew was a lie; clearly I was going to look for Max. We had a

positive car ID. He was in the house. The only question that remained was: where?

I got my answer walking down the hallway that ran past the den. There he was, sitting on the

Petersons' modular sofa talking to Jeremy and two other seniors, Michael Roach and Greg Cobb.

Just as I walked by, Max turned his head toward the open door and brushed the hair out of his

eyes. And then he saw me. And I saw him see me, and he saw me see him see me, and it was like

all those months and years of flirting suddenly exploded or something. I swear to God you could

have powered all of Westchester County on the look that passed between us.

Max raised an eyebrow at me and gestured to the empty spot on the sofa next to him, and I went

over and sat down without either of us saying a word. Then I sat there listening to him and the

three other coolest guys in the senior class argue about whether Franz Ferdinand or Wilco is the

band that's more likely to

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leave an enduring musical legacy. (At first I didn't actually realize they were bands–I thought

they were people, and that Wilco was a guy who went by a single name, like Madonna or

Beyoncé.)

During a particularly heated exchange between Jeremy and Michael, Max turned to me.

"Do you know these bands?" Max is a lot taller than I am, but the couch was the kind you sink

way down into, and we were both leaning back, almost reclining, so his mouth was only an inch

or two away from my ear.

Normally I would have tried to come up with some witty way to avoid admitting I hadn't even

realized they were bands, but there was nothing normal about this night. So I just said, "No."

Max stood up. "Hey, Jeremy, you got any Wilco in your room?"

Jeremy was leaning forward, telling Michael he was starting to sound like a guy who listens to

smooth jazz. He looked over at Max, gave him a quizzical scowl and said, "Is the Pope

Catholic?" before turning back to Michael.

Max reached his hand down to me. "Come on," he said. His hand was warm, and when I stood

up, he intertwined his fingers with mine.

He took me through the den and up a narrow flight of dark stairs. Without saying a word, he

crossed the hall

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and entered a room, pulling me in behind him before closing the door. Then he turned on a small

desk lamp and ran his fingers down a stack of precariously balanced CDs.

"God, what a loser," he muttered, pausing at one of them and laughing a little to himself. I'd

barely had time to look around Jeremy's room and take in the unmade bed, the open closet with

clothes on the floor, the poster over the desk from an antiwar protest, when Max popped a disc

into the CD player and turned off the lamp. Before my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I could

feel him standing next to me.

"Like it?" he asked.

My heart was pounding. It took me a minute to focus on the music, an almost atonal series of

notes played by different instruments.

"Too early to tell," I answered. "Give me a second."

"Sure," he said. He'd taken my hand again, and now he took the other one. We stood there for a

long moment, neither of us moving. "Well?" he asked finally.

A man with a husky voice started singing. I couldn't make out the lyrics, but I liked his voice, the

way the instruments seemed to find and hold a melody around it.

I could see Max now in the dim light of the digital display. "Yeah," I said. "I like it."

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He leaned down so slowly I could barely tell he was moving. "I'm glad," he whispered. And then

we were kissing, and I was thinking about how amazing it felt to be kissing him and how soft his

lips were and how perfect it was to wrap my arms around his waist and then to run my fingers

through his dark, silky hair.

But you know what I should have been thinking about? I should have been thinking about the

girls in those novels. Because if I'd thought a little more about them and a little less about Max's

hair and lips and how it felt when he put his hands on my face and said about our kiss, "I've been

wanting to do that since I met you," then maybe I wouldn't be thinking about them now, five

months later, having just been informed by the love of my life that we'll be better off as friends.

Maybe then I wouldn't be thinking that I, like them, could actually die of heartache.