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

Автор книги: Melissa Kantor

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Chapter Three

When it was just me and my dad, we used to eat at any old time, but as far as Mara's concerned,

if you don't sit down to a hot meal at seven on the dot, you're some kind of irredeemable savage.

And "sitting down to a meal" doesn't just mean sitting down. It means china, silver, candles, and elaborate floral arrangements. Mara quit her "job" (as a part-part-part-time PR consultant) about fifteen seconds after my dad proposed, so now she's free to expend massive quantities of time

and energy obsessing about important food-related accessories, such as crème brulée ramekins

and something called demitasse spoons. Once, she walked into the kitchen when I was eating lo

mein directly out of the carton with my fingers; she gasped and put her hand to her chest as if

she'd found me gnawing on a human head.

As usual no one said much to me all through

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dinner–Mara and the Princesses just compared theories about celebrity couples and upcoming

fashion trends. I couldn't exactly be upset about being ignored since my other option was to be

enlightened about the ways I am physically and/or sartorialy repulsive.

After dinner the phone rang, just like it does every night at eight. I was standing right by it

holding a pile of dishes I'd carried in from the dining-room table. I dumped the dishes in the sink

and grabbed the receiver.

"Hey, Goose, how's it going?" asked my dad when I answered.

"Okay," I said.

"How was school?"

Even though my dad asks me that every time we talk, I can tell he doesn't really want to know

the truth. I mean, who wants to hear his daughter is a social pariah? Instead of lingering on the

gory details of my unsocial life, I told him how Connor, Dave, and Matt thought Chicago was

going to beat L.A.

"Wow, those Glen Lake kids really are stupid," he said.

"Not to mention totally gross," I said, and I launched into a description of the make-out session I'd witnessed at lunch. Halfway through my verbal rendition of the couples' game of doubles

tonsil-tennis, Princess One, who was sitting with her sister at the kitchen table IM-ing boys

across the tri-state area from their mother's laptop, interrupted.

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"Are you talking about Jessica Johnson?" she asked. "Wait, hold on," I said to my dad. I turned around. "What?"

"I said are you talking about Jessica Johnson? Because she's totally awesome," she said.

I heard my dad calling my name through the receiver. "Hang on a sec," I said, still looking at

Princess One. "How do you know Jessica Johnson?" I asked.

Princess Two sighed and blew a stream of air up at her bangs. "Hel– lo! She's only, like, Jennifer's older sister." Jennifer, I had been informed recently, is the name of the girl who's currently the

Princesses' best friend. Like the chairmanship of the European Union, this position rotates

periodically.

"Wait a second, you're telling me there are parents around here whose last name is Johnson who

actually named their children Jennifer and Jessica? What's their brother's name, Jack?"

"Jason," the Princesses said in unison.

I started laughing. "What?" they asked, looking at me.

"You don't think it's kind of stupid to give all your kids names that begin with the same letter as

their last name?" I asked.

" I like it," said Princess Two. "It's classy."

I was about to say it was as classy as a porn star, but by now my dad was practically screaming

my name.

"Sorry," I said, putting the receiver back up

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to my ear. "I just had to navigate some Long Island lunacy."

When my dad and Mara decided to get married, there was this whole debate about where we

should live. Because the Princesses' dad lives the next town over and they have about twice as

much time left in school as I do, the decision was made that my dad and I would depart San

Francisco rather than subjecting the Princesses to a potentially traumatic relocation across the

Mississippi River. If you ask me, this was a huge mistake, since leaving the 516-area code is the

only thing that could have saved my stepsisters from growing up to be Humvee-driving, acrylic-

nail wearing, soap-opera addicted housewives.

Unfortunately for them, nobody asked me.

"So," said my dad, "did you see the Times? Stanford's looking pretty good. I think this could be their year." My dad, who went to Stanford, has a loyalty to his alma mater that I can only

describe as perverse. In spite of the fact that their team has not even made it close to the NCAA

finals in decades, he continues to bet on them year after year.

Before I could answer, I heard a click, which meant Mara had picked up the extension in the den.

It's this totally annoying thing she does–getting on the phone with me and my dad. It's like she's

afraid if she doesn't supervise him every second, he'll realize what a mistake he made marrying

her.

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"Hello, darling," she said. "Hi, honey," he said. Gag me.

I did what I always do when Mara butts in on our conversations: I ignored her.

"It's only February," I said to my dad. "I can't start thinking NCAA yet."

"Wait," said Mara. "I just got used to NBA. What's NCAA?"

My dad laughed as though Mara had just said the most amusing thing he'd ever heard. "We'll

cross that bridge when we come to it, Mrs. Norton," he said, still chuckling. "Sweetheart, you are officially cute."

I cleared my throat to remind him he wasn't exactly having a private conversation.

"Lucy, I'm just telling you," he said, "Stanford is having a killer season."

I groaned. The truth is, even if I thought Stanford had a chance of winning the NCAA, which

they don't, I could never root for the school that is responsible for my current state of misery.

Had my father and Mara's brother not been on the same floor together freshman year at Stanford,

and had Mara's brother not decided to look up his old classmate two years ago when he had

business in San Francisco, and had my dad not, shortly thereafter, had a conference at his firm's

New York office, and had he, after that conference, not met his old classmate for a drink, and

had his old classmate not

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brought his divorced sister to said drink, and had said old classmate's sister not been totally on the prowl for a new husband, and had my dad not fallen for a woman who thinks interior

decorating is a liberal art, I would not currently be living in social exile, related by marriage to

twelve-year-old twins who believe getting a cut and color is a spiritually enriching experience.

"Stanford's going down, Dad. Take a reality check." It may have been cold comfort that Stanford

had zero chance of taking the NCAA title, but it was comfort nonetheless.

"It's incredible," said Mara. "If you had told me a year ago that I'd have a daughter who was a sports fanatic, I never would have believed it."

I didn't say anything. If you ask me, it's totally weird how she's started referring to me as her

daughter. This summer, right before they got married, Mara took me out for dinner and gave me

this whole speech about how she would never try to replace my mother and how she totally

understood I could never love her the way I had loved my real mother, but she hoped she could

play a role in my life. I told her that I didn't really remember my real mom all that well

considering she died of cancer when I was only three, so it wasn't exactly like there was anything

to replace. I meant I didn't really feel like I needed a mother, but it's become clear that Mara thinks I meant I wanted her to be my mother.

"MOM!" screeched the Princesses.

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"What is it?" I could hear Mara in both my right ear, through the phone, and in my left, from the den. She was everywhere at once.

"We need you!"

"Coming." I heard the click of the phone as she hung it up

"Hey, Dad," I said, taking advantage of our having a minute to talk without Mara listening in.

"You want to go to the Guggenheim with me next Saturday?"

"Sure, Goose. That would be fun. We haven't been to a museum in a while."

I couldn't believe how easy that had been. Why hadn't I suggested we do something alone

together before?

Mara came running into the kitchen. "Yes, girls?"

"Never mind," said Princess One, not bothering to look up from the screen. "It's working now."

Mara wasn't even mad that she'd run all the way across the house for nothing. She just walked

over to where I was still on the phone.

"Lucy, could you finish helping to clear the table?" I loved how she said "helping," like anyone besides me was doing it.

"Well, bye, Dad," I said, taking Mara's not-so subtle hint.

"Bye, Goose. See you tomorrow." I gave Mara the phone and headed into the dining room,

where I discovered neither of the Princesses had cleared so much as a

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fork from her place. When I went back into the kitchen carrying their stuff, I almost made a joke

about how Cinderella should know better than to think her stepsisters might actually clean up

after themselves, but I knew nobody but me would think it was funny.

People never think things that are true are funny.

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Chapter Four

"Lucy, I just know we're going to find some lovely furniture for your room on this trip. I'm sooo glad you could come with us today."

It was Saturday morning, and we were walking along the main street of Lomax, New York, a

Hudson River Valley town that's cute with a capital K. Every place we passed was either a bed

and breakfast or an antique furniture store. When we first arrived, I'd asked a salesman at Jane's

Junk and Valuables if there was a place in town that sold CDs, and he looked at me like I'd

inquired about purchasing a hand-held rocket grenade launcher.

"Doug, honey, look at this." Mara pulled my father toward a picture window that held a gigantic

piece of furniture I now knew was called a breakfront. "Wouldn't that just look yummy in the

foyer?"

"It's nice, sweetheart," said my dad. "You want to go inside and have a look at it?"

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Mara's eyes lit up. "How do you know me so well? Of course I do." He held the door open for her and she practically danced across the threshold. (At least he didn't carry her.)

"You coming, Goose?" asked my dad. He asked like I had a choice, like if I said no I wouldn't be accused of Having a Bad Attitude. Apparently if you don't think examining ancient wooden

furniture in tiny little towns is just the dandiest way to spend your free time, you Have a Bad

Attitude. You also Hurt Mara's Feelings, which is a very, very bad thing to do. That's why I was

stuck on today's little outing–because last weekend, instead of lying and saying I had a lot of

friends or work or anything that might keep me from spending my day comparing late-early

Victorian breakfronts with early-late Victorian breakfronts, I had made the catastrophic error of

admitting I'm just not all that into furniture shopping. That was last Saturday morning. Last

Sunday morning, my dad came into my room and told me that Mara's feelings were very, very

hurt, and he certainly hoped I'd reconsider and come with them next weekend. Even though he

used the word hope he clearly meant know as in, "I know you'll reconsider and come with us next weekend, or you will be grounded for the rest of your life."

I told him I was looking forward to joining them.

I followed Mara into the store. "Look around, Goose," said my dad. "Maybe you'll find

something you like for your room."

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As if it weren't bad enough that I was living in a furniture-free zone, Mara had added insult to

injury by basically redoing the entire house in the seven months since we moved in. I once made

the mistake of asking my dad if it didn't strike him as being just the tiniest bit suspicious that

she'd been able to select, order, and have shipped from England an entire living-room set while

continuing to claim that there was not a single chest of drawers in the entire New York

metropolitan area worthy of my basement bedroom. My dad just got really stern and said, "What

are you implying, Lucy? That Mara doesn't want to furnish your room?" Actually that was

exactly what I'd been implying, but watching him get like that, all cold and scary, totally freaked

me out. So I just said, "Nothing. I'm not implying anything," and never mentioned it again.

I pretended to be looking at a dresser roughly the size of the Arc de Triomphe while Mara

squealed with pleasure over the breakfront. Finally her cries of excitement ("Look, honey, a tiny drawer! " ) were more than I could take, and I made my way to the back of the store, where furniture was piled so crazily it was almost impossible to find a space to stand. Then my eyes hit

on something that actually got my attention–in a good way.

"Dad! Hey, Dad! Check this out." It must have taken my dad about twenty minutes to respond;

no doubt it's pretty hard to pull yourself away from a scintillating breakfront tête à tête.

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"Yeah?" he finally answered.

"Make a left," I said. "I'm right around the corner where the little table is."

"Wow, this is terra incognita," said my dad, climbing over a footstool.

"And look what I discovered," I said. Leaning against the wall was an old-fashioned wooden

easel. The chain that attached the legs was delicately wrought filigree, and the wood itself was a

dark cherry, carved everywhere in an intricate pattern. It looked like an easel Monet or Ingres

might have used. "Pretty cool, huh?" I said.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "It's amazing." He knelt down. "Look at this." He pointed toward the floor.

"Wow." I hadn't noticed that the legs ended in tiny, carved lion paws. "That's beautiful."

Kneeling in the dim light of the antique shop, I realized this was probably the first time in almost

a year I was actually getting a minute alone with my dad. So it didn't exactly come as a surprise

when I heard Mara calling his name.

"Doug? Doug, where are you?" Her tone bordered on frantic.

"In the back, honey," he called, standing up. "Make a left at the marble table."

"It's so dusty back here."

Mara prefers her antiques nice and clean. It's okay that furniture's been used, as long as it doesn't look used.

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"Look what Lucy found," my dad said, pointing at the easel. "Isn't it amazing?"

Mara made a bright face. "Oh, it's lovely!" she said. "What a nice piece. It's like something you'd find in a museum."

Right then I knew I'd never be allowed to get the easel. If Mara had just said it was nice, maybe

there'd be a chance, but "It's like something you'd find in a museum" translated to "This comes into the house over my dead body."

My dad didn't get it at first. "Oh, you like it?" he asked.

"I love it," she said, nodding energetically. "It's really a shame we don't have a place for such an original piece."

Unlike my dad, I got where Mara was going with her faux enthusiasm, but I couldn't believe she

was really prepared to walk away from something so beautiful. "I thought it could go in my

room," I said.

Mara's nodding turned to head shaking and she smiled a sad smile. "I hear what you're saying,

Lucy. I just don't think it's quite right for the space."

Yeah, 'cause you wouldn't want to buy something that would clash with nothing.

"Well, maybe we could work around it. You know, you could pick furniture that would match it

somehow."

"Mmmm, yeah." She pursed her lips, like she was thinking really hard about what I was saying.

"Unfortunately, I just don't think that's going to work."

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"Well, why not?" I asked. My voice came out sharper than I'd meant it to.

My dad, who had been examining the scrollwork at the base of the easel, looked up. I could tell

he'd been too engrossed in the carving to hear a word that was said until now, so as far as he was

concerned, I was taking this edgy tone with Mara for no reason at all.

"Lucy, I know you're disappointed," she said. "But right now we really have to focus on the essentials."

She turned and made her way to the front of the store. My dad put his hand on my shoulder.

"Maybe another time, Goose," he said.

"Yeah, maybe," I said.

While my dad paid for the breakfront and Mara and the salesman set up a good day to have it

delivered, I stood by the door, idly thinking about the only good thing that had happened to me

recently–that wink I'd gotten from Connor Pearson. I was still thinking about it as we left the

store and started walking down the block. He hadn't just winked at me, either, I remembered.

He'd given me this really charming smile, too. The wink. The smile. The wink. The–

"Oh, Lucy." Mara put her hand on my arm. "I left my jacket back at the store. Would you run back and get it for me?"

The wink, the smile ... the reality.

Cinderella does not get weekends off.

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Chapter Five

Luckily, Ms. Daniels was done conferencing, so after I got my lunch Monday, I headed to the

studio to eat it. On my way down the humanities corridor, I walked by Connor Pearson, who had

his arm slung casually around Kathryn Ford. They looked like something out of a catalog

advertising extremely beautiful teenagers. Just as I was trying to stop staring at him, Connor

Pearson looked in my direction. Our eyes met and he studied me for a second, like he could

almost but not quite remember who I was. Then he smiled a tremendous smile.

"Heeey–nice call on that Lakers game."

Instead of coming up with a witty response or just shrugging blithely, like I'm the kind of girl

who's always getting compliments on her athletic acumen from hot senior guys, I totally froze. I

just stood there, a deer in headlights.

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Luckily my response (or lack thereof) didn't matter at all. Before even the wittiest person could

possibly have tossed off the cleverest response, he was gone.

The art room was empty, but it didn't feel deserted. Handel's Water Music was playing on the

tiny radio Ms. Daniels has on her desk, and the room's familiar smell of paint and turpentine and

brewing coffee was all the company I needed. I flopped down on the paint-spattered sofa in the

corner, pulled my sketch pad out of my bag, and idly flipped through the pages while nibbling

the tasteless sandwich I'd just purchased. Was Ms. Daniels right? Was my art taking a direction?

As I turned the pages, I tried to see my work as a stranger might, looking for patterns in the

random sketches I'd drawn over the course of the past month. But as far as I could tell,

everything looked more or less the same. I wanted to believe Ms. Daniels, that I was developing

as an artist. But even calling myself an artist (albeit a developing one) seemed pretentious. I

looked across the room at one of Sam Wolff's paintings. It was of a tree in winter–no leaves,

dollops of wet snow dripping off branches. Like all of his work, it pulled you in, made you feel

you were there, that if you touched the tree's bark, February's cold and damp would seep into

your skin. Now, he was an artist. Unfortunately, he was also an antisocial jerk.

Was it possible for a person to have talent and a normal social life?

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Maybe the real question was: Why am I, who has neither, fantasizing about having both?

When I got to the cafeteria on Friday, the sandwiches weren't out yet, which meant I had to stand

alone waiting by the cash register for about ten years. I tried to cultivate a cool, disinterested

demeanor, as if I were so above high school I didn't even know I attended one. I'm actually deep

in thought about extremely important intellectual trends. Even if you tried to approach me, I

probably wouldn't respond. When the cafeteria lady finally dumped a pile of sandwiches into the

basket, I just grabbed one, not bothering to check its contents, threw some money in her

direction, and raced toward the door.

I was halfway to freedom when I heard my name being called.

"Hello! Lucy Norton!" I looked around. Jessica Johnson and Madison Lawler were sitting at a

table, waving frantically in my direction.

For a split second I considered pointing to myself and mouthing, "Who, me?" but considering

that A) I am not a character in a sitcom, and B) they were both staring directly at me while

Jessica yelled my full name, I chose instead to walk across the cafeteria to where they were

sitting. As soon as I got to the table, Jessica grabbed my arm so hard her nails dug into my skin.

"Hey," I said. My greeting was casual in spite of

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Jessica's clutching at me like I was the only thing standing between her and a lifesaving organ

transplant.

"Can I just say that we thought you were never going to get here," said Jessica, pulling me toward her. She turned to Madison, who was nodding encouragingly. "Didn't I say, 'I'm totally

going to start searching for her if she doesn't show up soon'?" Madison kept nodding, her

ponytail following her head up and down, like punctuation.

"Oh," I said, though I considered asking, Do you possibly have me confused with someone else?

Madison expertly flicked a wisp of hair out of her face. Then she pointed at a chair across the

table from her. "Sit."

I pulled out the chair and sat, waiting for my next command. Bark! Roll over! Jessica raised her

eyebrows at me. "So," she said.

"So," I repeated.

"So," said Madison, "what fiery redhead who's new in the sophomore class has caught the eye of which–"

"Excuse me," said Jessica loudly, "I believe this is my little announcement." But Jessica didn't really seem to mind being interrupted. In fact, she smiled at Madison, and then both of them

giggled. The whole thing was starting to make me very, very nervous. I squeezed my mystery

sandwich, my hand sweaty against the Saran Wrap.

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"Okay," said Jessica, taking a deep breath. "Who is the cutest guy in the entire school? Hint: he's a senior and he's on the basketball team."

Was this a trick question? Both Dave and Matt were seniors. I decided to stall for time.

"Well, that's kind of subjective," I said carefully.

While Madison made a face (either because of my stalling or because she didn't know what

subjective meant), Jessica continued, "Does the name Connor Pearson mean anything to you?"

For a second I didn't say anything; I just opened and closed my mouth, like a fish. Then, as

calmly as I could, I repeated, "Connor Pearson?"

Jessica leaned back without saying a word and raised her eyebrows, first at me and then at

Madison. For a split second, I went cold with fear. Was this some elaborate, humiliating joke

they'd concocted? I stayed silent, trying to re-create the set of circumstances that would have

resulted in Madison and Jessica's deciding they wanted to take time out of their busy lives to

torment me, but it was impossible. Let's face it: if Madison had the creative energy to come up

with a scheme like the one I was imagining, she probably would have been in a more advanced

math class.

"What about Connor Pearson?" I asked, keeping my voice even. Maybe this was simply some

kind of Glen Lake High citizenship quiz. What is our school mascot? How would you get from

the science lab to the theater

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without going through the lobby? Who is the cutest senior in the school?

Jessica shook her head, clearly bewildered by how difficult I was making this for everyone. Then

she reached across the table and touched my hand, like maybe physical contact could penetrate

my obtuseness. "How about this about Connor Pearson." She paused dramatically and squeezed my fingers. "Connor Pearson likes ... drumroll, please ..." She turned to make sure Madison was

staring at her as intently as I was before turning back to me. "Lucy Norton."

A warm tingly sensation started in my head and proceeded to make its way down my body.

Unlike most redheads, I don't have freckles and I don't blush–at least on the outside. But I could

feel myself growing warmer; a trickle of sweat formed underneath my bra strap, and the

sandwich almost slipped out of my hand.

Madison turned to Jessica. "She's speechless," she announced, grinning.

Jessica was grinning, too. "I told you she would be." She raised her eyebrows at Madison before

turning back to me. "Connor told Dave to tell me to tell you that you should come to the game

tonight. He said he thinks–" she paused to make eye contact with both of us, "you're cool."

My heart was pounding and something was suddenly wrong with my head, which seemed to be

floating somewhere high above my body.

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I cleared my throat. "Doesn't he, um, like, go out with Kathryn Ford?"

Jessica made a face as if I'd suggested Connor went out with Dave. "They're just friends," she

said.

"Yeah," said Madison, waving my idea away like so much annoying cigarette smoke. "They're

just friends."

We all sat there for a second, digesting this piece of information. Then Jessica touched my hand

again and nodded enthusiastically. "So I say you should come to the game with us."

Madison's head bobbed up and down. "Yeah, Lucy. Come to the game tonight."

My brain was continuing to malfunction; I could see their lips move, but I could barely make out

what they were saying. "Um, sorry, did you say tonight?" My mouth was so dry I had to peel my

lips apart between words.

Jessica's smile turned to a grimace. "Whatever other plans you have, you have to cancel them."

Other plans? I almost laughed. When was the last time I'd had other plans?

Was this actually happening? Was I actually being invited to a basketball game by the hottest

guy at Glen Lake? It was almost as if–

"Oh my god," I said out loud. Because all of a sudden, staring across the table at Madison, the

truth hit me so hard I practically felt it smack me right between the eyes.

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Prince Charming was requesting my presence tonight.

Jessica, misunderstanding my epiphany, shrieked, "I know!" Then she stretched her hands out, one toward Madison, the other toward me. "So are you coming?" she asked.

For a second I just sat there, staring across the table. With their matching suede jackets, artfully

highlighted hair, and coordinated lipstick and eye liner, Madison and Jessica looked more like

teen models than fairy godmothers. But there was no doubt that fairy godmothers were exactly

what they were. Because you didn't have to be Walt Disney to see that my life was a fairy tale.

And finally, after all this time, I'd arrived at the part where I got to live happily ever after.

I waited a minute, giving myself time to let the significance of what was happening sink in. Then

I took a deep breath, laid my hand in Jessica's, and accepted my destiny.

"Definitely," I said.

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