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

Автор книги: Melissa Kantor

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Chapter Six

At five-thirty, just as I was finishing a second nervous breakdown and starting on my third, there

was a knock on the basement door.

"Lucy, may I come down?" It was Mara.

"Yeah, sure." She came down the stairs holding a sample square of carpet in her hand, something

I might have gotten excited about if she hadn't been coming downstairs with identical squares for

the past six months. Who knew there were so many shades of beige on the planet?

"How's it going?" she asked.

"Okay," I said. It was a good thing she hadn't shown up five minutes before, when I was trying to stop my head from spinning by putting it between my knees and taking deep breaths.

She surveyed the floor, which was covered in clothes and books. "This room's a bit of a mess,"

she said.

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"Yeah, sorry about that," I said.

Mara leaned against the wall, folding her arms across her chest. "I'd like to see you pick up after

yourself a little more, Lucy."

I was tempted to ask the point of picking up after myself if I had no place to put down whatever I picked up. But that would have meant a whole discussion about how hard Mara was working to

find just the right dresser and how much she wanted me to like my room and feel at home there

once it was decorated. With less than an hour to shower, decide what to wear, get dressed, and

have several more nervous breakdowns, this wasn't the time to explain to my stepmother that she

didn't have to worry about my room feeling like home. We all know that after she meets the

prince, Cinderella moves into the master bedroom suite of the royal palace. Once that happened,

Mara could douse my dungeon with kerosene and strike a match.

Rather than try and explain my new circumstances, I decided to keep things simple. "I'll

definitely clean up when I have a minute," I said. "I just can't do it right now."

"Do you have plans tonight?" Was it my imagination or did Mara sound shocked?

"Kind of," I said. Thinking about my plans, I started to get light-headed again; I hoped I wouldn't need to pant into a paper bag in front of my stepmother.

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"Oh?"

"I kind of got invited to the game," I said. "By these girls I know."

"Who are the girls?" she asked, like she has the Glen Lake yearbook memorized and would

immediately be able to recognize any one of the hundreds of girls I might have named.

"Um, they're just these girls I know," I said. Why is it I can spend a dozen Friday nights staring at the peeling walls of my "room" without anyone in the family so much as poking a head down

to see if I'm still alive, while the one time I actually have plans (major plans, plans that

necessitate extraordinary focus and massive preparation), my stepmother suddenly suggests we

sing a duet of "Getting to Know You"?

I really wanted to ask Mara to give me some privacy, but I had to be careful about rejecting her

motherly advances. If I do that, she gets all hurt, then she complains to my dad, and he gets mad

at me for not giving her a chance. The most I could risk was turning my back to her ever so

slightly as I started digging through a pile of clothes.

"How are you getting to the game?" Clearly Mara wasn't hip to the subtleties of body language.

"They're picking me up," I said, still not turning around.

There was a sharp intake of breath. "They drive? How old are they?"

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"They're sophomores," I said, giving up and facing her. "They're picking me up in a cab."

Mara thought about what I'd said for a minute. "What time will you be home?"

I did a double take. What time would I be home? In San Francisco I'd never had an official

curfew, I just had to call and let my dad know what time to expect me.

"I don't know," I said. "But I'll call if I'm going to be late."

"Excuse me?" said Mara. She said it like I'd just told her I'd call her from Charles de Gaulle if the evening went continental.

"I said I'll call if it gets late."

"Lucy, your father is not going to be happy when I tell him I have no idea what time to expect

you home."

I clenched my teeth. Like I needed her to tell me under what circumstances my father would or

would not be happy.

"Look, Mara, I don't know what to tell you. I won't be home too late." Remembering something

Jessica had said to me at lunch, I added, "I think the guys have a curfew during the season or

something."

Mara's eyes practically popped out of her head. Too late, I realized what I'd done. "The guys? "

she said.

"What guys?"

I forced myself to walk over to Mara and put my hand on her arm. We were in very, very

delicate territory.

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"I'm going to a basketball game with Jessica Johnson. You know, Jennifer's older sister?" Who

would have guessed I'd be grateful to my stepsisters for their intimate knowledge of the J-J-J-

Johnson family?

Mara nodded.

"Then we might get dinner after the game with some of the players," I added. "I'll be home by eleven." Really I had no idea what time I'd be home, but my dad's flight landed at six-thirty. By

eleven I'd be dealing with him, not her.

"We-ell," she said. "Eleven sounds reasonable."

For a split second I was afraid I wouldn't be able to stop myself from screaming at her. I don't

have a curfew. The rule is I just have to call if I'm going to be late. I only said I'd be home by

eleven to get you off my back, you evil, controlling witch.

Luckily I was able to repress the urge to express these feelings. The only thing I couldn't control

was how my hand tightened slightly on Mara's arm.

She confused my squeeze of rage with some kind of affectionate gesture and smiled at me. "I

only want what's best for you," she said.

"Oh, I know, Mara."

I bet that's what Cinderella's stepmother said, too.

Standing in front of my bathroom mirror in a T-shirt and sweatpants, I could see that getting rid

of Mara had catapulted me over one of the evening's many hurdles

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straight into another one: What was I going to wear?

My stepsisters' fashion advice echoed in my brain. Lucy, you're not wearing that are you? Lucy, your pants are sooo five minutes ago. Ten minutes ago. Yesterday. Last month. Last year.

Tonight I definitely did not want to look five minutes ago. I wanted to look now. I wanted to

look cute. I wanted to look sexy. I wanted to look cool. The problem was, I had absolutely no

idea what Glen Lake's standards were for hot, cute, sexy, or cool. At Wellington, everyone pretty much just wore jeans and T-shirts all the time. Even if there was a dance or something, people

dressed as casually as possible, like they would never in a million years do something as lame as

get dressed up for a school dance. I think the idea was to show up looking like you hadn't even

known there was a dance; you'd just gone out to walk the dog or buy cigarettes or something, and

the next thing you knew you were rockin' out with your classmates.

But people at Glen Lake dress up even for school. They wear outfits, color-coordinated shirts and pants and socks. I myself do not own any outfits. Unless you count jeans and a black T-shirt.

Which is my totally five-minutes-ago uniform.

No way was I going to wear jeans and a black T-shirt to the game after wearing it basically every

day of the year.

I finally decided to pair a tight, green scoop-neck

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T-shirt with a little black skirt, black tights, and black boots with a low, chunky heel. Over the T-

shirt, I put on an old Stanford sweatshirt of my dad's. I looked at myself in the mirror. It wasn't

bad. The sweatshirt said, "I'm super caz," while the skirt said, "I'm super sexy."

Unless I was wrong and the whole ensemble simply said, "I'm super freaky." I stared at my

reflection.

"Hey, Connor," I said nervously. My voice sounded high and tiny, Tropical Barbie pumped-up

on estrogen.

I cleared my throat. "Hey, Connor," I said again, dropping my voice down an octave.

Now I sounded like Harvey Fierstein.

A car honked outside. My heart started pounding and I got a feeling in the pit of my stomach like

I was about to throw up.

Another honk. I took a deep breath and exhaled, slowly.

"Hey, Connor," I said to the mirror. It sounded okay. Not perfect, but okay. I studied my

reflection. Something still wasn't quite right. I took off the sweatshirt.

The car honked again.

I reached up and pulled out the ponytail holder. My hair fell around my face and shoulders, a

wash of bright red.

I stared at myself, hard. With my hair down, I definitely didn't look like a female impersonator.

And the

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green T-shirt looked good against the red. Not bad. Not bad at all.

I flipped off the light and raced upstairs.

"Sorry we're late," said Jessica, as she and Madison slid over to give me room next to them in the backseat. "This one here"–she pointed at Madison–"took about ten years deciding what to

wear."

Madison shrugged and pointed at me. "I like your skirt," she said.

"Oh, thanks," I said, relieved.

"Hey, your little sisters are in my sister's class," said Jessica. "They're totally sweet."

The Princesses? Sweet?

"Uh, yeah," I said. "I guess Jennifer's their good friend." I managed not to add for now to the end of my sentence.

"Yeah, but she's a total brat," said Jessica. "She drives me crazy."

I knew there was a bonding opportunity presenting itself here, but I wasn't sure how to proceed.

Did I say the Princesses were total brats, too, or would that make me look like a bitch? Maybe I

was supposed to defend Jennifer, say she was sweet, like Jessica had said the Princesses were.

As I analyzed and rejected half a dozen platitudes, I realized six months in social Siberia had

taken their toll. I was no longer able to carry on even the most mundane conversation.

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While I was busy trying to come up with a banal yet deeply significant observation about my

monstrous stepsisters, the conversation moved on.

"Are you totally psyched about Connor?" asked Jessica.

"Well, I–"

"God, this color is way too dark," said Madison, who had taken a mirror out of Jessica's purse to check her lipstick.

It was true; her mouth was stained a disturbing shade of purple. She rubbed at her lips with a

tissue.

Jessica took her hair out of its ponytail, turning toward me as she fluffed it around her face.

"Wow," she said, "your hair is really red."

Was she making an observation or an accusation?

"Um, yeah," I said. My hand flew up to my head as if touching my hair would make it less red.

"I'm using your lip gloss," said Madison, reaching into Jessica's bag.

"Yeah, sure. Go ahead," said Jessica. She was still looking at me. "Is it natural?"

"Um, yeah," I said for the second time as Jessica took her bag back from Madison and dug

around in it.

I should never have left my hair down. What had I been thinking? I felt utterly exposed, like I

was living out the dream where you're walking down the hall in school and you suddenly realize

you're not wearing any clothes. "My stepsisters keep telling me to dye it," I said, trying

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to control my tone so it fell somewhere between statement and question. Was there a ponytail

holder in my bag?

"Why would you dye it?" asked Jessica, running her brush through her hair. The look she gave

me was one of honest confusion. "It's totally hot."

"Oh, thanks," I said, forcing a laugh. "I mean, I wasn't seriously thinking of dyeing it."

But, of course, for a second there, I had been.

I'd never been to a high-school basketball game before. Officially, Wellington has a basketball

team, but they're not exactly state champion material, and no one I knew ever followed their

record too closely. Glen Lake's team, on the other hand, is a juggernaut, something the bards are

expected to be singing of for the next hundred years.

As soon as we arrived I checked the score: 5-0, Glen Lake. The visiting team was taking a free

throw. I've always loved watching players set up at the foul line. The way they dribble slowly,

stop, dribble again. They're like religious figures working themselves into a mystical trance. The

guy making this shot was nervous, and he held the ball for a long time before tossing it toward

the basket. Even before it left his hands you could tell it wouldn't go in, but I watched it fall short

of the net any-way, feeling the combination of sympathy and relief I always feel when an

opposing team misses a shot.

The gym, which could easily have held several

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thousand people, was about two-thirds full, and the crowd was enthusiastic enough for twice as

many people as were actually there. We climbed halfway up the crowded bleachers and sat down

with a group of sophomores I didn't know. While Madison and Jessica talked to their friends, I

looked down at the court and found Connor, who was yelling something to the guy who had the

ball. Even from this distance he was beautiful. Unlike a lot of tall guys, he wasn't gangly and

awkward, and his thick, dark hair fell just over his eyebrows. While I was watching, he shook it

out of his face and then ran his hand through it. I felt a little jolt of electricity tingle in my own

hand.

The score quickly got crazy close. In the fourth quarter Glen Lake had a short run of making one

basket after another, but then the other team caught up and we were tied for a long time. I was on

the edge of my seat, especially at this one really tense moment when Connor and the team's

shooting guard headed toward the basket like there was nothing that would stop them from

scoring. They passed the ball easily back and forth until the shooting guard, suddenly

surrounded, tried, and failed to get around the guys who were guarding him. I held my breath

while he dribbled in place, looking for an opening, then passed to the center, who, in a nearly

impossible shot from just outside the three-point circle, sank the ball. I pumped my fist in the air

and screamed, "YES!"

"What?" asked Jessica, who'd been talking to Madison.

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"You missed that?" I asked. Our whole side was cheering. Even though we were sitting right next to each other, I had to shout to be heard.

"What?" she asked, "What did I miss?" and suddenly Madison was staring at me, too.

"Number seventeen just scored," I explained. "We're up by two." I wondered if the reason they weren't exactly watching the game had something to do with the fact that Matt and Dave had yet

to get off the bench.

"Oh my god, that's Matt's brother," said Madison, slapping her cheeks with her hands so that she looked like The Scream. "I can't believe I missed it."

"Nice you," said Jessica. "Better hope Matt doesn't ask about it."

Madison flipped her hair out of her face. "Puh-leeze," she said. "What's he going to do, grill me about the game?" Then she laughed. "And if he does, Lucy can help me. Right Lucy?" She

dropped her arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze, pressing her cheek into my back

for a second before letting go.

"Right," I said.

When Connor sank the final winning basket, even Jessica and Madison were on their feet. The

wave of pleasure that washed over me was something way more intense than any kind of school

spirit. All over the bleachers people were calling Connor's name. He smiled up at the fans and

even gave a little wave, which just

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made people yell louder. I knew he hadn't been waving at me, but still. Connor Pearson knows

who I am, I found myself thinking. He knows my name. Of course, my name was just about the only thing he did know about me, but it was something.

After all, what did Prince Charming know about Cinderella besides her shoe size?

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Chapter Seven

Piazzolla's is in the village of Glen Lake in an old wooden structure that used to be a working

mill and sits right on the river that runs through the center of town. It's actually a cool-looking

building, unlike the rest of Glen Lake, which has this whole faux "ye olde towne of Glenne

Loch" thing going. If you saw Piazzolla's from the outside you might think it's a fancy Italian

restaurant because it's all dark wood and dim lighting, but basically it's just a pizza place. When

we got inside, there was a long line made up almost entirely of people who had been at the game.

Jessica, Madison, and I had taken a cab over from school, and by the time Dave, Matt, and

Connor arrived, hair wet from the showers, there was only one group ahead of us waiting for a

table. Personally, I wouldn't have minded if there were fifty groups ahead of us, since

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I was a nervous wreck. How was I possibly going to swallow even a single bite of pizza? I was

on a date. I was on a date with the most popular guy in school. I was on a date with the most

popular guy in school and I had never been on a date in my life.

My anxiety wasn't exactly assuaged by the fact that as soon as the guys walked in, the two

couples started making out while Connor and I just stood there. His wet hair was shiny, and his

cheeks were flushed.

"Hey," he said, smiling. "You made it."

"I made it," I said. His eyes were impossibly blue, and as we looked at each other, he put his

hand on my shoulder, leaned in, and just barely grazed my cheek with his lips. I got the faintest

whiff of something musky and delicious–cologne or soap or shampoo, I wasn't sure. My heart

leaped into my throat and I couldn't catch my breath. I was positive I was going to pass out.

Luckily right then the couples stopped kissing and Connor took a step back.

"Dave, Matt, you know Lucy," said Jessica.

"Hey," said Dave.

"Hey," said Matt.

"Hey," I said. "Great game."

Matt and Dave both grunted their thanks; I wondered if they felt weird taking credit for a victory

they'd had nothing to do with. Then again, maybe they were just bitter about Chicago losing to

the Lakers last week. As I was trying to decide how I could broach the subject

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of the Bulls without sounding like I was gloating, the hostess came over to where we were

standing and called Jessica's name.

"That's us," said Jessica. "Table for six."

As we snaked through the restaurant behind the hostess, Connor draped his arm casually over my

shoulder, like it was something he'd done a million times before. We passed at least four or five

tables of Glen Lake students, and at each one someone waved and said, "Hey, Connor" or "Great game, Connor" or "How's it going, Connor?" and even, simply, "C-dawg!" Connor didn't stop to talk to anyone, but he smiled a lot and said, "Hey, man," a few times to people I didn't know.

Everyone who called out to Connor smiled at me, which was pretty cool, even if some of the

smiles felt like little question marks.

As soon as the waiter took our orders, Madison turned to Connor. "That was an incredible shot,"

she said. I wondered if she had actually seen him sink the winning basket, or if she was just

repeating what she'd heard other people say.

"Yeah," said Dave. "Nice going." He and Connor high-fived across the table.

"Thanks, man," said Connor. He'd taken off his jacket and his sweater and was just wearing a

snug gray T-shirt that showed how well defined his shoulders were. My stomach flipped over,

and I had to look away.

"So, Red," he said. It took a minute before I realized

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he was talking to me. "How'd you like the game?" He put his hand on the back of my chair.

"It was a great game," I told him. "I was biting my nails the whole time."

"Lucy knows everything about basketball," Jessica informed Connor.

"Well, after that Lakers' victory, I'm planning to take her predictions a lot more seriously," said Connor, smiling a private smile at me.

"What?" asked Madison, and when Connor didn't explain, she turned to Matt. "What

predictions?" she asked.

I smiled back at Connor and looked into his blue, blue eyes. "Is that why you wanted me to come

tonight?" I asked, tilting my head. "To get my picks for the finals?"

He arched an eyebrow at me. "Maybe it is," he said. "Maybe it is."

When there was nothing left of the two large pies we'd ordered except a few pieces of crust,

Jessica, Madison, and I excused ourselves and went to the bathroom. While Jessica and I peed,

Madison stood in front of the mirror telling us how many calories are in a slice. As soon as I

came out of the stall, Madison turned to me and asked if I thought she looked fat. When I said

no, she waited for Jessica to emerge and then asked if she thought she looked fat. Jessica said no.

Madison said we

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were both lying and pinched the flesh just above her hip to prove it.

When we got back to the table, there was a pile of money in the center. I reached into my bag for

some cash. "Don't worry about it," said Connor, "I've got you." I've got you.

Then he smiled at me, like paying for my dinner was the most natural thing in the world.

"Thanks," I said. But what I meant was, Connor, you have got me.

Connor stood up and so did Dave and Matt. "You ladies can treat us to ice cream," said Matt.

"Ah, hello," said Madison as we followed the guys out of Piazzolla's, "I am so not eating ice cream. Do you know how many grams of fat are in an ice-cream cone?"

We walked down Main Street toward a gelato place, and for the first block or two I felt totally

self-conscious about how silent Connor and I were being. Jessica and Dave were having some

kind of heated conversation (Jessica was waving her arms around and Dave kept nodding), and

Madison and Matt were laughing, but Connor and I were just walking along not talking at all.

Right when I was sure my lack of having anything interesting to say was turning my dream date

into a nightmare, Connor took his hand and put it on the back of my neck.

You might think it's uncomfortable to have someone hold you by the neck, but it isn't. Quite the

opposite, in

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fact. I don't know if it was all that practice with a basketball, but Connor Pearson knew just how

to put his hand on the back of someone's neck–not too gently, not too tightly. By the time we got

to the gelato place, he was using his thumb and forefinger to give me a really light massage, and

I knew it didn't matter that we weren't talking.

We wandered around the village eating our ice cream for a while until the guys had to get home

for curfew. Madison waved at me as she and Matt walked over to his car, and Jessica gave me a

hug as passionate as any of the post-math ones she exchanges with Madison.

"I'll see you Monday," she called, finally releasing me and heading off to Dave's car.

"Yeah, see you Monday," I said. Connor and I walked to his car and he held the door open while

I slid onto the cool leather seat.

All night I'd been trying to maintain my air of sophisticated nonchalance, like going out with

cute, popular, older guys was something I'd done fairly regularly at Wellington. Now that

Connor and I were alone together, however, the facade was cracking. Violently. My stomach was

in knots. My mouth was Saharan. I reached into my bag to get out a mint. But as soon as my

fingers made contact with the tin, it occurred to me that perhaps popping a curiously strong

breath mint right as I got in the car would seem slutty, like, Hello, I assume we'll be making out

momentarily, and I'd like to be prepared.

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I zipped my bag shut leaving the Altoids inside.

I'd never been in a car with a guy before. I mean, obviously I'd been in a car with a male member

of the species, but I had never been driven home from a date by a date. Connor hit a button on the radio and Mos Def came on. The volume was a little too loud for us to talk, but Connor didn't

seem to mind, so neither did I. He rested his hand lightly on my knee as he drove.

When we got to my neighborhood, I spoke my first and only words of the entire ride: "Make a

left at the corner," followed by "It's the third one on the right."

"Well, this is it," I said. As Connor pulled up in front of my house and put the car in park, my duplicitous palms started sweating.

"Hey, Red," he said, and he unbuckled his seat belt.

In the dim light from the dashboard, I could just make out his chiseled cheekbones and perfect

profile. And then everything began to get blurry, and I realized he was leaning toward me.

His lips were soft, and he put his hands on either side of my neck and moved his fingers gently

through my hair. Kissing him felt like drinking a glass of cold, clear water when you're parched.

I wanted it to go on forever. When he finally pulled away and I opened my eyes, I couldn't really

focus them.

"I should go," he said softly. "Curfew."

"Oh, right," I said. "Curfew."

"I had a great time tonight," he said.

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I could barely form words; my lips were made of liquid.

"Me, too," I finally managed to say.

"So I'll see you Monday?" he said.

I nodded, reached over to open the door, and started to get out without taking off my seat belt,

which jerked me back. I landed right where I'd started.

"I forgot to take off my seat belt," I said. Even though I hadn't had anything to drink, I felt drunk.

"Yeah," he said, and he leaned in and kissed me again before reaching down to unbuckle my seat

belt for me. "There you go," he said.

"Thanks," I said. I slid out the door and shut it behind me. Now it was as if my entire body had turned to water; it took some focus for me to coordinate stepping away from the car.

I turned and watched as Connor drove off. My cheeks felt hot and my lips swollen, as if I'd been

biting them. Then I floated up to the house, realizing it was possible I had just experienced the

most perfect night of my life.

Apparently being Cinderella isn't so bad after all.

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