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

Автор книги: Melissa Kantor

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"Oh good, honey. I can't wait to see it," said Mrs. Johnson. Then she smiled at me and I smiled

back. A lot of teenagers get stressed out about meeting peoples' parents, but it doesn't bother me.

I do parents really well– they always tell my dad what a nice girl I am, how I'm so polite and

everything. For a second, though, while Mrs. Johnson was smiling in my direction, I felt a

nervous flutter. I was afraid she was going to ask me what I'd gotten, and I'd have to say, "Oh, you know, just a sexy red dress and a lace thong." – It wasn't quite the nice-girl impression I was

eager to make.

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Chapter Twelve

Just before seven, Princess One let out a shriek that penetrated the floorboards of the living

room–where she and her sister were sitting by the window waiting for Connor–and reverberated

through the basement– where I was standing in front of the mirror waiting for Connor.

"He drives a Lexus!"

"That is so cool," Princess Two screamed down to me. "A Lexus is a very cool car."

I didn't care what car Connor was driving; I was just relieved he hadn't stood me up. But I

couldn't take much time to thank my fairy godmother right at that particular moment, as I was in

the midst of negotiating what could only be described as an extremely tricky thong situation.

The lady at Lace Escapes had assured me the thong I'd

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gotten was the most comfortable one on the market. "You won't even feel it," she'd said about ten thousand times.

But how can you not feel something that keeps going up your butt? And not only does it keep

going up your butt, it's supposed to keep going up your butt.

I shimmied, hoping to get the thong to relocate, but it didn't help. Maybe I just needed to take it

off. But then what if we got in a car accident and the paramedics discovered that under my tiny

little red dress I wasn't wearing any underwear? Maybe they'd decide any girl who was that big

of a slut didn't deserve to live.

The bell rang and I heard the Princesses shout, "We'll get it! We'll get it!" I didn't move.

The longer I stood there, the more convinced I became that I needed to start from scratch–just

take off the thong and the dress and wear something normal like ...

But of course that was the problem. Normal like what? Normal like jeans and a T-shirt? Because

if the dress came off, that was pretty much all there was to choose from. I did my little "Thong,

Please Get Out of My Butt" dance again. Something somewhere must have shifted because for a

second I was able to concentrate on something other than my posterior. Unfortunately, that

something was my toes, which were pinched together in a pair of shoes I'd bought for (and hadn't

worn since) my dad and Mara's engagement party–a night on which I'd been in so much

emotional pain my aching feet had barely registered.

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I looked at my reflection. The older girl in the mirror who shrugged back at me didn't look nearly

as uncomfortable as I felt. Actually, she looked kind of cool and sexy. I stood up straighter. As

long as I didn't have to walk more than ten yards, I'd probably be okay. I smiled, checking to see

if there was any lipstick on my teeth. Then I bent over, ran my hands through my hair, and

fluffed the ends like I'd seen Jessica do. It looked good.

Unfortunately, it didn't feel good. Bending over had caused the thong to shift westward again.

Walking through the dining room, I could hear Connor talking, and when I got a view of the

foyer, I saw that the Princesses were standing one on either side of him, staring silently up at his

beautiful face. I guess they were too young to appreciate how great his body looked in a pair of

khakis and a dark blue sweater.

Connor saw me and whistled. "Hey, gorgeous," he said, looking me up and down. "Now, that's a dress." The Princesses looked over at me, and then Princess One nodded at Princess Two.

"You look pretty, Lucy," said Princess One.

I wasn't sure if they were going to follow up the compliment with an insult ("Yeah, pretty

slutty"). When neither of them added anything, I said, "Thanks." They returned to gazing adoringly at Connor.

Just then my dad and Mara came downstairs. She was wearing an apron, as if she'd been slaving

away at

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the stove all day, when really she'd spent the better part of the afternoon getting dressed, before

throwing some tinfoil-covered catered platters into the oven. As she came toward us, she

removed her apron, exposing her tiny, pink silk dress, which didn't look all that different from

mine. This could not be a good sign, but I couldn't figure out which of us shouldn't have been

dressed the way she was.

My dad did a double take when he saw what I was wearing, and for a second I was sure he was

going to tell me there was no way I was leaving the house looking like that. I almost wished he

would–my toes were throbbing. But then he just stuck out his hand. "You must be Connor," he

said. "It's nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, sir," said Connor, and even though it was a cheesy thing to say, I was glad

Connor had said it. I wanted tonight to be perfect, even if perfect meant full of clichés, like

Connor calling my dad sir.

"Lucy's told us so much about you," said Mara. This was a total lie. I hadn't even mentioned

Connor to Mara, and I'd barely told my dad anything about him, just said I was going out on a

date with a guy on the basketball team whose name was Connor. "Won't you come join us for a

drink?" she asked. She tucked his hand under her arm and led him through the arch that separates

the entrance foyer from the living room.

"Actually, we should probably get going," I said to their retreating backs.

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"Don't worry, we'll make it a quick drink," she said, laughing. She still had her hand on his,

practically stapling it to her arm. My dad followed them, and after a second, I did, too.

"What would you like, dear?" she asked, leading Connor over to the sofa. She was being so

solicitous I thought she might actually help him sit down, but at the last second she let him take

care of that on his own. "Shall I mix you a martini?" She laughed again, like she'd just heard the most amusing joke in the world.

Connor told her he'd have a Coke.

"Doug, honey, will you be a darling and get Connor a Coke?" While Mara might be willing to

take people's drink orders, she sure isn't going to hustle into the kitchen to fill them.

"Sure thing," said my dad, smiling.

I headed for one of the wing chairs, but as I attempted to sit, I suddenly realized my dress was

really short. Like, extremely short. Like, you'd-better-not-sit-down-unless-you're-prepared-to-

share-your-thong-with-the-entire-room short. I ended up sort of sliding onto the edge of the chair

and crossing my legs tightly, balancing my weight on my left foot.

Mara turned in my direction. "Lucy, what would you like?"

"I'm fine," I said. She seated herself next to Connor on the sofa, and a second later both

Princesses came in and sat down, something I'd never seen them do in all

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the months I'd lived with them. Had the World Wide Web crashed, leaving them without access

to instant messaging for the evening?

"So, you play basketball?" Mara asked, which answered my question of whether or not my dad

had told her Connor was on the team. "You know, Lucy's a huge basketball fan." She smiled

across the room at me. "Aren't you, Lucy?"

Was I really supposed to answer her question? Since she continued to smile at me and didn't say

anything else, I figured I was. "Sure am," I said, giving her a tight smile. She turned back to

Connor.

"It's unusual to see a girl so obsessed with sports," she said.

Unusual? Obsessed? I felt my hands clenching into fists.

"Yeah, it's really cool," said Connor. I couldn't tell if he'd deliberately misunderstood her insult or was sticking up for me on purpose, but either way, Mara suddenly decided to take a different

approach.

"Living with her and her father, I'm actually starting to care about the sport myself," she said. "I must be getting infected with March Madness."

The only March Madness I'd seen Mara infected with was her insane desire to lose five pounds

off her already skeletal frame before bathing-suit season.

"Yeah," said Princess Two, "Lucy makes it seem like basketball is really interesting. I want her to teach me all

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about it." She actually had the audacity to look at me as she said this, neglecting to mention that

in December she'd suggested I might be A) so tall and B) so interested in basketball because of

an undiagnosed hormonal imbalance.

"Drinks are served," said my dad, coming in with a tray. Princess One leaped to her feet;

skipping around the coffee table to grab the Coke for Connor, she just missed impaling herself

on a glass figurine.

"Thanks," he said, smiling at her.

"Okay," she said, not quite looking at him. Then she went back to the tray, which didn't have any glasses on it now that my dad and Mara had both taken their drinks.

"Lucy, don't you want a drink?" she asked. "I'll get you one."

Connor was smiling at Princess One with that look people get when they're simultaneously

amused and touched by a child's excellent manners. I, on the other hand, was smiling at her with

that look people get when they're pretty sure someone they know well has been replicated by

aliens.

"I'm fine," I said, my teeth clenched. Then in spite of myself I added, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she said. "If you change your mind, just let me know."

This was all getting to be a little too much for me, and I stood up. "We should go," I said.

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"But Connor hasn't even had a chance to drink his Coke," said Mara, touching him on the sleeve.

My flesh crawled.

"That's okay, Mrs. Norton," said Connor, taking a big swig and smiling at her. "Lucy's right." He stood up, and the Princesses jumped to their feet. After a second, my dad and Mara both stood

up, too.

"It was nice meeting you," Connor said to my father.

"You too," said my dad. He looked from me to Mara like he wished we weren't dressed quite so

identically. Then he shook Connor's hand again. "Enjoy your dinner," he said to him.

"Yes," said Mara, taking his hand and half holding, half shaking it. "Enjoy your dinner." Then she looked over at me and back at Connor. "And take care of our girl."

Now I was glad I hadn't had anything to drink; my empty stomach was the only thing that kept

me from puking all over her.

"I will, Mrs. Norton," he said. "And thanks for the Coke." He looked over to the Princesses. "It was great to meet you girls."

"You too," said Princess One. Princess Two just sighed.

Everyone walked us to the door and waited while I reached intothe closet and grabbed Connor's

jacket. "Well, bye," I said.

Even with an antique breakfront the size of the

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Titanic against one wall, the entryway is pretty big, but with everyone huddled around us I

practically had to step outside to have enough room to put the jacket on.

"Bye, Lucy," said the Princesses.

"Good-bye, kids," said my dad. "Have fun."

Mara just waved and smiled at us, like a contestant in a beauty contest. When we were in the car

with the doors closed, Connor turned to me before putting the key in the ignition.

"Wow," he said, "you have an awesome family."

I was about to tell him my "family" is about as awesome as the Mansons, but as I opened my

mouth to explain what a farce he'd just witnessed, he leaned toward me. "Good to see you, Red,"

he said.

And right then, facing the mighty power of Connor's delicious kisses, the lecture I'd been about

to deliver on the duplicitous nature of pure evil was lost forever.

As Connor and I drove to the restaurant, I started to feel nervous. Technically, this was our first

date. True, we'd gone out before. But we hadn't been alone. What if we didn't have anything to

talk about over dinner? What if we just sat there, staring at each other across the table in total

silence? But then Connor started talking, explaining that he was driving his dad's car because a

warning light had suddenly lit up on the dashboard of his SUV. When he finished the story, he

popped in a CD, cranked the volume, and dropped a hand onto my knee. A minute

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later, he took my hand and ran his thumb across the back of it.

My terror that we'd pass the night in silence ebbed, replaced by the most powerful sensation of

disbelief I'd ever experienced. Was this really happening to me? More than anything, I wished I

could show a preview of this moment to my desperate, lonely, first-semester self.

Connor found a space right in front of the restaurant, a Japanese place called Osaka, and before

we got out of the car, we started kissing. I would have been perfectly happy if we hadn't made it

to dinner, but after a couple of minutes, Connor pulled away.

"I'm starving, Red." He pulled the keys out of the ignition and popped open his door. "Lez eat!"

Suffering from my usual post-kissing-Connor confusion, I took a little longer to extricate myself

from the car than he did. By the time I'd unbuckled my seat belt and maneuvered onto the

sidewalk, Connor was standing by the door of the restaurant, holding it open for me.

Inside Osaka there were regular tables and, toward the back, low tables at which people sat on

pillows with their legs crossed Indian style.

"Good evening," said the hostess, walking toward us carrying two menus. "Would you prefer to sit Western or Japanese style?" When she said "Japanese style" she gestured toward one of the low tables.

"Western," I practically shouted. She nodded, and Connor and I followed her to a regular table

against the

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wall. I sat down normally, grateful to have a tablecloth between the world and my thong.

"God, I love sushi," I said. "I don't think I've had it since we left San Francisco. My dad and I used to eat it practically every other night."

"Oh, yeah? That's cool, Red," he said. I looked down the menu. Yellowtail. Shrimp. Tuna. I

hadn't even realized how much I missed my regular sushi infusions until this minute.

"Ready?" asked the waitress. She flipped open her pad and held her pen ready.

"Take it away, Red," said Connor.

"Um, I'll have two pieces of yellowtail, an unagi, a shrimp, and the special hand roll," I said. She nodded, getting it all down. Then she turned to Connor.

"Wow, Red," he said. "You're daring. I'll have the steak teriyaki." He snapped his menu shut and handed it to her.

"Have you ever tried sushi?" I asked him as soon as the waitress had gone.

"Raw fish? No way," he said. He made a cross with his chopsticks as if to ward off vampires. I

was about to ask him why not, when the thought occurred to me that perhaps I should change the

subject rather than continuing to call his attention to the fact that I was about to eat food he

apparently found as revolting as the undead.

"Sorry you had to go through that whole scene back at my house," I said. I wanted him to know

what Mara

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and the Princesses were really like. "They never act that way."

Before I could explain what I meant, Connor slipped his fingers through mine. "Don't worry

about it, Red. Your family's nice. And your mom's so cool. I can see where you get your great

legs." He smiled and squeezed my hand.

"She's not my mother," I practically shouted. The idea that someone could think Mara was my

mother made me sick to my stomach. "She's my stepmother." Even the word itself had come to

have something black and spidery about it. I took my hand from Connor's and wiped my now-

sweaty fingers on my napkin, which, though Mara was absent, I'd put on my lap as soon as we

sat down.

"Gotcha," said Connor. I was glad he didn't start asking a million questions about my family. I

mean, I guess my boyfriend needs to know that his girlfriend lives with her dad and her wicked

stepmother because her mother is dead. But I wasn't exactly anxious to bring up a subject that

would undoubtedly be a huge downer.

Connor took a sip of his water and so did I. As soon as I put the glass back on the table, a waiter

magically appeared at my elbow and refilled it.

"Thanks," I said. He nodded and slipped away.

"Hey, did you watch the game last night?" Connor asked, chewing on some ice.

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"The Knicks or the–"

"No, the Syracuse game."

"Yeah," I said. "I felt like they just folded in the fourth quarter. Everybody's been saying they have this unstoppable offense, but I thought they were totally lame."

"Totally," he agreed, taking some ice out of his glass with a fork. "Did you watch all the way to the end? Did you see how they missed that last shot?"

I nodded and made a face. "It was tragic," I agreed.

As we discussed the game and who we thought would make it to the NCAA finals, I started to

get a strange feeling about the conversation. It was as if basketball was this tiny island of talk

Connor and I were standing on, and if we tried to step off it, we'd drown in a sea of silence. By

the time our food came, I was sure we couldn't possibly have any more basketball-related items

to discuss, but then Connor got onto the subject of the Glen Lake team, and how this year they

were better than they'd ever been.

Unfortunately, I couldn't really focus on what he was saying, only it wasn't because I didn't know

most of the people he was talking about. The second I leaned forward to take my first bite of

sushi, the strap of my dress slipped off my shoulder, almost taking the entire right side of the top

with it. I dropped the piece of yellowtail I'd been about to taste and grabbed at my dress, firmly

pulling it back up. Then I took a deep breath and,

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bending forward as little as possible, got the yellowtail back on my chopsticks. As I dropped my

chin to get the piece in my mouth, the strap started slipping again, and when I grabbed for it, a

clump of rice dropped off my chopsticks and slipped down the front of my dress. I felt it lodge

between my breasts, right where a tiny decorative rose might have nestled if I'd been wearing a

bra.

I panicked. Should I try to remove it? How do you reach down the front of your dress and subtly

pull out a rice meteor? Maybe the best thing to do was just leave it there and hope it went away

by itself. But what if it "went away" by heading south? I could see it now. I'd stand up, and a

second later a golf ball of rice would drop onto my chair. I'd look like Long-Eared Peter, the

rabbit we had in my second-grade classroom, who dropped little pellets wherever he went.

This particular image occupied a not-insignificant part of my brain for most of dinner. I kept

lightly stroking my chest just above the top of the dress, hoping to find an opportune moment to

plunge my hand into the bodice and remove the offending rice ball.

The problem with my plan was that Connor's eyes were glued to my hand, which I realized too

late was like a pointer directing his gaze to my (basically non-existent) cleavage. If he hadn't

dropped his fork halfway through the meal and needed to look around for a waiter to get him a

new one, I might have had to remain seated for the

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rest of my life. Luckily, the three seconds during which he was distracted were all I needed to

lean forward enough to loosen the tight fabric, grab the rice out of my dress, and drop it next to

my pile of wasabi.

"May I take your plates?" asked our waitress.

"Yeah, sure," said Connor, dropping his napkin on the table and stretching. "That was delicious."

I nodded in agreement as the waitress expertly cleared the table.

"Some dessert?"

Connor shook his head at her and then looked across the table at me, "I'm sorry, Red. Now that

we might make the states, Coach is insane about us being home by ten when there's no game. He

called Matt's house last week to check up on him."

"Don't worry about it," I said. "I'm stuffed."

"I'll bring the check," said the waitress.

As we sat there, Connor stroked the back of my hand, and I felt the tingles I always got when he

touched me. "That dress is really hot," he said.

His look made the whole rice fiasco suddenly worthwhile. "Thanks," I said.

"Wow, I've been yapping away," said Connor, smiling at me. "You're a really good listener."

That smile. It made me dizzy. "Thanks," I said again.

"But I want to know more about you," he said, turning my hand over and pressing his palm into

mine.

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"What do you want to know?" I asked, suddenly anxious. I should have prepared some funny

anecdotes about myself. What could be more boring than a person just launching into her life

story? Well, I was born in Los Angeles, and after my mother died when I was three ... Connor

would be asleep before I hit fourth grade.

Luckily, just as I was considering narrating an imaginary but fascinating childhood posted in port

cities around the globe, the waitress brought our check. Connor took out his credit card and

handed it over. His casual confidence as he dealt with the check was sexy; it made him seem

older. Not so old that it was gross he was going out with a high-school girl, though. He seemed

just older enough.

"Thank you for dinner," I said. It came out more formal than I'd meant it to, as if I were thanking my friend's dad or something.

Connor didn't seem to mind, though. He raised an eyebrow at me. "Sure, Red. But I still owe you

a dessert." It sounded flirtatious, like we were talking about something way more intimate than

gelato.

"Maybe I owe you a dessert," I said. I hoped I sounded flirtatious, too, and not like I'd been tallying up what each of us had spent on the other.

Connor gave me his killer smile. "All the dessert I need is you in that dress," he said. Then he let out a howl like a werewolf.

We both laughed, and when the waitress brought

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the credit card slip for Connor to sign, we were still laughing. When we finally stopped laughing

he said, "You're hilarious, Red," even though he was the one who'd made the joke. It made me

feel witty and amusing.

At the door, Connor helped me into my (his) jacket, and outside he leaned me up against the car

door and we started making out. His tongue traced a line from my ear to my collar bone. I

wished we'd just skipped dinner and spent the whole night in his car fooling around, but it's not

exactly like you can suggest something like that.

The whole ride home Connor held my hand; luckily he had to fix the equalizer on the stereo a

couple of times, so I was able to wipe my palm on my dress before it could get too sweaty. And

he didn't just hold my hand like it was a rock he'd happened to drop his hand down on. He held it

perfectly, tracing my fingers with his thumb and then squeezing my hand into a fist, or brushing

his fingers over my knuckles. I didn't know what Connor's career plans were, but he could

definitely get rich teaching other guys how to hold a girl's hand.

When we pulled up in front of my house, Connor kissed me lightly on the lips. "Thanks for

understanding about curfew, Red," he said. "Even if we make the states, it's only a few more

weeks, and then we can stay out until dawn. And I expect you to wear that dress." He lifted my

hand up to his lips and kissed it.

Since I planned to set fire to my dress as soon as I

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got inside, Connor probably wouldn't be seeing it again. I didn't mention that, though, especially

since staying out until dawn with Connor sounded like a fine idea to me. We sat in the car,

kissing, until the clock on the dashboard read nine fifty-five.

"I gotta go, Red," he said softly.

"Yeah," I said. I remembered to undo my seat belt before I opened the car door.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he said. I shut the door and waved; before he pulled away, he mimed

howling at the moon.

When I got into bed, I closed my eyes and replayed Connor's kisses in my mind. Then I got out

of bed, grabbed my iPod, and replayed them again, this time to music. I turned out the light and

snuggled under the covers, leaving the music on. I closed my eyes, feeling Connor's hands on my

face, his lips gently tracing the curve of my ear. The last song I heard before I fell asleep was

"Little Red Corvette." I tried to figure out why it was the perfect sound track for the night, and when I came up with the answer, I almost laughed out loud.

Of course it was perfect.

It was Prince.

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