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Three Time’s the Charm
Truth is, I have a pretty good idea who this princess is. Three days ago, while I was cruising around on my skateboard, I saw her drive by in a pink convertible. Usually, I don’t notice the traffic that zips past me. I’m a sidewalk skater, thanks to Mom’s rule about street skating. But a pink convertible is hard to miss! My first thought was: Cars come in pink? My second thought was: Who IS that?
A girl about my age, maybe a year or two older, sat on top of the convertible’s backseat. She wore a ridiculous gown that swirled around her in a cloud of fuchsia. Sitting on her golden hair was a tiara, and its jewels sparkled in the sun, practically blinding me. Her lacy gloves went clear up to her armpits, and she waved enthusiastically, like a beauty queen in a parade. I resisted waving back. Skaters don’t wave. To anyone. Her car disappeared around the bend and I was left with an open mouth, wide eyes, and a brain full of questions.
Two days ago, the rest of the parade showed up—a humongous moving van with the words CASTLE AND COMPANY painted on the side, a double-wide horse trailer complete with a double-wide horse, four big cars, and a white designer SUV. The pink car brought up the rear and the same girl was in the back, only this time she had on a blue gown and a queen-size frown. I copied that frown the second the parade parked in the driveway of the old Miller mansion across the street. I wasn’t in love with the idea that a princess look-alike was moving across the street from me.
An old woman climbed out of the SUV and gave me the once-over. To avoid her eyes, I quickly bent down and tied and retied my sneaks, twice. Then I turned to bolt for my front door. Just before I went inside, I heard, “Hello! Hellooo, Bernice.”
It was not an old woman’s voice. This voice was clear and musical. It had to be coming from the princess. I turned and sure enough, it was Princess Pink Car.
“You are Bernice, are you not?” she asked, flashing a toothy smile.
I had no idea how she knew my name. I didn’t answer, but instead ducked inside and spied on her from the window in my door. She waited there for a second with one hand on a hip, then she glided gracefully into the mansion.
When I was little, a princess sighting would not have been a big deal. She would’ve been imaginary—the result of my overactive imagination. I probably would have asked if she wanted to join me for a tea party. But I was older and wiser now. A better explanation was necessary.
I decided I was smack dab in the middle of a brain fart. A brain fart makes your brain numb and nothing makes sense, according to Matthew, a kid from school. And so, I explained away my princess neighbor as a big, fat brain fart. No princess arrived in a pink convertible. No princess moved in across the street from me. No princess called me by name. Brain. Fart.
I held on to my brain fart theory until today. Today, the princess is here, standing two feet from me. She seems real enough, and I’m sure brain farts don’t last three days. She’s checking out my skateboard, using her glossy slipper to push it forward and back. She hasn’t noticed that I’m standing here, staring. She hasn’t noticed that I am not smiling.
I take in her shiny hair—blonde like mine only straight, less frizzy, and way nicer. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows arch over rose-colored eyelids. Her eyes are blue. Her cheeks are peachy. She’s wearing a light-pink gown with a matching tiara.
Part of me—that teeny part that has never outgrown princesses—wants to know all about her. The other part wants to hold on to brain farts. I rub my eyes and blink a long, hard blink. Dang. She’s still there! I wrack my muddled brain for something to say. One of us is crazy, and you can’t have a conversation with crazy. I stumble backwards and attempt to leave.
The princess touches my shoulder. “Oh, Bernice! Hello, again!”
I turn to face her, and gulp out a weak, “Hi.”
The princess sighs, steps away from my skateboard, and comes closer. She’s only an inch taller than me. She presses her palms together and says in a formal voice, “Careful. Young ladies should walk with grace.”
With what? I can’t be hearing straight. Whether she’s real or not, I can tell by the way she’s bossing me around that she’s already a royal pain in my butt. I want to tell her to get lost. I want to shout loudly and obnoxiously that I am not “young lady” material. I am a semi-fearless and often unladylike skateboarder, and I walk just fine. But before I get out a single word, she sashays her silver-slippered self home. I didn’t get the chance to defend myself. Not that I would out loud, anyway.
I kick a stone off the driveway and watch it sail in her direction. Then I shimmy my ungraceful self through my back door.
In the kitchen, I find Mom busy in the walk-in pantry. Dad built her a mini craft room in there. She’s seated at a long table that Dad made out of a plywood door. Canned soup, fruit, pasta, and other stuff lurk in the background. It’s the beginning of July, but she’s making a Christmas wreathe that she’ll sell at the Porchtown Craft Fair in December. “Come on, work with me,” Mom yells at a roll of red ribbon. “Get your act together. I may have to use brute force to get you tied nice and neat. I kid
