Mom talks to herself. Or to ribbons, pine clippings, colored straw, dried flowers, glue sticks, and any other material she uses to create the craft of the day. Dad says she’s quirky and pretends it doesn’t happen as often as it does. He’d love her even if she talked to animals on a regular basis.
“Um, Mom?” I say. “Did you happen to notice a prin—”
“Bernice! I’m glad you’re here. Pinch this piece of ribbon so I can retie it. It’s not cooperating with me.”
I pinch and decide this is the perfect mother-daughter moment to tell Mom that either, one, we’ve got a crazy neighbor, or two, I’m the crazy one and my warped, brain-fart-filled mind has produced a princess in our backyard. Mom listens and doesn’t once hint that I should be committed to the local loony bin, which I appreciate. One of the perks of having a quirky mom. I’m also not surprised when Mom’s reaction to my situation is, “Maybe you and she can be friends.”
That’s when I realize the glue’s finally gone to her head.
Mom is wrong.
The princess and I won’t be friends.
There’s not a skater on the planet who wants a princess for a friend. Seriously.
***
The Princess and the Plan
I haven’t thought about princesses, read about princesses, or talked to imaginary princesses since third grade. By the time a kid reaches a certain age, it’s no longer cool to be into princesses. I learned this the hard way via a prissy princess named Kylie Brooks. Kylie showed up in Ms. Light’s class with an angelic face—one perfectly proportioned to her long neck, petite body, and cute feet. No one could walk past her without coming under her spell. I had to meet her. “Hi,” I said. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Snow White?”
Kylie didn’t take that well. “Snow White?” she asked, tilting her button nose in the air. “What are you, like five years old?”
Her comment made my toes curl. I turned six shades of pink and pushed back a drippy tear that threatened to slide down my cheek. My best friend stepped in to save me. “Hey, Kylie,” Roxanne said. “Bernie only meant that you look unreal.”
Kylie smirked, not sure whether Roxanne had complimented her or made fun of her.
Then Roxanne yanked me aside and whispered, “What are you doing? We’re too old for princesses.”
Somewhere between that day and today, I changed my obsession from princesses to skateboarding. I got interested in skating after stumbling on the X Games on TV one Sunday afternoon. I had to try some of those tricks! Dad got me a cheap skateboard at Sports Mart and there was no turning back. Now, every chance I get, I pop ollies, ride the ramps, and practice tricks at the Porchtown Skate Park. Any birthday bucks or bits of cash have gone into equipment, like a cooler helmet or a better board. Given the choice between new clothes, new music, or shiny skateboard trucks—the metal pieces that attach to my deck and help my board steer—well, it’s not even a choice.
The board I ride, an Optical Ellipse, is six months old. It’s almost worn out already. I want a custom skateboard, one where I pick out the deck, the trucks, the wheels—everything, and Porchtown Sports puts it together for me.
For the last week, I’ve been weeding gardens to earn money for that new skateboard. That’s why I’m here in our neighbor’s garden. Mrs. Martin pays me five dollars an hour to get rid of onion grass, dandelions, and other stuff that smothers her precious perennials. I don’t mind. This job is better than Roxanne’s. She’s a babysitter and there’s no way I’m watching somebody’s smelly kid. I have a hard enough time keeping myself injury free and smelling decent.
“Poor Bernice, must you toil the day away in the dirt?”
I don’t have to look up. I know it’s the princess. A chill works its way up my spine because her voice reminds me of the high-pitched violin music you hear in the dentist’s office while they’re scraping the living daylights out of your teeth. I stand and turn to face my new neighbor. “Toil? What? What are you talking about? And how do you know my name?”
The princess chuckles. “What a silly-willy you are.” A singing sparrow appears out of nowhere and lands on her shoulder. Seriously. A sparrow.
“Who—”
The princess holds her fingers to her lips to shush me. She whispers, “My godmother, Serena, told me your name. She sent me to officially meet you.” The bird pecks at her perfect hair. “I think that the salesperson who sold us the mansion told her about the people on this street, including you.” The princess sweeps open her arms as if she’s a queen waiting for her servants’ attention. In a flash, her royal expression takes a hike, and she says, “One day I was napping in the woods of our beautiful European estate, and the next I was told we had to move here—Station Street, USA. Our new property lacks both acreage and a view.”
A smirk sneaks out. “Let me guess, you’re Sleeping Beauty and Serena is your fairy godmother?”
“No, I’m not Sleeping Beauty,” the princess says, irritated. “But I do love that story, and I am, of course, a princess. My name is Odelia, and Serena is not a fairy, but she is my godmother. I’ve lived with her since my parents died.” Odelia then turns to me with a curious stare.
I chew on my lip. It crosses my mind that I should bow or kiss her hand or something. Or maybe say that I feel sort of sorry for her. But down deep, I’m stuck for words. Mostly, I feel sorry that she’s a freak who dresses like a fairy-tale character.
I take in the whole princess picture. Odelia’s twisted bun looks as if it’s from a hair magazine that advertises fancy up-dos. Her sparkling tiara sits squarely on
