Confessions of an Off-Brand Princess (sample)
“That’s right, the prince comes along,” I tell the children. “Does anybody know what the prince does?” Some giggles bubble up. They all know. “Ohhh, you think so!” Big smile now, I’m bobbing my head, playing games. “Should we turn the page and see?” “He’s gonna kiss her,” says a girl in the back, strangely proud. “Well, let’s see. ‘The very instant the Prince’s lips brushed Snow White’s, her eyes flew open,’” I chirp, without looking at the page; I have this book down, every pause, each inflection. I’ve done it all before. Funny, no child ever notices it’s weird that I’m reading a book about myself. But then, I’m not really myself. Last Thursday I was Rapunzel. I’ve been a princess several times a week these past three years; this time around it’s Snow White, so I don’t need a wig. My stepmom also lets me keep my black hair when I’m Beauty. (Not Belle. We don’t advertise her as Belle. Same with Jasmine, not that I play her, and Ariel. Playing our non-Ariel is the bane of my existence. I hate that stupid bra.) The party’s almost over. Soon I’ll ask the birthday girl to stand and read the last line—“and they all lived…”, you know. Then we’ll applaud and I’ll take the book back because her mom didn’t spring the ten bucks to let her keep it. But I’ll give her a plastic tiara, a part of our standard party package, and proclaim her a real live fairy-tale princess. Hope she doesn’t find out what it pays. We’ll take nine million pictures and I’ll smile until my cheeks are breaking open. I haven’t looked neutral since I got here; I’m required to beam until my ride comes. If traffic isn’t bad we’ll hit campus by, like, six and maybe I can work on my shambles of a thesis while undergrads drink. Then I can frown all I want. I intend to. Because I’m not a princess. I’m not in charge of anything, not even my own life, and my father’s just a guy who owned a car wash. Me, I’m in cultural anthropology, when I’m not in a pretty, pretty dress. And my thesis is this: we’re all telling the same stories over and over again. And if Vickie and my dad keep needing me to work, God, I’m proving it. Just don’t make me be the damn mermaid.
“Thanks for inviting me, Ms. Johansson,” I tell the yoga pants mom as she writes Princess Magic LLC their hard-earned check. “Megan was a delight.” We say ‘Thanks for inviting me’ to help the clients think of us as treasured guests and not folks they hired to come over, like the pool guy. We always say the kid was a delight. Megan was fine, incidentally. Nothing in my life is Megan’s fault. We smile when we ask for the money, but the pleasant grown-up smile, not the princess-astonished-by-birds kind of smile. Ms. Johansson smiles back as much as the Botox allows and signs the check with a really lovely flourish. “You were wonderful—gosh, I don’t even know your name.” “It’s Sydney.” We’re allowed to give our real names away from the kids. “Sydney Weller.” “Ahhh. Boss’s daughter!” she exclaims, with a sly little laugh in her voice and a strained attempt at motion from the eyebrow. “Sure thing.” I’m still smiling. “Vickie never mentioned that.” “Guess not.” I’m still smiling. I am the boss’s daughter, just, not that particular boss. Dad’s my other boss; my stepmom took his name. (With a hyphen.) Florida is full of folks in search of second chances. Both of them got theirs. “Sydney… Weller,” murmurs Ms. Johansson. “Hey.” She’s spotted something. Her eyes try to narrow. “Your name.” “Mmm?” I take the check. “S-W, Snow White,” she purrs, quite amused. “You really are Snow White.” I think I really am. Because I work among tiny, cute people. And some days I wonder if I’m cursed. But mostly ‘cause my last few years have been some trancelike dream from which I can’t wake up and I can’t move or speak, and I’m sleeping, sleepwalking, while real life drifts away.
I wait. I do a lot of that. I’m on the corner just past Megan’s house. Princess Magic’s policy is for talent (that’s me) to do car stuff away from the shindig, so the kids can’t see Snow White or whoever flop out of an old Chevrolet. This explains the off-brand princess leaning on a mailbox at a crossroads where houses cram McMansion features onto shrimpy frames. Every living room’s got the same humongous windows devouring the wall. Dad’s on time. “How was it?” “Fine,” I guess I only kind of lie. He takes the check and drives me to the office to change. (I can’t go back to campus dressed like Snow White. My state’s reputation for outlandish sights is already well-founded. I don’t need to help.) Princess Magic LLC is based in Winter Park in a strip mall that used to have a Cheesecake Factory, north of the Publix. (Publix features in every Floridian’s personal geography.) In childhood I was closer to the Conway Crossing Publix, northwest of Belle Isle. When Mom got sick, we downsized; the house sold faster than the car wash. Nowadays Dad helps Vickie out with Princess Magic. His first coup was adding his one and only child to the roster of low-expense labor. I rag on Dad and Vickie a lot, but it’s not personal, just business; they’re both pretty great as, like, people. Mom would have wanted Dad to get back on the horse, romance-wise, and being part of the company is good for him, and not just in a holy-Christ-the-hospital-took-all-our-money kind of way. Vickie’s cool, I like her kids. We get along. It’s fine. But, shit, get me off the princess gig! It’s my face, that’s the problem. It’s my asshole moron little-girl face. This one’s Mom’s fault. She was so, so pretty. Even on the cancer ward. If my looks had come from my dear, balding father, who resembles the men in computer magazines from 1983, I could be buried in books in my dark patch of the library right now instead of taking off my blue-and-gold-and-red-but-not-the-same-blue-and-gold-and-red-as-Disney dress. Sadly, just enough of Mom’s stellar genes snuck into me that I pass as someone who might sing stupid songs with woodland creatures. Big eyes. I get it. I’m small. I’m demure. I am fucking demure. If we did boys’ parties, with Spider-Costumed Hero and such, you wouldn’t buy me as Wonder Female Hero. I’d go down with one punch. But I can give you grace, if I fake it. And I clean up real nice at a strip mall makeup table. No, I don’t turn heads in normal life. If anything, my appearance makes prospective boyfriends worry that I’m twelve. I don’t stop traffic. I do best with second-graders, who gush and help me brush my wig. A girl could do worse, I suppose. I pluck my red bow from my hair. I dab at my disgusting boob sweat. Our Snow White dress is velvety and sports a conservative neckline. I sigh. I’m only months from my master’s and this is how I spend my afternoon. Stripping down in a strip mall.
This concludes the free sample, but you can buy the full story at this link! . . . |