by Alex Flinn
Finally, breathless and sweating, I snuck back in the same way I’d gone out.
When I reached my bedroom, the light was off. Funny, I was sure I’d left it on.
I flipped the switch.
“Hello, Emma.” Lisette sat by the window. She held out her cell phone, the new one Daddy had bought her. Without being told, I knew she’d had it trained on the street below, that she’d taken my picture. Still, I approached the window and looked down. Sure enough, in the circle of bright street light, I could see the litter of smashed pumpkin shards.
In case I didn’t get it, she showed me the screen.
It was me, clearly me, a short girl in lime green pajamas, curly brown hair disheveled, holding a jack-o’-lantern over her head. With her finger, Lisette scrolled to the second photo, the same girl, dancing in the smashed pieces.
I wanted to grab the phone away from her, to destroy it. I held back. If I took it, she’d scream. Then they’d run in, and there’d be immediate retaliation.
Instead, I said, “What do you want?”
She gestured around the room. “This.”
“What?”
“I want this, the life I should have had, the life I would have had if you hadn’t stolen it.”
“I didn’t steal anything. I was three years old.”
She shrugged. “Your mother stole it for you, then. It’s the same thing. I want it back.”
I didn’t understand. “You have everything. You’re here now, with my father—your father. You have the house, the nice clothes, everything. What did I take from you?”
“I don’t have everything.”
“What don’t you have? You even took my earrings.”
The second after I said it, I knew.
“My mother. She’d be alive if not for you and your mother. For years, we didn’t have insurance, couldn’t afford doctors. She didn’t go. When she finally did, it was too late. She was already terminal. There was nothing she could do. I had to watch her die.”
“But that’s not my fault. Couldn’t we just—”
“Just what? Be friends? Do you think I’m a sucker, Emma, this sweet little girl who just wants to be your bud? I’m not. Why would anyone want to be friends with a loser like you?”
She’d voiced what I’d always been thinking. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing, as long as you behave. Give me what I want, and I’ll let you and your mother keep living in my house. But if you give me a hard time…” She waved the cell phone. “Well, let’s just say if one of us has to win, it will be me. I can make it so it’s just me and my dad, the way it should be.”
“So what do you want?” I couldn’t believe this. I remembered bringing her up to my room, barely more than two weeks ago, to try on clothes and giggle. How could things have changed so much?
“My room’s not exciting me too much. Seems like you should give up yours. Other than that, just keep out of my way. You’re not going sailing with us, Emma, or watching Jeopardy or carving pumpkins. You’re going to be the ungrateful little brat you always were and leave me alone with my father. Got it?”
I said nothing, staring out at the pumpkin-strewn street. Finally, I nodded.
Kendra Speaks: The Story of a Lonely Prince with a Helicopter Mother
KENDRA SPEAKS (YOU DIDN’T FORGET ME, DID YOU?)
Okay, so now Emma has (finally!) figured out that Lisette’s sort of, um, evil. Hands up if you saw it coming. Everyone’s hand up? Just as I thought, everyone but Emma. Yes, she’s a sweet girl but a tad too trusting. She should listen to her mother, but I sort of understand why she didn’t. Stepmothers get a bum rap, just like witches.
I mean, yes, Andrea’s a little cranky. Some might even say mean. But when you’re right, you’re right, and Andrea was right about Lisette. Lisette was trying to steal her husband, who happened to be Emma’s father too. And what could Emma do about it? Nothing without help.
But help has its issues. I’ve learned the hard way that no good deed goes unpunished. I learned it in England, and I really learned it in France.
Ah, France…
If Emma thought her mother was difficult, she should have met Queen Marie. Emma’s problems were nothing compared to those of poor Louis, Marie’s son. I had to help him. What choice did I have? But it wasn’t a happy ending, at least for me. Sometimes, I’m just a sucker.
I spent many years in France, lounging at Parisian cafes, admiring art, and generally living la vie en rose. I saw Notre Dame Cathedral (which had no hunchback to speak of) and sometimes visited Voltaire at his chateau. I could have been happy there and was for some time. But I was not there for the French Revolution, and I never danced at the Moulin Rouge. I never met Toulouse-Lautrec (or my dear Hector Berlioz) or had my portrait painted by Boucher. This story of Louis tells why—and you will see why I hesitate in deciding whether to help Emma.
It was 1744….
The Story of a Lonely Prince with a Helicopter Mother: Paris, 1744
Sometimes, it was difficult to be a prince. Oh, most people do not see it. They tend to concentrate on the superficial aspects of the profession, such as living in a palace or having fancy carriages. Indeed, my home, the Palace (or Chateau, which makes it sound smaller) of Versailles, was the envy of all, with seven hundred rooms, grandiose gardens, and sixty-seven staircases. Also, a prince need not seek employment as a chimney sweep or a boot black.
Indeed, few would dispute that these were recommendations for princedom. But there were pitfalls as well. One’s mother, for example. Mine was Queen Marie, and it was probably not her fault that she was a bit overprotective of me, since she had two children die, one baby born dead, and my sister, Marie-Thérèse-Félicité, was chronically ill. Also, my father was notoriously unfaithful, and indeed, some of his mistresses were better known than his wife, the queen.
Nonetheless, it was frustrating how she hovered over me. My parents refused to allow me to participate in the campaign in the War of Austrian Succession (I later found out my dear father brought one of his mistresses instead—yes, to a war). What good was being a prince if one could not be a hero? Even when Father became gravely ill and was thought about to die, I was forbidden to visit him, that I should not be endangered. I had to sneak out to see him, and everyone was mad. In all things, I was an heir first, a son second, a man barely at all.
And then there were the servants. We had thousands of them, literally thousands. There was a servant in charge of putting on my right sleeve, and one in charge of my left. There was a whole servant devoted to my gloves. How could I be expected to rule France if I could not even dress myself?
Even in the matter of finding a wife, Mother was at it again.
It was clear that the heir to the throne needed to marry. Indeed, if there were to be the necessary “spare” heir to the throne, he would have to come from my loins, for I had no brothers, only seven surviving sisters.
Also, I quite wished to have a wife. A wife would be someone to talk to, and I preferred conversation to the constant hubbub of balls and hunts. It was amazing how lonely it could be at a ball attended by hundreds, if one had not that special person with whom to share secrets and laugh if someone’s wig was askew. I knew the sort of wife I wanted, someone quiet and devout, someone with whom I could play chess and not worry that she would lose on purpose, someone who would love me.
But every time a suitable princess was located, Mother would find something the matter with her. I had long known that, as prince, I might not marry the woman I chose. It was news to me that I might not marry at all.
First, there was Princess Maria Teresa. She was sweet and shy and also, I must say, quite pretty, with unusual red hair pushing out from beneath her powdered wig and a figure that more than adequately filled out her embroidered bodice. I could not help but imagine our wedding night. Or … rather, I felt that she would be a suitable bride who would bear me many sons and heal the rift between our countries, a rift caused by my father. So I thought ab
out our wedding night, and what a joy it would be for all concerned. And for me.
When she came to the palace, we held a small afternoon party in her honor, with entertainment and card games. The princess stood off to the side.
I tried to engage her in conversation.
“Do you play Triomphe?” I asked her. Though I myself did not much care for cards, I wanted the princess to be entertained.
She looked down. “No. I mean, I am sorry. I know what a bore I am, but I never have been very good at cards. I always … always…” She sighed. “Oh, I talk too much.”
This was not going well.
“No, no, that is fine. I just wanted to make certain you were—”
“What is that song?”
I stopped speaking and listened. The singer had started on “Rossignols Amoureux.” “It is by Rameau. He is a favorite of my father’s, and his music is quite popular here at court.”
The princess smiled. “Yes, I thought so. From Hippolyte et Aricie?”
“Yes. You know Rameau then?”
“Yes, and Lully too. I have longed to see the whole opera. They have not performed it in Spain. I love France’s tragedie en musique. In Spain, we have our zarzuela.”
She loved music. I loved music! I leaned toward her. Here, I could be impressive. “Perhaps you would be interested to know that Father has built an opera house in Versailles. Here, we may have performances whenever we please.”
“An opera house too! This chateau is so … big. Like a city.”
“Confusing, you mean. I don’t know every room, and I have lived here all my life. But I like the opera house. Perhaps we can have a performance while you are here.” I blushed. That made it sound like I would be sending her back. “I mean … sometime … soon.”
She smiled, and it was as if the sun had come in through the enormous windows of the room. “Yes. Yes, I would like that.”
“Then it shall be done.” Was I in love? No, merely smitten. But definitely smitten. I wondered how she would look with her red hair undone and falling down her back, as it surely would be on the night of our wedding. The night of our wedding…
But I needed to talk to her, not stand here stupidly, imagining what it would be like to kiss her.
“Do you possess a good ear for music?” I asked.
The princess pondered this, saying finally, “I believe I do. It is hard to say, for though I have often been complimented on it, one never knows whether such compliments are truthful or mere flattery.” She bit her lip. “That is what is hard about being a princess. It is part of why I do not care for cards—I always win, and I fear I do not deserve to. Oh, I am talking too much again.”
“No, no.” I nodded. “I understand. It is one of the things to which I most look forward in marriage, the ability to hear an honest opinion, to have someone to whom I can really talk.”
“That is exactly how I feel!” she said.
I felt a sudden wave of great joy wash over me. Finally, someone who truly understood me! Had I not been a prince, and she a princess, I would have taken her hand then, and skipped about the room. As it was, I smiled, and Maria Teresa smiled back again.
She had a lovely smile.
Oh, I liked her so much.
But, over dinner, Mother began to quiz her on our country’s military history.
“What is your opinion of the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre?” she asked.
“There was a massacre? On St. Bartholomew’s Day?” That date, the twenty-third of August, was only about a month past. Princess Maria Teresa looked shocked, and a bit of pheasant fell from her mouth. Although I would ordinarily have found this quite disgusting, so enamored was I of the princess’s beauty that I found it rather endearing. “Why ever would you massacre anyone?”
She reached her little hand out in a pleading gesture. Once again, I suppressed the urge to clutch that hand in comfort. Instead, I clenched my own hand so that the fingernails bit into my palm. “Fear not, Your Highness. Mother is merely asking you about an historical event. The massacre in question took place many years ago.”
And why was Mother asking Princess Maria Teresa about a massacre that happened well over a hundred years ago? Why because, as you may have ascertained, Mother was a bit difficult and could not confine her conversation to such topics as ballet, gowns, and the weather.
“Yes.” Mother nodded, her chin touching her lace collar. “Many years ago. What year, exactly, was that?”
I, of course, knew this subject backwards and forwards, and I began to answer, 1572, but Mother held up her hand.
“I was asking the princess, dear Louis. A future queen of France must have a thorough knowledge of our history.” She turned her attention back to Maria Teresa. “Now, what year?”
I, too, turned my attention to Maria Teresa, whose white skin was growing attractively pink. I had heard of those who could communicate without words, so I thought about the number 1572. I thought hard indeed. The princess stared back at me, and I flattered myself that she hoped to impress Mother, hoped to be my wife. I flattered myself, also, that this was not merely because France was a large and powerful country but because she thought me handsome.
It worked! The princess stared back at me and articulated, “I believe it was fifteen…”
I held my breath.
“Twenty-seven!” she finished.
“No!” I could not stop the moan from coming from my mouth.
“No!” Mother crowed. “It was fifteen-seventy-two!”
Princess Maria Teresa looked from my crushed face to Mother’s triumphant one and said, “Oh, well, that is what I meant. I merely got two numbers mixed.”
“Yes, Mother,” I said. “She merely got two numbers mixed. She was almost right.”
Mother laughed. “A date, dear Louis, cannot be almost right. It is either entirely right or entirely wrong, and in this case…” She cast a withering eye upon Maria Teresa. “… it was wrong.”
Princess Maria Teresa looked from me to Mother, not seeming to understand the import of what had happened. But I understood. There was going to be another angry Spanish princess in France’s future. I would not be marrying Maria Teresa.
I should have stopped her from going, but I didn’t. I was an obedient son, respectful to my mother. Truth be told, I pitied her. She had enough trouble with my cheating father without more trouble from me.
So instead I dreamed of Maria Teresa every night for the long weeks before the arrival of Princess Eleonora of Savoy.
Eleonora was my father’s first cousin, so one would have thought we would be polite to her. One would have thought wrong.
Eleonora was pretty, though not as pretty as Princess Maria Teresa, and nice, though not as nice as Maria Teresa. She did not know the works of Rameau, but her eyes lit up when I mentioned ballet. Still, when I had the princess alone for a moment, I said, “Do you know our history? Can I tell you anything about the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre?”
The princess laughed. “I heard about the test, and my governess has been quizzing me quite a bit on the subject.”
I danced happily. The princess was beautiful and smart and, what was more, prepared to answer questions of French trivia. I did not like her as much as I’d liked Maria Teresa, but I could like her. I was certain of it. We could announce our engagement at a ball in her honor and, finally, my dreadful loneliness would end.
But, over dinner, Mother finished swallowing a bite of squab and said, “If one were shipping our finest French wine to the colony of New York, what would be the best route to take?”
The princess cleared her throat. “Shipping … wine?” She swirled her own wine in her glass.
“Mother,” I said, trying to help. “Princess Eleonora knows a great deal of French history. Perhaps you should ask her about that.”
Mother straightened in her chair. “What sort of test would it be if she knew the subject matter beforehand?”
A fair one!
The princess said, �
�It is all right, Your Highness.” To my mother, she said, “The best route would be the most direct one. Therefore, I would go across the Atlantic Ocean to Newfoundland, then south.”
Mother paused for a long moment, and I was certain the princess was right. Right!
But Mother fingered her lace cuff and said, “Newfoundland?”
The princess nodded.
“I see,” said Mother. “But what of icebergs?”
“Icebergs?” I could see the princess’s lovely throat clench. “What of them?”
“Only that if the ship were to take the very northern route you envision, it would be in danger of encountering an iceberg. This might damage the ship’s hull, costing its cargo, not to mention many lives.”
“But…” The princess gaped at me. “Could not the captain be careful?”
“Careful?” Mother slapped her palm upon the table, causing the crystal goblets to jump. “That goes to show that you know nothing of French wine or French sailors. A sailor who has tasted French wine is in no condition to be careful. No, the best route would be down past Portugal and almost to the Canary Islands, so the ship could cross in warmer waters.”
I groaned. She was right.
The princess looked down, then swiped at her eye. Finally, she raised her face to Mother. “I see. You are very wise, Your Majesty.”
Mother nodded, but I knew she was not to be flattered.
“But tell me,” the princess continued. “Would not those warmer, southern waters be more likely to be infested by pirates?”
“Pirates?” I gasped. So did Mother.
“Yes, pirates. And would not the drunken crew you have described be even more ill-equipped to fight pirates than to avoid icebergs?”
Good point! Oh, a very good point! I felt my heart swell with, if not love, the promise of love. Princess Eleonora was a clever girl, and she could do something even I could not. She could stand up to my mother.
But Mother recovered herself and said, “No. Pirates are, of course, a contingency in any sea voyage. But they are just as likely to be encountered in the north as in the south. Icebergs, however, are a given and are seen only on the northern route.”
