The Darkest Shadow

by Janya budaraju

  The dress, I realize, looks way too much like one of the dresses at the store- I was wondering how I suddenly developed a great sense of fashion- so I combine it with ideas from other dresses I’ve seen. the I gather all the layers to the side, making a rose from the bunch. It’s beautiful, but now I need the mask. I start with the simple shape, the slim, elegant outline. I color it metallic blue- to match the dress, and also it’s my favorite color. I notice a stray pen scribble on one side of the mask, and I can’t get it off. So to cover it up, I add curls of silver and black gems going off the frame on the same side, like wispy clouds on a blue sky. I add little swirls of silver glitter around the mask and draw a silver and black ribbon to tie behind my head. For the finishing touch, in the middle of the mask, I add a half black, half silver tiara with the same shade sapphires as my dress and with intricate curled designs like lace. I admire my work, adding a couple touches here and there, when the bell rings for my next class.

  Wow! Time sure passed fast! I check my schedule for my next class. It’s drama, so I head over there quickly. My teacher is Mrs. Badroulbadour, but apparently prefers to be called Mrs. Jasmine or Mrs. Jazz. I slide into my seat just as the bell rings. As I look up, I gasp. Mrs. Badrou… baldo… oh forget it! Mrs. Jazz is wearing pants! And a top that doesn’t cover her stomach! And it doesn’t have sleeves, either!

  She clears her throat. “Hello, class”, she says with a strange accent. “I am Mrs. Jasmine, or Mrs. Jazz, and I shall be instructing you in the arts of-” she strikes a dramatic pose, one hand over her forehead, the other over her heart “-theatre. Not acting, theatre. This includes drama”-she strikes that ridiculous pose again-”miming”-she pretends to be in a box, exaggerating her facial expressions-”romance”-she flutters her eyelids, looks swoony, and clasps her hands together-”and more.

  “Your first challenge of the year is to perform a short skit which shall be recorded for educational purposes only- we shall record your final performance as well, and we can look at your progress through the year. This is the only assignment for you this year that won’t be graded, though every one will be videotaped. Your task is to create an interpretive dance of elegance, grace, and poise. I will choose your partner for you and you will then begin.” She begins to monotonously read off a list. I tune her out until I hear- “Ellowyn Aspen with Sidelle Simone.”

  A girl with short-cropped hair and golden-brown skin and hazel eyes heads my way. She has a slim build, long neck, soft facial expressions- a sort of quiet beauty. But as we discuss ideas, I find myself being quite impressed with her personality. She’s sarcastic, smart, and quirky.

  For our dance, we check out the supplies Mrs. Jazz had mentioned and find long, gauzy pieces of cloth tied on to cylindrical sticks with thick, bold strips of ribbon. It overall gives the effect of floating or flying. I quickly claim the blue and silver one- it reminded me of my dress from fashion- and she grabs the purple and gold one. Apparently Sidelle took dance lessons in her kingdom, Shazadi, and has some pretty good moves. As we finish our dance with a smooth twirl, a snarky voice pipes up from behind us. I recognize it as the voice of Pippa Meredith, the pale-skinned, wavy black haired, purple-eyed snob of a girl. She comments cruelly, “Nice fish dance-or was it hippo? But just wanted to let you know that the theme is ‘elegance’, not ‘fat creature lumping about’.” She smirks and flips her hair over her shoulder.

  I smile sweetly at her. “Perhaps you could show us your brilliant moves. Because you’re such an expert at this and everything.” Her smile slips slightly, but she and her partner, an uncomfortable-looking girl who obviously didn’t want to be caught up in this, swish their hips and strut up and down, Pippa’s high-heels driving like knives into the carpet. As they finish, Sidelle opens her mouth for a cutting retort, but I smile slightly at her, subtly shaking my head. Then I launch into a ridiculously stupid dance, thrashing around and bobbing my head while waving my arms about and jumping from side to side. As I finish, I see Sidelle, Pippa and her partner looking at me in confusion. Pippa asks, “What are you doing?” with a look of disbelief and disgust settling on her face.

  I look at her the same way. “I thought that we were doing stupid dance moves- that’s what you just demonstrated, right?” While Pippa’s jaw falls open, Sidelle grins and announces it’s her turn, launching into a dance more ridiculous than even mine. By this time, Pippa has come up with a response to my remark, and smiles innocently.

  “If you thought it was a contest, why didn’t you do your dance? It is rather dumb.” I can’t think of a response, and am just about to shrug uselessly when Sidelle intervenes to save the day.

  “Because we wanted to do a dance that would be more ridiculous than yours, and ours wasn’t cutting it.” Then we both smile, turn around, and walk sassily away, leaving Pippa outraged, angry emotions playing havoc on her preppy face. Without a word, Sidelle and I fist bump each other and go back to rehearsing our dance.

  The teacher comes over, showing off “subtly” by flinging her arms in the air and kicking her legs up high. Then she pretends to have just noticed us and complimented us on our “interesting” dance. I don’t know exactly what that means, but okay, I’ll take it. Especially because just a few minutes ago, I saw her tell Pippa that her dance was “underwhelming”.

  Before Sidelle and I can decide on our costumes, the bell rings, and we dash to our next periods. Man, these people don’t allow a lot of time to get to our next classes! Especially because the halls are so crowded with all the princesses in the castle. I manage to elbow through the crowds of princesses and flomp onto my seat before the bell rings, my elbows sore.

  I didn’t have time to check my schedule before for my teacher and subject, so I glance at it now. I have Ms. Zel for hair and makeup.

  I look at Ms. Zel, and my eyes bug out. She has really, really long golden hair, that’s thrown out the window and wrapped around a hook. Her head is slightly dragged to the side by the weight of her hair. Also, her face looks totally covered in random makeup. Her lips are coated with dark pink, eyes smeared with green, her cheeks are bright purple. It looks like a color bomb exploded onto just the right parts of her face.

  As the second bell rings, she begins talking in a shrill, high-pitched voice. “Listen up, class! For those who don’t know, my name is Ms. Zel and I shall be teaching you the art”-she tosses her head and dabs her face with a soft spongy cloth-”of hair and makeup. Now we are partnering up with Ms. Ella for the ball. I will pass back the papers that you started in Ms. Ella’s class.” While she hands us the papers, she talks. “You will add on the appropriate hair and makeup to your figures. Here is a textbook teaching you how to choose them correctly. Now, as princesses, you NEVER apply your own makeup or do your hair, you only choose it. So before the ball, highly trained professionals shall do them for you, exactly how you specified. BUT, to try your hair and makeup out, each of you have an extensive makeup kit in front of you. You also have a mannequin head with real hair attached. Begin.”

  I flip through my textbook until I see a section about royal blue dresses, and practically copy the pictures straight out of it. I fill in the lips with a deep red lipstick and lightly add clear gloss on top of it. I don’t need to worry about the eyes, so I skip over them. I stroke on blush that matches my lipstick and for the final touch, sparingly brush shimmery golden glitter over the whole face for a glowing effect.

  I look at the book again, staring at it to look for a solution to the hair, but I have to ponder it a little. I try a braid, but it doesn’t look right. Wearing the hair down covers the shoulders, so the strapless gown has no effect. Ponytails all look super weird on a formal gown, and buns look to uptight.

  Wait! There’s a section about that in the book! Glancing at the instructions from the textbook, I grab my mannequin head and brush all the hair until it’s smooth. I take a thick top layer of the hair, pulling it up to make a slightly messy, big bun just behind the top of my head. Then I take the thin layer left and make two br
aids out of them. I wrap the braids around the bun, securing the ends to the rest of the hair with bobby pins. Then I sweep the bangs around, tucking them behind the ear. Hmmm. I like the hairstyle, so I lightly stroke it on to the paper.

  As I try to transfer the makeup to the model though, it’s not easy. It looks like a cat treaded on the poor mannequin’s face. I try to wipe it off, my sleeves turning rainbow, and get most of it removed before the next bell rings. I run through the halls, trying to find my next class: speaking regally, with Mrs. Tinker Belle, but she prefers to be called Tinker.

  As I sink into my seat, gasping from the effort of pushing through fast-moving princesses, I spot a blondish-brown haired lady in a ridiculously poofy green dress, with a stupid looking bun that was on the extreme side of her hair. If she tried to run or climb a tree, her dress would split in half, or at least break hundreds of seams. It seemed so tight around the waist, but ballooned out at the bottom. But you could tell that underneath the fabric, there was something tight around her legs, because she moved slowly, with tight, small waddle-steps.

  As the bell chimes, she begins to speak it a ditzy, girly voice. She’s teaching speaking regally?

  “Hey girlfriends, I’m Tinker. Squeeee! So, I’m so, so, SO excited to be teaching you guys (squeeee!) that I set up a super, duper fun class schedule! When I made it, I was all like, OMG! This is going to be, like, so fun! So let me demonstrate!” I have to hear how this lady talks “royally”, but when she does, I’m blown away. Her empty-headed voice turns serious and has a distinctly elegant accent.

  “Hello, my faithful subjects! I shall be teaching you the art of speaking royally, and let’s begin now.” She grins, flouncing her hair. “OMG! Wasn’t that, like, totes cool?” The whole class stares in shock, eyes saucers, and she keeps talking about how much fun this will be.

  Finally, she tells us to begin and practice with our desk partner. I turn to see Gwyneth Vivienne. The traditional nickname would be Gwen, but she resolutely sticks with V. Pronounced Vee. She’s cool, though. She has short straight black hair that frames her face, bangs that sweep to the side, and she always braids a small piece of her hair that manages to look unique and elegant. Her uniform kind of describes her personality: she managed to find neon green and bright orange in the room of pastels, and the word that I’d use to describe her is neon.

  She gives me a half smile and says with a smirk and an English accent, “Royally speaking is a real pain in the neck, my royal subjects.” I grin at her, and we start to make up ridiculous phrases that we say in an English accent. What we don’t know is that Tinker is standing right behind us, and then she gives us a peppy lecture that’s twice as bad as a normal lecture.

  “OMG, guys! That was, like, totes, totes like, uncool, so don’t do that, okay?… “ It just goes on and on forever, and V secretly pulls out a book and starts reading under the desk. Finally, I claim I need to use the bathroom and just stay there for the rest of the period.

  I totally zone out for the next couple periods, my eyes closing slightly, fluttering, and then I jerk back awake. Finally the day ends, and I stumble back to my cozy room, collapse into the bed, and fall asleep, listening to birds chirping.

  Chapter 6

  I wake up with the beeping of my alarm clock, rolling over onto my side. I groan and close my eyes again, until I remember what day it is. It’s the day of the masquerade ball! I jump out of bed, checking my clock. I have plenty of time- the ball is at 5:00 pm, and it’s 7:00 am right now. But I need to get to my stylists soon, right after I take a bath.

  I shed my pajamas and step into the broiling hot water, scrubbing my body with that lilac-scented soap that’s on the stand, thoroughly wash my hair with shampoo and conditioner until it’s silky-smooth, and step out, wrapping a soft, pink fluffy towel around me. I towel-dry my hair and body (my stylists said that hairdryers are bad for your hair) and then put moisturizer on. Then I dress in a camisole and tight, small shorts, so that I can just wear clothes on top. I brush my hair smooth again, and go to the door, exiting with most of my other housemates.

  My stylists greet me- Harper, a girl only a few years older then me, with her dark red hair curling around her shoulders and her face gentle, and Autumn, an older lady whose eyes and wrinkles show many years of experience, and her white hair is always in a tight bun.

  Harper murmurs for me to sit in a large black chair, and I do as she says. Her and Autumn whisper into each others ears, nod at each other, and pick up the tools. They seem to want to do my makeup first, because they wield blush brushes, lipstick, shimmery powder, and other colored facial applicants.

  First they smooth my all my skin down with lotion, my sun-dried skin first screaming in protest, then cool and soothed. They scrub all of my flaking skin off with a stiff-bristled brush. Moving on, they put plum-colored lipstick on me, thickly coating my lips. They take a clear gloss and spread a thin layer on top of the dark red. They also add long, thick fake eyelashes to my eyes and thick black liner, even though I didn’t draw that, but if they think it makes me look better, hey- I’m not complaining. They stroke on some blush that matches the deep red lipstick, and finally, gently apply golden glitter over my whole face. They check me out, and when they add the final touches with a small, soft paintbrush, they quickly move onto the hair.

  They look around, frowning and murmuring, for a few minutes. Then my light blond hair falls to the ground in wavy curls, leaving my neck with much less strain and my forehead much cooler. When my hair is the right length, they move me to a bed, where they have me lie down while Autumn’s rough fingers tear at the knots in my hair, with my head in a hot tub of water. Then Harper’s slender fingers nimbly apply shampoo and conditioner with a well-practiced motion, and then washes them out.

  Finally, when my hair is soaked and to their picky satisfaction, Autumn takes a towel, thick and fluffy, and attacks my head with it, rubbing firmly at my poor scalp. She moves down, rubbing the bottom of my hair with no sympathy at my squeals of pain. Then Harper comes in to do my hair, twisting my hair into a golden coil and fastening it in the right place, and then wrapping braids around the messy bun and perfectly arranging my bangs. She secures everything in place, occasionally yanking a few strands of hair down below my ears.

  Autumn comes in, holding a can of hairspray like a lethal weapon, and lightly douses my hair in it to make it stay in place, I assume. Both of them circle me like vultures, their eyes seeking any imperfections or mistakes. Sometimes one lunges at me, tucking something back in place or dabbing at my face with a cotton swab.

  Finally, when both seem content with their work, they let me walk around a bit, stretching my muscles and loosening up my joints. Then, both checking the clock simultaneously, Autumn shoulders me to the dressing room to wear the dress and mask, giving me a grandmotherly affectionate smile, totally contradicting to the way she is shoving me roughly with her shoulder. As Harper closes the door behind us, she helps me step into the dress and zip it up at the back, and for a while, the pair just secures things with safety pins and make the dress fall in a better way.

  Finally, as they tweak the final swatches of silk, Harper deftly ties the black ribbon of the mask behind my head. The rough texture of the material feels strange on my face, but I adjust to it quickly. My vision is narrowed, but I can still see clearly. Actually, I haven’t looked in a mirror since early this morning! So I have no idea how I’m gonna look.

  Both Harper and Autumn’s face are impassive, and though I search their faces for clues, I can’t detect any emotions. As Autumn forces over a large mirror, Harper helps her turn it around to me.

  Wow. I look… like an angel! Like a beauty not from Earth! Both of my stylists break out into identical grins, and I know that they were concealing any clues before just to see me in this moment.

  I glance at the time. It’s only half an hour before the party!

  “Gotta go!” I throw over my shoulder, my feet already pounding the ground. I sprint until I remember my m
akeup and hair, and then I walk quickly, taking big steps, hiking my dress up to my knees. As I reach the prep room, for students if they come early, to find Sidelle waiting there already. She self-consciously runs a hand through her short black hair and smooths out her gazelle-colored gown with thin straps and a skirt that flares at the bottom. She wears a necklace with dark stones and a bracelet with wooden beads. Her mask is slim and bold, with its half-brown, half-black design. Her outfit really is like her- bold, original, and poised.

  I can see her look my dress up and down too, assessing it, judging it compared to hers. She looks thoughtful, but just as I’m checking her expression, Pippa walks- or should I say struts- in, swishing her hips. Sidelle and I almost burst out laughing as she sashays in. She’s dressed in a pink ruffly, white-polka-dotted dress with a poofy skirt. Her makeup closely resembles a clown’s, with polka-dotted eyelids and lips, heavy pink eyeliner, 5-inch fake pink eyelashes, and blush of a neon pink. Her mask is even more of a laugh. It covers her entire face, and it is a glittery dark pink with white polka dots. On the right, she has a giant glittery hot-pink hair bow, with- you guessed it- white polka dots. She even dyed her hair pink with polka dots, and it sits in a bow on top of her head.

  As she glances at Sidelle and I, and her lip curls in disgust, we can’t take it anymore- Sidelle and I burst out laughing, but quickly disguise it as coughing and hacking. As more people file in, there are several ridiculous dresses- but all of us look at Pippa in disbelief or sympathy as we enter the room. Finally, everybody is here, and I take in some other princesses: a purple dress with a shimmery scarf, a half-up, half-down hairstyle, no makeup, tons of makeup- everybody is different.