by Susan Amesse
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Copyright
To my husband, Tom
For all the love, support, inspiration, and laughter
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Heartfelt thanks to my editor, Deborah Brodie. You’ve always inspired me to chisel deeper and find what lies beneath the marble. It has been a privilege to work with you.
I am especially grateful to Michelle de Savigny for her encouragement and her readiness to read draft after draft with unflinching energy and thoughtfulness.
A multitude of thank-yous to the folks who were kind enough to read various drafts of this book and offer suggestions. Your generosity and camaraderie have warmed my soul. They include: Roberta Davidson Bender, Barbara Baker, Susan Marston, Jessica Feder-Birnbaum, Betsey Day, Susan Grillo, Grace Sells, Kathy Mignano, Maureen Marlow and Loretta Holz.
Hugs and kisses to my family and friends who always bothered to ask, How’s the writing going?
And my undying gratitude to my husband, Tom, for his boundless support in encouraging me to pursue my dream of becoming a children’s book writer and never, ever letting me give up. Thanks for reading and critiquing every draft of this book. I couldn’t have finished it without you.
ONE
“Do you have what it takes to be a royal princess? Take the test and find out.”
Our checkout line isn’t moving, so I grab a copy of Teen Romance from the rack next to the register. On the cover is a smiling Princess Agnes of Hortonia. I flip through the magazine until I find the story about her and the princess quiz. If only I could be whisked away from Granneli’s Supermarket to a castle with turrets and a moat. Besides, I love purple, which everyone knows is a royal color.
Question one: A princess must be prepared to make many public appearances. Are you shy around strangers?
A: Always. B: Sometimes. C: Absolutely not.
My answer is B, but I wish it were C.
Question two: A princess often travels to foreign countries to speak about important issues. How many languages can you speak?
A: Two. B: Three. C: Four or more.
Let’s see. Besides English, I know a few French words because it’s such a romantic language. And I can say thank you in Portuguese. I pick B as my answer.
“Bonjour!” I give my brother, Jason, my finest princess wave, but he continues to sleep comfortably in his baby carrier among our groceries.
“Did you get a good shot of the accident?” my mother says into her cell phone. “It’s for the front page.” I, Princess Sarah, wave at Mom, but she’s not looking.
I take out my notebook, which I carry with me at all times, and jot down a few notes about being a princess. I’m planning to be a best-selling author of high-quality romances.
On to Question three: A princess must always exhibit poise and courtesy. If you were attending an official reception and noticed someone’s wig falling off, how would you react?
A: Laugh and point. B: Ask them to leave immediately. C: Divert attention to give the unfortunate person time to fix her wig.
Absolutely, answer C. I turn toward a five-foot-tall stack of canned beans, today’s Super Smart Buy. “Enchanté! Oh, look over there,” I say regally. “The queen has arrived.”
“Where?”
I turn. It’s Brendan Callahan. He smirks. “Talking to yourself again?”
“I’m talking to my baby brother,” I say.
“Right.” He plucks the magazine out of my hand. He bats his eyelashes and puts on a high, silly voice. “Do you have what it takes to be a royal princess?” He looks at me and laughs. “No way could you be a princess.”
I grab the magazine. “And why not?”
“Look at the first question. You’re not good with strangers.”
“I am too.”
“You’re totally shy,” he says. “You could take a lesson from me. I have a wonderful, outgoing personality. And I know how to dress with style.” He poses so I can see the dumb T-shirt he’s wearing. This one says, “I don’t suffer from insanity, I enjoy every minute of it.”
I eye Jason, hoping he’ll wake up and cry or something.
“Hey,” says Brendan. “How do you get a baby astronaut to sleep? You rock-it. Get it?”
“Got it.”
Wake up, Jason!
“You’ll love this one,” he says. “A woman calls her doctor. ‘Doctor, doctor,’ she says, ‘my baby’s swallowed a bullet.’ The doctor says, ‘Well, don’t point him at anyone until I get there.’”
Ha. Ha. Ha.
“Brendan.” My mother waves and pulls the cell phone away from her ear. “It’s good to see you. Why don’t you drop by later? It’s been ages since you and Sarah played chess.”
“I’m busy,” he says.
“Me too.”
Mom raises an eyebrow at me. “Perhaps another time, Brendan. Tell your mother we need to talk about the Preservation Fair. Is she here?”
Brendan shrugs. “She’s somewhere.”
Mom nods and resumes her phone conversation—something about a factory strike.
Brendan looks over his shoulder. “I have to get out of here. The guys are getting a basketball game together at P.S. 43 and they need me.”
“So?” I say.
“I ditched my mother in the produce aisle. If you happen to bump into her, forget you’ve seen me.”
“That won’t be hard,” I say.
He leans in. “You should check out aisle five. Good humor is on sale.” He backs away, pretending to dribble a ball.
In my notebook, I write Brendan Callahan—jerk, and underline it. Then I write a reminder to e-mail Lynn as soon as I get home. Before she left to visit her father in San Francisco, she sat on my bed listing the cutest boys at Hamilton Intermediate School and Brendan was on the list. It is my duty as her best friend to point out his flaws, as there are so many of them.
“Martha, listen to me,” says my mother. “We cannot do a feature about a psychic. We get little respect being a Staten Island newspaper as it is.”
“Mom,” I say. “I’d love to read about a psychic.” She shushes me.
“When I stop by the office, we’ll talk.” She clicks off the phone and we begin piling groceries on the belt.
“Mom, no one has ever written about a day in the life of a psychic.”
“And with good reason,” she says. “Pass the grapes.”
“You’re being closed-minded.”
“Sweetie, our readers count on us for accuracy.”
“Accuracy isn’t everything,” I insist.
“Yes, it is.”
The cashier rings up our groceries and I help bag them. On the way out, I see a circus poster.
“Mom,” I say, pointing. “Can we go? There’s a show this afternoon.”
“It sounds like fun,” she says. “But I have to stop by the office.”
“You’re on maternity leave. Doesn’t that mean that you don’t go to the office every day? Isn’t this the time to bond with your children?”
She wheels the cart across the steamy parking lot. “I only drop in for a few minutes. You wouldn’t want the Courier to fall apart without me.”
“What if I should fall apart without you?”
“What, honey?”
“Nothing.” She straps Jason’s baby seat in while I put the groceries in the trunk of our Volvo.
On the way to the office, I take out my notebook and begin a new story. It’s about a lonely but talented contortionist named Roxanne. A circus comes to town, and the owner sees Roxanne performing in a supermarket for her baby brother, bending herself into a pretzel. “What a talent!” he says. “You must join my circus.”
“Please, mother,” begs Roxanne. Her mother refuses because she has been put under a spell by an evil spirit lurking in her cell phone.
* * *
When we get to Mom’s office, she runs ahead. As I carry Jason into the building, I imagine myself an ace reporter like my mother used to be. I’d race to the scene of the crime, interview the witnesses, and solve the mystery all by myself. I wish I could lead such an exciting writer’s life.
The newsroom is full of activity. Along the sides are offices, but most of the floor is just a large, open area crammed with desks. Many of the reporters and editors are typing stories into their computers or talking on the phone. It’s so loud that I wonder how any of them can concentrate.
Mom is in her office talking with the assistant editor, Joe. They’re arguing about something and Mom pulls at her hair. She’s been doing this a lot lately and it worries me. Before the baby, her short brown hair was always neatly styled, but the constant pulling is creating tiny spikes on the top of her head. She almost looks like a punk rocker instead of a managing editor. I carry Jason back into the newsroom.
“Hey, cutie,” says a deep voice. I turn around. It’s Filipe Santo, the sportswriter. He walks toward me and I lean in to kiss Jason because I don’t want Filipe to see that I’m blushing. Filipe is so handsome! So tanned! So exotic! It’s because of him I know how to say thank you in Portuguese. Obrigado.
“You’re going to be a hit with the ladies,” he tells Jason, pinching his cheek. I was hoping he thought I was cute.
“How’s it going, Sarah?”
“Uh.” I stare at his lips, wondering if his slim moustache would tickle if he kissed me.
“Well,” he says. “Got to run.”
“Right,” I say to his back. “Obrigado!” He leaves behind a mist of musk aftershave.
“Oo goo goo goo. Can I hold the kid?” I hand Jason over to Cynthia, the restaurant critic. “Oo goo goo goo,” she says. “What a gootie, gootie cutie. Oo goo goo goo.”
“Hey, Sarah.” Anne Marie Valgetti leans back in her chair and waves me over. “What’s doing?”
“Nothing much,” I answer. Anne Marie and I are both going to be in the seventh grade at Hamilton Intermediate School this fall, but we’ve never been friends. Lynn and I call her Smileyface.
She whirls around in her chair, smiling like the face on a stress ball. She looks older today, dressed in a tailored black suit. Her curly red hair, which is usually gushing all over the place, is neatly coiled in a bun with a pencil sticking out of it. She looks like a real reporter. I cross my arms, hoping to cover Jason’s drool on my T-shirt.
“It’s so awesome working here as an intern.” She plays with the plastic badge that hangs from a cord around her neck. It says “STAFF” in big letters. “Tonight, there’s an opening party at the museum. I’m invited because I’m staff.” She points to the badge and begins to trace the letters with her fingers. “The mayor will be there.” S. “And Rose DeLancy, the millionairess.” T. “She’s goes all over the world buying art.” A. “It’s going to be great.” F. “I can’t wait.” F.
I can’t help thinking that it should be me meeting the mayor and Rose DeLancy at that party. I had filled out an application to be an intern, but since Dad had to zip off to Germany to sort out this big merger, Mom thought it would be better if I stayed home to help her with Jason. I actually want to be there to show Jason the fun side of life, but I know I could have juggled being an intern, too.
Cynthia gives Jason back to me. “Gotta run,” she says. “Look after your mother for us. She looks like she’s having a rough time. I hope your father will get back soon.”
I nod. I smell Filipe and whirl around, hoping to catch his attention.
“Hi, Filipe,” says Anne Marie, smiling. “Let’s talk again real soon. I loved your story about the soccer match. It was so educational.”
Educational, I bet. “I’d like to hear it too,” I tell him.
“Oh, gross, what is that disgusting smell?” says Anne Marie, sniffing. Filipe looks at me and backs away, fanning the air.
I realize Jason has just let out a big, nasty-smelling poop. I bolt to the bathroom. Thank you very much, Jason.
I change his diaper. “I know you have to poop,” I say, “but could you not do it around Filipe?” Jason gurgles. I put on extra baby lotion, so he’ll smell nice, but when I come out, Filipe is gone. Mom is leaning over Anne Marie’s shoulder. I get this icy feeling.
“We can use that,” says my mother. “You’re so organized and detail-oriented.”
“I’m learning from the best,” gushes Anne Marie.
Wouldn’t they be the perfect fact-filled mother-daughter team?
Jason fidgets. I walk him around, bouncing him a little. He likes that. “I should have that job and not her,” I whisper to Jason. “I would find more than facts. I think newspaper articles should be interesting, as well as factual.”
Anne Marie has a smile pasted to her face while she stares up at my mother. I picture Anne Marie smiling her way through life. Until—a catastrophe! She can’t stop smiling. She can’t chew. She can’t talk. She can’t even whistle for her dog. All she can do is smile. “We must operate at once,” the surgeons say.
I stare at what could have been my desk. There’s a stack of flyers next to Anne Marie’s computer. I grab one. It has information about the Staten Island Preservation Society Fair, which Mom organizes. When I turn it over, I suck in my breath. The back headline announces a new teen writing contest, sponsored by the society. My mother is president of the society. Why didn’t she tell me about this?
The flyer says the contest is open to anyone twelve years of age or older. This is fate—I just turned twelve. Maybe this is my lucky day.
TWO
The window seat in my bedroom is the spot on earth where I feel most like a writer. What a view! I can see a panorama of New York Harbor-from the Statue of Liberty to the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. I can watch the world from this seat.
The flyer says contestants will write a thirty-minute one-act play that takes place on Staten Island during the late 1800s. It will be judged not only on style but, most important, on its authentic sense of Staten Island history.
A play. Hmmmm. A play can’t be much harder than a story, can it? After all, Lynn and I love acting out our favorite movies. We know Gone With the Wind by heart.
I lean back against the pillows and think. No, I visualize! I visualize winning the contest. As they announce the winner, the crowd will part. I walk, no, I saunter, maybe amble, no, I will saunter like a princess over to the stage and accept my prize. I will share the two hundred dollars with my baby brother. I’m philanthropic. When my manuscript is read, a hush falls over the crowd. “A masterpiece!” someone shouts, and the applause is deafening.
Then, and this is the best part, my story will be published in the society’s journal and displayed in their lobby for
an entire year. I shall visit it daily.
At the bottom of the flyer is a registration form. I fill in my name—Sarah Olivia Simmons—giving the S’s big loops so my name looks fancier. I print my address, phone number, and age.
“Hey,” says Mom, popping her head in. “Jason’s sleeping. He looks like an absolute angel.”
“He is an angel,” I say. “Dad says he takes after me.”
“That’s true.” She comes over and kisses my cheek. “You’ve been a lifesaver this summer. I would be falling apart without you.” She squeezes my hand. “I just got an e-mail from your father. He hopes to wrap up that merger by next week and come home to us.”
“I hope so,” I say.
“He sends you his love.” Mom picks up the dulcimer I bought at a yard sale. It’s a beautiful instrument with romantic curves and heart-shaped cutouts. A best-selling author must have interesting hobbies to share with her readers on a book’s back inside flap. I haven’t actually done anything interesting yet, so I thought the dulcimer might be a good start.
She plucks one of the strings. “This is very unusual.”
“I know,” I agree.
“I have a great idea,” she says. “With the nanny starting on Monday, I’m hoping to give you a lot more free time. Why don’t I treat you to lessons?”
I shrug. “I don’t think I’m ready yet.”
“Nonsense,” says Mom. “You have the rest of summer vacation.”
“I’ll get around to it,” I say. “Am I the very first to apply?” I add, holding up my application.
“Well, yes, but—” She stares at the contest registration I’m holding.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Should I give it to someone else?” My mother isn’t judging the contest. The flyer says Peter Boswin, a historian at the college, is the judge. “I’ll bring it over to the college if Dr. Boswin is there.”
“Sarah,” says Mom. She has a pained expression on her face as she puts down the dulcimer. “I know how much writing means to you.” Her tone is making me nervous. “But you can’t enter this contest.”
“Why not?”
“It would be unethical,” she says.
