Just Your Average Princess

by Kristina Springer

  “What?” I finally mumble. “The air-conditioning was making me cold.”

  Dad frowns and takes my seat without a word.

  Milan cheerily enters the room and slips into her seat. “Dinner smells great, Aunt Julie,” she comments. “This hard work has really been giving me an appetite.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and slump back in my seat, staring skeptically at Milan. But she doesn’t even glance in my direction.

  “Thank you, Milan,” Mom calls from the kitchen. “I tried something new. I hope you like it.”

  Hmph. She never hopes I like anything. Of course, there generally isn’t much that I don’t like.

  “Working at the Pumpkin Patch is so much fun. I had no idea I’d enjoy working as much as I do,” Milan continues.

  Oh puh-lease. What a load of—

  Mom sets a big bowl of steamed broccoli on the table in front of Milan.

  I frown. That’s new. No cheese or crumbled Ritz crackers on the broccoli. Not even a few pats of butter. Are we on a diet or something?

  “Well, you’re doing a wonderful job. Right, Henry?” Mom asks, placing a hand on Dad’s shoulder.

  Dad wipes some milk off his mouth and clears his throat. “Excellent. Better than workers that have been here two, even three seasons.”

  My elbows drop on the table with a thump. What’s this? Compliments from the man who on most days won’t even utter a hello to his only child? Is Dad feeling okay? Is there a carbon monoxide leak in the house or something and he’s tripping? Milan doesn’t even do 10 percent of the work I do around here every day. I never get praise.

  Mom sets a big bowl of homemade applesauce on the table and retreats to the kitchen, smiling.

  “Gee, thanks, Uncle Henry,” Milan says, glancing my way to make sure I’m taking this in. “This looks delicious.” Milan scoops some applesauce out of the bowl. She briefly passes it by her nose before dropping it onto her plate. Probably trying to see if Mom put any sugar in it.

  Mom returns and sets a big platter of … something … in the center of the table and takes a seat. She looks proud. It looks like some sort of rubbery ball of meat. And it smells sort of like turkey, but it sure doesn’t look like any turkey I’ve ever seen.

  “Tofurkey!” Milan exclaims, clapping her hands together.

  Tofurkey? Hehe. Okay, this is going to be good. I look at Dad, waiting for him to give Mom hell for putting a big peachy tofu ball on the dinner table. And I wait. But he doesn’t say anything. I widen my eyes at him. Hello? It’s fake meat. Say something.

  “Looks good,” Dad says.

  8

  It’s six in the morning and I’m ready for school. I set my heavy backpack by the front door, grab an apple and a banana from the kitchen, and head outside to feed the bunnies before I leave. I eat my banana in three bites, before I’m even at the end of the gravel driveway, and start in on my apple.

  I crack open the heavy wooden gate and let myself into the bunny pen. We have a good fifty-plus bunnies of all colors hopping around. It’s hard to ever be in a bad mood when you’re around these supercuties. My favorites are the gray ones with black spots. We have four of them and they are totally adorable. They are the only ones I’ve named—Lily, Delilah, Anastasia, and Gwendolyn. I know, I know, it’s not Flopsy and Mopsy but these gals seem to fit their names.

  “Hello, sweeties! Who’s hungry?” I pull down a big bucket of rabbit food from a shelf and give it a shake. But none of the bunnies are paying attention to me. Huh. I shake the food harder. “C’mon, guys!” I call, but the bunnies still pay no attention to me. You know, I’m going to develop quite the complex if even the animals start ignoring me. I look at their water system and see that it’s full. That’s weird. Somebody has already been in here and fed my bunnies.

  I walk to the edge of the bunny hill area and look around the Patch. Who else is out here at this hour?

  Suddenly it becomes clear. I spot Mom and Milan walking together in the distance, each carrying one side of a bale of hay, laughing at something. I squat on a nearby step stool and wrap my arms around my knees. I’m hoping Milan didn’t see me. That would make her day, I’m sure.

  And why is that anyway? I rack my brain, trying to remember if I did something to annoy Milan and make her hate me so much. But no, I’ve been nothing but nice to her since the second she arrived. I’d like me if I were her. But for some reason she seems determined to make me look bad, not only in front of my parents but also in front of my friends at the Patch. I don’t get it.

  I look down and Gwendolyn is nibbling at my right shoe like she’s hungry. I reach into the rabbit feed, pull out a handful of pellets, and offer them to Gwendolyn. She eats from my hand, watching me. It’s pity eating. Like when you’re at your grandma’s house and you force down a piece of lemon poppy-seed cake not because you actually want to, but because it would make Grandma happy.

  And it works. I smile at Gwendolyn and rub her back. “Thanks, sweetie.”

  After the much-needed quiet time with the bunnies, I grab my backpack from the house and jump in my car, purposely not saying goodbye to anyone before I head to school. I’m not sure this was even noticed. No one is paying attention to me these days. I turn on the car radio and crank up the music, trying to drown out my thoughts. Of course, this has never exactly worked for me. I must be a loud thinker. On the one hand, it’ll be nice to not be in Milan’s presence for a few hours. On the other hand, if I’m away from the Patch, how can I keep an eye on her? What if she takes advantage of my absence to suck up to my parents even more? Or worse, what if she spends the whole day hitting on Danny?

  Ugh. It’s totally not fair that I have to be in school, worrying about what Milan’s up to when all she has to do is homeschool for two hours a day on her pink laptop in her room. She probably won’t even do that. She’ll bat her eyelashes at some Patch worker and have him or her writing essays for her in a snap.

  “Morning, Jamie,” Dilly says, slipping into the desk next to me in math class.

  “Hi, Dilly,” I reply. “Did your hair again, huh?”

  Dilly smiles and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, you like?”

  Dilly’s dark brown hair is newly highlighted with thick Crayola-yellow stripes. “It’s totally you,” I say. And actually, it’s kind of cute.

  Dilly looks thrilled. “Thanks! I’m making a statement. It’s supposed to be a message to all of the sheepeople out there with their matching haircuts and highlights.”

  I smile. I’ve never colored or highlighted my hair so I’m not sure I get the message she says she’s putting out there, but I get Dilly. And this is totally her.

  “So, how was your weekend?” Dilly asks. She flips open a notebook on her desk and pulls a pencil out of the backpack hanging off the back of her chair. “Did your cousin start playing nice? Did you guys have fun?”

  “Fun?” I repeat. Hmm. When I think of Milan the word “fun” doesn’t spring to mind. Manipulative, snotty, unfriendly, high maintenance … Now those words seem more on target. “Well, I—” I begin, but am interrupted by our math teacher walking in.

  “Okay, people, let’s get started right away. Open your books to page 112,” Mr. Cranshaw says, flipping on the overhead machine and uncapping a dry-erase marker.

  I watch Mr. Cranshaw’s scribbled letters and numbers appear on the large screen hanging on the wall at the front of the room and I know I should be taking notes like everyone else in class. But, really, how am I supposed to care about dividing one polynomial by another polynomial when at this very moment Milan could be blowing in Danny’s ear? It’s driving me crazy not knowing what she’s up to back at the Patch.

  At lunch I buy a greasy cheeseburger in the school cafeteria and take it outside to eat. I stop in front of a shady apple tree, kick the rotten apples lying on the ground out of the way, and plop down to call Sara. She answers in one ring.

  “What’s up?” Sara asks.

  “Nothing, what’s going
on there?” I reply. I absentmindedly pick up a red apple lying on the ground nearby and roll it around in my free hand.

  “Well, my Peanut Butter Cup apples are selling like crazy.”

  “No, you know what I mean. What’s she doing?”

  “Who?”

  “Sara!” I say, exasperated.

  “You mean Precious? She’s … Well, I believe she thinks she’s working. Socializing while doing the least amount of physical exertion is a more accurate description, however,” Sara says.

  “Is she, I mean, has she been talking to Danny?” I ask, hating how I sound. But I can’t get those flowers she brought home Saturday and her implication that they were from Danny out of my mind.

  There’s a pause.

  “Sara?” I prompt, knowing that if it’s taking her this long to answer then I’m not going to like what she says. At all.

  “Well,” she begins, and she pauses. “Here and there. I wouldn’t get worked up over it though,” she adds quickly.

  My heart sinks. Milan is totally blowing in his ear.

  Neither of us says anything for a moment. Not that we need to. We’re both thinking the same thing.

  “Seriously, Jamie,” Sara finally says. “I don’t think she’s Danny’s type. Don’t worry.”

  I appreciate Sara’s effort to make me feel better, but I’m having a hard time seeing Danny turning Milan down if she is in fact throwing herself at him. “Just, keep an eye on them, okay? And let me know if she’s hitting on him.”

  “All right, I will. But I really do think it’s no big deal,” Sara adds.

  “Thanks,” I say, and we hang up.

  The rest of the afternoon goes by slowly and I race for my car after the final bell rings. Ever since I hung up with Sara I’ve been getting these horrible visions of Danny and Milan sneaking off behind one of the barns to make out. I have to get back to the Patch and see for myself what’s going on.

  When I get home I change into my overalls at warp speed, throw my hair into two braids, and get out to the Patch. I walk from booth to booth, acting like I’m looking for something, but actually I’m trying to find Milan. I finally spot her in the face-painting booth, surrounded by a bunch of preteens, and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least Danny’s not with her. I hang back for a moment, studying her. She’s smiling and looks like she’s having a good time talking to the group of girls. One of them turns around to shout something to her mother and I see exactly what kind of face painting Milan has been doing.

  I’m at Milan’s side in ten fast steps. “Excuse me,” I say to the group of girls, and give Milan’s arm a tug.

  Milan throws me an annoyed look and snaps her arm free from my grasp. “What?”

  I motion to the back of the booth with my head. “Can I talk to you for a moment? Over there.”

  Milan lets out a loud, dramatic sigh and slowly stands. “I’ll be back in a sec,” she says to the girls, and they nod eagerly. She drops the makeup tubes and brushes onto the table with a thud.

  I wait in the back of the booth and Milan steps in front of me, arms crossed. “What did I do now? Is my outfit offending you today?” she asks.

  I briefly glance at her outfit. True, while it’s short, tight, and skimpy, at least she’s not flashing anything. I shake my head. “No. That’s not it. It’s only, did anyone tell you how to do the face painting?”

  Milan turns her head and looks at the group of girls smiling at her and then returns her gaze to me. “They look good. What’s there to tell me?”

  “Well.” I lower my voice. “You have them done up like Bratz dolls with those big magenta eyelids and lips. And that heavy eyeliner … I mean, you’re supposed to draw things on their cheeks. You know, like pumpkins and hearts and smiley faces. Haven’t you ever had your face painted as a kid?”

  Milan looks at me like I’m about the stupidest person to walk the face of the earth. She rubs her lips together and says, “Listen, when you start wearing makeup then maybe I’ll consider your advice as to how to apply it. But right now, I don’t need any help from you.” With that, she turns and heads for the waiting girls. “Okay, ladies, where’d we leave off?”

  I stare at Milan’s back, stunned. I totally do wear makeup. I just don’t cake it on like Milan does and I certainly don’t wear it for work. And the way she said “you” like I’m the worst person ever or something.

  I glance around the face-painting booth and see that I’ve been dismissed by both Milan and the group of girls she’s entertaining. And I’m not going to lie, my feelings are hurt. I was only trying to be helpful. She is doing it wrong.

  I slink out of the booth and walk down the path to the storybook barn. It was always one of my favorite places as a kid. The outside of the barn is painted in a cheery yellow and the inside is full of large panels with various storybook and nursery rhyme scenes painted on them. There’s Humpty-Dumpty on one and Little Red Riding Hood on another. Jack and Jill running up the hill, the kid in the corner with the pie, and Mary and her lamb play out across more panels. There is a large bookcase full of children’s books, and teeny tiny tables and chairs for the kids to sit and color at if they want while they’re listening to the stories. Or they can sit on the big cushy circle carpet. And there is a giant Mother Goose in the middle of the barn that the kids love to climb on and mothers love to snap their pictures with. Maybe I’ll find a comfy beanbag and read to some of the little kids for a while. Or hide out.

  I stay in the storybook barn for the rest of the afternoon, avoiding Milan. I read Dr. Seuss, Eric Carle, Shel Silverstein, and Kevin Henkes to the kids. And I do feel a bit better. You can’t be in too foul a mood after reading Lilly’s Purple Plastic Purse three times. When it’s close to dinnertime I start walking toward the house and spot Milan talking to Danny, while he’s unhitching the hay wagon from his tractor. I stop and watch them, which is probably not the best idea in the world. But I’m dying to know what they’re talking about. Milan glances in my direction and then I see her point down at her feet and then point at the tractor. It looks like she’s wearing heels. Really, really high heels. Like the kind women only put on to pose for a picture in a magazine and not to actually walk in. When did she even put those on? She wasn’t wearing them in the face-painting booth. And who in her right mind wears heels to work in a pumpkin patch anyway? Danny shrugs and nods and next thing I know Milan is standing up on the back of his tractor, holding on to his shoulders. She smiles at me as they roll away.

  I feel like someone punched me in the gut.

  9

  I gently push open the front door of the house, trying not to let it creak and alert the family that I’m home.

  “Jamie, is that you?” Mom calls from the kitchen.

  Darn it. Man, she’s got good ears. I fling the door open the rest of the way and step inside. “Yeah,” I say reluctantly.

  “Great. Can you set the table for dinner, please?”

  I sigh. What, no “How was school today, Jamie? How did work go, Jamie? Anything new in your life, my dear sweet only child?” I trudge into the kitchen and fling open the cabinet door where the dishes are. I pull down four plates and reach for the silverware drawer with my free hand. Mom is rushing around the kitchen, pulling things out of drawers.

  “Oh, hon,” Mom says, “grab an extra setting, would you? Milan invited a friend over for dinner.”

  “What? She did? Who?” I fire off. Oh my God. Not Danny, not Danny, not Danny, I chant in my head. Anyone but Danny. If I have to sit here and witness a family dinner date between Milan and Danny I’ll die.

  “That nice girl Samantha from the Patch,” Mom says, wiping up a mess on the counter with a handful of paper towels.

  “Sno-Cone Sammy?” I practically yell. My moment of enormous relief is quickly replaced by annoyance that I will soon be sitting across from one of Milan’s drones. One that doesn’t seem to exactly like me either.

  “What did you call her?” Mom says, pulling a loaf of homemade Italian bread fro
m the oven and setting it on the counter to cool. She looks at me quizzically, waiting for an answer.

  I turn away, reaching up into the cabinet for another plate. “Um, nothing. I didn’t realize that Milan was having a friend over or I would have asked Sara to come too.”

  Mom crosses in front of me to the refrigerator and pulls out a couple of pears, a tub of crumbled Gorgonzola cheese, and a bottle of cranberry vinaigrette. “Another time, Jamie,” she says, not looking at me. She places the ingredients on the counter next to a couple of heads of romaine lettuce and a bag of walnuts, and pulls down a large salad bowl from one of the cabinets.

  I nod and start to leave the kitchen. Whatever is in the oven smells good. “What’s for dinner anyway?” I ask Mom.

  Mom’s face lights up. “A vegetable frittata,” she replies. “You’ll love it.”

  “Oh.” I try to smile like this sounds like a good thing. I head for the dining room table and on the way out spot the empty white plastic bag on top of the garbage. Blech. More tofu.

  * * *

  I stare at the two empty seats across from me at the dinner table. Mom clears her throat for the second time and Dad is sitting with his arms crossed, watching the food in the middle of the table get cold.

  “Can I have a piece of bread?” I ask.

  “In a minute,” Mom returns quickly. She twists the napkin in her hand over and over again. It looks like a fat white worm.

  “Dinner looks wonderful, Aunt Julie.”

  We all look up at the same time and see Milan and Sno-Cone Sammy have finally graced us with their presence.

  “Thank you, Milan.” Mom has a huge smile on her face. “Come, sit down.” She drops the napkin and pats Milan’s spot at the table.

  I notice Milan and Sno-Cone Sammy are wearing similar plaid belted tops and dark leggings. Funny how Milan won’t wear a plaid shirt out to the Patch to work, but she’ll iron one, dress it up with chunky rings and bangles, and wear it to dinner.

  “I hope we didn’t take too long. We didn’t want to come to dinner in our work clothes,” Milan says, taking her seat. The girls both laugh and Milan’s eyes land squarely on me.