The Princesses of Iowa

by M. Molly Backes

  and hit the ground, bouncing, rolling. The windshield is gone and Lacey is gone and then I’m gone, flying through the open door and landing, finally, a hundred yards away, a collection of limbs and bones and skin, and the car slides to a stop with the sound of screeching, crunching metal.

  I don’t want to remember.

  I don’t want to remember how small Nikki looked when we finally found her smashed behind the front seat, unconscious. Or the silence after the crash, when I held my breath as long as possible, listening for Lacey and Nikki, and the forest held its breath with me, the leaves hanging silent on the trees and the animals stopped in their paths and the rain paused on the tips of branches, everything silent and still and then the sound of sobbing from the road above.

  I don’t want to remember kissing Prescott just because I was bored and drunk, and how Lacey stood over me, smirking, and held it over my head like a bully the whole way home, taunting and threatening and driving too fast around the curves. . . .

  I remember wanting to smash Lacey’s face in, wanting to push her out the door, wanting to hurt her, destroy her, shut her the hell up, punish her, punish her. . . .

  . . . I remember grabbing the steering wheel . . .

  . . . twisting it . . .

  I grabbed the steering wheel . . .

  . . . twisted it . . .

  . . . I was the one . . .

  . . . spinning out of control. . . .

  I wanted to hurt her — to stop her — push her out the door — make her shut up about her brother and Jake and the whole awful night — to stop —

  I was the one . . .

  . . . wrenched across the road, the world upside down, waiting for the terrible crash. . . .

  My fault.

  All my fault.

  Oh God.

  Oh my God.

  I pushed against my sister.

  “I have to get out of here!” My fault. All my fault.

  “Paige, what’s wrong?”

  “I can’t — I have to go! I have to get out of here!”

  I slid out from underneath the bed, got up, and ran.

  I ran down the stairs, grabbed my bag, grabbed my keys, ran out the front door to my car, and then stopped. What was I doing? I couldn’t drive, I could hardly see straight. But I needed to escape, to outrun the voices in my head. I needed to fly. I ran into the garage, grabbed the bike I’d ridden all over town back in middle school, before Lacey told me it made me look like the witch from The Wizard of Oz. Good. Maybe I’d be sucked up into a tornado.

  The physical exertion felt good, punishing and true, and I rode faster than I’d ever gone in seventh grade, as if I could outdistance my own terrible thoughts. I didn’t want to remember. For months I’d blamed other people for my own mistakes. First Nikki — how I’d resented her while cooped up in the breathless Paris apartment all summer, bouncing the crying baby in my arms while Mrs. Easton lay crumpled in her bed, holding pillows over her head. If only Nikki hadn’t gotten in the car, if only Nikki weren’t so careless, if only she weren’t such a stupid drunk, I’d be home with them right now, stretched out beside Lacey at the pool, driving around the countryside with Jake under the glittering Iowa stars. Then I blamed Lacey, who’d chased me from the party with her awful accusations and her constant air of waiting for me to trip up so she could pounce. She lied to Nikki, she pulled Jake away, she never told the truth about anything. It was her fault, Nikki’s fault, but never my own, no, because Princess Paige was perfect.

  I sped out of town, trying not to choke on my own self-loathing. Suddenly, I could understand why Nikki felt the need to replay the accident in front of everyone we knew; I was half tempted to drench myself in fake blood and stand before the school, declaring myself a monster and begging for forgiveness.

  On the other hand, maybe it would be better to disappear altogether, to keep pedaling until I crossed into Illinois. I’d go to Chicago and lose myself among the anonymous crowds, start over with nothing to live up to and nothing to live down. Or I’d go farther than that even, east through Indiana and Ohio and Pennsylvania, until I reached New York, and if I still hated myself when I got there, I’d turn straight around and keep going until I hit the Pacific Ocean.

  I’d never go back, and at home they’d wonder about me, and someone would write an article called “Whatever Happened to Princess Paige,” and they’d document my perfect life, my straight As and my great tan, and people would tell all sorts of lies about how nice, how sweet, what a good friend I was, and they’d publish my senior pictures and maybe do a whole spread in the yearbook about me, but eventually they’d forget I ever existed, except in a Willow Grove legend warning girls who wanted to grow up to be princesses to be careful or they, too, might disappear.

  What was so great about being a princess anyway? Why had we pinned our entire identities to this one stupid word, not just since middle school but forever, since we were toddlers in tutus and tiaras, with pink Cinderella birthday cakes and fairy wands? Who wanted to be a princess? Real-life princesses were constantly being killed in horrible ways: Princess Di was killed in a car accident; Princess Grace, killed in a car accident; Princess Anastasia, murdered with her family. . . .

  Why hadn’t my mother protected me? She’d been homecoming queen in high school and college, she knew the strain of trying to be perfect. She was still aiming for perfection and slipping wildly, she must have known on some level that it was an impossible task. . . .

  Then I caught myself: I was blaming other people again.

  Goddammit! Why couldn’t I just accept responsibility for the wreck I’d made of my own life? I was the one who agreed when Lacey gripped my hand and declared we’d do anything to be up on that float; I was the one who smiled to people’s faces and cut them down behind their backs; I was the one who protected Jake at any cost; I was the one who listened to my mother’s endless litany of ways to be beautiful; I was the one who studied fashion magazines like they were the key to unlocking some holy code. I was the one who turned the wheel.

  I was the one who caused the accident.

  I was the one who got myself exiled.

  I was the reason everyone was unhappy. I was the reason our senior year had careened so wildly off the tracks. It was my fault; everything was my fault. Me. Paige Sheridan. My head pounded with each accusation of my internal tribunal. My fault. All mine. I gripped the handlebars, practically standing on the pedals. Everything was my fault, and mine alone.

  I was worse than the Wicked Witch. I wished a house would drop on me.

  I ended up at the secret spot in the woods. I hadn’t meant to; I’d been riding blindly, consumed by my thoughts. Once there, I dropped my bike at the trailhead and took off down the trail, running. The sky above me was pebbled and gray. My leg muscles burned with exertion, but I pushed them around the final turn and down the hidden path to the spring.

  It was only when I saw that it was empty that I realized I’d been hoping it wouldn’t be.

  I wanted him to be there. He would be sitting on our boulder, writing in his notebook, waiting for me. I didn’t deserve his forgiveness but I would beg for it anyway, because I couldn’t imagine going through the rest of the year without him. And he would listen; he had to.

  I would find him. I would jump back on my crappy bike and speed back to Willow Grove. I’d make Shanti tell me where he lived. I’d go to his house, I’d make him listen. I would tell him the truth. I spun around to run back up the trail.

  And then I heard it: a slight movement in the bushes, the faint brush of leaf against leaf. I froze, waiting.

  The whole woods took up a breeze and trembled. I held my breath until the red-and-gold leaves resolved themselves into a shape, a face, with bright, intelligent black eyes, a long sharp nose, bat ears tipped with black: a fox. I stood, silent and still, as we made eye contact. He looked strangely familiar, though I couldn’t remember ever seeing a fox before, other than perhaps in a zoo or as roadkill. But here he was, with his white mu
zzle and grayish chest, a long black sock up the leg he held out, as if any moment he would step forward and continue on his way. He was the size of a small dog, smaller than you’d think, almost feline in the delicacy of his features.

  From behind me, the sounds of voices on the lake floated into our clearing, and the fox’s ears swiveled, straining, and it was only when he looked back to me that he seemed to remember himself. He turned, flashing his thick tail, and disappeared into the bushes. I released my breath.

  I was sick and tired of running. Ever since Paris — ever since the accident — I’d been running, running, from the guilt about Prescott, from the truth about Jake, from the memories of that night. I’d been too rushed to stop and notice that the happiest I’d been in ages had been right here, perched on this boulder, leaning against this tree. Writing, or talking, or sitting in silence, listening to the water and the birds.

  I took a deep breath, trying to find the center my mother had talked about in her yoga phase. Breathed again. All that I was rushing toward or running away from would wait. I settled against the tree and pulled my notebook from my bag.

  I remember . . .

  I remember my sister the night we camped in Michigan and there was a crazy thunderstorm and we sat up all night telling each other stories about our elementary-school teachers, imitating their voices and the way they yelled at the dumb kids. I remember the time she and I stood in the front yard with a Wiffle bat, hitting black walnuts off the tree and into the street so cars would run over them, until the mean old lady next door called the police on us, and my mother had to sweet-talk us out of trouble. My mother was always doing that: I remember when she drove me back to school in sixth grade to demand that my teacher raise the grade on my report about South Dakota from a B+ to an A. I hid behind her, embarrassed, knowing I didn’t deserve it, I hadn’t worked that hard. But it was only ever the appearance of perfection she cared about. After that, though, I always made sure I did deserve the A.

  Even after the accident last spring, my mother did everything she could to cover it up, until I couldn’t remember what happened myself. Dark road, raining, swerved to save a dog, lost control. We’d never spoken aloud the truth of what happened that night, never acknowledged what we could have done, how much hurt we could have caused. My mother sent me away to sweep up the aftermath, to save face for all of us.

  I paused. Tell the truest truth you can, Mr. Tremont had told us. You must be enormously afraid. But keep going.

  I kissed Prescott last spring. I did. It was a mistake, but I did it, and I never told Jake, never confessed to my own moment of stupidity and weakness.

  And then I kissed Ethan.

  I told Jake that Mr. Tremont was gay.

  I let Jake get drunk before the bonfire.

  I blamed Lacey for everything.

  I twisted the wheel.

  I caused the accident.

  I was an awful person.

  But.

  None of us is delicate enough to touch anyone else without hurting them a little bit, Mr. Tremont had said.

  Mr. Tremont doesn’t want to sacrifice his privacy to further a cause.

  Jake decided to drink before — and during — a school function.

  Jake started the fight with Ethan that got him kicked off the team.

  Shanti told on Jake.

  Jake lied about Mr. Tremont.

  Jake’s dad got Mr. Tremont fired.

  Lacey lied to Nikki about the accident.

  Lacey tried to steal my boyfriend.

  Nikki drank too much.

  Mirror can be a total bitch sometimes.

  I can be a total bitch.

  But.

  Mr. Tremont taught us how to write.

  Jake tried to help Lacey through her parents’ divorce.

  Shanti stood up for what she believed.

  Nikki worked hard to make a difference.

  My sister picked me up when I was utterly alone.

  And Lacey . . . Lacey hadn’t told Jake about Prescott. Not even when things were the worst they’d ever been between us. And while I knew it was probably for Jake’s benefit and not mine that she didn’t tell him, it was still a nice thing to do.

  As for me . . .

  I tried to help Mr. Tremont.

  I tried to help Jake.

  I’m going to help Nikki by writing Mirror’s eulogy. . . .

  I will apologize to Ethan.

  I will take responsibility for my actions.

  And suddenly, I knew what to do.

  I prepared for the dance alone, standing in my bathroom, closing my eyelashes over the mascara wand, blending blush and translucent powder across my cheeks and forehead. I’d always loved doing my makeup. Attending to my eyes and skin and lips almost felt like a form of meditation, a cleansing ritual. I thought of the night, less than a month earlier, when I’d stood before this very same mirror, shadowed by my mother. Tonight she was the one on a date, at the club with my father. He’d been more attentive to her lately, brushing his fingers across the small of her back, kissing her softer face.

  It was only a few minutes past six when I finished dressing. Normally I’d be going out to dinner before the dance, eating at the club with Jake and with Lacey and Nikki and their dates. Without dinner plans of my own, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. I checked my phone again, irrationally hoping that Ethan had called and I had just missed it. 6:13. Nothing else.

  Mirror was gone already. I wondered what Shanti was doing right now. I wondered what Ethan was doing. I checked my phone again. 6:14. I drummed my fingers against the top of my vanity. 6:15.

  I sighed and flopped into the wing chair by my window, careful not to mess my hair, and went over my notes one more time.

  Shanti caught me at the door of the gym, pressing her cold fingers against my bare skin. “Have you seen Ethan?”

  “No,” I said. “He wouldn’t answer my calls.”

  “He said he’d be here.”

  “He did?” A momentary warmth swept through my chest, rushing through the nervousness like ocean waves.

  Her earrings tinked as she nodded. Beneath the twinkling lights strung along the walls, her eyes glowed with spots of gold glitter at the inside corners, and her full lips were lined darkly in red. She looked beautiful.

  A dark figure appeared behind her, tall like Ethan, and my heart jumped. He came closer, into the light. It wasn’t Ethan, not at all.

  Gently, he placed his hands over Shanti’s eyes, kissing her on the crown of her head. “Guess who.”

  “Aaron.” She spoke with the certainty of someone who understands that she deserves the good things she has.

  “You must be psychic,” he said, smiling.

  She laughed. “Everyone else here is afraid to touch me.”

  Stepping around Shanti, the boy held out his hand to me. “I’m Aaron,” he said. “And you must be Paige.”

  I smiled. “You must be psychic.”

  “Everyone else is afraid to talk to Shanti,” he said.

  She nodded. “It’s true.”

  “You drove all the way from Omaha?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Aaron said. “Two-hundred-plus miles just to go to a high school dance.”

  Shanti twined her fingers with his. “Must be love.” She seemed distracted, glancing past me toward the door.

  “So you’re a princess, right?” Aaron asked. “How does that work?”

  I sighed. “It’s a pain in the ass.”

  Shanti laughed. “This is why we like her.” Looking at me, she asked, “So, did you have to do the parade thing yesterday?”

  “Yes,” I said, “and it sucked.”

  Aaron grinned. “Best princess ever.”

  “Speaking of which,” Shanti said, nodding her head toward the stage. I turned, following her gaze to where Dr. Coulter stood, captive in the glow of a double spotlight.

  “Shit,” I said. Around us, the crowd began to murmur and the houselights seemed to dim. “Where’s E
than?”

  “He’ll be here,” Shanti said. “The real question is —”

  The music died abruptly, and the sound of Dr. Coulter’s fingers tapping against the microphone echoed through the gym. “Good evening, Hornets,” he said cheerfully.

  I felt a stab of panic. “Oh God. Can I leave?”

  Shanti shook her head. “Sorry, Your Highness.”

  Aaron laughed. “I like her,” he told Shanti.

  “Best princess ever,” she agreed.

  “First off, I’d like to congratulate the football team on their win last night against the Newton Cardinals.” The gym swelled with screams and cheers. “GO, HORNETS!” Mostly you could hear the first syllable: Go, Horrrrrrrrrrs!

  My heart was pounding, but I tried to play cool. “We’re known as the Willow Grove Whores, for short,” I told Aaron. “You know, like a nickname.”

  He laughed. The heavy gym doors opened every few seconds to let another straggler in, and each time I turned, expecting — hoping — to see Ethan.

  When the screaming died down, Dr. Coulter glanced at a card in his hand. “And now, I’d like to invite one of our princesses onto the stage. Miss Rosellini?”

  The gym fell silent as Nikki stepped from the shadows. She wore a shimmery pink dress, glittering and ephemeral in the lights. She looked like a fairy princess. Except for the handcuffs clipped around her left wrist.