That voice! I recognize it instantly. Oh no, no, no, no, no! It’s Marcella! What is she doing here? Then I remember. When we went shopping, I arranged a spa day for her--on the afternoon of the ball--just like she requested on her To-Do List.
In a panic, I bury my head between my sweaty knees so she doesn’t recognize me.
“It’s going to be divine. I planned the whole thing myself,” she continues.
You planned it? You didn’t do a damn thing, you lazy cow.
“What are you wearing?” she asks.
“Something plain and simple,” I mumble, masking my voice. “I’m actually a reporter covering the event for the Fairytale Tattler. What made me say that?
“Perfection! Emperor Armando custom-designed my gown. You’re going to die when you see it.”
I have seen it. And you’re not going to be able to get your fat ass into it!
“Well, since you’re a reporter for the Tattler, I might as well give you the scoop since my waste-of-time assistant didn’t.”
Her waste-of-time assistant!? I want to drown her in her sweat.
“Tonight, Prince Gallant’s going to make a very important announcement.”
A very important announcement. The exact words spoken earlier by The Queen of Hearts.
“He’s going to say ‘I do’ in front of the entire kingdom. Well, at least, everyone who’s anything. We’re getting married!”
They’re getting married? Her words hit me like a firing squad. I’m going to black out.
“You’re hyperventilating,” says Marcella. “You’ve probably been in here too long.”
Way too long. I can’t cope with this. Any of it! I’ve got to get out of here. Now!
Dripping with sweat, I spring to my feet and sprint out of the sauna. Marcella’s shrill voice trails behind me. “See you at the wedding.”
The spa was a bad idea. A really, really bad idea.
CHAPTER 33
“Where have you been?” shrieks Marcella. “And why does your skin look better than mine?”
I shuffle into her chamber, her red gown in its bag draped over my arm. I don’t know or care how she got back to the castle before me. My shock, rage, and despair have succumbed to numbness.
Clad in her feathered leopard negligee, she’s seated at her vanity, doing her makeup. I catch a glimpse of her face in the mirror. With her plaster-white skin, blood-red lips, and serpentine brows, she looks more like a monster in the making than a bride-to-be.
“I spent a fortune at that ridiculous spa,” she hisses. “Why didn’t you make them throw in free makeup and hair?”
Choosing to ignore her, I silently hang the bag with her gown over her closet door. Her chamber is a pigsty. It’s as if never existed. Her bed’s a mess; clothes are strewn everywhere, and fairy-tale tabloids are scattered all over the floor. Straightening things up, I come across an old front-page story that makes my heart jump:
SNOW WHITE TESTIFIES: EVIL QUEEN DOOMED!
A Fairytale Tattler Exclusive by H.C. Anderson
The Evil Queen, charged as a possible suspect in the near-fatal poisoning of Snow White, was convicted today. Minutes before sentencing, Prince Gallant, who saved the beautiful princess--often thought to be the fairest in the land--told reporters, “I hope The Evil Queen gets what she deserves.”
Oh, God. I have gotten what I deserve. Death would have been a kind punishment compared to what I’m suffering now. I force myself to read on.
Medical tests have revealed that The Evil Queen poisoned Snow White with a rare snake venom, that caused her to go into a deadly, deep sleep.
Snake venom? Wait a minute. This shoddy reporter got his facts all mixed up. My evil potion, the one I used for the apple, was made with powdered stinkweed, bulbadox juice, and dragonstone extract. I didn’t use any snake venom. Not a single drop!
Before I can read more, Marcella eyes me in the corner of her vanity mirror. “This is no time to be reading gossip magazines!” she snaps. “You’re supposed to be dressing me!”
I let go of the magazine and slump over to her gown. Carefully, I remove it from the garment bag. The long train puddles on the floor.
Marcella gives it the once-over. “Perfection! Now, get me into it.”
Ripping off her negligee, she exposes her corseted body. My eyes pop. Who knew what really lurked beneath that towel in the sauna. Her tummy bulges as if it’s hiding a loaf of bread; saddlebags line the sides of her cottage cheese thighs, and her cannonballs are the size of small planets. She’s easily gained fifteen pounds, thanks to my high caloric diet potion. Yet, another one of my brilliant plans gone bad. Getting the skank into her slinky gown is going to be a lot harder than I imagined. A contest of mind over matter. War.
Then, ding, a little bell goes off in my head as I’m undoing the fastenings. So what if it doesn’t fit her? She won’t have a wedding gown. No gown. No wedding. I’ll be the victor. And to the victor belongs the spoils. Could I…?
“What are you waiting for?” growls Marcella, cutting my tempting thoughts short. Impulsively, she grabs the gown out of my hands and steps into it, feet first. She slides it up her legs. Damn it. So far, so good. But once it gets to her hips, it won’t budge. Not even an inch.
“Do something!” she screams.
“Squeeze your butt. And suck in your gut,” I tell her. Good luck.
Ha! No matter how hard she squeezes or sucks, the dress won’t give. Losing her patience, she begins to yank at it, stretching it in every direction. The taut sound of seams bursting sends a shiver down my spine.
No matter how much I hate her, no matter how much I cannot bear the thought of her marrying Gallant, I can’t let her destroy Armando’s masterpiece. I can’t. With both hands, I pull the dress down. It bunches on the floor like a red ball of fire.
“What have you done?” she screeches. “I’m going to be late for the ball!”
She splays her knuckly fingers across the bulges of her corseted hips. Eyeing her monstrous, flashy diamond, I get an idea. A brilliant one.
“This is going to work.” I smile wickedly. With a single yank, I pull in the strings of her corset, so tightly that her eyes bulge out of their sockets.
“What are you doing?” she gasps.
Isn’t it obvious? I’m suffocating you, wench!
Marcella moans. A memory of Snow White flickers in my head. This is exactly how I once tried to kill her. I tremble and quickly loosen Marcella’s corset.
She lets out a deep breath.
What’s wrong with me? I just had the opportunity to kill the woman who’s made my life so miserable and is marrying the man I love. But I didn’t.
Marcella’s expression turns to rage. “Get the dress on me. Now!”
My eyes travel up and down her distorted body. It’s time for a new plan of attack. I tell her to step out of the gown that lies crumpled at her feet.
“Now what?” she snaps.
I detach the long red satin train and lay it lengthwise on her bed. Then carefully, I slip the gown over Marcella’s head and gently pull it down.
“You’re going to ruin my hair and makeup!” she shrieks.
Truthfully, I’m much more concerned that her over-the-top makeup will ruin Armando’s work of art. I pass the first hurdle--getting the gown past her cannonballs. Very carefully, I edge it over her balloon of a belly. Success again. And then, the final challenge--getting it past her fat ass. Slowly, with little tugs, I manage to lower the gown to her feet. The feeling of victory eludes me as I reattach the twenty-foot train.
Shoving me aside, she struts up to her vanity and admires herself in the mirror, oblivious to her rolls and bulges.
“Perfection!” She blows a kiss at her reflection. “Gallant will love it.”
The mention of Gallant’s name makes my heart ache. I fight back tears. Why didn’t I pull those strings until she dropped? Why?
“Jane, I need my shoes!”
I should have killed her.
R
eluctantly, I search her room-size closet. There must be over three hundred boxes of shoes, stacked helter-skelter plus another two hundred pairs scattered all over the floor. Thank goodness for Elz’s innovative glass coffin shoeboxes. I spot the ruby slippers right way.
Marcella snatches the shoes from me as I step out of the closet. She cuddles them, then tosses them onto the floor. I enjoy every grunt and groan as she tries to squeeze her big feet into the dainty shoes. No luck. She tries stretching them to make the fit. No luck.
“Jane!” she yells. “My feet are swollen. Why didn’t you get me a foot massage?”
Ha! She’ll never get her Size 9 feet into the Size 6 shoes.
“Don’t just stand there! Get me a bucket with hot water so I can soak my feet!”
Biting my lip to keep from laughing, I scurry to her powder room.
When I return with a bucket of water, Her Royal Skankiness is glued to her bed, massaging her red, swollen feet. I set the bucket on the rug. She plunks her feet inside.
“AAAAGH! This water’s scalding hot.” She yanks her feet out of the bucket.
I deserve a big laugh after all I’ve been through today, but I refrain.
“Quick! Get me my Miracle Foot Potion,” she shouts. “It’s in the medicine cabinet.”
I hurry back to the powder room. I search the cabinet above her sink but only find makeup. About to leave empty-handed, I notice that the large cabinet against the wall, which is usually locked, is ajar. Could her Miracle Foot Potion be inside?
Whoa! This is no ordinary medicine cabinet. It’s practically a factory of potions, lotions, and herbs. Crammed with my bogus Lose Pounds Fast diet potion is a slew of other magical potions. To name just a few:
Forever Young Youth Potion: Knock years off your age. Use daily for best results.
I shake the bottle. There’s nothing left.
B-Cup No More Potion: Rub gently on breasts and watch them grow before your eyes. CAUTION: DO NOT OVERUSE.
Obviously, the skank didn’t read the warning.
Smooth and Silky Skin Potion: Apply liberally all over. Gets rid of dry scaly skin. Important! Use frequently to prevent scaly build up and recurrence.
Go-Blond and Beautiful Hair Potion: Covers unsightly gray and leaves hair manageable. Blondes have more fun!
I knew it! She’s one big fake! Her hair, her skin, her boobs. And I’m sure that’s not all. I shudder. I bet her love for The Prince is fake too! But what does it matter? She’s marrying him in a matter of hours. Sadness and despair tear through me again. I clench my stomach.
“Jane, what’s taking you so long?” I hear Marcella screech. “I need my Miracle Foot Potion!”
I try to focus. Randomly, I pick up another bottle
Love Potion #13: Put magic into your relationship. Brew daily for long-lusting results. Expires 9/30
I wrench it open. The scent of the herbs rushes to my nose. I recognize it instantly--a blend of orange blossoms, rose petals, and lavender. The tea Gallant drinks for breakfast! Oh my God! Marcella has had him under a spell! What am I going to do? The effects wear off today, but it may be too late!
Marcella screams at me again. Panic-stricken, I grab another bottle.
Magic Lip Plumper Potion: Apply liberally for fuller, more kissable lips. He won’t be able to resist!
Choke! The thought of Gallant kissing Marcella sends me over the edge. I want to rip the slut’s phony fat lips right off her face, pull out her bottle-blond hair, and punch her inflated boobs. I feel evil! So over-the-top evil! And there are no little voices in my head telling me what not to do. Damn it! Why didn’t I create a potion to end her life a long time ago?
Brainstorm! One of these potions has to be poisonous, and I’m going to find it. I’ll take the slut by surprise and force it down her throat. Drink it and die, bitch! I can’t wait to see her take her final breath. I’ll blow her a kiss good-bye. Then I’ll cover my tracks with a fake suicide note. Something simple like…Dear People: Changed my mind about marrying The Prince. He didn’t really love me. So I took my life. Love--M.
Yes! I’m back to being an evil genius! So much for rehab. It was a total waste of time.
Madly, I tear through the racks of potions, examining one bottle after another. Damn it! Nothing! Then, unexpectedly, I come upon her foot potion.
Miracle Foot Potion: Heals, soothes, and smoothes swollen feet. Satisfaction Guaranteed.
I look closely at the fine print. “Caution! Poison! Keep out of the reach of children!”
The sweet irony of it all! It’s funny how things sometimes work out for the best.
I wrench the bottle open and take a whiff. Whoof! Nasty stuff. I can’t wait to pour it down the skank’s throat. Ha! I’m finally going to give her a dose of her own medicine. A fatal one!
Suddenly, my hands shake. Violently. The bottle slips out of my fingers and crashes to the floor, cracking in half. A rancid odor fills the room as I numbly watch the potion snake across the tiles.
“Look what you’ve done!” screeches a voice behind me.
I wheel around. Marcella. Barefoot in her red gown. The train trailing out the door.
“Rub some on my feet. Now!” Her voice is as toxic as the potion.
Still quivering, I squat down and smear the potion all over her skanky feet. I ask myself for the second time: Why? Why didn’t I kill her when I had the chance?
A nauseating mixture of confusion, anger, and despair seeps into my veins as Marcella hobbles back to her chamber. She plops down on her bed. The dainty ruby shoes sit on the floor, waiting for a pair of feet to claim them.
I confess. I haven’t prayed since I was a child. Why bother when my prayers for a loving mother were never answered. Now, it’s all I can do. To pray. To pray that her Miracle Foot Potion doesn’t work. That she’ll never be able to get her bone-ugly feet into the dainty ruby slippers. It’s the only hope I have left to stop her from going to the ball. And from marrying Gallant before the effects of her love potion wear off.
I hold my breath as she steps into the shoes. She wiggles her feet; she pushes. She wiggles again, pushes harder. She grunts. She groans. I smile slyly, but not for long. To my utter astonishment, the skank manages to stuff her big, red, puffy feet into the little slippers.
“Ha!” She smiles triumphantly. “They fit like a glove.”
A miracle. My heart sinks like a boulder.
Marcella parades again before the mirror. I hate that mirror! I want to bash it. Instead, I dash out of her chamber before I dare do it.
Marcella screams at me. “Get back here!” I shut my ears to her shrill cry.
After tonight, Marcella will no longer be a PIW. She’ll be a real princess. Gallant’s princess. Tears spill from my eyes.
Marcella yells out to me again. “Jane, one last thing. Remind me to fire you after the ball.”
***
Gallant is downstairs at his desk, sketching. My heart flutters. How handsome he looks in his navy velvet suit and white blousy shirt, opened far enough to expose his tawny, chiseled chest. He gazes up at me with a fleeting smile. I blink back tears and meet his eyes. I so desperately want to run over to him and sink my body in his. The only thing that’s stopping me is shame. That and the fact that he’s marrying another in a matter of hours.
Calla skips down the staircase and breaks our tense silence. Clutching Lady Jane in one hand, she runs over to her father to give him a hug. Her beauty has no equal. In fact, she’s more beautiful than ever, in the gown Gallant bought her--a white lacy confection that’s accented with a yellow satin sash. The sash matches her golden curls, that are held back by her ever-present red velvet bow…the bow that once must have belonged to Snow White. How much she resembles her mother, with her flawless alabaster skin, rosebud lips, and twinkling chocolate eyes. An insufferable pang of guilt stabs me. How could I have…?
“Jane, why aren’t you dressed for the ball?” asks Calla.
Caught off guard, I falter for an excuse.
“But you came to my birthday party!” She’s got me.
“I don’t really know how to dance.” That sounds better though not true.
“I can teach you!” She’s got me again.
“I have nothing to wear.” Well, that’s the honest truth.
“You can borrow something from Marcella.” She’s got a point.
“I don’t think she’d like that,” I stammer. Truthfully, I can’t imagine myself in any of Marcella’s sleazy gowns. Except for The Emperor’s magnificent creation with a few major alterations.
Aware she’s getting nowhere with me, Calla turns to her father and implores him to make me go the ball. I wonder if she knows that it’s more than a ball. That tonight she’s getting a new mother. Marcella!
Gallant’s face lights up. “Jane, it would be an honor to have you as my guest.”
My gaze meets his. I’m burning up with desire. Even my conscience can’t quell the flames.
“Thank you, My Lord,” I say, holding back tears and my body. “But honestly, I don’t want to go.” Liar! “Plus, I can use the night off to catch up on some of Marcella’s chores.”
“Did I just hear my name?” comes a coy voice from the staircase.
Marcella! She slithers down the steps, the long train of her gown trailing behind her.
“My love, do you like it?” she asks, stopping to pose in front of her husband-to-be.
Color drains from Gallant’s face, and his eyes morph into sharp blue daggers. I’ve never seen him like this before. Can her spell possibly be over?
“Where did you get that?” he demands, his voice powered by anger.
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