Seeing Cinderella

by Jenny Lundquist

  My reflection showed dimly in the glass door. My hair was snarled in the tiara, which hung lopsided on my head. Wrinkles and smudges of dirt covered my costume, and sequins were missing. I looked down, and saw my feet were dirty from running barefoot.

  With a click, the door cracked open. Inside, I heard the beeping and zinging of a video game. Ana peered out at me, her eyes were red and puffy, like she’d been crying. When she saw my rumpled Cinderella gown her eyes widened. “Why are you wearing—”

  “Can you come outside?” I said, cutting her off. “Please?” I added, when Ana hesitated. “Just for a minute?”

  Ana ducked back into the house and said something to Anthony and Miguel in Spanish. Then she stepped outside and carefully closed the door behind her. She sat down on the porch and hugged her knees to her chest.

  I knelt down next to her and handed her the fairy godmother wand. “This is from Stacy. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Ana said, looking down at the wand.

  Okay, I’d had the glasses long enough to know no one meant it when they said they were fine. The air waved and shimmered, and the screen launched up by Ana. As usual, Spanish words—and some English words—scrolled across. But I still couldn’t understand much of it.

  “Are you sick, Ana?” I asked. “Really?”

  Ana didn’t answer right away. But the words in the screen hovering next to her changed. And for the first time, I saw one full sentence in English: Leave me alone.

  Normally, if I knew someone didn’t want to hang out with me, I would leave, faster than you can say coward. But Ana wasn’t sick. And I wasn’t leaving until I found out why she lied to me.

  “Come on. You can tell me. What’s going on?”

  Ana said nothing, and continued to stare at the wand, a sad look on her face.

  “Please, Ana. Something’s not right, and I want to know what it is.”

  Finally, the Spanish words vanished, and images flashed on the screen. Images of Ana and what I think her life must have been like these last few months: Ana showing Mr. Garcia a flyer advertising Pacificview’s clubs, and Mr. Garcia shaking his head no. Ana, looking unhappy as she took the Garcia kids trick-or-treating on Halloween. Ana setting the table for dinner, and walking into the living room to call the Garcia family, who watched television. Ana standing at her locker, while a group of girls walked by, giggling and pointing to the long skirt she wore. Ana watching Mr. Garcia and Anthony and Miguel play video games in the living room. Mr. Garcia offered the controller to Ana, who politely shook her head no. Then she slipped away to her room upstairs, lay down on her bed, and began to cry.

  Then one more image: Mr. Garcia yelling at Ana—shaking his head no at whatever she said in return. Then he picked up the phone and handed it to her.

  “Did your uncle say you couldn’t be in the play?” I guessed.

  Ana closed her eyes and nodded. “He—what do Americans call it?—grounded me.” She opened her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m grounded because I lied to him. Yesterday I told him we were studying after school. But then your mom saw him out in the front yard this morning and she said something about picking us up from the pizza place.”

  “You lied to your uncle?” I asked, stunned.

  “I just wanted to go out somewhere. Just once,” Ana said in a high-pitched voice. “Tío has old ideas about girls. He thinks I should help around the house, and I must do well in school. But he doesn’t approve of things like dances, or clubs, or girls our age going out without an adult.” Ana began to cry, deep sobs that made her shoulders shake and her chest heave. I didn’t know what to do or what to say, so I just put my arm around her.

  I felt sick as I watched her cry. Because Ana had tutored me in Spanish, and listened to me talk about Ellen and Scott, and my dad. But had I ever asked her about her family? When had I asked her if it was easy moving to a new country and living with relatives she barely knew?

  The answer was that I hadn’t.

  When Ana’s sobs subsided I asked, “Have you told your parents any of this?”

  Ana sniffed and shook her head. “My father is really sick. I don’t want them to think I’m ungrateful. Tío sends them money, and he helps me with my homework. He bought me new clothes—even if they’re a little . . .” She gestured to her long skirt and trailed off, like she was looking for the right word.

  “Feo?” I supplied.

  I saw the faint trace of a smile on Ana’s face as she gave the English translation, “Ugly, yes.” She paused, and added, “I don’t think Tío understands very much about girls and middle school.” Ana sniffed again. “Anyway, I haven’t said anything to anyone.”

  “You could have told me,” I said.

  “I didn’t want to tell anyone. I didn’t want them to—how do you say it?—make fun of me? Some girls at school already make fun of my clothes.” Ana began to cry again.

  I thought back to the beginning of the year, and how nervous I was about wearing my glasses to school. I had been so certain everyone was just waiting to make fun of me. But most people hadn’t. And the people who had—people like Raven—had their own worries.

  One thing the glasses taught me: No matter how different we looked on the outside, on the inside we worried and wondered about the same things. We all hoped we’d find someone who would see us for the person we really were, and the person we wanted to be.

  I opened my mouth to tell Ana all this, but right then she wiped her eyes and handed me back the fairy godmother wand. “Keep this,” she said, standing up. “I have to go. I have to make dinner for the boys before Tío gets home.”

  “Wait, Ana. Why don’t you come to my house. Maybe—”

  “I can’t. And anyway, it’s okay. I’m fine.” Ana opened the front door, and said, “Good-bye, Callie.”

  The door clicked shut. And from the tone of her voice, I didn’t think Ana meant, “Good-bye, we’ll talk about this later.” I thought she meant, “Good-bye. The next time you see me at school, please forget I ever said anything.”

  I stood up and walked across the lawn to my house, twirling the wand in my hand. My plastic tiara was still snaggled in my hair so I pulled it free. Under the spotlights of the multipurpose room, the tiara and wand had glittered brilliantly. But now, with dusk settling, they both seemed dull and dim.

  Right then I wished I really was Cinderella, with a real fairy godmother. Because I would tell my fairy godmother I didn’t need the beautiful dress, the magic pumpkin, or even the handsome Prince. I’d just ask her to wave her magic wand, and, in a puff of swirly smoke, give my friend the happy ending she deserved.

  But then I had another thought. What if Cinderella never had to wait for a fairy godmother to show up? What if Cinderella had a friend? Would she have spent all those lonely years in her stepmother’s house? Or would her friend have helped her find a different future?

  My house stood silently before me, waiting, it felt like, for me to make a decision. I knew I could walk inside, pack away my Cinderella and fairy godmother gear, and pretend I believed Ana when she said she was fine. Or, I could choose to see that Ana really was miserable, and believe I had the power to help her.

  I opened the door and walked upstairs to my room.

  And I chose to see.

  Chapter 20

  Super Freaky Glasses Rule #9

  Sometimes using the glasses wisely means not using them at all.

  “REMEMBER WHAT AUNT ROSA SAID. BE PATIENT, AND remember that these last few weeks have been hard for Ana,” Mom said, pulling the car over to the side of the road.

  I nodded and stared at Aunt Rosa’s small house. Ana’s new house, I reminded myself. Smoke swirled from the chimney and the windows glowed with buttery yellow light. White Christmas lights lined the rooftop, and through the window I saw a Christmas tree with blinking red and green lights.

  I felt my glasses through my jacket pocket. I had them ready to go if I needed them. Telling Mom about Ana and how unhappy she felt at Mr.
Garcia’s was the hardest thing I’d ever done. But when I finished, I handed her Aunt Rosa’s phone number.

  So Mom called Aunt Rosa, and they had a long conversation. The next day when I looked out my window, I saw Aunt Rosa leading Ana to a blue minivan. They drove away, and Ana hadn’t been at school ever since.

  Mom and Aunt Rosa had talked on the phone a few times since that day. Aunt Rosa told Mom she made it clear to Mr. Garcia she appreciated all the help he gave Ana—but it was her turn to get to know her niece.

  “Apparently Esteban gave in pretty easily,” Mom had said. “Rosa thinks he realized it wasn’t working out. But,” she added, “Rosa agreed it was wrong for Ana to lie—so she’s still grounded. I’ll take you to see her when she’s off restriction.”

  Now I leaned my head back and listened to the rain tapping on the windshield. “What if she doesn’t want to talk to me?”

  “It’ll be okay.” Mom put an arm around my shoulders. Normally if she did that, I’d shrug her off. But this time I didn’t.

  “I don’t know what to say to her.”

  “You’ll think of something.” Mom pointed to the notebook paper I clutched in my hand. “Give her the story you wrote. And tell her you miss her.”

  We got out of the car and walked up to the front porch. Mom rang the doorbell. As we waited, I folded up my story and stuffed it into my jacket pocket.

  Aunt Rosa answered the door and beckoned us inside. I was reminded again of how much she resembled Ana. She even had Ana’s smile—the kind that looked right at you.

  Aunt Rosa swept me up in a hug and said, “Ana’s lucky to have you for a friend.”

  I smiled back slightly. I wasn’t so sure Ana felt the same.

  Aunt Rosa led us inside, and as she and Mom chatted I looked around the house. It looked the same as I remembered from a few months ago. A fire roared in the living room, which was full of overstuffed chairs and overflowing bookcases. Silver picture frames lined the walls, most of them of five girls I figured were Aunt Rosa’s daughters. The pictures showed the girls first as babies, then school-age, then a few graduation pictures.

  “Mine are all grown now,” Aunt Rosa said, following my gaze. “It’s nice having a teenager in the house again.”

  Aunt Rosa pointed down a hallway and said, “Ana’s room is first on the right. Why don’t you go and say hi.” Then she turned to Mom. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  As Mom and Aunt Rosa headed to the kitchen, I walked down the hallway. Ana’s door was open and she sat cross-legged on her bed, reading a book. She wore a glittery red sweater and jeans that seemed to fit her well.

  “Hey,” I said. “Can I come in?”

  Ana looked up and nodded slightly, but she didn’t speak.

  “I like your room.” Near the closet was a white bookshelf busting at the seams with books and magazines—some had Spanish titles, some had English titles. A light green quilt with white and lavender butterflies covered her bed. Ana’s backpack leaned up against a small desk in the corner of her room.

  “I talked to Señora Geck yesterday,” I said, sitting down next to Ana on her bed. “She said if I do okay on the final exam, I should get a B in her class . . . I don’t usually get those,” I added when Ana didn’t say anything. “I’m taking Spanish again next semester . . . but if you don’t want to tutor me anymore, I totally understand.”

  Ana frowned and said, “Are you saying you don’t want me to tutor you?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant,” I said quickly. “I just meant, you know, that if you didn’t want to tutor me I would understand . . .” I trailed off. Ana and I sat there silently, staring at each other. I don’t think either of us knew what to say. Then I asked her the question I’d been wondering for weeks.

  “Are you mad at me?”

  Ana looked down at her quilt and traced a pattern with her fingertip. “Aunt Rosa said as long as I keep my grades up, I can join whatever clubs I want at my new school.” Ana looked up. “I’m not mad, Callie.”

  “So . . . does that mean you’ll still be my tutor?”

  Ana smiled. “Le ayudaré. I will help you.”

  “Okay.” I put my hand in my pocket and grasped my glasses. There were a million other questions I wanted to ask Ana. About her family in Mexico, how long she wanted to stay in America, and I wanted to know what she really thought. But after a moment, I relaxed my grip, and zipped up the pocket. I figured with everything Ana had been through, she deserved her privacy.

  “I have something for you,” Ana said suddenly, standing up and walking over to her closet, where she pushed the door open. “Here it is.” She pulled out a tall Christmas tin and handed it to me. “Open it.”

  Inside the tin, cinnamon and sugar popcorn was mixed in with Red Hots.

  “Aunt Rosa and I made it,” Ana said.

  I clutched the tin and smiled. I knew this meant I wasn’t just the girl Ana tutored. This meant I was Ana’s friend, too.

  “I have something for you, too,” I said, pulling the notebook pages out of my jacket pocket. “I wrote you a story. If you want it, I mean.”

  “Like, totally, for sure,” Ana said in her best California Valley Girl accent. “What is it about?”

  “It’s about a girl named Anarella.”

  “Anarella?” That was the first time I ever heard Ana sound sarcastic.

  “Anarella, yeah. Anyway, Anarella lived with her family, and they were happy, but poor. One day, a prince came along and offered to let Anarella live with her in his castle. But it turned out, Anarella was really lonely there and didn’t have anyone she could talk to.

  “Then one day, Anarella’s fairy godmother swooped in, not in a pumpkin carriage, but a blue minivan and took Anarella to another castle, one where she wouldn’t be so lonely.”

  “And then what happened?” Ana asked softly. “What did Anarella do then?”

  “I don’t know.” I handed Ana the story. “I was hoping we could finish it together.”

  Epilogue

  Super Freaky Glasses Rule #20

  Know when it’s time to move on.

  A FEW WEEKS AFTER SPRING SEMESTER STARTED, I received a call from Dr. Ingram letting me know my glasses had finally arrived.

  “It’s been a while,” Dr. Ingram said when I slid into his examination chair. He grinned. “Seen anything unusual lately?”

  “Not really.” These days, I used my glasses solely for reading, and resisted the urge to stare at the screens and spy on people’s thoughts. Well . . . except for that one time last week. I needed to make sure Charlie planned on asking me to the Valentine’s dance. He did.

  “Is school going well?” Dr. Ingram asked, holding up a pair of caramel-colored glasses and placing them on me. Funny, they didn’t look nearly as dorky as I remembered. In fact, they looked sort of cute.

  “Yeah, I joined a couple clubs, actually.” I held still as Dr. Ingram flipped on the projector and tested my vision with the new glasses.

  At Mr. Angelo’s urging, I joined the drama club. I also joined a writer’s club that met after school. I felt weird walking into the classroom the first time, but when I did, I saw someone I knew: Stacy. She waved when she saw me, so I sat next to her. Stacy told me that when she didn’t have any friends in Oregon, she started keeping a journal—everything she wanted to say, but didn’t have anyone she could say it to. She’s actually really cool. I guess you could say we’re becoming good friends. A bunch of us from the writer’s club have started eating lunch together.

  Ellen isn’t mad at me anymore, but Stacy and I don’t hang out with her all that much. Over winter break her mom finally bought her a guitar and agreed to pay for lessons. Ellen liked it so much she started a band with some other girls from school.

  I still haven’t seen my dad—he’s asked me to come to Napa to visit him, and meet Brenda. But I told him I’m not ready for that yet.

  Ana still helps me with Spanish, and sometimes I help her
with her English assignments at her new school. Next weekend, Stacy and I are going to Aunt Rosa’s to help them paint Ana’s room. Ana wants me to design a mural for her wall like I have in my room. I’ve decided to paint a picture of a family of butterflies soaring over a meadow. I hope Ana likes it.

  “Wonderful.” Dr. Ingram flipped off the projector. “These seem to be a perfect fit. Or would you like to keep the loaner pair for a few more days?”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” I said, handing him back the thick black frames. “I’m learning to see without them.”