The Anti-Cinderella

by Tawdra Kandle

  I pulled out the chair across from her. “I was an idiot. I didn’t think anyone would care that much. We’re not news. Not really.”

  “Hmmm.” My friend shook her head. “Maybe not. But that doesn’t always seem to matter. Like I said, I did some digging and some reading while you were at the garden—”

  “Didn’t you have finals you were supposed to be studying for?” I crossed my arms over my chest and gave her my best stare.

  She had the good grace to look a tiny bit guilty. “Well, yes. And I will. Eventually. But this was important, too. We need to get ahead of this if we’re going to figure out how to live with people camped outside our house for the foreseeable future.”

  “Eh.” I waved my hand. “I don’t think it’s going to last, Shel. Once Nicky and I aren’t seen together again, everyone will lose interest, and the reporters will leave. They’ll have a new story to follow.”

  “You might be right,” she conceded. “But it doesn’t hurt to be prepared, right? So I read a bunch of articles about how other people who’ve been in this situation before you have coped.”

  I shot her a warning glare. “If the word Kardashian comes out of your mouth, I’m leaving.”

  “No, not them.” Shelby rolled her eyes. “Those are people who want the attention. I was talking about those who had to deal with the media because of dating a member of the royal family, since that’s what’s applicable to your situation. Some of it’s changed over the years, because now we have the added pressure of everyone in the world carrying a phone that’s also a camera, and there’s the twist of social media, too. But a few elements stay the same.”

  “Lay it on me.” I spread out my hands. “I’m all ears.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Shelby did just that, sharing with me the key points of what she’d read about the women—because they were all women, as it happened—who had been linked to members of the royal family in the past.

  “It seems to me that the number one rule is not to talk to the press about anything real or important. Like, you could comment on the weather, or say something about what you’re wearing or a TV show, but you shouldn’t ever mention anything about the royal family or your feelings there. One of Prince Charles’ girlfriends did that years ago, and she was cut off cold.”

  “I think that’s common sense,” I remarked. “No man wants to read that his girlfriend’s been dishing about him in public.”

  “True.” Shelby nodded. “You should try to avoid talking at all with the press, unless it’s absolutely necessary, because they’ve been known to twist things in such a way to make it look like you said something you didn’t. Also, you don’t want anyone to think you love the attention, because then someone might think you’re a Kardashian-type. At the same time, you can’t go all Sean Penn on reporters and punch them. Basically, you’re walking a tightrope between being polite and not being too excited about the media being here.”

  I sighed and laid my head on the table. “I’m going to screw this up, Shelby. You know I am. I’m not good at pretending to be someone I’m not.”

  “You are not going to screw anything up. You don’t have to be someone else—it’s like when you go to events with Honey and Handsome. You know how to mind your manners there, and you know what they expect of you. This is the same. Just don’t act as though you were raised in a cave.”

  “I’ll try my best.” Turning my head, I rested my chin on my hand and regarded my friend. “This might all be a moot point, anyway. Nicky probably will take one look at these pictures from today and never call me again.”

  “I doubt it.” Shelby grinned at me. “According to the media, he took aside a bunch of reporters today and told them to go easy on you. He asked them not to run you off before he had a chance to convince you that he’s worth the bother.”

  Something deep in my heart melted a little—the part of my being that still hadn’t quite accepted the fact that a man like Nicky might truly be interested in a woman like me.

  “There. That look right there.” Shelby pointed at me, her smile victorious. “That’s an expression I’ve never seen on your face ever before. It tells me that this—that Nicky—is more important to you than you realize. That’s why, even if the reporters are annoying and you don’t like them camping outside our house, you’re going to smile and be polite and pleasant. Because if they’re part of the Nicky package, you have to learn to deal with them.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Of course, I’m right. I just—” The doorbell rang, interrupting whatever pearl of wisdom Shelby was about to impart. We both frowned at each other before she leaped to her feet.

  “You stay here. If it’s one of the reporters, I’ll fend them off.” She hustled toward our front door, calling over her shoulder. “Although they’ve been out there all day now and never knocked or got really close to the house.”

  I stayed in the kitchen, but I heard Shelby open the door and have a brief, quiet conversation. When she returned to the kitchen, she was carrying a huge bouquet of flowers and a small brown paper bag and wearing a broad smile.

  “What’s that?” I got up and reached for the flowers, but she held them away from me.

  “Ah, ah, ah. Keep your hands off. They’re my flowers.” She held up the bag. “And this is my gallon of milk. Both were sent to me by a certain sexy prince, along with a sweet note apologizing for the surprise this morning.” She sighed and clutched the bouquet to her chest. “Forget you. I think I’m in love.”

  “Nicky sent you flowers?” I grabbed the small card from her hand and read the note aloud. “Dear Shelby, Please accept these flowers as my way of saying I’m sorry about the reporters camped outside your house this morning. Also, forgive both Kyra and me for keeping the secret—it truly wasn’t her fault. The milk is a gift for both of you~I hope you’ll consider making Ky her waffles, so she’ll have to let me off the hook, too, and not blame me for her lack of breakfast. Looking forward to meeting you soon~Nicholas Windsor”

  Shelby opened the refrigerator to stow the milk before she found a vase for the flowers. “I’m telling you, Kyra. He’s a keeper. I have a good feeling about this.”

  “Don’t say things like that.” I sat back down at the table. “I’m afraid to believe.”

  “You?” Shelby scoffed. “Since when have you been afraid of anything?”

  “It’s new. We’re just beginning to get to know each other, and now people are yelling questions to me about whether I want to marry him.” I stretched out my legs and toed off my Converse. “You know when you’ve just started dating a guy, and your family or your friends make a big deal about it?”

  Shelby snorted and turned her back to me as she ran water in the glass vase. “I’m very familiar with that. Vivian used to sing the K-I-S-S-I-N-G song every time she found out I was even mildly interested in a boy. It was mortifying.”

  “Exactly.” I shook my finger. “Now imagine that on a huge scale, with people you don’t know and have never met—and they’re all singing the K-I-S-S-I-N-G song. Only maybe the guy just wanted that one kiss. Or maybe he wants more, but he wants to take it slow. And now with the expectations of the world in full view, he feels pressured to either run away and leave you alone or to take things up a notch. I don’t like it either way.” I gnawed on the corner of my lip. “I really like Nicky, Shel. I want to have a chance to see where this might go. We have so much in common, and he makes me feel things . . .” I trailed off. “Let’s just say there’s no lack of attraction between us. And he makes me laugh, and when he looks at me, I feel pretty. I feel special. But at the same time, I’m comfortable with him. I can be myself. At least, so far. I’m trying to keep in mind that we haven’t known each other that long.”

  “That’s not true. You told me that you spent ten summer vacations with him.”

  “I did. But that was then. We knew each other for ten years, and then we didn’t know each other for ten years. In my head, I’m still tryin
g to reconcile the Nicky from before with the Nicky from now. I had a crush on one, and I think I might really like the other.”

  Shelby opened a cabinet to take out the waffle iron. “Maybe you should try not to overthink this, Kyra. Let it happen. Take each day as it comes . . . and let’s see where it goes.” She smiled at me as she set a glass bowl on the counter. “For now, forget about the reporters and what may or may not happen. Just relax and be grateful, because thanks to the consideration and kindness of your prince crush, I’m about to make you the most kick-ass waffles you’ve ever eaten.”

  Nicky: How were the waffles?

  Kyra: They were, as Shelby promised, the most kickass waffles of all time. Thanks for supplying the milk.

  Nicky: Happy to help. And now more importantly, how are you?

  Kyra: Also kickass.

  Nicky: Glad to hear it. I’m sorry again that I jumped to conclusions—and then jumped on you. I was taken by surprise, in that we didn’t know press was there until I was already on my way off the plane. There was some kind of communication mix-up. And I felt horrible about you having to cope with all of that on your own.

  Kyra: I survived. And they’ll probably go away soon, right? When they don’t see us together again right away and they figure out that I lead a painfully boring life.

  Nicky: Maybe, but I’ve learned not to expect the media to do the expected. So be vigilant. If you need help—if they trespass or harass you—get the police involved. I can’t do anything from here, which is even more maddening.

  Kyra: Please don’t worry. I really can take care of myself.

  Nicky: I know you can. But maybe I’d like to be close by to help so you didn’t have to deal with it all the time.

  Kyra: I’d like that, too.

  Nicky: I just saw a picture of you. You’re beautiful.

  Kyra: UGH, Nicky, I so am not, and any picture they took probably made me look like a doofus.

  Nicky: There’s that word again. You are not, nor do you look like, a doofus. You were in jeans and your boots. Looked like you were heading into the garden. How’s it going, by the way? Your project at the garden, I mean.

  Kyra: I was on my way in there when they started snapping. They’ve begun following me to the garden, but today, campus security came by and routed them out. And everything is moving along as we’d predicted. We’re hitting some pest issues with the natural gardening, but Ed and I both think it’s a short-term problem that should begin to respond to the co-planting soon.

  Nicky: Excellent. I might have to invite you to one of our food sourcing symposiums. That would be one way to get you over to London.

  Kyra: True. Another would be to simply invite me.

  Nicky: If I knew I could actually spend time with you, I’d ask you over here in a second. But my schedule is so full right now that I’d barely see you between coming and going. But soon.

  Kyra: I’m not complaining or hinting, Nicky. I was just saying that you don’t have to come up with some elaborate reason to get me to England.

  Nicky: Good to know. I could just think of a good way to ask, huh? Dear Ky, my lips miss yours. Bring them on over.

  Kyra: That would do the trick.

  Kyra: I had to call the campus police today. A woman came into one of my classes and sat in the back, and during the break, she came up and began asking me questions. And not about soil science, either.

  Nicky: I’m sorry, Ky. Did they eject her?

  Kyra: They didn’t get the chance. She left before they got there. But it was embarrassing. People at school . . . they’ve started treating me differently. They don’t always talk TO me, but they seem to think I’ve suddenly gone deaf, because they sure as hell talk ABOUT me.

  Nicky: People are . . . incredibly thoughtless sometimes. But your true friends know you. They’ll stick.

  Kyra: Yeah, I guess. Shelby’s the only one I trust right now. She fends off the reporters if they start getting pushy. And she doesn’t ask me stupid questions, either. Shelby and my project partner Ed are the only two who still look at me the same way. With Ed, I think he honestly hasn’t noticed anything weird going on. He’s just really focused on the science.

  Nicky: Is there anything I can do?

  Kyra: Come over and hold me and stroke my hair and tell me it’s going to be all right?

  Nicky: I’m virtually stroking your hair right now. And it’s going to be all right.

  Kyra: I’m sorry about this, Nicky, but I’m going to have to say that you’re wrong. That’s all there is to it.

  Nicky: I’m absolutely not wrong, Ky. Don’t you think I know better than you do about this?

  Kyra: Uh, no I don’t in fact. Did you have a second major in Shakespeare? I did. I know that shit inside and out.

  Nicky: Maybe so, but he wrote plays about my ancestors. That should give me more standing.

  Kyra: Well, it doesn’t. I’m telling you, Juliet wasn’t nearly as in love with Romeo as he was with her. She went along with it because he was so dramatic and insistent, and she thought he was an okay guy, but she wasn’t gaga over him like he was over her.

  Nicky: She killed herself for him, Ky. Twice, if you count the fake death.

  Kyra: Yeah, well, she was a teenaged girl and she got caught up in the drama. But she didn’t do it because she was crazy in love with him.

  Nicky: Are you making a point here, Ky? Are you trying to say that you’re just going along with me because I’m—wait, let me scroll up—oh here it is. Dramatic and insistent.

  Kyra: No, of course not. I’m going along with you because I’m hot for your bod. Duh.

  Nicky: …

  Kyra: You still there? Sorry, I didn’t mean to shock you.

  Nicky: You didn’t shock me, but you definitely made me very happy. Okay, I’m glad to know it’s more than drama. Also, I’m hot for your bod, too.

  Kyra: I’d suggest phone-making-out, but I know one of your relatives got caught doing that a while back, and it was a big thing, so I think it’s better that we refrain.

  Nicky: Sadly true on all counts. We’ll have to wait for in person making out.

  Kyra: You could always write me letters. Like I suggested before, ten years ago. And you never did.

  Nicky: I feel the same way now. I’m not a good letter-writer.

  Kyra: Yet you can text me the equivalent of an epic novel? How is that different?

  Nicky: It is because it is. And because you’re texting me back, giving me immediate gratification.

  Kyra: You’re all about the gratification, are you?

  Nicky: You know it, baby.

  Kyra: Nicky, does your family hate me? When they see all the pictures, I mean?

  Nicky: Of course, they don’t. This isn’t anything new to us, Ky. It’s a way of life.

  Kyra: Right, I get that, but I mean, do they see pics and say, Nicky, she’s a dog. Find another girl.

  Nicky: Uh, no. No one has said anything remotely like that. Alex said she remembers you well and that you’ve grown up to be even prettier than you were last time she saw you, and Daisy says she remembers that you were always very kind to her when we’d visit. So that’s a winning situation.

  Kyra: And your parents . . .?

  Nicky: Rarely if ever express an opinion when it comes to my love life. They trust me to make the right decisions.

  Kyra: Okay.

  Nicky: Okay?

  Kyra: I said yes. I just wish . . . I wish a lot of things. I wish I didn’t take such terrible awkward pictures. I wish they wouldn’t take pictures of me when I’m doing things like bending over to get something out of the car. And mostly, I wish we didn’t have to be so far apart from each other.

  Nicky: I wish that last one, too. Soon, Ky. I promise.

  Romance or Hype?

  Three weeks after those super HOT pics of Britain’s Prince Nicholas with his new American girlfriend hit the internet, questions are swirling about what’s happening now. Although press coverage of Maine girl Kyra Duncan has been non-s
top, we haven’t seen any repeat dates. Nicholas has been carrying on with his engagements on the far side of the pond.

  Sources tell us that there are plans in the works for Kyra to make a quick trip to London, but who knows? Maybe this was just a fly-by royal hook-up, and these two aren’t destined for a happily-ever-after.

  I stood in the check-out line at the grocery store, my eyes glued to the carton of eggs in my basket. Whispers swirled around me; I should’ve been used to it by now, but I’d spent so much time over the past weeks hiding at home that being out now felt daring—and dangerous.

  “She’s not even that pretty. I mean, look at her. Look at the picture on that magazine. She’s, like, plain.”

  “I don’t even think she has make-up on. And the hair . . .”

  The first girl giggled. “I read something on line that called her the American Cinderella. But she’s more like the ugly step-sister.”

  My throat burned, and I was sure my face was bright red. This was why I didn’t leave my bedroom unless it was absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, today it had been just that. Shelby was sick in bed, and today was Honey’s birthday, which meant I had to bake her a cake. It was family tradition: on my grandmother’s birthday, everyone gathered up here in Maine, and I made a German chocolate cake.

  But we didn’t have any eggs—both Shelby and I sucked at efficient weekly grocery shopping; we always ended up running out three or four times a week to pick up what we’d forgotten. Since there was no way I could ask my poor beleaguered and feverish friend to go to the grocery store . . . here I was.

  “Do you think she even really met him? Or do you think it was, like, one of those things where they doctored the picture to make it look like they were together?”

  “Maybe he was drunk. He saw her through beer goggles.” They laughed again.

  I was not the kind of woman who stood by while people talked about me. I was the type who championed the underdog and called out the mean girls who tried to make me feel bad about myself. But right now, my hands were tied. If I said anything—if I so much as acknowledged their cruelty—my reaction would be news. Someone would take a picture of the expression on my face, or someone else would leak my words to the press, and then I’d look like a cry-baby.