Birthdays of a Princess

by Helga Zeiner

  He had been pushing her to say the wrong things. But she had held her own! Even when the name came up. Princess Tia. Really. It was none of his business what Tiara called herself. For the police she was Tiara Brown. Melissa had taken care to drop the fateful Rodriguez when she had her daughter added to her own passport.

  She hoped the detective would stop pestering her now. Her explanation had sounded pretty plausible, but she could do even better than that. She looked at her watch. It was twelve thirty. She called her boss at the 7-Eleven and asked for another week’s leave.

  Now a whole week lay ahead of her. Enough time to convince Tiara to see her and make her understand what she could say and what she should keep mum about. Why didn’t Tiara want a visit from her own mother? Did she still pine for Gracie?

  Gracie had always been jealous of her. That’s how barren women reacted. Sometimes they even stole babies out of hospitals, that’s how badly they wanted one of their own. Gracie had had it easy, with her being so weak and desperate after the birth. Gracie had stolen her child and turned it against her from day one. It was her fault that Tiara never respected her as a mother. Tiara would have to understand that she was in charge now.

  She went to the window and looked down. A white van was parked on the curb opposite her block. She couldn’t read the logo on its side, but it could be a press vehicle. Sure enough, a man with a camera around his neck got out and looked up to her window. As soon as he saw her, he raised it and clicked away. Instinctively Melissa moved aside, then, after a very brief moment, she positioned herself in full view again. She raised her hand. The guy dropped his camera and stared at her.

  She waved at him.

  His head jerked from left to right, making sure he was the one she meant, then he put his thumb up in an awkwardly displaced gesture, climbed in the van and came out again, carrying a much larger camera and a tripod. He shouldered the equipment and raced toward her entrance as if he had to win a medal.

  Chapter 19

  After lunch, which I’m allowed to eat in blissful solitude in my Living Unit, I have an unexpected visitor. By the way, the food here is plain but quite acceptable. I’m not a foodie anyway, not since I’ve outgrown the usual juvenile hankering for sweets. Nowadays I eat to stay healthy and fit, and as I am a rather small person, I don’t need much to keep me going. Would hate to turn into a flesh-mountain like some people I know.

  The visitor is the Director of this facility. I’m a bit surprised that they, whoever they are, have chosen a female to rule over us. Somehow, I always thought a man would hold this position of power. She seems pleasant enough, very courteous in a formal way, but I’m immediately on guard.

  The community area in my unit is large enough to accommodate several easy chairs. She sits down opposite me, legs in straight line, hands clasping a file on her lap. My uncomfortable feeling increases. There is a prescient warning in somebody sitting opposite me, mustering me with a camera eye.

  She breaks her inspection, looks down, opens the file, looks up again with a smile and tells me that she has a concern. Her voice is clear and light, warm. My muscles relax a little and I start breathing again.

  “The Center functions on giving the residents rights and responsibilities,” she explains to me. “You earn points through good behavior, and the more points you earn, the higher your level will be.”

  “I’ve read the manual.”

  “You are currently on level one, the lowest,” she says. “I’ve been informed by your psychiatrist, Dr. Eaton, that you find it difficult to interact with others, and I have therefore issued instructions that new admissions will be moved to other Living Units first, as long as there is room available.”

  I feel a small surge of warmth towards my psycho-doc.

  “He also mentioned that we should keep the afternoons free for his consultations with you. I’ve agreed to his request, but this means that you can’t participate in our extra-curricular activities. You won’t earn extra points.”

  I shrug.

  “I’d only use them for the vending machine.”

  “Good.” She smiles. “We can’t make too many exceptions. I’m willing to make allowances in the Incentive Program and excuse you from those afternoon classes, but you need to understand the implications of it and indicate that you accept them.”

  I try to smile back my understanding. “I read in the manual that you have a gym in here.”

  She gets up already. “We do.”

  “Would it be possible for me to train there? On my own, I mean, without others around me?”

  “I shall discuss this with Dr. Eaton. We might even give you points for that.”

  Audience over. She leaves me sitting there, pondering over rights and responsibilities. But she had still been smiling when she left, and I can’t help thinking that she’ll make it possible for me to work out in privacy, without sweating and gossiping peers next to me.

  Rights and responsibilities, I know plenty of that. In my fast experience as a human being, I must say that the responsibility part of the equation usually outweighs its so closely connected counterpart. The rights part is the later twin, the one that didn’t get enough oxygen to develop properly.

  Birthday Five

  After winning the Miss Texas Princess, I was expected to win the National American Miss four months later.

  I didn’t.

  Gracie and Mom cried foul. The winning girl was not nearly as beautiful as me. How could the judges, those hypocritical blockheads, those astigmatic amateurs, not have seen this?

  I actually remember this strange pageant—well, parts of it anyway. We had driven in our beat-up old car to Austin the day before and got settled in the motel room the three of us shared. Twin beds, me and mom sharing one of them.

  The two of them were really nervous. I could feel the tension in the car already and it got worse in the stuffy room. Grown-up nerves mean they ignore me, snap at me, tell me to be quiet and stop fidgeting, while they themselves fidget around as if they sit on hot stones. Then I pout and cry until one of them responds with soothing gestures and promises of ice cream and cookies. Usually, when they are not in competition anxiety.

  That evening, they went at each other like roosters in a cockfight, all beaks and claws and ruffled feathers.

  “Damn it, you know how important Glitz is. That dress is way too frilly. It looks cheap, and it’s pink.” By now Mom hated pink, she hated the trashy and childish designs Gracie came up with. “It makes her dumpy, not cute.”

  “Oh yeah? If you’d picked the right hair style to go with it, the dress would work so much better. It needs to be pulled up, with pink ribbons. See, here—” Gracie grabbed my hair and yanked it up. I was barely four years old then, but I already knew that throwing a tantrum at this stage would not bring the desired result. No cookies and ice cream while they were at each other’s throats. So I got away, crawled into bed, hid under the cover and sulked.

  Next morning, they hadn’t made up but were forced to work together to get me ready for competition. They must have succeeded, because the picture taken after this pageant shows me with the ‘Most Photogenic Miss’ crown on my perfectly coiffed dark curls, standing on stage, still pouting my lips. Adorable Mini Drama Queen.

  But photogenic sulking doesn’t pay much, and to get a lesser title than at least Mini-Supreme is the same as losing. All those alternate titles—Prettiest Eyes, Best Dress, Prettiest Smile, Best Personality—have a duct-tape function. Little girls don’t cry when they get something, and the organizers make sure no girl leaves without some sort of crown, trophy, title or prize. Keeps them happy. It’s the grown-ups that cry, because they know how meaningless those cheap giveaways are.

  Driving home, my grown-ups argued over the money they had spent, and how it had been spent, and what they had done wrong.

  This could have been the end of my career, and nearly was, but soon after the Austin flop, Gracie brought home a visitor.

  “This is my friend Inez.”<
br />
  The lady patted my head—aren’t you a pretty one—and kept talking to Mom as if I didn’t exist. I didn’t look at her either, her deep voice scared me.

  “I can see what you mean, Gracie. She’s got good bone structure, nice hair. Yes, very cute. But it’ll take more than a cheap polyester dress to make a Mini Beauty Queen out of her. We need to turn her into something sensational. As lovely as she might be—it’s not enough to capture the Ultimate Supreme title of Young Miss America. That takes professional styling, ballet classes, dresses with matching shoes, jewelry. It takes money! Lots of money.”

  Mom must have paled when hearing this. Gracie of course knew all this already. She had brought my benefactor into our square little third-row-behind-the-highway home. With the help of her photographer friend, my first true admirer, she had spread my pictures around, talking me up in glowing prophecies of the spoils a famous child-beauty-queen could earn, and she had actually managed to get somebody interested.

  So now I had my first sponsor.

  I saw the generous lady with the avuncular voice only a few more times, and each time she ignored me. But I know Gracie met with her often.

  “She’s a great business woman,” Gracie said. “We’re so lucky to have her.”

  Indeed we were. The money flowed freely: hair-stylist and make-up artists looked me over, and outfits were designed for all the different categories of all the different pageants I attended in the following months.

  Before I turned five, I won the coveted title of Grand Supreme twice, in different competitions. My career was well on its way, and Mom and Gracie—and the sponsor, I suppose—were pleased.

  I liked being on stage, but I was happiest when I did really, really well. Then I could jump off stage and into Gracie’s welcoming arms. When I didn’t do so well—when I forgot to smile or missed my next move—then there were no hugs. But she didn’t punish me. She never punished me. Gracie loved me.

  On my fifth birthday, Gracie told Mom that the sponsor wanted to see a bit more for her money, which was only fair as she had heavily invested in me. Gracie and the sponsor had bonded over their mutual interest—me—and had hatched a plan how to make the most of my photogenic talents. The photographer friend would do a very special photo shoot for my birthday, an artistic one this time, and they could sell those pictures to advertising agencies.

  “I don’t know,” Mom said. “You really think those sell?”

  “Like hot cakes. You’ll see. She’s adorable. Lots of people will spend money on her.”

  “Maybe we should get a different photographer. A better one.”

  “Good luck finding one who doesn’t charge up front.”

  “I don’t have time for that,” Mom said. “We have three more pageants coming up in the next weeks. I can’t do everything. Have him take those pictures, as many as he wants. See if I care. It’ll only be that once anyway.”

  So Gracie took me to the special photo shoot. She fussed over me and kept telling me what a pretty girl I was and how proud she was to have such a good girl for a mija. Somehow she couldn’t stop talking and her hands were shaking so badly she had trouble undoing all the buttons. There I was, in my birthday suit, not really feeling embarrassed, I was too young for that. Gracie was there, so it must be alright.

  Gracie placed me on a swing they had set up in the studio. Her photographer friend moved my arms and legs in position until he was satisfied with the arrangement. Gracie told me not to swing, to sit perfectly still, and to smile—smile, for Heaven’s sake!—until the many, many pictures her photographer friend took of me were done.

  Before we went home, they told me not to tell anybody anything about the pictures because it was a big surprise and if I ruined the surprise I would not be allowed to go to Disneyland. Soon, we’d go there. Gracie showed me a pamphlet with all the attractions and talked about the magic mountain and the rides, and by the time we were back, I’d forgotten all about the pictures. All I could talk about was Disneyland.

  My dear psycho-doc, (yes, dear, I’m slowly growing fond of him; his visits interrupt the monotony of my cell-existence) drops by. I close my journal and tell him about the director’s visit and my request to train alone.

  “Do you think she should reward you?” he asks.

  “It’s not a reward.” Why would he think that? “I can’t help disliking other people. If she doesn’t grant it, I won’t exercise. No big deal.”

  “I’ve asked her already to make certain times available to you. She’s a very nice person and has granted the request. She does find it commendable that you want to look after your physical health. Many of the girls in here don’t care; they’ve given up on themselves.”

  “I need another favor. You’re obviously a big shot here. Can you get me a television and a computer? I think it would help—I’m stuck here for God knows how long and I need something to do outside of morning classes and exercise.”

  We argue for a while. He thinks internet is out of the question. But TV, maybe.

  “When?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” And as an afterthought, he hits me with it. “Of course, privileges must be earned.”

  Do I ever know that! “What do you want?”

  “I want to read your journal.”

  Get lost. No, wait. What would it matter if he reads it? Could it be turned into a disadvantage for me? Hardly. Some of the stuff I’ll write down might be a bit embarrassing—it always is when one is honest with oneself, right?—and I wouldn’t want a total stranger to see it, but dove-doc is no stranger no more.

  “But only you can read it,” I say, “and only when I’m ready.”

  This evening, a guy in a white nurse’s suit hands me the remote for the television unit in the community room the eight cells in my Living Unit share. Until now I hadn’t even noticed the flat screen on one of the walls above the arrangement of easy chairs. Since I’m still the only resident-inmate, I have free choice of the channels available. He informs me that, naturally, certain programs will be blocked. They screen them carefully to make sure they are suitable for us in here. I’m curious what this means. Suitable for a fifteen year old dangerous criminal? Which programs would those be? He also tells me I’m allowed to watch for one hour per day.

  I would have preferred a computer.

  Chapter 20

  The reporter was very polite. Not what Melissa had expected at all. He was not pushy or opinionated like most of those interviewers come across on television, and he gave her all the time in the world to collect her thoughts.

  When he sat down at her kitchen table she suddenly realized how unprepared she was.

  “I want to tell you about my daughter, about her life,” she said. “About who she really is. Do you want to hear it?”

  The reporter asked her if he could film the interview and if she was willing to sign a release form that allowed him to air the material. That was standard procedure, he explained, just a formality, but still it bugged her. Why did everybody want her to sign forms?

  “I know I’m not important,” she said, after having given her consent to all his requests, “I’m only the mother.”

  He assured her that she was very important, probably the most important person in the case, aside from her daughter. What a sweet boy. His name was Andy. He was in his early twenties, still a bit chubby, with big friendly eyes and soft lips. Her anger dissipated in the gentle breeze of his kindness. She felt in control again. It was time to tell the truth.

  “My daughter has done something terrible, no question about it. I have seen this horrible news item, it’s been the worst moment of my life.”

  “Things often look a lot worse on screen, you know.” With this, Andy turned the camera on. “They get distorted.”

  “I guess so.” Melissa looked straight at the red light, as Andy had instructed her. “You’d know better. All I can say is that my Tiara has never shown any aggression, nothing aside from the usual tantrums kids throw. It’s not fair to br
and her as an anti-social drop-out kind of girl. Like one of those druggies who loiter around Main Street and have no home to go to. My Tiara had a good childhood, and me being a single mother had no detrimental effect on her upbringing. She has enjoyed a good education, has been brought up with all the love and care a child needs. I want the world to know this.”

  “Mrs. Brown, tell us about your daughter. We’d like to hear it from you.”

  “Where do I start? Tiara and I had a bond. From the beginning we were best friends. She’s been an easy child, easy to understand, easy to love. As a little girl she was most happy when she made me happy. You have to know that it was just the two of us. Her father had died, killed in action, before she was born, before he could marry me. He was a hero, you know. You can imagine how devastated I felt after that. Looking back at it now, I might not be here if it hadn’t been for Tiara. She saved me.”

  “How do you mean that?”

  “I remember the moment I saw her for the very first time. I’m sure you heard that before, from mothers who’ve given birth. Your eyes fall on this tiny bundle in your arms, and you understand that it’s part of you, an extension of yourself.

  “But anyways, that’s nothing unusual. It happens every second of every day. When I had Tiara, my broken heart was mended. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I was happy right away, I still missed my Mikey an awful lot, but I had a new purpose in life. It was all Tiara’s doing. You can imagine how precious she was to me.”

  “How was she as a child?”

  “Growing up, she was such a…a…did I say how easy she was? Hardly ever complained. And so easy to teach. I didn’t go to work, didn’t have to because my Mikey had provided me with enough money to support the two of us for a while, so I spent all my time with her. I was homeschooling her because she was such a bright little girl, and the schools down there in Texas, you know, they are not like here.”