Just Your Average Princess

by Kristina Springer

  She reaches up and pats her hair. “This? I was tired of the highlights and wanted something new. Do you like it?” She smiles, waiting for my response.

  She looks like the fluffy pink cotton candy you can get on a stick at carnivals. Or like one of those dolls you win for a quarter if you can pick it up with the big metal-hand grabber. But I would never say either of those things of course.

  “Adorable,” I reply. And I’m not lying. It is adorable, in a Strawberry Shortcake sort of way.

  “Here.” Dilly pushes a small white paper bag across the table to me. “I got an English muffin with grape jelly for you.”

  “Aw, thanks, Dill,” I say, suddenly feeling ravenous.

  “Yeah, I’m a big spender.” Dilly grins. “So, how’s your weekend been? Are things with Milan getting any better?”

  I stick my tongue out and shake my head. “Nah. And they probably won’t. Not until she leaves town anyway,” I add. I unwrap my English muffin and poke a white knife through the jelly container’s plastic lid. I squeeze some jelly on the muffin and start spreading.

  “Oh,” Dilly says, like she just remembered something. “I did get a chance to talk to my mom about Milan. You know, about the deal with her running for Pumpkin Princess.”

  I stop spreading. “Yeah?”

  Dilly nods. “Sara was right. My mom said it was some committee lady’s bright idea to get extra publicity for the festival. She thinks it’ll get a few more pictures in some of the nearby newspapers. It’s so not a big deal though. My mom says Milan will never win.” Dilly takes a sip of her orange juice.

  “Really?” I say, hoping I don’t sound too eager. But I’m craving reassurance like a sugar addict craves chocolate.

  “Yeah, she hasn’t even been in town that long,” Dilly continues. “It would be completely ridiculous if she won.” Dilly crumples up her wrapper and tosses it in her bag.

  “That’s what I think too,” I say quickly.

  “My mom thinks you have the best chance. You have the qualities they’re looking for,” she adds.

  “She said that?” I ask. How sweet! That’s what I’ve been hoping this whole time—that people would see I was the right person.

  Dilly nods and I’m completely filled with joy. This one conversation with Dilly has me feeling better than I have in days. It’s like they always say about good triumphing over evil. I’ll come out ahead in the end. I pick up my English muffin and take a big bite. Maybe things aren’t as bad as I thought. Maybe I just needed to get away from the Patch to clear my head and really see what is going on.

  I head for home, my mood a hundred times better than when I left this morning. I pull on my work clothes and go out to the Patch, excited to tell Sara what Dilly told me about Milan and the Pumpkin Princess committee.

  “Morning, Sara,” I sing when I reach her booth. “It’s finally starting to feel like October, huh?” I say, taking a deep breath of the cool air. This is my absolute favorite weather.

  “I know, isn’t it great? You’re in a good mood today,” she comments, studying my face. She picks up a cap off the counter and pops it on her pen.

  I smile. “Things feel better today. What are you working on?”

  Sara looks down at the white paper bag she was doodling on. She flips it around so I can see. There is an oval with a thick border and inside it are two crisscrossed delicious-looking caramel apples with the words SARA’S SWEET TOOTH written over them in big bold letters.

  “Wow!” I exclaim.

  Sara looks pleased. “Do you like it? It’s the logo for my future sweetshop,” she says. “Once I get out of school of course.”

  “I love it,” I say, and I really do. It’s so cool seeing Sara go after her dream like this. “Are you going to let me work for you someday?”

  “Oh sure, you can be my taste tester.”

  “I’d love that job!” I say.

  Sara laughs. “I know you would.” She folds up the paper bag and slips it into her back pocket. She grabs a wet dishrag and begins wiping down the counter.

  “So, listen, I just got back from breakfast with Dilly and she had some interesting things to tell me,” I say, excited to relay the news to Sara.

  “Oh yeah?”

  I quickly fill Sara in on my conversation with Dilly. As I talk I see Sara’s face start to fall. Since what I’m saying leans more to the side of a happily-ever-after kind of story and not a tragedy, I’m not getting her reaction.

  “What?” I ask, halting my story. “Why do you look like I took your cookies or something?”

  “Eh, um, uh,” she stammers. “Man. Why do I feel like I’m always the bearer of bad news lately?”

  “What bad news?” I ask, frowning. Ugh. And I was so ready to have a good day today.

  “Well,” Sara begins reluctantly. “Laurel was over here giving me an earful this morning.”

  That’s nothing new. I nod, urging her to continue.

  Sara rubs her chin and twists up her face. I can tell she doesn’t want to tell me whatever it is she’s about to tell me. “She seems to think there is some sort of ‘Milan Movement’ in the works,” she finally says.

  “What? What the heck is a Milan Movement? If it has anything to do with moving her back home to California then I’m all for it. Shoot, I’ll pack her suitcases myself. I’ll order her a plane ticket. I’ll even make her a tofu-rice-cake-whatever-it-is-she-likes snack for the plane ride.”

  Sara sighs. “No, that’s not it. I’ll just tell you what Laurel told me. Basically, the mayor of Average paid a visit to your dad and told him how he thinks Milan’s presence in our town is our ‘ticket to fame and fortune,’” Sara says, adding dramatic air quotation marks.

  “Fame and fortune?” I repeat, more like a question. “That makes no sense.”

  “She said the mayor read something about how Forks, Washington, became a big tourist attraction after the Twilight books were published and he thinks if they promote Milan’s being here, our little Average, Illinois, will turn into a big tourist attraction too. He told your dad that his Patch business will probably double if not triple. And that all the businesses in town will benefit.”

  “What? No. This has to be some kind of crazy gossip. It makes absolutely no sense. And besides, if the mayor really came here to talk to my dad, don’t you think I’d know about it?” I ask. Of course, I haven’t exactly been talking to my parents lately because I’ve been so mad. But surely I would have heard something about this before now. Maybe.

  Sara shrugs helplessly. “I think it might be true,” she says in a soft voice.

  I lean my elbow on her counter and rub my forehead, waiting for the next hit.

  “Your dad came by a little while ago,” she finally says. “He told me to create a new caramel apple—a Golden Delicious dipped in organic, fat-free, sugar-free caramel sauce and covered with golden raisins and”—she pauses, trying to read my expression—“he said to call it ‘The Milan.’”

  “Oh, yuck,” I say, totally disgusted, and not because the apple sounds disgusting, though it does, but because my dad is officially naming an apple after her now. He’s never done that for anyone. Sure I have an apple, but the Jamie Special has always been something Sara makes for me on the side; it’s never been on the menu. But now here is Milan getting her own special apple. I can’t stand it!

  “There are other changes too, from what I hear,” Sara continues. She pulls on the thumb of her left hand with her right index finger, like she’s going to tick off a list of items. “Like the pumpkin spreads at the farm stand have new labels with Milan’s picture, they’re passing out stickers printed with MILAN WOODS PICKED MY PUMPKIN at the checkout, and…”

  I throw my hands up in the air. I can’t hear anymore. I turn and walk away from Sara’s caramel apple stand. I hear Sara yell, “Jamie, wait!” But I walk faster.

  I’m not working today. I’m going to take a sick day. And you know what? I do feel sick. I can’t believe how every last person, well, e
xcept Sara and Dilly, but everyone else, has turned on me. Even my town, the town I’ve known and loved my whole life, is on Milan’s side now. Stickers. Hmph. Give me a break! But it’s not like there’s anything I can do. There are too many people on Team Milan. I’m going home and I’m going to bed. I just plain give up.

  Milan and Danny are standing in front of the concession stand, holding bottles of water and talking. I need to walk right by there to get home. The best thing for me to do is move fast without acknowledging either of them. Danny’s eyes keep darting to me over Milan’s head though and I can see her moving around, trying to block him from looking anywhere else but at her. But unfortunately for her she’s not tall enough to obstruct his view. I’m about to pass by when Danny calls out to me.

  “Hi, Jamie.”

  Normally Danny’s acknowledging me would make my whole day. Heck, it’d get an entry in my journal, that’s for sure. But I can’t. I just can’t take him and Milan. Together. I give him a quick wave but keep moving. It’s like pulling off a Band-Aid—I gotta get out of here fast or it’s gonna hurt.

  I walk through the front door of the house, pulling out my pigtail holders and running my fingers through my hair as I cross the living room. I want to get out of these clothes, put on my comfy smiley-face PJ pants and tee, and hide under my covers. And God help the first person who offers me a piece of toast with Milan Woods pumpkin spread on it.

  I’m almost safely behind my bedroom door when I notice I’m not the only one home.

  “Jamie?” Mom calls from the dining room. “Can you come here?”

  I stand still. Is she going to yell at me for not working today? Too bad, because I’m not going back out there. Milan’s working anyway and she’s such a hard worker and all so they certainly don’t need me.

  Or maybe she wants to personally tell me about this business with the mayor. Well, too little, too late. I don’t want to hear the sordid details. How does she think this is supposed to make me feel? Did any of them, for even one second, take my feelings into consideration? Nothing she says is going to make me feel a bit better so I’m not about to listen. Unless there is a really good reason for it all. Like, Mom and Dad are six months behind on the mortgage payment and about to lose the entire pumpkin patch and they hate having to shove Milan in my and everyone else’s face at every turn, but it’s the only way they can possibly pull through their financial disaster. If that was the case then I might listen, for like thirty seconds.

  Ugh. I trudge to the dining room. Mom is sitting at the table, surrounded by boxes and loads of homemade candles to sell in the craft barn. I keep my mouth tightly sealed, but I raise my eyebrows, waiting for her to talk.

  Mom smiles. “Be a dear and drop off this large pumpkin candle in Milan’s room, would you, Jamie? She loves the scent.”

  Argh!

  No explanation, no “Why are you home, Jamie? Are you feeling okay, Jamie?” Just “Do something else for Princess Milan, please.” I roughly grab the candle out of my mom’s extended hand and stomp out of the room.

  This. Is. Crap.

  I tell you, I’m going to run away. There have to be other pumpkin patches in other towns, patches that want a hardworking, straight-A, uh, B, well, decent student, well-behaved, friendly, outgoing daughter. No one appreciates me here anymore. I should totally pack up my stuff and leave.

  I throw open Milan’s bedroom door and spike the candle onto her bed, volleyball style. I can smell her perfume lingering in the air and I want to get out of here as fast as I can. I head for the door but something catches my eye. Milan’s little pink laptop is sitting on her desk, and there is an e-mail open in the window. I peek down the hallway. No one else is home but Mom and she’s busy boxing up the candles. I quietly shut Milan’s door and return to the laptop to read. It’s a note from Uncle Jack, dated today.

  Dear Milan,

  It’s great to hear from you. I’m doing well. We’ve been shooting some long days but I really think this movie will be a blockbuster. Darling, I know you’re unhappy. I understand that you want to come home, I do. And of course I miss you. But we need more time. This is best for everybody. Talk to you soon.

  Love,

  Dad

  Wow! Uncle Jack and Aunt Annabelle won’t let Milan come back home. That’s so weird. If she’s that unhappy they should let her come home. Unless, of course, she did something bad. Oh my God, that must be it! Milan is involved in some scandal in Hollywood and her parents sent her here to hide from the paparazzi! It’s brilliant actually. Who would ever look for Milan Woods on a pumpkin patch in Average, Illinois?

  I rub my hands together, wondering what she did. Visions of late-night partying, DUIs, and shoplifting cross my mind. Well, there’s one way to find out. I quietly slip out of Milan’s room and head for my own. I’m going to change into my comfy clothes and get online. Milan’s hiding here for some reason and I’m going to find out what it is.

  15

  “Jamie?” Mom calls to me.

  I jump at least two feet in the air. Shoot, I wish she’d stop yelling my name like that when I’m trying to be sneaky.

  “What are you up to?” Mom asks.

  I clear my throat. “Nothing. I’m going to lie down.”

  “What’s wrong, are you sick?”

  Oh, now she notices that I’m home sick. I fake a cough. “Yeah. A little.”

  “Okay, hon. But before you lie down can you help me carry these boxes out to the craft barn?” Mom asks.

  Sheesh! I said I was sick and now she wants me carrying heavy boxes? What if I’m feeling lethargic and have a chill with a possible fever coming on? I shouldn’t be hauling boxes. Where’s the sympathy? Where’s the chicken soup?

  I walk down the hall and turn the corner into the dining room. “I don’t feel great, Mom,” I say, sucking on the insides of my cheeks, hoping to look a little gaunt.

  Mom looks me over. “Hmm. You do look pale.”

  I do? Bonus. I nod and throw in a sniffle for added effect.

  “You should spend the day in bed. But first take a quick trip to the craft barn with me. Here, I’ll carry the heavier box.”

  I sigh. “Fine.” Whatever. At least I’ll have the house to myself when I get back. Then I can research Milan and find out exactly what she did.

  I pick up the smaller of the two boxes and follow Mom outside into the afternoon sunlight. She’s going on and on about some new recipe she can’t wait to try—something about a breadless bread. I don’t even want to ask. It’s bad enough that we’ve been eating so many freaky things, but now even the bread is on its way out the door too. What would happen if Milan didn’t like pumpkins? Would we sell the Patch?

  We walk in silence toward the craft barn and a few minutes later Mom swings open the screen door. The small copper bell hanging in the doorway chimes, letting everyone inside know that we are here. The overwhelmingly persistent potpourri smell of the craft barn slaps me smack-dab in the face and I scrunch up my nose. My eyes tear a little. I hoist my box up onto the counter next to Mom’s and turn to face her. “Can I go now?” I ask, wiping my hands on my overalls.

  “Yes, thank you, dear, that was a big help,” Mom says, cracking open her box.

  I nod and head for the door, antsy to get home.

  “In a hurry?”

  I fling around. Danny. “Oh, hey, Danny,” I say. I feel kind of awkward since I breezed by him a short time ago when he was with Milan. He’s standing near the back of the small barn, behind the huge rack of festive fall door wreaths, facing the wall and hammering a shelf above his head. His hat is on backward and the cutest tuft of hair is poking out over the plastic adjustable band.

  “Going to work on your sprints some more?” he asks without looking up, still banging away on the nail.

  My sprints? I furrow my brow. “What?”

  “You know, for your track team,” he says, pausing his hammering to look at me.

  “Oh, my sprints.” That’s what Sara told him I was doing ye
sterday. “Yeah … no, actually I’m heading home. Not feeling so well.” I unconsciously put my hand to my forehead.

  “Sorry to hear that. Make sure you get lots of rest and fluids.”

  A tiny flutter starts in my tummy. Danny cares about my health. That’s so sweet. Then again, maybe he just doesn’t want me passing germs around. “I will,” I say.

  He picks up another nail from the box by his feet. “And by the way, your hair looks really nice that way.”

  Huh? What? What happened? Did Danny compliment me? I touch my hair, loose in waves around my shoulders. Well, I do always wear it up for work. I guess he’s not used to seeing me with my hair down. I feel myself begin to flush. “Um, thank you,” I say, and then turn and leave the craft barn as fast as I can.

  I practically float home on Danny’s compliment. I know I shouldn’t read much into it since he’s got something going on with Milan, but it was still nice to hear.

  Speaking of Milan, I let myself into the house and head straight for my room and my computer. I have at least a couple of hours before anyone else should be coming home, plenty of time to research Milan and the scandal that sent her to Average to ruin my life.

  I launch a search engine and geez, Milan is all over the Internet! There is picture after picture of her doing, well, anything you can think of. Milan exiting a yoga studio. Milan walking a little yappy-looking dog on the beach. Milan walking on a sidewalk carrying a Starbucks. Whoa! Alert the media! She drinks coffee, people! Who even cares about this regular everyday stuff? I imagine having people taking your picture all the time must get annoying fast. I don’t think I’d like it one bit. Of course, if people were randomly snapping my picture they’d probably find me sweaty and covered in pumpkin. Milan looks fantastic in every shot—even in the one of her outside a fast-food place holding a cellophane-wrapped hamburger. The caption says “Celebrities eat hamburgers too!” Really, they’re wrong on two counts—(1) I don’t think Milan is technically a “celebrity.” Her parents are; and (2) there is no way she was eating that hamburger. Getting ready to throw it at someone, distinct possibility. Eating, not a chance.