Just Your Average Princess

by Kristina Springer

  Yeah. It’s a good dream.

  I reach the concession stand, half expecting Milan to be gone and Christy or Dana to be covering for her. But nope, she’s standing there, full makeup, hair blown out, wearing a skimpy denim jumper. She’s talking animatedly as she sets pumpkin spice lattes down before two girls.

  Darn. Realistically I know it’s only been maybe seventeen or eighteen hours since I sent the e-mail to the town board, but that should have been plenty of time for them to throw Milan out of the contest.

  “So obviously I left that club,” Milan is telling the girls. “Like I’m going to stay and dance at your club when you won’t let in one of my closest friends, you know, Donna and Darnell Holtspring’s daughter, Dara. Please.”

  The girls exchange glances, drop a few bills on the counter, and turn and walk away without saying a word to Milan.

  I bite my bottom lip to keep from giggling. What’s this? Are Milan’s braggy brag braggerson stories finally starting to bore people? Or do they know about Milan’s sex scandal? Ooh, I hope they know!

  “Hmph,” Milan says, twisting up her lips as she watches the girls walk away. She looks at me. “What do you want?”

  “Lattes,” I say. “You’re supposed to teach me how to make them this afternoon.”

  “Oh. Yeah. All right, well, don’t stand there. Come back here and I’ll show you how to use the espresso machine.”

  Ah, yes, I can sense this will be a fun afternoon.

  Milan shows me three times how to fill the water chamber, grind the espresso beans, tamp them into the basket, and pull one or two shots. It’s not quite as hard as I’d imagined. Steaming the milk, on the other hand, is a bit ridiculous. You have to hold this metal pitcher under the steaming wand and move it around and stuff just right to get the thing to steam the milk. Move it too far one way and it doesn’t steam. Move it too far another way and you’ve got foam shooting out all over the place.

  A group of girls approach the concession stand and Milan looks at me. “You make their drinks this time, okay?”

  I nod and stand ready behind the machine.

  “Hello, ladies,” Milan calls out. “Lattes again?” Milan rests both hands on the counter, waiting.

  I don’t hear anyone speak so I lean back to get a good look at the girls. There are three of them, each one pretty, wearing matching soccer uniforms. They look older than me and I don’t recognize them so I’m guessing they are from the community college. They’re staring at Milan.

  Milan lets out a nervous giggle. “Well? Something else then?”

  The tall girl with the blond ponytail looks at her friends and then they suddenly burst out laughing and walk away.

  Milan gives me an annoyed look. “What is wrong with people today?” she demands.

  I shrug.

  She sighs. “Make another practice one, I guess,” she says. She walks over and hovers next to me, watching. I pick up the steaming pitcher, fill it halfway with milk, and start foaming. Milk shoots out of the pitcher and hits Milan square in the face.

  “Argh! Jamie! How many times are you going to do that?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I told you I wasn’t good at this.”

  I spray Milan so many times trying to steam milk that afternoon that she finally asks me to not be her assistant any longer. Which is a fantastic idea to me. As far as I’m concerned I don’t want to see her at all. Unless it’s for her to tell me she’s dropping out of the Pumpkin Princess contest.

  * * *

  I help Mom put the animals in the petting zoo to bed for the night and then stop at the corn maze to chat with Molly for a few minutes before I head home.

  “How are the little ones doing today?” I ask.

  She smiles. She loves talking about her brothers and sisters. “Good. They keep saying they want to come to the Patch to pick their pumpkins,” Molly says.

  “You should bring them,” I urge.

  Molly shakes her head. “Oh, I know you guys have the best pumpkins here but they’re too expensive. We’ll probably pick up some at the supermarket.”

  “Nonsense! You’re not paying a thing. Bring the kids by,” I say.

  She looks surprised. “Really? That’s so sweet of you, Jamie.”

  “Sure, it’s no big deal,” I insist.

  “Kailey will be so excited. She’s been cranky this week. Another ear infection,” Molly explains.

  “Is Kailey the three-year-old?” Danny asks, joining us at the corn-maze entrance.

  I smile at him.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Molly says.

  “My sister used to get a lot of ear infections at that age,” Danny says. “Did you ever try lemon juice? I know it sounds weird but squeeze a bit of lemon juice in her ear and let it sit there for a few seconds and then let it leak out onto a napkin or something. I swear, it used to work on my sister all the time.”

  “Wow, no. We’ll have to try that,” Molly says.

  “Ahhhhhh!” I scream, as I’m suddenly hit in the face with a large Styrofoam cup of ice-cold soda. “Wh-what…” I stutter.

  “Whoops. Sorry,” Milan says, not sounding sorry at all. “Guess I tripped or something.”

  I wipe the soda out of my eyes and glare at Milan. “You did that on purpose!” I yell.

  “No I didn’t. Get a grip, Jamie, you’re embarrassing yourself. Besides, I think you look better covered in cola,” she sneers. Molly and Danny are looking back and forth between the two of us, shocked.

  The sticky liquid is seeping through my shirt and traveling down my chest and my back. It feels completely disgusting. “Excuse us,” I say to Molly and Danny, and grab Milan by the elbow, dragging her away from them and behind the nearest barn.

  “Ouch! Let go, you’re hurting me,” she whines.

  Once we’re safely out of earshot I turn her toward me and start yelling. “What’s your freaking problem, Milan? Why are you so dang nasty to me all the time?”

  “Oh please,” she says, wiping at the spot on her arm where I had just been holding it. “Don’t you have a big head.”

  “Me? You just threw a soda at me. On purpose!” I shout.

  “That was an accident. Why don’t you settle down?” she says.

  “That was no accident. I’m not stupid! You don’t even drink soda!”

  This makes her pause for a moment. I got her. “Well, so what.”

  “So what? So what? So why have you been such an absolutely horrible person to me since the moment you got here? I’ve tried and tried to be nice to you, but you’re awful!”

  Milan scowls, not backing down. “You want to know what my problem is?” she asks. “You are my problem.” She points her index finger right into my sticky chest. “You and your pumpkin patch and your friends and your family dinners with your parents and your pigtails and your town. Grow up!” And then she stomps off toward the pumpkin field.

  I stare at her back. What the heck was that?

  19

  Tuesday passed by quietly and so far there have been no problems today. Milan and I haven’t said two words to each other since the soda incident and fight on Monday. I’ve been careful to avoid her as much as I can. And I’ve managed, luckily, to pretty much block out the new Milan merchandise all over the Patch. I know if I look at it too much my head will explode so I avoid it as much as I avoid Milan. It’ll be gone soon anyway. If my plan works, that is.

  After school, I head for the Patch. I’m supposed to be helping in the petting zoo today. I stop at Sara’s booth first, my stomach growling.

  “Jamie Special?” she asks with a grin.

  I widen my eyes as she sets my favorite caramel apple in front of me. “Naturally,” I reply, and take a giant bite. “Yum. Your store is going to rock when you open it. Of course, I’ll go broke and gain twenty pounds from eating so many of the goodies you’ll make.”

  Sara laughs.

  I don’t mean them to but my eyes wander to the dozen or so caramel apples sitting on display in the center
of Sara’s counter. The Milan.

  I take another bite of my apple and chew. I swallow and nod at the apples. “You sure make a lot of those Milan apples, huh?”

  Sara looks at the apples and rolls her eyes. “Dude, they are not selling! Never mind that they suck sticks. People don’t seem to care that her name is on them. I would have thought those kids hanging all over her at the espresso machine would be lining up to eat ‘Milan’s favorite caramel apple.’”

  “Yeah, really,” I agree. I strain my eyes, trying to spot Milan at the concession stand. There are no people waiting for her to make a drink. She’s leaning on her elbows with a blank stare, alone. I think this is the first time I’ve seen her doing anything alone here at the Patch. “Where are the kids though? The latte lovers? I don’t see anyone hanging around Milan today.”

  Sara leans over the counter and strains to see Milan too. Milan looks up at us looking at her and sticks her tongue out. Sara pulls back off the counter and looks at me. “Wow, that was mature. Let’s not make her any madder or she might give us cooties, and I’m all out of my anti-cootie spray today.”

  I grin. “It’s weird though, right?” I say.

  “Definitely,” Sara agrees, sneaking a peek at Milan again anyway. “I wonder what’s going on.”

  I stare at Sara for a moment, waiting. “Oh come on,” I finally say. “You don’t know?” I’ve been dying to tell Sara, but I wanted to see how long it took the news to reach her. Sara hears everything so I know when something reaches her it’s a safe bet the town knows.

  Sara gives me a quizzical look. “What?”

  I can’t hold out any longer. I reach into my front pocket, pull out the folded article, and smooth it on the counter for Sara to see. I ripped it out of the Exposure magazine I bought at the gas station this morning.

  Sara lets out a low whistle and nods. The article is titled “Another One of Hollywood’s Kids Goes Bad” and there’s a blurry photo of a naked Milan and Brandon Days on what looks to be a plaid blanket, and there are black boxes covering up their private bits.

  Sara glances back at Milan. “That’s nasty.”

  “Totally,” I say. “Oh well, it’s not my problem. I better get to work.” I wave my caramel apple at Sara and head for the petting zoo.

  There are toddlers swarming the goats when I get there. Kids love to feed the goats and these guys will eat all dang day if you let them. I watch the parents stick their quarters into the bubblegum-looking machine and the children catch handfuls of goat feed as it falls out of the silver tunnel. They hold their offerings out to the goats and squeal as their palms get licked clean. I grab a bucket and walk around the pen, picking up dropped brushes. We keep a bucket of brushes at the front, by the gate, so the kids can brush the goats. They never remember to put the brushes back, however, and instead drop them all over the place. I walk to the back of the pen and kneel down to swipe some brushes into my bucket. I hear some girls talking about Milan on the other side of the fence, and I look up in alarm. But I don’t move. I sit quietly, straining to hear what they’re saying.

  “She’s so gross!” the first girl says.

  “Total skank,” the second girl agrees.

  I tilt my head toward them to try to hear better.

  “They need to fire her before they lose business,” the first one says.

  “Oh, definitely,” the second one replies. “I’m so not going to buy anything that she’s touched.”

  I lean even closer to the fence, trying to hear more but the girls have moved away. Shoot. I hadn’t thought about Milan’s scandal hurting business.

  A little stunned, I walk back out to the front of the goat pen, set the bucket of brushes down, and let myself out. I walk about twenty feet away until I can get a good view of Milan at the concession stand. She’s leaning on one hand and looking incredibly bored. There are still no people anywhere near the stand. Is this because of the sex tape scandal? I almost thought the opposite would happen and that at least the guys would be lining up to buy something from Milan.

  This is weird. Even if people don’t want lattes someone always wants a soda or a bottle of water. The concession stand is never entirely empty. This isn’t good.

  I work in the petting zoo for the next hour but I know I’m not doing as good a job as I can. I’m totally worrying about what’s going on. Why is everyone avoiding Milan like this? It’s not as though you can catch making a sex tape like a cold or something. What if that one girl was right and Milan’s making the Patch lose business instead of gain business? That would be ridiculous, right?

  Ugh. I feel kinda icky. I don’t really want to hurt Milan, do I? She’s still my cousin, no matter how big of a butt head she is. I almost feel like a bully. And I’m not a bully!

  But it’s not my fault so I should try not to feel bad. It was only a matter of time before people found out anyway. Even if I hadn’t e-mailed …

  I can’t take it anymore. I need to find out what’s going on. I tell the other zoo workers that I’ll be back shortly and start walking through the Patch. I’m not sure what I’m looking for exactly. I’m trying to figure out if people are avoiding Milan because of the sex tape thing. I stop in front of the haunted house. Hmm. It’s always fairly dark in here. I’ll go sit in a corner and eavesdrop for a while.

  I slip in the front door and feel my way through the dark house until I reach the kitchen. This is as good a place as any to hide. The kitchen of the haunted house is decked out in gory goodness—the sink is full of blood, there’s a pot on the stove with a fake head sticking out of it, and there is a pair of legs arranged in the oven so that you can see the soles of the feet pressed up against the glass. There are fake blood spatters all over the walls and glasses of water with eyeballs floating in them left on the kitchen table like someone had been drinking there. I tuck myself behind the refrigerator and wait for people to pass by.

  A few minutes later I hear Kettle Corn Girl walking through with Hannah, the girl who sells tickets to the haunted house out front. They must be on break.

  “Do you think Milan will still run for Pumpkin Princess?” Hannah says.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Kettle Corn Girl replies.

  What? What does she mean she wouldn’t know? She helped Milan fill out the registration form herself.

  “I thought you two were friends,” Hannah says in an accusing tone.

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” Kettle Corn Girl returns. “I barely know the girl.”

  Oh my God! What a liar! She’s been all over Milan since the minute Milan started working here. Unreal.

  I wait a few minutes after the girls have left and then slip out into the daylight. I can’t believe this reaction is solely from the tape. Of course I was hoping they’d kick her out of the Pumpkin Princess contest. And maybe I wouldn’t have minded if people hung on her every word a little bit less. And I sure wouldn’t shed a tear if all that Milan merchandise went away. But I certainly didn’t want the whole town to shun her.

  I try to shake off the guilt and remind myself that Milan did this to herself. I mean, she made a sex tape. Like all the other silly rich Hollywood kids have. Hello, attention much? I’m sure Milan’s just waiting for Mark Burnett to give her cell a ring and offer her her own reality show. Gag. This is totally, 100 percent not my fault. It was completely inevitable that the town would find out.

  That feeling in the pit of my stomach is telling me otherwise though.

  * * *

  I step into the house and scan the living room and hallway. I’m not sure what I expect to see—maybe Milan freaking out and throwing things against the wall or something. But it’s quiet.

  “Jamie?” Mom calls. “That you? Can you set the table? Dinner’s almost ready.”

  “Uh, yeah, Mom.”

  I walk into the kitchen and gather the plates and utensils. I briefly glance at the disks of baked dough covered in brown mush sitting on the baking sheet on the stove. I’m not even going to ask.

 
“Butternut squash personal pizzas with fresh rosemary,” Mom tells me anyway. “Don’t they look delicious?”

  “Mmm,” I say, hoping that will satisfy her question so I don’t have to tell her what I actually think. I walk into the dining room and set the table. A few minutes later we’re all sitting around the table and no one is saying a word. Just chewing. I sneak glances at Milan when I think no one is looking, but she continues to stare at her plate and pick at her food.

  Mom finally breaks the silence. “Everyone have a good day?” She slices off a piece of pizza and puts it in her mouth and waits.

  Dad nods.

  “It was fine,” I say.

  We all look at Milan. Nothing.

  “Do you like the pizza?” Mom asks her.

  Milan nods but doesn’t look up.

  “What about you, Jamie?” Mom asks.

  Me? Well, it tastes like bland baby food slathered on extra-thick cardboard. But I can’t exactly say that. “It’s fine,” I say instead.

  For the next few minutes the only sound is the four of us sawing off pieces of our mushy pizza.

  “Are you girls getting excited for the Pumpkin Princess contest?” Mom asks us.

  I shoot a look at Milan and hold my breath.

  Milan raises her head. “I’m dropping out of the contest,” she says, her voice flat.

  I gasp and then slap a hand across my mouth. I didn’t mean to react like that.

  Milan’s eyes linger on me for a moment and then return to my mom’s.

  Mom stops eating. “But why? I thought you were looking forward to it.”

  Milan shrugs. “I don’t think it would be appropriate considering the current circumstances.”

  Dad wipes his mouth with a napkin and pushes away from the table. “Sounds like female talk,” he says. “I’ll be going.” He picks up his John Deere hat off the hallway table, slips it on his head, and walks out the front door. I look at his barely touched pizza. He’s probably going out for a burger.