Charmed, I'm Sure

by Sarah Darer Littman

“I’m heading there too.”

  “Cool,” he says.

  We walk side by side in awkward silence.

  Okay, dating advice. Help!

  I hear Uncle Bijou telling me: Music is the soul of love. . . . Find out what rocks his soul and walk by singing that song.

  Rocks his soul . . . Think, Rosie, think!

  Finally the brain wave strikes. Despite the fact that I know I am vocally challenged, I start singing “We Are the Champions.”

  I feel like an idiot when I start and even more like one when passersby give me the just another weird New Yorker glance. Hunter walks beside me, a hunky wall of silence. I’m afraid to look at him. When we get to Starcups, he turns to me with a pained expression.

  “Rosie, you’re really cute,” he says. “But singing . . . no. Definitely not your thing.”

  Ouch. Well, at least he said I was cute.

  “Yeah, I know,” I admit as we go inside.

  Right away I notice Mystery Shakespeare Boy sitting in one of the comfy chairs by the window and reading a book. He looks up and sees me, and I wave hi and smile, but he doesn’t seem to show any sign of recognition. His book is apparently more interesting than new, improved me. My fists clench. This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. What am I doing wrong?

  “So, why do you sing if you know you’re bad at it?” Hunter asks.

  At that moment I realize that Hunter is the last person I want to be here with. I’m not even sure I want to go to the Fall Festive with him anymore, even though he’s my final date candidate. Because even though I only sang because Uncle Bijou told me it might get me a date, and I knew deep down it was a really stupid idea, why shouldn’t I sing even though I’m bad at it?

  “I like singing,” I tell him. “It makes me happy.”

  He shrugs.

  “Just don’t enter any singing competitions,” he says. “You’d totally rock a beauty pageant, though. I’d, like, totally vote for you for Miss Teen America.”

  I can feel the compact stirring in the bottom of my backpack.

  Princess Charming, doubting teen

  Tell the Mirror what you’ve seen.

  The handsome swain for you makes eyes.

  The magic mirror never lies.

  I’m in the middle of Starcups, so I can’t get into an argument with the Mirror, but (a) the handsome swain still hasn’t asked me to the Fall Festive, which was the whole point of this exercise and (b) what’s the point of having a handsome swain if he tells me I shouldn’t do things I like doing?

  “Good to know,” I tell Hunter.

  Rosamunde Charming, Princess Teen

  The fairest girl I’ve ever seen.

  You could win a pageant grand

  For you are the Fairest in the Land.

  The Mirror is turning into one of those pushy Pageant Moms like in the reality TV shows.

  The line is moving really slowly, because it’s right after school and there’s only one girl behind the counter taking orders. She looks miserable, wearing a black T-shirt, her dark, purple-streaked hair tied back, and a prominent nose ring sparkling on the side of her face. I’m standing with Hunter, but I don’t really have anything to say to him, and the silence is making me uncomfortable. Maybe that’s what makes me do it—because I have to find something to talk to him about.

  “What about her?” I ask Hunter, nodding to the girl behind the counter. “Would you vote for her for Miss Teen America?”

  Hunter laughs. Actually, it’s more like an embarrassingly loud guffaw that I’m sure the girl behind the counter can hear—along with what he says next.

  “What, that crow behind the counter? No way!”

  “I know, right? A Vampira, Queen of the Night competition maybe,” I add.

  That makes Hunter laugh even louder. He even hits my upper arm to show his appreciation for my wit, the same way he would do to Quinn. Except I’m not Quinn, and I think I’m going to have a bruise.

  I can almost hear the Mirror applauding in my backpack—or it would be applauding if it had hands, that is. The worse I behave, the more the thing seems to like me. Hunter’s laughter and the Mirror’s approval encourage me to keep talking. And the words that come out of my mouth surprise even me.

  “Why would anyone get up in the morning and choose to dress that way? She might as well carry a sign saying, ‘I’m a loser—don’t talk to me.’”

  “I know, right?” Hunter says. “It’s just nasty.”

  I stroke down the skirt of my fashionable Phillipe-selected ensemble and toss my hair.

  “I guess not everyone can be as stylin’ as us, right?”

  “Guess not,” Hunter says.

  It’s finally our turn to order, so I don’t have to force any more conversation. Hunter doesn’t seem at all uncomfortable, but I can’t make eye contact with Emo Girl because now that I’m up close, I’m worried that she heard us talking about her, and I feel bad.

  She just takes my order and gives me my change. I say thank you and smile, even if I don’t have the courage to meet her gaze.

  “Gotta bolt,” Hunter says, taking a sip of his iced mocha. “Can’t be late for practice or Coach’ll let me have it.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Good luck with the game tomorrow.”

  “You mean you’re not coming to cheer me on?” Hunter asks. “It’s home.”

  That’s it! I realize. Katie told me I should pretend to be interested in his games. I just didn’t realize pretending to be interested also entailed having to freeze my butt off on the sidelines and watching, but with the clock ticking down to the Fall Festive and me still being dateless, sacrifices must be made.

  “I’ll check my schedule,” I say, giving him what I hope is my best Fairest in the Land smile.

  “I’ll look out for you,” he says, flashing me a smile and winking as he turns to leave.

  Victory!

  I can’t help feeling a sense of satisfaction that I’ve finally captured his interest. There’s something to be said for the Fake Interest and Fairest Smile combo.

  Princess Rose, I told you so,

  These things the Mirror always knows.

  This fine young man shall be your swain

  By the eve of the next soccer game.

  I wait for my skinny mocha, then glance over at Mystery Shakespeare Boy. He’s still there by the window, reading. The chair opposite is empty. I casually stroll over and ask, “Is this seat taken?”

  I smile and open my eyes wide, turning the power of new, improved Mirror Girl up to full blast. Time to put this Fairest in the Land stuff to good use.

  “No, go ahead,” he says, barely looking up from his book.

  Why is Mystery Shakespeare Boy immune to Mirror Girl’s charms when she has such a strong effect on everyone else? What is the matter with him?

  Taking a sip of my mocha, I feel around in the bottom of my backpack for the Mirror. I can’t take it out, but feeling the jewels and the warm gold beneath my fingers gives me confidence. I am the Fairest in the Land now. The Mirror said so. It said I was the Fairest Girl it had ever seen.

  I need to get his attention away from his book and on to me. I put the cup of coffee on the table between us and think of the dating advice I’ve received. Maybe singing? No, that was a total fail with Hunter. Buying him something to eat would be too obvious. Dancing in the middle of Starcups would be way too weird, not to mention embarrassing.

  Across the café, a little kid knocks over his chocolate milk. The lid comes off, and it spills, and everyone at the table with him jumps up so it doesn’t get on their clothes. It’s certainly not the ideal way to get Mystery Shakespeare Boy’s nose out of his book, but it could work.

  So, I cross my legs and accidentally on purpose tap my coffee cup with my foot so that it spills all over the table.

  “Omigosh, I’m so sorry!” I say, dabbing at the coffee daintily with my napkin. There’s a lot more of it than I thought there would be. It’s a pretty spectacular mess.

  MSB jumps up as
the mocha-y mess reaches his edge of the table, creating a chocolate splodge on the knee of his jeans.

  He gives me a dirty look. This isn’t going according to plan.

  “I’ll go get some more napkins,” I say, rushing off to the counter and grabbing two handfuls of them. I go back to the table and throw napkins all over the coffee with one hand and start dabbing his knee with the other.

  “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to,” I babble. “It was just one of those things. I can be a little klutzy at times, you know how it is. Sorry to interrupt your reading. Is it a good book?”

  The whole time he’s looking at me with this strange expression on his face. Then he grabs my wrist and moves my hand off his knee.

  “Wait a minute. . . . Is that you?” he says, staring. “Ms. Romeo isn’t romantic; he’s a player?”

  I’m standing there with a bunch of coffee-sodden paper towels in each hand, but I try to smile and look dignified, like the Fairest in the Land princess the Mirror keeps telling me I am.

  “That would be me.”

  Mystery Shakespeare Boy’s eyes widen.

  “Wow. You sure got more than a haircut the other day,” he says.

  The male population of Manhattan World Themes Middle School has made it very clear that they like the new me better. My best friend’s boyfriend asked me to the dance. But Mystery Shakespeare Boy’s reaction is harder to read. I’m getting the sense that he’s . . . not impressed.

  “Well, I’m still the same old Rosie,” I say.

  He raises an eyebrow. He might have raised both, but there’s that lock of hair that falls over his forehead in a most adorable way and hides the other one.

  “What, you don’t like my makeover?” I ask.

  MSB shrugs.

  “You’re asking the wrong guy,” he says, looking down at his low-key jeans and today’s T-shirt, which reads I was addicted to the Hokey Pokey, but I turned myself around. “I’m not exactly Mr. Fashion.”

  “Even if you’re not Mr. Fashion, you can have an opinion,” I say.

  He looks at me intently, and I feel like his eyes are seeing straight into my soul.

  “You really want my opinion?”

  “Yes, I do,” I tell him, although I’m afraid now that I won’t like the answer.

  “In my opinion, the girl I thought I met the other day wouldn’t have been so rude to the girl behind the counter. And that made her a whole lot prettier to me.”

  He picks up his bag and shoves his book into it.

  “I gotta go.”

  And he walks out of Starcups, leaving me angry and confused.

  Chapter Nine

  AFTER TEXTING KATIE AND NICOLE to see if they want to go to the soccer game tomorrow, I spend most of the evening in my room looking in the Mirror. I want to know what went wrong. I have to figure out why Mystery Shakespeare Boy was immune to my Fairest in the Land Charmingosity when most other boys seemed enchanted by it.

  Magic Mirror, can you tell

  Why the boy I like so well

  Does not seem to bat an eye

  When the fab new me walks by?

  I look at my reflection from various angles as I wait for the Mirror to reply.

  Fret not, Princess, you are Fair.

  Over those small spots do not despair.

  This serf is not the prince for you.

  He is not fit to kiss your shoe.

  Wow. That’s seriously harsh. I might be mad at Mystery Shakespeare Boy, but calling him a serf is totally OTT. The Mirror is old. Maybe it doesn’t understand that things are more PC these days. All men are created free and equal and all that.

  Mirror, Mirror, family treasure,

  I honor you beyond all measure.

  But you can’t just call a guy a serf.

  These days we all have the same worth.

  Oh no! Is that a zit on my nose now? I swear that just appeared out of nowhere. I wonder if the Mirror is giving me pimples as punishment.

  Princess Rosie, you ignorant girl.

  How little you know about the world.

  You are the Princess, The Fairest, The One

  And those who are not, they are just . . . scum.

  I slam the compact shut.

  All those stories I’ve heard about my stepgrandmother’s vanity and cruelty—that was the voice I heard just now from the Mirror.

  It takes me a long time to fall asleep that night, and when I do, I dream of being buried under an avalanche of poisoned apples, but when I call for help, all I hear is the Mirror, laughing.

  Mom and Dad are both in the kitchen when I go there for breakfast the next morning. They’re still in their matching CharmingLifestyles.com silk bathrobes, each embroidered with a gold crown and a C. Dad’s reading the New York Times, and Mom’s engrossed in the Saturday Wall Street Journal. I’m already dressed in multiple layers, because I’ve got to go freeze in Central Park watching Hunter’s soccer game.

  “Make sure you take a hat and gloves,” Mom says. “It’s supposed to be very chilly today.”

  “Great,” I groan. “Perfect weather for standing, watching a game for hours.”

  “I’m all for school spirit, but since when have you taken an interest in soccer?” Dad asks.

  “Since my last candidate for a potential dance date plays on the soccer team,” I admit. “And since the dance is a week from today, and I still don’t have a date.”

  “Ah . . . ,” Dad says. “I see.”

  I can tell he’s thinking, and that’s always a worrying development when it comes to me and dating.

  “I could come watch the game with you,” Dad suggests. “Maybe I can encourage him to pop the question with my new CharmingMaster 15 Recurve Bow.”

  Mom and I look at each other, and then we both turn to Dad and say, “No!” in unison.

  “Ivan, darling, you can’t solve every problem with force,” Mom says. “This calls for a more subtle approach.”

  “Except none of my subtle approaches seem to be doing any good,” I sigh. “I tried following the uncles’ advice and that didn’t go so well.”

  My father snorts his coffee out through his nose.

  “You asked the Little Guys for dating advice?”

  “Ivan!” Mom gives him a hush-up look, but her rose-red lips are twisted in an attempt to hide a smile.

  “Come on, Snow. Even you have to admit it’s nuts,” Dad sputters. “Asking seven workaholic guys for dating advice?”

  “It’s true, Rosie. You’d have been better off reading any one of my CharmingLifestyles.com pieces,” Mom says. “I can’t understand why you’d ask the uncles for advice rather than your own mother.”

  “I did ask you,” I protest. “I got the makeover and I’ve been—”

  I was about to say I’ve been asking the Mirror for advice, but then I remember Mom told me to keep it a secret. “Uh . . . I’ve been asking my friends for advice too. But it hasn’t gotten me the desired result, and I’m running out of time.”

  “Don’t worry,” Mom says. “I’m sure someone will ask you. Anyway, these days aren’t girls allowed to ask boys?”

  Dad chokes on his orange juice. He’s pretty old-fashioned about this stuff.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, for Sadie Hawkins dances, yeah—but the Fall Festive?”

  “Why not?” Mom says. “Don’t you keep telling me how everything is different for you girls now? That you wouldn’t be caught dead—or even almost dead—lying around in a crystal coffin waiting for some handsome prince?”

  “But . . . but . . . ,” I stutter, trying to come up with a retort.

  “I think our dearest daughter has just been hoisted by her own petard,” Dad chuckles.

  I stare. “Hoisted by my what?”

  “Your petard. It’s a weapon we used once upon a time—you know, back in the old days when your mother and father were young,” Dad explains with a twinkle in his eyes. “It was very useful for blowing up gates and walls when one was attacking a fortifie
d castle.”

  “You attacked other people’s castles?” I know Mom’s all, like, Dad’s her knight in shining armor, and he’s still handsome—for a dad at least—but I’ve never seen him as a blowing up walls kind of guy.

  “Only if they attacked mine first,” Dad assures me. “But the phrase means that you were hurt by a weapon you meant to use to hurt others. Like your mom, for instance.”

  “Can I just eat breakfast?” I grumble. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  I take a big bite of cereal as Mom and Dad exchange that oh, teenagers look with each other. It makes me want to use my spoon as a trebuchet (See, Dad! I know some siege weaponry too!) and catapult cereal at them until they stop.

  But instead I shovel my breakfast down as fast as I can so that I can head to the park. As soon as I’m finished, I say, “Dad, no squirrel stalking anywhere near the soccer field, promise?”

  “Understood, Dearest Daughter,” Dad promises, but he doesn’t look happy about doing it. Nothing would make him happier than to appear on the edge of the soccer field with his CharmingMaster 15 Recurve Bow, looking ominous and flexing some princely muscle in Hunter’s direction. Who knows, maybe he’d even set off a few of those petard thingies near the goalposts just to make his point.

  Mom comes and kisses my forehead. Her lips are soft and warm.

  “Make sure you wear gloves to keep your hands from getting chapped,” she warns. “And a scarf to protect your neck.”

  “And a hat to keep the heat in and my hair from blowing around,” I recite, escaping out the front door.

  It’s a relief to be outside in the cool air after the heat of my parent’s expectations. As I walk the long blocks across to Central Park, I keep thinking about yesterday. About Mystery Shakespeare Boy and what he said. Every time I think about it, my stomach ties up in knots. I’m not the mean girl he thinks I am. The real me is the girl he met the first time.

  Or is it?

  Because those mean words did come out of my mouth, even if I don’t feel good about having said them. I was just being Mirror Girl, doing what I thought I had to because I wanted Hunter to ask me to the dance.

  I want MSB to like me.

  That’s the difference, I realize. The Mirror might consider Mystery Shakespeare Boy beneath me, but that’s because it’s from once upon a time.