“Mystery Shakespeare Boy . . . I like it. Especially the mystery part,” he says. “Well, really, especially the part that you were thinking about me at all.”
Now it’s my turn to be flustered. I look out the window, unable to meet his gaze. There’s a lady who Mom would probably say “needs to make more of an effort” walking a cute fluffy white dog, who is wearing an outfit that would meet the approval of even the most discerning CharmingLifestyles.com reader. Even Phillipe would have raptures over this dog’s adorable little number, complete with matching leash and doggy beret. I wonder what the Mirror would say to the lady if I gave it to her. Would it tell her to get herself together so she could be the Fairest in the Land? Would it be all:
Listen, Dog Lady, look in my glass.
How did you let this mess come to pass?
If you spend all your money on your pup,
Your own love life never will look up!
OMG! I’m starting to think like the Mirror, assuming this lady I know nothing about doesn’t have a love life because she’s not wearing the most fashionable clothes, but her dog is. For all I know, she’s in the most romantic relationship ever, and she and her beloved go shopping for cute little dog outfits together, because that’s their thing.
“You’re not thinking about me now,” Ben says. “What’s going on in Rosamunde my friends call me Rosie’s head?”
I bring myself back inside the coffee shop. To Ben. To this, whatever it is, that is new and exciting, but scary, too. “I’m thinking about how I’ve started judging people,” I tell him. “But for all the wrong reasons.”
“Including yourself?” he asks.
“I guess so,” I admit.
“So . . . besides causing lots of problems, did this whole transform Rosie thing achieve the objective?” Ben asks. “I mean . . . do you have a date for the dance?”
I give a rueful chuckle.
“I did . . . until earlier today, when I told my date I couldn’t go with him.”
Ben looks confused. I don’t blame him. That makes two of us.
“But . . . I thought the whole point of . . . this”—he waves his hand in the direction of my hair and clothes—“was to get a date for the dance.”
“It was,” I sigh. “But what’s the point of having a date that you can only communicate with by being mean to other people?”
I know the second Ben makes the connection by the look on his face.
“Wait. . . . Your date for the dance is soccer guy?!”
“Was my date. Isn’t anymore.”
“Whew!” Ben says. “Although, I still can’t believe he ever was in the first place.”
“Desperation makes Rosie do stupid things, I guess.”
“So . . . you don’t have a date now?”
“No,” I sigh. “I’m back to square one. Being a dateless loser.”
He puts his coffee cup down and leans forward.
“So, Rosie, two things. Thing one: It’s easy to change who you see when you look in the mirror if you don’t recognize the person you see,” he says. “You already did that once, right? Why can’t you do it again?”
“Funny you should mention that,” I say, pulling the box of hair color out of my bag.
“Great minds,” he chuckles.
“So . . . what’s thing two?”
He hesitates, looking down at his coffee-spotted knees, and then back at me with a surprisingly shy smile.
“Thing two: If you need a date for the dance . . . well, I can dance. Kind of. I’m not going to win any competitions, unless it’s for best funky chicken, and . . . I know I’m no Prince Charming, but . . .”
If he only knew how totally awkward it would be if he were Prince Charming!
“I would love to go to the dance with you,” I tell him. “Because now I really want to see this funky chicken.”
Ben laughs.
“You might wish you never said that,” he says. “The funky chicken part, I mean. Hopefully not the part about wanting to go to the dance with me.”
No, that part I can’t seeing myself regretting, not the way I did with Hunter. That part, unlike pretty much everything else that has happened in the last ten days, feels just right.
Chapter Twelve
I PRACTICALLY FLOAT HOME FROM star-cups, feeling better than I have since Mom gave me the Mirror.
“Good afternoon, Miss Rosie,” Victor says as he opens the door for me.
“It is a good afternoon, isn’t it, Victor?” I say, stopping to give him a hug.
He’s taken aback by my sudden display of affection—I haven’t given him hugs since I was little.
“I’m glad to hear that, Miss Rosie,” Victor says, patting me on the back. “You’ve seemed . . . not quite yourself lately.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “That’s about to change.”
“Good,” he says. “Because Rosie Charming is pretty special, if you ask me.”
And he digs into the pocket of his coat as if he’s about to get me a Tootsie Roll and then hesitates. “What’s your current policy on Tootsie Rolls, Miss Rosie?”
“I’m definitely firmly in the Pro Tootsie Roll Camp at this particular moment,” I say.
“I’m happy to hear that,” he says, digging one out of his pocket and dropping it into my waiting hand.
“Thanks, Victor,” I say, and then head upstairs to work on my transformation from Mirror Girl back to Rosie.
The first step is the box of hair color. I’ve never used it before. It says to do a little test area and wait twenty-four hours to see if you have a reaction, but no way am I going to bother with that. I can’t wait that long to be real Rosie. I mix the color and the accelerator together and carefully apply it to my hair, trying not to get it on the bathroom counter or my clothes. I set the timer on my cell for ten minutes and then take the Mirror compact out of my backpack.
I’m going to give it back to Mom when she gets home from her meeting with “some high level CynCorp executives to discuss the rollout of the Fairest Mirrors line.”
I wonder if any of the designs in Mom’s new line will be based on this one, I think, rubbing the jewels with the bottom of my shirt so their colors glow even more beautifully in the lamplight.
Deep down, I know it’s a mistake for me to open the compact again. That Shrimpy and Harold are right and nothing good can come from this object, even if it is a family heirloom made of fine gold that is heavy in my hand, and flawless jewels from the Seven Mountains Mine that are worth a fortune. But it calls to me. It’s like that friend that you know will end up saying something mean, but you keep doing stuff with them thinking this time it’ll be different.
I can feel my heart beating faster as I open the compact and look at myself in the Mirror. I definitely don’t look anything like the Fairest in the Land with dark hair coloring smeared all over my scalp. But that doesn’t matter to me, even if it does to the Mirror.
Mirror, Mirror, in my hand,
I don’t care if I’m Fairest in the Land
As long as to my Self I’m true
And so, I say good-bye to you.
The compact heats up and vibrates in my hand. I almost close it, but then I decide to let the Mirror have its say. I can take it.
Ungrateful Princess, you little fool,
You could have reigned over all the school.
You could have been Fairest, number one,
But now you’re just like everyone.
“Whatever,” I say, snapping the compact shut. “At least I’m not just a bitter piece of talking glass.”
The buzzer goes off on my cell, and I get into the shower and rinse my hair. When I get out, I throw on a pair of my old jeans and a Read More Books T-shirt and throw all the makeup from Phillipe into the trash.
After I dry my hair, I take a selfie and text it to Katie and Nicole.
“Please respond,” I whisper as I press send.
Nicole does, right away.
OMG! What happened to the
new hair?
I decided I liked the old me better, I text back.
What does your mom say?
She hasn’t seen it yet, I text.
O . . . o!!!! Nicole texts. PS. I like the old you better too.
Just then Kate responds in the group text.
Me three!
Can we video chat? I write. I have NEWZ!
They agree, and we move to video.
“So . . . what’s the big news, besides you changing your hair back to normal?” Katie asks.
“I told Hunter I’m not going to the dance with him,” I say.
The shock on both of their faces is comical.
“But . . . all you’ve been talking about is getting a date for the dance, and now you finally got one, and you tell him you don’t want to go?” Nicole says. “What is with you?”
“Wait . . . Quinn didn’t ask you again, did he?” Katie asks, suddenly suspicious.
“NO!” I exclaim. “And if he did, I’d say no again.”
“So, are you not going now?” Nicole asks. “Because I thought you did the whole makeover thing because you wanted to go to the Fall Festive.”
“I did,” I admit. “And I am going to the Fall Festive. Just not with Hunter and just not as madeover Rosie.”
“Okay, now I’m totally confused,” Katie says. “Can anyone explain to me what is going on?”
“I can’t,” Nicole grumbles. “Because I’m just as baffled as you are. Who, exactly, are you going to the dance with?”
“Mystery Shakespeare Boy,” I tell them. “Except his real name is Ben.”
They both look clueless.
“You remember, the guy I met at Starcups the day I had the appointment with Phillipe? We argued about Romeo and Juliet?”
It comes back to Katie first.
“You’re going to the dance with the rando from Starcups?!” she practically shouts. “Are you crazy?!”
“He’s not a rando!” I retort. “He’s a nice, funny guy named Ben.”
“Are you sure about this?” Nicole asks. “I mean, you hardly even know him.”
Katie thinks she knows Quinn, but he asked me to the dance behind her back. Mom hardly knew Dad when he kissed her in the glass coffin, which, I have to add, I still think is major league creepy, but despite the weird beginning, their relationship has stood the test of time. The Tale makes it sound like it’s all about love at first sight and Mom’s beauty and Dad’s handsomeness, but that’s not the real story. What makes for the happily ever after is how they respect each other and know how to laugh together. How they’re a real team.
“It’s just a date for a dance, guys, it’s not like we’re getting married,” I point out. “Look, my mom went riding off into the sunset with Dad after he’d kissed her when he thought she was dead. Being attracted to randos must be in my DNA or something.”
Nicole and Katie don’t say anything for a second or two, and I wonder if they think I’m crazy. But then they both burst out laughing.
“I’ve missed you, Rosie,” Katie says.
“Can you guys come over tomorrow after school?” I ask. “I need your help looking for a dress for the dance. I want to hit the thrift stores.”
What I don’t tell them is that I plan to give them all of the clothes Phillipe picked out for me at Très Cher. I don’t need or want them anymore. They’re a skin I have to shed—Mirror Girl’s uniform.
“Now I know the old Rosie is back!” Katie says.
“Sounds like a plan,” Nicole agrees.
Just then I hear the front door and Mom calling, “Rosie! I’m home!”
“Got to go,” I tell them. “See you tomorrow.”
I take the compact and search out my mother. She’s in the kitchen making herself a cup of CharmingLifestyles SilverNeedle White Tea: soothes while it smooths—antiaging blend!
Mom’s teaspoon clatters to the counter.
“Rosamunde White Charming! What have you done to your hair?”
Oops. I’d forgotten about that in my haste to give her back the Mirror.
“I dyed it back to normal,” I say.
“But . . . why?” Mom asks. “Do you realize how much a cut and color with Giacomo costs?”
I hadn’t really thought about that, to be honest, and I feel bad about wasting Mom’s money on the color.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say. “It’s just . . . I didn’t feel like me anymore.”
I hold out the compact.
“I want to give this back to you. It’s . . . not a good thing for me to have.”
Mom doesn’t take it from me right away, so I’m left holding it, arm outstretched, fingers trembling.
“Come, sit down and tell me why,” Mom says. “Do you want some tea?”
“No, thanks,” I say. I just want to get the Mirror out of my hand and into hers.
Mom brings her cup to the kitchen table, and I bring the Mirror compact. Since Mom seems in no hurry to take it from me, I place it on the table between us. The diamonds in the cover wink up at us under the kitchen lights.
“So, why don’t you think this is good for you?” Mom says, pointing to the Mirror.
“First, can you answer a question? Is the Mirror in there part of . . . you know, the Mirror? Stepgrandmother’s Mirror?”
Mom smiles.
“So, you figured that out. I thought you would.”
“Wait, you knew you were giving me a piece of that crazy Mirror?” I exclaim. “Why would you do that?” I’m having a hard time getting my head around the fact that my own mother knowingly gave me a piece of a psychopathic glass. “I mean, that thing made Stepgrandma try to kill you! What if it had made me into a teenage serial killer?”
“I gave it to you because I believe in you,” Mom says, which makes everything as clear as mud.
“What?”
My mother takes a sip of tea before responding.
“If I just told you what I’ve learned from living my life, you wouldn’t listen,” Mom explains. “I didn’t listen to your uncles when they told me not to talk to strangers. I thought I knew everything. I thought I knew better than they did. I was a Princess of the Royal Blood and they were Little People.”
“But Harold said you weren’t a snob—you were nice to everyone at the Castle,” I say, confused. “He said that’s the real reason he didn’t kill you. Not because of your beauty, like they say in The Tale.”
“I might have been nice on the outside, but inside . . . Well, I was just as much of a snob as the next princess,” Mom admits.
“So, what has this got to do with giving me the Mirror?”
“I wanted you to learn for yourself that being the Fairest in the Land isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Mom explains. “I knew that you would have the strength of character not to give in to the Mirror’s enticements the way my stepmother did.”
“But how could you know for sure?” I ask. “I’m confused about pretty much everything at the moment.”
“I didn’t. There was always a tiny bit of doubt that you might succumb. But I was keeping a close eye on the situation in case you did.” She looks at me, and her eyes are dewy. “I knew my daughter would take the things she needed to learn from the Mirror and then do what I did—lock it away until it was time to give it to her daughter.”
“So, what did you learn from the Mirror?” I ask Mom. “Before you locked it away and gave it to me?”
Mom trails a manicured nail over the jewels on the cover of the compact.
“The Mirror gave me confidence—the confidence that I use today when I go in to a meeting with CynCorp executives and negotiate a multimillion-dollar deal,” Mom says. “And, let’s face it—the Mirror also gave me The Tale. Without the Mirror I wouldn’t have met your father, and I wouldn’t have had you.”
She takes my hand and squeezes it.
“And you, darling, are always the Fairest to Dad and me, no matter what the Mirror says.”
“Even with the ten-dollar box color?” I ask.
Mom smiles. “Even then. . . . But next time you feel like a color change, promise you’ll let me send you to a professional?”
How can I argue with that?
“You know, we owe the Mirror something else,” Mom says.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“All this,” she says, waving her arm around at our beautiful kitchen inside our lovely apartment in a luxury prewar doorman building on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
Shaking my head, I ask, “What does the Mirror have to do with our apartment?”
“Not just the apartment, Rosie. Our lifestyle. Our family. Your father and I built the CharmingLifestyles brand around The Tale—and without the Mirror, there wouldn’t be a story to tell.”
Mom’s right. I mean, look at the latest deal she put together for the Fairest range of mirrors. I owe my future college education to that annoying piece of bitter talking glass on the table.
“I guess you’re right,” I admit. “But it caused so many problems. Quinn Fairchild asked me to the dance, even though he’d already asked Katie, and then Katie didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t flirt with him, and she and Nicole weren’t talking to me, and Nicole said I’d changed but not in a good way, and—”
“Oh please, you think you had it bad?” Mom says. “At least I didn’t tell Harold the Huntsman to take you into Central Park, kill you, and bring me your heart so I could eat it.”
I stare at her and then start laughing hysterically. Because when you look at it that way, I did get off pretty easily. I didn’t have to choke on a poisoned apple either, so Dad and I can keep going to the diner for apple pie.
Mom finishes her tea and stands up, taking the Mirror with her.
“I’ll go put this back in the safe,” she says.
“Good,” I tell her.
As she leaves the room, I send the Mirror a final good-bye in my thoughts:
Mirror, Mirror, getting locked away
Till my daughter is born, maybe someday.
What she’ll learn from you, we’ll have to see.
Just be nicer to her than you were to me.
Chapter Thirteen
OKAY, I LIED.
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