Tackled by the Team

by Sierra Sparks

  These revelations mix with my continued surprise of finding him here. Humor has always been my immediate defense but of course I’m also upset underneath the comedy I use to mask tragedy. And mostly, I’m still in shock, I suppose.

  It's like one part of my brain is surprised, while the other really isn't. I knew there was some reason I was holding back from going all the way with him, and now I'm just so glad I didn’t. I’m so ecstatic that I saw his true colors before it was too late, and that bridge was crossed— or, uh, broken and unable to be repaired— that part of me wants to thank Sheila, even though the other part wants to hit both of them, while simultaneously breaking out into a big crying, blubbering mess.

  "What are you doing here?" Paul and I both ask each other at the same time.

  Only Sheila is smiling, because she knows exactly what we're both doing here. Her smug, sinister grin has morphed into lips upturned with glee.

  Her curly blonde locks— always perfectly styled— sashay from side to side as she taunts me, and her perfect dimples dot her face as if to say, “See? I told you so. I can take— and I have taken— everything you’ve ever had. Even this.”

  A quick glance in the mirror above my dresser is enough to remind me— if I didn’t already know— that I’ll never be as perfect as she is. My musty colored brown hair sticks up with humidity-induced static like it always does. My shirt has some mustard smeared on it because I was trying to write down some ideas to improve my dad’s business over lunch, which morphed into writing down story ideas, which it always does— all at the same time as I was eating.

  Compared to my svelte step sister, I look like a whale. I’ve always hated my big hips, except when it comes to my amazing ability to balance books on them when walking from one place to another. I cradle them like babies in my arms, since they let me escape to far-off places in my mind, where my miserable real life can’t intrude.

  To top it all off, everything about me is imperfect, imbalanced. One of my eyebrows sits up a little higher than the other. One of my arms has a birth mark while the other does not. Even one of my feet is bigger than the other— and that’s probably the most embarrassing thing about me. You can imagine how awkward it makes shoe shopping.

  I’m so thankful for online orders these days. As a child, I just wanted to shrivel up and die when we were in a shoe store, even though my mom and dad always told me I was perfect just the way I am. I never believed them though, and I still don’t, although I often try to.

  “Umm, Ella?” Paul asks, snapping me back into the here and now.

  He seems to realize that asking me what I’m doing here, in my own bedroom, is a stupid question. So, he changes it.

  "Why aren't you at the shelter?"

  "It's Tuesday," I tell him. "Not Saturday. Why would I be…?"

  Oh.

  I trail off as I realize a couple things myself. The first thing is that my boyfriend of nearly a year doesn't pay enough attention to me to remember which day of the week I volunteer at a homeless shelter. The second thing is that my obnoxious step sister probably lied to him about where I was, so that she could seduce Paul into this vulnerable state for me to catch them in.

  I wave my hand, as if it doesn't matter, when everything, in fact, matters very much. I'm not going to give either of them the satisfaction of knowing that it matters, though. That's exactly the rise Sheila is expecting to get out of me.

  "Well, why are you in my bedroom? Having sex with Sheila?" I ask him.

  He gives me a sheepish grin as he grabs his shirt and pulls it over his head. His cherub-like face seems to say, “no big deal” but he can’t fool me with that act anymore.

  I always knew he wasn’t as perfect as he seemed— doting on me, bringing me a sandwich he’d made, rubbing my feet while I read a book; he had to be hiding something sinister lurking just beneath the surface.

  My suspicions are being proven true as I realize that he’s been no better than Sheila this whole time, and at least she’s been pretty open and honest about her vileness. He’s just been being nice to me so that I’d give it up to him, and when I didn’t, he moved onto my step sister.

  “Look, Babe,” he says, as he hurries towards the door, obviously wanting to get away from both Sheila and me as quickly as possible. But Sheila is following him like a snake; I bet he had no idea what he was getting himself into, with that crazy bitch. “You and I just grew apart.”

  “You mean we didn’t grow close enough together?” I ask him, already knowing the answer. I know I should shut up, but I’m fucking mad… and who wouldn’t be? “Your cock didn’t grow hard enough to fit into my pussy?”

  “Woah, babe,” he says, as if he’s scolding a child. “There’s no need for such language.”

  He looks at me and shakes his head.

  “That’s what I was never able to understand about you,” he says. “You talk like you’re this worldly-wise, feisty, independent woman. You read these smutty romance books and live in your head in this world of passion and fantasy. But in real life, you never even want to have sex.”

  With you, I want to finish his sentence for him, but I figure it’s not worth hurling insults.

  So instead, I just say, “Yep, I’m a real multi-faceted enigma. Imagine, a woman who knows what she wants. Or at least, what she doesn’t want.”

  Sheila snorts from where she’s standing near Paul, straightening out the clothes she’s just thrown back on so that she can chase him on his way out. I can’t help but detect a hint of jealousy in that snort.

  “Is it so bad to want to make sure I’m with the perfect person before I have sex for the first time?” I ask Paul, seriously now, because I have a feeling this will be the last time I ever see him and I have a lot to get off my chest. “For some crazy little reason, I had a hunch it wasn’t you.”

  The thought occurs to me that this might not have been the first time he and Sheila have banged. It’s just the first time she wanted me to know about it. But I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of asking, or even dwelling on such things. I just want to forget about it all and move on.

  “Oh, come on,” Paul shrugs again. “You can’t blame me for taking your step sister up on her offer when you weren’t putting out…”

  “Enough,” I tell him, doing my best to restrain the tone of my voice.

  I don’t want Sheila to know she’s gotten to me. And I also don’t want my step mom to overhear anything if she’s here. Of course, she’ll just take Sheila’s side as always, and rub it in my face that if I only lost weight and cared a little bit about my looks, then I too could snag someone else’s boyfriend.

  “Get out of here,” I tell Paul, grabbing his messenger bag— yes, he actually carries a messenger bag; what the hell was I thinking? — and practically shoving it into his chest.

  “And you too,” I hurl at Sheila. “You can both have each other. You deserve each other.”

  “Awww, poor little Ella’s a sore loser,” Sheila says, but she follows Paul out of the room, of course—like a fucking puppy dog— and that’s all I want. I’m so glad they’re both gone.

  And it doesn’t hurt that Paul looks rather annoyed to see Sheila trailing along after him. They make a funny sight, with her still looking gleeful and undoubtedly thinking, Yes, I fucked her man and stole him as my boyfriend, and him looking like the proverbial deer caught in headlights, probably thinking oh shit, was this even worth the easy lay?

  Once they’re gone, I sit down on my bed and allow myself the luxury of crying, now that I’m in private. I finger the necklace I’m wearing: it has a tiny orange pumpkin with a green heart-shaped stem on it.

  I know what you’re thinking: What an odd choice in jewelry. Almost as bad of a fashion statement as that mustard on your shirt. But my dad gave it to me, because he always called me his little Pumpkin.

  I wear it every day and I become especially fixated on it when I’m going through hard times. Sometimes it feels like not only is this silly yet precious nec
klace the only thing I have of his, but it’s also the only thing I have in the whole world.

  Every fairy tale has a sad beginning, and this is mine. The problem is, though, that this isn't even the worst thing that's ever happened to be, by far.

  This is just the part where you joined in, because this is where, hopefully, things start to get good. Now that I’ve gotten rid of the guy willing to hop out of his Armanis at the first chance he gets to shag my step sister.

  Chapter 4 – Gregory

  My mother’s dress swashes back and forth as she hustles and bustles around the grand family room area of the Palace, pacing and murmuring and trying to make sure everything is ready. If she wasn’t my mother, I’d be thinking that if she doesn’t stop buzzing around like a fly, I’m going to be tempted to swat at her like one.

  Okay, maybe I actually am thinking that, just a little bit. I would never actually hit any woman, especially my own mother, but that doesn’t mean I can’t let my imagination run wild and at least think about bottling her up in a mason jar for a little while, until she settles down and I can let her back out.

  “Do you have the passports, Dear?” she asks me, and I try to stop myself from grimacing.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Most people say nothing ever goes right when you’re planning something big: a trip, a wedding, a family vacation. But those people have never had Queen Calinda Carrington as their mother.

  Because we happen to be preparing for all three things mentioned above, at once, she is particularly on the ball today, running down her list of to-do’s and making sure everything is crossed off, even though that’s what we pay servants for. And very handsomely, I might add.

  “Did you see to it that Lionel and Deron packed our suitcases?” she asks, as if speaking of the devils.

  And they are little devils— I always have to go find them wherever they’re off roughhousing or daydreaming, and babysit them while they do whatever it is they’re supposed to be doing for all that money, even though sometimes it would be easier to just do it myself. I swear they act more like twelve year olds than twenty two year olds.

  “Yes, Mother,” I sigh.

  “Your tux?”

  “Yes!”

  “And over there in America, have they already picked up Meredith’s… wedding dress?”

  She gulps as she asks the end of this last question, as if she doesn’t want to say those three words together.

  “Ma.” I squint my eyes at her, in a warning. “You said we weren’t going to get into this today. That you wouldn’t do this again. Or ever again. I’ve made my choice, and that’s that.”

  “Do what?” she asks, batting her eyelashes at me in feigned innocence. “I was just trying to make sure we have all the necessities. I wouldn’t want you to not be able to get married.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” I tell her, although I don’t believe her.

  I’m sure she was trying to insinuate that Meredith would be flighty and forgetful. My mom has a lot of strong opinions about my fiancée, even though she’s never even met her. Which is part of the problem.

  But that’s about to be rectified. After all, there’s no better time than just before my wedding for my mom to meet my fiancée, right? I figure that that way, Mom can’t find anything else about her to be upset about.

  “Gregory, I don’t like the way you’re doubting me,” she says, reaching up to put a hand on my shoulder.

  I look down at her, wishing that she could just let go and be happy for me.

  “You seem awfully concerned about making sure I get married to someone you’ve specifically said I shouldn’t get married to,” I tell her. “Don’t you think that’s a little fake?”

  “Well, Gregory,” she says with a pout. “I can’t really help it. I’m only expressing concerns because I love you and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but we’ve been over this. You’re the one—” I lower my voice, so my dad can’t hear, even though his room is far away and the door is usually closed. “You’re the one who said I had to choose a bride, before…”

  I don’t say the rest. Not just in case he hears. But because I can’t say it out loud. Before my dad, the King, dies.

  “I didn’t know you’d choose some floozy you met on a vacation to the States,” my mom erupts, clearly unable to contain herself any longer.

  Both her green eyes—nearly a spitting image of my own, in a female version of course— and her pink lips— which she always keeps perfectly lipsticked, even when she’s not planning to leave the Palace— are widened in surprise, although she’s had months to get used to this fact.

  “Mom,” I protest, having had it up to here with her meddling and— more importantly— her unkind words against my fiancée. “I’ve chosen her. Meredith. She’s the one.”

  I sigh, annoyed that I have to go through this with her again.

  “I know you don’t like it and I know it’s untraditional for the royal family to even let the prince get a say in this, so I appreciate the leniency,” I tell her, trying to be respectful. My mother is the Queen of Ambrosia, after all. Not to mention the fact that she gave birth to me and changed my poopy diapers. “We’re dealing with it in exactly the way you wanted us to, so I’d ask you to respect your side of the bargain and not talk negatively about my future wife.”

  Mom nods resolutely.

  “You’re right, Gregory. That wasn’t nice of me. I apologize.”

  She sniffles as she says it, as if she’s a bit embarrassed to have to apologize yet again. Mom just can’t seem to help herself when it comes to being critical of Meredith— nor when it comes to letting me in on many other opinions she holds about everything and anything under the sun.

  A part of me understands, as this isn’t exactly a match made in heaven. It’s more like a match made in a kingdom that still wants to believe that fucking fairy tale marriages exist. And one that forces me to go along with it by marrying someone, anyone, before I take my rightful place as King.

  Chapter 5 – Gregory

  I guess this is the part where I should explain why I’m marrying Meredith. Even though I don’t particularly understand it myself.

  Forced to quickly choose a bride, I went for the one girl I fell head over heels in love— or at least in lust— with when I met her in Miami while both of us were vacationing there with friends. I was exploring the States with single friends since I knew I only had a little time left to spend doing that before having to tie the knot— after finding a woman to tie the knot with, of course.

  And Meredith was apparently there on something called Spring Break, when college girls go wild. There was a lot to learn about American women, apparently.

  We had an amazing time together, if “amazing” equals buzzed, drunk or hungover the whole trip. She told me she’d never seen a guy as ripped or a cock as big as mine. No one can go wrong with flattery such as that. I may be the fucking Prince of Ambrosia, but I still like hearing an attractive woman tell me all about the many ways in which I’ve got it going on.

  We spent one too many hot Miami nights drinking ice cold cuba libres and fucking under both the water and the stars. After a long night of drinking— again— I accidentally overslept and missed my flight to Boston, which was supposed to be my next destination.

  So, I decided to extend my trip, as did Meredith. She postponed her flight back to Denver, where she’s an acting student, so that we could spend another few drunken, festive nights together.

  That week was like something out of a dream, and I guess I just got caught up in an escapist fervor. In a way, it was my only chance to pretend I’m a normal, college kid rather than outdated royalty from some place no one’s ever heard of.

  In case you’re wondering, Ambrosia is a small island nation in the Baltic sea, just off the coast of Estonia and Latvia. It’s so tiny and insignificant that if you look it up on a map it probably won’t even show up.

  But we still have roya
lty there, although we don’t do anything important. It’s all just for show, some family history no one ever wanted to let go of, even though everything is really run by a parliamentary republic. If you look up what that is, you probably won’t understand it, since no one really does.

  Thanks to some fucking relic of royalty law and important family tradition I don’t care about but my parents do, I have to get married to someone. I don’t think I even believe in marriage. I used to think I was just too young to figure out whether I did or not; I figured I was just spending time spreading my royal wild oats.

  But now I’m in my early thirties and I think I’d probably know by now if I wanted to settle down. In fact, though, the opposite was true. I liked having any girl any time I wanted her, and then moving on to the next.

  I was under so much pressure, with my mom saying it’s embarrassing that the prince is still a bachelor at this age and people are starting to talk about whether or not I’ll ever get married. Once my father was diagnosed with a terminal illness it became clear that everyone was wondering who the king that takes his place is going to have as a wife. And it was unheard of in our family history for the king to not have a wife.

  So, Mom decided there had to be a royal wedding. It’s all fake, a big sham, a show we put on to impress the commoners, so I figured it didn’t really matter who I picked. I might as well pick a fun girl with a tight little pussy and a nice ass. Meredith just happened to be in the right place at the right time, I guess.

  She’s got “junk in the trunk”— a phrase I picked up when I was in America— and she’s good “in the sack”— that’s another one— and those seemed like good enough reasons to ask if she wanted to become the next princess of Ambrosia. Why not, right?

  She said yes, of course— what girl wouldn’t say yes to that? When I phoned my mother to tell her the news, I thought she’d be pleased that I’d done what she’d requested and found a mate, but she was livid.