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An idea spurred to life at the back of my mind.
Five choices… Under Mother’s plan, they were giving me five choices for the future queen, but no one said they had to be from Nolcovia…
Upon re-reading the letter, optimism filled me as a strategy emerged.
Michaela
A princess is only as valuable as her crown.
I took this mantra seriously. To me, the crown held a deeper meaning than simply a position of authority; it embodied a legacy and a sense of duty. The crown measured more than my worth. It represented my dedication, character, and motivation to grow. The weight of the tiara on my head served as a constant reminder of the significance of my role, empowering me to give it my all.
I stared into the mirror.
My people waited for me.
Or at least a room full of sugared-up six-year-olds who wanted this princess party to get going. As much as I loved pretending, nothing about my life was actually royal.
“They’re getting restless, Michaela.” Marjorie’s voice bled through the closed door. “We’re headed toward riots. The queen is getting anxious. I think she’s going to lop off heads any second now.”
My business partner was prone to dramatics. I looked in the mirror once more, smile in place, makeup on point, and resolved that this day would be better than the last.
It had to be.
Rent was due and I needed a huge tip to close the gap. Lining up a few more gigs wouldn’t hurt either.
“Make the announcement,” I told my roommate-turned-fake-royal-advisor.
Ball gown rustling as I shifted to the door to listen for my cue, I waited on Marjorie’s words.
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Announcing Her Majesty, the compassionate, the loyal, the fair and beautiful, the one, the only…”
Was this Wrestle Mania or a little girl’s birthday party?
“Rowena Royale, the Princess of Perfection!”
Rowena?
Marjorie gave me a new name for every party, but Rowena? Hardly a name that inspired grace and beauty. More like the evil stepsister bent on locking the princess in the attic and leaving her—
The door opened with the same flourish Marjorie always employed. Chin up, eyes bright, smile broad and welcoming, I stepped out to meet the crowd of six-year-old girls in their best party dresses. Squeals of delight rose in the air as the little girls rushed forward to meet me.
“I’m seeking audience with the queen. The great Angelica of Storybook Haven.” Shielding my eyes with my hand, I pretended to search for the birthday girl, even though she sat ten feet away on the throne we’d brought as part of the act. “I’ve traveled far, wishing to join her court of beautiful princesses.”
The cheers exploded like fireworks around me. It would be pure chaos for the next two hours, but mine and Marjorie’s jobs didn’t quite make ends meet with school loans still looming. Little hands pawed at me and I found a little girl, in a simple dress, smiling up at me. It wasn’t much of a costume, but to her, it was a grand ball gown. What little girl didn’t want to be a princess? If even for an hour, a day, a minute?
I took her hand and gave it a little squeeze.
“She’s so good at this,” I heard a mom whisper to her friend on the sidelines. “It’s hard to believe she’s not really a princess.”
I stayed in character despite my feelings on the subject. Maybe I looked the part when I wore my crown and dress, but the rest of the time, I was far from royal material.
After all, I was the girl who’d gone boogie boarding for the first time, got flipped by a wave, and came up topless and unaware until a kid on the beach yelled… Well, you know…
I was the college freshman who tried to play a prank on her roommate, got her nose broken, and then five minutes later, completely unrelated, got dumped by her boyfriend, because he wasn’t ‘feeling it.’ I had a less-than-flattering breakup look that night, complete with a bag of frozen peas on my nose and tissues crammed in my nostrils, while I endured his complaints.
For the record, I wasn’t feeling it either.
Better believe it was me who thought she was going to a luau my junior year, wore the grass skirt and coconut bra to match, and somehow landed smack in the middle of a Russian funeral. With all eyes on me, I had little choice but to lean into the skid. I flip-flopped my way to the nearest pew, which was at the front of the room, and sat down like I belonged.
