sighed after Chace Crawford and Justin Bieber—okay, that last one was all me, and only sophomore year—but we both teared up over the same romantic comedies where the guy went back for the girl just in the nick of time. I remember asking her, when I was young, if she ever hoped to be that heroine one day, and if I’d ever, you know, be that precocious kid who brought the two love interests together.
Sadly, my professorial mom always saw those kinds of questions as “teachable moments,” and gave impromptu lectures about the antifeminist message Hollywood perpetuated, all the while, I should add, wiping away the sentimental tears. In all my sixteen-plus years she had never, ever brought home a boyfriend.
Maybe she’d spent the night with someone last night.
Perhaps when I got downstairs and fumbled around in the pantry for something for breakfast, I’d find a note explaining that she’d finally found the love of her life, some perfectly sensitive yet just-enough-alpha man who respected her feminism and her empowerment and was totally hot.
Or, more likely, she just stayed over when one of her women’s ritual groups ran late.
Knowing I had the house to myself, I changed the radio station in the bathroom to Cities 97 and turned the volume up. I ran a hot bath—our house was so old that we had no showers, only one of those huge, claw-foot tubs. Having only a bathtub sucked when all I needed was a quick hair wash, but I’d grown up with it and had learned to luxuriate in a long soak. Besides, thanks to the birds and the weirdness of a noiseless house, I was up early enough to take time to do all my morning primping unhurried.
As I sang along to Matchbox Twenty, I remembered my duet with Thompson last night and the strange moment of closeness afterward, backstage. He must have gotten swept up in the magic of theater, because he’d seemed almost tender.
Was there another side of Matthew Thompson I didn’t know?
I remembered that he’d totally bought the story I circulated after the licking incident in gym, wherein I hadn’t so much stuck my tongue on his skin as kissed him due to an unrequited crush. I figured he preferred the implied flattery of that scenario. But maybe ...
I mean, what if he secretly liked me? He’d been acting so hurt when I’d been cruel about his interest in theater, and Thompson was just enough of an idiot to think that the kindergarten approach of tossing rocks and pulling hair was the way to a girl’s heart.
Then again, maybe I was just the easiest path to getting into the season’s hottest show. Dipping my head under the water, I sighed.
Like I needed more boy trouble. On top of everything else.
I listened intently at the news break at the top of the hour. A brown bear had been spotted in some golf course in the suburbs, apparently, but no mention of a break-in at the History Center. Maybe luck was on my side and Elias hadn’t done anything yet. I’d have to try to talk to one of the Igors at school today and get them to pass on a message to him, tell him we should wait. Or at least talk about it more.
But I still wasn’t sure that was the right thing to do.
If being a princess meant making these kinds of decisions, I didn’t like it much.
After I washed my hair and shaved, I was ready to hop out of the tub. I scrubbed my body all over with the cheerful yellow towels my mom had impulsively bought at Macy’s. I put on my makeup and then wasted some time trying to induce some volume with that hair-dryer flip method, which I never quite understood. Back in my room, I set upon the arduous task of choosing what to wear. Some days I wished we were a uniform school so there wasn’t this pressure. At least today, I could be prepared for the gossip storm. I mean, it was probably selfcentered to assume my performance with Thompson would be the topic du jour, but I could always dress for success, as they say. I wasn’t one of the school fashionistas, since I tended toward Goth
Sadly, my professorial mom always saw those kinds of questions as “teachable moments,” and gave impromptu lectures about the antifeminist message Hollywood perpetuated, all the while, I should add, wiping away the sentimental tears. In all my sixteen-plus years she had never, ever brought home a boyfriend.
Maybe she’d spent the night with someone last night.
Perhaps when I got downstairs and fumbled around in the pantry for something for breakfast, I’d find a note explaining that she’d finally found the love of her life, some perfectly sensitive yet just-enough-alpha man who respected her feminism and her empowerment and was totally hot.
Or, more likely, she just stayed over when one of her women’s ritual groups ran late.
Knowing I had the house to myself, I changed the radio station in the bathroom to Cities 97 and turned the volume up. I ran a hot bath—our house was so old that we had no showers, only one of those huge, claw-foot tubs. Having only a bathtub sucked when all I needed was a quick hair wash, but I’d grown up with it and had learned to luxuriate in a long soak. Besides, thanks to the birds and the weirdness of a noiseless house, I was up early enough to take time to do all my morning primping unhurried.
As I sang along to Matchbox Twenty, I remembered my duet with Thompson last night and the strange moment of closeness afterward, backstage. He must have gotten swept up in the magic of theater, because he’d seemed almost tender.
Was there another side of Matthew Thompson I didn’t know?
I remembered that he’d totally bought the story I circulated after the licking incident in gym, wherein I hadn’t so much stuck my tongue on his skin as kissed him due to an unrequited crush. I figured he preferred the implied flattery of that scenario. But maybe ...
I mean, what if he secretly liked me? He’d been acting so hurt when I’d been cruel about his interest in theater, and Thompson was just enough of an idiot to think that the kindergarten approach of tossing rocks and pulling hair was the way to a girl’s heart.
Then again, maybe I was just the easiest path to getting into the season’s hottest show. Dipping my head under the water, I sighed.
Like I needed more boy trouble. On top of everything else.
I listened intently at the news break at the top of the hour. A brown bear had been spotted in some golf course in the suburbs, apparently, but no mention of a break-in at the History Center. Maybe luck was on my side and Elias hadn’t done anything yet. I’d have to try to talk to one of the Igors at school today and get them to pass on a message to him, tell him we should wait. Or at least talk about it more.
But I still wasn’t sure that was the right thing to do.
If being a princess meant making these kinds of decisions, I didn’t like it much.
After I washed my hair and shaved, I was ready to hop out of the tub. I scrubbed my body all over with the cheerful yellow towels my mom had impulsively bought at Macy’s. I put on my makeup and then wasted some time trying to induce some volume with that hair-dryer flip method, which I never quite understood. Back in my room, I set upon the arduous task of choosing what to wear. Some days I wished we were a uniform school so there wasn’t this pressure. At least today, I could be prepared for the gossip storm. I mean, it was probably selfcentered to assume my performance with Thompson would be the topic du jour, but I could always dress for success, as they say. I wasn’t one of the school fashionistas, since I tended toward Goth
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