Just Ella by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page A

and broken the engagement sooner. Or never agreed to be married in the first place.
    I rubbed my face where he’d gripped too tight. The prince crossed the room and made sure the door was closed.
    â€œAnyhow,” I said when he turned around, “I don’t want to cause a scene or make problems or hurt you—but I don’t think marriage is a good idea for us. You can have your pick of girls, and you deserve one who will love you. One you love.”
    The prince stared at me.
    â€œWhat are you talking about? You’re my betrothed. You will marry me.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I will not.”
    The prince stood still, looking puzzled. As masterful as he’d been with Jeedens, he didn’t seem to know how to deal with me. He came over and clutched my shoulders.
    â€œDon’t ever say that again!” he commanded with an emphatic shake.
    â€œWhether I say it again or not, ’tis no matter,” I said defiantly, pulling back from his grasp. “The fact is, I don’t want to marry you, and I don’t see why you would want to marry someone who doesn’t want to marry you—”
    â€œStop it!” the prince shouted. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”
    I was put in mind of a three-year-old throwing a temper tantrum. The prince might as well have been holding his hands over his ears and chanting, “I can’t hear you. I can’t hear you. . . .” Thinking of the prince as a child only irked me more.
    â€œLook,” I said, standing up. “I wanted to handle this in a . . . in an adult manner. But under the circumstances, perhaps it would be best if I just left. I’m sorry things didn’t work out differently.”
    I began walking toward the door. The prince caught me halfway across the floor. He grabbed my waist from behind.
    â€œNo!” he screamed. “You can’t!”
    I still had some thoughts of dignity. I didn’t struggle.
    â€œLet go of me,” I said, ice dripping from every word.
    He whirled me around so forcefully, I stumbled and landed on the floor.
    â€œGet on the couch,” he panted, looking frantically from me to the door. “Sit on the couch. Stay there.”
    I stood up. I should have known better, but I blurted, “You can’t make me.”
    The prince’s frenzy increased. His eyes darted around the room.
    â€œYou have to!” he insisted. “As prince of the land, I command you to stay on that couch until I return.”
    I started walking toward the door. The prince looked stunned, as if no one had ever disobeyed him before. He pushed me back onto the couch, holding me there with the weight of his body. “Just—until—I—can—find—someone—to—tell—me—what—to—do,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
    That did it. I might have continued trying to appeal to reason—what little he had. I would gladly have sat still to discuss the matter between us. But it infuriated me that he had to ask someone else how to accept my refusal.
    â€œGet away from me!” I yelled, trying to shove him back.
    He pushed me down again. Soon we were fighting as shamelessly as two ragamuffin boys vying for a crust of bread in some back alley. The prince did not defend himself well. Even as I punched him in the stomach, he protested, “You can’t do that! Princesses don’t—Ladies don’t—”
    I managed to extricate myself from his hold, but as I slipped away, he grabbed at my skirt. I heard the fabric give way. I turned around to see that he held a long strip of one of the ruffles of my petticoat. He held the fabric up in the air, and both of us stared at it in shock. I felt a jolt of shame. How could things have turned so ugly? I looked at the prince, wondering if he had the same thought. Maybe we could laugh about this, and resolve everything that way. But the prince kept his eyes on the torn cloth.