prom with you, but I'm grounded.
Forever
I smiled broadly and turned to Mara. "Is there anything I can do to help?" I'd dressed in a blue silk dress I
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hadn't worn since I was about twelve. It was ugly as sin, but it wasn't jeans.
"Everything that needs to be taken care of for now is done," said Mara, "but I think it would be really nice if you and the girls would help serve drinks and dinner when the guests arrive."
Help serve drinks and dinner? What was I, the new maid? I kept the smile plastered on my face.
Prom. Prom. Prom. You're going to the prom. "Sure," I said. "Glad to help." I started to feel silly just standing there in the middle of the room, so I excused myself. "I guess I'll drop this in the
den," I said, picking up the bag I'd packed for my stint as an actual guest in my own house.
"Lucy, I was telling the girls I think it would be just charming if you all wore black and white
tonight," Mara called after me. I turned back. "Don't you think that would look nice?"
"Oh, yeah," I said. "I think that would look really nice." Mara smiled at me like I'd just made all her dreams come true. I smiled back at her the same way. Actually, Mara had just made one of
my dreams come true. I was going to see the Princesses forced to get up off their little Princess
asses and help serve a meal.
Within two minutes of walking in the door, the Martins, the Aliens, and the Clurmans had clearly
gotten the idea that I was an employee as opposed to the daughter of their host, no doubt in part
because A) I was dressed like
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a waitress at a cheesy catering hall, and B) Mara, rather than introduce me, said only, "Lucy,
please take everyone's coats and put them on my bed." Despite Mara's saying that the Princesses
and I would be serving together, I was the only one dressed like I'd be collecting a paycheck at
the end of the evening. My stepsisters were sporting fashionable new black-and-white Petit
Bateau shirts (Princess One had a white-on-black pattern, while Princess Two had gone with
black-on-white) and tiny black miniskirts, ensembles no doubt purchased for this occasion. As
far as I could tell, they weren't doing much besides "helping" my dad bartend, a task that
involved little more than throwing the occasional lemon wedge or swizzle stick into the
occasional glass. I, meanwhile, spent the first part of the evening running back and forth to the
kitchen with plates of hot appetizers Mara had ordered from her favorite caterer. The platters
were heavy, the kitchen was hot, and before long I'd developed a fairly gruesome headache.
Mara, smiling and chatting with her guests, barely acknowledged me as I walked around the
room offering cheese puffs.
"You're doing a great job," said my dad when he came into the kitchen to get more ice. I was
standing by the stove watching to make sure the spinach in phyllo dough didn't burn. "This is
what I like to see." He came over and gave my shoulder a squeeze. "This is the girl I always
knew you could be."
He always knew I could be a maid?
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I opened my mouth to tell him what I'd always known he could be, but then I got a picture of myself lying prone on my bed, carving lines in my Formica headboard to mark the months of my
imprisonment, while Connor slipped a corsage onto his new girlfriend's wrist and escorted her to
their waiting limo.
"I'm glad, Dad," I said, smiling weakly. "I'm really glad." I watched him leave the kitchen and turned back to the oven.
I'll never know if the Martins, the Aliens, or the Clurmans ever figured out who I was, or if they
just decided my dad and Mara were incredibly enlightened employers who allowed the help to sit
down and eat with them and their guests whenever she wasn't serving a new course. Since each
platter that had to be carried in from the kitchen was too heavy for the Princesses to manage, the
job was mine. It wasn't until dessert, when they exerted themselves so far as to circulate a tiny
plate of petits fours, that either of them did any serving at all; as they walked around the table,
the guests oohed and aahed over how helpful and gracious they were. I stood watching them help
themselves to as many pastries as they "served," brushing my now-matted hair out of my eyes
and seething with rage. By the time I carried the coats down from my dad and Mara's room and
distributed them among the guests, I wasn't even surprised that Mr. Martin complimented me for
doing such a great job and asked if I was available to help him and his wife with
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a party they were having the following weekend. I couldn't tell if he was joking or not, so I just
said I was grounded and handed him his coat.
"Lucy, you did a beautiful job tonight," said my dad. He'd shut the door on the last of the guests and put his arm around Mara. "You and the girls, I should say."
"Yes, thank you, Lucy," said Mara. "Good night."
"Good night," I said.
As Mara climbed the stairs, my dad yawned. "I guess I'll turn in, too," he said. "And you must be exhausted."
I didn't need a mirror to know that my hair was plastered to my forehead and my white shirt was
streaked with sweat. My feet ached. I looked up and saw Mara's skirt magically unwrinkled, her
hair shining in the overhead light.
"Yeah," I said, wondering where my fairy godmother had spent the night. "I'm a little tired."
"Well, good night, honey."
"Good night, dad," I said. He turned to go up the stairs, then turned back again. "Tonight it really felt like we were a family," he said, smiling at me.
Did that mean I wasn't grounded anymore?
"Um, Dad?"
"Yeah, Goose?"
Maybe this wasn't the best time to ask. "See you in the morning."
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He reached over and patted me on the head before turning and following Mara up the stairs. I
took off my apron and was about to open the door to the basement when I remembered I was
sleeping in the guest room for the week.
Did my dad seriously think that tonight we were a family?
If so, get me to an orphanage.
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Chapter Nineteen
Monday at lunch Jessica and Madison wanted me to hang out in the cafeteria so we could discuss
the newly announced prom theme (Now and Forever), but I begged off. If I didn't get started on
my self-portrait, I was going to fail the only class I was taking that I didn't hate.
When I got to the studio, Ms. Daniels was sitting at her desk going through Gardner's Art
Through the Ages with a pile of Post-its. She gave me a little wave.
"Feeling artistic?" she asked.
"Panicked," I corrected, going over to her desk. "This never happened to me before. I just can't figure out how to start."
"Well, what if you start by thinking about a painting that means a lot to you?"
"You mean rip something off?"
Ms. Daniels laughed. "I mean consider using it as a
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commentary on who you are." She took the heavy textbook in both hands and passed it over the
desk to me, grunting with the effort. "Here. I've got to get to a meeting. Why don't you look for