“You’re still a bitch, Cinderella,” she says, but her bark is out of bite.
There’s this thing happens when you’re growing up, narrative an anvil on your shoulders, when you know you’re supposed to pull yourself up by the bootstraps of your Lucite stripper heels. And that thing is: you cease to give a fuck.
Worse when everyone and her hairy–legged sister’s busy telling you what it is you mean. Smashing you with a hammer and turning the bits into symbols, grabbing a ballpoint and writing you into a hundred ink–stained girls in diamond ball gowns screaming bra–burning opposition to becoming passive, powerless, pampered princesses.
And what’s wrong with pampering? Sounds good to me. Better than wearing the daily jewels of five–fingered bruises bestowed by the cunt who calls herself mother. Better than inhaling bleach and ammonia every morning while you’re on your hands and knees scrubbing other people’s muck.
Better than the taste of coal, the real taste of it, when the char’s gone deep in your tongue, scorched every bud, turned all that supposed–to–be–pink into scalding black. After that, there’s nothing doesn’t taste of burning.
I tell you: when the whole world is charcoal, you take whatever bullshit they’re serving because even shit sandwiches are better than fire.
Deeper in the lobby, there’s a she–bear sitting on a loveseat. You can tell it’s a she–bear because she’s wearing a ruffled apron.
Beside her, there’s a passed out girl. Like last night’s champagne, she’s gone flat. Tongue lolls; limbs sprawl; hope she had a ball ’cuz today’s gonna be a long–ass haul.
She–bear opens her paw. Inside, there’s a tiny tea cup — on second thought, not tiny; her paw’s just enormous. Silver tray on the ottoman in front of her, bone–delicate porcelain tea service painted with pastel roses. She raises the cup to her snout and, I swear, her fucking pinky claw is raised.
“What are you at the ball for?” I ask. “You someone’s dancing bear?”
I shove the flat–champagne girl onto the floor and take her place. Girl grunt–snores as she tumbles onto the rug, golden ringlets flipping over her face.
She–bear rumbles disapprovingly at my incivility but won’t be rude in return. Gestures with her free paw to the other cups on the tray.
There are three. Obviously.
I grab the hot one and pour it down my throat. Hiss of steam as it hits my lips. Saliva boils. Flame sears down my gullet.
Like anything’s so hot I can’t take it.
I open my mouth so she can see the skin bubbling on my tongue. “Juuuuuust right.”
Her nose twitches with amusement. She sets down her just–so cup and grabs the oh–so–cold one. One long swallow and when she opens her mouth again, icicles glisten on her fangs. Her frozen exhalation blasts my face like frostbite.
“All right,” I say. “I grant you. That was mucho macho.”
She runs her tongue across her fangs to lick off the ice, regards me with an impatient what–do–you–want stare.
“It’s paper–thin. That’s what gets me. It’s always paper–thin. Was to start with. Well, I guess it was voice–thin then. Oral–tradition–thin. There you are, you’re an archetype, and you get to marry a prince who doesn’t even have a name, and does either of you exist at all? Or are you just epaulettes and glass slippers? Not even good costumes. Oh, what the hell do you know anyway? You’re a bear who doesn’t even have to shit in the woods.”
Her teacup slams against the tray. Reverberation sends the dishes crashing into each other. I startle–leap back, but much as I want to, I can’t run; I’m transfixed by the smoldering black glare. Her maw gapes open. This time, I’m not fooled by the flowers and ruffles. Those fangs can bite down on cucumber sandwiches, sure, but they can also tear out a moose’s throat, seize a salmon straight out of the river.
Glass rings as her growl crescendos.
She says, “You shouldn’t make assumptions.”
I shiver. “I didn’t know you could speak.”
“Let me give you some advice.” She leans closer, snout foreshortened in my vision, breath a humid mix of rotten meat and blueberry scones. “Female to female. From someone who’s been in the world longer than you have. Who’s borne a cub and met a thief and slept howling winters into spring.”
I rub the goosebumps on my forearms. Her ursine stare is all crags and glaciers and white water rapids.
Along the back of my neck, where the hairs are raised, I feel a sting — not just of fear, but of hope. Maybe she has the answers to questions I don’t even know how to ask.
Levelly, she stares at me. “You look stupid in go–go boots.”
Here’s the thing:
You can’t win.
You can’t win if you’re a princess. You can’t win if you rescue the prince. You can’t win if you cross–dress and become the royal huntsman. And heaven forbid you try to slip into another fairy tale by pricking yourself with a spindle — in the real world, the only thing a spindly prick gets you is up the duff.
No one else is doing better. The mice always wondering if they’re supposed to walk on two legs. The prince so vapid he can only recognize the chick he’s fallen in love with by her shoe size. Your poor, ugly stepsisters who half the time are hobbling on chopped–up feet.
Animators can come in with fake smiles and truckloads of bleach and Zip–a–Zee–Do–Dah away the blood and eye–pecking birds. Post–modern lit grads in ironic t–shirts can tear you up and stitch you into Frankenstein’s femme fatale.
Still there are a thousand girls resting their heads on fireplace stones. Still a thousand streaked with ash and spit.
Still a million going to sleep each night with the knowledge that no one gives a fuck whether or not they wake up.
Little cinder girls, we’re raised in fire.
Either you melt and become the simpering thing you’re supposed to.
Or else you temper into something calloused and unbreakable.
Ditched the hotel to search for Griselda. Was hoping I could wheedle a cut of the cash, but before I can chase her down, someone’s grabbing my arm and dragging me down the sidewalk, and she–bear is right, I am stupid to be wearing go–go boots because if I’d chosen something else — something with steel toes maybe — I could kick this fucker in the shins and get away.
Instead, I’m shoved into a swarm of people. My assailant shouts, “What about this one?”
More people grab my arms. There are women in black sheath dresses and pink pearls, and men in ponchos and eyeliner, all talking rapidly over each other. “Could be the one! Could be her! She could work!” Hands push me down onto one of those folding chairs people take camping, and there’s some guy at my feet —
Oh, look. Epaulettes again.
Gently, he tugs on my left go–go boot. Leather slips down my calf. His tongue brushes the side of his mouth as he pulls, slow–as–slow. He pants, quick and shallow. Saliva pools in the corner of his mouth. His lids lower with creepy–ass pleasure as my heel pops free. He reveals my arch and then my toes. His index finger traces my sole. “Mmmmmm.”
Whole crowd’s eyes on my bare foot. The prince’s eyes. The eyeliner–and–pearls attendants’ eyes. The eyes of the encircling ranks of morning commuters in business casual who cinch in closer so they can get a better ogle.
The prince passes off the go–go boot, and holds out his hand, impatiently. Sheath–dresses and ponchos confer. “Blue doeskin?” suggests one.