The Princesses of Iowa (41 page)

I sped out of town, trying not to choke on my own self-loathing. Suddenly, I could understand why Nikki felt the need to replay the accident in front of everyone we knew; I was half tempted to drench myself in fake blood and stand before the school, declaring myself a monster and begging for forgiveness.

On the other hand, maybe it would be better to disappear altogether, to keep pedaling until I crossed into Illinois. I’d go to Chicago and lose myself among the anonymous crowds, start over with nothing to live up to and nothing to live down. Or I’d go farther than that even, east through Indiana and Ohio and Pennsylvania, until I reached New York, and if I still hated myself when I got there, I’d turn straight around and keep going until I hit the Pacific Ocean.

I’d never go back, and at home they’d wonder about me, and someone would write an article called “Whatever Happened to Princess Paige,” and they’d document my perfect life, my straight As and my great tan, and people would tell all sorts of lies about how nice, how sweet, what a good friend I was, and they’d publish my senior pictures and maybe do a whole spread in the yearbook about me, but eventually they’d forget I ever existed, except in a Willow Grove legend warning girls who wanted to grow up to be princesses to be careful or they, too, might disappear.

What was so great about being a princess anyway? Why had we pinned our entire identities to this one stupid word, not just since middle school but forever, since we were toddlers in tutus and tiaras, with pink Cinderella birthday cakes and fairy wands? Who wanted to be a princess? Real-life princesses were constantly being killed in horrible ways: Princess Di was killed in a car accident; Princess Grace, killed in a car accident; Princess Anastasia, murdered with her family. . . .

Why hadn’t my mother protected me? She’d been homecoming queen in high school and college, she knew the strain of trying to be perfect. She was still aiming for perfection and slipping wildly, she must have known on some level that it was an impossible task. . . .

Then I caught myself: I was blaming other people again.

Goddammit! Why couldn’t I just accept responsibility for the wreck I’d made of my own life? I was the one who agreed when Lacey gripped my hand and declared we’d do anything to be up on that float; I was the one who smiled to people’s faces and cut them down behind their backs; I was the one who protected Jake at any cost; I was the one who listened to my mother’s endless litany of ways to be beautiful; I was the one who studied fashion magazines like they were the key to unlocking some holy code. I was the one who turned the wheel.

I was the one who caused the accident.

I was the one who got myself exiled.

I was the reason everyone was unhappy. I was the reason our senior year had careened so wildly off the tracks. It was my fault; everything was my fault. Me. Paige Sheridan. My head pounded with each accusation of my internal tribunal. My fault. All mine. I gripped the handlebars, practically standing on the pedals. Everything was my fault, and mine alone.

I was worse than the Wicked Witch. I wished a house would drop on me.

I ended up at the secret spot in the woods. I hadn’t meant to; I’d been riding blindly, consumed by my thoughts. Once there, I dropped my bike at the trailhead and took off down the trail, running. The sky above me was pebbled and gray. My leg muscles burned with exertion, but I pushed them around the final turn and down the hidden path to the spring.

It was only when I saw that it was empty that I realized I’d been hoping it wouldn’t be.

I wanted him to be there. He would be sitting on our boulder, writing in his notebook, waiting for me. I didn’t deserve his forgiveness but I would beg for it anyway, because I couldn’t imagine going through the rest of the year without him. And he would listen; he had to.

I would find him. I would jump back on my crappy bike and speed back to Willow Grove. I’d make Shanti tell me where he lived. I’d go to his house, I’d make him listen. I would tell him the truth. I spun around to run back up the trail.

And then I heard it: a slight movement in the bushes, the faint brush of leaf against leaf. I froze, waiting.

The whole woods took up a breeze and trembled. I held my breath until the red-and-gold leaves resolved themselves into a shape, a face, with bright, intelligent black eyes, a long sharp nose, bat ears tipped with black: a fox. I stood, silent and still, as we made eye contact. He looked strangely familiar, though I couldn’t remember ever seeing a fox before, other than perhaps in a zoo or as roadkill. But here he was, with his white muzzle and grayish chest, a long black sock up the leg he held out, as if any moment he would step forward and continue on his way. He was the size of a small dog, smaller than you’d think, almost feline in the delicacy of his features.

From behind me, the sounds of voices on the lake floated into our clearing, and the fox’s ears swiveled, straining, and it was only when he looked back to me that he seemed to remember himself. He turned, flashing his thick tail, and disappeared into the bushes. I released my breath.

I was sick and tired of running. Ever since Paris — ever since the accident — I’d been running, running, from the guilt about Prescott, from the truth about Jake, from the memories of that night. I’d been too rushed to stop and notice that the happiest I’d been in ages had been right here, perched on this boulder, leaning against this tree. Writing, or talking, or sitting in silence, listening to the water and the birds.

I took a deep breath, trying to find the center my mother had talked about in her yoga phase. Breathed again. All that I was rushing toward or running away from would wait. I settled against the tree and pulled my notebook from my bag.

I paused.
Tell the truest truth you can,
Mr. Tremont had told us.
You must be enormously afraid. But keep going.

And suddenly, I knew what to do.

I prepared for the dance alone, standing in my bathroom, closing my eyelashes over the mascara wand, blending blush and translucent powder across my cheeks and forehead. I’d always loved doing my makeup. Attending to my eyes and skin and lips almost felt like a form of meditation, a cleansing ritual. I thought of the night, less than a month earlier, when I’d stood before this very same mirror, shadowed by my mother. Tonight she was the one on a date, at the club with my father. He’d been more attentive to her lately, brushing his fingers across the small of her back, kissing her softer face.

It was only a few minutes past six when I finished dressing. Normally I’d be going out to dinner before the dance, eating at the club with Jake and with Lacey and Nikki and their dates. Without dinner plans of my own, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. I checked my phone again, irrationally hoping that Ethan had called and I had just missed it. 6:13. Nothing else.

Mirror was gone already. I wondered what Shanti was doing right now. I wondered what Ethan was doing. I checked my phone again. 6:14. I drummed my fingers against the top of my vanity. 6:15.

I sighed and flopped into the wing chair by my window, careful not to mess my hair, and went over my notes one more time.

Shanti caught me at the door of the gym, pressing her cold fingers against my bare skin. “Have you seen Ethan?”

“No,” I said. “He wouldn’t answer my calls.”

“He said he’d be here.”

“He did?” A momentary warmth swept through my chest, rushing through the nervousness like ocean waves.

Her earrings tinked as she nodded. Beneath the twinkling lights strung along the walls, her eyes glowed with spots of gold glitter at the inside corners, and her full lips were lined darkly in red. She looked beautiful.

A dark figure appeared behind her, tall like Ethan, and my heart jumped. He came closer, into the light. It wasn’t Ethan, not at all.

Gently, he placed his hands over Shanti’s eyes, kissing her on the crown of her head. “Guess who.”

“Aaron.” She spoke with the certainty of someone who understands that she deserves the good things she has.

“You must be psychic,” he said, smiling.

She laughed. “Everyone else here is afraid to touch me.”

Stepping around Shanti, the boy held out his hand to me. “I’m Aaron,” he said. “And you must be Paige.”

I smiled. “You must be psychic.”

“Everyone else is afraid to talk to Shanti,” he said.

She nodded. “It’s true.”

“You drove all the way from Omaha?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Aaron said. “Two-hundred-plus miles just to go to a high school dance.”

Shanti twined her fingers with his. “Must be love.” She seemed distracted, glancing past me toward the door.

“So you’re a princess, right?” Aaron asked. “How does that work?”

I sighed. “It’s a pain in the ass.”

Shanti laughed. “This is why we like her.” Looking at me, she asked, “So, did you have to do the parade thing yesterday?”

“Yes,” I said, “and it sucked.”

Aaron grinned. “Best princess ever.”

“Speaking of which,” Shanti said, nodding her head toward the stage. I turned, following her gaze to where Dr. Coulter stood, captive in the glow of a double spotlight.