Charmed, I'm Sure Read online

  “Wait,” I say as she’s about to press speed dial. “Why is it always about how I look?”

  Her finger pauses over the button on the phone, and she looks at me as if I’m simple.

  “Because the fairest one of all gets the prince, Rosie,” Mom explains as if I’m a three-year-old who has forgotten her ABCs. “Remember how Dad and I met.”

  She’s got that misty look in her eyes, the one she always gets when she tells The Tale.

  Like I could ever forget it.

  “I opened my eyes and saw your father’s face and knew, right away, that we would be together forever.”

  Everyone knows my parents’ story, and no one else seems to be freaked out by it the way I am. Every time I imagine being totally passed out and waking up to find some strange guy kissing me, all I think is “EWW, NOPE! NOPE! NOPE!” So what if he’s really good-looking? I can’t see how Romance could outweigh the Creeper Factor.

  I wonder, not for the first time, if there’s something wrong with me. Maybe I’m some kind of mutant who’s missing the romantic gene.

  “But . . . how did you know he was your true love from one kiss?” I persist. “I mean, you got lucky . . . we got lucky . . . because Dad’s awesome, but what if he’d turned out to be a complete jerk?”

  Mom throws her head back and laughs. Her laugh is musical, like the tinkling of water as it pours over cut crystal.

  “That wouldn’t happen. . . . Your father is a prince.”

  Mom says it like my father’s royal blood automatically means that he is incapable of doing anything wrong, ever. But I read history books as well as fairy tales. And let me tell you, there are princes who weren’t nearly as charming as Dad. Not by a long shot. Take Richard, who murdered his two nephews in the tower, so he could become King Richard III of England. Or the other English prince who became King Henry VIII. He decided he didn’t like two of his wives, so he chopped off their heads. Now there’s a keeper. . . .

  But Mom’s got that gooey-eyed look again, which means there’s no point using logic with her.

  “I’ll take care of this,” she says, pressing Phillipe’s speed dial number. “Don’t worry, Rosie. We’ll get you a date for the dance.” She smiles at me, the lovey-dovey look still intact. “And you’ll find your own Prince Charming someday too.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I mutter as I escape to my bedroom to research solutions of my own.

  Back in my room I decide that since my friends haven’t been that much help with finding a date, I might as well try technology.

  “How do I get a date?” I ask the intelligent personal assistant in my phone.

  “Hold on a minute, I’m just checking that for you,” she says in her weird, computer-generated voice.

  She comes up with three dating services for grown-ups. One is for rich, Ivy League educated grown-ups. Not exactly what I’m looking for as a date to Fall Festive.

  I think my “intelligent” personal assistant isn’t that bright or she needs a hearing aid. Whenever I ask her to call Nicole, she replies: “Paul a hole?”

  Sighing, I open my laptop and google How to get a date in middle school.

  There’s actually a step-by-step guide. Yes! Who needs a fairy godmother when you’ve got the Internet?

  Or at least that’s what I think until I read step one.

  Be charming and funny—but not too flirtatious or you might get a reputation you don’t want. Be confident. But don’t come across as loud and strident. Otherwise, guys might think you’re a thing that rhymes with witch.

  What does that even mean? I think there’s some evil crone in a room somewhere making this stuff up so that dateless girls get confused and crazy. I can’t bring myself to read any more. It’s enough to make me wish I had a real fairy godmother.

  Being the first dateless Charming is looking better all the time. But now that I’ve told Mom, I doubt I’ll be allowed that option.

  Chapter Three

  MOM MANAGES TO SWING AN emergency appointment for me after school the next day with Phillipe, the personal stylist at Très Cher department store, to whom she refers all her top tier Charming Lifestyles subscribers. So I don’t bother going home; I head to Starcups for a skinny mocha instead. I nab one of the armchairs near the window and pull out Romeo and Juliet, a notebook, and a pen. It figures we’re doing some love at first sight Shakespeare play in Language Arts when I’m dateless, doesn’t it?

  Still, look how well the whole true love thing worked out for those two lovebirds. They ended up dead and deader.

  I’d be happy to swear off romance forever, if I weren’t Rosie Charming with a family legacy to uphold. Besides, I’ve got to write a three page response about Romeo and Juliet’s crazy doomed love by Thursday.

  Romeo and Juliet are referred to as “star-cross’d lovers.” I don’t understand why this play is considered so romantic. Romeo is an inconsistent, egotistical flake, and Juliet only falls for him because he’s good-looking and she’s too sheltered to know any better. One minute Romeo is head over heels in love with Rosaline and moping around with his Montague buddies because she doesn’t love him back, and then boom! He sees Juliet once and suddenly he’s forgotten that Rosaline ever existed, and he’s literally climbing the walls to talk to Juliet on her balcony.

  It makes you wonder if Romeo even knows what real love is, or if he’s just in love with the idea of it. All it takes is for the next beautiful girl to come along and he’s ready to transfer his affections.

  “See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!”

  I look up, startled. Is Romeo actually here somewhere?

  There’s a guy who looks to be about my age standing next to the chair opposite me. He’s tall and lanky with dark hair that hangs over his eyes. He’s wearing black straight-leg jeans and a T-shirt with a grumpy-looking cartoon skunk who’s saying Love Stinks. He’s also smiling at me. The guy, not the skunk, that is.

  He points to my copy of Romeo and Juliet.

  “What do you think of the Bard?” he asks.

  I shrug.

  “He’s okay. I liked A Midsummer Night’s Dream better. I’m not a big Romeo fan.”

  “Okay if I sit here?” he says.

  I shrug. “Suit yourself.”

  “So, what have you got against my man R. Montague?” he asks, leaning forward. I notice that he’s doodled some cool geometric designs on the sides of his Converse in black Sharpie.

  “The guy says he’s in love, but how do you go from being lovesick over Rosaline to head over heels in love with Juliet in one night?” I ask. “It’s ridiculous. I mean, seriously, if I were Juliet, I wouldn’t trust the guy, much less kill myself over him.”

  “Maybe he just thought he was in love with Rosaline,” Mystery Shakespeare Boy says.

  “So, what if he just thought he was in love with Juliet and drank the poison because he’s an emo drama queen.”

  Mystery Shakespeare Boy laughs, revealing that he (a) has already had his braces off and (b) has nice teeth.

  “Wow, you’re a tough customer, Miss I Don’t Believe in Romance.”

  I glance pointedly at his T-shirt.

  “I’m not the one wearing a Love Stinks T-shirt.”

  “You got me there,” he admits with a grin. “So . . . what’s your opinion on Miz Juliet Capulet?”

  “She’s never had a chance to live. She’s so sheltered. I mean, the girl still has a nurse,” I explain. “And then this smooth-talking hottie puts the moves on her. . . . Well, even though I think she’s crazy, I don’t blame her as much as Romeo.”

  “So you’re a guy hater, huh?”

  “I am not!” I protest. “Romeo’s just . . . shallow and immature.”

  “Not that you’re judgmental or anything.”

  He’s starting to annoy me. I am so not judgmental. . . . Am I?

  I make a point of looking at the time on my cell.

  “I’ve
got to go,” I say, gathering up my books and stuffing them in my bag without looking at him. “I’ve got a—”

  No way am I going to tell Mystery Shakespeare Boy that my mother has prescribed me what basically boils down to a top-to-toe makeover so I can get a date to the school dance.

  “Um . . . a hair . . . appointment.”

  “Hey, I know it’s none of my business,” he says, “but I . . . think your hair looks really pretty the way it is.”

  I’d been swinging my backpack onto my shoulder, and it slams against my side with a heavy thump as I turn to face him, stunned. Boys don’t come out and say stuff like that. Not in real life. Not to me.

  I have no idea what to say back to him. So I stand there like a complete idiot, staring at his face, which I notice is starting to flush. Mumbling, “Gotta go,” I bolt for the door.

  I hear him call, “Wait—what’s your . . .” as the door closes and I exit onto the street. As much as I want to, I don’t look back.

  Phillipe, my mother’s makeover guru, doesn’t share Mystery Shakespeare Boy’s opinion of my hair. Or my clothes. Or my skin. Or my nails. There doesn’t seem to be much about me that Phillipe thinks is pretty.

  “Quelle horreur!” he says. “But ne t’inquiètes pas, Mademoiselle Rosamunde. By the time Phillipe is finished with you, the young men, they will be lining up to ask you to the dance!”

  Great. My reputation has preceded me. Apparently, every member of Phillipe’s staff knows about my lack of date prospects for this dance.

  Not only that, they’ve already discussed my hair beautification plan too. Apparently, I don’t get a say, even though it’s my head. I just get to enjoy the smell of chemicals and the sight of myself looking like a Martian with twists of aluminum foil all over my skull.

  I take a selfie and send it to Nicole and Katie.

  Date Material yet?

  LOL! Katie texts back.

  HAWT! Nicole writes.

  Met a cute but annoying guy in Starcups, I text them.

  OMG! You cannot date a rando from Starcups! Katie texts back right away.

  Stranger Danger!! Stranger Danger!!!!!! Nicole warns.

  Don’t worry. I’m not my mom, I text back to them. I didn’t even tell him my name.

  Good Girl! Katie texts. Stay safe! And make sure to send us the After shots.

  I’ve got Romeo and Juliet and my notebook on my lap, because thanks to the Starcups guy, I didn’t finish my essay. But Phillipe dumps a bunch of glossy hairstyle magazines on top of them and tells me to browse for ideas.

  “I just want a trim,” I tell him. “I don’t want anything too out there.”

  Phillipe gives a shrug and mutters something under his breath. He says it in French, and I take Spanish, but the tone sounds like my mom when I’ve disappointed her with my fashion choices again.

  Then he gives a stream of instructions in rapid-fire Italian to the hairstylist, Giacomo. When I look in the mirror, they’re both nodding in agreement and smiling. I know I’m in danger, because I’m stuck in this chair with tin foil twisties all over my head and Giacomo is the one with the scissors.

  I put the magazines aside and open Romeo and Juliet, deciding to reread the parts where the two meet and the balcony scene. It’s all about love at first sight, just like The Tale of Mom and Dad.

  So is this the lesson I’m supposed to be taking away from this: that if you want the kind of love that people read about forever, you have to be passionate but totally clueless?

  “Zis is why you are such a state, Rosamunde!” Phillipe complains, pulling Shakespeare from my hands. “You spend too much time with your nose in a book and not enough time looking at ze pimples on your nose.”

  What pimples on my nose? I thought I had zits only on my chin!

  I look up in the mirror, panicked.

  Phillipe lifts my hand and shows it to the manicurist.

  “Do ze best you can,” he says with the kind of tragic import usually reserved for funeral directors.

  “After zis, ze makeup,” he says. “And then, clothes.” Phillipe shudders again as he surveys my outfit, the one I’d felt perfectly great in until now. “We must do something about your clothes! Quelle horreur!”

  Deprived of my book, a magazine, or even music, I figure I might as well give in. I close my eyes and let them get on with working their magic.

  After the color is rinsed out of my hair and I’m brought back to the Makeover Chair, I hear snipping. Lots of it. Meanwhile, my nails are picked and buffed and my hands drenched in moisturizer and put in heated mitts. Then the pulling, blow-drying, and brushing starts on my head. The mitts are taken off, my hands are wiped down with heated towels, and the manicurist tells me to keep my hands still while she paints my nails.

  “What do you think I’m going to do? It’s not like I can do too much with them while you guys are working on me, right?” I say.

  “This one needs a personality makeover,” Giacomo mutters.

  I’m tempted to tell him I heard that, but I don’t, because right now I’m feeling more like a widget on a production line than Rosie White Charming. And widgets don’t talk.

  When my nails are done, the manicurist gives me strict instructions to stay still. Giacomo announces he is finished, and I can open my eyes now to see how much more “bella” I look.

  “Non!” Phillipe says. “Wait till after the makeup for the full effect!”

  So I stay still like a good store mannequin, eyes closed, while Kara the makeup artist plucks, paints, brushes, and puffs.

  “There,” she says after applying lip gloss. “Much better.”

  “C’est formidable!” Phillipe exclaims. “You wouldn’t know it was the same gamine who walked in here. Open your eyes, Mademoiselle Rose, and see the transformation!”

  Afraid to look, I squint at my reflection in the mirror. Or at least what I think is my reflection, because the girl there doesn’t look anything like me. Her hair is cut into long layers, and it’s glossy with deep golden highlights in the brown locks. Her chin zits have been covered up and her skin evened out to a dewy gold tone, with rosy tinted cheeks framing her glossy pink lips.

  To tell you the truth, she freaks me out a little. To tell you the honest truth, she freaks me out a lot.

  “Wow. I look like I could be on the cover of Seventeen or Teen Vogue or something.” I lean closer to the mirror to check myself out.

  “Not in those clothes,” Phillipe sniffs. He nods to Giacomo, who whips off the hairdresser smock. “Come. It’s time to see to your wardrobe.”

  Phillipe escorts me to a private dressing room in the teen department, where he’s already had his fashion minions pick out an assortment of outfits for me to try on. Outfits that look nothing like what I would normally wear.

  “Seriously?” I say. “You expect me to wear something like this to school?” as Minion One holds up the first outfit, a flowery miniskirt with a flowing pink top. She has ballet flats in my size to match.

  Phillipe puts his hands on his hips and looks at me down his nose, over his very chic titanium frame glasses.

  “Mademoiselle Rose . . . do you want a date for zis dance or don’t you?”

  Minions One and Two are giving me matching disapproving looks.

  “Yes, I do,” I sigh. I just wish there were an easier way to get one.

  I take the outfit and retreat into the dressing room to try it on. Taking off my normal clothes feels like I’m shedding my skin—at least the skin that hasn’t already been transformed by makeup.

  When I dress, the girl looking back at me is cute and put together. Everything matches. But she’s not me. I mean, she is me, obviously, duh, but she doesn’t feel like me. I take out the little compact that Mom gave me so I can look at the back of the outfit.

  Things are working according to plan. A little more work and you’ll be Fairest in the Land. . . .

  Where did that come from? Did the chemicals they use in my hair go to my brain? The voice sounded like it
came from the Mirror in the compact. But that can’t be it. Maybe I’m going crazy from being subjected to The Tale one too many times?

  Anyway, who wants to be the Fairest in the Land? Not me, that’s for sure.

  Don’t say no before you try it. Especially since your mom is buying it!

  Okayyy, this is beyond freaky now. Is this some weird reality TV joke my parents are playing on me as a promotion for CharmingLifestyles.com? I wouldn’t put it past them. They can get a little out there when it comes to promoting the Charming brand.

  I start looking around the dressing room frantically, searching for hidden cameras.

  “We have lots more to try on, mademoiselle,” Phillipe calls through the door. “How does that fit?”

  I shake my head to clear it, close the compact and put it back in my backpack, and open the dressing room door.

  For the first time all day, I get a broad smile of approval from Phillipe.

  “Parfait! Now you are a worthy heir to Maman’s legend,” he says, clapping his small hands with excitement. He gestures to Minion Two, who hands me another, equally not me outfit to try on.

  I don’t protest this time. I just take it and do as I’m told.

  I’ve always rebelled against The Tale. But being me hasn’t scored me a date for the dance. Maybe this crazy inner voice I keep hearing is right, and it’s time to embrace the legend instead of fighting it.

  Chapter Four

  I NEEDED ONLY ONE OR two outfits, but after seeing me, Phillipe called Mom and persuaded her my dress sense is so appalling that I need a completely new wardrobe with precise instructions on how to wear every item of clothing. Apparently, I am “a danger to (my) fashionable self.” The Minions take pictures of me in each outfit and then more pictures of how different outfits can be mixed and matched. Nothing is left to my imagination, “because, ma petite, let’s face it, when it comes to fashion, your imagination is . . . shall we say . . . lacking?” Phillipe points out.

  Since I’ve decided to give in and embrace the legend, I ignore his insult and bite the side of my cheek to contain the sass. I even manage to pull off the hint of a smile.