#PastelPrincess

“Since the invention of the kiss, there have been five kisses rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.” -- The Princess Bride Arm and arm with Sophia, we leave the locker room in our freshly washed and oh-so-comfortable Victoria Secret sweats. The rain is pounding heavily against the non-denominational stained-glass windows above the bleachers, and we are fully prepared to lounge for the next forty-five minutes. Feet on the bottom step, however, and there’s a shrill whistle. Our eyes look over and my shoulders drop, a substitute. For some twisted reason, unlike a sub in any other class, a Physical Education sub actually wants us to do something in their allotted time. Sophia groans next to me but doesn’t give up hope by dragging us down to the lowest bench. The elder man, a little too thin with huge glasses and crazy grey hair, waves for all over us to gather around. Most of us don’t, but we do quiet to listen. He accepts this with a sigh, “All righty, sixth period P.E.! Today we will not be able to continue your archery lesson’s given the weather. As I’m sure all over you are aware in just over a month is the Winter Formal, so, today I thought would be a perfect opportunity to learn the waltz!” Head back, bottom of my thick, dark-chocolate braid tickling the edge of my perfectly tight Excelsior Academy gym shirt, I groan “Kill me, So-So.” Sophia giggles and nudges me. “Oh, com’on then. You’ve been able to waltz since you were… what, six? This will be cake for you.” Over my shoulder, my green eyes gaze at her in a familiar squint, “Horrible, dried-out, no icing, carrot cake, maybe.” We stand and I try not to speak against the sexist rule of a male student must dance with a female student. I was hoping today might be one of those perfect days where there’s enough boys missing from class that Sophia and I can f**k around. But with one glance of the NBA regulation basketball court, I can tell it’s even-steven. By the time Sophia and I care to look around and find a partner, it’s a little too late. All the couples matched up instantly, the rest ended up with their accurate social group. Only two boys are left, Sophia’s and my third musketeer, Macen, and Christopher O’Crosphen. Hand tight around Sophia’s wrist, nails slightly marking her pale skin, eyes wide, I whisper-screech “Sophia!” She notices and shakes her head, her copper bob swishing quickly, hazel eyes looking sharply at me. “I got stuck with him in Physics! For the whole semester. It’s not my turn.” She isn’t wrong. A low groan and I can’t even bring myself to look at Christopher. Macen holds a handout for her with a huge smile, “All ready, Freckles?” They both shoot me a momentary glance of ‘I’m sorry’ before they move onto the floor. Standing tall, shoulders back, face forward, I hold out my right forearm. “Good afternoon, Christopher.” In my peripheral his head nods slowly, his mess of black hair flittering down. His fingers reach to push back his bangs, and even in the Excelsior Academy gym shirt and spirit sweatpants, he looks like a damn hipster. “Princess.” My left-hand fists and takes a while to ease. “It’s Lorianna,” I correct him again. “My apologizes, Princess Lorianna.” We turn to each other, we pose, I finally look at his stupid face. Too perfect, too symmetrical, or whatever mathematical bull s**t that equates to beauty. Black hair, pale skin, icy blue eyes…. He should just run off already and be a model, not waste his time being an asshole at my school. “Christopher O’Crosphen, I don’t know how many times I have to,” I breathe instead of curse, “explain to you: just call me Lorianna.” Music starts and we begin without hesitation. As a Prime Minister’s son, (a physical and sometimes social mini-me to his father) – his family being in politics all his life and very chummy with the English Royal Family - and me being Princess of Benovia (a tiny country that most haven’t heard of, right of Romania and just under the tip of the Ukraine, left of the Black Sea) – we spent many formal events waltzing, sometimes with each other. Tall, thin but toned, he reminds me of most men I’ve met from the United Kingdom but that much prettier. And thanks to American orthodontia, another perfect smile. A whole head above my average-Benovian height of five-foot-four, I have to tilt my chin to keep eye contact. Though we’ve been attending the same schools in Massachusetts since seventh grade, his London accent is still intact. “And how many times must I comment on how it bugs you so?” He smirks. “It’s the little things, Lorianna.” As we spin, I look out to everyone else. Most of us have been taught to waltz given our family’s status or careers, but there are a few couples out there still a little awkward in their movements. “I can see a few lovely ladies that could have used your expertise today.” My eyes lazily come back to his. “Did you have your head too far,” up your a*s, “in the clouds to snag one?” One song eases into the next, much to my displeasure. If there was a break maybe I could shove another girl at him and be free of this bull s**t. Though I think my face is placid, it must have given me away. Christopher responds calmly, “You dislike me that much, huh?” I know better than to take the bait. “So… any idea why Coach Edwards isn’t here?” “No.” “Well, hopefully, he’ll be back Monday.” A small silence and then Christopher readjusts quickly. Back a little straighter, hand a little softer under mine, “Lorianna, there’s something I wanted to discuss with you.” I let myself have a long blink, “If you ask me to join student government one more time, I swear I’m going to scream.” “It’s not that,” he reassures quickly. “Then what?” I snap a little too harshly, finally looking at him again. Voice still quiet, still even, he doesn’t even smile, “Would you care to have dinner with me?” My brows furrow, “I don’t have my phone on me, which gala is it now?” His half-American side shows itself, expression blooming across his face. A small frown, red blushing from his ears to his nose, he gulps hard. “No gala… I’m, well, trying to ask you on a date.” The softness is gone just as quickly and his defensive smarminess back. “You have heard of a date, haven’t you? Where two people go out socially, dinner… maybe a movie.” My eyes roll. “Usually those people like each other, Christopher.” Looking around the room I ask, “Someone put you up to this?” “Why would I need someone to dare me to ask you out on a date, Little Lori?” I push off of him and jam a finger into his chest. Scream-whispering, my rage boils over at him, “We are not some children playing tricks or stealing sweets at a gala anymore – you have no right to call me Little Lori! I’m just some ‘gypsy scum’, remember? f**k. You.” And find Sophia and Macen just a few feet away and drag them to the weight room.