Meditations on Cinderella

Thought I'd put up the writing project I'm working on now. :) It's not exactly a cohesive story, nor a collection of short stories, but more like... scenes, short stories and impressions I've written, all revolving around and based on Cinderella. Some bits are highly related to one another, some are completely standalone, some are just the traditional story from a different point of view and some of them throw a wrench into the whole plot. Eventually I do have an idea I want to pull together into a novel from the prince's point of view called "Charming."

Anyway, here they are - hope you enjoy!

#1

I have a question. One I'm not quite sure how to ask.

Do girls want to be followed?

Wait. Let me ask that again.

When a girl runs - leaves, who knows why, after the boy had been thinking that for once, things were going right, for once, everything was falling into place...are you supposed to let her go?

Is it because she wants to go? Or because she wants you to chase after her? Or both? Does she even know what she wants? Do I even know what I want? I’m thinking too much. But I know I miss her.

At midnight, the minute hand joined the hour hand at the number twelve, high above us on the courtyard's grand clock tower.

She ran.

I followed her through the ballroom, not caring if we caused a scene, not caring about looking like a fool, not caring about anything, really, except that the girl I thought could be the one was running as if her heart were breaking, and I didn't know why. I only knew that, whatever it was, I wanted to mend it.

But she disappeared, and not even on the fastest horse of the royal stables could I find her. It’s as if she simply disappeared. Days have passed...weeks...it's been a month that I've been searching for her. Still, I haven't found her.

So, I guess my question is...does she want me to keep looking for her? To scour the kingdom, maiden by maiden, searching for the one - the only - whose heart fits with mine, whose foot will fit perfectly into the slipper she left behind?

Or is running her way of saying goodbye?

#2

            Club music beat in time with the flashing colors and lights on the dance floor. A guy and a girl danced somewhere in the middle of the floor. Him, white skin and gelled hair, wearing a tentative smile, but moving stiffly and keeping his arms as close to his sides as if they were duct-taped there. One of those go-getter college boys, going out on a rare break from long study nights. The girl, she had pretty eyes and black hair, smooth Latino features and a bright smile. They weren’t the most attractive couple out there, and definitely not the best dancers. But they were having a world of fun.

            “What’s your name?” The boy shouted over the blast of music, branching out enough to try  to spin her. He stepped on her foot.

            “Ow!” She grabbed her foot, wincing.

            “Sorry, sorry!” He stepped back for a minute, ‘til she smiled her forgiveness and joined him in dancing again.

            Name? she thought as she danced. Name, name, she knew that one. Nombre.

            “Juliana!” she shouted back, glad that at least she had a reasonable excuse not to have answered his question immediately.

            “Hooey-what-now?” It was obvious he could barely hear a thing, but he didn’t seem to mind. She hesitated, then pulled closer to shout in his ear. “Name! Juliana!”

            “Oh, Juliana!” He smiled widely, neutral-colored adult braces showing on his bottom teeth. “I’m Chris!”

            Juliana smiled and nodded. Entiendo, tonto. I understand.

            “Want to grab a coffee some time?” Chris practically yelled into her ear. Not sure what he said, she smiled again, and nodded vaguely. He beamed, dancing more exuberantly in response. He must have been happy.

            The song changed. She’d heard it on the radio before, but couldn’t quite keep a hold of names and titles in her mind. She was absorbing so much English every day, it was nice to just let la canción be what it was, and feel the music and the rhythm sink in through her ears, without knowing who sang it or why or what it said. But it was slow, flowing, and Chris promptly put his arms around her waist and started revolving on the spot.

            Juliana almost laughed. He didn’t quite understand what movimiento en baile really was. His feet shuffled, and his hands lacked confidence. If she kept her eyes open too long, he’d probably make her dizzy. So she closed her eyes and let the music lead her swaying within his arms. He didn’t quite have el ritmo – but that was fine. She didn’t understand all his words, either. But she could feel things in his movement and his touch. He was shy, but held her anyway. He was happy to be holding her. And he held her like a gift, something glass he might break if he handled her too roughly, instead of something he already owned, and she liked that.

            She wondered if he’d like to tomar un café with her some time.

#3

A fabric factory up the street let its dye run out into the city streets of New York City, blending into the water and staining it with gaudy colors. Despite myself, I wrinkled my nose at the green and purple flow, making certain not to step where it would stain my kidskin wingtips. I leaned against a building near the back entrance to the theater Elsie worked at, some small-time Vaudeville place. I checked my watch. Were they running over time again? How long could some show called The Girl In the Taxi be, anyway?

Indoor lighting spilled from the doors to the streets as actors and dancers, wearing coats and carrying carpet bags, streamed out of the studio and spread through the back alley of New York City like a river delta flowing to the ocean. I perked up, pulled my vest straight and tipped my bowler hat.

“Bascom!” A dancer fought her way toward me through the stream, smiling brightly. I met her halfway through the crowd and pulled her to the wall with me.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” I started, kissing first her cheek and then under her ear.

“Bascom!” Elsie cried. “We’re in public!” She pushed me away, probably looking over my shoulder, too, to make sure none of her colleagues were scandalized by the display.

            “All right, all right,” I said, pulling her hand up to kiss the diamond ring she wore. I’d been all over, consulting the best jewelers in town, before I bought it and proposed. It was a thing of beauty. We had agreed that she wouldn’t wear it tonight, meeting my parents – they needed to meet her, see her, learn to love her before they knew I’d done anything so rash as get engaged without their permission.

I looked at Elsie. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes darting, but bright. Her nervous smile melted into a warm one as the tail end of the stream of her fellow vaudevillians filtered away.  I smiled, worries fading to the back of my mind, and kissed her quick.

“Will the young lady be needing an escort to see her safely home?” I offered an arm. Elsie eyed my arm, eyebrows raised and lips drawn into a compressed smile.

 “Needing your help, sir?” She flicked my elbow. “As a matter of fact, no, I will not be needing anything of the sort. However – “ My eyebrow shot up, but she raised her finger, cutting off whatever half-baked comeback I might’ve wanted to say. “As it so happens, I would enjoy your company. If you’d like to come along, that is.” She strode forward, wearing a satisfied smile. I shook my head and jogged after her.

 “So, you ready for the big night?” I took her hand. My mother’s ball at the Astor Hotel would start at 9 o’clock. Elsie glanced up at the clock tower. It read somewhere near 6:15 p.m. She sighed.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” I assured her, rubbing her back as we walked. “Your gown has been fitted and we’ve gone over everything you need to know to fit in with those kinds of people. So long as you show up in the carriage I’m sending instead of catching a ride in one of those dang automobiles – ”

“Bascom!” Elsie gasped. “Watch your language!”

“Sorry,” I replied, sheepish.

“And anyway, don’t you know? I just love automobiles.” Elsie smiled slyly. “Don’t you think goggles and the smell of gasoline would go perfectly with my dress?”

I laughed half-heartedly, but it put me on edge. I’d practiced with her how to act, how to blend in with high society socialites and debutantes and all those prissy girls at least a little, but would she follow through? Or would she try to be clever, and bring her credibility crashing down with her? And there would go any chance of a happy blend between my parents’ world and my girl.

Elsie must have seen the way my eyes went unfocused, or perhaps the twitch in my jaw. She squeezed my hand, pulling me closer to the edge of the road as a taxi rolled by.

“Don’t worry so much.” She smiled. “I was only joking. You taught me well.”

That eased my tension, at least a little. “Promise you’ll take the carriage, then?”

“I promise.”

“And you have some girl friends who can help you into the dress tonight?”

“They’ll be over at seven.”

“And they know how to do your hair, those curling iron things?”

“Yes.”

“And you remember the dances, right? It’s different from the stuff you do at the theater, you’ve got to step light, like your shoes are made of glass, and let your partner lead you. We could always review if you don’t – ”

“Bascom.”

“I’m just saying – “

“Bascom!” Elsie stopped. “It’s okay, you can calm down now, all right?” She smiled. “I’ll have you right there with me, won’t I?”

“Yes,” I said. “Of course. But I won’t be with you every second, you know, and I’ll have to dance with whatever girls my mother introduces me to or else their families would take it as some kind of slight, and as this will be your first ball in the area, supposedly, you’ll need to dance with other partners, too – and you know I love you, but sometimes you just say things – “

“I know when to keep quiet."

“But just one wrong move or word, and they’ll sniff you out at the drop of a hat.” She had to be perfect. She had to be charming, pleasing, comfortable under stress, and exude true inner class, or else marrying her would mean giving up my parents, my life, and everything I knew. “My parents, they have to like you first, and get used to you before they find out you’re a – “

“A what, Bascom?

Oh no. Wrong move on my part. She looked directly at me, her hands perched on her hips, her mouth taut. "What am I, exactly? Just a low-class dancer working for her money, who can’t afford to spend all day dripping in perfume and silk, is that it?”

I avoided her angry eyes. No one gave me angry eyes except my mother, and as refreshing as Elsie’s bluntness was to me, it was still disconcerting.

“Well, I mean – well, that’s not what I was saying…”

She caught my eye with a terrible glare and held it for a moment, then walked ahead alone.

“C’mon, Elsie! You know what I meant!” This wasn’t good. I couldn’t afford to upset her like this, not tonight. “I just – you know! I love you, but I don’t want to lose my parents if I can help it!”

Elsie slowed to a stop in front of her apartment building, still tense. I approached her, cautious, wanting to touch her shoulder, but I knew better than to try that now.

Finally, she relaxed.  “I know,” she said, heaving a sigh. “I know, I just…I know.” 

She was still angry, I could tell. I could practically read the things she still had to say in her eyes, and feel her anger in her posture. But she held herself back. In a way, that made me ache, but that kind of self-restraint was just what we needed, for tonight.

“Honey,” I said, pulling her close to me. She wrapped her arms around my waist under my baggy day coat, still reluctant, still angry, but accepting my peace offering, as it were. “You aren’t a problem,” I said into her ear, rocking her a little from side to side. “If anyone is, it’s them.”

Elsie took a breath, then two. I kissed her quick, before she could cry. She hated crying in front of anyone.

She smiled, though her eyes were still swollen. Then she grabbed my jacket and leaned back against the brick wall, dragging me with her as she pulled me in for another, much longer kiss. 

Apparently, at some point in the last thirty seconds I made the right move.

"Well, I guess this is my stop, hm?" Elsie asked a few minutes later, patting the brick building behind her with a soft, teasing smile.

"Guess so," I said, grinning like a fool. I looked down and scuffed my boot on the ground. "See you tonight?"

#4

 

She was troubled, that I could tell. The courtyard at night was beautiful, with the well-tended garden paths circling the great clock tower that rose into the sky. The poetic atmosphere was accentuated by the music winding its way out of the castle ballroom. The moon, the stars, even the clock tower and castle lights shone their reflections onto the surface of the lake below us. But Cinderella, though she rested her arm in mine, was silent in the wrong kind of way – the way that meant I should be able to read her mind somehow and make her feel better. Which of course, I couldn’t. I took a stab at it anyway.

“Are you all right?”

She looked up at me, then back down, pursing her lips in thought. “Sort of…”

“What’s on your mind?” I guided her along the garden pathways.

“Well, everything’s working perfectly, right? As far as we can tell…and it just makes me wonder.”

I blinked in confusion. Everything was working out, and this was a problem? “Mother and Father loved you,” I tried to reassure her, ruffled. “It’s not too far a shot beyond that to think they’d be happy to accept you in court, especially when you’re my wife – my princess.” I pulled up her gloved hand to kiss it, but no sooner did my lips touch the silk than she pulled her hand away.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “In court, to be a princess, and give up the life I’ve always had. What if I’m not sure I’m ready for that?”

“You’re ready,” I insisted. “You’re doing the court thing just fine, better than half the people in there.” I gestured in the general direction of the ballroom, where high arched windows glowed with the images of guests still dancing on the floor.

“No, no, you’re not listening,” she went on, refusing to be comforted. “It’s not that I don’t think I’m able, it’s just – well, I don’t think I can do this!”

This made no sense to me. I strained to hear beyond her words, to hear what it was that was bothering her so much, but I was coming up blank. She had started talking again.

“…just isn’t me. I don’t know if you ever thought about it this way, but it’s not like everyone’s dying to be a part of royal life. It doesn’t feel right. I don’t think I can walk on political eggshells for the rest of my life, being a quiet, pretty puppet just reacting to whatever’s going on around me. I’d lose myself, and that’s not what I want.” She stopped, waiting for a response.

I opened my mouth to speak, but I was having a difficult time with it. What was wrong with being royal? Something stung about the way she said it. Was that all she thought my life as a prince was, ‘pretty puppetry’? That, even though we’d planned all this together, and she’d known what she was choosing, she didn’t want to be a part of my world?

Cinderella put her silk-clad hand on her hip, narrowing her eyes at me. “You like seeing me like this, don’t you?”

            I stopped in my tracks. I knew that my instinctive, honest answer was the last thing she wanted to hear. Of course. There is no right answer when she gets like this. But my eyes flicked down to her dress, her polished appearance, her eyes heightened with color, her lips curved in a frown that somehow looked more like an alluring pout than a scowl, her skin glowing with cleanliness.

I did. I liked seeing her like this.

 But that was the wrong answer.

The grand clock tower above us struck midnight, and began its deep, echoing chime. Bong.  Bong. Bong.

            I opened my mouth to speak, but Cinderella’s look stopped me. Bong. She glared at me, her face in the shadow of the tower, her hurt, her indignation growing more pronounced with each strike of the clock. Bong.  She turned away.

            “Cinderella – ”

            She cut me off. “It’s midnight. It’s late.” Bong.  “I’m going home.”

            “Just – “ I reached out, looking more like I was strangling something invisible than trying to actually stop her. This was  stupid! What was so wrong with liking how she looked? Why on earth was she being so dramatic? So, she looks better cleaned up and put in silk than she does in a manure-covered, boxy dress. So what? I still love her when she’s covered in dirt and hay and whatever else, that doesn’t make a difference! It’s just nice, when she looks nice, and isn’t bent over from always carrying hay bales heavier than she is, that’s all! What man doesn’t like to see that in his girl?

            Bong.

My frustration reached a boiling point, and I shouted the first thing that came to my head.

“But I didn’t even say anything!”

Bong.

            Cinderella looked back, just over her shoulder. “You didn’t have to.”

Bong.

            She left.

I just stood there for at least a full five minutes, trying to get myself under control enough to not yell so loud the entire court in the ballroom would hear me, even from out here. Finally I punched the clock tower. “Ow!” I gasped, cradling my hand.

            “You didn’t have to.” Her last words flung across my face like a slap. “You didn’t have to.”

            “You didn’t have to, either!” I shouted, not even sure what I meant by it. I stalked out toward the lake, feeling petty, and more hurt than I cared to admit even to myself. And that stupid, parting shot. “You didn’t have to”?

“Didn’t have to do what?” I grumbled angrily to myself. I kicked a rock, and watched it tumble down the carefully landscaped cliff edge to roll into the lake, sending ripples through the perfect picture it reflected. I could barely even think, those last, holier-than-thou words resounding in my ears. She was so sure that I meant something by it, that wanting to see her taken care of meant I didn’t think she could take care of herself, that wanting her in my life meant I held contempt for the life she had made for herself.

“Maybe I just love you, did you think about that?” I yelled again, scuffing my finest boots in the dirt and punching the air. Somehow, even just wanting to make her happy twisted around to become a crime. Woman! I could do nothing right with her! Why did I even love her, anyway?

I didn’t want to think about that. I’d remind myself all the reasons. Or…the thought struck me as a real possibility for the first time, I realized, with a touch of horror…would I find that, really, the reasons weren’t enough? That all this work, this whole plan, was just born of too many moments of romantic thinking and not enough plain common sense?

I didn’t want to think about that, either. I didn’t want to think about anything. I just wanted to get on my horse and ride, ride so fast my thoughts couldn’t keep up with me, and so long that I’d be too tired to think at all by the time I came back.

           

 #5

It’s early morning, and despite my exhaustion, I can’t fall back asleep. So I stand outside on my bedroom’s private balcony, leaning against the smooth alabaster banister. The sun is only just thinking of rising. Beyond the rolling lawn, the courtyards and gardens, the city sprawls out beneath my view, only half-visible in the filtered gray of pre-dawn light.

Last night I spent riding through the city streets, a herald before me to shout the purpose of our search. My head still aches from his shrill but piercing cry, repeated for hours on end as we scoured each neighborhood and marketplace yet again. “Make way, make way!” he shouted. “Prince Ferdinand rides in search of the maiden who fits the glass slipper!”

It’s probably the least efficient search method I’ve ever heard of. Ridiculous, to assume that only the one girl could fit into a certain shoe, and that that one girl – the one some called a foreign princess – would still even be in the kingdom. But it’s not quite as simple as that. The facts, the puzzle pieces, they refuse to fit together, and the discordance between them screams in my mind at something obvious, something huge, that escapes me.

I fiddle with the object in my hands. The slipper. Made of glass, scratched in places, but an amazing piece of craftsmanship nonetheless. I know every angle of it by heart, by sight and by touch. I’ve taken the shoe throughout the city, tried it on a hundred girls, but no luck, no divine intervention.

The sun barely gleams over the mountaintops, diffusing the blanket of darkness covering the land with a warmer glow. Automatically, I scan the streets, the various sections of the city, the villages beyond, giving myself a mental check for every area we’ve covered.

I sigh. Logistically, this search is just insane. For every dozen maidens whose foot couldn’t quite fit, at least twenty more were outside of my reach. Prince or not, barging in on every home in the kingdom would undermine so much of what my father has built in the realm of freedom for our subjects. If the prince could search every home without warning, rifle through every girl in the kingdom regardless of their wishes, based on what seems a whim? The people would never feel safe under my rule again. Though it could technically be legal, given our state of monarchy, the repercussions on my trustworthiness as future king would be irreparable.

And so, endless paperwork. For every home, I must obtain written consent from the head of the household to enter, written consent of the maiden to try to fit the slipper, written consent and acknowledgement that, should the slipper fit, I reserve the right to request the maiden’s hand in marriage and in all likelihood remove her from her household should she accept, all recorded and signed and logged away. It would be a nightmare even if every subject could read and write  enough to scrawl out their signature with ease. A month ago, I had no idea illiteracy ran so rampant in the kingdom…

And still, no sign of the lady I sought. No message, no hint that she had even thought of me again.

            I think back to the time – the short time, only hours – that we shared. Dancing, talking, about everything from philosophy to opinions on the knights in tournament to the stories she grew up hearing.

            She was so…fresh. Everything I could think to tell her about, she found fascinating. I found her fascinating. She asked the strangest questions. She looked right into my eyes, without shame or shyness.

            And far into the evening, in the moonlit courtyard, she looked so happy, so comfortable. What had changed? Is there something I missed?

            I remember the moment exactly. Cinderella watched me intently as I explained the social development theory I had been studying at the university. I didn’t even notice when I’d lost her attention, but her expression changed. Something, some feeling filtered into her eyes, just one grain at a time, like sand in an hourglass. She started glancing around. Her nose went pink and her nostrils flared.

            “Milady?” I glanced behind me, then turned back to her. “Milady, are you all right?”

            “I’m all right, I’m all right,” she said, catching the wetness under her eyes with her fingertips and waving her hand in front of her face, as if to shoo my inquiry away. “I just…I have to go.”

            “Go?”

            “Yes, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she said, rising from the stone bench. “I’m glad I met you, Ferdinand.”

“Wait – ” I stood, reaching for her. She just shook her head and sniffed loudly, a few tears barely cresting her eyelashes, and ran.

“No! Wait!”

Then she was gone.

            I just can’t shake the nagging feeling that, whatever it was, whatever broke her heart and forced her away, she didn’t want it to be that way. She had wanted to stay. Wishful thinking on my part? Maybe…

           

           

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What'd you think? :)