If I Have a Wicked Stepmother, Where's My Prince?

emphasize the accuracy of her insight.

"Totally," said Madison, nodding too. She looked over at Sam and narrowed her eyes. Then she

looked back at me. "Actually, he's kind of cute," she said.

"Thanks," I said. I let my eyes rest on Sam for a second before turning back to Madison and

Jessica. "Well, have fun in the Hamptons."

"I wish you were coming," said Madison. "You have to call us while we're there."

"And you'll come over Sunday night," said Jessica. "So we can debrief."

"Really?" I said, surprised.

"What do you mean, 'really'?" Madison looked confused.

"Yeah," said Jessica. "I mean, we're not going to see you all weekend." She and Madison both hugged me. Before letting go, Jessica gave me one last piece of advice.

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"If your stepmother says you can't come Sunday, just tie her up and lock her in the closet."

"I don't think it'll come to that," I said. "I'll see you Sunday."

And as I crossed the ballroom, I felt a tremendous surge of joy. Who knew you could dump your

prince and still keep your loyal court?

Outside the wind was whipping a few pale clouds across the sky, which was bright with the

nearly full moon. A row of horse-drawn carriages was lined up across the street, waiting to take

people on rides through Central Park.

"I can't believe this is happening," Sam said. He took my hand and gestured with it toward the

horses. "So, what do you think? Want to ride off into the sunset on a slightly anemic steed?"

I took his other hand in mine and turned him to face me. "Look, you should know. It turns out I

don't really have a wicked stepmother," I said. "So I don't believe in fairy tales anymore."

"Really?" He furrowed his forehead. "No magic spells?" I shook my head. "No fairy godmothers?" I shook it again. "What happened? Ding-dong the witch is dead."

I laughed. "She's not dead." I looked across the street, as if the answer to Sam's question was

hiding somewhere in the park. When it didn't emerge, I just

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shrugged. "I don't know," I said. "It's like everything changed but nothing changed, you know what I mean?" Sam shook his head. "Yeah, I don't exactly know either."

Sam put his hands on either side of my face. "Well, anyway, I'm glad," he said. "It must really suck to have a wicked stepmother." He kissed me lightly on the lips. "Then again, I wouldn't

have minded being your Prince Charming."

I slipped my arms over his shoulders and touched his soft, curly hair. "Oh, yes you would have,"

I said.

Sam wrapped his arms around my waist and leaned his forehead against mine. "Well, if you still

want to be a princess, that's okay by me."

I considered it for a second. "You know, I think I'll pass," I said.

"Suit yourself," said Sam. And then, just as we were about to kiss, he froze. "Wait, we still get to have the happy ending, right?"

"Oh, definitely," I said, tilting my face up to his. "We definitely get to have the happy ending."

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I am lucky enough to owe thanks to Ben Gantcher, Neal Gantcher, Elizabeth Rudnick, the Saint

A

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Check out Melissa Kantor's newest story...

The Breakup Bible

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***

I Am Trying to Break Your Heart

In nineteenth-century novels, characters die of heartbreak. Literally. A girl gets dumped, and

she's so grief-stricken she suffers a "brain fever," or goes wandering out on the moors, and the next thing you know the whole town is hovering by her bedside while a servant gallops on a

desperate midnight ride to fetch the doctor. Only, before you can say Bring on the leeches!, the

guilt-ridden rake who abandoned our heroine is strewing rose petals on her grave and begging

God to Please, take me, too, because his ex is dead, dead, dead.

According to Mrs. Hamilton, my English teacher, this is known as a "convention." After writing

convention on the blackboard, she gave us a lecture explaining that conventions are things we

accept when they happen in books and movies even though they never happen in

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real life. Then she asked us to think of some modern conventions, like how characters on soap

operas get amnesia constantly, and in teen movies the only thing an ugly girl needs to be pretty is

contact lenses and a new haircut, when in real life if an ugly girl gets contact lenses and a new

haircut, she's just an ugly girl with contact lenses and a new haircut.

But when Max told me that he'd "been thinking about it a lot lately" and had "decided it would be better if we were just friends," it occurred to me that dying of a broken heart might not be a

convention. I unbuckled my seat belt, slid out of his car, and shut the door. As the freezing

February air slapped my cheeks, I thought, That's the last time I'm going to get out of Max's car.

And right after that I thought, I'm never going to kiss Max again. And then I thought, Max isn't my boyfriend anymore. And that's when I knew I was going to be sick. I got inside with barely

enough time to drop my bag and make it to the upstairs bathroom before I hurled. And then I

spent about an hour lying on the cold tile floor trying to get up the strength to walk from the

bathroom to my room, which is a distance of roughly ten feet. And when I finally did manage to

make it to my room, I just got into bed without taking off my clothes or anything. Right before I

fell asleep, I decided that whoever made the brilliant so-called medical decision that death by

heartbreak was

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only a "convention" of nineteenth-century literature clearly never had her heart broken.

Because if anything can make death feel like a truly desirable alternative, it's getting dumped.

***

I'd had an insane crush on Max Brown since I first joined the

Hillsboro High Spectator

as a

lowly freshman reporter. By this fall, when I was a junior and the newly appointed managing

editor of the paper, and Max was a senior and editor in chief, I liked him so much I could hardly

read in his presence (which, as you can imagine, made editing the paper something of a

challenge). But even though we were constantly engaging in flirty banter, and he was forever

saying stuff to me like "Je

Until.

Until the third Saturday in September, when Jeremy Peterson chose to honor the trust his parents

had placed in him by throwing an enormous kegger at his house while they went out of town for

the weekend.

Jeremy Peterson and Max are really good friends, so there was zero doubt Max would be in

attendance (and, by extension, zero doubt I'd be there). Arriving fashionably late, my friends

Clara and Martha and I passed Max's Mini Cooper parked in the driveway. Both of

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them gave me significant looks as we walked by the car, but none of us said a word; good secret

agents know better than to discuss a mission in progress.

The three of us hung out in the kitchen for a while drinking beers, and then I said I was going to