Just Your Average Princess Read Free

Christmas letters over the years. Mom works so hard on them.
    Milan bends over and plucks off her other shoe. “Here, Jamie. Toss these out for me, okay?” She drops the shoes in my hands and turns toward the house. “So I take it this is where I’m staying?” she calls over her shoulder as she follows the path my dad took.
    Wow. That went quite a bit differently from what I expected. I’m still standing at the open door of the truck, holding Milan’s shoes, and I can feel people watching the scene. I glance at the caramel apple stand and see Sara gaping. I look at Danny standing in front of our newly erected pumpkin tower with his arms crossed and a big smile on his face, watching Milan walk away.
    I feel a little sick.
    *   *   *
    I start to toss Milan’s shoes into one of the huge green garbage cans spread throughout the Patch, but then reconsider. They’re too expensive to throw away. And what if she changes her mind? No, I’ll keep them somewhere for her. I follow Milan, about fifty yards behind her, to the house, stopping briefly to hide the shoes in a bush until I can bring them into the house later.
    There’s something bothering me and it’s not only Milan’s odd interaction with me. Why did Danny look at her like that? I wonder if he recognized her from her pictures. Milan’s not in the tabloids every week or anything, but occasionally the paparazzi will get a shot of her. Aside from being gorgeous, she’s the only daughter of two A-list movie stars in Hollywood—Jack and Annabelle Woods. Uncle Jack and Aunt Annabelle to me when I see them. Which is just about never. Uncle Jack is Mom’s older brother by three years. They grew up here in Average, Illinois, but he ran off to Hollywood to act, the first chance he got. And Mom met Dad senior year in high school and married him a couple of years later. Mom has almost never talked about Uncle Jack, not until recently anyway. I think she’s always been either mad that he moved away and left her at home alone with their parents or jealous that he’s so famous. I’m not sure which. It could be both, for all I know. But then recently she’s been whispering to Dad a lot and I’ve heard her say things like “Jack thinks…” and “Jack’s worried…” and “God forbid she turn out like her mother.” Okay, that last one could have been about anybody and not about Milan. But all I know is, suddenly my cousin Milan, whom I haven’t seen since we visited her family when I was six years old, is staying with us and helping out for the entire pumpkin season.
    I kick my boots at the block of concrete with the metal scraper sticking out of it, knocking loose dirt from the Patch, and then push open the old wooden front door with the ripped screen and walk into the house. Mom’s got both of Milan’s tiny hands in hers and she’s gushing all over her.
    â€œOh, sweetie, oh look how much you’ve grown up! You’re a young woman now!” Mom says, a huge smile spread across her face. I notice Mom has set her hair and put on a little makeup. She’s wearing a pale yellow shirt with a long skirt. Not the usual dinner attire around here.
    Milan nods. “It’s nice to see you again, Aunt Julie.”
    Mom hugs Milan tightly and Milan twists up her face like she’s getting squished. “Oh, honey,” Mom says. “Oh, you’re much, much too skinny. Don’t your parents feed you? Well, we’ll fix that right up. I’m making a big dinner tonight. Chicken, potatoes, green beans, biscuits”—Mom ticks food off on her fingers—“creamed corn, and peach cobbler.”
    Yum. Mom is an awesome cook. I head for the sink to wash up.
    Milan looks alarmed. “Um, I’m sorry, Aunt Julie, but I don’t eat meat. Or carbs. Or sugar. And I’m not sure what creamed corn is, but I make it