Princess? ...I Think Not: A Princess Series Novel

By Ashley Brooke Robbins

The Royal Family Just Got a Little Bigger….

My name’s Baily King and I’ve always considered myself different—liking dead roses, cemeteries, reading fully clothed in the bathtub, and howling at the moon whilst dancing naked under it. But, when my grandma, a woman I scarcely remember, comes for a visit, she opens her mouth and my weird world crashes down all over my combat-booted feet.

See, dear Gram is dying and wishes for me to accept my royal name. Turns out she finally left a small village south of Ireland—a village that her and her husband rule. Pfft. No pressure.

Bam, you’re a Princess. Wear your tiara and shut up. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inkspell Publishing
• Release date: Feb 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781945910104

Book preview

Prologue

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Royalty. We’ve all read and heard the latest gossip about them. The magazines always claim to know more about them than they know about themselves, but we all know they’re more falsities than anything else.

Here’s one question you might know the answer to: how do you know you’re royalty? Maybe you feel it in your blood? Do you feel special on the inside? Do you have an invisible tattoo on your forehead that has marked you, like in The House of Night series? Maybe you just think you are, and if so, you need to pull your head out of your ass.

How can you be sure, though?

Some actors and actresses have a certain aura about them. You can tell they were either royal in another life or, somewhere down their bloodline, there’s some royalty. For example, Anne Hathaway carries herself in a certain way. Some might say it’s class, or elegance, but I don’t think so. Also, I’m not saying she or anyone else thinks they’re better than anyone. Another one of these fascinating people is Julie Andrews. It’s not because they’ve played royalty roles either; there’s something about these amazing earthlings.

Keira Knightley, Michael Caine, Sandra Bullock, my Aunt Kathrin’s dog, all these people—Aunt Kathrin’s dog thinks he’s human, maniacal bastard—has a different essence about them.

I’m sure you’ve heard about other princesses, but I think my story might be a first for you.

My name is Baily King, and I never thought I could ever be royal. I mean, come on. Me? You serious? Did you hit your head? But I guess you have to take a peek at your family tree. I didn’t get very far with mine because Ancestry.com will only let you go so far for free. Did they mention such terms on the commercial? Nope. Excuse me, sir. I’m broke. Bloody teasers...

Anyway, let us return to the main topic. I get my royal blood from my dad’s side.

You see, when I turned two, my mom ran off in the middle of the night, leaving my dad to deal with the wailing...me. I guess she saw I would never live up to her expectations. Maybe I didn’t learn my ABCs right away? I chewed on my toes too much? Soiled on her too many times...that one, I bet, was on purpose.

Dad transformed into Mr. Mom; it seemed like he got superpowers. Until, one day, he plowed down a woman with "eyes like chocolate kisses." Said woman’s name is Tina. ’Twas love at first hit, for him, anyway. He rushed through the grocery store and didn’t see her. She wasn’t so forgiving but let him take her out for coffee. After a year of dating, about the time I turned seven, they married. I didn’t know about her at first; Pops didn’t raise a fool, and it’d take a lot more than sweet smiles and nice words to win me over. He’d dated a few other women who weren’t the best. Okay, they were horrid.

It wasn’t long after the union that the Grim Reaper rang our doorbell, taking Tina’s dad with him. I didn’t really like the woman, but I hated to see her so broken up. Like the awkward turtle I still am, I patted her head as she sobbed on the couch. Time froze, our gazes locked and, in that moment, as we stared at each other, I realized this lady attempting to take my dad away wasn’t the devil’s daughter. In other words, she wouldn’t hurt him like others had.

I held her hand through the funeral, which was a big gesture for me because I hate people and making contact with them. But, needless to say, we survived.

As if our little family hadn’t already gone through enough, my dad had a massive heart attack when I perched on the age of ten. How could I forget the day my principal drove me to the hospital because Tina was too scared to leave his side? I couldn’t blame her though. Death still lingered in the air.

Like some twisted Cinderella story, he died right when the white-faced clock struck midnight. At least I got a chance to say good-bye. A lot of people don’t get such an opportunity.

Afterwards, Tina and I got closer. We climbed through hell together and kept our ability to dish out more sarcasm than most people can tolerate.

I got the greatest shock of my life when I teetered on the age of eighteen. I’ve never been the girly type. That much would be obvious if you saw me. My wardrobe consists of jeans, a few pairs of Tripp pants, basketball shorts, an assortment of T-shirts, and hoodies for when it’s cold. I might own a few dresses way back in the depths of my closet but nothing that’s seen daylight in years.

So, now, welcome to the story of when I found out I’m a princess. Or supposed to be...ugh, labels.

Chapter One

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Forcing one eye open, I squint at the bright light from my phone to find it’s almost five in the morning. Why am I awake? Why in the hell—oh. Cereal for dinner, not always a good thing. How could I forget what evil milk does to me? Tucking my phone back in its hiding spot underneath my pillow, I squeeze my legs together as I get out of bed and, with dignity and grace, waddle out of my room, into the hall, to the bathroom I share with a ghost. I share with the dead because, I assume, they’re around me, and we never have guests over because I’m freakin’ Miss Popularity.

Once all of the pressure is released off my bladder, I dive headfirst back into my bed and roll up like a burrito in my warm blankets. The monsters can’t get you if you’re wrapped up; my logic as a kid. Traditions never need to end. As I’m drifting into darkness, my hand vibrates. Once, twice.

Ella, I growl into my feathery best friend, my pillow. I am not acknowledging you until at least seven! Ella Clarkson, otherwise known to me as El. We’ve known each other since we were divas in diapers in preschool. I remember the day like it happened yesterday... A little boy pushed her down on the playground and the teachers didn’t do anything. I, in point of fact, heard one of the ignorant beings use the stereotypical, Oh, he has a little crush. How sweet. The innocent girl in the yellow frou-frou dress cried and stared at him like he was a monster while the kid grinned at her like a serial killer. Full-blown Joker, I tell you. Doesn’t it scream how he’s getting butterflies whenever she sneezes because it’s so freakin’ adorable? Since they weren’t doing a damned thing, I took matters into my own somewhat-violent hands.

When we went back inside, I used his head for target practice with my blocks. The little futuristic killer lost his smile then, but I found mine. She giggled but said what I did wasn’t very nice, I shrugged. We haven’t left each other’s side since.

Everyone thinks it’s strange how we look almost like twins, but we are, nothing alike. Where I’m fire, she’s ice, I have a temper; she’s calm and cheery. I’m not too social and she’s a social butterfly. Where I like junk food, she’s a health nut. Where I find myself most comfortable in gothic stuff—I love the dark and unusual fashion sense, feel very weird without my combat boots— you’ll find her wearing Toms or sparkly flats with feminine, flowery dresses, or skirts. If it has bright colors, she’ll wear it.

You get where I’m going with this, but the main example is she likes to wake up before the roosters next door do and I’m a night owl, or vampire, who likes to sleep until noon. I am not a morning person. I will terminate your existence for disturbing me, but the guilt sets in and I peel that lid open again.

Wake up already

I’m boreeeddddd

I miss u BFF... Wakey-wakey!

I intend to reply, but the welcoming, peaceful darkness embraces me with open arms again.

More sunlight peeks around the black curtains covering the window. Through the bleariness, I check my phone again and notice more texts. I’ll respond later. I slide it back under my pillow. It’s just 7:05 a.m....hi ho, hi ho, back to sleep I go. Shut up, Baily.

Hold up. 7-oh- what?

My eyes spring open, I recheck my phone, and the blankets soar through the air as I shoot out of the bed, sheets still twisted around me. Running into the bathroom, as much as you can run with bedding still on you, I sling the clingy bastards on the floor and strip in such a rush I barely notice I’m missing one sock. I realize this as I keep trying to get the damned thing off but keep scraping my bare foot.

I’m such a nerd that needeth coffee.

I take one of the quickest showers of my life and run back into my room buck naked. Throwing on random clothes, I snatch up the boots I discarded on the floor the night before and grab my bag and brush then rush out of the door and to my car, Balthazar. Which is my dad’s old, matte-black Mustang with a T-top. It’s about ready to fall apart, but it’s all mine. My baby. My Balthazar. I usually take it easy on him. Not today. The tires squeal as I peel out of the driveway, and I take the time to yank a brush through my hair at red lights.

I tackle the school doors open, my combat boots slapping against the miserable-looking shiny white floor as I race through the halls and dive through my classroom door just before the third warning bell rings. If that isn’t luck, I don’t know what is. One second later and I’d get a detention or a write up.

Well. Boom. The windows seem to shake as the door slams behind me, but it isn’t loud enough to drown out Mr. Bob’s sarcastic tone. Nice of you to grace us with your beautiful face today, Miss King.

No wonder he’s angry all the time. His parents named him Bobby Bob. If I even open my mouth, a laughable smart-assed comment will escape, resulting in me getting written up, which is something I can’t afford. Do it for Tina. As I swing my tush around the connected desk, landing in the chair, I flutter my lashes with pure innocence and smile. My army-green book bag plops at my feet, and I pull my lime-green notebook overflowing with random doodles out, my trusty pencil still tucked inside the spirally part.

El clicks her pen, frowning down at her notes until our sugary teacher faces the white board then smirks at me. Forget to set our alarm again, did we? she whispers behind her hand. Elbow propped on her desk, she covers her mouth as she presses her chin into her palm.

I wiggle my eyebrows. Nah, just wanted to see how his mood’s going to be today, making sure I made my mark, ya know. The Expo marker squeaks as he scribbles away in such small letters no one can read them. We’ve both tried asking for other people’s notes, but nope. Pretty good, he hasn’t yelled at us for our tomfoolery yet.

She scratches her forehead, eyebrows pinching together, and I hear her lips part.

"Will the murmur twins shut up?" He glares over his shoulder at us before going back to writing his foreign language.

I spoke too soon, I mutter behind my hand. We’re off to a good start!

Whirling around, he points the blue marker at us, mainly me. I’m the one he adores. The poor dear doesn’t acknowledge it, though. I am trying to teach a class here, and I don’t need your input.

Like scolded children, we bow our heads to our desks in shame, our gazes lock and, from the humorous twinkle, I know she’s not sorry either.

"Now. If you want to pass this class, zip it."

Looks like someone hasn’t gotten laid in a while. My lip rises in a sneer as if on its own, and I lock my jaw. I plan to keep my mouth closed the entire class. I don’t want to see the disappointment in Tina’s gaze anymore. She’s all the family I have left, and I want to make her proud.

Feeling attention on me, I investigate to find my twin staring at me with quite a hysterical expression. Her eyes are crossed, her top lips pulled over her teeth, and she’s reeled her head back to where she has a double chin. I let out a long snort and bite the inside of my cheek so hard it goes numb, which still causes the devil’s brother to glare. When he’s back to his business, I flip her off under my desk.

I mentioned before, we’re almost identical, and we’ve been mistaken for sisters, even twins, many times before. We have the same round face shape, the same small nose, thin lips, the same blue-green eyes, and the same dark hair. But again with the opposites, I’m tall, she’s not so tall; her golden goddess glow is natural, and I glow in the dark I’m so pale. Where she has crazy curly ringlet hair, mine’s all about the wave. It’s like we’re twins but not twins. She’s a mini me, with better hair and a nice smile.

Tapping my foot against the sickening white-tiled floor, I scowl up at the clock, willing the bell to ring, signaling it’s time to switch classes. I want to go ahead and get my other class over with because it’s the lone one I don’t share with her, thus the most boring and uneventful. There’s no one I can whisper to about what movie we’re going to watch that night, or gush about what bands we want to go see live. Even though she dresses like one of the normies, normies being like most people in the world who have little-to-no depth, we share the same taste in music.

She glances at me, making another face. The expression reflects my own wishes, wishing the school day would hurry up and be over with. I nod once in agreement before going back to taking notes. I can feel the levels of strange radiating off her as I’m sure she’s watching this odd display.

This is one of those rare moments in the wilderness you must take note of. I’m trying to pay attention and maybe even, brace yourself, study, and attempt to get a good grade. It’s so horrible!

The thing about Mr. Bob is he doesn’t want us to succeed; he wants all of his students to fail. Which is why he writes everything so small on the board, but, if you pay attention, you’ll notice he unconsciously gives hints on what’s going to be on the test. He doesn’t want me to pass. So I’m not going to fail.

I’m like that.

The bell shrieks, screaming its hatred for the school, too, and, in unison, we scurry out of the room as if we heard Motionless In White’s performing in North Carolina. You never want him to ask you to stay behind to talk. If you weren’t miserable enough before, you would be when he lets you leave. Why did the guy even want to teach? What a splendid question that should be on our tests. My answer would be simple:

Dear Mr. Bob, I have to assume you weren’t very well-liked in school. You might’ve made good grades, you were almost certainly the nerd and had to deal with a lot of bullying, and you still hold anger. Now you enjoy flaunting your intellect, secretly getting back at all of those kids who made fun of you. Newsflash, nimrod. We’re not them!

Hell, I, still in all probability, wouldn’t pass. He’d huff at this analysis and give me an angry F. You can never win with a sweaty-ass clown.

I’m proud of you, El says, as we fight our way down the hall through the massive sea of people.

Why? I glare at someone who gets a little too close to my hindquarters.

Because you didn’t rip his head off and spit in it then try to sew it back on. She laughs, saying an excuse me when she bumps into someone. She’s always been the polite one.

Hard, it was. I groan up to the boring white ceiling. You should’ve heard the delicious comebacks my brain matter kept producing.

Such a way with words. She snorts then points her sinister grin back at me. What’re you up to now? I bet you can’t be good, keep your mouth shut for the rest of the day. She knew she had me. I have trouble turning down a challenge.

Stopping at the busy doorway to my next class, I spin on my heel to face her. If I win, you’re buying dinner.

Deal. We shake on it and she hurries down the hall, calling, See ya!

She never wanted to be late. She freaked out when she thought she would be. She even had three alarms set at once. It’s insane. I, on the other hand, don’t give a damn. I do everything on Hawaiian time, including math problems. I don’t know what time Beth got to her Aunt Jessie’s for Christmas dinner; she got there when she got there.

Shuffling into the room filled with angst and too much Axe, I slide into my seat, dreading the day ahead. I knew I should take my happy pills.

Chapter Two

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Later on at lunch, I see her already at our usual table. Outside, in the courtyard, under a massive oak tree. An absolutely perfect place. No one else sees the potential because of the dumpster a few yards behind us. Oh no, gross. This is why I despise most of the human population. For God’s sake, you can’t even smell it. We’re alone out here, even though the doors open. Why don’t people take in the beauty of nature anymore? Then I remember. They come out here after a certain male friend of ours joins us.

As soon as I sit across from her at our picnic table, she holds out her Gatorade. I pass over my bag of apples and our typical swap is complete. Her mom always packs sports drinks for her, but El gets orange juice from the cafeteria. Every time, and I am very grateful for this. How’re you doing so far? There’s a loud crunch as she bites into a carrot.

I’ve been doing fabulously, thank you very much, I mumble around a mouthful of my burger.

She stops chewing and her lip rises in pure disgust. "I don’t see how you can eat that stuff."

Here we go again. I’m hungry. It’s easy.

What’s easy? Our friend, Keith, plops beside me. He’s the everyday Southern boy from Kentucky. Tan skin that many envy, and his blond curls lighten when he’s in the sun for long periods of time. He’s a football player; big, tall, broad shoulders, blue eyes. He’s not very smart sometimes, but he’s a sweetheart. Every girl’s dream. I know if I glance around us, the opposite sex, and some guys, will be drooling over him.

Yep, here comes the hoard of groupies, flooding the picnic tables away from us. They just enjoy the beauty of him. I hate people. There’s so much more to life than guys, girls, and relationships! People infuriate me most times. Shaking my head, I realize I was asked a question. She asked how I can eat this stuff. I gesture to my tray, which is the spitting image of his. I’ve been told I eat like a guy, by El, but I don’t care. What can I say? Savage is the new black.

Oh, yeah. Easy peasy. He chuckles, taking a huge bite himself, smearing mayonnaise and ketchup all over his face. I do the same, and we chew like cows so she can get a better look.

You two are disgusting, she mutters, with a horrified expression.

I glance over at him with my mouth still full. I love being disgusting, don’t you?

Um-hmm. He smears ketchup on his nose.

I’m about to eat somewhere else. She starts to her feet.

Fine. I groan, wiping my face with my napkin, not my hand, I might add, and help him clean his face since he made a bigger mess.

So, what’ve you been up to? He eats normally.

Betting. She shrugs, pinching a bite off her turkey and cheese sandwich on whole grain bread. Her meals are always fancy in comparison to our mystery meat burgers.

"You? Bet something?" The disbelief on his face is quite amusing.

Yep. She leans back, crossing her arms over her chest, and almost falls, showing how dorky she is.

Yeah, betting. I sigh, tossing my napkin down on the blue tray. "Saying I could not get in trouble the whole day...does that even make sense?"

Roaring laughter explodes out of him, soon accompanied by delicate streaks of salty water trailing down his cheeks.

I glare, and El smirks.

Not gonna happen, ever. He gasps out, holding his stomach as he tries to stop.

Ouch. It feels like I’ve been punched, right in the ego. "Hey."

He shrugs. It’s true, you can’t stay out of trouble for five seconds, let alone a whole day.

I hiss, and he raises his hands in surrender.

She’s been good. El slaps the table and points at him. No bull. She didn’t tell Mr. Bob off for once.

He blinks at her then turns to me and places his clammy hand to my forehead. Are you running a fever?

I’m not that bad. Smacking his hand away, I continue to eat my disgusting burger. Am I?

She’s being good for Tina, I hear her explain while I inspect the light-brown, faded table with our drawings coating it for the reassurance I won’t get.

He grunts. They both know what Tina and I went through and that she’s the only real mom I’ve ever had. I’d do anything for her. Don’t get me wrong. El was there for me as much as a ten-year-old could be, but Tina could always make everything seem all right. Even when my whole world came plummeting down.

I push my tray away, not hungry anymore. Have I been that bad a stepdaughter?

This daunting question echoes around my head throughout the rest of the day. I analyze every little thing I’ve ever done, the sarcastic comments, the way I treat adults, the way I sometimes treat Tina and...yeah, I’ve acted like a spoiled, bratty child. Something twists in my gut.

I’ve disrespected every grown-up I know, except for Tina. I can’t mouth off to her. I’ve been mouthy, doing things to pick fights. I shake my head. I need to change. What’s wrong with me? Who knows where this path will lead? It can’t be to happiness.

Dude, what’s wrong? El whispers in one of our last classes when I continue to stare off into space, not saying anything. She knows me, so she can tell when something’s wrong. Me, not talking at any opportunity? What?

I stare down at my fingernails, with the black polish chipping off. Am I the screwup in human existence? Am I the error? Am I—oh God—like my mother?

Huh? Her chair squeaks as she faces me. "What, no. She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. At lunch, we were kidding." I give her a bitch, please look, and she bites her lip. You can be a bitch, but you’ve been stressed lately. I’m sure Tina will understand.

I focus on the white board, getting the answer I need.

Don’t be mad at me. Her chair creaks as she leans closer to me.

I force the corners of my mouth to pull up. I’m not mad, El. Promise. She hates it when she’s ticked someone off, or hurt them. She’s just doing what I asked her to do. Tell people how you feel. I can’t be mad, but I can be infuriated at yours truly. I’ve allowed myself to become my birth mother, I’ve turned into everything I promised myself I wouldn’t. From what I’ve heard, Mommy Dearest used to be a sassy, big-mouthed, heifer. She didn’t show anybody respect, let alone her own mom and dad. Now look at me. What have I been doing? Why didn’t I realize this sooner?

For the rest of the day, I’m a puddle of self-pity. I don’t say much to anyone, not even El. I try to decide what I can do to change. Even if it’s small things at first or maybe I can change all at once and freak people out. That’d be more likely. Disturbing people is my forte.

Driving home, I don’t even flip on the radio to belt along to it. I let people cross the road and try to smile at them. I don’t know how well it worked, but they smiled back and waved a thanks. It kinda does make me feel a little bit better though. Progress in the emotions department?

Pulling into my driveway, I see Tina’s little pistachio-green Honda sitting in its usual spot. Getting out, I gather all of my things and go up the stone walkway we put down together. I have the sudden urge to stop and stare at the rose bush we planted in memory of my dad, right in front of the house.

Tina always used to say he was full of beauty, but he had his thorns. And Every Rose Has Its Thorns was his favorite song. Ironic.

Dropping my bag at my feet, I kneel down to wipe the dirt off the plaque we have in front of the bush. In loving memory of Richard Michael King, a beloved father and husband 1973-2005.

"I’m sorry I’ve been such a disappointment, Dad. I’ll make you proud. I promise," I whisper around a lump in my throat. After a moment, I wipe my eyes. Getting back to my feet, I take a deep breath and frown at the white brick house I grew up in. I promise I’ll make you proud, Dad. A yellow and black butterfly appears out of nowhere and flies right in front of my face. Hey, Pops. My voice is a ghost of a whisper on the wind. He used to call me his little butterfly all of the time. So, whenever I see them, I have to assume they’re him letting me know he’s around and that he’s okay.

The boards creak slightly as I step onto the wooden porch, and a gust of cold air hits me as I stride through the front door. Tina’s standing in the short hallway just outside the kitchen, flipping through the mail. I sling my bag into the junk chair in the living room and shuffle closer to her.

I didn’t get a call from school saying you’ve misbehaved again, she greets, not taking her focus off the pale envelopes in her hands. So, I figured either you’re sick, or— I wrap my arms around her and squeeze. After a few minutes of her standing stiff as a statue, her arms encircle my lower torso.

I’m sorry, I whisper into her shoulder. I’m sorry for being a spoiled brat and acting like my mom.

What? A surprised laugh bubbles out of her, and she tries to look down at me, but I don’t release my hold. Who said you’re acting like your mom? I’d say you’re acting like a normal teenager...

I’ve been acting like her and I’m going to change, I grind out, letting her go and standing to my full height where I can see over her head.

She looks the same as when my dad brought her home for the first time, letting me meet his new girlfriend. She’s still short, still has long, dark-brown hair. She still has the same chocolate-brown eyes. But now there’s laugh lines, and some gray hair peeking through at her roots. I’m the cause of the gray more than the laugh lines. I’m sorry.

It’s okay, Baily. She blinks sluggishly up at me.

Leaning against the back of the couch which takes up the majority of the opening to the space, I glance around our cozy living room. Mismatched chairs stand tall and proud in front of the fake fireplace. One’s a light blue, the other has a horrible red checkered print with gold lines. The duo complement the shit-green leather love seat squished in the corner in front of the window. The tan couch was a gift from Tina’s friend, the one piece of furniture I didn’t cringe at the sight of. Books remain scattered everywhere, stashed anywhere we can fit them. On the coffee table’s an old sewing machine. And across the room is Tina’s prized possession, her guitar. I’m not allowed to touch it because it’s signed by Alice Cooper. This is home. Do you need help with anything?

Sure. She frowns. You can do the laundry.

Okay, I’ll get on it after I do my homework. I nod, heading toward the stairs, to my room.

Okay then...?

Bastardous homework takes me a few hours and, afterward, I tackle a load of laundry. As I’m waiting for the washer to finish up so I can stuff them in the dryer, I sit on the front porch swing, absorbing the pretty day. Over the houses across from ours, the sky is royal blue fading into the pale blue with big white cotton ball clouds.

The chains creak as I swing, and I take a swig of my all-time favorite beverage. Diabetes in a glass is a wonderful creation, I mutter to the wind, as if it’d carry my words to a friend who’d give a rat’s ass about my love for sweet tea. It might make my teeth rot out, but I still love it, along with Cheerwine. Something that I’m proud to say, for a time, was only in North Carolina. Which was annoying, years ago, when you were on vacation, got your period, and started craving Cheerwine with chocolate ice cream. The people in South Carolina didn’t know what in the hell we were talking about. No, not cherry wine, you nimrod. Do I look old enough to drink?

I swear at one time Tina thought I was pregnant. I can’t help it if I have weird cravings. She should know I’m a freak of nature, I’ve never tried to hide it.

Vrummtt. My phone vibrates the pistachio-colored wooden railing. A text from El.

Everything ok?

I click my tongue, knowing I’m going to freak her out by starting to be nicer to people. Okay, let’s face it, nice to people. I, Baily King, am going to start being nice to...people. I can do this. I can do this.

I quickly type out, Nope. Died 5 times already.

Shit! Happened again.

Chapter Three

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The door bounces back from where it’s slung open and in stumbles El, or what I’m assuming to be her, considering all I see is arms and bags of stuff. Delivery! she yells, and a few bags plop to the ground, exposing her rosy complexion. Fall, you rat bastards.

Need some help, love? I lift my head from my pillow, and she purses her lips.

No, not at all.

El... I snicker, rolling off my bed and climbing to my feet where I accidently kick a box of pizza that had fallen out of one of the bags.

What? She blows a dark ringlet out of her face. What is so damn funny?

Did you break and get sweets?

Her lip rises in a sneer. How dare you, you have no faith in—

I wipe the corner of her mouth with my thumb. You have chocolate all over, and cookie crumbs in your hair.

She shrugs, cocking her hip out. Sue me. I broke my damn cleanse, big deal, but—she holds up her finger and bends over to pick up the pizza—how can you resist this? Triple cheese, with cheese in the crust. Heaven. And I thought we could put bacon on it to add to the fabricated healthiness. So, how could you resist?

"Bacon," I groan.

So, stop judging me. She slings her hair over her shoulder and grabs the bags before throwing them on my bed. Some bounce right off, back onto the hard, fake wooden floor.

I give her a slow clap. "Beautifully executed."

It’s a few weeks after the day I had the awful realization at lunch, and our annual movie night is long overdue thanks to the teachers. They’ve been passing out tests nonstop, and we couldn’t study together for obvious reasons. I.e., we’d get easily distracted and not get anything done besides joking around. So we both said screw it and we’re having this night anyway.

I skim through the gray plastic bags. What all did you get?

The essentials. She chuckles. Ice cream, chips, popcorn, candy, Cheetos, drinks, and a bag of peanuts.

I place the fallen troopers back onto my bed and hold up the bag of nuts. Why?

She rolls her eyes to the ceiling. "Because I could. With a huff, she flops on my bed. And what kind of movie marathon is it without peanuts?"

What a strange creature you are, I remark, bypassing the piles of junk in my bedroom floor to get the remote resting on the dusty old TV that’s not a flat screen. Such a horror.

Thank you. She makes herself comfortable by throwing most of my pillows on the floor and sprawling on my bed. The usual. What’re we watching tonight?

"Shrek." I smirk, squatting down to put it in. I don’t care