Totally Cinderella: A 1980's Fairy Tale

By Charlie Wood

What if "Cinderella" took place in 1986?

For Cinderella, every day is the same: clean the house, cook the meals for her stepmother, and try to survive high school with her stepsisters: bubblegum-pop-princess Tiffany and moody, hard-partying Danielle.

However, when Cinderella meets a mysterious stranger from another land, she learns that maybe all her life needs is a little bit of magic...

A totally righteous 1980's fairy tale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charlie Wood
• Release date: Nov 19, 2021

Charlie Wood

Charlie Wood lives with his wife, Kate, in Massachusetts. He enjoys movies, baseball, and comic books. This is his first novel.

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Totally Cinderella

Charlie Wood

Copyright © 2020 Charlie Wood

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded without the permission of the publisher and author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.

Inspired by the classic fairy tale Cinderella by Charles Perrault.

To contact the author:

[e-mail]

www.charliewood24.blogspot.com

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Totally Cinderella Playlist

Also by Charlie Wood

About the Author

Chapter One

May 19th, 1986

Paramus, New Jersey

Cinderella had an important decision to make.

The Ramones? David Bowie? Blondie?

As usual, she went with Bowie, and as the opening chords of Let’s Dance played in her headphones, she got to work: first, she picked up the laundry from her bedroom, swept the upstairs hallway, and dusted the windowsills. Next, she moved onto the bathroom, which was the most important job of all: she had to ensure it was spotless, with every shampoo bottle in the perfect place, before her stepmother used it later that day. Finally, when that task was finished, she moved onto her stepsisters’ rooms, to add their laundry to hers. First up was the younger of the sisters, Tiffany, who—like Cinderella—was 17.

Tiff? Cinderella said, knocking on the door. Are you up?

Of course, Cinderella knew she was awake; she could hear the loud, booming beat of I’m Your Man by Wham! playing through her TV. But, that was the iron-clad rule: always knock before entering.

Tiff? Cinderella said again. I’m just here for the laundry.

Pushing the door open a crack, Cinderella looked inside. As expected, Tiffany was standing in front of her TV, practicing her dance moves to the glaringly loud Wham! video. As she pumped her arms, bopped back and forth like a wind-up toy, and sang along with twenty-two percent of the correct lyrics, Cinderella was able to stop herself from laughing. However, when Tiffany doubled over and began bouncing her butt up in the air as if she was trying to shake something off it, that’s when a snicker escaped Cinderella’s nose.

Hey! Tiffany said, spinning around. She stomped toward the door. I told you never to come in here, Cinderella! Get out!

I just need the laundry, she replied, reaching for the hamper.

Then knock first!

I did—you didn’t answer.

I was busy!

Cinderella looked at the TV. I can see that.

Tiffany grew red. What, are you spying on me now? Are you making fun of me or something?

No, not at all. Cinderella dumped Tiffany’s laundry into her basket. It looked great. Your moves looked great.

Yeah, like I’m gonna listen to you. You probably don’t even know who George Michael is.

Cinderella squinted. Is he, like, a politician or something?

Get out of here, Tiffany said, slamming the door. You’re such an idiot.

Pleased with herself—but also knowing she shouldn’t get so much enjoyment out of riling up Tiffany—Cinderella carried her laundry down the hall and reached the next bedroom, which belonged to her older stepsister, Danielle, who had just turned 21.

Danielle? Cinderella said, knocking. Do you have any laundry you need me to take?

Just like with Tiffany, there was no answer, and as Cinderella stepped inside, she saw what was becoming a more common sight: Danielle, laying on top of her bed, out cold, wearing the same clothes she had worn the night before. Walking across the carpet, Cinderella had to be careful not to bump into any furniture or step on any dirty dishes; compared to Tiffany’s room, with its pink and yellow wallpaper and frilly pillows, Danielle’s room was more like a morgue, with the walls covered in horror movie posters, the ceiling painted black, and thick grey curtains drawn to block out the sun.

Danielle? Cinderella whispered, picking up clothes to add to her basket. Are you up? It’s almost time to go.

Reaching Danielle’s bed, Cinderella looked to her nightstand. There was an empty bottle of Jack Daniels next to the alarm clock, along with four crushed cans of beer.

Danielle? Cinderella said, gently shaking her shoulder. You gotta get up. It’s time for you to get ready.

Danielle rolled over. Her black, choppy hair—cut by herself with a pair of scissors, without the aid of a mirror—was draped over her face, and her thick, black eyeliner was smeared across her cheeks, having never been washed off the night before.

What time is it? she groaned.

Seven. I gotta bring you to work on my way to school. We’re leaving in like half an hour.

Ugh. She rolled over, facing away from Cinderella. Tell my mom I’m not going today.

Really? She’s gonna flip if you—

Just tell her. And turn off the light.

The light’s not on.

Then just get out of here! Danielle threw a pillow at Cinderella before grabbing another, jamming it over her face.

Okay, fine. Cinderella stepped back. I’ll leave some oatmeal for you in the microwave, if you want.

Whatever. Don’t talk about food. Don’t talk about anything. In fact, pretend like I don’t exist.

Okay. Cinderella walked into the hall and shut the door. Whatever you say.

Moments later, after starting the washing machine and emptying the dryer, Cinderella stood at the kitchen stove, preparing her family’s breakfast. Behind her, sitting at the table and listening to the morning news on a small, black-and-white TV, was her stepmother, Barbara. She was a tall, skinny woman in her late forties, with a wrinkled, sun-damaged face that made her look older than she was, and hair that was always dyed black to cover her grays. At this time of the day, without her makeup, the bags under her eyes were noticeable—heavy and puffy—and her body was draped in a pink, loose-fitting bathrobe. The only people who ever saw her like this were her daughters and stepdaughter, and Cinderella always wondered what the people in Barbara’s social circle would think if they ever saw what she really looked like, before the hours of makeup, hairstyling, expensive clothes, and jewelry. Cinderella had seen pictures of her stepmother from years ago—when she was in her twenties and a local beauty pageant queen—but those days were long gone. It was clear the life Barbara had always imagined for herself had never materialized, leaving behind a woman with broken dreams and a broken soul. She was a woman to be pitied, if she wasn’t so nasty.

Cinderella, she said, her press-on nails scratching the neck of her beloved pet, a tan-furred ferret named Mumsey. Make sure you vacuum and wash my car when you get home. I want it shining like new before I give the mayor a ride to his fundraiser tomorrow.

Okay, I’ll bring it to Benny’s dad’s place to get that dent out of the hood, too, if you want. I think he has an opening at the shop.

Yes, that’s fine. Just don’t let him charge me an arm and a leg.

I won’t. He’ll do it for free, I’m sure, I don’t think it’ll be a big job.

Whatever, just get it done. She turned to Cinderella. By the way, is that what you’re wearing to school today?

Cinderella looked down. She was wearing a brown, vintage, Aerosmith t-shirt, from when the band toured North America in 1974. Since it was twelve years old, it was a little worn, with the neck stretched out and a couple small holes in the sleeves.

Yeah, why?

Because you just wore it three days ago. And it looks like beggar’s clothes.

Cinderella shrugged. I like it.

Of course she likes it, Tiffany said, walking into the kitchen. She was dressed for school, with her pink jacket, neon-green hoop earrings, and her bangs sticking straight up, thanks to a can of hairspray. That was her dad’s old shirt—that’s why she’s obsessed with it. Even though it’s disgusting.

Oh, Barbara said, looking over the shirt. She returned to her cup of coffee. Right. He always did have terrible taste in music.

Yeah, Tiffany said, rolling her eyes. Who the hell even listens to Aerosmith anymore?

I do, Cinderella shrugged, flipping over the omelet in her frying pan.

Yeah, you and all the burnouts in my class. Those are like literally the only people.

Listen to whatever you want, Barbara said, but if you wear that tonight, stay away from us.

Why, what’s tonight? Cinderella asked.

You don’t know? Tiffany slung her pocketbook over her shoulder. Boy, you really are stupid.

We’re going to the mall tonight, Barbara replied. For the Chris Toby autograph signing. I told you this yesterday.

Cinderella knew she hadn’t told her this yesterday, but she knew better than to argue.

She doesn’t know who George Micheal is, Tiffany said, I doubt she knows who Chris Toby is.

No, I don’t, Cinderella said. Who’s Chris Toby?

Tiffany rolled her eyes. He’s only number one on every radio station in the country right now. He’s only got the biggest video on MTV. He’s only the hottest new act since Bruce Springsteen. She shook her head. "You are just so pathetic."

He’s doing a signing at the Westgate Mall tonight, Barbara said. We’re all gonna go, and have dinner afterward at Vesuvio’s, so I need you to drive.

We’re all going? Cinderella asked. Even Danielle? She slid the omelet onto Barbara’s plate. That doesn’t sound like something Danielle would be into.

I don’t care if she’s into it, Barbara said, she’s going. And she’s gonna wash all that makeup off her face, too, and actually comb her hair for once. I’m not gonna let my daughters look like they just crawled out of a ditch when they meet a real-life pop star. She took a bite of her omelet. It’s a shame, too. Danielle used to be so pretty.

Chapter Two

Half an hour later, after dropping off a very hungover Danielle at her job at the local supermarket, Cinderella stepped into her first period chemistry class and sat next to her best friend, Benny Hughes. Benny was her age, but at five foot, two inches tall, he was at least six inches shorter, with freckles underneath his eyes and a head of brown hair, trimmed short. Quiet and shy, he didn’t have many friends, which made him and