It's this totally annoying thing she does--getting on the phone with me and my dad. It's like she's

afraid if she doesn't supervise him every second, he'll realize what a mistake he made marrying

her.

24

"Hello, darling," she said. "Hi, honey," he said. Gag me.

I did what I always do when Mara butts in on our conversations: I ignored her.

"It's only February," I said to my dad. "I can't start thinking NCAA yet."

"Wait," said Mara. "I just got used to NBA. What's NCAA?"

My dad laughed as though Mara had just said the most amusing thing he'd ever heard. "We'll

cross that bridge when we come to it, Mrs. Norton," he said, still chuckling. "Sweetheart, you are officially cute."

I cleared my throat to remind him he wasn't exactly having a private conversation.

"Lucy, I'm just telling you," he said, "Stanford is having a killer season."

I groaned. The truth is, even if I thought Stanford had a chance of winning the NCAA, which

they don't, I could never root for the school that is responsible for my current state of misery.

Had my father and Mara's brother not been on the same floor together freshman year at Stanford,

and had Mara's brother not decided to look up his old classmate two years ago when he had

business in San Francisco, and had my dad not, shortly thereafter, had a conference at his firm's

New York office, and had he, after that conference, not met his old classmate for a drink, and

had his old classmate not

25

brought his divorced sister to said drink, and had said old classmate's sister not been totally on the prowl for a new husband, and had my dad not fallen for a woman who thinks interior

decorating is a liberal art, I would not currently be living in social exile, related by marriage to

twelve-year-old twins who believe getting a cut and color is a spiritually enriching experience.

"Stanford's going down, Dad. Take a reality check." It may have been cold comfort that Stanford

had zero chance of taking the NCAA title, but it was comfort nonetheless.

"It's incredible," said Mara. "If you had told me a year ago that I'd have a daughter who was a sports fanatic, I never would have believed it."

I didn't say anything. If you ask me, it's totally weird how she's started referring to me as her

daughter. This summer, right before they got married, Mara took me out for dinner and gave me

this whole speech about how she would never try to replace my mother and how she totally

understood I could never love her the way I had loved my real mother, but she hoped she could

play a role in my life. I told her that I didn't really remember my real mom all that well

considering she died of cancer when I was only three, so it wasn't exactly like there was anything

to replace. I meant I didn't really feel like I needed a mother, but it's become clear that Mara thinks I meant I wanted her to be my mother.

"MOM!" screeched the Princesses.

26

"What is it?" I could hear Mara in both my right ear, through the phone, and in my left, from the den. She was everywhere at once.

"We need you!"

"Coming." I heard the click of the phone as she hung it up

"Hey, Dad," I said, taking advantage of our having a minute to talk without Mara listening in.

"You want to go to the Guggenheim with me next Saturday?"

"Sure, Goose. That would be fun. We haven't been to a museum in a while."

I couldn't believe how easy that had been. Why hadn't I suggested we do something alone

together before?

Mara came running into the kitchen. "Yes, girls?"

"Never mind," said Princess One, not bothering to look up from the screen. "It's working now."

Mara wasn't even mad that she'd run all the way across the house for nothing. She just walked

over to where I was still on the phone.

"Lucy, could you finish helping to clear the table?" I loved how she said "helping," like anyone besides me was doing it.

"Well, bye, Dad," I said, taking Mara's not-so subtle hint.

"Bye, Goose. See you tomorrow." I gave Mara the phone and headed into the dining room,

where I discovered neither of the Princesses had cleared so much as a

27

fork from her place. When I went back into the kitchen carrying their stuff, I almost made a joke

about how Cinderella should know better than to think her stepsisters might actually clean up

after themselves, but I knew nobody but me would think it was funny.

People never think things that are true are funny.

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Chapter Four

"Lucy, I just know we're going to find some lovely furniture for your room on this trip. I'm sooo glad you could come with us today."

It was Saturday morning, and we were walking along the main street of Lomax, New York, a

Hudson River Valley town that's cute with a capital K. Every place we passed was either a bed

and breakfast or an antique furniture store. When we first arrived, I'd asked a salesman at Jane's

Junk and Valuables if there was a place in town that sold CDs, and he looked at me like I'd

inquired about purchasing a hand-held rocket grenade launcher.

"Doug, honey, look at this." Mara pulled my father toward a picture window that held a gigantic

piece of furniture I now knew was called a breakfront. "Wouldn't that just look yummy in the

foyer?"

"It's nice, sweetheart," said my dad. "You want to go inside and have a look at it?"

29

Mara's eyes lit up. "How do you know me so well? Of course I do." He held the door open for her and she practically danced across the threshold. (At least he didn't carry her.)

"You coming, Goose?" asked my dad. He asked like I had a choice, like if I said no I wouldn't be accused of Having a Bad Attitude. Apparently if you don't think examining ancient wooden

furniture in tiny little towns is just the dandiest way to spend your free time, you Have a Bad

Attitude. You also Hurt Mara's Feelings, which is a very, very bad thing to do. That's why I was

stuck on today's little outing--because last weekend, instead of lying and saying I had a lot of

friends or work or anything that might keep me from spending my day comparing late-early

Victorian breakfronts with early-late Victorian breakfronts, I had made the catastrophic error of

admitting I'm just not all that into furniture shopping. That was last Saturday morning. Last

Sunday morning, my dad came into my room and told me that Mara's feelings were very, very

hurt, and he certainly hoped I'd reconsider and come with them next weekend. Even though he

used the word hope he clearly meant know as in, "I know you'll reconsider and come with us next weekend, or you will be grounded for the rest of your life."

I told him I was looking forward to joining them.

I followed Mara into the store. "Look around, Goose," said my dad. "Maybe you'll find

something you like for your room."

30

As if it weren't bad enough that I was living in a furniture-free zone, Mara had added insult to

injury by basically redoing the entire house in the seven months since we moved in. I once made

the mistake of asking my dad if it didn't strike him as being just the tiniest bit suspicious that