Once Upon a Princess Page 5

  Suddenly going to the local school sounds like a great option.

  “I’m sure people don’t just wander in off the street into the schools. There is security,” I say.

  “Certainly,” Henri says. “She would be safe in a school. And no one would have any reason to think that Princess Fredericka is there. We would enroll her under the name on the falsified passport. It is probably better for her to be in school anyway. School attendance is compulsory up until age sixteen. If she is seen here, someone could report her as truant. You don’t want the investigation that would come with that.”

  Mam looks trapped and finally folds back in on herself. “Do whatever you think is best.”

  So, the next morning, quite as a matter of course, Henri drives me over to the middle school in his rented car, with Georgie along for moral support. Mam refuses to leave the condo, locking herself in her bedroom before we’ve even left.

  * * *

  The school office is light and airy. On one side of a long counter, secretaries are busy typing and answering phones. We wait on the other side for a guidance counselor to see me and give me a schedule. We’ve already presented all sorts of cobbled together documents that say I’m Fritzi Moore and live in town. A girl with ripped jeans and pink stripes in her black hair drops a paper off in the overflowing “In” basket. She looks me up and down and, with a wrinkle of her nose, leaves, thinking she has me all figured out. But she doesn’t know me at all. I may be in jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt, but I am a princess, and she is just a girl with pink hair.

  A moment later, a short, round woman comes in. “And what have we here?” she asks with that false cheeriness people sometimes use when talking to children. “A new student? How lovely.”

  “This is Fritzi Moore,” the secretary says. “She’s starting today and needs a schedule.”

  Fritzi Moore is not my name, but it’s the one on the false passport, and Georgie points out that I needed a name I would answer to. The thing is, Fredericka Elisabetta Teresa von Boden don Mohr sounds regal and impressive. Fritzi Moore sounds like a snack.

  “What grade are you in, Trixie?”

  “Fritzi,” I correct, and then start to answer “fifth class” but realize that’s not right. It’s not what we figured out last night reading up on the school system in the United States. “Seventh grade,” I say, but it feels so wrong.

  “And what was the name of your old school?”

  “Academie Sainte Marie,” I answer without thinking. She quirks an eyebrow at me. “It’s in France.”

  Georgie kicks me in the shin, and Henri frowns at me. Oh, right, I probably shouldn’t have told her that much.

  “Do you speak English?” the woman asks, speaking slowly and with exaggerated enunciation.

  Aren’t I speaking English with her right now? “Oui,” I say, and Georgie kicks me again. I mentally stick my tongue out at her and continue. “I’m fluent in English, German, and French.”

  “We have a place in a Spanish class for you,” she says.

  “I speak English, German, and French,” I repeat, slower.

  “Exactly why you should learn Spanish.”

  Actually, I can’t fault her logic.

  “Let’s go next door to my office,” the woman says, “and leave your parents to fill out the emergency forms.”

  I look at Georgie in shock, but she just shrugs. She’s only six years older than me. How anyone could possibly think she is my mother is beyond me. And Henri, as father? Well, he at least is the right age, and if we aren’t telling them who my real parents are, why shouldn’t they think what they will?

  I follow the counselor to her office, which is approximately the size of my closet back home. She squeezes behind the desk and indicates I should sit in one of the two guest chairs.

  She starts typing on her computer, and a few minutes later, she hands me a schedule. Spanish, math, phys. ed., English, geography, science, and cooking.

  “Can’t I take German or French?”

  “We don’t offer German, and what’s the point of taking a beginner French class if you are fluent already?”

  I should have kept quiet about being fluent. Then I could have taken an easy class. I wouldn’t mind sleeping through beginner French. But then again, if I learn Spanish, I can show off to my friends back at Academie Sainte Marie that I know another language. If I go back to Academie Sainte Marie. My shoulders sag a little. I want my old life back.

  By the time we get back to the office, Henri has finished filling out the paperwork, and Georgie grabs me by the hands. “Good luck,” she says. “We’ll be back at three to pick you up.”

  I swallow hard. I want this. Kind of. But I don’t want her to leave. “Danke,” I whisper.

  Georgie and Henri head out the door, and the guidance counselor says, “I’ll show you to your locker and your first class. Don’t worry, Lizzie, you’ll get along just fine here.”

  “Fritzi,” I say through clenched teeth.

  She leads me down a hallway lined with green lockers until she reaches number 791. “Do you have a lock?”

  “What for?”

  She frowns. “Be sure to bring one in tomorrow. It’s better not to leave anything in your locker until you do.”

  Great, so they’ve abandoned me at a school full of thieves. I’m going to get them for this.

  9

  Each closed door we pass has a window, and I can see students sitting at desks, gathering around computers, scribbling in notebooks; teachers are writing on whiteboards, walking around classrooms, lecturing.

  It’s just like Sainte Marie’s except the building isn’t two hundred years old, and the girls aren’t all wearing matching scratchy wool skirts.

  The guidance counselor opens one of the doors and signals to the teacher, a young woman in a skinny skirt and high heels. She reminds me of the new press secretary back at the castle.

  “Señora Sanchez,” the counselor says, “this is Bitzy Moore. She’ll be in your class.”

  “Fritzi,” I say.

  “Nice to have you, Fritzi,” Señora Sanchez says and smiles.

  I stare at all the people staring at me. The girl with the pink hair smirks and turns to the girl next to her. “Frizzy! Ha! What an appropriate name!”

  A couple of people laugh, and I glare at Pinkie. I resist the urge to reach up and touch my hair. I know it’s safely tucked into its braid.

  “Would you like to introduce yourself to the class, Fritzi?” Señora Sanchez asks.

  I stand tall and nod. They’ll stop laughing when I tell them I’m a princess. But as I open my mouth to speak, I remember I can’t say a word. I can’t tell them that I’m Her Royal Highness, Princess Fredericka Elisabetta Teresa von Boden don Mohr of Colsteinburg.

  I take a deep breath and say, “I’m Fritzi Moore.” Rows of staring eyes watch me. “We just moved here. From France.” Which would explain the French school, if anyone cared to check, and my unusual accent. I slip into a seat in the front row.

  Señora Sanchez hands me a book from the shelf. “You’ll want to get that covered tonight,” she says, and I pretend I know what she’s talking about. Then she continues the class as if there was no interruption.

  I open Georgie’s calculus notebook, the only notebook we had on hand, and carefully copy the notes the teacher writes on the board. It’s all about conjugating verbs and gender in nouns. I can do this stuff in my sleep.

  An electronic tone sounds, and there’s a scramble as everyone puts away their notebooks and stands up.

  “What class do you have next?” a girl in faded jeans and a pink polo shirt asks.

  “Math,” I say and hand over my schedule.

  She scans it before handing it back. “We’re in all the same classes. So I can help get you situated. I’m Bethany.” She heads out of the classroom, and I follow. “So, you’re French?” she asks, letting me catch up with her in the hall.

  “No.” I wish I could tell her the truth. I want to tell every
one the truth. “I went to school in France, but I’m not French.”

  “So, what are you?” she asks.

  Instead of lying, I ask a question of my own. “I’m a little nervous, a new school and all. Are people nice here?”

  “Most of them,” she says. “Stay away from Jasmine, though. She thinks she’s a real princess.”

  Hmmm. I wonder which one is Jasmine.

  “So, what kind of name is Fritzi? I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before. It’s cute.”

  “It’s a nickname.” It’s all I can say without giving more away.

  “What’s it short for?” Bethany persists as we head toward the staircase.

  I didn’t realize I’d have to have a whole secret history figured out before going to math. I can’t tell her it’s a nickname for Fredericka and also in honor of my great-great-great grandfather King Fritz, no matter how much I might want to.

  Someone bumps me from behind, and I spin around to see Pinkie smirking at me. “Oh look, it’s Frizzy.”

  There are a thousand comebacks on the tip of my tongue, but unfortunately most of them aren’t in English. Before I can translate them in my mind, she and her cabal of giggling friends have run off.

  I’m nearly exploding with unspoken retorts. Bethany, who didn’t speak up for me in any language, says, “Ignore her. Jasmine thinks she’s so cool, but she’s just a big jerk.”

  So, that’s Jasmine, is it? I’m seething. I’ve seen girls get picked on before, and I always speak up for them, but it’s never been me being picked on. No one makes fun of a princess. At least not to her face. I don’t like it.

  Jasmine may think she’s a princess, but I’ll have to show her how a real princess behaves. Trust me, I’ve had plenty of instruction.

  Bethany leads me up the stairs and into a classroom that is nearly identical to the one downstairs. She heads to a desk in the front, and I look around for a possible empty seat, maybe in the back, where I can be invisible, but Bethany waves me over to where she is talking to a boy and a girl.

  “Fritzi, this is Miles”—she points to a guy with ears that are a little too big for his head and glasses that keep sliding down his nose—“and Kim”—who is several inches shorter than I am and wears her black hair in pigtails. She looks about ten. “Fritzi is new here, and I figured I’d make sure she got off to a good start by meeting the right people.”

  The right people? I glance around the classroom to the other kids, who are finding their seats. Girls who look like models, boys with a devil-may-care attitude. What makes some people the right people and some not?

  If people don’t know I’m a princess, will they still think I’m one of the “right” people to know? I only have the clothes Georgie packed for me so quickly the other day. My hair straightener and all the things I use to make myself look a little less like a dork each morning were left behind. They’ll simply think of me as the new kid with braces, a thick red braid, and a wrinkled T-shirt. I wish I could tell them I’m a princess. I slide into an empty seat as the teacher comes into the room.

  He starts lecturing before the door even clicks shut. I scramble to get out my notebook and try to keep up. Halfway through class, he notices me and asks who I am. He hands me a book and goes right back to his lecture. A very intense teacher.

  When class ends, I look toward some of the beautiful people, but they don’t notice me. Bethany, however, is right over my desk again, ready to guide me to my next class.

  The next class is gym, where I find I’m expected to have shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers to change into each day. Since I don’t have the appropriate clothes today, I sit on the bleachers and watch the class.

  They break up into teams to play basketball. Finally, it’s a chance to observe without anyone expecting anything of me. I can see that Bethany and her friends, while friendly, are not terribly competent at this game. Frankly, it doesn’t even look like they’re trying.

  The girl with the pink hair, on the other hand, whom I might expect to be a prima donna afraid of chipping her nail polish, is actually quite good.

  I haven’t played basketball, but I have played netball, which is similar. Pinkie may be a jerk, but we might have more in common than I have with Bethany and her friends.

  After gym class, Bethany escorts me to the cafeteria for lunch. She and her friends get in line to buy food, and I look for a place to sit with the bag lunch Georgie packed for me. A large round table by the window is bright and sunny and empty. I pick the sunniest spot and sit down.

  “You can’t sit there,” a girl at the next table tells me, her voice low, as if giving me some dire warning.

  “Of course I can,” I say and take my sandwich out of my bag.

  “You’re new here; you don’t understand,” the girl says. “That’s Jasmine’s table.”

  Of course it is. I open my water and allow a smile to spread across my face. Jasmine’s going to have to get used to the fact that Princess Fredericka is here now.

  Conversations at the surrounding tables die away, and a shadow falls over me. I look up to see pink-haired Jasmine holding her tray and glaring at me.

  “That’s my seat, Frizzy,” she says.

  It would be so simple to answer with something like “I don’t see your name on it.” But that would sound juvenile and not worthy of a princess. “There are plenty of seats at this table.” I take a sip of my water.

  “You can’t sit here,” Jasmine says again, still standing there with her tray.

  “And yet, I am.”

  Jasmine taps her foot. “You’re going to have to move.”

  “No, really, I’m not.” This is getting annoying.

  Bethany swoops in like an avenging angel. “Fritzi, we sit over there.” She points to a table in the far corner of the cafeteria. An undesirable location.

  This is crazy. It would be easy to go with Bethany and plead ignorance of the pecking order at my new school. It would all be forgotten, and I could move on with my life. A life where no one respects me. My grandmother used to tell me that a princess doesn’t get respect only because of who she is, but because of how she behaves. If you want respect, you need to act like you deserve it.

  “I like it here.” I take another super casual sip of my water. “Why don’t you and Kim and Miles come here?”

  I’m not at all surprised when Bethany takes a step back, her eyes wide with fear, and declines. But seriously, is Miss Pink Hair such a big deal in this school that the other kids fear her? I know about popular. Even after only a month, I have lots of friends at Academie Sainte Marie, and not just because I’m a princess. You don’t become popular by being feared. You just become feared.

  “You have to leave now, Frizzy,” Jasmine repeats.

  I’m getting a bit tired of her new and improved nickname for me. Maybe I should leave. Even if I win, and Jasmine sits with me, it would be a very uncomfortable lunch hour. But I can’t leave. If, on my first day at this school, I let Jasmine win, then I’ll never have another chance to get back what I’ve lost. She’ll have proven herself superior to me.

  And she’s not.

  I don’t move.

  She dumps the contents of her tray on my head.

  Pasta and cheese runs down my hair and onto my shirt. Around me, the lunchroom is completely silent, and I know everyone is staring. Staring at me, the new girl, who has a tray full of food on her head. I clench my jaw to keep from screaming and blink hard to keep a tear from escaping.

  “What’s going on here?” A teacher, an older man with sweat stains under his armpits, looks from me to Jasmine and back again.

  “The new girl is sitting in my seat,” Jasmine says.

  “I think you and I should take a trip to the office to see Mr. Lee,” he says to Jasmine and then glances my way again. “Perhaps someone can show you the way to the nurse’s office so you can get cleaned up.”

  There is no way I’m going to be able to get cleaned up in the nurse’s office, and everyone knows it. Bet
hany takes the hint though. “Come on, Fritzi, I’ll show you where the nurse is.”

  So, finally I’m out of the seat, and the chair doesn’t even have a chance to get cold before Jasmine’s friends are sitting at the table.

  People stare at me as I walk out of the room, and some of them laugh. This would never happen to Georgie. But how could I have prevented it? If I’d given in and left the table, Jasmine would have won. And in the end, she won anyway. Is there any way to win against someone willing to dump her lunch on me and get sent to the principal’s office?

  “I told you she was a jerk,” Bethany says.

  “I will not stand for this.”

  Bethany shakes her head. “It’s not even worth trying. She’s untouchable.”

  “No one is untouchable.” If I, princess of Colsteinburg, can get a plate of macaroni dumped on me, then no one is untouchable.

  Bethany doesn’t answer. Clearly, she doesn’t believe me. She opens a door marked “Nurse” and says, “I have to go finish my lunch. I guess I’ll see you later.” And she’s off.

  Even the nice girl doesn’t want to be associated with me now that Jasmine has made me a target. Great. We better go home soon before I start an international incident by having every twelve-year-old in this state hate me.

  The nurse, who looks like she’s barely out of college, sits at her desk eating yogurt. “Oh my, what happened to you?”

  “Jasmine.”

  She nods as if that is all the information she needs. “Do you want to try to get cleaned up, or should we call your mom and you can go home?”

  I should be able to tough this out. As Shakespeare says in A Midsummer’s Night Dream, “Though she be but little, she is fierce.”

  Pap used to quote that to me.

  Don’t think of him in the past tense. Pap will quote that to me again. And soon.

  But I am feisty; I am fierce; I am Fritzi. I can do this.

  It’s just hard with cheese in my hair.

  “I want to go home,” I say.

  * * *

  Henri picks me up and doesn’t ask for explanations, which is good. I don’t have to explain anything to him. Georgie, on the other hand, wants to know what happened. As soon as we get home, she hurries me into our room and shuts the door.