Read Online Just Your Average Princess by Kristina Springer - Free Book Online Page B

crossed, watching the food in the middle of the table get cold.
    â€œCan I have a piece of bread?” I ask.
    â€œIn a minute,” Mom returns quickly. She twists the napkin in her hand over and over again. It looks like a fat white worm.
    â€œDinner looks wonderful, Aunt Julie.”
    We all look up at the same time and see Milan and Sno-Cone Sammy have finally graced us with their presence.
    â€œThank you, Milan.” Mom has a huge smile on her face. “Come, sit down.” She drops the napkin and pats Milan’s spot at the table.
    I notice Milan and Sno-Cone Sammy are wearing similar plaid belted tops and dark leggings. Funny how Milan won’t wear a plaid shirt out to the Patch to work, but she’ll iron one, dress it up with chunky rings and bangles, and wear it to dinner.
    â€œI hope we didn’t take too long. We didn’t want to come to dinner in our work clothes,” Milan says, taking her seat. The girls both laugh and Milan’s eyes land squarely on me.
    Whatever. I’ve been coming to dinner in my work clothes ever since I first started working at the Patch. I reach out for the bread bowl and throw a couple of pieces on my plate. I scoop a massive hunk of spreadable butter out of the container to my right and smear it on one of my pieces of bread. I look right at Milan and take a big bite. It’s like I’m saying “You may be fooling people with this act of yours, but I’m going to eat carbs and fat. So there.”
    I chew. And chew. And you know, it’s kind of a disgusting amount of butter for one bite. But I’m no quitter. I take another bite. Milan raises an eyebrow in my direction and drops some lettuce leaves onto her plate, careful to avoid any of the yummy stuff Mom put in the salad. Okay, so maybe my eating a scoop of butter with a smidge of bread isn’t effective revenge on anyone but myself.
    This is going to be a fun dinner, I can tell.
    Milan and Sno-Cone Sammy are carrying the conversation, talking about how skinny Hollywood is these days and the unhealthy message it sends today’s youth. Which is ironic since I’ve probably eaten more in one sitting than Milan has eaten since she moved in with us. Dad’s keeping his gaze downward, concentrating heavily on his dinner. Mom keeps looking back and forth between everyone at the table, trying to gauge how we’re enjoying the food. And I’ve got a huge, barely touched piece of vegetable frittata sitting on my plate. I can’t eat it. Not because it’s tofu. I’m too mad to eat. And, well, my stomach hurts a bit from all that butter I inhaled.
    â€œIt was such a fabulous idea bringing Milan to work here at the Patch, Mr. Edwards,” Sno-Cone says. She squeezes a piece of lemon into her iced tea and stirs it with a spoon.
    Dad looks up at her and does this nod/grunt thing and then returns his gaze to his plate.
    â€œReally,” she continues. “Milan has some fantastic ideas for the Patch. I think they can make you a lot of money.”
    At the word “money” Dad’s ears perk up and he looks at Milan. “Really, Milan?” Dad says. He throws a napkin on his plate, giving up on the rest of his dinner. “Like what?”
    â€œWell,” Milan begins. She sits up straighter in her seat, clearly happy to have attention on her. “For starters, I think we should sell a homemade pumpkin facial scrub in the gift shop. Pumpkin facials are all the rage back home. They’re fantastic for your skin—especially this time of the year, when people tend to have a lot of dead skin on their face.” She pauses and looks at me.
    I touch my cheek with my hand. I so do not have dead skin! I scowl at Milan.
    â€œAnyway,” she continues, “pumpkins have this enzyme in them that totally attacks the dead skin cells. Not to mention, there’s loads of zinc and vitamins A and C that totally brighten the complexion. And the