EXCERPT

 SECRETS OF A RELUCTANT PRINCESS 

CHAPTER ONE

Crowned

Spotlights blind me, lenses zoom in on my makeup-plastered face, and there is a collective holding of breaths, as though whatever is about to come out of my mouth next is television magic.

“Umm,” I say. “What was the question again?” 

And the breaths are released in disappointed sighs and groans.

The director leans forward in our new armchair, like this is an intimate little chat, just the two of us—except for the cameraman, the grip, the stylist, the boom operator, and my parents hovering in the background.

“Let’s start with an easier one,” he says. “Can you tell us a bit about yourself, Adrianna?”

My eyes dart to Mom, who’s standing behind our living room sofa. She’s already coached me on this part. She wants us to come off as fancy-pants sophisticated, “a family that wears their new money well,” as she put it. Not like the people on the network’s other reality show, Lucky Lottery Lowlifes (Thursdays, nine p.m. Eastern, eight p.m. Central). 

No. We’re the Bathroom Barons. Yeah, that’s much better.

I open and close my mouth a few times, trying to think of something to say, but nothing comes out.

“Maybe we’ll come back to that one later.” The director consults his clipboard. “How do you feel about the recent success of your father’s business, Bottom’s Bathrooms and Accessories?”

Mom stands behind him, pointing to her bared teeth like she wants to know if there’s something stuck in them. To make her happy, I attempt to smile for the camera. Mom makes a face so I stop and look back at the director, Corbin, I think his name is—because everyone in Hollywood seems to name their kids something eccentric just in case they become famous, so they won’t have to make one up like Lady Gaga. 

He waves his hands in a circular motion as if that’s going to encourage me to think. “How does it feel to be insanely rich?”

“It’s pretty cool to be rich, I guess. We get to live in a huge mansion with a pool, but it’s not like I get a bigger allowance or anything. Or even a car now that I’m sixteen.”

I shoot a look at Dad. He’s standing nervously by our floor lamp in the corner. He gives a subtle shake of his balding head, clearly not pleased with my performance so far. I mean, come on. Dad bought himself an Aston Martin, but I can’t even get a stinking Kia? It’s so unfair that I want to scream. 

Corbin moves on. “How do you like California so far?”

“Let me see,” I begin to say, sarcasm dripping from my voice.

Mom gives me a warning look. I press my lips tight to prevent all the things I really want to say from falling out.

I should tell him that my life sucks. That I had to leave my whole world in Seattle behind, Mom’s turned into a hungry socialite overnight, and now I live in a show home full of furniture I can’t sit on or touch, with cameras shoved in my face at six a.m. Like I’m not going to be enough of a leper at my new school as it is. The heiress to the famed Bowl Buddy.

Corbin’s arms are moving in giant circles now, like he’s trying to smell his own cologne. I have to say something.

“California is…warm?” I glance helplessly at the front door, but it’s too early to go to school yet. I take the next best exit. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

“Cut!” Corbin yells. He waves an impatient hand at me, and I take this as permission to escape.

Mom maneuvers in her stilettos through the equipment cluttering our living room, but I scurry out before she can get to me. I shuffle like a single-jointed robot in the designer skirt the stylist picked out that is two sizes too small for me. It’s supposed to make me look slimmer, because for a small thing, I’ve got more curves than Hollywood prefers, apparently.

Slipping into the nearest bathroom, I flick on the dazzling chandeliers. I shut the double doors and lean against them, taking a deep, calming breath. The smell of scented potpourri makes me nauseous. 

This can’t be happening. A reality show about our family? Who cares about our personal lives and how different it is now that we’re rich? Even I don’t find it interesting. I slide to the cool marble floor and bang the back of my head against the door a few times.

Just because Dad sold a million of those stupid glow-in-the- dark toilet inserts, suddenly we’re worth talking about? I mean, what’s so great about them? Why can’t boys just flick on a light to pee in the middle of the night? And now everyone on Earth is going to know that my dad invented it.

We couldn’t be rich from something cool, like discovering a new fuel source or curing cancer. Nope. It’s a luminescent pee target. 

Someone raps on the door. “Sweetheart, are you in here?” It’s Mom.

“No.”

“Can I come in?” She barges in without waiting for an answer, pushing me along with the door. I don’t know why she bothered asking. I should have locked it and shoved one of the overstuffed decorative chairs beneath the handle to barricade it. 

“Is everything all right?” she asks.

“Mom. What if I’d been on the toilet?” I say, hoping she’ll leave.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Adrianna.” She insists on calling me by my legal name now. Not Andy. Adrianna. Much more Hollywood.

I stomp over to the toilet. The motion sensor detects me and raises the lid in anticipation—yet another Bottom’s Bathrooms accessory. I slap it back down and have a seat. Heat radiates through my skirt. I nearly leap off before I remember Dad installed the Hot Buns™ seat warmer on every toilet in the house.

I groan. “My life sucks.”

“It’s not that bad,” Mom says. “You’ll get better at this. You’ll see. Eventually, you won’t even notice the cameras.” She stops checking out her makeup in the mirror to glance at me. “And just look at you. You’re so lovely this morning.”

“Lovely? This skirt is so tight it’s going to take a crowbar to get me out of it.”

“The stylist says it’s the latest fall fashion.”

“It isn’t me. I miss refashioning thrift store clothes. I miss my patterns. I miss my sewing machine. It may not have been the latest fashion, but it was me.”

The stylist can take away my nerd pins that I wear on my messenger bag and obscure sci-fi T-shirts, but at least she can’t take my Wonder Woman underwear. Or can she?

Mom doesn’t get it. Of course she doesn’t. This is her Cinderella story. From rags to riches. She turned into a princess, while I feel like the pumpkin. Who am I to pee on her fairy tale? She can have it. Mom means well, but I just wish she’d keep me out of it.

“Trust me, sweetheart. This is every girl’s dream. One day you’ll be glad you decided to do this.”

“You mean glad you forced me into it?” I say. “The stylist wants to dye my hair blonde, Mom. Blonde. She tried to stick a wig on me.”

“Well, your hair is a little”—she tugs on one of the vibrant red curls springing from my head—“out of control. But you’re going to be a TV star now. What girl doesn’t want that?”

“Me. That’s who.”

“Think of all the new friends you’ll make. You’ll have a fresh start.”

“Friends? Yeah, right.” I wrinkle my nose at the reminder. 

That was the plan. Why I was excited about the move in the first place. Leave Seattle, leave “Awkward Andy” and “Bowl Buddy Bottom.” Leave all the teasing and snickering behind my back, or rather, backside. But the reality show hadn’t been part of the original plan. Now that we’re on TV, the bullying will be ten times worse.

“Things won’t be different just because I get new hair and new clothes and because I go to a different school.”

“You don’t know that,” Mom says. “You’re a junior now. Maybe it will be different. Just try something new.” She tugs at another stray curl, wrapping it around her finger like she did when I was a kid. “I just hated to see how unhappy you were at your old school.”

“I was unhappy because of all this.” I wave a hand around the bathroom. Well, that’s not entirely true. The teasing began way before Dad’s inventions took off. It only gave the other students something new to focus on rather than the tired old geek routine.

“Who wants to watch a show about my awkward, freakshow life, anyway?” I cross my arms. But then Mom smiles with strained cheerfulness, and guilt claws at me until I feel like I should turn the attitude down a few notches. I unfold my arms.

“The cameras will be following your dad and me, too. Who knows? They might not even be interested in filming you that much.”

“So now I’m not interesting?”

Another knock on the door and Dad’s balding head pops in. “Hello? How are things going in here?”

“We’re holding family meetings in the bathroom now?” I say. “Seriously?”

Dad leans against the counter and considers Mom and me for a second. “Why don’t I tell the crew to wrap it up for the morning?”

“But they’ve hardly been filming for an hour,” Mom protests. “You’re having fun, aren’t you, sweetie?” she asks, like she can convince me.

Dad folds his arms across his chest, more like he’s giving himself a hug than anything. The new changes have been tough on him. Correction: Mom and I have been tough on him. Of course, Mom’s been all for the TV show, but I’ve been as enthusiastic as a cat having a bubble bath. 

I know Dad has to do what he has to do for the growth of his bathroom empire, and he’s really happy they got the contract for the show, but he also wants me to be happy. Problem is, he also wants Mom to be happy. And with this whole moving to Beverly Hills and reality TV thing, we couldn’t be on further ends of the spectrum. He’s like an elastic band being pulled emotionally between the two females in his life. I wonder how long before my mild mannered, peacekeeping father will snap. But at the end of the day, he’s excited about the show, too. So it’s two against one.

He glances at my mom’s look of pleading, then back at me with a sigh. “You’re probably just nervous about your first day at school,” he suggests hopefully. 

“Ugh. School.” I fall against the toilet’s padded, ergonomic backrest, and the footrest pops up. “I can’t go to school. I’ll be laughed out of there. You remember what they called me at my last school. Like it’s not easy enough with a last name like Bottom.” 

Dad waggles his eyebrows. “You’ll be the butt of jokes.”

I give him my best withering glare. “You’re hilarious. I’m serious. I’ll be Bowl Buddy Bottom again. Or how about Andy Assho—”

Mom holds up a finger. “That’s enough, young lady.”

“What was it in grade nine?” Dad says. “Farty Freshman?”

“Dad! See? That’s what I’m talking about. It’s going to be Seattle all over again—but worse, because it’ll be broadcast all over TV.”

It took months for kids at school to find out about the embarrassing late-night infomercials that Dad had for the Bowl Buddy. Now our entire lives will be prime time. No escaping. No hiding the truth from anyone. No fresh starts. Let the teasing begin.

Not only did I become the laughingstock of my old school, but even my so-called “real” friends started keeping their distance once my dad’s business took off. It’s like they thought being a loser was contagious. 

Dad sighs, giving up the cheerleader routine. “Princess,” he begins what will surely be some positive pep talk.

“That’s it,” comes a voice from the hall.

A light blinks in the mirror on the wall across from me. Dad left the door cracked open. The camera lens wedges into the room to record my reflection. Mom stops rearranging her new boobs in the mirror and tries to act natural.

“Get that thing away from me,” I say. And because there’s nowhere else to go, I jump into the double-wide tub and tug the curtain closed.

“I’ve got the perfect angle to sell the show,” Corbin says.

“What’s that?” Dad asks. He just can’t help himself. He thinks this whole reality show business is the best thing ever. A whole new audience to listen to his cheesy jokes.

There’s a clamor outside my shelter, and I imagine the whole crew trying to cram themselves into the bathroom.

“I know what everyone will call you,” Corbin says. “I present to you”—the curtain suddenly whips back, exposing me—“the Porcelain Princess.”

My mouth drops in horror as the cameras zoom in to capture my reaction. Corbin’s nostrils flare in triumph. Dad’s chuckling at the clever name. Mom’s got something stuck in her teeth again. 

And with that, my life officially goes down the doublewide tub drain.