Daddy's Little Princess

Daddy’s Little Princess

For Mia

It was recess and I was alone again. I had chosen my solitaire on this gray day to be the realm of the swing set. Its metal gleamed, dark and wet. I gripped the cool, slimy chain link in my hand and began to rock back and forth slowly.

Barbie, with her big, blonde hair and brand new clothes and all her Barbie friends infested the jungle gym. They lounged, comfortably and confidently, knowing that all young eyes fallen upon them were placed there in envy. The ever-striven-for popular crowd of sixth grade girls spent their recess periods sharing flavored lip gloss, snack size packages of Chips Ahoy cookies, and terrorizing whoever they dubbed "ugly duckling." Today, I had a feeling that it was my turn again.

I was their "ugly duckling" a good deal of the time. An easy target, I had an unusually large bone structure and quickly developing breasts. I stayed away from the handball and four square courts, as well as team sports for fear of my clumsiness leading to injury. I had perfected the art of self-entertainment. The trees were my friends. They hid me, guarded me, and at times, sheltered me. My best friend was named Zelda. If any of the other kids could have seen her, their jealousy would have been unfathomable, but she was mine alone. We shared everything together. Meals, secrets, bedtime stories, tears. None of my peers could ever be my friend the way she could.

I was vulnerable to Barbie and her friends. I was the most obvious of scapegoats.

I fumbled with my packaged cheese and crackers, trying not to notice them noticing (and snickering at) me. I put the snack back in my pocket, ashamed of its blandness. Their sadistic giggles became more audible. Suddenly violent, their tittering burst to a peak. Barbie stepped away, and the other Barbies fell immediately silent.

She walked towards me, smiling sinisterly. I began pumping my legs furiously, going faster, farther, wishing the swing to fly from its metal pole, into the maple tree, into the air, far, far away from this place, anywhere. Anywhere but here. I wanted the bluish purple bruises on my arms and legs to turn creamy and pale. I wanted the baby fat that still clung to my cheeks and belly to fly off my body in one huge superball of lard, and for my swelling mammary glands to shrivel and invert back into my chest. I wanted my homemade corduroy dress to instantly sew itself into a brand new pair of Guess jeans and a pink Esprit t-shirt. I pumped my legs faster, farther, kicking them wildly, to and fro, fly away, fly away. Oh magic carpet, oh winged horse, oh ruby slippers. Take me. Take me away from here.

The endless motion of a swing, the eternal arc. It was like the huge pendulum I had seen in the planetarium at the museum, making sand drawings in a well-kept pit, perpetually moving, perpetually enslaved. I pushed it as hard as I could once. It swept brilliantly on its axis, and for a long time, too. But eventually it settled and lay to rest in the very same place it had started. It was the saddest thing I had ever seen. Eternal motion that went forever nowhere. I cried for an hour. Now I was that pendulum, but nobody was going to cry over my worthless plight.

"My daddy says I'm a princess." Barbie's saucy, snotty voice broke the air like a two by four snapping in half, bringing my arc to a jolting halt.

I stared at her confident, blue eyes. My cheeks burned like they had been bathed in habañero peppers. A lead weight rolled to and fro in the pit of my stomach. Her icy ponds baited me. Her mouth twisted into a smirk. Her face looked like a trap.

"My daddy says I'm a princess, too." My voice sounded unsure of itself.

"Yes, but my daddy says I'm a real princess." The girl's voice sounded rottenly sweet, like fermenting syrup.

Her eyes, unblinking, gloated at me like she had won a prize. I felt fastened to them, locked into my own defeat. I dropped my head, staring past the toe of my worn canvas slip-on. She spun meticulously on the heel of her pink, patent leather shoe and, giggling, ran back to the other Barbies, who were all staring at me and laughing.

I rocked back and forth, slowly gaining momentum, wanting to loose my stomach, my legs, my whole body to the sky. Zelda materialized behind the maple tree and joined me on the swings, taking the one next to me. We rocked together in silence.

"You know," Zelda's voice sounded crystalline and pure. "She's just jealous because her mom doesn't know how to sew."

I stared into Zelda. Her pale skin, flaming red hair and green eyes gave her an innocence. She was so pure and good. She made me feel dirty sometimes. I wanted to tell her what I was thinking, what I wondered about everyday I went to school, everyday I looked at the other children, the one's with friends, the one's without. But it was a private thought, one too dirty and dark to share, even with her, a thought no one else would ever want to know.

I glanced again at Barbie, in her perfect clothes, her perfect hair, her perfect friends, and I couldn't help but wonder if her daddy mumbled the word "princess" into the young, empty place in between her legs, too.