Nora
If anyone had told me a year ago that I’d be spending my first summer after college dancing around at a kid’s birthday party dressed as a fairytale princess, I would’ve laughed. Laughed so hard I might’ve pulled a muscle.
Because unlike many of my fellow graduates, I’d had actual plans.
Real, practical ones that used the skills I’d spent years honing.
Plans that involved coaching at a summer gymnastics camp before joining a team of elite college gymnasts for a post-season exhibition tour.
Things I’d spent years working toward. Things I was actually qualified for.
Jobs that would look good on my résumé since they at least sounded like a step toward a grownup career.
But since the gymnastics camp I’d partnered with in the past had to cancel its summer camps at the last minute because of some embezzlement charges against the CEO, and the gymnastics team I’d been set to tour with had realized they’d booked too many girls and needed to give me a raincheck…
I was left scrambling for ways to pay my bills.
Which was why I was now working the preschool party circuit, clocking hours as Belle, Rapunzel, and occasionally Elsa, depending on which little girl was having a birthday that week.
I double-checked the address glowing on my phone screen, comparing it to the address on the mailbox in front of a cute two-story house. 1436 Meadowlark Drive. Yep, this was it.
I let out a slow breath, glanced at myself in the visor mirror of my black Jeep Renegade, and tried not to laugh at the sight staring back at me that included false lashes, rosy cheeks, and just enough foundation to hide the freckles I usually never covered.
The rest of the transformation wasn’t any subtler. My auburn hair had been curled, pinned half-up, and tied with a golden ribbon, and the iconic yellow ballgown puffed around me like a sunburst, satin skirt spilling over the console.
If only my five-year-old self could see me now. She’d be so thrilled that we’d grown up to be a princess.
I gathered the hem of my dress and stepped out of the car. High-pitched giggles floated through the front windows, and I smiled despite myself. At least my audience will be enthusiastic.
When I stepped onto the front porch, the large iron door swung open before I even knocked.
“You must be Nora!” A woman in her late-twenties, wearing a glitter-covered tank top, greeted me with a look of pure relief. “Thank goodness you’re here. The girls have been buzzing about meeting you all afternoon.”
“It’s wonderful to be here.” I offered her my most graceful fairytale curtsy, jumping into character just in case any little girls were spying on us. “I hear there’s a very special girl celebrating her birthday today.”
“Oh, there definitely is.” The mom laughed. “Come on in.” She stepped back to let me and my oversized skirt through the threshold. “Your royal subjects await you in the living room.”
I followed Cassia, a.k.a. my employer for the day, into a beautiful living room where eight or nine little girls sat in a loose semicircle in front of the fireplace, each wearing princess dresses of their own.
And gosh, they were adorable. Something about little girls in sparkly dresses always tugged at my heartstrings. It brought back memories of when life was simpler, back to the lazy afternoons when my friends and I used to dress up and watch our favorite princess movies.
“Hello, everyone!” I said in my brightest, most theatrical Belle voice. “I heard that a very special princess just turned three years old today, and I came all the way from my castle to wish her a happy birthday.”
The girls gasped in unison, tiny hands clapping, as their gazes followed me to the space in front of the fireplace that had been decorated with a pink balloon arch.
“Now, who is the birthday girl?” I asked, my gaze scanning the group.
“Me!” A blonde wearing her own Belle ballgown shot her hand into the air. “I just turned three!”
“Well, happy birthday, Princess,” I said with a curtsy. “You look absolutely royal.”
A wave of giggles rippled through the room as I glanced over the group of tiny, tulle-covered party guests. I didn’t usually spend much time around preschoolers, but my eyes snagged on a familiar face: my best friend’s niece, Charlotte, who was dressed as Princess Jasmine today.
Normally, I loved seeing the spunky little girl with the dark pigtails. We’d bonded on the flight home from the gymnastics championships this past April when I ended up sitting next to her and her dad.
But today, I silently prayed she wouldn’t recognize me beneath the Belle getup because I needed the illusion to hold.
At least long enough for her and her friends to believe in a little fairytale magic.
When Charlotte’s gaze met mine, my breath caught as she studied me. But when her bright green eyes—so much like her father’s—looked at me with mere curiosity instead of recognition, I exhaled a quiet sigh of relief.
Thank goodness for stage makeup, a ballgown, and false lashes.
“I’m so excited to be visiting from a faraway land,” I said, clasping my hands together. “For those who don’t recognize me, my name is Belle. I grew up in a small village in France, all the way across the ocean from Eden Falls.”
There were a few ooohs that echoed in the room at my mention of Belle’s hometown.
“The town was tiny, even smaller than this beautiful town that you live in, which meant that everyone knew everyone else. Anyway, I lived there with my father, Maurice, who was a brilliant inventor. Do any of you know what an inventor is?”
Several hands shot into the air, with girls eager to answer my question. I was about to call on a girl wearing a light green dress when Charlotte blurted, “I just live with my daddy, too! Did your mom die, too?”
The room went quiet, and for a second, I froze, her candid words catching me off guard.
If I hadn’t already known Charlotte and her dad, I might’ve been startled by how casually she mentioned her mother’s death.
But knowing she’d only been a baby at the time of the accident, it made sense that she might be so matter-of-fact about it.
Not having a mom in her life was all she could remember.
But still… as I studied the curiosity in her wide green eyes, I felt a pang of tenderness because I knew she was simply looking for someone to connect to in that moment.
So even though the woman who had raised me was thankfully alive and well, I channeled my inner Belle and said, “Yes. My mom died of an illness when I was a baby. It was just shortly after I was born, so I don’t really remember her.”
“I don’t wemember my mom eider,” Charlotte whispered.
My throat tightened at her words. Poor kid.
I wanted to say something more, but when another girl said, “Can we get back to the story,” I cleared my throat and turned to the birthday girl. “Can you tell me what an inventor does?”
She grinned, her cheeks dimpled. “He makes a big machine that chops wood!”
“That’s definitely something an inventor might do!” I smiled. “And believe it or not, my papa builds machines just like that.”
“I know!” Aspen, the birthday girl, grinned.
“And since he was always busy inventing things, I had lots of time to read.” I scanned the circle. “Are there any princesses here who also like books?”
Nearly every hand went up.
“Books are wonderful, aren’t they? They take us on fun adventures, all from the comfort of our homes,” I said warmly. “Would you like me to read you one of my favorite stories?”
“Yes!” the girls squealed in excitement, clapping and bouncing in their seats.
I perched on the edge of the chair and opened the glossy storybook in my lap.
“This,” I said, holding it up so they could see the cover illustration, “is one of my very favorite stories. My husband asked the royal court historian to write the story of how we met. He even drew these beautiful illustrations himself.”
A chorus of oohs filled the room as I turned to the first page, revealing an illustration of the Beast’s castle blanketed in snow.
“Once upon a time, there was a prince who lived in a castle in a faraway land,” I began, thankful I’d tracked down this extremely abridged edition at the local library after accidentally buying one with endless blocks of text that had bored my last young audience to tears.
Yep, I’d learned the hard way that three-year-olds had the attention span of a butterfly.
The reading went surprisingly well. There were giggles in all the right places, plenty of gasps when the Beast appeared, and lots of enthusiastic guesses about what would happen next.
When I reached the ballroom scene, I closed the book around my finger and smiled conspiratorially at my tiny audience.
“Now,” I said, “this is my favorite part. It’s the scene where I got this beautiful dress that I’m wearing today, thanks to the enchanted wardrobe in my room at the castle.
” I stood and twirled, letting the skirt flare around me, earning a few delighted squeals.
“I’d never had such a beautiful dress before, so I was very excited to wear it.
And when I walked into the ballroom, I found that the Beast had dressed up in his finest suit as well.
And before I knew it, the orchestra started playing.
” I bent down to press play on my phone, and the familiar opening notes of the Beauty and the Beast theme song drifted through the small portable speaker I’d brought in my princess bag.
“And Mrs. Potts sang this song that I’ll sing for you now. ”
I lifted my chin, took a deep breath, and sang the words that spoke of how Belle and the Beast had slowly gotten to know and fall for each other.
The girls went completely still, wide-eyed, smiling, captivated. Which was honestly very sweet of them, considering most of the singing genes in my family had gone to my famous pop-star brother, Ky.
But I stayed mostly in tune, which felt like a win.