Page 259 of Naughty Nelle

“Time is up. Let us determine a winner,” calls out The Prince, striding up to us.

I spring to my feet. So much of me wants to share my amazing revelation with him. But he’d never understand. He’d probably think I’m a nutcase and have me confined to some mental institution. Ha! Faraway!

The Prince’s basket is loaded with apples, but he clearly doesn’t have as many as Calla. Even after sharing her apples with me. We each do a count. Calla comes in first, The Prince, a close second, and me, a not-so-distant third.

“Hooray! I won! I won!” exclaims Calla, jumping up and down.

“Not quite yet, My Little Princess,” says Gallant. “You shall have to wait and see how many apples Marcella has gathered.”

On cue, Her Royal Skankiness staggers toward us. A thick coat of dirt covers her from head to toe. She must have taken a fall.

Calla cups a hand over her mouth to suppress her giggles. I risk a smile. Gallant, too, is amused.

The little girl runs up to Marcella and then races back to us.

“Six! I counted them! Marcella only has six apples, and they’re all rotten! That means I’m the winner!”

“Get me out of here!” screeches Marcella. She flings her basket, sending the apples flying in all directions.

Fighting her clingy gown and high heels, she inches toward the coach.

Calla calls out, “Watch out for that—”

Rotten apple. But it’s too late. Marcella trips over it. She lands face down, smack on her cannonballs.

This time Calla cannot contain herself. She explodes with laughter. I adore this child; I really do. Screw my stupid, piece-of-junk mirror! I’m glad it’s history.

“What are you laughing about?” Marcella struggles to stand up. “Can’t you see I’m hurt?”

She brushes herself off, adjusts her gown, and begins to hobble. She’s faking. I know because it’s exactly how my mother taught me to feign a limp. To over-exaggerate it and make believe you’re in a lot of pain. “Pity breeds generosity,” she preached. Her scheme worked like a charm. Whenever I begged for money, passersby would always give me an extra coin, thinking I was a cripple. She even forced me to carry a crutch, which came in handy the day she kicked me hard in the shin.

“My love, I don’t think I can make it to the coach,” moans the PIW.

Gallant wraps his strong arm around her, letting her lean on him for support. I want to ram her back onto the ground.

“Papa! Look over there!” exclaims Calla, pointing straight ahead of us.

Out of the clearing comes a young spotted deer—Bambi! I’d recognize him anywhere. Recognizing me, he prances over to us. The sweet animal eats one of my apples. With gleeful laughter, Calla offers him one of hers.

He nibbles her apple, then butts his budding antlers against Marcella. She freaks. “My love, save me from this flea-ridden beast!” She takes several giant steps backward. So much for her twisted ankle.

Still falling for her act, The Prince gallantly sweeps the bogus bitch into his arms. I want to puke.

“Papa, can we take him home?” begs Calla. “Please! Pretty Please! He could be my prize for winning the contest. Or my birthday present!”

“My Little Princess, I’m afraid he already belongs to someone else.”

At the edge of the clearing, another elegant young deer appears. Bambi leaps over to her and nuzzles her head. She must be his new mate. Side by side, they prance into the orchard.

The Prince carries Marcella back to the coach. “My hero,” she says, with a smug smile directed at me.

Calla and I exchange a despondent look. She takes my hand in hers, squeezing it gently.

I glare at Gallant. He, too, belongs to someone else. I have another startling revelation. No, it’s not Calla I envy. It’s Marcella.

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