Page 21 of Broken Princess

She was probably in too much of a hurry to get us packed when she and step-dick got married. To him, appearance was everything, and there was no way he was letting his bride take her time packing up her memories of another man. Now that I think about it, he sent movers to do that for us. So yeah, I guess we don’t know what the hell is here.

Summer taps out around eleven. Mom is maybe thirty minutes after that, but I keep working, wanting to see some progress in the pile of boxes in the living room, before the weekend is over. I know whatever we don’t make it through won’t get done anytime soon, because mom and Summer will be too tired or busy.

I decide to tackle the biggest box next. It’s the one with things from dad’s office. We’ve agreed to only keep pictures and two things from each box that might have sentimental value. It’s up to the person sorting that box to decide what those items are. I stick my headphones in my ears so I won’t disturb mom and Summer with my music and get to work. Ten minutes later I’m sitting in the middle of a mountain of receipts for plant and grass seeds, and some newspaper articles about some of the businesses dad helped find investors for.

I remember mom used to clip those and sit them next to his morning coffee. He would tease her and say he couldn’t tell if it was helping or hurting his business to have trees cut down to support the printed press.

On one hand, the missing trees meant more land that could be linked up for environmentally friendly projects. On the other hand, it meant one less beautiful and majestic tree for him to admire somewhere in the world. I’ll never forget the day she told him the newspaper used recycled parchment. The smile on his face and the kiss he gave her made me giggle. I’m blushing now just thinking about it. My parents’ marriage wasn’t perfect, but I never doubted they loved each other.

I shove the paper in the trash bag on my left and pull another stack out of the box. There’s a discolored photo album on the bottom. I exhale a shaky breath before flipping the cover open. Laughter bubbles out as soon as I see the first picture. It’s of Summer in the sink with a duck towel. She’s maybe two months old and dad’s leaning forward holding her. His shirt is drenched because she was already so squiggly at that age. Dad liked to say she was practicing her crossover even then.

My trip down memory lane will have to wait for later. I set the book aside to continue sorting through the box. After two hours and two more boxes, I’m finally ready to call it a night.

Tucking the photo album under my arm, I carry the trash bag out of the room, setting it by the garage door, then head to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. I do a last sweep of the house, making sure it’s locked up tight before going to my room.

Kicking off my shoes as I make my way to the bed. I drop the book on top of my silver and purple bedspread, then disrobe, pulling on the tank and pajama pants I like to sleep in. Now that I’m finished working, my body feels heavy. Going through the photo album will have to wait, because sleep is calling and it’s about to win.

I hear Summer calling my name and try to ignore her. When mom joins in, I groan, tossing the covers over my head.

“Fine.” I yell in response to mom saying she’s making pancakes. “I’ll be down in a second.”

Flipping the cover back, I turn when something thumps against the floor. One look at my nightstand calms my fears about having just dropped my phone. It’s not until I scoot across the bed that I remember I fell asleep with the photo album next to me.

Leaning over the side, I see some pictures have fallen out. I climb out of bed and stoop down to pick them up. Sitting on the edge of the bed with the book open in my lap, I flip through the pages, returning the photos to their rightful places. Mom and dad were sticklers for labeling pictures, so it’s easy for me to figure out where they belong.

When I get to the last picture, I realize it’s actually a clump of photos stuck together. I separate them and flip through the pages again. There’s only one empty slot left. I guess that’s why they’re all together. Just as I go to slip them underneath the thin plastic film, my eyes fall on the last picture in the group. “Whose house is this?” I say to the empty room.

I turn the photo over. It doesn’t have any identifying dates or times on it. Mom calls me again and I drop the picture on the bed, rushing to the bathroom to brush my teeth before heading down to breakfast. I grab the picture on my way out of my room. Mom will probably know where this was taken.

“It’s about time you came down. Summer was about to eat yours.” Mom says slipping another pancake on Summer’s plate.

“Sorry, I had a long night.” I pour myself some juice, fix a plate, and slide up to the table.

“I saw you tackled a few more boxes. Thanks, honey. I know this isn’t what you had in mind, when I said we’d have a girls’ weekend.”

“It’s fine, mom. I’m just glad we all got to hang out, before Summer’s next tournament schedule starts up with her travel league.”

“I found the white photo album.”

“Did you? Oh, that’s fantastic.”

“Yeah, it’s in my room.” I pull the photograph out of my pocket and pass it to her. “All the pictures are still there in good shape, but I don’t remember this one, and it’s not marked.”

She flips it over in her hand. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this one either.” Studying it, her brows furrow. “You said it was shoved between the pages of the album? It must’ve fallen out of a folder or something.”

Shaking my head I tell her, “It was in the album, tucked behind a some pictures. You know the ones with swing set hidden in the trees.”

Mom studies the snapshot again. “You know your father was going through some papers that were in his mother’s attic after she passed. Maybe he found it and meant to put a caption on it and never got around to it.”

I nod because that makes sense. After breakfast we unpack a few more boxes, then settle in for a marathon of our favorite movies. We spend the rest of the weekend doing our nails and talking about boys. Well, Summer talks about boys, I listen, and mom lectures and fusses. I’ve never seen my sister smile as hard as she’s doing now, because her life is usually all about basketball. It’s nice to see her experience her first real crush. I hope the guy is worth it, and if not, I hope Summer’s heart is strong enough to rebound when it ends.

The weekend is over way too soon, and I hold onto my mom and sister longer than usual when we hug goodbye. During the bus ride back to school, I can’t stop staring at the picture that fell out of dad's old photo album. For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to stuff it back in the sleeve. I’ve heard the stories about all the places he’s visited as a kid. We used to talk for hours about his memories. But he never mentioned this house in any of them. Why was photo buried in the back of the album behind three other photos that Ihaveseen?

If you would have asked me before, I would have said I know everything about our family history. Now I’m not so sure. First the scholarship with the mystery relative and now hidden pictures.

Camelot Court. That’s all that’s written on the back of the photo. I pull out my phone and type those words and the states I know dad has either lived in or visited in the search engine. The results aren’t helpful. The top suggestion is King Arthur’s home.Great.Pinpointing this Camelot’s location is proving to be just as elusive in real life as it is in the stories.

Eight

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