Day 2

March 2, 2009
Day 2
30-Day Challenge
Picture recommended by Amanda Hodge
Source: http://danny.oz.au/travel/scotland/duncansby-dunrobin.html

The Princess and the Crap
(Part 1)

     She lived in a castle, and she was my friend.  I always thought that was the most wonderful part about it.  Not that she lived in a castle (although that was wonderful in itself), but that she was my friend.
     Evelyn lived in one of those fabulous old castles with the white walls, the tall turrets, and the countless windows.  The hallways snaked through the building like a maze that no one but children and servants knew how to navigate.  Often, we would pretend we had traveled to the old days when ladies wore heavy layers of clothing, and men wore codpieces.  She was always the princess and I was always the faithful maidservant, willing to lay down my life for my mistress.
     We had all kinds of stories we would act out.  Sometimes, enemies of the kingdom would lay siege to the castle, and we would plan out how to ration our supplies and rally an attack.  Other times, we would leave our castle on some political mission that required utmost tact and care.  One time, we went to war (our military exploit ended with a disaster in the kitchen, for which we received a severe scolding from the chef).  We also tried ambushing Eleanor once, but that ended with a long “talk” with the lady of the house, an experience which I never wish to repeat.
     Evelyn was the younger of two sisters by seven years and, true to story form, was not the favorite.  Lady Aberdeen much preferred Eleanor, who had learned early on in life how to stay in her mother’s graces.  She also had all the makings of a true lady and politician-- she was proper, calm, social, and heavily manipulative.  Eleanor cast a long social shadow, and Evelyn lived in it.
     Every day, Evelyn heard the same message from Lady Aberdeen, like a bad soap opera episode set to repeat.  “Really, Evelyn, you’re an embarrassment to the family name.  Look at Eleanor.  She does everything right.  You need to act more like her.”  And Evelyn tried, but somehow, every encounter she had with anyone important ended with a faux-pas.  Tea cups slipped out of her fingers, her long legs kicked someone under the table, or wine made her gag.  At the end of the encounter, her hair would have fallen out of the expensive hairdo, and sweat beaded on her nervous face.  Embarrassed, she would beg to be excused and hurry to her room where she could slip on some jeans and a tee-shirt, and drink soda pop in peace.
     The day came when Evelyn went to college, and we parted company.  She had the grades and money to go to an upper crust school, and I had neither.  She tried very hard to help me, but Lady Aberdeen would have none of it.  As long as Evelyn was using Aberdeen money, no middle-class brat would benefit from her kindness.
     It was during these years that a fairy tale came to life.
     Perhaps it was because she chose to study Language and Literature, or perhaps she was destined for it.  Whatever the reason, something which had long been dormant awoke within her, and Evelyn Aberdeen wrote her own story on the paper of her own life.
     During one of our many phone conversations, Evelyn told me that she liked a guy.  When I asked her what his name was, she answered in a dreamy voice, “Russ.”  After more excited, girly conversation, I found out more.  Russ was American.  He had studied journalism, but found his passion in directing a small television show called, “Y’all are Jes’ Jealous.”  He had gathered enough money to film an episode in Scotland, a venture that doubled as his vacation.  Evelyn had spotted him filming, begged him to let her have a small part in the show, and they had gone out for coffee afterward.  She hadn’t gathered up the courage to tell him who she was.  She hoped she’d be able to date him for a while.
     “Your mother will kill you if she finds out,” I warned, “or worse: she’ll give you one of her speeches.”
     The silence on the other end of the phone made me wonder if she had hung up on me.  After a long pause, however, she replied.  “She won’t.”
     Eerily, our conversation ended there.
     It was almost seven months later that I heard any more about the mysterious Russ.  I was half-way through class when my cell phone went off loudly.  Bright red, I turned it off and apologized profusely.  After class, I called Evelyn back.
     “Evelyn?  You called me in the middle of class.”
     “Sorry, but it was urgent.  Still is.”
     “What’s urgent?”
     “I told him.”
     “Told who?  Told who what?”
     Impatiently, Evelyn answered, “Russ.  I told him about my family and everything.”
     “Ohh . . .” I said, understanding.  “How did it go?”
     “Badly.  He thinks I’m too good for him now.”  And I heard sobs break out on the other end.
     “Oh, Evelyn!”
     I drove all the way over to Old Aberdeen, and arrived late at night.  Evelyn looked terrible.  Her brown eyes were bloodshot from so much crying.  We stayed up all night eating brownies and talking.  By the next morning, Evelyn was feeling better.  I was fixing some nice, strong coffee when the phone rang.  We both stood very still, listening to each ring until the answering machine kicked in.  Evelyn’s face underwent the most glorious transformation when the message played.
     Evie, it’s Russ.  I’m . . . [throat clearing] . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry.  Call me back.

To be continued . . .