Free Birthdays of a Princess by Helga Zeiner

People
will expect to see me there.”
    “Here,” Gracie told my mother. “You want to be in charge? That’s
fine with me. You got to fill out the whole registration, all five pages of it,
and pay a fifty dollar entrance fee.”
     “No, no,” Mom said when she heard it cost money to launch my career.
“You go ahead, register her. I know how much this means to you. And I’m always
so busy anyway, I barely have a minute to myself. But I will come along to the
pageant.”
     
    Psycho-doc had to change his schedule. From now on he can see me
only on those afternoons when he comes to the Center anyway.
    I would have preferred mornings, but I have no say in any of that. I’m
the non-paying customer here, free-loading on his legal-aid generosity. As the
Center admin can’t be sure when he shows up, I’m excused from participating in
all the afternoon activities I would normally have to attend. Which is a bonus;
morning classes drain me enough.
    Now I can at least hang out every afternoon in my cell until I’m
called to the small office reserved for his Center visits. I spend my solitary
hours wisely, I write in my journal or stare at the wall.
    Today he shows up quite late.
    It’s interesting to watch his tactics. No pressure, no demands. Just
talking about whatever comes to mind (his more than mine). He is supposed to do
a few tests which are designed to establish the degree of my madness, but
that’s a bit difficult with me not cooperating fully. (Which is not an act and
not by choice. I wish I could give him more than the memories that feel like worn-out,
washed-out hand-me-downs).
    Still being non-disclosive, as he calls it (empty headed, boring,
bland, as I call it), means I have little to say to him. Today though, I have
something on my mind. I open our session with the question I have mulled over
since his last visit.
    “When you gave me the good-news shit about the woman still hanging
in there, you seemed delighted. Why?”
     “It would take quite a burden off your defending lawyer if she
survives. That, and you being a minor, could swing things in your favor. We
might be lucky.”
    He says we as if he is my partner-in-crime. It pisses me off.
I need him as a shield, not as an ally.
    “Are you sure she isn’t dead?” I have to ask. My hatred is hard to
contain under the covers of my amnesia-blanket.
     “I’m sure.” He gives me an odd look.
    I don’t want him to dwell on this. “What’s this about a lawyer? I
didn’t know I had one.”
    “You don’t, yet. Your case worker has been in contact with your
mother, but she has no funds for a private defense, so the juvenile court will
appoint one for you.”
    “I don’t need one,” I say, and I mean it. I don’t want one of those
mediocre, bored, underpaid legal-aid types who don’t give a shit about me. I
want to figure out what drives that crazy person inside me, and once I figured
it out, I can rot away in peace and quiet.
     
    By the way, I won that first contest, I was crowned Miss Texas
Princess, age 4 to 6 at the age of 3 years and ten months. Mom came along, as
she did to all the future contests. Gracie and her had come to a silent
understanding—a cease-fire of sorts. Mom would bask in my pageant glory in
front of a live audience and let Gracie handle the tedious photo sessions in a
stuffy studio.
    “I wouldn’t come along if you’d pay me,” she would often say to
Gracie. “I don’t know how you can stand it—there’s nothing to do but sit and
wait.”
    That first pageant victory must have been so special. I was told
many times what a day of jubilant joy that had been, with Gracie and Mom being
so happy that they hugged each other and cried for the rest of the day. They
took the roses and the thousand dollars. They told me how proud they were of me
and what a bright future lay ahead of me, and all of them. They had a crown and
a picture to prove it.

 
     
     
    Chapter
18
     
     
    After Macintosh had left, Melissa stayed in