At the Stroke of Midnight (Naughty Princess Club 1)

With a smile, Ariel tips over the picture frame, and I can’t take it anymore. I jump up from the love seat and race over to the mantle, quickly righting everything she messed up, making sure all the items are facing east.

While I’m busy at the mantle, Ariel moves to the wall where a large painting of Paris at sunset hangs. She rests her hand against the lower right corner.

“I can do this all night, honey. Say. Gang. Bang.”

My eyes widen and my hands start to shake, and before I can tell her to stop being so childish, she bumps the painting until it’s hanging all askew on the wall.

“STOP MESSING UP MY THINGS!” I scream, quickly clamping my hand over my mouth, mortified by my outburst.

“There you go. That’s a start. Next time, try calling me an asshole. It’s very therapeutic.”

“Saying off-color things is not going to make me feel better about what happened tonight. We made a mistake, and it’s better if we just forget about it and move on,” I inform her.

“The latest study found people who liked more swear words and used them most often were least likely to lie. Swearing is the unfiltered, genuine expression of emotions, and those who do it frequently were found to be more sincere,” Isabelle explains quietly from her spot on the floor.

“See?” Ariel asks, pointing at Isabelle. “It’s science. You can’t argue with science.”

Moving next to Ariel, I straighten the painting on the wall, taking a step back nodding in approval when it’s perfect again.

“Like I said, let’s just forget this entire night ever happened.”

Moving back to the love seat, I sit down and recross my legs.

“Or, we could come up with a new plan. Like capitalizing on this stripping thing. We misunderstood, and we made a mistake. Next time, we’ll be more prepared,” Ariel states, coming over to sit down next to me.

“We are not going to be strippers, have you lost your mind? I’m a housewife and the president of the PTA. You owned an antique store, and Isabelle is a librarian. We are not strippers. I have no desire whatsoever to take my clothes off in front of a bunch of strangers.”

Even through my argument, the memory keeps popping back into my mind of that one moment at the party when a thrill of excitement went through me at the idea of doing something so scandalous. The freedom I felt, the giddy anticipation that coursed through me and made my heart beat faster, and the idea that I didn’t have to answer to anyone but myself. That I didn’t have to be perfect.

“You’re lying. Holy shit, you’re totally lying. I can see it written all over your face!” Ariel exclaims.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I scoff. “And I’m fairly certain Isabelle would never agree to something so preposterous.”

Isabelle bites her bottom lip, pushes her glasses up with one finger and shrugs.

“Tonight was . . . amazing!” she says in a breathy voice.

Ariel throws her head back and laughs while I sit staring at Isabelle, in shock.

“Sweetie, you almost fainted when you found out what the balloons were for,” I remind her gently.

“Okay, so that was a little shocking. But it’s only because I didn’t do enough research. Or, the right kind of research. There are a lot of reference materials I can find online about stripping, and, I don’t know, it might be kind of fun.”

“And by research she means porn. We need to watch porn,” Ariel says with a nod.

Everyone in this room has lost their minds. That’s all there is to it.

“I think we need to just stick to the original plan of hosting princess parties for little girls. We can print up flyers and design a website. It’s a wonderful idea and much more our speed,” I tell them.

“The only speed you know is uptight. You need to let loose, be wild, go crazy. Have you even lost your shit over what Brian did to you yet? Have you screamed, cried, thrown things, and cursed the ground he walks on? Gotten drunk and had a one-night stand to get him out of your head? Things don’t always need to be so neat and tidy. Life is messy. You’re never going to survive this if you don’t get your hands dirty,” Ariel explains.

“You don’t understand. I have a daughter. I can’t afford to get messy or lose my . . . mind. If things are neat and tidy, I’m still in control.”

The footsteps stomping down the stairs and across the hallway to the doorway of the sitting room cause Isabelle and Ariel to turn their heads and give me time to swallow back my tears and get myself under control.

“I need five dollars for lunch tomorrow, Cynthia,” Anastasia says with a bored look on her face as she leans against the doorjamb and picks at her black fingernail polish, which has started to chip off.