Hannah stared out her bedroom window, elbows propped on the sill, chin propped in her hands.  She watched her mother two stories below lugging oversized bouquets from the garage to the van where Hannah’s older brother stood, trying to situate the floral collections so that they all fit into the already cramped space. 

“Don’t force them in!  You’ll crush the roses!” her mother yelled, hobbling to the van with another arrangement.  The heel of her pink dress shoe caught a crack in the sidewalk.  She lurched, sending the flowers into the air and onto the pavement. 

“Oh no, Michael, help!” she cried, stumbling forward, trying her best not to join the fallen bouquet.

“Are you okay?”  Michael asked, catching his mother by the elbow.

“The flowers! They’re ruined!”

“No they aren’t”

“They’re ruined!”

“Mom!  Calm down.  I’ll fix this bouquet and get the last two into the van.  He straightened his mother, holding her shoulders.  “You’d better go get Hannah.  She’s probably not even dressed, yet.”

Hannah scoffed.  “Am too dressed,” she muttered to herself, pushing away from the window.  With a heavy sigh she turned to the mirror hanging on the closet door.  She stood, chin tucked, arms pressed to her sides, feet turned inward, pigtails springing up from her head. 

She inspected the outfit she picked out herself – she looked like Cinderella ready for the ball.  Her yellow, lace dress swished as she rocked from side to side.  White gloves protected her dainty hands from the handle of the basket she would carry down the isle.  Her satin shoes shone as bright as the sun.  The glittering tiara made her feel like a princess.

“I look beautiful,” Hannah cooed, scratching her head to relieve the painful pull of her ponytails.  

“Ouch,” she gritted her teeth and sucked in her breath.  She scratched and pulled until the pain stopped.  “That’s better.”

Scrunching her nose and squinting her eyes, Hannah peered at her reflection. 

“Something is missing.”  She glanced around the room until she spotted a small, cylindrical tube lying on the dresser. 

Hannah scurried over to the dresser and snatched the tube of lipstick, clutching it close to her chest.  Her heart fluttered as she skipped to the mirror. 

“Mom, I’ve got it!  Go finish getting ready!” Hannah heard Michael yelling outside. 

Hannah tugged at the tub of lipstick.  The lid popped off, falling to the floor.  Tink, tink, tink… it sounded against the tile.  Hannah chased it in circles until it became lodged between an old, oriental rug and a leg of the bed. 

“You silly lid,” she giggled.  “I couldn’t catch you.”

She grabbed the lid and set it on the bed, turning her attention to the mirror.  Inches from the reflective glass, Hannah curled her lips into a super-model smile and coated them with bright red pigment.  Over and over and over, she rubbed the glossy lipstick, making sure her pouty lips were well tinted for the day’s events. 

Click, click, click…  The sound of high heels ascending the stairs startled Hannah.  She dashed for the lid lying on the bed and hurriedly clamped it down on the still extended lipstick which oozed out over the edge of the tube.

“Hannah.  Hannah, where are you?” her mother called, climbing the last step. 

“In here,” Hannah announced, smoothing her dress, taking pose for her mother to see.

“Why are you in Rachel’s room….” Her mother’s voice cracked as she gasped at the sight of her daughter. 

“Hannah!” Her face turned red.  “What have you done!?   Your hair!  You’ve messed up your hair!  And your FACE!”  Her mother clicked down the hall, to the bathroom and back to Hannah with a wet washcloth.

She squeezed Hannah’s round cheeks and rubbed Hanna’s lips until they burned.

“Bu..bu..bu..” Hannah tried to speak as her mother pressed the cloth against her mouth.

“This is never coming off…” her mother huffed, taking Hannah’s arm.  She pulled; Hannah stumbled.

 “Take off those shoes!” her mother commanded, pulling the size 8 prom shoes off of Hannah’s size 5 feet. 

“What is this?” her mother spat, clinging to the dingy, lace curtain wrapped around her daughter.  “Where is your dress?”

Hannah responded with a blank expression.

“Hannah, where is your dress?  Why would you do this to me on the day of your sister’s wedding?”

Hannah looked at her mother and twisted her lips.  “I wanted to look pretty so I could walk down the isle, too.”

“Well you don’t look pretty and you’re not walking down the isle.  We’ve been over this,” her mother dismissed.  “Now get in the bathroom so I can wash your face and fix your hair again.  Then you will put on the dress that grandma bought you and the shoes that your cousin, Sarah, gave you and you will go downstairs and sit in the living room until we are ready to go.  You will not ruin this day for Rachel!”

She pulled the tiara off of Hannah’s head and dropped it to the floor. Her mother tore at each layer of Hannah’s carefully crafted costume, stripping away the fantasy that Hannah had built around herself.  No more tiara - no longer important. No more lace - no longer elegant.  No more satin - no longer graceful.  No more lipstick - no longer beautiful. 

Finally, her mother peeled the crimson-stained, knitted mittens off of Hannah’s hands, tossing the last remnant of her dream into the bathroom trash can.  Hannah didn’t argue and she didn’t cry.  She just let her mother comb the matted curls out of her hair and secure two, fresh ponytails on the sides of her head. 

Her mother marched her to her room where the lime-green sundress that her grandmother bought for her lay draped over a chair.  White, plastic sandals that belonged to her cousin were nestled beneath the chair, waiting for Hannah to slip her stubby toes into the openings. 

 Hannah sat like a mannequin while her mother pulled on her arms, pushed her feet, turned her torso and jerked her head until the dress was zipped, shoes were buckled and bows were tied to her ponytails. 

Hannah felt like a frumpy troll doll, not the princess she started out to be. 

“Stop pouting,” her mother instructed.  “Go downstairs.  Grandma will be here soon to take you to the chapel while your brother and I take the flowers to the reception hall.”

Exasperated, her mother pulled Hannah to the door and walked her down the stairs. 

“Here,” she pointed to the blue, paisley couch where Hannah sat without hesitation, landing like a beanbag.  “Sit up.  I don’t want you making a mess of yourself again.”

Hannah obeyed, avoiding her mother’s look. She starred at her cousin’s sandals, taking note of the grey scuffs along the edges.  Her mother’s shoes clicked into the kitchen.

“I don’t look pretty.”

“Who says so?”

Hannah lifted her eyes only enough to see the shiny, white shoes that her grandmother wore.  She shrugged.

“Look at me, dear,” grandma instructed.  “Good heavens.  What happened to your face?”

“Lipstick,” Hannah’s mother croaked as she swept past them carrying hors d’oeuvres trays to the van.

“I see.  You are only eight, Hannah.  You don’t need lipstick.”

Hannah sighed.  “I wanted to look pretty… like Rachel.  She’s always pretty.  And I’m not.”

“Nonsense.  You are pretty in your own way.  You remember the story I told you about the ugly duckling, don’t you?”

Hannah nodded. 

“One day you will blossom and be a beautiful swan.  You’ll see. Now come on.  Let’s go to the church.”

Hannah slipped off the couch and took grandma’s hand. 

Her mother, brushing past them, sniggered and muttered under her breath, “she’s not even pretty enough to be an ugly duckling.”