Belle has never seen so many people in her living room before.
She is newly five. Her friends have all arrived in their designated princess dresses. Some of them are simply sparkly and pink with multiple ribbons, while others are more specific. Cinderella and Snow White whisper to each other in the corner. They nod to each other, as they drop their sequined bags and slip into the backyard, oblivious that their secret escape is under the watchful eye of at least two grown-ups. The grown-ups balance napkins, and plastic forks, and broken tiaras. They talk at all volumes, while covering their mouth as they eat. They almost all decline a second serving of cake.
In the centre of her living room, is a grown-up princess who she thinks her parents must have asked to come, but she is shocked that they knew where to find one. The grown-up princess towers over the small swarm of puffy dresses, twirling a wand around, drawing hearts on flushed cheeks with face paint. She brought with her a white paper bag, now placed on a coffee table that is covered with crumbs and paper cups.
The grown-up princess can feel eyes on her, and turns with a dazzling smile.
‘Well, does the birthday girl also want some face paint,’ she asks? ‘You can get a special heart next. Come on!’
Tiara slightly lopsided, adorned in glittery yellow flats to match her yellow dress, Belle smiles, but her smile is shy. She can tell that because it is her birthday she should be in the centre with the grown-up princess too, rather than simply watching.
The scene before her constantly moves. She steps forward and is pulled in.
***
It’s the same living room but different. New couches, fresher carpet, photographs of Belle in long formal dresses with fewer sparkles and ribbons.
The glass of white she was drinking is now lukewarm, neglected after a long conversation with her best friend. They sit facing each other, burger wrappers littering the floor. There is a box of crepes between them. Two candles are placed aside after she blew them out, and wished for something that in a year she will likely scoff at.
‘We’re going to do this thing called birthday candles,’ her best friend tells her. ‘Here. You have to blow out an imaginary candle, and you have to say your favourite memory from each year of being alive. Or whatever memory comes to your mind first.’
Age seven was her grade two teacher who made them sing the most ridiculous songs and then perform them at assembly – the class’s best received performance was a song detailing the confusing mechanics about eating on a plane. Thirteen was the terrible yet imperative year seven camp where she met all her high school friends – terrible because the pancakes had her on bed rest two days later, imperative because she finally had friends, she could complain to about said bedrest. Twenty was the sigh of relief when she got finally got her driver’s licence, after her late teens showed her only paralysing driving anxiety.
And now twenty-two lay ahead, a blank canvas.
There has never been as many people in her living room on her birthday, than the day she stood as Belle, fidgeting her fingers, a sparkly heart on her face.
There is no grown-up princess handing out gifts, or adults to offer their keen eye. Instead, when she’s exhausted all imaginary candles, she picks up the wrappers, and nurses the last of her wine. She hugs her best friend tight, before walking them out to their car, the street dead asleep at 11pm on a weekday. She comes backs inside, and smiles at the cards on her desk, before turning off the light and going to bed.
The scene before her moves and she now moves with it.
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