Sleeping Beauty, the One Who Took the Really Long Nap by Wendy Mass Page A

me.

As much as my bad/terrible/awful painting pleased me, it did not have the same effect on my mother. For months after the painting incident, I often caught Mama looking worriedly in my direction. Since in my family unpleasant things were never really discussed, it took me a while to get up the strength to confront her. Finally, after she had spent almost an entire meal looking at me as if I were a little child whose pet kitten had run away, I had to say something.
    When we were alone in the library after supper, I asked, “Mama, why do you appear so sad whenever you look at me? Have I disappointed you terribly?”
    Much to my surprise and horror, she burst into tears! I rushed into her arms to comfort her. She stroked my hair and said, sniffling, “Oh, baby, no, don’t ever think that. I had always believed the fairies’ gifts would protect you and make life easier for you. It helped to soften the terrible blow of the curse hanging over your head. But when you paintedthat picture, it pained me that you should feel any disappointment or sadness or pain in life. I wanted you always to believe you were the most special, talented, wonderful girl in the world.”
    â€œBut why?” I asked. “Why do I need to feel that way? Wouldn’t you rather I find out who I really am, without the gifts to guide me all the time?”
    She sighed. “Honestly? No. I don’t want to think of you struggling with anything. I’m not saying it’s rational. This is a mother’s love talking.”
    We sat in the two comfortable chairs, holding hands. There wasn’t much left to be said. I could not blame her for how she felt. I wondered if someday I would have a child to love as much as Mama loved me.
    Later, when she kissed me goodnight in front of my bedroom door, I called down the hall after her. “Mama, for my birthday next week I thought I would cook supper for the family.” I hurried through the door before she had a chance to answer. In the morning when I awoke, Sara handed me a note on Mama’s personal stationery. It said, No knives!
    Cook was not as pleased as I thought she would be about my offer to relieve her of her kitchen duties on my birthday night. She argued that she always made something special for my birthday. Was I sure I wanted to mess withtradition? I told her now that I was almost grown up — I was turning fourteen, after all, the age some other princesses were engaged — I really did not need a fuss to be made on my birthday anymore. I had spent the last week working out the menu, and I handed her a list. She read it, grimaced slightly, and nodded.
    The morning of my birthday I was up before dawn. I dressed myself since Sara was still sleeping. But instead of my usual gown, I put on an old pair of Papa’s nightclothes that he had given me for playing in the garden when I was younger. At first Mama had been horrified that I wanted to wear pants to swing on the swing that hung from an old tree next to the mermaid fountain, but I convinced her I was much less likely to fall without my skirts getting tangled up in the chains. “Safety before fashion,” I pointed out. How could she argue with that?
    Papa’s old nightclothes also made an excellent cooking outfit. I planned on getting dirty today. Sara came in the room, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “Why are you awake so early? The rooster has not even crowed yet.”
    â€œDid I not tell you? I am the castle’s new cook!”
    â€œSorry?” she said. “I must have wax in my ears.”
    I laughed. “I’m cooking our supper today. For my birthday.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause I’ve never done it before. I want to see if I can.”
    â€œLike painting a picture?” she asked, taking my hair-brush off my vanity table and directing me to sit down.
    â€œYes, painting a picture.”
    As she brushed my hair until it shone, she said, “You