PRETTY AS A PRINCESS, UGLY AS A MAID

PERSPECTIVE FROM CINDERELLA’S STEPSISTER, DRIZELLA

Anya Aggarwal

I remember the day I turned ve. My mother, the great Lady Tremaine, carefully arranged my hair and gi ed me a little jeweled mirror. She told me, “Look into this mirror every day and you will nd a beautiful princess!” A er that day, she stopped me every time I tried to play in the sand or eat a sweet treat. “Not for my little princess!” she would warn. When my father died, it all began to make sense. e fairy tale tends to give stepsisters a bad rap, but I’m here to set the record straight. It was a race to secure the highest bid for my hand, just so we could survive, but it was far from what I ever wanted. My sister, Anastasia, and I became prized porcelain dolls, thrust onto display at every banquet to see who could solicit the wealthiest suitors. Scathed by the blazing spotlight, I was fortunate no one could see how viciously my mother had cinched my corset or how adamantly she tightened my curls. When I nally got to unravel it all for bed, my mother would slip into my room, not to tuck me in or give me a kiss, but to whisper, “Drizella, don’t forget to use your facial peel. Your skin looked a bit too ruddy today!” Even as a rst-born child, receiving all the attention, I couldn’t help feeling alone under the pressure of discerning eyes. Little did I know, I would spend the rest of my life pruning myself, not to become a princess, but to marry a prince.

I remember the day I received the royal invitation. “Let me see!” squealed my sister, as we jostled each other to get a good look. The gold-plated card summoned every eligible maiden to grace the presence of the prince, but I knew my mother was already crafting plans to ensure it would become the prelude to my wedding. This was my one chance to finally prove myself worthy to her. I frantically pulled out my best crimson laced dress, pins, shoes, buckles, and curlers and yelled down to my stepsister, “Cinderella, come up here and help me!” She couldn’t fathom all that was at stake because she had always been taken care of. After her parents died, we graciously looked after her, but the burden I bore for the future of our family was mine alone.

Cinderella slipped in to lace up my dress behind me. I caked on makeup to keep my eyes from tearing as I thought, “My father died years ago too, but no one ever heard me complain.” As I watched her in my mirror, her reflection couldn’t have looked more naturally softer or sweeter. She had the glow of the love of her parents, even if they were dead, without ever having had to earn it. She was everything I ever wanted. Now, she got to saunter around in her comfortable old gray smock and talk to her pigeon and mice friends while I worked tirelessly with bleach, tweezers, and wax, just to look presentable.

I closed my eyes to imagine the prince’s palace glitter with hundreds of chandeliers and red velvety carpets. I would have only a few moments to gracefully ascend the gilded steps, grab the prince’s attention, and return with his private engagement. Everything had to be perfect. My mother had instructed that Cinderella stay home to eliminate even the slightest of my competition, so she had added extra ashes to the mantle for her to clean that night. How could she look so effortlessly beautiful despite all that soot on her face? I breathed in as I saw my mother enter to inspect me. “You look pretty,” she admitted as she examined every detail. “But, I think you should do your hair just a bit more to look like Cinderella’s.”

I knew that my mother could never be free of the blindness of envy and greed. I knew that Cinderella’s beauty could not be tarnished because she never had to lift a finger to look regal in the first place. But, for just that moment, I wished I could trade places with her in the story. Even if it meant cleaning ashes from her mantle, fixing her hair, or attending to her dress - perhaps I could at least be seen. Perhaps then I wouldn’t have to marry a prince.