Teen Time

Cindy's Rendezvous

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Cindy rushed through her chores so she could go meet Paul at the wishing well.




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         Paul was supposed to meet me at 9:00 at the wishing well, so I rushed through my chores: washing the dishes from dinner, chopping and stacking up the wood for the next day, sweeping the kitchen, and taking the time to repair my step-sister’s latest torn dress. Then, I mixed the sugar and yeast in preparation for the morning’s breakfast bread, poured in the flour and other ingredients, and left the dough in a spot near the fireplace so it could rise properly. After dusting off my hands on my kitchen apron, I took it off, hung it up on the hook, and rushed out into the night.

         I wished I had had time to primp like my stepmother and stepsisters always did. They would have spent several hours combing their fine, long, coal-black locks. They would have sprayed themselves with cologne to cover the stench of their unwashed bodies. They would have corseted their bodies and drawn their plump waists into contorted thinness, but I could not do any of those things. I stripped off my plain, brown frock, dived into the frigid lake water, swam across to the other side and back, and then shook the water off my shivering body. It was all that I could do to prepare myself for my meeting with Paul.

         My hair was a dripping, draggled mess. I finger-combed out its snarls as I set forth through the forest. I knew that the warm summer breeze would dry it as I walked. On the way I also did up my dress’ thirty-four buttons. My fingers were red with cold from my swim, but they unstiffened from the action.

         I paused to chew at some wintergreen to purify my breath even though I knew my breath didn’t need it; my teeth were clean. I took care of them faithfully, brushing them each day with salt water and a brush made of tied straw as my mother had taught me. (Already my stepsisters’ mouths were full of rotting and wiggly teeth, for they refused to do such things.)

         On the way to the wishing well, I discovered some wild violets. I plucked several blooms and wove them into my long, golden-brown hair. I used a pine needle to pin a dainty bouquet of them on my faded old dress. Even a poor girl can primp a little, I decided, smiling at my silliness.

         My flowers had made me slightly late. I picked up my skirts, gather them to the sides and ran. The forest path was soft with bark compost. The run felt exhilarating. I arrived in the meadow with my cheeks flushed, my bosom heaving, and my energy level so high I felt like I could fly. My eyes scanned for Paul.

         Then I halted in mid-step. The meadow was filled with horses and men, all, from the richness of their costume, lords and nobles. My heart fluttered with anxiousness. I started to retreat, but one of them saw me and called out my name.

         “Cindy, wait!”

         It was Paul’s voice. I turned and looked for him, but I saw no impoverished servant boy among the watching men.

         Then I gasped. Paul strode forward, away from the others. He was dressed in royal colors, the deep blues of those with power and money. My heart was a galloping deer. My legs itched to accompany it back into the forest, but Paul was stretching out his hand to me.

         “Do not be afraid, Cindy. I am still Paul.”

         The boy I had been meeting during all those past months, each time joining him for our secret rendezvous at the wishing well where we talked and laughed and had fallen in love, was suddenly holding out his hand for me to take. I looked into his eyes, shut out my confusion, and reached out to take the hand.

         “I do not understand,” I said, softly.

         “I love you," Paul said. “Do you love me? Will you be my wife?”

         The blue sky, the wild flowers blooming in colors, the birds singing in nature's trees -- I loved all of them with my heart and soul, but I loved Paul even more.

         “Yes,” I whispered, gazing into his deep brown eyes. “I love you, and I will marry you, but I still do not understand.”

         Instead of answering me, Paul pulled me close and crushed me to his body. “She accepts,” he yelled out, and the army of men that had stood about suddenly surged closer. The confusion and noise of it all made my legs quake. I was filled with doubt.

         “Paul, please. I don’t understand,” I cried out once more.

         Taking pity on my trembling body, Paul loosened his hold and whispered in my ear, “Do not be angry, my little Cindy. I have played false with you. I am not a servant in a lord’s fine manor. I am the prince of the realm.”

         I would have fainted if he had not held me so close. Sudden understanding flooded my mind, not with clarity, but with even more confusion.

         “I am a servant girl. I cannot marry you,” I cried out, attempting to bolt away from him.

         Paul laughed. “You are not a servant girl now. You are my bride, and henceforth, you will be a princess.”

         I could tell you so much more of the balls that followed Paul’s proposal, of the fairy-like dresses I wore, of the court who welcomed me with open arms and hearts, but I am sure you know all that, so I will end this tale with my final musings, for I wonder about this often: What happened to the bread I left to rise on the hearth that morning? Did my sisters get up that day without my help to brush and dress their hair, and then did they enter the kitchen and prepare their breakfast for the first time ever, or does the bread dough still sit there, slowly turning green?

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