Girls' Night by Naomi Libicki

Last week we had a modern retelling of the Little Red Riding Hood fairy-tale, this week it is over to Naomi Libicki for a strictly 21st century spin on the Cinderella story. Our storyteller – Naomi Libicki, making a welcome return to The Grievous Angel, lives in Jerusalem, Israel, where she takes care of other people's children for a living. She makes a mean apple strudel and has had stories published in Electric Spec and Apex Magazine.


​​Girls' Night
by Naomi Libicki
 
​
"Cinderella," said her stepmother, "you shall go to the ball!"

"Oh, goody," Cinderella grumbled.
"Now, don't be like that," said her stepmother. "We can't all expect to catch the prince, but I'm sure there will be some nice marquises and baronets who'd look your way – if only you'd smile a bit more."

"What are you wearing?  Do you want to borrow something of mine?" said her first stepsister, tearing through the wardrobe with an alarming glint in her eye. "The purple one would probably fit you, I guess... Or, oh! There's this blue one! It's kind of boob-tastic, but at least no one will notice your butt, am I right?"

"What's wrong with my..." Cinderella started, but her first stepsister had already dashed off, leaving Cinderella with a double armful of frothy ballgowns.

"Oh lord!  You can't do your hair like that!" Her second stepsister shoved her into a chair in front of the vanity table, and started taking a bewildering variety of instruments from the drawers. Smoke was coming out of one of them. "If only you'd used that avocado mask like I told you to – but we'll do what we can."

"Ow!" said Cinderella, as her second stepsister jabbed at her head with a pin.

"Don't be a baby," said her second stepsister. "And do me a favor and dance with Count Robert, won't you? Maybe if you step on his feet hard enough he'll have to go home, and he won't be trying to grope me all night." From somewhere in her décolletage, a synthesized voice began to sing that partying was fun, and that everyone was looking forward to the weekend. "I've got to take this – don't you dare move for the next ten minutes, or it won't set up right."

Her second stepsister swept out of the room in a cloud of cellphone chatter, and Cinderella stared at herself in the mirror glumly, wondering if she could get all those pins out by herself. In a corner of the room, the air shimmered and sparkled and chimed with the sound of tiny silver bells. Cinderella leapt up and got a scorch from the curling iron.

"What's wrong, love?" said her fairy godmother.

Cinderella scrubbed at her face and tried not to sniffle.  "I don't... I don't want to go to the ball."

"Is that all," said her fairy godmother. She marched to the door and called out into the hallway, "Cinderella can't come!  She has swine flu! And E. coli!"

"Oh, but..." her stepmother's voice protested.

"You don't want the Health Police in here, do you?" said her fairy godmother. The sounds of bustling and excited preparations continued for a few minutes, and then the household descended into unaccustomed quiet.

"There," said her fairy godmother. She waved her magic wand, and Cinderella was dressed in pajamas, with her hair down from its elaborate style. There was a bowl of popcorn and two mugs of hot chocolate on the bedside table, and the mirror on the vanity had been replaced with a 65-inch flatscreen monitor. "I happen to know of a site where they've leaked some scenes from next season's Game of Thrones." She grabbed the bowl of popcorn and sat down on the bed.

Cinderella sat down next to her. "Awesome," she said, and took a long sip of her hot chocolate. On the screen, Peter Dinklage was running someone through with a longsword. It was going to be a good night.