Deconstructing Royalty

The Unhygienic Fellow

          Eight year-old Esmay sauntered down the sidewalk with utmost confidence and excellency. She perched up her chin in valiancy and her arms swung rhythmically to an imaginary beat. The redhead was gowned in an elegant frock that cut off at mid-calf and a pair of pastel-white, open-toed flats. A crimson ribbon encircled her waist, fashioning a divine bow just under her ribcage. Her grizzly hair was tamed in a taut bun, appearing lustrous the sun’s radiant beams. Esmay was cheerful to be heading to the neighborhood park, awaiting fresh grass and the first blossoms of springtime. Veering around to yell “Hurry up!” to her sluggish mother, who was several stride behind, another weight collided into hers out of the blue. She would have toppled over if that same body hadn’t also grabbed her arm, pulled her up, and balanced her.

       “Whoops! Sorry,” that somebody said. Esmay forgot to meet his eyes, for she was too concentrated on the significantly sized blotch plastered on her dress.

      “You horrible, insolent commoner!” She screeched, scrubbing against the bodice, unintentionally spreading and therefore worsening the brown mark.

           “Pardon?” The person said, befuddled by such academic vocabulary. Esmay rolled her eyes and then lifted them face her current foe. Before her stood a boy about her age, long-haired, horribly covered in filth. He had on tan-ish khaki pants (it was to decipher being they were smothered in muddy splashes), streaked at the knees with grass stain, and a green shirt with “Ain’t Somebody Got Time For Sap” (or at least that’s what she decode under more muddy splashes). His hair was slicked back with sweat provoked by the humidity, though it seemed to be gel, along with some excess dirt. This boy must live in a pig pen, she thought. In addition, he had a diminutive slash above his nose and both of his elbows were scabbed. 

            “Look at what you’ve done to my dress!” She growled, stumping on the cement. “I will not stand for this. You…whatever your name is…”

             “Spencer,” the boy replied sheepishly.

           “Well, Spencer,” she seethed, sticking her nose up defiantly, “I’ll give you two choices: either you can scrub that dress spotless or buy me another one. My address is 536 Hillock Street. Your payment is to be completed by the end of the week or, so help me God, I will track you down.”

           The-boy-called-Spencer blinked rapidly. “You’re joking, right?”  He briskly arched his eyebrow, rendering Esmay temporarily speechless. Without flaw, the eyebrow bent into a summit; she pondered foolishly if it had gotten caught on an imaginary fish hook and yanked upward. “I don’t owe you anything! It was an accident!”

          Her jaw dropped ajar, but shortly after she shook her head, reviving her wrath. She folded her arms, swerving her hip boldly, challenging him. “You think so?” She noticed the poor lad twitch slightly under her punitive regard, and beamed; then abruptly, she unzipped herself and shimmied out of the dirtied gown, which landed gracefully at her ankles.

       “Holy mackerel,” Spencer mumbled, his eyes enlarging, bags building underneath them. Esmay stood cheekily, clothed only in a white tank top and a flimsy slip, exposing her fair skin both to him and the sun’s thirsty shafts. He averted his stare to the ground.

          She considered this respectful action as she gathered the dress off the ground. Prodding him in the chest, she asserted “Sunday” and propelled the garment into his sullied palms, mindful of the fact that she’d be complicating the chore. “Do not disappoint me.”