Chapter 3

Anya

Just another day.

I was sleeping peacefully, thinking about Princess Bubblegum's Candy Kingdom and the crazy cocaine-intoxicating Uncle Grandpa's RV. I was having the best time of my life. Going on adventures while riding Giant Realistic Flying Tiger with Starchy behind me, solving the mystery of how Uncle Grandpa and the gang arrived in the Candy Kingdom and eventually got lost-- I'm a resident here for some reason. But then the sound of an ear-wrecking alarm clock beeping less than a foot away ruined my sweet dreams. My head jolted up, my eyes still half asleep. I slowly turn my head to the alarm clock and stare at it like an enemy. I reach my hand out and smack the button on top of it. I manage to look at the time from the black rectangular digital devil that woke me up from my sweet slumber. 5:35 am, written in red. It really is a devil.

On the other hand, I mentally scratched my head. 5 am? That's...too early…Have I wrongly set the alarm last night?

The white double door shows my mom wearing her Chanel evening peach lace dress. She's also wearing her pearly white smile, but when she turns to look at me, it seems like she just saw a ghost. "OH MY GOSH, ANYA!" she ran to me and started shaking my shoulders violently. "You need to wake up~." 

"MOM!" I hold her arms and push them with as much force as possible to get her grip away from me, which is quite a lot. 

She keeps looking at the window behind me and the door a few feet from my bed. "If they see you-" she slapped my hand away from my eyes. "Don't rub it! Your eyes will get infected!"

"Mom, I'm just getting the eye gunk off-"

"Do you know what they will say when they see you like that?" Still paranoid, my mom rummaged through the drawer where my alarm and notebook were settled. She grabs my purple hand mirror and then faces it towards me. I see me. But not the sweet- and gorgeous-looking princess in all land. My hair looks like a dark brown tumbleweed, my eyebags getting deeper than they were then, and my saliva dried down to my chin. "YOU LOOK LIKE A NIGHTMARE!"

"Mom, I just woke up. You don't look awfully glowing at FIVE IN THE MORNING!"--emphasis on the five.

"Well, you must!" She then returns to my drawers to grab a brush and my make-up kit. She sits beside me, and I notice she's wearing full-face make-up. She holds the brush and starts "fixing" my face (because she doesn't want anyone to see me "poor-looking")

"Mom." 

"Hmm?"

"My alarm-"

"Oh, I forgot!" She squealed like an excited rat. "I resched EVERYTHING! Your gym, dance practices, rehearsals, costume rehearsal, and even new song recordings!"

I pushed her arm away, gently this time, "What-what do you mean new song recordings and dance practices?"

She aww-s and chuckles. "My treasure~" She put the brush back on my cheeks. "You must have not listened to me last night~! I already told you I made the show different, so your fans last night would be jealous!" She chuckled after this, to which I rolled my eyes. "I added different props which you can play around with, new dance steps AND two new song recordings for your next album exclusive only for those who went. I found a fancy recording studio here in the Philippines--the US can do better, but oh well. Anyways, WE CAN BEAT BRITNEY'S VEGAS SHOW...thing. Who cares? YOU are the star, my daughter."

"Mom! I am not informed about this! I am quite tired. It's too early--the sun is not even out! Why only say this now? I'm-"

"Hush, hush, my child!" my mom brushed all around my face. When the soft bristles hit my lips, I spit air like I was beatboxing. "It's a surprise! You like it?"

No, mom, I don't.

Finally, she pulled away from me. She squealed like a kid again and flashed the hand mirror to me. I can see my hair combed straight down and my bags and a few acne-covered with foundation. I look like a basic white girl on I*******m who uses Facetune. "You look so expensive now, hun~~" My mom let out a small giggle, but her small smile quickly changed to her lips forming a small circle. "Maybe we could mess your hair a little bit...and done!" I look back at the mirror, and it's still the same look, just my hair is a bit messy--just some strands going in different places just to make it look like I sleep like Kylie Jenner or something.

My mom gave me one last kiss and a soft "Hollywood" smile, as she likes to call it. She stood up and opened the doors. I heard her voice faint in the distance. Four of our maids went in to prepare my bath and my clothes.

>< <> <> ><

My hair is tied in a bun, and I wear tight black yoga pants with a pink sports bra. I am running on the treadmill of the personal gym in our mansion. It was located just a room away from mine. Loads of gym equipment are placed over a light rectangular wooden tile, and the surroundings are covered in marble-like texture, except for what's in front of me. I can see our backyard and a forest not too far from it. I can see hills and mountains standing tall behind it, which have a few trees too--I believe the subdivision will chop and destroy them to make more mansions for the rich, which I don't support. I speed the treadmill a little bit and stare back at the world outside this glass box I'm in. The thought returned to me: I wonder what it feels like to go out there?

What if I'm not stepping on the treadmill anymore but on the ground? I could feel the dirt road on the soles of my feet, soil clutching on it. I could feel bushes and leaves scrape my skin. The shadows of the trees cover the path, only the rays of sun skidding pass through and shine a light on it. I run faster. Fallen leaves flew one foot behind me, the wind making the tree branches dance beneath me. The hair tie is caught by the bough and lets my hair sway along with the leaves. I have never felt this good before. I close my eyes as I feel my surroundings. The rustling trees, the howling wind, my feet scraping on the soil. 

Is this what freedom feels like? Running away from the spotlight and into a path where the lights are only peeking from above? Feeling unafraid that no one is around you? Stepping on dirt barefoot, not giving a shit if they cling onto your skin or designer clothes. Breaking away from the shackles my mom and the entertainment world keep me in. Out of their control. Leaving everything behind. All alone. On my own, doing what I want with no one stopping me. Being me and doing….things…that make me, me.

I can see the bottom of the mountain, welcoming me to the light I always wanted to be in. In a different place. Where I could be...free. I ran straight to it. It felt too good to be true, but this must be it...I am free.

"Princess Anya?" I open my eyes, and I'm back to reality. The scenery is still in front of me, and I am still in this room. But I somehow forgot that I was running on a treadmill. I step my left foot backward, which sends me flailing down. 

I lift my head. It hit the corner of the treadmill, which kind of hurts. I held my temple softly to check if it grew a bump. I heard a voice behind me apologizing and helping me stand up. One of our maids started dusting off any possible floor crumbs on my body, but I held her arms to stop her. "You don't have to, really." 

Gladly, she stopped. "I am so sorry, ma'am. I shouldn't barge in while you're doing something."

"You did nothing wrong, but I accept your apology." I smiled softly. "And please, You don't have to call me princess or ma'am or miss when my mom is not around."

"Oh, okay, ma'am. Oh-" she put her hand up her mouth quickly. I raised my eyebrows. "Sorry, ma'am, I can't help it."

I chuckled. "It's alright. Just not princess, please. That is soooo cringy and ridiculous!" She let out a suppressed laughter, but then we burst out laughing.

It took five seconds of silence before she spoke. "Mrs. Moore wants me to inform you that your outfit for today has been prepared in your room. I can lead you to it, ma'am."

Mrs. Moore. Even if dad is already dead, she still wants people to call her that because "I love David so much that I am still married to him in his grave. And if ever I find someone to love, it would always be difficult for me."

"Oh, sure, sure." I watched her turn her back and was about to step out, but I stopped her. She turned, and I looked down, feeling flushed and thinking if I should ask this question. I breathe in deep. "Is it alright if you can give me a hug?"

I can feel her step in front of me. I look up, and there she is, with her arms wide open. "You may, ma'am.'

So I did. We stayed there for a while. I hug the maid over her shoulder while her hands are around my waist. The hug was tight, but not too much like how my mom does. It's gentle. It's not the hug that kept me locked in one's arms, but the hug that makes me want to stay. It felt safer. It takes me back to when I was seven.

She lets go, but it's not enough for me. It must have been because we need to get ready. She smiled. I smiled too, maybe even wider than hers. "May I ask for your name?" 

She was stuttering, hesitant at first, but managed to say "B-Beth. They call me Beth here."

"Thank you, aunt Beth."

"You don't have to call me aunt-"

"I insist. I can't help it." I chuckled, and so did she.

I followed Beth on the way to my room. I don't know the names of our maids, but I can recognize their faces, and Beth is the face I will never forget. Her features never changed. She has light brown skin, black hair, brown eyes, thin light pink lips, and is quite chubby. She just got a few wrinkles, and I got 2 feet and a few inches taller. We have had Beth since the time I just turned 7. We had six maids back then, and Beth was the seventh. I thank God, and maybe mom, for giving her this job. Out of all of them, Beth is my only favorite. She's the one who always takes care of me when mom is on a business trip with my dad. Beth would always tuck me in, telling stories, singing songs, and playing with me when my sisters did their homework. She's even helping me with mine, teaching me, and stuff. 

We arrived at my room. I see four young-looking maids—mid-30s—already there. They are trying my clothes on me, topping the hanging dresses on their bodies, and the others complement each other. They put them back in the closet when they saw Beth and me. They start to align beside each other, and with maybe the fakest smile, they welcome me. I also gave a phony grin back at them and went in as they led me to my dresser. 

"What's taking you so long?" One of the maids asked Beth, but I answered before aunt Beth could. 

"Oh, my bad. I was taking so long on the treadmill," I said with a smile. The maid then apologizes, and they start doing their giving my hair and face make-up.

Beth and I are so close. She's like my first ever friend. But when my mom found out how close we were—surprisingly took almost a year—she faced me with telling me that I shouldn't be close to Beth because she was just trying to get close to me so she could secretly take our riches (and that all the maids think like that, hence why we aren't supposed to know their names). Mom separated us and decided that a different maid should deal with me, which was not a friendly maid. She's just all "quiet" and "obedient" When in reality, she and the three maids—with me right now—are backstabbers and gossipers.

They finished my make-up and hair—a simple day look and medium-wave hair. They stood me up and grabbed the outfit they had prepared for me. A long sleeve bodycon pencil dress with a zipper on the back. 

"Umm... It's quite hot in here. Do I have to wear that?"

All three of them look at each other and then back to me. "It's the queen's orders, princess," the 'queen' and 'princess' said almost mockingly. I don't blame them. It's so silly and cringy. But her saying it that way just makes it more annoying to hear.

"Oh," I said. Yeah right. My mom always picks clothes for me. I can't do anything about it since it's commanded by my mom. "Okay then. Sure." I smiled at them, and they started to help me change. 

I spend most of my years with them. Ever since Dad died, everything he owned went to my mom. My sisters ran away while we were going to the USA to jumpstart my career. We stayed in dad's home here, and while my mom was looking for connections from her fellow rich friends, I stayed inside the house with the seven maids, but I was surrounded mainly by four of them fixing me up and stuff while the rest, including Beth, does most of the chores. Sometimes, when Beth and I crossed paths, we would give each other hidden smiles, which was all our connection. She's not like other maids. Beth is not what my mom depicts her to be. She has the purest heart, and I knew that because of the stories she told me.

I finished getting ready. I look at my reflection wearing a dress, pink pumps, and a handbag. I took a deep breath and smiled. Not sure why. I guess I just have to, for some reason.

I step out of my room and walk down the stairs. From the steps, besides my mom and two of my bodyguards, I see a brunette-haired guy standing beside them, wearing a black long-sleeved turtleneck and brown jeans. He's looking down, ruffling his hair. As soon as mom called my name, he looked up. His hair is a bit messy, but that's how he always styles it.

"Hey," Kade said, staring at me with his mouth hanging like a dog who wants to play catch. "You look so beautiful."

"Thanks," I said. My smile didn't fade. Kade held my hand when I was five steps closer to them and kept it like that when we stepped out. The two bodyguards are in front of us, and mom is walking behind. We walk on the brick pathway to the gate opened by the bodyguards. I saw the limousine from last night parked in front of the entrance. Our guards were already there holding the door for us. I start to wonder if this is how they were trained. I can imagine their captain probably tells them, "You MUST act quickly for the Moores. If you are slower than the Flash, you are DEAD."  

I enter the vehicle first, then Kade, mom, and lastly, our bodyguards. 

I stare at the window, our front porch on display. The red brick path is surrounded by green grass and colorful flowers, but some are covered by the gate and its design of vines and thorns. I keep staring at it. I just feel something about it. I just don't know what. Maybe it's just that I miss being here again, but is it?

I watch the vehicle drive away, showing different landscapes. Here I go again, I thought. Another day of endless practice. Sometimes I wonder if I can still hold on. Is this what being a pop star feels like? Maybe. Maybe not. Rebels are only for those who are evil, is what my mom says. If I step out of this barbie box, I won't be who I am today, and no one will ever want to see me. So I have to keep going. If this makes me a well-known and most loved singer, I should keep going. Although I don't feel like it's right, I have to do anything to make sure I won't fail as others do.

It's better to hold back than let go.