The Cinderella of Sunset Park

I scamper across the street and slip between the townhouses walking fast, not running. I get on the Brooklyn-bound ‘A’ train, sink into the first empty seat and let out a sigh.

What the fuck have I done? I‘m worse than a dirty rat leaving a sinking ship. But there’s no time to cry over spilt milk.

I’m back at my place to shower and switch into my party threads in fifteen minutes flat. I do a ‘sexy-smoky-eye treatment with-candy-apple-red lips’ for a complete and total Dolly-fide makeover. I’ve been practicing every night with MissChevious on YouTube for weeks. I call Uber and arrive in style for my Big Reveal at the Grand Prospect Hall, where dreams do come true.

I climb the grand staircase just like in the commercial and pause in the doorway. It’s all glistening gold and silver and smells like heaven. There are eight chandeliers lit up. Every table has a cloth down to the floor with a centerpiece of white Gardenias tied in violet ribbons. There’s a platform with a five-piece band wearing baby blue tuxedos and black bow ties. There’s a big-ass crowd chilling about, but little by little people turn their heads, a few get poked in the ribs, and hear their voices lag. The room goes dead silent.

I melt their faces off.

There are two-dozen chins hitting tables and eyebrows meeting hairlines. Half the crowd doesn’t even recognize me at first, I can tell.

Even though I dreamed it’d be good showing up like this, it feels great! I’m usually part of the wallpaper; hell, I’m the glue on the wallpaper. I grew up the fourth of seven, skinny with frizzy hair, tiny eyes, and big teeth. I was never first or best at anything; even my family forgets me half the time. Now I stroll in and I got the whole fucking package. I’m the Cinderella of Sunset Park.

I snap a quick selfie with the crowd behind me.

Someone taps my shoulder and I turn, expecting Johnny. But I’m dead wrong. It’s two policemen with Boris and the hall owners. No one is smiling. My heart sinks into my stilettos and my makeup melts.

“You Darlene DiAngelo?” one asks. “Nice hairdo!” I nod. “Boris, here, filed a complaint against you for alleged petty theft. You hotfooted it out of his beauty shop this afternoon. We gotta take you down to the station.”

I’m mortified in my moment of glory. I’m whisked down the beautiful curved staircase with a cop on each arm and I lose a shoe. They stuff me into their squad car, drive to the precinct and book me. I’m given a desk ticket with a $1,000 fine.

I’ve never seen that kind of money. The cops are really nice to me though. I can tell they feel bad about my situation, but there’s nothing they can do. Everyone I know is at the Grand Prospect Hall. I don’t want to call and be more notorious than I already am, so I don’t.

They put me in a cell, give me a clean blanket and I sleep sitting up to protect my valuable hairdo, which is the root of my demise. In the morning, I call Aunt Carla who posts bail. The cops return my purse and shoe and I go home alone – back to the same old Dolly with the same old hair.

And Johnny? Never saw him.