Nine
I arrived at work to find my esteemed commander standing at her desk with a cell phone pressed to her ear, her dark eyes flashing with anger.
As usual she wore her sleek purple gown with its flipped gold collar, her shiny jet-black hair impeccably styled in its severe downward bob, her eyebrows tweezed into constant shock.
“. . . Please don’t patronize me,” her two-toned red-and-violet lips snapped as she impatiently waved for me to deposit her breakfast tray and vanish from sight. “That’s not an excuse. That’s a flimsy taradiddle, and you know it!”
I put down the tray, but I didn’t leave. Instead I poured her tea and cut her grapefruit sections into the way she preferred, thirty miniscule morsels she could consume while talking. That I dipped each one into a clear pool of sweet agave syrup was a secret I alone knew.
Her Majesty switched ears, and I handed her a tiny grapefruit sliver on a cocktail fork. She took it without thinking. “All right. I’ll tolerate your pathetic explanation, but it had better be satisfactory.”
I fed her an almond on a silver spoon. She crunched and listened as I carefully patted the corner of her mouth with an authentic French doily. “Yes, well, that’s all very logical. Still, it doesn’t explain how he got away.” I fed her another nut, and she didn’t object.
“Tea?” I whispered.
She nodded, and I handed her a cup with a healthy dose of honey. Sipping and sighing, placated by subversive shots of sucrose, she finally collapsed into her high-backed chair in front of the wall of flickering monitors.
“I apologize for becoming agitated,” she was saying. “But I insist on finding out why we lost those screen shots. We had a full moon. The trolls were on his tail. We had ideal conditions last night for catching him in the act!”
The hairs on my arms rose. Was she talking about my prince?
I busied myself by sorting through her mail from Friday, removing anything that might be displeasing, while I hung on her every word.
“As soon as Robert gets in Monday morning, tell him I want to see if we can do a digital restoration. We have to at least try. Only Fairyland’s entire future is at stake!” With that she slid the phone to Off and tossed it onto her desk blotter, pounding her fist into the armrest of her chair. Even Tinker Bell, snoozing on her pillow, gave a tiny yip of alarm.
I remained silent until she finished her tea. When I heard the clatter of the cup on its saucer, I stacked the mail and chirped brightly, “I don’t know what you did with your hair this morning, ma’am, but it’s even more perfect than usual.”
She went, “Hmph.”
“No, really. Look.” And I brought over her Magic Mirror, so she could see for herself.
“It must be the new rinse I’ve been using. The one with deadly nightshade.” The Queen fingered a few strands. Then, abruptly standing, she said, “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, Zoe. It’s no use. We have a huge problem on our hands that’s not going to be solved with tea and compliments. Hurry now and get my makeup. The princesses are waiting to be weighed.”
I fetched her compact—Alabaster Plaster—and proceeded to powder her nose. “It’s Sunday, ma’am. We don’t do weigh-ins on Sunday.”
“We do now that Adele has gained three pounds.” Sufficiently deathly pale, she ferreted out her lipstick. “Don’t argue with me, Zoe. You know how I despise truculence.”
Did I ever. After applying a fresh coat of Baneberry Red to her lips, I collected the weight charts, found a new pen, and hurried after the Queen, her robes flowing behind her as she proceeded down the hallway to the elevator to Our World, where three of the second-shift princesses were waiting while Valerie, the gorgeous Sleeping Beauty, was in Wardrobe getting made up.
In their underwear, Snow White, Rapunzel, and Cinderella jumped to attention when we burst through the doors. “All right, ladies. I hope you’ve been working out and drinking your water.” The Queen uncovered the doctor’s scale. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that violation of Rule Number Seven is a deal breaker.”
Rule #7: Princesses will not gain or lose more than three pounds from the recorded weight at their audition.
Adele, a Cinderella, swallowed hard while Laura, a Snow White, who was as pale as a china doll with hair the color of licorice, stepped onto the scale. She had nothing to worry about, even though she didn’t get much exercise lying around all afternoon in a glass coffin. I wrote down her weight: 119.
“Do you know what Rule Number Twenty-Two is, Zoe?” the Queen asked as I charted Laura’s weight on the graph in a straight line.
Like a perfect lackey, I parroted it verbatim: “Rule Number Twenty-Two: Venturing into the Forbidden Zone at any hour and for any reason without written permission from Management will be considered to be an Act Against the Kingdom punishable by automatic exile from Fairyland Kingdom and automatic disqualification from receiving the Dream and Do grant.”
The Queen graced me with an approving smile. “Very good. Then perhaps you’ll understand why I am so upset. Try not to be shocked, my dear, but the trolls have reported that a generic teenage male intern of largely indeterminate identity has been spotted in the FZ.”
So my hunch had been right. Her tirade on the phone had been about the prince who’d saved me from the quicksand.
Now what was I going to do?
Miranda, the redhead who’d flown in from Dallas with Ian, was on the scale, waiting. She had the best figure of anyone, and I couldn’t understand why she was kept hidden away in Rapunzel’s tower.
“One sixteen,” the Queen announced. “Not an ounce of deviation. Excellent.”
Beaming, Miranda got off and gave Adele an encouraging fist bump.
“I just have to take off my bracelets,” Adele said, like that would make a difference.
The Queen heaved a sigh and took me aside, dropping her voice so the princesses couldn’t hear. “While we’re waiting for Miss Dunkin’ Donuts 2013, you should know that when we return to the office, I will need your help in distributing an all-points bulletin informing the interns that one of their own has engaged in the treasonous villainy of sabotage.”
“Sabotage?” That seemed a tad overboard. “Isn’t that kind of extreme? I mean, he was just spotted walking in the woods. What harm is there in that?”
The Queen arched her brow and said, “The harm, Zoe, is in the fact that he blatantly violated Rule Number Twenty-Two, which happens to be a treasonous offense. Unless you know otherwise.”
“Uh, no.”
She regarded me a half a beat too long for my comfort. “In this proposed all-points bulletin, it shall be noted that any information leading to the apprehension of said traitor shall be immediately rewarded with an elevation in cast status and/or improved odds of winning the Dream and Do. That should serve as sufficient motivation to come forward, eh?”
There it is, Jess’s promotion handed to me like Tinker Bell’s daily caviar on a silver platter. All I had to do was turn over that shirt swatch, and my cousin would be Cinderella.
I closed my eyes, remembering the sheer panic of slipping deeper and deeper into the sand and how grateful I’d been that the prince had come along at just that moment to catch Tinker Bell and hand me the branch and how I’d sworn that I’d never turn him in.
The Queen swung around to Adele. “Dear girl, what is taking you so long?”
Adele shook her hands nervously. She was blond and blue-eyed like Simone, the other Cinderella who was currently working the park. Unlike Simone, however, Adele tended to be big-boned and athletic—not surprising, considering that during the school year she milked cows on a Wisconsin dairy farm.
“It’s just that I didn’t expect we’d be weighed this morning and—”
“Tsk, tsk.” The Queen cut her off. “There is no vacation from healthy eating!” She rapped the scale with her black fingernail. “Do get on.”
My heart went out to poor Adele as she got on the scale. To me she looked fine. More than fine. Healthy. Strong. Wasn’t she the model of Cinderella that Fairyland should be promoting, instead of the weak stereotype who had to rely on her elderly fairy godmother for a ride to the ball?
“You do recall the contract you signed to stay the same weight as when you were cast,” the Queen said, inching the weights farther to the right.
Adele’s yes was barely audible.
“We cannot have one Cinderella who’s a size two and another who’s a size twelve. It would cause customer confusion. The children should not be able to distinguish you from Simone. Didn’t they teach you that in Fairyland summer camp?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay, then.” The Queen finally evened out the weights and pursed her lips in dismay. “That’s two pounds more, Adele. Unacceptable.”
Adele stepped off, tears in the corners of her eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Sugar. That’s the culprit. I’ll tell you what—you won’t find me dabbling in that White Death. Why, I haven’t touched a single grain or drop since Christmas 1984! It’s called discipline, Adele. D-I-S-C-I-P-L-I-N-E. Spell it. Learn it. Love it!”
I had to chew my lip to keep from scoffing at the hypocrisy.
The Queen tapped my chart, the one showing Adele’s weight going up in a dreaded incline of red ink. “Look at this!”
“I’ll try harder,” Adele pleaded, not looking.
“Don’t try. No one got ahead in the entertainment business by trying. Do! Remember all the tenets of Wow! and support your sister princesses by making equal sacrifices.”
I knocked a pound off Adele’s weight and drew the line almost flat. The Queen was too preoccupied with self-righteous lecturing to notice.
Back at her office, I inputted the princesses’ weights while the Queen drafted her crazy APB, copies of which I had to insert into everyone’s personal mailbox down in Our World.
TO: Fairyland Permanent Staff, Summer Interns, and Other Assorted Underlings
FROM: Management
RE: Security Alert
It is my unfortunate obligation to inform you that last night our ever-industrious Security Patrols confirmed the sighting of a Teenage Male Intern of Indeterminate Identity crossing into the Forbidden Zone.
As you know, this is a blatant violation of Rule #22, which requires swift punishment. Dangers await in said zone, and we simply cannot risk allowing our summer interns to put themselves in harm’s way. (Moreover, our insurance carrier forbids it.)
In addition it is our understanding that said male possessed ulterior motives that violate the Fairyland Code of Ethics.
Therefore, in light of the Direness of this situation and the Expediency with which it needs to be resolved, we, Management, are extending a one-time offer: Any intern with information leading to the apprehension of this traitor will be rewarded with an immediate promotion in cast status. If the informant happens to already be a member of Fairyland royalty (prince, princess), then the reward will be an improved chance of winning the Dream & Do grant that, as you know, currently stands at $25,000.
Pertinent details, tips, and particulars should be written, signed, dated, and, in the interest of preserving confidentiality, deposited in the Customer Feedback box outside Personnel. Any information deemed meritorious will result in a personal meeting with Management.
Your cooperation in this matter is highly appreciated. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Management
That evening I would discover the Queen hadn’t been entirely forthright in her memo. Turned out the “Teenage Male Intern of Indeterminate Identity” wasn’t that indeterminate after all. She had an inkling of who he was. . . .
It was the parade, and the Queen and I were side by side on the float that rode behind the dancing princesses and princes. They twirled and bowed, clapped and kissed, in a chaste choreography of the Fairyland theme song: “We Are Family.”
Dash was paired as usual with Valerie, a French Caribbean Sleeping Beauty whose complexion was similarly flawless. Her long brown hair fell to her shoulders in natural waves that I, having been born with straight hair, envied with every fiber of my being.
When the Queen wasn’t looking, I took a minute to focus on their kiss, searching with forensic scrutiny for signs of genuine affection absent from the other couples who were simply acting their parts, and decided there was more to Dash and Valerie than mere performance. Their lips touched a little too long; his hand held hers a little too tightly. Despite my resolve not to mind, I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment.
“Give it up, Kiefer,” Ian said, coming up next to me in his Puss ’n Boots costume. “I told you. Never trust a dude who doesn’t eat steak.”
I flung a Tootsie Pop at his cat head. He caught it midair and handed it to a boy in shorts. “That’s the best you got? Give it another try.”
I aimed and fired. Again, Ian lifted his left hand and snatched it without looking. He gave it to a little girl, removing his feathered cap and bowing deeply. She reached up and gave him a kiss on his furry cheek that he accepted with a hand over his heart, stumbling and swooning as if overcome with love.
I laughed, mostly because he was so ridiculous in that costume with its thigh-high boots. “Those boots really work for you.”
“You sure?” He twisted and lifted his cape and craned to see his backside. “I worry they make my butt look big.”
The Queen cleared her throat in warning that we weren’t supposed to be goofing off while on the job. Chastened, I went back to work, tossing candy, catching fruit. But Ian, I noticed, simply gave her a salute and ran into the crowd, completely unperturbed.
The Queen ducked a flying apple that I managed to grab on the first bounce. “Do you know him well, Zoe?” she asked.
“Kind of. He hangs out with another furry, Karl the Wolf.”
She studied him a little longer. “Interesting.”
“Why?”
She crooked her skeletal finger. “Heaven forfend such intelligence be leaked to the masses, but last week I ordered Security to install a secret camera by the hole in the fence where we suspect our traitor has been egressing. Unfortunately there was a minor malfunction in the power supply, and the images from last night are blurred.”
That was why she was throwing such a fit this morning. Her hidden camera had failed. “I’m sorry, but I’m confused.” I tossed a handful of Smarties to a group of Girl Scouts. “Why don’t you just repair the fence?”
“Oh, no, dear girl. We want to apprehend this violator. Carpe Sceleratum! Fortunately the camera has been fixed, and our success is assured. In the interim, from what I could discern by analyzing the albeit murky still shots, our devious delinquent was dark-haired and slim, much like one Ian Davidson when he is not in costume.”
Only, it couldn’t have been Ian, because the guy who’d rescued me from the quicksand had been a prince using his princely voice and wearing the princely cologne that Wardrobe kept guarded under lock and key. And Ian was the Puss ’n Boots.
Not that I could tell Her Majesty this—unless I wanted to lose my job and doom Jess to a summer of “Oh! What big eyes you have, Grandma!” But I would have to find some way to get the message across before it was too late and Ian was sent back to Texas with a Do Not Return stamp on his forehead.
“With all due respect, ma’am, Ian doesn’t seem like the law-breaking type. I think you might be mistaken.”
“Of course you do.” She reclined slightly, her eyes reduced to sinister slits. “Be careful, Zoe. The heart is a clever trickster that delights in playing the brain for a fool.”