Five
I sprang out of bed the next morning with renewed energy to become the most kick-butt lady-in-waiting ever. One month of my impeccable service and the Queen would be so awed by my efficiency that she’d insist on repaying her gratitude. And what better way than by placing a crown on my cousin’s delicate head?
I said nothing to Jess, who was fast asleep when I tiptoed out of bed at dawn to shower and be in Wardrobe by six thirty, a full hour and a half before I had to bring the Queen her breakfast. The early bird gets the worm!
I took the elevator down to Our World, the underground complex maze of polished white hallways that led to the cafeteria; the rec room with games, card tables, a few couches, a soda machine, and one big flat-screen TV; the gym, where princes and princesses were working out even this early; Personnel; and, finally, Wardrobe.
Trish—the frazzled, red-haired stylist who’d taken my measurements the day before—looked up from her morning Sudoku in shock.
“You’re surprised, right?” I handed her a cheese Danish that I’d thoughtfully procured from the cafeteria, seeing as how she wouldn’t get a break this morning, what with all the new interns coming and going with various costume malfunctions. “I’m an hour early.” I grinned, awaiting her approval.
Trish checked the clock on the wall. “Actually you’re late.”
“Late?” My grin instantly deflated. “But the Queen doesn’t need to see me until eight.”
“Oh, that’s what she says. That’s not what she means.” Trish put aside the Danish and headed to the racks and racks of costumes in the back. “You’ll have to learn that what the Queen says and what she means bear absolutely no resemblance.”
A dull headache, the very beginning of one, seeped into my temples as I watched Trish flick her pink nails over the hangers. I’d had my fingers crossed for something pretty, a silky emerald-green gown to go with my eyes, perhaps. Instead, Trish held out a demure dove gray.
“Cannot upstage Her Majesty,” she said, removing the hanger.
Minutes later I was dressed and seated while Helga applied thick makeup that felt and smelled like orange mud. My skin flamed in protest. Years of Neutrogena and faithful use of non-oil-based foundation and now this. An assault!
When she was done, I looked in the mirror and barely recognized my pale face with its huge eyes and glossy lips under severely parted hair that had been pulled so tightly, the tiny blue veins on my forehead throbbed. The pearl tiara perched on top of my updo only added to the insanity.
“A true lady-in-waiting,” Helga decided, capping her mascara with satisfaction. “You could have served in Henry the Eighth’s court.”
I checked my neck for reassurance that it was still in one piece and, gathering my dress, thanked the crew and hightailed it to the cafeteria, where I found Dash, he of the hemp bracelets, completely unfamiliar in his Sleeping Beauty Prince Charming costume of a navy jacket, white sash, and silver crown.
His already ruddy cheeks reddened even more. “Don’t even say it.”
“No, you’re fine!” I exclaimed, trying to keep a straight face though it had just hit me that he was the spitting image of a Prince Charming Ken doll Jess got for her sixth birthday. “You look extremely . . .”
“Lame.”
It didn’t help that his wavy hair had been slicked into some old-fashioned pompadour.
“Let’s put it this way: The ten-and-under set will find you adorable.”
He winced, and I realized it was a stupid thing to say, because what seventeen-year-old guy wants to be adored by little kids?
“Just to set the record straight, you should know that I once hiked one hundred and sixty miles of the Pacific Crest Trail by myself,” he said, “in seven days.”
“I’m sure. And you drive a monster truck and chop your own wood.”
“And change my own oil.”
I started to laugh, when I detected a strange, not unpleasant, in fact quite pleasant, aroma—a cross between my dad’s spicy aftershave and the overpowering flowers that had filled our house after Mom died.
Seeing me wrinkle my nose, Dash said, “It’s the Prince Charming cologne.”
“The what?”
“Apparently it’s made from rare Amazonian orchids. They keep it under lock and key in Wardrobe just for the princes, because it has, um, certain powerful pheromones.”
In other words chemicals secreted outside the body in order to elicit a response—fear, lust, hunger, distaste—in others. That had been on the AP bio test I’d just taken.
“You’re kidding right?” I checked myself to see if the Prince Charming cologne was affecting my behavior. Nope. Not yet, anyway.
“It’s pathetic.” He shook his head and grabbed a blue plastic tray, handing it to me before taking one for himself. “Andy said the cologne’s a must-have for working the Princesses Royal Table at the resort, even at breakfast.”
That’s where Dash was headed, to the official Fairyland Kingdom Resort, where for thirty dollars per person (twenty dollars for kids), you could eat pancakes and eggs while dancing with the Fab Four princesses and their significant princely others. Seemed like a mighty high price to pay for what was essentially the $6.99 Rooty Tooty Fresh ’N Fruity down at IHOP, but that was the Fairyland Kingdom Resort for you—cha-ching!
At the coffee bar, I put in a request for a Fairyland Caramel Coconut Latte—Fairyland’s signature drink—that I was sure the Queen would appreciate. “I’ve heard those breakfasts are reserved for weeks. Should be a blast.”
Dash grabbed a paper cup and flipped the lever for regular. “I don’t know if it’s a blast, but it’s necessary if you want to win the Dream and Do grant. RJ said the princes who bag the breakfasts essentially disqualify themselves.”
I selected a luscious chocolate croissant for the Queen along with a raspberry yogurt with fresh raspberries. The Queen’s breakfast was going to be spectacular.
“The yogurt’s not almond, you know,” he said, taking a sip. “And technically, the chocolate and butter in the croissant aren’t vegan, either.”
“They’re not for me. They’re for my boss, the Queen. I’m her personal assistant.” The coffee barista handed me the latte with a heart-shaped swirl of froth while Dash studied me with new interest.
“I swear,” I said, capping the latte. “Not for me. I know it has real cream in it.”
He waved his hand, like the vegan angle had no relevance. “I was thinking about your cast assignment. It’s not really a role, is it? You just work for her.”
“Aside from appearing in the parade by her side to throw candy.” And catch the rotten apples, though I judiciously kept this to myself.
“But nothing else. You’re not a witch or a Gretel or anything?”
“That’s right.” I swiped my ID, which was how we cast members paid for food. “Why?”
“I dunno. It’s interesting.” He swiped his ID, too. “Does that mean you have a better chance of winning the grant because you’ll be working so closely with her? Or a worse chance?”
This was his second reference to the twenty-five-thousand-dollar grant in almost as many minutes, a fact that I supposed was significant. “I have no idea. I haven’t thought about it since I’m not a prince or a princess, and everyone knows you’ve got to be royalty to win. So you’re lucky.”
He walked me down the hall to the elevator. “Not that lucky. Altogether, there are sixteen princes and princesses. We’ve all had the same training and have the same credentials, and our parents, who’ve shelled out thousands of bucks to send us to the right camps, expect us to come home with the grant, so there’s the guilt factor if we don’t.” He punched the button to the elevator that would take me to the Queen’s office and him to the ground floor of the Princess Palace. “My dad’s last words when he dropped me off at the airport were, ‘Think about it, Dash, we could have taken the whole family to Europe for what we’ve spent on you.’”
Ouch! I hadn’t considered the parent angle. My own father wouldn’t have known what a Fairyland camp was if you’d driven him there and dumped him off smack under Jack’s Beanstalk. “It can’t be that bad.”
“You don’t know. Up in the royal turrets, the cutthroat instinct’s so strong, you can almost taste it. No one trusts anyone.” The elevator opened, and we got in. “Just be glad you’re not one of us, Zoe, because at least you’ll get to enjoy your summer. Me? I’ll be fighting to make sure I don’t go home a loser.”