How Zoe Made Her Dreams (Mostly) Come True Page 4

  I said, “Don’t give up. There’s still a chance that you could be promoted. Someone could drop out or bomb or decide being a princess is too much work.”

  “Not likely.” Jess slid on a pillowcase.

  I’d essentially given up on the whole settling-in thing and was lying on the one sheet staring up at the cracked ceiling. “You never know.”

  “Yes, I do. During the tour of Our World this morning, I overheard that the only way to be cast as a prince or a princess is by going to one of those Fairyland summer camps as a kid. The closest one costs more than five thousand dollars per session.”

  I let out a whistle. “What a rip-off.”

  “Not if you win the twenty-five-thousand-dollar grant. Then you come out twenty thousand dollars ahead. But you can’t win the grant unless you spend five grand on camp so . . .” She threw up her hands.

  “The rich get richer.”

  “Exactly.” Jess threw the pillow on her bed. “All I can do is what RJ suggested: pump so much Wow! spirit into playing Red Riding Hood that Management has no choice but to give me that freaking grant.” Then, catching herself, she quickly added, “Not that you don’t deserve it, too, Zoe.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, because it really was. And I resolved that somehow, some way, I would use my new connection to the Queen to make sure Jess got her wish, since there had to be some fringe benefit to waiting on an obviously crazy woman 24-7.

  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 fro
m 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.”

  Six

  I was so early for work that Evelyn wasn’t in yet, her pink cotton cardigan neatly draped over the back of her chair, which had been pushed under her desk, her computer off. Even the morning’s newspapers were still stacked in their blue plastic baggies.

  I’ll take these, I thought, unwrapping the newspapers and laying them flat next to several oversize pink peonies I’d plucked from behind the Princess Palace for a whoosh of June flora.

  Best. Assistant. Ever.

  Brimming with pride, I knocked on the wall, where I guessed the door was hidden. “It’s me, your . . . ma’am,” I said, catching myself. The door slid open, and I presented the tray. “Breakfast!”

  The Queen spun around from her monitors. “Zoe! How nice of you to put in an appearance.”

  She peered at the tray as if it contained lab specimens. “And what would you like me to do with . . . this?” she asked, fluttering her hand over the croissant. “Eat it or just attach it to my thighs?”

  My bubble of confidence went pop! as it occurred to me that I’d somehow made a mistake. “It’s just a pastry.”

  “It’s packed with calories. As is that.” She flared her nostrils at the Caramel Coconut Latte. “A week’s worth. Not to mention it would send me into diabetic shock. Are you trying to kill me, Zoe?”

  A bead of sweat ran down the back of my neck. “No, ma’am.”

  “Where did you get those flowers?”

  “From outside the . . .”

  She brought a skeletal hand to her chest in distress. “Don’t tell me you took them from our gardens.”

  “The one behind the palace.” I was now so nervous, my palms were leaving wet sweat marks on the tray. “There are tons of flowers there—hundreds—I figured no one would ever notice three missing blooms by the exhaust vents.”

  “No one would notice! Did you not read your rules as I instructed, Zoe? Number One-Eighty-Three: No flora or fauna on the property of Fairyland Kingdom Inc. shall be cut, trampled, or mutilated in any manner without written approval of Fairyland Kingdom Management upon penalty of a five-hundred-dollar fine.”

  Crap! I didn’t have money to pay a five-hundred-dollar fine.

  She turned to her computer, called up a file, and clicked her nails across the keyboard. “Instead of a pecuniary penalty, I will be lenient and mark one demerit. Two demerits, and you will be removed as my assistant. Three, and you will be sent home posthaste without a college recommendation and/or reference of any positive nature. Are we clear?”

  For picking flowers? It was so randomly unfair, I felt like bursting into tears. Instead, between gritted teeth, I said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “May I ask what on earth were you thinking?”

  My arms were beginning to ache. Those newspapers were not light. “I was thinking that I’d spruce up your morning. I was trying to make you happy. You know, fresh-cut flowers . . . Wow!”

  She let out a long, pained sigh. “What would make me happy is a pot of Earl Grey tea. . . . For heaven’s sake, Zoe, put down that tray and take some notes.”

  With no obvious place to put it, I set the tray on the floor and scrambled for a notepad. (Should have thought to bring one. Stupid!)

  Exasperated, the Queen ended up finding one in a drawer and handing me a pen. “For future reference, the office supplies are behind you in the closet.”

  I turned. The wall was flat and bare. There was no closet, just like there was no door.

  “. . . Three almonds, whole, unsalted and raw; one hard-boiled egg, no yolk.”

  She was dictating. I flipped open the pad, scratched the pen to get the ink going, and jotted down what she’d said so far: Earl Grey. Almonds. One hard-boiled egg, no yolk . . . I looked up. “How is that possible, without a yolk?”

  “Is this a cooking class?” Her black eyes glittered.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Ask Chef. He knows. Other than that, I will say the fresh raspberries you brought are acceptable.” She bent down to reach for the berries and gasped. “Tinkers!”

  Tinker Bell had silently slipped off her satin pillow and was going to town on the chocolate croissant.

  “Well,” I said, smiling, “at least someone appreciates it.”

  The Queen seized her precious baby in horror, frantically wiping her dog’s mouth with a lace doily. “Chocolate will kill her. Don’t you know that? It’s the theobromine. Positively lethal for canines!”

  “Really? Because once our Lab, Molly, got to my Christmas stocking before I did and ate all my chocolate Santas, and nothing happened.” I glared at Tinker Bell. Yes, she was just a dog, but I couldn’t help feeling she was trying to get me in trouble. “I’m sure Tinker Bell will be fine.”

  “Only if you take her to the Fairyland vet, Dr. Venderbraugh, immediately. His office is by the stables.” The Queen thrust Tinker Bell into my arms. “Tell him you tried to poison her.”

  “I didn’t try to—”

  “Ah, ah, ah.” There was that tick-tocking finger again. “No truculence.” The door slid open. “Posthaste!”

  Clearly I had no choice but to go. In the outer office, I nearly ran smack into Evelyn, who had just arrived, blueberry muffin in hand. She took one look at the dog trying to lap up every last bit of deliciousness with her tiny pink tongue and said, “I don’t wanna know. By the way, did you take my newspapers?”

  “Those are yours? I thought they were the Queen’s.”

  “And you just handed them to her willy-nilly?” Evelyn lowered her voice. “Unedited?”

  My mind went blank. I scrambled to remember the rule about newspapers. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to fix it. Right now I have to get Tinker Bell to Dr. Venderbraugh.”

  “Okay. I’ll see what I can do. Let’s just hope she hasn’t opened to the entertainment section and seen the Mouse. If that happens . . .” She nodded to the invisible door. “Honey, I’m afraid you won’t last the day.”

  The stables were located at the edge of Fairyland near the garage, about as far as you could go in the park before coming to the stone wall marked with signs warning:r />
  NO PEEKY BOOS BEYOND THIS POINT!

  Under which was a drawing of Cinderella, winking.

  I didn’t know what was beyond the perimeter wall that would make someone want to take a “Peeky Boo.” As far as I could tell, only more New Jersey scrub pine. However, during our orientation tour, Andy had mentioned that the Haunted Forest—where Hansel and Gretel, Snow White, and the witches hung out—abutted what he called the Forbidden Zone, which we were never to enter.

  The Forbidden Zone was swampy like the rest of the Pinelands and riddled with huge spiders and ticks carrying Lyme disease, Andy had said. Also snakes, including poisonous timber rattlers that Fairyland Maintenance worked like “the Dickens” to remove from the park.

  “As long as you stay in the Haunted Forest, you’re okay,” he’d said. “But never, ever go over or under the metal fence and beyond. It’s an automatic elimination from the program and, needless to say”—he’d paused to implant us with a meaningful look—“from winning the Dream and Do grant.”

  Frankly, the dude had me at snakes and huge spiders. Expulsion from the program was peanuts in comparison.

  It was understandable why Fairyland stuck the red wooden stables all the way out there. They stank. This was also where they kept the Three Little Pigs, the Three Billy Goats Gruff, along with a Tortoise and a Hare during the off-season. I’d have given anything for those Princess Palace peonies right about now.

  The vet’s office was closed, but when I went around to the stables I found a blond prince anxiously perched atop a beautiful old white horse and—by their side in a T-shirt, dirty jeans, and muck boots—Ian.

  “Now, Marcus, what you’re going to do is just walk her around the stable, okay?” Ian was saying, one hand on the thick brown leather saddle.

  Marcus, in the white jacket and red epaulets of a Cinderella Prince Charming, clutched the reins and swallowed. “What if I fall off?”