Seven
RJ was not entirely enthusiastic about tapping former cast members for advice on how to please the Queen, since, as a resident assistant, he was supposed to be upholding the rules, not breaking them.
“What happens in Fairyland stays in Fairyland,” he said. “Rule Number One Hundred Fifty.” Then he went on about the “importance of confidentiality” and “above all, to Fairyland be true,” blah, blah, blah. That was until I explained that I needed to worm my way into Her Majesty’s good graces so I could get Jess promoted to princess and she could win the Dream & Do grant and go to college.
“I’ll do what I can, but you should know it doesn’t work that way. Regular cast members are hardly ever crowned,” he said as we sat on the lily pad in the Frog Prince’s Pond, where I’d asked him to meet me after the park closed. “The princes and princesses were once kids who went to the Fairyland summer camps, where they were intensively trained on how to talk and look and act. That’s how it’s always been.”
“I know that’s the party line, but let’s give it a shot,” I said, playing on my hunch that he was harboring a crush on my cousin. “Jess will be so grateful to you when I let her know that you bent the rules for me. It shows that even though you’re quasi Management, you’re a good guy.”
His lips twitched into a slight smile.
However, any hope I had of RJ being on our side was soon squashed. Later that week—and miraculously still employed—I was playing The Settlers of Catan in the rec room with Karl (a Catan whiz!) and beating the pants off Marcus the equine-phobic, surf-bum Prince Charming when RJ came in carrying a copy of Fairyland Kingdom Internship Handbook & Rules.
“Here,” he said, tossing it dismissively into my lap. “You should read these and memorize them before you ask me again to do something inappropriate.” Then he went over to the vending machine, plunked in some quarters, and walked off with a Diet Coke.
I was pretty pissed. For starters, I detested the word inappropriate, and I resented his implication that he’d decided not to help me after all because rules were rules. But handing me a copy of the handbook in front of my friends was just the sour cherry on top. When I got back to my dorm room, I promptly tossed it in the trash.
“What’s this?” Jess asked, pulling it out.
“It’s nothing,” I said, kicking off my flip-flops. “I already have a copy.”
“Of these?” She pointed to several white sheets of paper that had fallen out of the book onto the floor.
I picked up the papers and scanned the contents: three pages of detailed notes on the Queen’s quirks, habits, likes, dislikes, and what had worked for ladies-in-waiting before. I grinned, positively ecstatic. This was almost better than getting the cheat sheet to Mr. Ellison’s precalc midterm. It was the holy grail of Fairyland!
“What is it?” Jess asked.
“Oh, nothing,” I said, tucking the notes under my pillow for late-night reading after she was asleep. “But next time you see RJ, make sure to be super nice.”
“Why?”
“Because, of all the guys around here, I have a feeling he’s the one who’s a true prince.”
As the instructions noted, I was to read, memorize, and then completely destroy the contents by throwing the pages into the incinerator down by the warehouses the next morning before walking Tinker Bell.
This was the first piece of advice—to wake Tinker Bell at dawn, take her for a short stroll, and then return her refreshed and watered to her cashmere doggy bed so the Queen could sleep in. The more the Queen slept, the more pleasant she became.
Ditto for sugar, which Her Majesty (loudly and frequently) pretended to eschew. A teaspoon of honey in her pot of Earl Grey worked like magic, especially if I could get a cup into her before eight. My mystery mentor also advised slipping one tiny square of dark, dark chocolate under her regular lunch of three slices of Bibb lettuce and half a cherry tomato. The chocolate would never be acknowledged, but it would never go uneaten, either.
After one of her temper tantrums, compliment her hair/makeup/skin, my mentor advised. When she objects, hold up the Magic Mirror on the wall. It was a gift from an aging Hollywood actress and makes any woman, no matter what her age, look beautiful and young.
Other tips included sorting the mail to cull anything even remotely connected to the Mouse, such as postcards for Mouse-related cruises. Also catalogs showing families vacationing in national parks or by the beach should promptly be ditched. The Queen threw a fit when she read about people spending their summer holidays anywhere besides Fairyland.
The same applied to newspapers, which had to be “edited”—as Evelyn had mentioned—following the same criteria. Even advertisements for church bingos or community potluck dinners were best jettisoned unless, of course, they were being held in the park.
Next was the consumer-complaint box—i.e., the Box of Whine. Every morning the trolls gathered the Fairyland Kingdom Surveys left by the exit gates and dumped them in a locked wooden box by Personnel in Our World. It was in my best interest to read those complaints before the Queen and to filter out any survey that even hinted that the guests’ experiences had been less than perfect.
Finally, the notes concluded, never, ever do or say anything that might be perceived as “disloyal” to Fairyland. This is the Queen’s Golden Rule: Above all, to Fairyland be true. Sounds simple enough, except you’re never quite sure what the Queen considers an act of treason. As long as you act like you’re part of the Fairyland family, she will be your greatest advocate.
Cross her once . . . and you’re dead.
I threw the pages of tips into the incinerator like the author wanted and hugged myself as they burst into bright orange flames.
Loyalty. That was the key. As long as you act like you’re part of the Fairyland family, she will be your greatest advocate.
My mentor’s words of wisdom saved my butt. The Queen was much more pleasant now that she could sleep in and let me walk Tinker Bell, though I will admit, until I got her that cup of honey-laced Earl Grey, she was a bit of a hag.
After that I did my best to do everything my secret mentor advised. I presented the Queen with only positive reviews glowing with praise. I admired her nails and skin, the deft way she swiveled her chair—anything to boost her ego. I doted on Tinker Bell and earned extra brownie points when I started adding smoked fish eggs—i.e., crazily expensive Russian caviar—to her diet as a way of “improving her coat.”
I organized Her Majesty’s pencils by length, sorted her shoes by color, arranged for fresh flowers to be delivered daily from the gardener, who did have approval to cut whatever he pleased, and repeatedly confirmed that, yes, yes, she really was the fairest of them all.
“Your blatant brownnosing disgusts me,” she’d reply, though I could tell she ate it up.
During the evening parades, I caught every piece of fruit while tossing candy with such ease that Her Majesty never realized she was under attack. When she stepped onto the balcony to wave good night, I drowned out the crowd’s boos by cranking “There She Is, Miss America” over the loudspeakers. The Queen was so touched, I could have sworn I saw a tear in her eye.
And if I wasn’t catering to Her Majesty’s every whim, then I was running around the park putting out fires set by the cast.
Marcus, especially, continued to be problematic. Not only did he keep slipping off his horse, but being perpetually jet-lagged and on California time, he often slept through his alarm, thereby requiring me to bang on his door, hollering, “Surf’s up!” until he dragged himself out of bed.
Aside from Marcus, everything was going so well that, two weeks into the internship, while I was removing those irritating inserts from her copy of People magazine (as well as searching for any reference to the Mouse), the Queen spun around from her monitors and remarked, “Zoe, I must admit that you are not the disaster I feared on the first day. Of course you are still slow, untalented, slightly dim-witted, and, above all, a shameless sycophant, but with training and discipline, I see potential.”
I smiled to myself but kept my head down. (Another admonition of my mentor: to avoid direct eye contact whenever possible.) “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Your efforts deserve meritorious recompense. Maintain your five-star performance, and I might even remove that flower-picking demerit that hangs over your head like a poisonous weed.”
Then she went back to ogling her beloved screens while, internally, I was leaping for joy. All I had to do was keep on keeping on and soon the Queen would grant me a wish, which would be for Jess to be made Cinderella, and we’d live happily ever after!
“Seems your attempts to do me in have failed, huh?” I whispered to Tinker Bell, who was snoozing on her purple satin cushion.
She popped open a tiny, evil black eye. Grrrrr, she growled, so softly, it sounded more like a snore.
Little did I know that, within hours, this eight-pound fluff ball of evil would set in motion a series of events intended to trigger my demise. To paraphrase William Congreve, “Hell hath no fury like a bichon frise scorned.”