Princess for Hire

by Lindsey Leavitt

  Who wouldn’t want that?

  The fantasy was short-lived. The ad didn’t even have a contact number! All it said was “Please call Meredith.”

  Why would they use such expensive ink and not even leave a number or last name?

  Lame.

  “Hey, Meredith! Take this!” The newspaper fluttered as it sailed across the room. I slid under the bubbles, holding my breath until I couldn’t take it anymore.

  When I sat up, head swimming, the bubbles floated around me. One bubble rose out of the bath toward the ceiling. It hung in the air and began to grow. I rubbed my eyes, thinking the bath soap had blurred my vision.

  It hadn’t. The bubble was now the size of a watermelon, and blooming by the second. I jumped out of the tub as the bubble neared the size of a yoga ball. Water sloshed onto the floor. My heart hammered.

  Obviously, the groundhog costume fumes caused hallucinations. I wondered if my dad would count insanity as an excuse for me to quit. Probably not.

  I wrapped myself in my towel and backed away from the soapy apparition. It grew until there wasn’t any room left. Then…

  Pop!

  The bubble burst. Soap splattered the walls, and foam covered my face. I fumbled for a hand towel, wiped off the suds, and screamed.

  I was not alone in the bathroom.

  Chapter

  4

  “Calm down!” said a low, clipped voice. “Human eardrums were not meant for sounds that loud. And jaws were not meant to drop that low.” The woman standing in front of me shut my gaping mouth with one long finger. “If we’re going to work together, your manners will need serious help.”

  The short woman, dressed in a black pinstriped business suit and open-toed heels, placed her hand on her hip. The only thing stronger than her citrusy perfume was her air of importance. Everything about her was sophisticated, from her creamy brown skin to her perfectly plucked eyebrows and sharp features. She looked like she’d arrived straight from a fashion runway, except for one thing. Her hair was a shocking shade of chartreuse green.

  It took me a few moments to find my voice post-scream. “Why…why are you in my bathroom?” I clutched the towel even closer to my dripping skin. Who was this woman, and how had she floated in that bubble like Glinda from The Wizard of Oz? Most important, why was she here, with me? Had I drowned?

  “Darling, there’s no need for modesty.” Still, she kicked my clothes across the room and turned around.

  I took that as my cue to throw on my shirt and tug my jeans onto my still-wet legs. If I had drowned (or maybe I was in the process of drowning and this was an inbetween-being-alive-and-dead hallucination?), at least my parents wouldn’t have to fish me out of the tub naked. Although, if I was drowning, how was I standing up?

  “How did you—”

  “Are we playing the question game here?” She twisted back toward me, her heels clicking on the tile. “I don’t have time. Take note. Only ask what you really need to know. You’re not my only client. People to see, things to do. Although we might have time for an emergency makeover. What a hideous shirt. What does it say?”

  I fingered the tiny red print running along the middle of my navy T-shirt. FLOCCINAUCINIHILIPILIFICATION.

  She eyed the bathroom warily. “The places they send me. Is that some Idaho thing?”

  “It’s the longest real word in the English language. It means estimating something as worthless. So I made the letters small, like they don’t matter. It’s a great word, right? I design my own T-shirts on my computer, and try to make them ironic or funny. I do other kinds of graphic design too—pamphlets and Web site banners, but I just got this new T-shirt computer program, so I mostly focus on that. If you want, I have a Web site—”

  “Well, aren’t you a little chatterbox?”

  Her question cut into my fevered marketing pitch and snapped me back to reality—if having a strange woman pop out of a bubble can be considered reality. “I’m sorry, but, uh…who are you?”

  “Fine.” The woman’s smile looked pained. “We’re on a tight schedule so I’d hoped to skip the formalities. But here they are. I’m Meredith Pouffinski. Princess agent extraordinaire, or so I’ve been told.”

  I blinked. She blinked. I blinked again.

  “Now would be the time for you to say your name. It’s a complicated practice, introductions. I hope you can make it through this.”

  She was insulting me. In my bathroom! Wait, why in the world was she popping up in my bathroom?

  “Uh, Desi.” I cleared my throat. “I’m Desi.”

  “Desi. Hmm…” She tapped her dimpled chin. “That doesn’t work for me. What is Desi short for?”

  “Nothing. Just Desi.”

  “How about Despina? Greek for young lady. I like that better.”

  Wow. This couldn’t be a dream because I’d have come up with someone a whole lot more bippity boppity booish than this lady. This was headed in the direction of a nightmare.

  “Okay, wait.” I pushed on my temples. Everything in the room, Meredith’s annoyed expression in particular, was remarkably clear. Aren’t hallucinations supposed to be all fuzzy? “So why are you here exactly?”

  She was taken aback. “Excuse me? Remember, I got a call from you.”

  “What?”

  “Right there in the ad: Call Meredith. And you did. Now I’m here. Only girls with some Magic Potential can see the ad.” She peered at my dripping hair. “Though mistakes have been known to happen.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “That big round thing you saw floating around? It’s called a bubble.”

  “I know, but how?”

  “The bubble lifts off the ground.” Meredith spoke slowly, pantomiming the bubble’s actions. “It floats to where I want it to go. It lands.”

  I chose to ignore her sarcasm. “Okay. So you’re magical or something. Are you a witch?”

  She laughed. “Don’t I wish. Witches get all the press, don’t they? No, as I said, I’m an agent based in Europe. I book princess gigs for young girls like yourself while the real princesses go on their escap—er…vacations.”

  “So you’re real. I’m not dreaming or drowning. You…I…we’re alive.”

  She seized my arm, pinching until her nails broke my skin. “Feel alive now?”

  “Ow! All right.” I breathed out. I was breathing. I had to be alive. Bruiser Agent Lady was very much real. But was she for real? “If you’re an agent, then I’d be, like, a pretend princess? That was a real ad in the paper?”

  “Do you think I have a high enough salary to run fake ads? Have you seen how much they’re charging per word these days? Ridiculous.” She ran her hands along the laminate sink and shook her head when she saw Mom’s lace-edged hand towels. “The reason you were able to see the ad is because of your MP. Magic Potential. See, magic lives in organic things. Trees, birds…fish. Those fish in your store come from an unpolluted reef, thus their MP is stronger. Industrialization, pollution, deforestation—basically all human activity—has lessened the amount of magic left in the world.”

  “What does that have to do with princesses?” I asked.

  “Getting there.” She glared. “Now, humans have the capacity to house magic also, though it’s become increasingly rare, thanks to environmental toxins, food preservatives, reality TV, and who knows what else. So for our inner magic to ignite, we need to interact with another magical organism. When you made a wish on those fish, it triggered your magic, which sent a signal to our agency. We in turn ran a check on your MP via the ad. You found it, so here I am offering a position. Presto.”

  “So I have magic?”

  “Have you ever tried to fly with fairy dust?”

  “Yes…”

  “Were you over the age of ten?”

  I ducked my head. “Uh, yeah, but—”

  “Then you are a dork. A dork with MP. Look, you probably believed in nonsense like unicorns forever, and feel things really, really strongly. Beyond what’s n
ormal for a hormonal teenager even. It’s a part of the natural energy inside you.”

  I tried to stop myself from shaking. This, whatever THIS was, might actually be happening. To me. I couldn’t argue the proof—I’d seen the bizarre ad. The ballooning bubble. The pinching princess agent. The boiling bigness inside me.

  So what if…

  This moment was magical. I, Desi the Vapory Groundhog Bascomb, was…magical.

  Yeah, right.

  But what a fabulous dream I was having. I decided to play along. “You’re giving me a job working with royalty? And I don’t have to dress like a groundhog?”

  “Job’s yours, and yes, your clients—my clients—are royal. But I can’t promise anything on the groundhog front. You never know which way styles will go.”

  “How long do I work? I mean, what are the hours like?”

  “Short term—you work until the job is done.” She shrugged. “Could be a day, could be a week. It’s no nine to five.”

  “But my family’s going to wonder what’s up, you know, when I never come down from my bath, right?”

  “Don’t worry about your family. When you’ve completed each shift with the agency—however long that ends up being—I’ll return you home a millisecond later than when you left.”

  “That isn’t possible.”

  “Duh. Law of Duplicity. Think of the time you’re working as a piece of string that’s stretched out. The magic has the power to bring those string tips together again like that time away never happened, returning you to the tub, dreaming about Boggle Boy.”

  “I still don’t…Wait. How do you know about Boggle Boy?”

  She scowled at her watch. “Wow. Look at the time. Is it really that late? I have to make some calls. So are you in or out?”

  Was I in? In-SANE. There was a lady with green hair making a job offer in my bathroom. “I have to decide right now?”

  Meredith whipped out a piece of pale lavender paper. “Here’s your contract. Don’t worry, it’s legit. As you can see, I get a twenty-five percent cut. Nonnegotiable. Your first gig is probationary. You may have Magic Potential, but it remains to be seen if you have Princess Potential. So training comes after the final phase of screening, which is unpaid. We have you sign the contract now for liability purposes.”

  The song “Someday My Prince Will Come” filled the room, and Meredith flipped open an expensive-looking cell phone. “I’ve got to take this. Read it over. Decide.” She turned her back to me and started yapping in turbo speed.

  RULES AND REGULATIONS OF FAÇADE AGENCY

  (And all subsidiaries therein and thereof and…therewith)

  I, the undersigned, do hereby agree to all the rules and regulations hitherto mentioned and know that if any of these rules are broken, I not only risk terminating my position, but may also face the Court of Royal Appeals and suffer any sentence dished out. (If the title sounds like a big deal, that’s because it is. You don’t want to find out how big of a deal. I mean, we’re not the devil, your soul is safe. But that’s about it. Follow the rules.)

  I will not reveal my true identity to anyone, on any job. under any circumstance. ANY circumstance.

  I will also not tell anyone in my real life about my job. (Like they’d believe you.)

  I will not act contrary to the nature of the client and will respect who they are as a person, spoiled brats included, by addressing situations as I believe the client would.

  I will keep my clients out of the tabloids.

  A. Unless they LIKE being in the tabloids.

  Time off, salary, and benefits will be settled privately and verbally with my agent before the contract is finalized. Otherwise, all specifics may be interpreted however the agent sees fit.

  I will not damage any property of FAÇADE, specifically the bubbles. The only loophole would be extreme conditions where my life is in mortal danger, and that is a very small loophole.

  *And, of course, the old fine print warning: We mean business, and can amend any of the rules accordingly. Although, if the above rules are broken, the fine print is the least of your worries.

  We mostly just add it to look more official.

  I HAVE READ, UNDERSTOOD, AND ACCEPTED THE ABOVE TERMS AND CONDITIONS OF EMPLOYMENT.

  Signature of Employee: ___________

  Date: ________

  Meredith flipped her phone shut. “Well?”

  I steadied myself against the sink. My arm still throbbed. Meredith’s perfume hung in the air. There was a contract in my hand.

  Hallucinations and dreams aren’t scented. There isn’t fine print! This was craziness!

  The room started to spin.

  Meredith stepped back. “Why are you looking at me like that? You’re not going to throw up, are you? Not on these shoes, got it? They haven’t even hit stores yet and…”

  I tuned her out as this thought occurred to me: my inner magic (INNER MAGIC!) and Drake’s fish tank had delivered a ticket to ride. If Meredith had arrived in a bubble, that meant, conceivably, I could leave in the bubble with her. And go…places.

  Big, non-Idaho places.

  “Let me see if I’m a hundred percent here. You want me to get into a bubble and travel to other countries so I can stand in for princesses while they’re on vacation?”

  Meredith tapped the wall of the bathroom. “This room has amazing acoustics. I swear it has the loudest echo I’ve ever heard.”

  “Funny.” I folded my arms. “All right, say I signed this contract. Can we go over condition five? Like, what’s the pay?”

  She smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. “Now we’re talking. Payment depends on the length of the assignment, the difficulty, and your PPRs—Princess Progress Reports. Although, since you are under eighteen and your parents would wonder how you came into the money, we have to find creative ways to deposit it.” She waved a hand in the air. “Anyway, it’s a complicated point system that factors these things and more, but on average I’d say fifty a gig.”

  “Fifty dollars?” I made that working a full shift at Pets Charming. “That’s not that much.”

  “Fifty melios, darling. And I don’t have the time to explain the exchange rate right now.” Meredith released an exasperated breath. “Are you in or out?”

  Adrenaline rushed through me. I took the silver pen she held out to me, and paused. My history teacher had another poster on her wall that said “In time of action, most successful leaders don’t think, they just do.” Or maybe it was they don’t do, they just think. Probably an important detail to remember.

  I did it. I signed my name.

  Meredith snapped her fingers and the contract evaporated. “Done deal. Now the bubble.” She pointed her phone in the direction of the tub and pressed a large red button where the logo would normally be. A marble-sized bubble sprang out of the antenna and grew until it took up most of the room.

  Meredith stepped halfway through the iridescent green blob without getting any soap on her suit. I placed my hand on the curved exterior but pulled away quickly. What I’d thought would be cool and wet was warm and…firm. Firm and real.

  My stomach twisted. Everything was going so fast. Didn’t I need to sign some tax paperwork first, or take a blood test? Was I supposed to hop through the bubble and just START?

  “Wait, now?”

  Meredith didn’t answer. All she did was give me one fierce look and disappear.

  Guess that’s a yes. I felt my way along the outside of the wall until I reached the spot where Meredith had vanished. My hand broke through. A doorway. Or entryway. Bubbleway? Whatever. A soothing whoosh surrounded me as I slipped inside.

  Chapter

  5

  On the outside, the bubble was translucent, the kind that emerges from a little kid’s bubble wand. Once we were inside, my view of the bathroom disappeared. Now there were four walls, metal bookshelves, a green leather couch, funky chairs, a black lacquered coffee table covered with magazines, and a sleek desk with nothing on it but a high-t
ech laptop. Meredith’s office.

  Meredith pressed a button on her remote/cell phone, and the floor rattled. I grabbed the edge of her desk to brace myself for the lifting feeling—like going up in an elevator. Meredith brushed my hand away in annoyance and flipped open her phone. “Pouffinski speaking.” She motioned to the couch and swiveled around in her chair so her back was turned. “Darling, it’s been ages! I just saw that spread in Elle, and I’ve never seen cheekbones so flawless. Now, tell me. How’s my favorite soon-to-be monarch doing?”

  I sifted through the magazines and tabloids, swallowing when I realized I could very well be working for one of the faces smiling at me from the glossy pages. The same issue of Teen Vogue I’d been reading just that day was in there, and that connection from my real life to whatever parallel universe I’d just entered made me stop shaking some. I mean—just an hour or so ago I was cutting out this same picture of Prince Barrett, and now I might meet him! Or BE one of the many royals he’d dated!

  Except when I looked more closely, I realized it was-n’t the same magazine. This was thicker, the details more specific. Like, I had no idea Prince Barrett was dating American heiress Floressa Chase, but the collage of pictures proved it. I had thought he was with some English duchess. So why did this magazine have more info? I flipped back to the front. There it was, underneath the title in sparkling italics, Special Façade printing.

  Worried my head might explode, I put the magazine on my lap and continued eavesdropping on my agent’s (my agent’s!) conversation.

  “October? Well, I’ll have to see.” Meredith’s fingers flew across the laptop keyboard. “Of course, for you I’ll make it happen, even if I have to put on a tiara myself.” Schmoozey laughter. Air kisses. “You too. Yes, all right. Ta-ta.” And she hung up.

  “Who was that?”

  “That spoiled Chase girl.”

  “Chase? Who, like, Floressa Chase?”

  “Yes. That’s the second time she’s called—”

  “Floressa Chase called you. Floressa Chase, who is like the richest heiress ever and”—I pointed to the spread in front of me—“was spotted in Dubai with Prince Barrett—”