Princess for Hire

by Lindsey Leavitt

  “Yes, she called me. They call, I book, and you work.”

  “But Floressa isn’t a—”

  “Royal? Ah, well, we have information even those tabloids do not. Including paternity tests, and—well, let’s just say Floressa’s status may be changing very soon amid scandal and uproar.”

  “So I’m going to SUB for her? Wait, I could be Floressa Chase? The same Floressa Chase who is every fashion designer’s muse, who bought a sports team for her old boyfriend? That is so—and isn’t she like sixteen? I can’t—”

  “Forget about it. Floressa will be Level Two, possibly higher. You still haven’t finished your job screening. Now, if you need to go to the bathroom”—she pointed to a door—“this would be a good time.”

  I walked into the black marble bathroom. I didn’t need to use it, so I sat on the toilet seat and collected my thoughts. This was so unreal. Floressa Chase? Real royals? How could I concentrate enough to do whatever I was supposed to do on this probationary job? I had to nail it—I couldn’t go back to Sproutville when there was this amazing opportunity! Or know I had MP and not find a way to explore what that meant.

  I ran my fingers through my hair, still wet and sticking to the back of my shirt. My FLOCCINAUCINIHILIPILIFICATION T-shirt. Problem: not exactly princess apparel.

  Meredith was casually sipping tea when I walked out of the bathroom, my big forehead crinkled with concern.

  “Don’t worry about your appearance. You won’t look like you once we get there.”

  “Who will I look like?” I asked.

  “Madonna,” she said. “Oh for heaven’s sake, who do you’ll think you’ll look like? The princess.”

  “So no one will see the real me?”

  “Nope. Thanks to this.” Meredith whipped out an antique brass compact from her purse and pushed it into my hands. It had Egyptian-looking hieroglyphics around the edges, and a hippo in the center with large rubies for eyes. Real rubies? “When the jewels change to green, that’s your application signal, sent to us by the departing royal. Brush two dabs on each cheek and wait twenty minutes. And make sure you don’t overdo it. Too much or too little and the timing gets off.”

  I wiped my hand on my jeans, took the compact, and opened it slowly. The makeup smelled like coconut and something musky. Using a drugstore-variety brush, I swept some rose-colored powder onto my cheeks. The mirror inside had strange words running across the top—CATTER’S PHYSICAL SPECIFICATIONS—followed by a bunch of random numbers and formulas. A digital clock counted down the twenty minutes. Nineteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds to go. “Is it…like pixie dust?”

  “Royal Rouge. I know, no one says rouge anymore, but this stuff dates back to ancient Egypt. It transforms your physical appearance, voice, and language. So you’ll speak the royal’s language but hear English no matter what country you travel to. Now, behavior and assimilation you do on your own. That’s what we’re testing you on right now.”

  “But even with all that—this rouge and whatever—don’t the royals ever get suspicious someone is using a sub?”

  “Look, we’ve been around for centuries because we’re excellent at what we do. My girls have very few Sub Spottings. First off, you look exactly like the princess. Her peers see what they want to see, and that isn’t you. Next, we don’t issue subs during political drama or big scandals, only for day-to-day life. Because it’s an elite and very personal service, the princesses pay big bucks for our discretion and otherwise try to pretend we don’t exist. Funny enough, most of our clients think they’re the only ones in their circle who have the daring to hire us. It’s part of the thrill.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’d think a mom would know when it’s not really her daughter.”

  She nodded. “Sometimes family is aware of sub usage if they’re traveling together—say a mother-daughter shopping trip they don’t want to clue the king in on. Although you’ll only be subbing for girls between twelve and sixteen, we offer subs to high-ranked royal women of all ages. But otherwise, darling, we’re just that good. Our subs are trained to copy the attitude and behaviors of the princess. Think of yourself as an actress, and being Desi is not in the script.”

  “So no makeover?”

  Meredith stirred her tea. “Don’t you worry about that. You’ll be made over. Again and again and again.”

  That elevator feeling, this time going down, came over me until the bubble’s movement ended altogether.

  “Good. That was uneventful.” Meredith stood up and brushed off her tailored suit. “So. We’re here.”

  “Where?”

  “You’re about to find out.”

  Chapter

  6

  I followed Meredith through the open part of the bubble wall, ending up on a tiled bridge in what looked like the courtyard of an old European city. I sucked in a breath. Intricate stone buildings rose above tourists breezing into the expensive shops. Three-tiered lamps lit the square—odd, considering it was daytime. Compared to wide-open Idaho, the cloud-feathered blue sky felt small and intimate. They must’ve had excellent sanitation workers—there wasn’t a pigeon or piece of trash in sight.

  A thin boat slid underneath us, guided by a man in a black-and-white-striped shirt and red handkerchief. He opened his mouth and the square filled with his operatic voice. Opera. Italian? Yes! Those boats, the water, the square…we were in Venice!

  “Oh, poof,” Meredith said.

  I clapped my hands together. “It’s stunning. I…I’ve always wanted to come here!”

  Meredith tapped her heels, annoyed. “Really? Kind of tacky to me.”

  Tacky is my great-aunt Monica arguing cookie prices with Girl Scouts. This place was everything Sproutville wasn’t.

  A man in plaid shorts and a neon orange fanny pack bumped right into me without apologizing.

  “Excuse you,” I said.

  “He can’t see you, Desi. Same with the bubble. Look.”

  She pointed at the crowds walking through the bubble like it didn’t exist. Every so often, someone would stop for a second and look around before moving on. “The people pausing might have enough MP to sense something, but not enough to see the bubble or anything else touched by magic, which includes us at the moment. Now scoot back in. I messed up our entrance. Can’t wait to trade in this piece of junk for a model with a built-in navigational system.”

  “But I—”

  Meredith yanked me back inside. “It’ll just be a second. I don’t feel like walking all the way to the ballroom.”

  The ballroom. I was about to enter a Venetian ballroom as a princess. And Celeste thought cutting the ribbon at the new senior center was something to brag about. “I can’t believe I’m going to a royal ball!”

  “A royal ball.” Meredith snorted. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

  The bubble rumbled down. “Now, if there are any emergencies during your trial, like body mutilation or, oh, I don’t know, you’re kidnapped, there is another sub undercover, watching you. She’ll step in and assist if you need it; otherwise, don’t worry about her. Just feel assured that there is help nearby, but only for this first gig. I’ve got another appointment to get to. Check the timer on your rouge.”

  I opened the compact. “Three minutes.”

  “Perfect. Don’t worry—it doesn’t hurt. Take the elevator up to the second floor—that should give you just enough time. Have fun. Wish I could see the look on your face when you enter…ha!…the ball.”

  The ha! made me pause. Meredith didn’t strike me as the type to relish others’ happiness. What was so funny?

  She dropped me off in a massive hallway. The design here was as detailed as outside—pudgy naked angels flew across the ceiling, and different kinds of molding covered the walls. I tapped the elevator button and bit at a hangnail as the doors closed.

  Here we go, you lucky girl. A friendless rodent this afternoon, and now, in one floor, royalty. ROYALTY! A weird prickly sensation spread over my body. Excitement? No, my hand w
as shrinking. I was shrinking. Changing.

  The Royal Rouge must be kicking in.

  The elevator beeped, taking me up before I’d pushed my floor number. My arms and legs itched, and the skin on my face tightened. I sat down and closed my eyes while the magic pulsed through me. I couldn’t watch anymore—it was the freakiest thing I’d ever experienced.

  The freakiest thing until the elevator opened on my floor. Because standing in front of me, checking his watch, was a human-sized praying mantis.

  I’d always wondered how I’d react when seized by true terror. Turns out I’m a silent screamer—wide open mouth but barely a gurgle. So while I cowered in the corner, gurgling, the praying mantis offered one of his six legs and raised me from the fetal position.

  His hand felt…human. I rubbed his thumb. Wait, a thumb? Fabric, maybe…polyester.

  Oh my gosh. It was a costume. Meredith hadn’t shrunk me or transported me to another dimension via an elevator. It/he wasn’t going to eat me. Just escort me.

  We must be going to a costume ball! I would have preferred something more dignified than an insect for my royal escort, but given my previous job, I couldn’t be too picky.

  I exhaled slowly, releasing my frozen scream.

  “That good, huh?” The praying mantis’s Irish accent did not match his piercing, buggy eyes. “Do you think they made my antennae too stiff? I was supposed to have injured them in the Earwig Skirmish of ’84, and these convention fans can sniff a fake through all the casino smoke.”

  “Ear…Earwig?”

  Something was wrong. Conventions and casinos don’t mesh with ballrooms and masquerades.

  Behind Praying Mantis Guy, a large banner hung over a doorway. THE LAS VEGAS VENETIAN HOTEL PROUDLY PRESENTS THE 28TH ANNUAL NATIONAL MUTANT INSECT BATTALION CONVENTION. MEET PRINCESS CATTER, LORD OF PRAY, QUEEN BEE, AND MIGHTY KING COCKROACH! ALL SPECIES WELCOME.

  I wasn’t in Europe.

  I was at a Vegas sci-fi convention full of costumed weirdoes.

  I raised a green arm, wiggled my legs in the short revealing tube dress, and gripped my face. Not that I could feel it, because it was covered in what I could only guess was hideous, prosthetic CATERPILLAR makeup.

  Finally, the scream came, and when it did, the hundreds of frenzied fans lined up outside the ballroom noticed me and cheered.

  “Princess! Our princess has arrived!”

  “Scene stealer,” Lord of Pray sighed. “Come on. Let’s get you inside the ballroom.”

  Oh, I could just see Meredith up in her little bubble having a giggle. Let’s “accidentally” stop in what appears to be lovely Italy but is really The Venetian, an Italian-themed Las Vegas hotel and casino with an upscale shopping center covered with a cloud-painted ceiling. The elaborate hallways, the singing gondolier, the massive ballroom—everything was designed to replicate Venice. Of course I’d bought it.

  Meredith had not only baited me with the royal ball lie, but had waited until my hopes were piqued to slap me into a Lycra caterpillar costume, showing off my larvalicious curves to fans who’d come to Vegas for a weekend devoted to their favorite sci-fi franchise, Mutant Insect Battalion.

  Kind of tacky, Meredith said. I could hit her.

  Lord of Pray led me over to the celebrity autograph table. Everyone snapped pictures paparazzi-like, although I doubted my photo would land on the cover of Young Royals magazine any time soon. According to the posters, I was just a cable actress named Mindy Myerson.

  The shock of where I was and what I was doing did not die down over the next five hours of signing Princess Catter’s name. Luckily, Mindy’s life-size cutout was already autographed, so I had a model. Anytime I accidentally began writing Desi, I’d switch it to “dear” or “desperately yours.”

  I mean, the job itself wasn’t too awful—it still beat Pets Charming—but it was a pretty big letdown that Meredith had duped me into standing in for a C-list actress with her Great Princess Scam, which I so totally believed.

  I did get to meet insects of all ages and sizes who’d flown in (not literally) from around the world for the convention. A shy, wispy girl around my age in a BUG OFF! shirt told me my hesitancy to enter my pupa stage made her feel better about her school life, which was weirdly flattering even though I had no clue what she meant. Some experiences were less heartwarming, like when a six-foot wood louse approached me with a poster-size collage of Mindy’s pictures.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “Er…” Uh-oh. I glanced around to see if someone nearby could help, like this supposed hidden sub Meredith had planted. “Thanks. You want me to sign something for you?”

  “No, I want you to be my insect bride.”

  “Um, that’s sweet, but roly-polys aren’t really my type.”

  I spotted a woman in a bee costume pointing me out to a security guard, who readjusted his belt and began making his way across the room. The bee gave me a thumbs-up and slipped back into the crowd. Ah. Thank you, sub assistant!

  The wood louse kneeled down—no easy feat in a foam costume—and pulled out an emerald ring. “Your betrothal to Lord of Pray is a flimsy charade. A bug like you deserves someone with a firmer exoskeleton.”

  Whoa. Fandom is one thing. Believing you’re a wood louse with an actual exoskeleton is quite another. “Look, I’m not…It’s a just a show. This isn’t real.”

  “But my love for you is.”

  The security guard appeared with three others guards in tow. “Okay, let’s go, buddy.”

  “True love stretches across classification systems!”

  They dragged him away as a soothing voice filled the ballroom. “The ceremony will begin in five minutes.”

  Lord of Pray looped his third arm through mine and led me around the limitless rows of retail booths hawking comic books and action figures and more life-size cardboard cutouts of yours truly. I started to count off all the ways I’d been cheated. No princess dress. Instead of a romance with a prince, I got a proposal from a six-legged arthropod. I STILL hadn’t escaped costume heads. And my chances of royal glamour on this job were as likely as that wood louse linking up with Mindy.

  We reached the front of the ballroom. The stage was empty except for a closet-size box shaped like the end of a Q-tip.

  “Okay, Mindy,” Lord of Pray said. “Hop on to the stage—your wardrobe change is all ready. Get dressed and we’ll set up the cables. Go flit around, and in an hour you and I will hit up the shops. You ready?”

  Wardrobe change. And that was supposed to happen where, exactly? It would have taken hours to get Mindy into her current getup.

  “Fellow arthropods!” The announcer waited for the cheering to die down. “Today we will witness the long-awaited transformation of Princess Catter into a pupa. Behold!”

  A spotlight swallowed me in light. Lord of Pray nudged me onto the stage. I tugged on my dress, waiting for a cue.

  One boy—his shaved head painted with extra eyes—called out: “To the chrysalis, Princess!”

  The swelling crowd picked up the chant. “Chrysalis! Chrysalis!”

  I reached my arms out. What should I do? Magically poof into a butterfly? Pull out a can of Raid and end this disaster?

  The chanting died down and a heckler yelled, “Pupa yourself, already!”

  Pupa yourself. Hmm. Now that would make a great T-shirt design.

  Lord of Pray nodded toward the Q-tip thingy onstage. A door popped open.

  “That’s the chrysalis?” I whispered.

  Suddenly, the stalker wood louse broke past a security guard and barreled onto the stage, a large mosquito net in his hands. “Don’t pupa! I love you just the way you are!”

  Holy wood louse. Chrysalis or not, I had to get away from my roly-poly Romeo. I dodged around him, the crowd egging me on, and jumped through the opendoored chrysalis, which was really a changing room with a blue butterfly costume laid out on a stool.

  I peeled off the caterpillar face, dropping it onto the floor. If I hadn’t been
so bummed about the situation, I would have enjoyed the irony of it all. I was standing in the ultimate symbol of personal transformation. In a way, I was getting exactly what I wanted—a chance to change into something prettier, freer, with bigger possibilities. Now thousands of fans and an entire insect nation were counting on me to do just that. As fast as possible. I was halfway out of my dress when Meredith cleared her throat behind me.

  “Was it a royal dream come true?” She snorted. For someone with such a raspy voice, her laugh was surprisingly piglike.

  I covered my chest with the butterfly wings. “Meredith! I…you…I can’t—”

  “Relax, modest goddess. You’re done. I’ve already timed the rouge to deactivate in a minute or two—much easier to undo the façade than create it. You might not even notice. Usually we coordinate the sub’s appearance to match their departing ensemble, but no need here, what with the costume change. So Mindy is ready to pop back in. She hates the caterpillar meet-the-fans part, but couldn’t wait to butterfly above the crowd. I can’t say I blame her. You looked ridiculous in the makeup.”

  She pointed her remote control at the stool, and our bubble oozed out, somehow fitting into the makeshift chrysalis.

  I patted my stomach—all remnants of insect wear now gone, replaced by my FLOCCINAUCINIHILIPILIFICATION T-shirt. And I hadn’t felt the change.

  We eased into the bubble right as the announcer called, “Behold, Princess Flutter!”

  “That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life,” I said once we were safely in Meredith’s office.

  “Really?” Meredith swallowed another laugh. “You didn’t like the fishnets?”

  “No.” I rolled my lips over my braces. “I didn’t. And I seriously don’t appreciate you telling me I’d be on royal duty when that was more like my Pets Charming job. I trusted you.”

  Meredith’s smile vanished. “You think I’m going to drop you into some country without even knowing if you can hack it? No way. There’s a limited number of royals left in the world, and we save our real subs for them.”