Princess for Hire

by Lindsey Leavitt

  Cultural Traditions: We’re Muslim, so don’t dress, um…provocative. Not that I could look provocative. And since I’m the youngest girl in the whole family, I have to show extra respect to everyone. (You’ll see why I don’t talk all that much.)

  Anything Else We Should Know: What, like interests? I’ve played the French horn since I was little, but only in the privacy of my room. I’m maybe, well probably, well definitely good enough to play for others, but no one around here would want to hear it. And I love American soap operas. Oh, and ducks. I’m a big fan of ducks. Just check out my room.

  The bubble bounced once or twice before skidding to a stop. I realized the jewel on my rouge compact had already turned green. My hands shook as I brushed on the powder.

  “We’re here?” I held up my manual. “This is all the info I get?” Meredith looked up from her laptop. “What do you mean?”

  “If I’m going to inhabit Simmy’s character, I need more important info than horns and ducks. What about religious customs? And memories and inside jokes and all of that?”

  “I’m so tired of that Method nonsense. Look.”

  Meredith lowered her voice. “This wouldn’t have been something that Lilith would mention, but you can also use your MP as a kind of…compass. It takes some finessing, of course. I’ve found my MP to have its own frequency. When my mind is wandering, I can’t tune in. But when I focus on the princess’s needs, I mean really focus, everything else shifts away and I can sense what the princess would feel. It’s a very Zen experience. You just have to be careful to channel, not meddle. Besides”—she pointed at me with a green pen—“if Simmy thought you needed to know her entire history, she would have put it in there. Do you follow?”

  “I guess so. But what if she was in a hurry?”

  “You’re going to be okay as long as you pay attention. You learn the most by listening and reading between the lines. And lucky for you, Simmy is quiet and awkward. Easy.”

  “Oh, er…thanks for the tips.”

  “All right. Well, off with you,” Meredith said. “See you in a few days.”

  Days? Feeling light-headed, I slid out of the bubble and into a grand, mirrored hallway. The color scheme was totally King Midas—gold on gold on gold. On gold. The fragrance of exotic flowers overpowered me.

  I hid in a shadowy alcove while the Royal Rouge took over. The strangest part was how surface the transformation felt. In addition to the itchiness, I felt an occasional tug or pull. For some reason my elbows itched the most.

  And I swore I heard the faintest buzzing as it happened, like an electric razor was shaving all the Desiness away from me.

  When the sensation stopped, I stole a peek into one of the nearby mirrors and almost jumped back from my reflection. I touched my/her/our hair. Darker, coarser, longer. My waistline and thighs were more potato than string bean. Orange fabric bunched together in what I could only guess was a dress. I smiled at her. She smiled back. Her mouth was wide and braces-free. I wondered if that meant I could eat caramel.…

  Just when I was ready to make a move, about two dozen women of various ages swept past me, laughing and chattering. Some wore scarves over their heads, and their wild tops and designer jeans were trendier than anything in Sproutville.

  I was watching them hurry past when an older, skinnier version of Simmy grabbed my arm. Nabila. “Simmy, I need to talk to you about something,” she whispered. My thighs squished together as she dragged me into a crowded sitting room and directed me to a corner in the back. She pushed two chairs secret-sharing close and leaned forward.

  “It’s your weight,” she said matter-of-factly. “I don’t know how you’ve managed it, but you’ve obviously gotten even bigger since your weighin last month. I’m saying this because you’re my little sister and I’m looking out for you. I think it’s best if you hang back during photo ops this week. Also, Mrs. Farahani and I have arranged a special diet for you starting tomorrow.”

  Diet! My stomach rumbled at the thought. So much for caramel.

  Nabila’s lips curved into a fake, sympathetic smile. “Our fitness says a lot about who we are as a family, Simmy. And with Queen Raelena here, we’re really going to be in the spotlight. So stop eating and avoid the cameras. Can you handle that?”

  “Um—”

  “Good girl, Simmy.” Nabila patted my hand. “You’re welcome.”

  The sound of applause echoed throughout the room, and we turned to see a young, sharp-looking woman—Mrs. Farahani—wearing a red skirt-suit and an almost psychotically large smile. “Welcome, everyone! On behalf of His Royal Highness Sheikh Zafir bin Abrakan al-Dhayrif and his family, I extend heartfelt thanks to all of you for attending this momentous event. As you know, we are expecting a most esteemed guest, Queen Raelena, to our upcoming gala in support of education for underprivileged young women, through the Daughters of Hope charity.”

  Excited murmurs filled the room.

  “Her Royal Highness is admired across the world not only for her beauty and eloquence, but for her unparalleled charitable efforts; she was so pleased with our own beloved Princess Nabila’s work with Amnesty International, she referenced the princess in a recent Dateline interview, which has produced some positive press for our country.”

  At this, all the women applauded and turned to smile at Nabila, who was just eating it up.

  Mrs. Farahani continued. “So it’s no surprise that this weekend we’d like to continue our focus on strengthening our relationship with our neighboring countries and our reputation as a world leader in progressive initiatives. We’re here to relax and mingle, and perhaps brainstorm other ways to shine in Queen Raelena’s eyes. Ah, the food is here!”

  The room once again filled with vibrant conversations as a staff of uniformed servers wove through the crowd bearing trays of delicious-looking hors d’oeuvres.

  One by one, the women rushed over to praise Nabila. No one gave me so much as a glance. What would Simmy do? Well, she’d be hungry (uh, who wouldn’t be after smelling those pastries?), and Nabila was busy being adored, so…

  I reached for a puff pastry, and Nabila whirled around and slapped my hand. “Simmy! I can’t believe you.”

  Believe me? It’s one little pastry, lady. A spinach one. “But I’m hungry!”

  “Excuse me, girls, I’ll just be a second.” Nabila grabbed my arm and dragged me over to Mrs. Farahani.

  “Simmy is hungry,” Nabila announced. “I already brought up the issue with her, but she apparently doesn’t care about this family.”

  I squirmed out of Nabila’s grip, fuming. This whole conversation was so unreal. Simmy was a PRINCESS, not some naughty kid stealing cookies from the cookie jar. Mmmm, cookies.

  Mrs. Farahani gave me the once-over and a condescending smile. Great. Nabila part deux. “Princess Nabila tells me your body mass index is twenty-eight. Did you know that is considered overweight, Your Highness?”

  I felt my—Simmy’s—cheeks burn. “I, well—”

  “Now, what kind of image does an overweight royal send to the world?”

  “Image? I think it just means—”

  “Self-indulgence, Your Highness,” she said. “And I mean this with all respect, but we’re trying to cultivate a reputation for tireless service to the community, not to your stomach.”

  Don’t talk back. Don’t talk back. “I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  In sixth grade, after my social life turned disastrous, I developed a special skill for locating bathrooms; you never know when you’re going to need a refuge. This bathroom was at least gold-free—airy and cool with a view of the sun setting over a breathtaking walled-in garden. I wondered if Simmy ever hid in here to cool down. I mean, was this what her LIFE was like? Man, I’d eat all day long just to spite these jerks. Size doesn’t define worth, people!

  As I shuffled back down the hallway, I heard Nabila’s voice mingling with Mrs. Farahani’s. I paused just outside the room.

  “We’ll ha
ve to get a stylist in to help your sister, pronto.” Mrs. Farahani said. “She looks like an orange in that dress.”

  Oh, that’s original. An orange orange. Way to branch out.

  Nabila snorted. “Don’t compare her to food. She’ll eat herself.”

  You know what? The weight cracks? They hurt. They weren’t even talking about ME, but it still hurt. It hurt like Celeste taking my head off, or Hayden ignoring me, or Kylee not understanding. And this was Simmy’s family here. If you can’t be yourself around them, then when are you ever yourself?

  I cleared my throat and turned the corner, leaning on the domed entryway.

  At least Mrs. Farahani blushed.

  Nabila flipped her hair. “Oh, Simmy. How long have you been out there?”

  “Long enough.”

  They grew silent, throwing knowing glances back and forth.

  And somehow their smugness made everything clear. Meredith had said my MP could be a compass, and right now every zinging nerve pointed to the fact that Simmy needed someone to stand up for her or else this bullying would never end. Channeling, meddling, whatever…I could feel the rightness of it.

  And, you know, back in Idaho I’d made that wish, thinking I wanted the glamour of Grace Kelly. But what made her so impactful went beyond glamour. I mean, Nabila was gorgeous and graceful, but so not Grace Kelly.

  Really, no immortal screen siren would sit back and let this nonsense continue.

  “Simmy, when you stare like that, it makes your eyes bulge,” Nabila finally said.

  Oh yes. I was going to impact this girl like a meteor hitting the earth.

  I swallowed a nasty comment, figuring it best to strategize before striking. “I’m going to bed,” I said in as calm a voice as I could manage before leaving the room and running down the hall.

  When I was alone, I turned on the manual and browsed through the applications until I found the compass icon. A map of the palace’s interior appeared with a little red dot marking my current location.

  The palace was so huge that even with my handheld GPS system, it took me twenty minutes to find the door with a tacked-on sign—a watercolor of a duck with the words “Please stay out. Please?”

  I pushed open the door. Yowza. Simmy wasn’t kidding about the ducks. There were shelves and shelves of collectibles—ceramic ducks and rubber ducks and cartoon ducks and a duck piñata. A mobile of toy ducks flew in V formation above her bed. Even her sheets were covered with the little quackers.

  On her nightstand sat a worn copy of E. B. White’s The Trumpet of the Swan, next to an old tape player. I hit PLAY, and a sweet, clear horn filled the room. Just one horn with no backup instruments, but it sounded like a whole orchestra. When the tape ended, I clicked open the player and read, “Simmy French Horn Practice.” She’d been beyond modest in the profile. The girl could play. I couldn’t believe no one knew about her talent.

  Exhausted, I found some pajamas and crawled into bed, thinking about how in every fairy tale, the heroine’s problems melt away when she becomes a princess—everyone sees how special she is and loves her. None of the stories was about a chubby, lonely princess who played the French horn into a tape recorder in her duck-filled bedroom. Or about the chubby princess’s substitute, for that matter.

  Maybe that’s what made them fairy tales.

  Real life is never how you dreamed it.

  Chapter

  10

  The next two days weren’t easy. Nabila’s diet plan consisted of a handful of dates and gallons of nasty tea that had me searching for the little princess’s room every five minutes. And it was an absolute waste because the rouge made me look like Simmy, not become Simmy. She wouldn’t lose the weight—I would.

  Besides, crash dieting so obviously wasn’t the way to go if Nabila really wanted to help Simmy long-term. The rouge didn’t give me any sense of Simmy’s health, but spending entire days on cardio machines couldn’t be good for anyone. Only three clicks through the health section in the manual was all I needed to find and print out a beginner’s workout routine, which I left on the treadmill in case Simmy wanted to use it.

  Dates and tea. Give me a break.

  The plus side—it made the impersonation thing total cake. (Mmmm, cake.) With all the excitement going on, no one ever joined me in the gym. Heck, I even looked up a back-to-school mini workout in the manual and did a few sets of squats while engrossed in a Days of Our Lives love triangle playing on the gym’s TV.

  The day of the banquet, I showered after a yoga workout and found a blush-pink gown Mrs. Farahani had laid out on my bed with the note, Good work, Your Highness! See you in makeup. Respectfully yours, Mrs. Farahani. Respectfully. Whatever.

  Worse, the dress was too tight and made Simmy’s stomach bulge. I had to share a makeup artist and hair stylist with two cousins, and they hogged the beauty team for so long that the stylists never got to me. Before Mrs. Farahani could rush us out, I managed to smear on a bit of eye shadow and pin up Simmy’s thick hair. Her hair looked pretty up. I’d have to tell her that.

  Gown swishing (and thighs squishing), I followed Mrs. Farahani to a back entrance of the gold room, where the royal family had formed a long receiving line. At the head of the line, Simmy’s mom, stunning in a conservative plum gown, stood next to Simmy’s dad, the squat but handsome sheikh. Then came Simmy’s uncles, brothers, and boy cousins, followed by Nabila and the rest of the women. Guests had already begun to pour in—royals and dignitaries from different countries, dressed in every style of regalia. Diamonds and emeralds sparkled everywhere.

  “Smile, Simmy. You look petrified,” Mrs. Farahani said, startling me. She ushered me to the end of the line, a safe distance away from the first guest. I used my wait time to force myself to stop shaking.

  Luckily, by the time anyone made it all the way through the line, they’d breeze past me, probably thinking, Only one more princess until we grub. Which was helpful because, despite the rouge, there was still a language barrier. I only understood the languages Simmy spoke. She clearly knew a lot, because I was able to pick up most of what people said, but some of the accents were thick, and my dress was tight, and I was starving. I endured it all in one breathless haze.

  And I thought junior high was harsh.

  The line was beginning to trickle off when a bald man in a white tie bowed before me. He said a quick intro, and when he stepped to the side, I realized who was next in line.

  Queen Raelena. I suppressed a gasp. I’d seen her on Oprah. Her beauty was even more pronounced in person, not to mention that she was one of the most admired royals, who took impact to the highest level. Seriously, it was probably the biggest moment of my life, having such an amazing woman smiling at me. My knees wobbled as I bowed low. “It is an honor to meet you, Your Majesty.”

  “Your Highness.” Queen Raelena bowed, her chocolate curls dipping with her. When she was again standing, a large elephant brooch glinted on her green satin gown.

  I didn’t know if I should bow again, or grovel, or kiss her perfect feet, or what. Lilith had said compliments worked. I started there. “I love your brooch,” I said.

  She rubbed her fingers along the silver trunk. “Thank you, Your Highness. I have quite a fondness for elephants.”

  “They’re lovely animals,” I agreed. All those people walking past had made me desperate for good conversation; plus, the queen was like the sun. I just wanted to bask in her warmth. “I like ducks. I mean, I collect them. Not real ducks, but…uh, figurines.”

  I swallowed. Something was in my throat. Perhaps it was my foot.

  Queen Raelena’s eyes twinkled. “Well then, this is a pleasure. What brings about this interest, Your Highness?”

  “Simmy. You can call me Simmy.” I racked my brain. Why ducks? Then I thought of the mobile above Simmy’s bed. “Have you ever seen ducks fly in formation?”

  She nodded, so I kept going.

  “It’s so amazing. I read once that when one of the ducks is weak or injured,
the other ducks form around it and make sure that it doesn’t fall behind.” Okay, little stretch of Lilith’s rules of impersonation, but this was for a great cause. I mean, ducks? How do you explain ducks?

  Besides, if there was one thing Simmy understood, it was the yearning to be included. “And that’s like this fund-raiser, actually. We need to stick together to make sure every girl has a chance for an education. Sometimes I wish people were, well, more like that. So yeah, I’m pro…duck.”

  Queen Raelena clasped her hands around mine for a moment. “That is wonderful to hear. These events”—she lowered her voice—“you start to wonder if the involvement is just for the show.”

  “Of course. I feel the same way. We have such an opportunity to make an impact.”

  “We need more royals with such perspective. I’m sure this passion will lead you down an excellent path. Do you have any other interests, Simmy?”

  After all Simmy’s bad treatment, it was beyond awesome to finally talk to someone interested in her. Not to mention Queen Raelena. I mean, holy ducklings! I was talking to Queen Raelena! “Music. I play the French horn.” And hey, if I’m going to brag on the girl, might as well give it some punch. “I’m not in an orchestra, but I’ve done some performances, and the audience has always been extremely complimentary. I really enjoy it.” No need to mention that the audience was a stuffed waterfowl collection that lacked the ability to voice an opinion. Er, quack one.

  A man, possibly a bodyguard, stepped to the right of the queen and whispered, “It seems dinner service is beginning.”

  The receiving line deteriorated, leaving only the two of us standing near the entry hall while others searched for their seats.

  “Well, Princess Simmy, I’d love to hear you play someday.” She bowed again. “Lovely to meet you.”

  “Thanks so much for talking to me!” I said brightly. “Let’s go eat. I’m famished.”

  *

  Elegant round tables filled the banquet room, plus one long table at the front for the royal family. Sheikh Zafir sat in the middle, whispering to Mrs. Farahani while the sheikha sipped her water. I took my seat at the end and unfolded my napkin onto my lap, grateful Simmy wasn’t known for chitchat. Although, it was pretty lame that her parents hadn’t even talked to me yet. I wondered what they thought of Nabila’s starvation diet.