by Alex Flinn
“’Scusez-moi,” she says as I rush to my feet from my stooped position. “I am an emergency.”
Before I can breathe, much less speak, a second voice, then a third, interrupts her in French. Two big bodyguards cast a shadow over my whole field of vision, blocking her.
She starts scolding them. “Non! Non!” A small white hand insinuates itself between the mountains of meat. She says something in French, then adds, “I must speak wiz him myself.”
She pushes them apart, like an ice pick going through Mount Rushmore. The two guards obviously don’t want to part, but they have no choice. She’s their princess.
She lifts her sandal onto the counter. It’s olive-colored snakeskin, retails for over a thousand dollars, and has a broken strap.
None of that’s what I really notice.
What I notice is, it’s still on her foot. Attached to her leg. On my counter!
“Lovely, no?” she says.
“Yes.” The word is barely an exhale. Then, I get that she means the shoe. “Yes, lovely. Donna Karan, from Italy. I saw it in Vogue, her spring collection.”
“I need your help.” She blows mojito fumes—rum and mint leaves—on me with the “h.” “Zees, zey are my favorite, and now . . .” She stares forlornly at her foot, like it’s an injured puppy. “. . . ruined.”
“Okay.” I reach for the shoe, my instincts kicking in despite my nerves. Then, I stop at the evil eye her guard’s giving me. “Um, I can help you. I can fix it.”
“Oh, merci!” The princess claps her hands, almost falling back as she does, but the guard catches her. “And you will have zis finished by ten thirty tomorrow? I have a luncheon with ze mayor at noon, and I need to dress well in time of it. It is most important.”
For a second, she doesn’t sound drunk at all. She sounds like she’s talking about something more important than a shoe. Like world peace.
But then, she sways again, and I doubt she’ll even be awake by ten thirty, much less capable of walking on five-inch stiletto stilts. Still, I say, “I’ll have it done,” already trying to think of a way to ask her about trying on the shoes, my shoes.
“You are my hero!” She leans farther forward, flexible for one that drunk, and kisses me on the cheek. Then, she removes her shoe. She slides her foot off the counter, stumbling backward into the guards. When she recovers, she says, “Tell him my room. I forgot.”
The guard says something in French.
“Non. I want him to deliver it. He is handsome.”
Handsome. A princess thinks I’m handsome and is inviting me to her room? Impossible.
I chuckle, a chuckle the guard silences with another glare. “She is in Penthouse B.”
“And here!” The princess is leaning over the counter, so I can once again drink in both her blue eyes and the smell of secondhand mojito. She hands me a wad of bills. “For the rush.”
It’s three hundred dollars. “No, it’s too much . . . let me . . .” I start to give most of the bills back. It’s not unheard of to get big tips around here, but I feel bad taking advantage of the obviously drunk, even though I can already feel the air-conditioning.
“Non. I know it is three hundred dollars. It will be well worth it if you give my shoes on time and personally deliver. Personally deliver. I am certain you understand.” She goes to touch my arm but accidentally brushes my chest. “Oui?”
She looks up, and I realize she expects a response. Like, waiting for me to actually speak even though she just touched me and my mouth is hanging open. I close it, then open it again.
“Um . . . oui? Thank you. I’ll, um, be there at ten thirty.”
“No earlier. I need to get ze beauty sleep.”
I don’t just fix the strap. I test the heels and replace the heel tip. I wish I had the other shoe, to make it even more perfect. I polish and buff and check for loose stitching. This princess isn’t going to trip over her shoe—not on my watch. I remember what she said about an important meeting with the mayor, and I try to decide what it could be about: Some crucial matter of diplomacy, maybe a treaty between our countries? And I’ll have saved the day with my perfect repair of Victoriana’s favorite shoe. Maybe I’ll get a medal. Or a knighthood.
Who am I kidding? Miami’s not at war, and I’ll be happy if I get to look at the princess for an extra five minutes. And maybe, when she sees what a great job I did with the repair, she’ll agree to wear my shoes. When I finish them.
At nine, I go to the pool to find Ryan. He snuck in late. Now, he’s on his lifeguard chair, shirtless and already asleep.
“Too much partying last night?” I ask.
He jumps awake. “No such thing as too much. You should come sometime.”
I shrug. “No money. So, I notice you’ve chosen to go shirtless today.”
He makes his chest muscles move side to side. “Enjoy it?”
“Nah, I was just hoping since you’re not using your shirt, maybe I could borrow it.”
“And cover it with sweat. Don’t think so.”
“Please.” I explain about Victoriana and the shoe. “I can’t show up in a grungy shirt I’ve had on all night.”
He grins. “Got an idea. How ’bout I deliver the shoe. I’m better looking anyway.”
“Not going to happen. She asked me to. Besides, you’re working now. You’ve been working since . . . eight twenty-five. Doesn’t your shift start at eight?”
“You’re blackmailing me?”
“Such an ugly word. I just want you to loan me your shirt, as a friend, just like I’m keeping your secret, as a friend.”
“Fine.” He takes the red Hollister polo out of his gym bag. “I get it back by eleven.”
“Deal.” I take it and start toward the lobby. “Thanks.”
Next, I find my friend Marisol, one of the chambermaids. I talk her into letting me use a shower in one of the rooms where the guest has checked out. I shower and wash my hair with their shampoo. Ryan’s shirt hangs on me in places, and I wish I had cologne or, at least, clean underwear. Still, I look good.
I know it’s crazy, getting all worked up about a princess. But, hey, a guy can fantasize. I mean, here I am in South Beach, fun capital of the world, and all I do is repair shoes and dream dreams I can’t afford. Why shouldn’t I at least try?
Chapter 6
It takes nearly five minutes for the elevator to reach the penthouse floor. I knock and hang around like a stalker until another Mount Everest of a guard asks what I’m doing there.
“I was . . . I work at the hotel. I’m bringing the princess’s shoe.” I hold it up.
“I take zis!” The guard plucks it by the strap and starts to close the door.
“But I . . . she . . .” I slump over. She’s probably still asleep. Can it really end here, my one big chance?
His hand’s on the doorknob. “You have been paid?”
I nod. “But—”
“Zen go on your way.” And the door slams.
That’s that. I head back for the elevator. It was stupid, me thinking I could talk to the princess about anything but her broken strap. I mean, who am I? Some poor slob who works in a hotel. I should be happy I got to meet her at all. Someday, I’ll probably tell my grandchildren about it. And they’ll assume it’s dementia setting in.
But still, I feel like going downstairs and banging something with a hammer until it’s obliterated. Victoriana said she wanted me to deliver the shoe personally. I went to a lot of trouble. It’s not right that the guard is keeping me out. He’s not any special person. He’s only a guard, just like I’m only a shoe repair guy. He’s no better than—
“Pardonnez-moi?” Mr. Everest is back.
“What do you want now?”
“It is ze princess who wants. She says I must ask you to come into her suite.”
“So she did want me to deliver the shoes in person?”
“Oui.”
“So I was right? I wasn’t just lying to get to see the princess?”
“Yes, yes. Is zat not what I just say?”
I’m savoring this. “So I was right, and you were . . . what’s the word I’m trying to think of here . . . ?”
The guard’s face is purplish. “Leesen, you leetle pip-squeak. If you do not wish to see ze princess, I will be happy to tell her you left ze building.”
“Okay.” I follow him into the suite.
I’ve never been in the Royal Suite before, but it’s bigger than our apartment. Flowers decorate every flat surface, so it looks a little like a funeral, without the body. There’s even an aquarium with a small shark swimming between the anemones. The guard leads me through one room, then another, until finally, we reach a sitting room, decorated in blue and white to blend with the cloudless sky outside its glittering French doors. The princess sits in a big wicker chair. She’s dressed all in white, golden hair flowing down her shoulders, wearing the shoes I’ve repaired. I notice, with satisfaction, that the left shoe is a bit shinier than the right.
She doesn’t look hung over. She doesn’t look like she only got four hours sleep. She looks like a marble statue of an ocean goddess. If I ran into her at Walmart, I’d still know she was a princess. I stop, then bow low.
“Please.” She gestures me up. “Please, zis is not needed.”
I stand. She says something in French to the guard. He shakes his head but leaves, muttering something and glaring at me. The door closes, slightly louder than necessary.
I am alone with the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Please, God, please, don’t let me say anything stupid.
“’Allo, Johnny.”
I start at my name, that she remembers it.
“Did I get it wrong? You are Johnny, non? Ze boy who watches me?”
“I don’t . . .”
“It is nothing to be ashamed. Everyone watches. But I have to sneak to watch zem.”
“Sneak?” So she was there, all those times I thought I saw her. But why?
“Sit.” She gestures at a chair.
I do, tripping over my own feet as I go, almost falling into her lap. “Sorry.”
“It is all right.” She stares ahead, saying nothing, like she’s waiting.
“The shoe, it’s okay?” I have no idea why I’m here.
“Shoe?”
“The one I repaired? I should have asked you for the other one, so I could polish both, so they’d be perfect. I could still.” I’m babbling. I’m babbling. Make me stop.
She glances at me, then her shoes, and finally, it seems to dawn on her what I’m talking about. “Oh, oui. Ze shoe is lovely.” She lowers her voice. “Ze shoe, it was—’ow you say—a ruse.”
“A ruse?” I whisper.
“Oui. A ruse. I broke ze strap in order to speak wiz you, and I pretend to be drunk so ze guards would not suspect my duplicity.”
“You pretended to be drunk? But you reeked of mojito.”
“I had one, and I kept ze mint in my pocket to chew.”
“But you were stumbling and acting, um . . .”
“Crazy?” She rises and stumbles across the room in perfect imitation of a drunk. When she comes back around, she slumps against my chair. “Zis, I do all ze time.”
“But why?”
“Many reasons. For ze press, mostly, so zey will see me as harmless, someone to be ridiculed and never suspect ze turmoil in my country, ze turmoil”—she touches her chest—“in here.”
“Wow.” Meg will freak when she hears this. “So . . . ?”
“I needed to speak wiz you about a matter of ze utmost importance. I wished to see you”—she glances at the door—“alone.”
She places finger to lips, then tiptoes to the door and pulls it open. A guard falls into the room. Victoriana barks several sentences to him in French. The guard retreats, and this time, Victoriana stands by the door until she’s sure he’s far away before pulling it shut.
“What did you tell him?” I ask.
“Zat if I catch him eavesdropping again, it would mean not only his job, but also his children would be kicked from ze Alorian soccer training team.”
“Harsh.”
“A princess needs her privacy.” She walks to the French doors. “Let us go out.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” I picture sharpshooters, waiting on the beach, or the Zapruder film of the Kennedy assassination we saw in history. “Couldn’t someone . . . ?” I mime a gun.
Victoriana shakes her head. “Non. Sadly, ze person who is ze greatest danger to me wants me very much alive.”
I follow her out. The ocean roars, and seagulls’ cries surround us. Victoriana closes the balcony door. When she turns around, there are tears in her aquamarine eyes.
“Please,” she whispers. “You must help me.”
Chapter 7
The frog told her he had been enchanted by a wicked witch.
—“The Frog Prince”
“You want me to help you?”
“Oui.”
“Me?”
“Oui.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You must stop saying zis.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just . . . you’re a princess, and I’m . . . nobody.”
She looks down at the shoe I’ve repaired, turning her foot to study it, her eyes shining. Below, the beachgoers are starting to come out. I’ve never seen them from so high. Their towels make the beach look like the patchwork quilt on Mom’s bed. When I look back, Victoriana’s still touching her shoe.
“Your Majesty?” When she doesn’t look up, I say, “Princess?”
“Victoriana. I have something important to say, so you must call me my name. And non.”
“Non?”
“No. You are not nobody. You are a hard worker, a good boy. I see you, always working. Zat is why I watch you, to see zat you are ze right boy to help me.” She sniffs.
“Of course, I’ll help you. But how?” If she wasn’t a princess, I’d put my arm around her, do something to comfort her. But I don’t. Is it lonely to be so great that no one will touch you?
She answers my unspoken question by grabbing my hand in both of hers and squeezing as if she’s falling and I’m her lifeline. Then she sobs, “It is my bruzzer, my dearest, sweetest bruzzer, he is disappeared. You must find him!”
“Where is he?”
“If I knew zat, I would not need your help.”
I feel my face get hot, so hot even my ears start to sweat a little.
Seeing my discomfort, she says, “Pardonnez-moi. I know you do not mean to humiliate yourself, but I am desperate. My bruzzer, heir to ze Alorian throne, he is lost.”
“Lost?” What does she want me to do about it? I mean, not that I wouldn’t walk across coals for the girl, but what can I do that a staff of security guards can’t?
“Oui. He disappeared after being placed under a witch’s curse.”
Oh. Of course. The hot ones are always crazy. Nice house, too bad no one’s home.
“You have . . . witches in your country?”
She rolls her eyes in a very un-princess-like way. “Ze witches, zey are everywhere. It is only zat most people, zey do not see.”
I nod, like it makes sense, but I must not do it convincingly enough because she says, “Ze waitress downstairs who has all ze biggest-tipping customers, ze bellman who seems to get ze lightest suitcases. Zis is what witches do. Zey make zere lives easier. I am sure you can think of other examples, something closer to you, perhaps.”
I try to think who she could mean. Then I remember: There are no witches. I nod.
“But ze witches in Zalkenbourg, zey are not so harmless. And my poor bruzzer, he is too foolish to know zat ze village girl he liked was really Sieglinde, ze powerful Zalkenbourgian witch in disguise. He went in her cottage—and poof!”
“Poof?”
“She turns him into a frog.”
I scratch my ear. “Did you say a frog?”
“Oui.”
I look at her a long time, with her fake frown and her fake tear
s, and I think she’s not as pretty as I thought she was. She obviously thinks I’m a big jerk. I bow, so she can’t say I was disrespectful, and say, “Your Highness, I thank you for bringing me your repair. I hope it’s met with your approval. I need to get back to work now.”
“You do not believe me?”
“I think you’re making fun of me. I know I’m just a peasant. Maybe you got bored with clubs.” I turn away, but it’s difficult.
“Non. No. I do not make fun of you. Please. You must see.”
She reaches for a French romance novel, resting on the table beside her. From its pages, she pulls a stack of photographs and papers. “Look.”
I glance at the photo. It’s a guy about my age, handsome with bright red hair and some kind of big mole over his right eye. He wears a military uniform, and he’s smiling.
“Zat is Philippe, before ze spell.” Victoriana points to the mole. “Zis is ze famous Alorian birthmark. It is shared by many great kings.”
She hands me the photo, revealing the second, a frog with a red strip on its head. Like the prince, it has a large spot above its eye.
“Zis is him now,” she says, and I see the tears, glittering on her eyelashes.
It does look a lot like the prince would look, if he was a frog. I gaze into Victoriana’s moist eyes and abandon the ideas that she’s playing a joke on me. Someone’s playing with her is what’s happening. “Someone probably kidnapped the prince and has him captive somewhere. They must have painted the frog.”
“Zat is what we zought may be. So we consulted an Alorian witch, a powerful sorceress who has a magical earpiece. She can communicate with animals—at least, animals who were once human. I talk wiz my bruzzer.”
“You talked to a frog?”
“Oui. I ask him questions, questions only Philippe would know, about ze secrets we had as children. It is no doubt to me zis frog is him. And look at his eyes.”
I glance back at the photo. His eyes are, indeed, the same ocean color as Victoriana’s.
Stop! Of course the frog isn’t her brother. Her brother is dead, and she’s crazy with grief. Poor girl. Just shows even rich people have problems.
