How Zoe Made Her Dreams (Mostly) Come Tr - By Sarah Strohmeyer Page 0,13

the Eighth’s court.”

I checked my neck for reassurance that it was still in one piece and, gathering my dress, thanked the crew and hightailed it to the cafeteria, where I found Dash, he of the hemp bracelets, completely unfamiliar in his Sleeping Beauty Prince Charming costume of a navy jacket, white sash, and silver crown.

His already ruddy cheeks reddened even more. “Don’t even say it.”

“No, you’re fine!” I exclaimed, trying to keep a straight face though it had just hit me that he was the spitting image of a Prince Charming Ken doll Jess got for her sixth birthday. “You look extremely . . .”

“Lame.”

It didn’t help that his wavy hair had been slicked into some old-fashioned pompadour.

“Let’s put it this way: The ten-and-under set will find you adorable.”

He winced, and I realized it was a stupid thing to say, because what seventeen-year-old guy wants to be adored by little kids?

“Just to set the record straight, you should know that I once hiked one hundred and sixty miles of the Pacific Crest Trail by myself,” he said, “in seven days.”

“I’m sure. And you drive a monster truck and chop your own wood.”

“And change my own oil.”

I started to laugh, when I detected a strange, not unpleasant, in fact quite pleasant, aroma—a cross between my dad’s spicy aftershave and the overpowering flowers that had filled our house after Mom died.

Seeing me wrinkle my nose, Dash said, “It’s the Prince Charming cologne.”

“The what?”

“Apparently it’s made from rare Amazonian orchids. They keep it under lock and key in Wardrobe just for the princes, because it has, um, certain powerful pheromones.”

In other words chemicals secreted outside the body in order to elicit a response—fear, lust, hunger, distaste—in others. That had been on the AP bio test I’d just taken.

“You’re kidding right?” I checked myself to see if the Prince Charming cologne was affecting my behavior. Nope. Not yet, anyway.

“It’s pathetic.” He shook his head and grabbed a blue plastic tray, handing it to me before taking one for himself. “Andy said the cologne’s a must-have for working the Princesses Royal Table at the resort, even at breakfast.”

That’s where Dash was headed, to the official Fairyland Kingdom Resort, where for thirty dollars per person (twenty dollars for kids), you could eat pancakes and eggs while dancing with the Fab Four princesses and their significant princely others. Seemed like a mighty high price to pay for what was essentially the $6.99 Rooty Tooty Fresh ’N Fruity down at IHOP, but that was the Fairyland Kingdom Resort for you—cha-ching!

At the coffee bar, I put in a request for a Fairyland Caramel Coconut Latte—Fairyland’s signature drink—that I was sure the Queen would appreciate. “I’ve heard those breakfasts are reserved for weeks. Should be a blast.”

Dash grabbed a paper cup and flipped the lever for regular. “I don’t know if it’s a blast, but it’s necessary if you want to win the Dream and Do grant. RJ said the princes who bag the breakfasts essentially disqualify themselves.”

I selected a luscious chocolate croissant for the Queen along with a raspberry yogurt with fresh raspberries. The Queen’s breakfast was going to be spectacular.

“The yogurt’s not almond, you know,” he said, taking a sip. “And technically, the chocolate and butter in the croissant aren’t vegan, either.”

“They’re not for me. They’re for my boss, the Queen. I’m her personal assistant.” The coffee barista handed me the latte with a heart-shaped swirl of froth while Dash studied me with new interest.

“I swear,” I said, capping the latte. “Not for me. I know it has real cream in it.”

He waved his hand, like the vegan angle had no relevance. “I was thinking about your cast assignment. It’s not really a role, is it? You just work for her.”

“Aside from appearing in the parade by her side to throw candy.” And catch the rotten apples, though I judiciously kept this to myself.

“But nothing else. You’re not a witch or a Gretel or anything?”

“That’s right.” I swiped my ID, which was how we cast members paid for food. “Why?”

“I dunno. It’s interesting.” He swiped his ID, too. “Does that mean you have a better chance of winning the grant because you’ll be working so closely with her? Or a worse chance?”

This was his second reference to the twenty-five-thousand-dollar grant in almost as many minutes, a fact that I supposed was significant. “I have no idea. I haven’t thought about it since I’m not a prince or a princess, and everyone knows you’ve got to be royalty to