one of her temper tantrums, compliment her hair/makeup/skin, my mentor advised. When she objects, hold up the Magic Mirror on the wall. It was a gift from an aging Hollywood actress and makes any woman, no matter what her age, look beautiful and young.
Other tips included sorting the mail to cull anything even remotely connected to the Mouse, such as postcards for Mouse-related cruises. Also catalogs showing families vacationing in national parks or by the beach should promptly be ditched. The Queen threw a fit when she read about people spending their summer holidays anywhere besides Fairyland.
The same applied to newspapers, which had to be “edited”—as Evelyn had mentioned—following the same criteria. Even advertisements for church bingos or community potluck dinners were best jettisoned unless, of course, they were being held in the park.
Next was the consumer-complaint box—i.e., the Box of Whine. Every morning the trolls gathered the Fairyland Kingdom Surveys left by the exit gates and dumped them in a locked wooden box by Personnel in Our World. It was in my best interest to read those complaints before the Queen and to filter out any survey that even hinted that the guests’ experiences had been less than perfect.
Finally, the notes concluded, never, ever do or say anything that might be perceived as “disloyal” to Fairyland. This is the Queen’s Golden Rule: Above all, to Fairyland be true. Sounds simple enough, except you’re never quite sure what the Queen considers an act of treason. As long as you act like you’re part of the Fairyland family, she will be your greatest advocate.
Cross her once . . . and you’re dead.
I threw the pages of tips into the incinerator like the author wanted and hugged myself as they burst into bright orange flames.
Loyalty. That was the key. As long as you act like you’re part of the Fairyland family, she will be your greatest advocate.
My mentor’s words of wisdom saved my butt. The Queen was much more pleasant now that she could sleep in and let me walk Tinker Bell, though I will admit, until I got her that cup of honey-laced Earl Grey, she was a bit of a hag.
After that I did my best to do everything my secret mentor advised. I presented the Queen with only positive reviews glowing with praise. I admired her nails and skin, the deft way she swiveled her chair—anything to boost her ego. I doted on Tinker Bell and earned extra brownie points when I started adding smoked fish eggs—i.e., crazily expensive Russian caviar—to her diet as a way of “improving her coat.”
I organized Her Majesty’s pencils by length, sorted her shoes by color, arranged for fresh flowers to be delivered daily from the gardener, who did have approval to cut whatever he pleased, and repeatedly confirmed that, yes, yes, she really was the fairest of them all.
“Your blatant brownnosing disgusts me,” she’d reply, though I could tell she ate it up.
During the evening parades, I caught every piece of fruit while tossing candy with such ease that Her Majesty never realized she was under attack. When she stepped onto the balcony to wave good night, I drowned out the crowd’s boos by cranking “There She Is, Miss America” over the loudspeakers. The Queen was so touched, I could have sworn I saw a tear in her eye.
And if I wasn’t catering to Her Majesty’s every whim, then I was running around the park putting out fires set by the cast.
Marcus, especially, continued to be problematic. Not only did he keep slipping off his horse, but being perpetually jet-lagged and on California time, he often slept through his alarm, thereby requiring me to bang on his door, hollering, “Surf’s up!” until he dragged himself out of bed.
Aside from Marcus, everything was going so well that, two weeks into the internship, while I was removing those irritating inserts from her copy of People magazine (as well as searching for any reference to the Mouse), the Queen spun around from her monitors and remarked, “Zoe, I must admit that you are not the disaster I feared on the first day. Of course you are still slow, untalented, slightly dim-witted, and, above all, a shameless sycophant, but with training and discipline, I see potential.”
I smiled to myself but kept my head down. (Another admonition of my mentor: to avoid direct eye contact whenever possible.) “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Your efforts deserve meritorious recompense. Maintain your five-star performance, and I might even remove that flower-picking demerit that hangs