How Zoe Made Her Dreams (Mostly) Come Tr - By Sarah Strohmeyer Page 0,49

ourselves without the help of male intervention?

“Come on, Viviana,” I said, taking her hand again. “We can handle this.” And we charged ahead, planting ourselves between Ian and Karl as I reached up and removed the wolf’s lace nightcap, the one item that, in Fairyland, apparently distinguished carnivorous wild animals from brownie-baking grandmothers.

“You’re not my grandmother,” I declared. “The children are right. You’re a wolf, and I’m going to ask this prince to arrest you for trying to kidnap me!”

Karl gasped and wobbled off in his heels. The children cheered. Red Riding Hood was saved . . . until the 4:00 p.m. show.

I knelt down and handed Viviana a rainbow lollipop from my basket for being such a brave ally. She rewarded me with a hug and a furtive “I love you, Red,” before skipping off with her mother.

I gave Ian a reluctant grin. “Good job.”

“Not too bad yourself,” he said.

The iPhone buzzed in the pocket of my cape. “In my office,” she ordered. “Stat!”

I slid my phone to Off and stepped behind Jack’s Beanstalk. After checking to make sure no one was looking, I yanked open the dark green door, took the staircase down to Our World, and then the elevator to her office, where I discovered Her Majesty hunched over her keyboard, googling.

“Sit,” she commanded.

I took a seat and pushed back my hood. It was pleasantly cool in here with the air-conditioning. During heat waves a girl could miss a climate-controlled office.

“I suppose I don’t have to tell you who Sage Adams is,” she said, exiting out of a video.

“He was a runner-up on American Idol.” I decided to refrain from adding that he was also the celebrity crush of Karolynne, the sixteen-year-old mother-to-be from Teenage Pregnant Nightmare. “And now he’s a professional singer.”

“Depending on how you define the word professional. Or, for that matter, singer.” The Queen pressed a button, and pages began to spit out of her printer. “Be that as it may, it seems the famous Mr. Adams has a longing to revisit the days of yore by stopping by Fairyland for a tour of his favorite childhood haunt. Corporate would like us to seize the opportunity to make him our spokesperson.”

That wasn’t a bad idea, actually. Sage was almost eighteen, on the cusp of adulthood. Tweens loved him. Teenagers abhorred him. And middle-aged mothers thought he was exactly the kind of boy their daughters should be dating.

“That’s sensible,” I said. “Sage Adams is big among middle schoolers.”

“I’m glad you have so decreed, because Mr. Adams and his manager, a one rather odious Michelle Michaels, will be here within the week, and you, my young and loyal assistant, will be their—albeit mute—escort.”

She lifted the stack of newly printed pages and deposited them in front of me with a thud. “Some light reading for you.”

I gaped at the stack, wondering what possible relation it had with Sage Adams. “Why me?”

She crossed her arms and scowled. “Because I’m like a dragon, Zoe—dangerous, incendiary, and decidedly ancient. Mr. Adams would no more relate to me than I would relate to his juvenile music. What’s his hit song again? I was just looking at it on the You Tubes.”

“YouTube,” I corrected. “It’s ‘Come Away, My Love.’ The live version. It drives girls wild, because it makes it sound like he’s going to fall in love with them onstage.”

“How incredibly naive and, yet, I must admire his marketing savvy. Hmm.” She perched herself elegantly in the chair. “Sing it for me.”

“Really?” I was a lousy singer.

“Yes,” she said. “Really. I would like to be able to quote the lyrics, if possible, during negotiations.”

I couldn’t sing it because I couldn’t carry a tune, but I could say it.

“This is my love song to you

I don’t know who.

But when I look out into the crowd and see

You being wowed. I’ll know you’re the one.

So don’t be surprised if I step off this stage and reach out and say

Come away with me . . . my love.”

The Queen lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “On behalf of all that is good and melodic, Ludwig van Beethoven, I apologize. Now, to the matters at hand.” She tapped the papers. “What you have there is a comprehensive list of Mr. Adams’s likes, dislikes, and deal breakers. It is your mission to read through the lists and ensure that everything he has requested is ready by his arrival, though we are lacking an ETA.”

I checked the first demand: no raw broccoli. As if Fairyland even served