How Zoe Made Her Dreams (Mostly) Come Tr - By Sarah Strohmeyer Page 0,51

with 4G capability, sound-isolating ultracompact headphones, and the complete series of South Park downloaded and ready for viewing.

Once at Fairyland Sage was to be provided with a black trench coat and a Philadelphia Phillies baseball cap, because apparently that wouldn’t make him stand out in a theme park in August. When we were introduced, I was not to say anything but “hello” and escort him and Michelle to the attraction of his choice.

Most importantly Michelle stressed, “Do not talk.”

The visit was to take approximately three hours, no longer. At the end I was to usher him into Our World and then through the hidden tunnels to the Fairyland Kingdom Resort, specifically to room 505, the corner penthouse suite, where the TV was to be on and turned to MTV. The curtains were to be closed to prevent paparazzi from intruding.

The sheets on his bed were to be organic cotton, and all bedding was to be washed thoroughly in two-hundred-degree water before his arrival. The carpet was to be steam cleaned with nontoxic detergents. There was to be no leather, feathers, or any other animal product in the room. The windows should be washed with white vinegar and water. The soap in his bathroom: grapefruit/mint. Organic, natch.

There must have been fifty reminders that this visit was to be secret, confidential, blah, blah, blah. And if I so much as whispered the name Sage, the skies would open, and all hellfire and damnation would rain down on Fairyland.

It took me two days of ordering online from the Queen’s office and then making sure everything was delivered to room 505 instead of being lost somewhere in Fairyland’s cluttered mailroom. I even stood on chairs and washed the huge plate-glass windows in Sage’s penthouse suite—all eight of them!—with vinegar and water. That alone took close to four hours. I’d never be able to move my arm again.

“Congratulations, you did it!” exclaimed Sergei, the hotelier. I’d thought he was a complete snob when we first met and I’d had to explain that I, not he, would be handling the arrangements for a “Special VIP” the Queen had forbidden me from naming.

Now, having bonded over the search for the thirty peace lilies that Michelle demanded because they “filtered” the air, Sergei and I were old buddies. He ran a finger over the top of the TV cabinet and nodded his approval when it came up clean. “Is there anything else?”

“Not until the actual day.”

“And that is . . . ?” You could tell he was annoyed by our “Special VIP’s” refusal to pinpoint the date of his arrival, which was saying something, since Sergei had handled his share of spoiled guests.

“Anytime after today, apparently. Doesn’t matter. We’re ready.”

He opened the door using his handkerchief to prevent germs from tainting the knob, also one of Michelle’s requests. “Are you coming?”

“I think I’ll do one last inspection. Thanks.”

“Very well.” And he left.

I listened for his footsteps in the hall and went over to the TV, turning the volume wayyy down low as I clicked to channel 831. It was 9:00 p.m. on a Monday, and if memory served, Teenage Pregnant Nightmare would be playing in back-to-back reruns.

Yes, yes, of course, this violated a bunch of Fairyland rules, mostly #23 and #64. But it’d been ages since I’d watched TV, and I was suffering withdrawal, so you could consider this almost a mental-health excuse.

Karolynne came on with her new boyfriend, who went by one letter—Z. Ugh. What a loser! I sat on the settee at the foot of the king-size bed and studied Z. Wifebeater. Skanky beard. A bunch of gold chains. Clearly he was in it for the fame of being on TPN. I mean, he wasn’t even Karolynne’s type. She went for guys who were short and stocky. Z was tall and wiry and covered with weird red welts.

I was prepared to be riveted as Karolynne and Karolynne’s slack-jawed sister, Tanya, cracked their gum while shopping for cribs—an episode I had found amusing in my wood-paneled TV room back in Bridgewater, but that now, after a summer of serving the Queen’s wild whims, I found to be simply boring. Didn’t these people have anything better to do? Like maybe get their GEDs?

Twenty minutes later and Karolynne was fighting with Z over why he hadn’t gone shopping for cribs. (I swear she and Hunter Boxworth once had the exact same argument.) Their faces turned red. Z threw a lamp and yelled that he wasn’t her baby’s father. For