Maggie Malone Gets the Royal Treatment Page 3

  I can actually hear my mom’s voice inside my head. Don’t stoop to her level, Maggie. Be the bigger person. I smile sweetly at Lucy.

  “It would be my great pleasure, Your Apprenticeship,” I tell her, gathering my things. “Would you like anything to drink?”

  “A Coke,” she says. “But not the kind with ice from the cafeteria. I like it in a can from the vending machine. I don’t have any change, so you’ll have to get it this time. And don’t forget the straw.”

  Please, I add for her in my head, since it’s clear she’s never going to add it herself.

  “Coming right up!” I chirp, winking at Elizabeth, who still looks too terrified to even think about opening her mouth.

  It’s not forever, I tell myself as I scrounge all of the change from the bottom of my locker. Even though it’s probably going to feel like it.

  Chapter 6

  When I Get Some Not So Magical Advice from Frank-the-Genie

  The corn dog was just the beginning. (And by the way, after I stripped off that greasy cornbread coating, Lucy didn’t even eat the thing because guess what? A hot dog on the inside of a corn dog is not a pretty sight—it’s all wrinkly and gray and looks about a hundred years old. Lucy took one look at it and flicked it by the stick in the direction of the trash can. When she missed, Winnie rushed over to scoop it up and sling it in the can—all with a big goofy smile across her face, of course. I guess some people are made for this sort of stuff.)

  Every day this week, Lucy has come to school with a new list of tasks for us, her “lucky” handmaidens. In between carrying her books and standing in the lunch line for her, Elizabeth redecorated Lucy’s locker with pink sparkly wrapping paper lining and a mini diamond tiara that she hung on a piece of fishing line like a disco ball. Alicia rode her bike to every craft store in town to find rainbow popsicle sticks for the “eat more veggies” extra-credit diorama Lucy’s making for health class, and I got the honor of polishing her tennis shoes. Her tennis shoes! (I did do an excellent job, I have to admit. The secret is an old towel and toothpaste. It really gets that white to sparkle!) I guess I shouldn’t complain. Lucy made poor Winnie scrub her retainer with a baby toothbrush. Blech.

  Riding my bike home from school, all I can think about is how messed up this fake Pinkerton Princess stuff is. It’s hard to believe that only a few short weeks ago, I spent a whole day as Becca Starr, the biggest rock star on the planet, and today I spent my lunch hour decorating paper bag book covers for the meanest girl in the school. It really boggles the brain.

  I pull into my driveway, sling my bike behind the bushes at the front door, and let myself in with the hide-a-key. It’s still a little creepy coming home to an empty house since my mom started working again. Stella usually comes over right after school to hang out with me, but she’s got tae kwon do this afternoon. She thinks they’re going to teach her to hover six feet off the ground. I keep telling her that’s not going to happen, but she’s convinced that once she reaches a certain level of enlightenment or something, she’ll just float right up into the air when she makes the perfect kick. Well, I have to admit, stranger things have happened.

  I shut my bedroom door, sling my backpack against it, and sit down at my vanity.

  “Well?” I ask. “Aren’t you going to say something, Frank?” I rest my chin in my hands and wait.

  I did mention that a not-so-run-of-the-mill genie came along with the Mostly Magical Boots my Auntie Fi gave me for my birthday, didn’t I? His name is Frank and he’s the cowboy kind of genie—wears blue jeans instead of genie pants and a big ten-gallon cowboy hat (that’s what he calls it) instead of a turban. He doesn’t wear an earring that I’ve seen, but every once in a while, he gives out some pretty decent advice, which is something I could use right about now. Oh, and the other thing about Frank? He only shows up in a mirror. I know. It’s totally kooky, but I didn’t make up the way this stuff works, so I just go with it.

  “I know you’re dying to tell me what an idiot I am, agreeing to be the lowest life-form in the royal food chain,” I say, figuring that ought to pry him away from whatever he’s busy doing.

  “Hey there, Maggie,” Frank says with a grin as he comes into focus in the top right side of my vanity mirror. “Or are you just going by plain old Handmaiden these days?”

  “Very funny,” I huff.

  “You’d think that girl would have come up with a better name—something to make the job sound more attractive—maybe something like ‘darling duchesses’ or ‘happy helpers,’” Frank says, cracking himself up. “But no, she didn’t even go to the trouble of putting lipstick on a pig. She just called you gals straight-up handmaidens. She might as well have called you her minions!”

  “I tried not to agree to it—you know I did,” I explained. “But I would’ve thrown my new friends under the bus. And Lucy would have torched them, for sure!”

  “Uh-huh,” Frank says, as a cloud of dust follows a couple of horses pulling an old-timey-looking stagecoach right behind him.

  “What the heck?” I say, leaning in to get a better look. “Where in the world are you, Frank?”

  “Oh, I’m just spending a little time here in the Old Wild West, Malone,” Frank says, spitting something dark and slimy out of the corner of his mouth.

  “I really wish I could unsee that, Frank,” I say, turning my head and gagging a little.

  “It’s every man for himself out here, handminion. Sink or swim. Get up or shut up,” he explains as a pair of wooden doors swing behind him. “You’ve got to stick up for yourself in these parts or you might as well lie down and let the buzzards pick you apart.”

  “Um, yeah well, that’s disgusting,” I say. “It sounds really rough out there and all, Frank. But listen. I know you’re probably short on time and not to be all about me, but can we talk about me for a sec?”

  “We are talking about you,” Frank laughs.

  “What does your dirty Wild West adventure have to do with me, Frank?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, handmaiden. Are you standing up or are you lying down?” Frank asks.

  “Huh?” I ask. “I’m not doing either one, Frank. I’m sitting here at my vanity talking to you!”

  “Look, kid, I’m about to be late for a card game with Coyote Cain, and if I am, I’ll have to start the game in my skivvies. I think you’d agree that nobody needs to see that…”

  “Wait! Frank!” I yell, but it’s no use.

  “STAND UP, Malone!” he says, and I see him shaking his head as he goes blurry, like a watery pool. Then he’s gone.

  I do what he says. I stand up. But what do I do now? Frank just loves to pull the mysterious genie card. I think it’s like his favorite thing to do. You know, toss out some crazy comments that make no sense and then leave me alone to try and piece them all together. Not to go on a Frank rant, but I always thought that genies were supposed to be at your beck and call. Frank is definitely not. I don’t know about the beck part, but he hardly ever sticks around when I call.

  Well, I knew he’d give me a hard time for going along with the crowd to keep the peace. He’s always telling me to “Stay Maggie. Be yourself.” It’s true, being a handmaiden is not exactly what I’d call being myself. But what else was I supposed to do? And now I’m Lucy St. Claire’s handmaiden for the foreseeable future.

  Or. Or I could skedaddle right out of here. Leave this fake princess business behind and find out what it’s like to be a real princess. The Princess Mimi to be exact, who I’m completely sure never has to put up with a royal pain like Lucy St. Claire pushing her around.

  Chapter 7

  When I Wake Up in Wincastle

  Me, Maggie Malone, a real princess. It’s going to be so great! I’ll ride horses around the palace all day and have lunch with the queen and save something really important and maybe be in a parade. I’ve always wanted to do that princess hand-wave. Al
though I hope I have a bodyguard, because parades can get pretty crazy, and I know that people are always trying to kidnap famous princesses. I bet they’ve thought about that over in Wincastle, though.

  Then I remember: the royal wedding! If I’m going to spend a day as the Princess Wilhelmina of Wincastle, I don’t want to pick some random day when she might be stuck in her room reciting sonnets or learning French from a boring royal tutor. No way, José—I’m going to be a bridesmaid at the royal wedding of the century! I’ve only been in a wedding one time before, as a flower girl when my Grandpa Flannery got married for the tenth or eleventh time. Talk about a step up.

  I turn on my computer and pull up the Celebrity Times website again, then click on the link for the royal wedding time line. As I’m scrolling through the events, I have a thought: I know that time freezes when I’m in someone else’s shoes, but what about the time-difference thing? Isn’t it, like, yesterday or tomorrow or something in England right now? I look it up and find out that Wincastle is exactly eight hours ahead of us. After a whole lot of adding and subtracting, I realize that if I’m going to be a bridesmaid in Princess Clementine’s wedding I need to get into the MMBs pretty much RIGHT NOW!

  I run over to my closet and flip on the light, then reach up to the tippy-top shelf and pull down the MMBs. Maggie Malone, your heinie is about to be royal for real, I tell myself, taking a deep breath before sliding one foot into a boot and then the other.

  “I wish,” I whisper, half nervous and half excited, “I was Princess Mimi.”

  • • •

  What’s that smell? Roses?! I love roses. They remind me of Granny Malone and her huge rose garden in Ireland. I open my eyes and see sweet little bouquets on each side of my bed. The bed itself has a roof and silk curtains all around it. I pull one of the curtains to the side and peek out. The ceiling is about six miles away and the entire thing—which is bigger than a football field—is covered in fancy carvings and painted gold.

  For the love of Monopoly money, it’s happening again! I’m really her. Princess Wilhelmina of Wincastle. Just like that! I whip my legs around to get out of bed and tumble down at least ten feet, landing on my hands and knees like a cat. Really? Is this how every new day in these shoes is going to start? Besides, who needs a bed ten feet off the ground? As I pull myself up, I see a short set of stairs Princess Mimi must use to climb in and out of this thing. That would have been good information to have a minute ago.

  I walk over three miles of the cushiest carpet you ever felt to a set of huge floor-to-ceiling windows and peel back a tiny corner of a curtain that must weigh six hundred pounds. Right outside the glass and about four hundred feet down looks like a golf course—I guess that’s Wincastle Palace’s front lawn—and beyond that are a bunch of beautiful old buildings that belong in a fairy tale. The streets are lined with lots of tiny black cars and a few bright red double-decker buses.

  I’m watching those buses creep along when the gigantic doors to my room burst open. Three ladies wearing white gloves and matching black dresses with white aprons come in.

  “Good morning, Princess Wilhelmina,” says the first with a quick curtsy, looking down and setting a silver tray with a lid on it beside my bed.

  “Good morning, Princess Wilhelmina,” says the second, also looking away as she opens all the curtains in my room. She does it quickly too, so she must be really strong.

  “Oh, hey,” I say, trying to remember how you say hello in British. Oh, yeah—I got it. “Cheerio, you guys!” And do you want to know the coolest thing? I have a real British accent! I don’t sound a thing like Stella did the time she played Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady. Or Mr. Mooney at the assembly. This is the real deal.

  “Your breakfast is served, Princess,” the tray lady says with a curtsy, lifting the silver lid.

  A real, royal breakfast in bed? Not a bad way to start my day as a princess! I’ll bet it’s fit for a king! And I am capital-s STARVING. I scamper up the steps onto that giant bed and smooth the covers over my lap. Please let it be chocolate chip pancakes and bacon, I say silently.

  I reach over and pull the tray into my lap. It’s not chocolate chip pancakes or bacon, that’s for sure. The plate is ice cold and has a handful of button mushrooms, a shriveled-up slice of tomato that looks like somebody tried to cook it, a few baked beans, and a black blob of something that could possibly have come straight from a can of cat food.

  Great. My breakfast looks like skunk meat and smells even worse. I hope this isn’t a sign of things to come.

  Chapter 8

  When I Almost Have to Eat Blood Pudding

  As I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to quietly dispose of my cat food breakfast, there’s a quick knock at the door. In comes another woman, an older one, wearing a stiff skirt and buttoned-up jacket.

  “Good morning, Amelia,” the black-dress trio says all together.

  “Good morning, Princess Mimi,” she says to me first, before turning to the crew. “Ladies.” They curtsy again. She notices my full tray of what I think is supposed to be food.

  “If you’re not hungry this morning, I shall have this taken away,” this Amelia person says, looking at me oddly.

  “Oh, no, sorry,” I say. “I mean, I beg your pardon. I’d love a bite to eat, actually, it’s just…” Man I do dig this accent of mine. I sort of want to keep talking, but I’m not sure what to say.

  “The Royal Chef prepared your blood pudding just the way you like it,” Amelia says, “but should you rather have something else, I can see to that right away.”

  Blood pudding? I think I just threw up in my mouth.

  “Um, well, actually,” I say, desperate to know what a princess would do in this situation. Besides eat something called blood pudding—whatever that is—because that is not going to happen. “Is there any…cereal or maybe a slice of toast in the palace?”

  “I’ll have some brought up, of course. But if it pleases the princess, perhaps you could eat it after your fitting,” Amelia says. “Mr. Roberto D’Angelo is here and ready for you.”

  The Roberto D’Angelo, as in the legendary Italian fashion designer? He makes all the dresses that the famous actresses wear to the Big Screen Awards and he’s on that show Escape from Style Siberia, where they rescue people from all sorts of fashion disasters. He’s kind of mean on that show, but to get to wear a dress designed by him? To the royal wedding of the century—and to be photographed and on TV in a trillion countries? What could be better than this?

  “Jolly great!” I say. Last summer Stella and I found this hilarious British comedian on MeTube and watched about eleven thousand of his performances. It’s coming in jolly handy already (jolly is British for very), and with my awesome accent and all, I’m sure I can pull this off.

  Amelia nods and opens the door. When she does, Roberto D’Angelo steps into the room, wearing a long cape, dark glasses, and one of those hats that French painters wear—a beret, I think. He’s followed by at least five assistants who are swarming around him like drones serving the queen bee. One assistant takes his sunglasses and swiftly replaces them with magnifying ones, while another wheels in the dress (the dress!) on a shiny brass trolley thing.

  Mr. D’Angelo comes right over to me and kisses me on both cheeks. “Princess Mimi, you are a vision this morning, my dear,” he gushes. “Your skin is going to be magnificent against the coral silk we’ve chosen for your gown, and your eyes will reflect like tropical lagoons…” he goes on and on, but I’m not listening because I keep thinking he might be the nicest guy ever—he’s not behaving at all like he does on that show.

  Mr. D’Angelo waves a hand and an assistant slips the dress out of its dust cover and brings it over to me. I am not exaggerating when I tell you it is the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen in real life. It’s made out of silk in this pale shade of peachy-pink that, if I do say so myself, will go perfectly with m
y strawberry-blond ringlets. It’s long and fitted all the way down, with sleek cap sleeves and a square neck trimmed with the tiniest gold-ish tinted pearls.

  I reach out to touch the pearls and Mr. D’Angelo says with a smile, “Sourced in Southeast Asia, just for you, Princess.”

  “It’s just so gorgeous!” I say, throwing my arms around his shoulders, which makes all five of his assistants gasp. What? Can’t a girl show some appreciation for a job well done? Oh well, better reel it in, Malone.

  I take a step back and try to be royal. “I simply cannot wait to wear this lovely dress today, Mr. D’Angelo.” Then I give him a big, deep curtsy. “Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t be silly, Princess. You know this gown is for the London premiere of the new James Bond film next month,” Amelia says with a confused chuckle, apologizing as she ushers Roberto D’Angelo and his posse out the door and shuts it behind her back.

  Amelia strides over to a bag one of the glove ladies has brought in, holds the hanger in the crook of her finger, and unzips it.

  Say WHAT?

  Surely that thing couldn’t be meant for me, Princess Wilhelmina of Wincastle!

  Could it?

  Chapter 9

  When I See the World’s Most Disappointing Dress

  It’s a big fat baby dress. Sort of off-white with gigantic, puffy sleeves and completely plain except for about seven hundred buttons going up the back. Oh, and a sash that I’m 100 percent sure will be tied in a huge bow above my behind. How embarrassing. I’m going to look like my baby cousin Caitlin at her preschool graduation. What a letdown after the totally delicious dress I just saw and will never get to wear.