The Royal Treatment

by Lindsey Leavitt

  “Stay positive.” Mom furrowed her brow. “The competition is mental. It’s not you versus them, it’s you versus yourself. And we want you presenting the very best Celeste.”

  I kissed Gracie’s head, trying to stop the laugh tickling my throat. The “best Celeste” would have duct tape over her mouth.

  Gracie conked me on the head with her shoe.

  “Don’t hit. That’s bad.”

  “Bad, bad, bad.”

  She swung again, and I ducked. “I guess I’ll go take her to the indoor pool. Do you want to meet up at all before the pageant?”

  “I don’t think so,” Mom said. “We have the breakfast, the interview, the final walk-through…Gracie would be a mess.”

  “Sure. Well, good luck! I have my cell—” My purse buzzed. I stopped talking and stared at it for a second, trying to make sense of why it would be moving. My cell phone was in my pocket; the only reason I carried a purse now was so my manual and Rouge could be close by.…

  My manual.

  “If it’s your dad, tell him we got here fine.”

  I had to leave. Now. “Right! I need to go to the bathroom, actually, so I’ll go talk in there. Uh…here, take Gracie.” I hoisted Gracie onto Mom’s hip. Gracie grabbed for her nose.

  “The breakfast starts in a half hour,” Celeste said.

  “Aren’t you going to answer your phone?” Mom asked.

  “Yes! Right now. I’ll be back. It’s not like I can hold her on my lap in there.”

  “Gross,” Celeste said under her breath.

  I scurried into the large bathroom. Who would have thought working for the most glamorous agency in the world would involve so many bathroom scenes? I locked myself in a stall, pulled the manual out with shaking hands, and gaped at the new icon on the main page. A text message.

  Meredith: Are you ready for a new assignment?

  I don’t know why a text shocked me so much. The manual had more secretive data than the CIA, but at the same time I wondered why this feature was only being brought to my attention now, why Meredith never texted me in the past. It could have majorly saved my butt.

  Desi: We have text on this thing?

  Meredith: Did you seriously ask me that? OBVIOUSLY.

  Desi: Can it wait until tomorrow?

  Meredith: You’re joking.

  Desi: I’m at a beauty pageant right now, babysitting my little sister. One day won’t matter, right? You can use the Law of Duplicity somehow. It’s not like the French Revolution Part Two is going to start because I couldn’t work yet.

  Meredith: It’s funny. I don’t see you, and I almost miss you a teensy bit. Then, two messages and I’m ready to…Look, you act like our time services are a convenience. No, we follow a precise magical schedule. I need you now.

  Desi: Then why aren’t you here? Where’s the bubble?

  Meredith: You don’t need the bubble.

  Desi: How else am I going to get to the job? Did you double book your clients?

  My manual buzzed again. A picture of Meredith showed up with the words incoming call. I pushed answer.

  “This thing has a phone? Why didn’t you tell me I could use it as a phone?”

  “We just discussed freezing time, and a PHONE impresses you?”

  “Why did you text me, then? Why didn’t you call? Or do that cool video thing that Gen—”

  “Sweet royals! Shut up. I’m trying to save time. Here’s the deal: this job just came up. It’s a watcher position and absolutely perfect for you.”

  “Perfect? Did I get a request? Is it Elsa?”

  “No it’s more…local than that. That’s why you don’t need the bubble.”

  “It’s in Idaho? There is a princess in Idaho? Meredith, I’m totally confused. Will you tell me what’s going on? Oh, man, if there is a costume or a comic-book convention going on—”

  “Relax! You don’t even need to wear Rouge this time. Desi, you are going to stay you. I had a girl pop up on our magic radar, so we’re having her do her trial sub for a contestant in your beauty pageant. The contestant, McKenzie, is a pageant veteran but hates it—she only competes because her mom makes her. We’ve used McKenzie to test subs before because she loves ditching. All you have to do is watch this potential sub and make sure she doesn’t do any major damage. You’re already there anyway, so it saves us the cost of travel. Works out quite well.”

  “But isn’t there an issue with me being me?”

  “Unless the girl sets the hotel on fire with a curling iron, you don’t have to do anything but observe. You’re our security net. It doesn’t matter who you are while you’re watching.”

  Making money while sitting through this pageant. Brilliant. I’d probably make more today as a watcher than the winner would make in scholarship money, and I wouldn’t have to do that cheesy cry/wave victory walk at the end.

  “So when I’m done, I tell you if I think she has princess sub potential?”

  “That decision is ultimately up to the council, but you will fill out some paperwork similar to a PPR, should she advance. If she’s a disaster, nothing you say matters. Which reminds me, please remember, you are WATCHING, not changing things or impacting!”

  The bathroom door opened, and some girls walked in, laughing. I lowered my voice to just above a whisper. “Got it. Send me the info.”

  “That’s what I like to hear—brief and complacent. I’ll be back in touch after the pageant. You can text me with emergencies, but don’t abuse this feature. We’re talking blood, fire, natural disaster—If it would make the nightly news, then call. Best of luck, darling. Ta-ta.”

  I was about to open the door when the two girls stopped laughing and started gabbing. Walking out then would have been awkward, so I held up my feet and waited.

  “Come on, Willow, you know we’re going to be finalists. Big counties always are.”

  “Yeah, I hope so.” The sound of water rushing out of the sink, and the hand dryer, blocked some of what the second girl (Willow, I guessed) said. “So many girls are on their game.”

  “And a million more aren’t. Did you see that girl from Fredonia County? Celestial or Angel or something like that. Her tan was so fake and she looked so farm fed.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “Does this lipstick look all right?”

  “With that shirt, yes, but I hope you aren’t using it during evening gown.”

  “Duh. But I have four different shades for evening gown, so you’ll have to help me decide.”

  The girls laughed again and left the bathroom. I lowered my feet onto the tile. Huh. Usually, I was the girl being made fun of, and Celeste was the one doing it. Still, those girls weren’t only insulting Celeste—they were making fun of my hometown. I hoped one of them wasn’t the girl I had to watch.

  As if in response to my thoughts, my manual buzzed with agency information on Real McKenzie (I didn’t need to know anything personal about the sub. She wasn’t even supposed to tell me her name). With her round cheeks, chunky glasses, and short hair streaked platinum blond and bright red, McKenzie wasn’t your average pageant contestant.

  Sub-trial Client: MCKENZIE LIGHTHOUSE, Miss Sampson County

  Age: 14

  Basic information provided by agency profiler:

  McKenzie was forced to enter pageant by mom. She contacted Façade cover agency for look-alike. (Like all non-royal clients, she’s unaware of magical connection—our trial clients foolishly think prosthetics create their mirror image.) Given the fact that McKenzie has been in innumerable pageants and managed to place last in every one but Miss Sampson County (which had only four contestants, three of whom were disqualified after an unfortunate nail polish fight), we’re sure finalist is not in her future. Keep an eye on our sub throughout the day. Important that she stays in character, yet doesn’t do anything too extreme. McKenzie should not have to face consequences/pageant responsibilities when she returns.

  I pushed the stall door open and hurried back, already sear
ching for McKenzie. Perkiness coated the entire lobby. Girls clustered in groups, their sashes over their carefully planned “casual” outfits. I spotted McKenzie across the room, talking to Miss Idaho Falls. McKenzie’s outfit took casual to the extreme—navy cords with a hippie-style embroidered shirt. Miss Idaho Falls’ eyes kept flitting over McKenzie’s clothing, her expression a mixture of shock and disgust. I was trying to make eye contact when my mom squeezed my shoulder. “Here, take Gracie. We need to head over to the banquet hall for the breakfast.”

  The crowd was thinning out. All I could think about was McKenzie, who would be at the breakfast. I had to watch McKenzie. So…

  “Can I come?” I asked.

  Celeste made a face. Mom looked surprised. “To the breakfast? I thought you were taking Gracie to the pool.”

  “I am. Well, I will. But…all I had were Cheerios. And I’ve always wanted to see this behind-the-scenes stuff. And Celeste’s mom isn’t going, so I could take her spot, and…Please, Mom? PLEASE?”

  I held my breath. I noticed Celeste was doing the same thing.

  Mom patted my arm. “As long as Gracie is happy, I don’t think it’ll be a problem. I’m excited you’re taking an interest in the program. If I had thought of it beforehand, I would have asked you to make team celeste shirts.”

  Somewhere in Sproutville, my T-shirt design software just cried out in terror.

  We followed the stream of girls to the ballroom doors. Mom played patty-cake with Gracie as we waited. Celeste pulled me to the side.

  “First you tried out for the play, now you’re moving in on my pageant. Stop trying to be me.”

  I kept my face blank. “But Celeste. I already made a team celeste shirt. I was going to wear it with our old BFF necklaces.”

  “See? You’re such a follower. I knew you were trying to be my friend again.”

  “Oh my gosh. It’s called sarcasm. Try it sometime.”

  Celeste flipped her hair and pushed ahead of me.

  The hotel brochure featured mostly corporate events, so it was probably the first time this room was decorated with gold and pink balloons and a poise, power, and positivity! banner over the flower-adorned podium. Celeste bounced from table to table, searching for our spot. “I hope we sit by someone decent,” she whispered to my mom. “You can learn so much from the veterans.”

  We found our table at the same time as the girl sitting next to us—McKenzie. Well, Fake McKenzie. Celeste’s face fell as she took in her ensemble.

  “Hi! I’m McKenzie!” McKenzie gushed. “This is my mom! Isn’t this pageant exciting! Where are you girls from?”

  Her excitement bordered on manic. Not the tone a bored, anti-pageant girl would take. I lowered my voice, hoping she would adopt the same calm. “I’m Desi. This is Gracie and my mom. And she”—I pointed to Celeste—“is the future queen of the universe. Together, we are Team Celeste.”

  “I’m from Fredonia County,” Celeste said.

  “Oh! Cool! Are you all sisters?!”

  Celeste and I snorted in unison. McKenzie’s mom patted her daughter’s hand. “I’ve never seen you so excited about a pageant. You aren’t lulling me into a false sense of security, are you?” She let out a frightened laugh. “Not going to dump pig’s blood on the winner, right?”

  “What? No! This is great. Oh my gosh, look at the size of this Danish! Have you ever seen a bigger Danish?!”

  McKenzie prattled on about how lovely the place settings were, how pretty all the contestants looked. Her mom stared at her like she was an alien. Celeste let out an obvious yawn. I bit into a buttered bagel, thinking as I chewed.

  Even though the room looked like Barbie had vomited sparkles, I was excited about this job. Millie’s gig had been so cut-and-dried, but this job mattered. I knew how wonderful subbing was, and I wanted to make sure Fake McKenzie got the chance to experience Façade for herself. She didn’t know it yet, but today had the potential to be one of the biggest days of her life, and it was a treat for me to be a part of that. I needed to be a big part—a kick-this-girl-in-the-pants part—because Fake McKenzie required some serious help.

  To begin with, Fake McKenzie’s enthusiasm had to be dialed down a notch. So when the lights flashed once to indicate the beginning of the program, I dropped my napkin and dipped down at the same time as McKenzie to pick it up.

  “I’m watching you,” I said.

  “Um, okay.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I’m watching you.”

  “Wait, you mean like you’re—”

  “Shhh. I’m going to give you a tip.” I lowered my voice. “Don’t talk so much. McKenzie doesn’t want to be here.”

  “I know, but I think it’s so exciting—”

  “It’s not about what you think, it’s what McKenzie thinks.”

  “Okay. Fine. But did you see that gorgeous tiara ice sculpture?”

  “Stop.” I pointed at my eyes, then at hers. “Watching. You.”

  McKenzie bit her lip and nodded. Celeste cleared her throat, and McKenzie and I sat back up.

  “Welcome back,” said Celeste. “How did your under-the-table-bond session go?”

  “Look, girls.” Mom passed Gracie over to me and nodded at the front podium. “That’s Angie Swiftly. We were in the pageant circuit together. Oh, she’s had some work done. Doesn’t she look fantastic?”

  Angie Swiftly looked like someone had thrown her a surprise party and she’d never let go of the whoa! facial expression. The presentation was sixty minutes of positive thinking and encouragement and reach-for-the-stars barf-ness. Everyone smiled. The whole time. Without stopping. While they talked, while they listened. When they were chewing. Even their frowns were smiley. McKenzie smiled the biggest.

  I watched her every move, hoping my first trial sub would swallow her giddiness and pass this pageant test.

  Chapter

  12

  Watching is a passive word, but I was anything but passive during the next couple of hours. I alternated between seeing that Gracie was fed/changed/napped and keeping my eye on Fake McKenzie. I couldn’t sit through her actual interview—no one but the judges saw that—but I did catch her practicing in the halls.

  Which Real McKenzie wouldn’t have done.

  And I saw her during the dance rehearsal, beaming and boogying with delight.

  Again, not Real McKenzie-like.

  But the kicker happened less than an hour before the pageant began. Everyone was rushing around backstage, finishing up last-minute preparations. Mom kept hair-spraying Celeste’s spiral curls until, I swear, a tiara-sized hole opened in the ozone layer.

  Gracie rubbed her tongue and made a face. “Bad.”

  “Smart baby.”

  “Honey, you really don’t have to be back here,” Mom said. “Again, I appreciate your support, but this is kind of do-or-die right now.”

  “I have to agree, Mrs. Bascomb. I don’t know if she’s even supposed to be back here.”

  “Fine. I’ll go save some seats. I want to sit right in the front so I can hold up my CELESTE IS MY FAVORITE PERSON IN THE WORLD sign.”

  “Desi, don’t.” Mom stuck a bobby pin in Celeste’s hair. I looked around one more time for McKenzie. I hadn’t seen her since the dance rehearsal. It was prep time, so unless she’d gouged herself with a mascara wand, I figured things were good.

  Things were not good. I spotted McKenzie bouncing as Mrs. Lighthouse smoothed down her hair. Her hair that was now devoid of highlights! Fake McKenzie had dyed her hair. McKenzie’s hair. And the moment Real McKenzie came back, so would her highlights, meaning she’d have to explain the sudden streak switch.

  “I’m going to get Gracie a snack before things start.”

  “Wait, I’m out of bobby pins.” Mom cursed under her breath. “Who took all my bobby pins?”

  “Uh, I’ll see if McKenzie has some.” I dodged my way through the crowd until I reached McKenzie. She squealed when she saw me. “Aren’t you so excited?! I’m so excited! I l
ove performing. And you should see my evening wear!”

  “Seriously, what are you up to, McKenzie?” Mrs. Lighthouse wrinkled her forehead. “Please don’t embarrass me. I won’t make you do any more pageants, I promise.”

  McKenzie pecked her mother’s cheek. “Don’t be silly! I am going to make you so proud!”

  “Mrs. Lighthouse, mind if I steal McKenzie away for a second? I, uh, want to give her some smiling pointers.”

  “You two aren’t plotting something, are you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then, fine.” Mrs. Lighthouse waved her hand. “I’m going out front to watch. I’m getting too old for this. No tricks!”

  I waited until Mrs. Lighthouse was gone, then I grabbed McKenzie’s arm. “What did you do to your hair?”

  “Bad,” Gracie said. Smart baby.

  “Your sister is so cute! You should put her in a junior pageant, but maybe after she gets more hair.”

  “She has plenty of hair. And hers isn’t highlighted! McKenzie, what were you thinking?”

  “Oh, McKenzie isn’t my real name. It’s—”

  “DON’T TELL ME! Don’t you get it?” I let out an exasperated breath. One that, yikes, kind of sounded like Meredith. “We aren’t talking right now. I’m not helping you.”

  “You’re right. You aren’t.” McKenzie patted her perfectly poofed hair. “I’m doing fine on my own, just trying to help this poor girl. Did you see how awful those highlights were?”

  “That’s not your job.”

  “I know. I’m supposed to pretend to be her. But it doesn’t hurt to try to help her, right? Haven’t you ever done that?”

  I dug my fingernails into my palm. Busted. But when I tried to help my subs, I did what they wanted, even if they didn’t say it. McKenzie’s personality was apparent from the profile, and I was positive she wasn’t going to be happy about the dye job. There’s impacting, and then there’s sabotage.

  “Fine. Just…tune down your excite-o-meter. Get through this trial job before you try to save the world.”