by Karole Cozzo
Diana looks at me, but I don’t have an answer for her.
She shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe a bad breakup she wouldn’t cop to, or something.” She grabs my shoulders and turns me to the side. “Let me get a shot of your silhouette first.”
I turn dutifully, closing my eyes and reminding myself I’ve suffered much greater humiliations. The ladies on the Panhellenic Council at Coral State College would swear on their pearls that Zeta actives never forced pledges to strip down to their skivvies to circle in permanent marker areas on their bodies in need of liposuction.
That doesn’t mean it never happened.
At least look-overs have a purpose, separate and apart from utter degradation. With so many different girls playing princess, someone has to keep an eye on character consistency and integrity. Park-goers pay a lot of money for us to get it right, to make dreams come true.
Once Diana is done inspecting my body from every angle and recording my weight after it flashes on the screen of the electric scale, she steps forward to inspect my face. She studies my complexion, commands me to smile so she can see my teeth. Then her shoulders collapse in relief and she gives me a hug. “You look great, Sweet Pea. You’re my all-star, Alyssa. Keep up the good work.” She laughs. “If this was an orchestra, you’d be my first chair Cinderella.”
I exhale a quick sigh of relief and smile back at her.
I’m proud of myself.
And I don’t have to do this again for almost two weeks. Thank you, sweet Jesus. I hightail it out of there.
I’m still in my street clothes, so instead of navigating the underground tunnel system that ensures no two Cinderellas are spotted at the same time, I walk through the park to one of the hidden changing areas, where I’ll get into costume, hair, and makeup for the morning and afternoon parade routes. I feel my black clothing absorbing the already-scorching heat of the sun as I walk, and I’m not entirely eager to change into my heavy, formal silk gown. But I’ll do it, and I’ll do it with conviction.
Just before I walk inside the changing area, I pause. I close my eyes, inhale a deep breath through my nose, and center myself. I envision the Alyssa part of me dropping into the soles of my feet, fading away. It’s time to become Cinderella.
It’s a long, arduous process, but when I’m done, I am Cinderella, and I know I’m doing her proud. Riding in the golden coach as the finale to the parade route, my vehicle pulled by real white stallions, is an honor.
I do the parade route, a long loop around the entire park, twice with only a short break in between. It is only May, but it is crazy hot. My hair is limp and damp, itching my scalp and neck beneath the hairpiece. The armpits of my dress are soaked, chafing painfully every time I stand to wave to the masses. By the afternoon route, hunger pains are assaulting my stomach and making me weak in the knees.
But the crowds break out in applause when we come into view to end the show, people leap to their feet to take better pictures, and some little girls even burst into happy tears. I wave and smile like my life depends on it; I make eye contact with as many of those little girls as possible. I love every single minute of it.
By the time I’m done, the late afternoon sun is reflecting against the mirrored panels of the Diamond Palace, bursting into a million rainbow facets. Another beautiful day in the park.
Tonight is sure to be even more beautiful than today, and I can’t wait for the sun to set.
chapter 2
I’m so not a cook. My mom’s not a cook—for the better part of my life, dinner consisted of takeout from trendy Italian or Asian fusion restaurants as she attempted to shuttle my sisters and me to our various activities while my dad worked long hours—so no one had ever taught me.
But I can YouTube with the best of them, and I’d done a trial preparation after watching a professional make the recipe online. I’d shared the meal with Rose, Camila, and Chrissi, and they’d seemed to enjoy it.
Now, the chicken breasts are pounded to an even thickness and battered to perfection, the contents of a jar of gourmet roasted tomato sauce are simmering on the stove top, and a bowl of Parmesan cheese I’d grated myself sits beside it. The crème brûlée is chilling in the fridge, just waiting to be caramelized. I’m ready.
I glance at the clock, confirming that I’m still right on schedule. It’s go-time for dinner in T-minus thirty minutes. I’ve checked Jake’s flight status, and I know it’s still on time. I can guesstimate how long it will take Jake to collect his bags, get a cab, and travel to the complex. He promised he’d come directly here.
Since this afternoon was such a scorcher, I take my second shower of the day, then dress in a gauzy white calf-length peasant skirt and a subtly cropped white tank top. I let my hair dry naturally and fasten my diamond tiara studs—an end-of-summer present from Jake—onto my earlobes. Then, for sentiment’s sake, I slide my feet into the jeweled flip-flops I’d been wearing the day we first met, at the beginning of last summer.
* * *
I WAS MORE excited than a kid going to bed on Christmas Eve the night before my new hire orientation at the Dominion. But that next day, I’d gotten stuck on campus later than expected thanks to the World’s Longest Anthropology Lecture. There was a ridiculous amount of traffic for midafternoon on a Tuesday, the trip taking me nearly three hours instead of two, and I got there way later than intended. I pushed through the gates and took to running at full speed through the park toward the main HR office, where I’d had my final interview-slash-audition.
Sprinting in flip-flops simply doesn’t work. As I made my way down a side corridor, I felt the rubber sole of my shoe catch on an uneven stone a second too late to do anything about it. The next thing I knew, I was splayed out on the walkway, problematic shoe no longer on my foot.
I sat up and twisted around, trying to get my bearings, and all of a sudden … there he was.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Backlit by the setting sun, Jake was tall and gorgeous. A serious, scholarly looking kind of gorgeous, with disheveled light brown hair, soft blue eyes, and these cute horn-rimmed glasses. He dropped to his knees at my side and immediately flipped open the lid of a large plastic case he carried.
Glancing at it, I noticed the red first aid emblem on its side.
“I’m okay,” I finally managed to answer. Then, in confusion, “Where did you come from, Mystery Medical Man?” It made him smile.
I hadn’t even heard anyone walking behind me.
“I had to double back to the medical center.” He patted the first aid kit. “Forgot I needed to bring this bad boy with me to orientation.” Then he glanced down at my knees—one was scuffed and white, the other was torn open and bleeding. He gestured toward the kit. “Is it okay if I…?”
“Sure.” I nodded. “Thanks.”
He expertly tugged on a pair of blue latex gloves, and I found myself smiling as he examined my superficial wound with as much concern as I imagined he’d examine a broken bone.
“This is nice of you. I’m Alyssa.”
“Nice to meet you, Alyssa,” he answered, quickly tearing a piece of gauze from the roll. “I’m Jake.”
“You’re heading to orientation? Me too.”
Jake glanced over at me as he continued to work. “Another new hire?”
I nodded with so much emphatic excitement my entire body shook like a wriggly retriever pup and Jake had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. “I’m so excited. Guess I was literally trying to run faster than my legs could carry me.”
“I’ll have you back on your way in no time.” He smiled.
“I gather you’re going to be on the first-response team?”
“Yep. I’ve worked as an EMT since I was seventeen.”
“You a local boy, Jake?”
I’d perused every single website I could find about the ins and outs of working at the park, so I knew a lot of the medical staff hails from the area. I guess it’s less appealing than being character actors, who come from all over the countr
y.
“Not a bit.” He shook his head. “I go to school in Philly. Drexel. Ended up down here this summer on a lark, because my aunt does PR for the park and promised me it would be fun. Said I needed to mix things up a bit, live a little, before I seriously consider med school.”
“I think I have to agree with her.” I winced in anticipation as Jake hovered over my bad knee, spray bottle of antiseptic in hand. But seconds later, I relaxed. “That didn’t hurt a bit.”
He smiled at my comment, that cute little close-lipped smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “These things don’t sting anymore. You must not have skinned your knees in a few years.” He blew a breath of cool air across the knee, aiding the spray in drying, and then placed a bandage over the wound.
The gesture gave me goose bumps. “Thanks. Again,” I told him.
He didn’t answer me. Instead, he reached over to retrieve my lost flip-flop. Jake positioned himself at my feet and slid the shoe back into place. Then, gently, he took one hand and helped me to stand. He smiled down at me. “You’re all fixed up, Cinderella,” he said quietly.
He took my breath away just like that. How did he know? I couldn’t get over the perfect irony of my first official day as an Enchanted Princess—I mean, the Palace was even in the backdrop—and I was convinced at once that Jake had shown up, right then, to be my personal Prince Charming. I mean, if the shoe fits …
We’d walked side by side to orientation, conversation coming easily, and sat next to each other, arms brushing, as seasoned employees gave a very genuine spiel about becoming “the heart of Enchanted Enterprises” and the importance of embodying the Enchanted spirit each and every day in the park. Then we’d separated, as I joined the group of character actors and he joined the medical staff. I’d felt his eyes on me throughout the session, though, and I could almost feel his warm skin still touching mine.
Jake had waited for me after, even though I noticed his group wrapping up fifteen minutes before mine did. When I approached him, he looked down toward the ground, hands clasped behind his back.
“Just wanted to check in on you. I mean, your knee. Make sure it feels okay, that you have full mobility.”
I bit back my smile. What a terrible attempt at flirting. The cut was maybe an inch across, at most.
“I’m okay,” I assured him, smiling coyly up at him. “I’m sure you provided top-notch care.”
He was quiet for a minute. “You seemed like you were having a blast tonight.” Jake flashed me a quick smile. “Lovin’ every minute of it. Like you’re really what this place is all about. Seems like it’s more than just a job to you.”
“It is.”
Jake looked into my eyes. “You don’t see dedication like that too often. It’s nice.”
Ten minutes later, he’d worked up the courage to ask for my number. We were inseparable the rest of the summer.
* * *
SO THESE STUPID shoes … the painful stubbed toe, the scar on my knee … it was all worth it. And of course I’m going to wear them tonight.
I fasten my watch around my wrist. If my timing is on point, Jake will be here in approximately fifteen minutes. Time to cook some chicken.
As I walk toward the kitchen, a rumble of thunder in the distance catches my attention and I look out the window. The sky has darkened since I went into my bedroom, and I frown at what has become of such a perfect day. Summer storms come out of nowhere in Florida. I’m glad his flight has already touched down.
I boil the water for the pasta and sauté the chicken, smooth a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth over my small kitchen table, and light the candles atop it. The chicken turns golden. The pasta is a perfect al dente. I put the entrée into the oven to keep warm and sit down to wait, smile already on my face.
Fifteen minutes passes.
Fifteen minutes is nothing, I remind myself. Fifteen minutes is a long taxi line, a patch of traffic on the freeway. Did I expect my estimation to be perfectly precise?
At thirty minutes, I call his cell phone. It rings through to voice mail. I start to worry that the chicken is going to dry out and that the pasta will clump together, even though I poured on a bit of olive oil. I mentally debate putting everything in the fridge and reheating it when he gets here.
Forty-five minutes. I start to worry about food poisoning and with a heavy sigh, go ahead and put everything in the fridge. I sit back down and stare worriedly out the window, stomach growling. The sky is nearly black; a downpour is imminent.
I dial his number again. This time I leave a voice mail.
“Hey, baby, it’s me. Just checking in and making sure you’re okay. Hopefully you’re on your way here. It looks like it’s going to storm. Call me if you can.”
An hour after I expected Jake to be on my doorstep, I open the bottle of wine I pestered one of the older princesses on staff to purchase with this evening in mind. It’s red, to go with the meal, and since I’m still alone in the apartment, I drink it through a straw.
It goes right to my head, and does nothing to calm my stomach, which is a mess of nerves, or quell the pounding of my heart against my chest. What if something happened? What if something is for-real wrong? How long will it take before I’m forced to consider that?
I stare sadly into his bowl of wilted salad. Where is he? He promised he’d come right here.…
For the next half hour, I’m paralyzed with indecision and helplessness. And I’m starving. If it hits two hours, I will eat, I tell myself.
Then, about an hour and fifty minutes after it was supposed to, my doorbell finally rings.
I literally hurl myself in the direction of the door and fling it open, smile about to split my cheeks, and find … a drowned rat.
I mean, I think it’s actually Jake, but it’s kind of hard to tell. His hair is soaking wet, still dripping onto his face, matted against his forehead. A few strands are covering his glasses, which are muddled with raindrops and half fogged over. His button-down is more wet than dry, and his khaki shorts are the color of mud.
“Oh my God, Jake! What happened to you?”
The taxi surely dropped him off right outside the door. How did he end up like this?
Without waiting for an answer, I pull him inside, dart to the bathroom to grab a towel, and press it into his hands.
Then I pause, looking up at him. He’s here. Jake is really here. In person.
“Oh wait … first…,” I say. I push onto my tiptoes so I can brush my lips against his.
Jake pulls back.
Just for a millisecond, and he corrects the behavior right away, leaning down to kiss me back, but … it’s noticeable.
When our lips actually meet, I can feel his smiling against mine, but there is something artificial about it. I did some acting in high school, and I feel like we’re onstage before an invisible audience.
But, considering his appearance, there is clearly a story, and who knows how dramatic it is, so maybe I should let him tell it first before jumping to conclusions about his behavior.
“I was getting so worried! I knew your flight was on time, but then almost two hours passed, and I couldn’t get ahold of you…”
“I’m sorry, Alyssa.” When his eyes meet mine, his are pained, and I can tell his apology is real. I think I finally see Jake again. “It was crazy, honestly. There was this cab, and this … criminal cabbie, and a hit-and-run. The cabbie took off, and it was this old guy on a bike he’d hit, and we had to make sure he was okay, and wait to report the story to the police and wait for the ambulance, and…”
“We?”
Jake freezes, his expression a mask, but then shakes it off. “Yeah, I mean, I shared a cab with someone headed in this direction … but anyway, the guy was okay, but at first it was fairly dramatic because he wasn’t making sense. I didn’t have any kind of kit with me, so I tried to run to the nearest pharmacy, and anyway…” He pauses to take a breath. “I didn’t even hear my cell in all that chaos. I’m sorry.” He quickly presses
his lips against mine again.
I relax a bit. Of course Jake was just helping someone. This is a story that makes sense.
“It’s all right,” I tell him. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Okay and here.”
I squeeze his hand and press myself against his torso, not caring in the least that it’s still very damp.
Jake doesn’t relax into the hug. “It smells great in here,” he says instead. Then, eyeing my wineglass, he grins and asks, “You boozing alone, though?”
“Well, I was about to give up on you.” I glance toward the refrigerator, where my likely ruined dinner is hanging out. “I, umm,… wanted to surprise you with dinner.”
“Thanks, Lys.”
I frown. “I hope everything will still taste decent? I made your favorite, chicken Parm. A ton of it.”
He smiles, but it looks strained. “That’s awesome.”
“Go ahead, sit down.” I wave him over to the table. “Have a drink, relax, and I’ll get everything warmed back up.”
“Let me grab some dry clothes first.”
While he changes, I pour him a glass of wine, and then he sits down and drinks it. Quickly.
I boil the water, again, to cook a new batch of noodles. “Did you hear how your finals went?”
“I passed organic chem. Organic chem is over! Forever.”
I raise my glass in his direction. “Cheers to that. Congratulations.”
Jake is on a premed track, and organic chem is a rite of passage. He wants to go to med school after graduating next year, and he hopes to specialize in child psychiatry.
He’s quiet for a minute, twisting the stem of the wineglass between his fingers. “And in other good news … I got the CHOP internship for the fall.”
I set the slatted spoon down and stare at the stove top. Because he’s such an all-star scholar, Jake is ahead of schedule in terms of credits and has been looking for an internship for the fall. Which internship has been a source of contention. He was considering something in South Carolina, which would have been awesome and allowed for weekend visits. But his first choice is a rotation at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. Meaning when summer ends, he’s gone again.