The Truth About Happily Ever After

by Karole Cozzo

  As Rose hands the hostess her computerized employee card to scan, I ask in a hopeful voice, “Did you get the Mermaid Cove? That’s the only pod I haven’t eaten in yet.”

  “No, we’re in Aladdin’s Dunes,” Camila answers.

  “I heard it’s the best food,” her sister adds.

  The hostess leads us inside, and as we pass the aquariums, Camila sort of shudders. “I’m glad we didn’t end up in there,” she comments. “It’s way too early for sushi, in my opinion.”

  “It’s not all sushi. They come up with all these supercool presentations for the kids,” I inform her. “I looked at pictures online. Like, they carve grapefruits into octopuses and make pancakes shaped like starfish. And they make these jelly doughnuts rolled in coconut that they shape like sushi rolls and slice into bite-size doughnuts!”

  She doesn’t seem to get my enthusiasm for doughnut sushi.

  Neither does her sister. “That’s what you do in your spare time?”

  I shrug. “So?”

  “So we let you hide out in your apartment way too long.”

  After we’re led to the large tented section that belongs to Aladdin, we’re encouraged to sit on the oversize damask pillows that serve as chairs around the low table that sits in the middle of them. Our server immediately pours us cups of rich Turkish coffee and presents a platter of fruits, sugared dates, and nuts.

  I glance around the room, and my heart smiles at the sight of all the little girls dressed in full princess regalia, too excited about being here to actually eat their breakfasts. I love these rare opportunities to visit the park as a guest and watch the magic unfold through the little princesses’ eyes.

  “Thanks again for the invite,” I say as I smooth a colorful silk napkin over my lap.

  “You’re allowed a party of four, so of course,” Rose answers. She glances at her sister. “I’m sure Camila’s relieved you accepted. Otherwise, I was going to make her invite her ‘friend.’”

  “Camila has a ‘friend’?”

  I’ve missed a lot.

  “God, Rose,” Camila huffs, slamming her small porcelain coffee cup down. “It’s nothing. I simply like practicing my Mandarin with him. He’s only here on a work visa. He’ll be gone at the end of the summer, as will I, and”—she shrugs—“there’s absolutely no sense in thinking about it beyond that.”

  “You really are a trip,” her sister says. “I can’t believe spending the summer here hasn’t instilled the smallest bit of romance in you.”

  “Man plus woman does not automatically equal romance,” she states firmly. “And besides…” She trails off, giving her sister a look that I think is supposed to be subtle.

  I stare down at the fruit platter. “Oh, just go ahead and say it. Not every story that goes down here ends in happily ever after.”

  “Yes, let’s talk about that,” Rose says, pouncing on the opportunity. She draws her hands together, tenting her fingers.

  “Oh, do we have to?” Chrissi asks nervously, fingering the edge of her fringed napkin.

  “Yes.” Rose nods decisively. “We need to clear the air about all of this. So we don’t have to keep dancing around the subject.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Please explain to us how what happened with Jake translated into what felt like a breakup with us.”

  I inhale a sharp breath at her bluntness.

  I’m saved as our server delivers and describes the various components of our rich Middle Eastern breakfast—hot loaves of bread we’re to tear apart and dip into bowls of salty goat cheese, bowls of something that resembles porridge and is called hunayua, and some sweet, sticky concoction called knafeh jibneh, which we’re directed to douse with some kind of hot, thick syrup.

  Her spiel takes several minutes, but the second she departs, before taking a single bite, Rose is back on me, refusing to eat until I give her something. “Well? What happened?”

  My shoulders sag and I sigh. I’m assuming nothing short of a real genie appearing in a puff of smoke from the huge golden lamp in the corner of our pod will distract Rose.

  Over the courses of our meal, I fill the girls in on my version of the story. I sort of assume they’ve heard another version. I try to tell it without infusing a lot of emotion or blame into it. I don’t bash Jake. I don’t bash their fourth roommate. And I consider this progress, being able to talk about what happened without feeling like I’m coming apart in pieces.

  Even though Chrissi’s eyes actually fill with tears when I get to the part of the story about actually seeing them together moments after losing Jake.

  “Why on earth did you keep shutting us out?” she asks, shaking her head and wiping at her eyes. “I mean, that is big. That is huge! I would’ve … I would’ve…” Eventually she throws her hands up. “Oh, I don’t know! But the point is, I would have. Done whatever I could’ve to make you feel better.”

  “I was in a bad place,” I admit. “And I was … embarrassed. Embarrassed about what happened, the way it felt like I had … failed at something. The way … they … had made a fool out of me. I couldn’t come knocking, or anything. She was still your roommate, and it was just too awkward.” I manage a weak smile. “I guess I just wanted to wallow, and maybe I guess I knew you wouldn’t let me.”

  “Well, there’s no reason not to come to our apartment,” Camila tells me. “Harper’s never there, anyway. We barely have a fourth roommate.”

  Rose jabs her in the side, but it’s too late, and I get the subtext. Harper’s practically living with Jake. The way I was last summer when we first got together. But the realization doesn’t pain me the way I expect it to. I mean, I saw it before my eyes the other day at the marathon.

  “I think I’m done hiding out, anyway,” I say, trying to get the conversation back on a better track. “And I’m sorry I was a crappy friend while I was. I should’ve explained, or something. Not just checked out entirely. But … I just couldn’t. Not then.”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” Chrissi says at once. “Pretty much any postbreakup behavior is excusable.” She rolls her eyes. “If I can excuse myself for keying Body’s custom Harley two years ago, I can certainly excuse you for screening a few phone calls.”

  I can’t help but giggle.

  “Seriously, though,” she continues. “As long as you’re on your way to feeling like ‘you’ again, all else is forgiven. Jake is a dipshit douche bag, and losing yourself would be a much greater tragedy than losing him.”

  * * *

  FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, when we exit the Palace and step into the morning sun, I suddenly feel very full.

  Beside me, Chrissi echoes my sentiments. “Ugh. I’m going to pop. Why didn’t we go to costuming before we had breakfast?”

  “Timing didn’t work out,” Camila says.

  “Besides, I wasn’t really planning on trying anything on today,” Rose adds. “I’m just going for some … initial inspiration. I want my makeup to be epic. I need to thoroughly inspect all the costumes available so I know which direction I want to go and can begin planning and trying some things out.”

  “Are we required to go to the Character Ball?” Camila asks.

  “Oh my God, what is wrong with you?” Rose asks, stopping in her tracks and putting her hands on her hips. “No, we don’t have to go; we get to go. And I might add, it’s your last weekend down here. You will go. Bring Ji.”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, you don’t skip the Character Ball.” Chrissi actually laughs at the concept. “Everyone gets really into it.”

  That’s putting it mildly. The Character Ball is a grand fete thrown by the park for its cast members every August, as a thank-you for a busy summer season. It takes place at the Diamond Palace, at midnight, after the park closes. It gives cast members a chance to do something most of us secretly dream about—dressing up as an Enchanted character different from the one we usually portray for an evening.

  So it’s no wonder that Chrissi and Rose react as if the Pope’s announced he
’s converting to Buddhism when I turn to Camila and say, “Well, I’m skipping. If you end up needing company.”

  “What?” they squeal in unison.

  I keep my eyes trained on Camila. “I’m not going.”

  “But you adore the Character Ball!” Chrissi protests. “Last year you had a virtual countdown on your computer! You were the first person in line to reserve a costume the first day they began taking requests! You are the Character Ball.”

  I look away, because she’s right about all of it. She’s right that I lived for the Character Ball, that I actually took pride in the fact that both Cinderella’s ball gown and her wedding dress were among the most popular requests, that I tried on every single princess costume last year before deciding on Rapunzel.

  Last year.

  When I’d gone with Jake, when it had been every bit as perfect as the Character Ball should be, even if he’d whined about dressing up in prince garb and opted for a boring old suit.

  If the Character Ball wasn’t going to be magical and spectacular, then I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to half-ass it. I didn’t want to tarnish it that way.

  I raise my eyes to Chrissi’s, hoping she gets it, hoping she’ll stop harassing me about my decision. “You said any postbreakup behavior was acceptable,” I whisper. “And I just don’t want to go.”

  “Can I go and not dress up?” Camila asks her sister, playing on her phone. “That would be the biggest thank-you management could give me. Not making me dress up for a day.”

  Rose shoots daggers at her sister. “I absolutely loathe you today.”

  This actually makes Camila smile. Sisters.

  It makes me smile, too, and also promptly changes the subject from my attendance, or lack thereof.

  And when I’m convinced that Rose and Chrissi are over their initial shock and aren’t going to try to coerce me, I decide it’s safe to follow them inside and keep them company as they check out the costumes.

  I feel a sharp pang of regret as we make our way down the row of princess dresses. God, they are collectively stunning! I guess I might as well look, maybe weigh in on possible selections the other girls make. I can’t resist lifting the lacy sleeve of Snow White’s formal gown. As long as I’m here …

  Rose stops in her tracks, and I nearly bump into her. “You know what? I just got a flash of brilliance,” she declares. “I don’t want to go as another princess. I want to go as a villain!” Her eyes light up, and I can practically see the ideas firing across her brain at lightning speed. “They have the best makeup, anyway, but I could take it to a whole ’nother level! I could do an awesome Evil Empress. Or better yet, be one of the male villains. But I could put this cool, bad-ass feminine twist on it.”

  Even Camila has to admit, “That actually sounds pretty cool.”

  “Done!” Rose decides with a firm nod. She claps. “I can’t freakin’ wait to get started.”

  It turns out she really can’t wait, and after impatiently twitching and hemming and hawing for another fifteen minutes as Chrissi and Camila consider costuming, she finally erupts. “Okay, I have to get out of here!” she exclaims, popping off the old armchair in the corner of the warehouse and grabbing my arm. “Walk over to makeup with me? Please? If you’re not looking for a costume, anyway?”

  I square my shoulders, turning my back on the gowns. “Sure. No reason not to. I’ll come with.”

  “Thanks,” she gushes. “I need to try out some ideas on another person before I can transfer them to my own face. And today I’m here and I have a few hours to kill.”

  I do, too, so it looks like I just signed up to be her canvas.

  * * *

  THE ENCHANTED DOMINION “makeup studio” is really more a stockroom than a studio. Since as part of our training we’re taught to do our own makeup, there are no spinning chairs or makeup artists on hand to make us beautiful under soft lighting. We pop into the studio only to replenish our stock of heavy foundations and dramatic eye shadows and black mascara when we’re running low. The space has an impressive organizational system, however, rows and rows of cabinets adorned with visual guides for creating each character’s face, and corresponding step-by-step application procedures within the drawers. They’re not something I need to reference; I’d gotten Cinderella’s makeup down pat before I even had my first shift.

  Despite the no-frills atmosphere inside the studio, Rose is perfectly at home and as happy as I’ve ever seen her, humming as she adjusts some lamps to provide adequate lighting and drags some stools over to a shabby table to set up shop. She ransacks the supply closets, selecting various color palettes and enhancements from multiple villains’ sets.

  She studies my face, then quickly gets to work applying some sort of base with her fingertips. “I want to try my female take on the Jackal idea first,” she murmurs.

  Rose doesn’t talk as she works; the only sound in the room is that of her breath, which I also feel on my cheek. Periodically she gives orders—“Close your eyes” or “Flutter your lashes.” And then several minutes later, she says, “Now look straight at me,” as she brushes something on both sides of my nose.

  I stare at her, because given the intense look of concentration upon her face, I almost forget it’s Rose I’m looking at, the resemblance to her sister is so strong.

  I giggle.

  “Don’t giggle,” she says.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as I try to keep my lips from moving. “But you look like you’re performing brain surgery.”

  She finishes the task at hand. “Not brain surgery,” she says, blowing some powder off the bristles of a brush. “But … it’s work that makes me happy. You should have work that makes you happy, right?”

  “Yes, you should,” I agree, remembering a similar conversation from Miller’s patio.

  Then Rose rolls her eyes. “And I know, to my sister, writing code is actually work that makes her happy. That she’s actually itching to get back to it. It’s something I will never understand, not in a million. But it does, and that’s good. Even if we’d make for such an interesting study of nature versus nurture.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know Camila and I were adopted from Vietnam when we were toddlers?”

  I nod.

  Rose throws her head back and laughs. “Considering what I know of traditional Asian parenting, I doubt our birth parents would have been cool with my choice of schooling after high school or my sidetracking Camila from her more appropriate path.” She shrugs. “But our parents are American, and they’re supercool. They support what I do. And actually encouraged Camila to come along for the ride. Bribed her with the fancy high-tech new computer she wanted. There was something so backward about that!”

  “Anyway,” she continues, as she leans over, considers several dark shadow palettes, and eventually selects one, “I wonder if Camila would have a lot in common with our birth parents, because I’m definitely a product of our upbringing. Our parents aren’t particularly academic; they’re artsy types. And so am I.”

  Rose makes a face. “When Camila and I came over from Vietnam we had to wear these awful thick glasses because our eyes were crossed. We had this thin hair that was practically falling out from poor nutrition. Endured what seemed like a decade of braces when we got older. My point is, I don’t feel at all superficial for wanting to feel like a princess for a little while. For long term wanting to do a job that allows people to feel beautiful, to find the features that make them beautiful.” She shrugs. “Even if it isn’t world changing in the grand scheme of things.”

  I like it, and I smile. “Good for you,” I say, twisting my back, which is starting to get stiff. “I respect that.”

  “And to be honest, sometimes I think it actually can be life changing.”

  I raise my eyebrows, waiting for her explanation.

  “After all, makeup’s not just this mask to hide behind. You make someone look more beautiful, more together, more confident, when they’re in nee
d of a boost, it can almost transform a person from the outside in.” She smiles sagely. “They can internalize the illusion. They can believe it. Even if it’s not real. And that can be powerful.”

  I sit there quietly, something nudging at my conscience as I consider Rose’s words. I can’t figure out why I’m bothered, because I get what she’s saying, and she’s right, in this sort of “see it, then be it” kind of way. But …

  Before I can fully process my thoughts, Rose is whirling me around to reveal the finished product in the full-length mirror behind me.

  “Holy crap!” I almost fall off the stool. “How did you create that in fifteen minutes?” I ask, leaning forward as I touch my face, because I’m not really sure it’s mine anymore. It’s practically three-dimensional.

  I’m the Jackal. I have his hollow cheekbones, his dark, haunting eyes, his signature scar marring his right cheek. But with the proper shading and lipstick and contouring, Rose has made the look sexy and alluring, like some kind of predator of man.

  “Wow…,” I murmur. I can’t stop staring.

  Behind me, she shrugs, but I can tell she’s struggling to stay humble. “Just a little bit of this, little bit of that,” she says.

  She pulls out her phone and instructs me to turn around so she can take a picture to help her remember what she did. Then she glances at her phone again. “Do you think you have time for me to try one more thing? After looking at the costumes, I really want to see what I can come up with for the Sea Snake.”

  “I have time,” I assure her, hopping off the stool. “You’re so quick.”

  “Here.” Rose hands me a clean cloth and some kind of heavy-duty makeup remover. “You’re going to need both of these. And probably the regular face wash, too.” She giggles. “Maybe, like, three times. Again … many thanks.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I mumble, walking away, feeling distracted.

  Something is still nagging at me, and until I can figure out what it is … I’m going to be preoccupied.

  I lock the bathroom door behind me, turning on the light and staring at my reflection.