The Love List Lineup (Love List)

Chapter 1

MAGGIE

Iclose my eyes and imagine a quaint town at the foot of a mountain landscape. The Alps? Aspen? Anywhere with snow.

When that doesn’t do the trick, I picture the Atlantic Ocean, the Arctic, one of those hydrotherapy cold plunge vats...anything to cool me off as I pose for literally the hundredth photo today.

“Your cheeks are so rosy,” says a woman wearing Minnie Mouse ears.

I don’t want to think about what my makeup looks like, but I hope I don’t resemble a wax figure. That would surely scare the kids away. “Apparently, not even a princess is exempt from the effects of the Florida humidity,” I mutter while plastering on a bright smile.

The camera’s shutter snaps and then I flit over to the next family waiting for their photo opportunity. I subtly try to coax people into the shade, but the cameraman keeps drawing me into the sun.

“You’re in the shadow,” he barks when I edge closer to an awning over a kiosk.

I step to the left.

“That made it worse,” he says, forcing me and the kids waiting in line to remain under the blazing sun.

“What’s it like being married to Prince Charming?” a little girl asks when it’s her turn.

My smile may very well melt off my face, but my job as Cinderella is to keep it firmly in place. “It’s more wonderful than I ever imagined,” I say in my best imitation of the soft and lilting voice of the legendary princess.

Thankfully, that answer seems to suffice.

Either that or the girl’s mother doesn’t want her daughter to get any wild ideas about anyone riding in on a steed and sweeping her off her feet.

My real answer is, It ain’t gonna happen, kid.

Sad but true. The truth is, I’m not married to Prince Charming, or anyone for that matter.

I don’t expect a handsome gentleman to swoop in and come to my rescue—not that I need saving, except from the heat.

Then again, I have a best friend in shining armor. Declan would march in here with a solution that involves shade and air conditioning. Then he’d tell the stupid camera guy to bug off—he’s originally from Ireland and that’s some strong slang over there.

I sigh, suddenly missing him something fierce.

Declan was always there for me and not just to tell Bruce Paxton, who made it his mission to tease me in high school, to get lost. We also had our favorite ice cream cart that we’d follow around Boston—it was the original food truck, if you ask me.

The library on Mass Ave was our own personal museum of history.

So many nooks and crannies filled with memories.

Now, I’m on the other end of the country and he’s—I’ve lost track.

Probably wherever the Boston Bruisers go for off-season training.

A father who sweats through his T-shirt and two kids—a girl and a boy—are in line next.

They both pepper me with questions about what it’s like behind the scenes, working at one of the most famous theme parks on earth.

I’m not at liberty to say. After all, I’m in character.

Instead, I improvise and turn the conversation around, asking them how they’re enjoying their visit.

The questions from the children don’t stop, though.

On second thought, I could use Prince Charming to bail me out right now. Hopefully, the kids will get bored and move on when something shinier catches their eye. Then again, the sweat on my face has formed a fine patina.

“The line for the rollercoaster is only twenty minutes. Let’s go,” the boy says, glancing at a notification on his phone.

The family hurries away.

“Yeah, let’s go,” says the cameraman tasked with taking photos.

Elmo Eliot is new, barely out of high school, and hates his job at the happiest place on earth.

And yes, I can confirm that’s his real name because the scheduling app matches employees’ legal names and there’s no way to change it, which I discovered for myself because I prefer using my mother’s maiden name.

So, with a name like Elmo, you’d think he’d be cuddly, cute, and likable. I don’t use the word hate lightly, but every chance Elmo gets, he sneaks off and ditches his shift. He breaks cast member rules all the time as well. And he’s straight-up mean.

Is he hateable? Very.

Ordinarily, I’d lock elbows with a coworker, but when he made me stand in the sun one too many times and got me in trouble for supposedly eating a Mickey’s head ice cream sandwich when he was the one who took it from the vendor, I reported him.

Also, he didn’t give me a bite and it was sweltering out.

Can you blame me?

Somehow, he’s managed to stick around. He also figured out I was the one to snitch about the rule-breaking. This earned me an enemy instead of an ally. But he threw me under the trolley, accusing me of taking it when management questioned him.

See? The guy is a jerky jerk face.

In my Cinderella-slippered feet, I glide toward a shady spot.

It’s near a fountain, so I have to be careful because of my costume, but I’m afraid that if I don’t find some relief from this heat, the next unsuspecting little kid that wants to meet Cinderella will find Cinder-egg-a fried on the sidewalk.

I shouldn’t complain. At least I don’t have to roast in a full costume with an oversized bobbly character head. Being naturally fair-skinned, I wear heaps of sunblock, which causes a breakout every two weeks.

A couple of boys toss coins in the fountain next to me. I hesitate, worried about them splashing my gown, but it’s somewhat cooler the closer I get to the water—much like the park’s guest heat-relief stations, but without the cooling mist.

I pose for another photo with a little girl dressed in an identical, though miniature version of my blue dress. She also wears a blonde wig, which I know from personal experience is awful in the heat. Have to give the little girl credit for dedication.

She tells me her name is Tiffany and she’d recently finished cancer treatment. “I’ve always dreamed of meeting Cinderella.”

Tiffany’s mom has tears in her eyes, probably at helping to make her daughter’s wish come true. We chat for a moment, and then the little girl waves goodbye before skipping toward a lollipop stand.

Drawing my hands together, I ball them up under my chin. It’s moments like that which make me love my job. My character can bring so much joy to a person’s life.

I sigh, watching the pair disappear into the crowd, when a hand lands on my waist. “Hello there, Mozzarella.” A sweaty kid with greasy hair and a chocolate ring around his mouth wheezes in my direction.

Mozzarella? My stomach flip-flops because this can’t end well.

He waves a giant chocolate baton, a new treat from a hit movie, in my face. “Have a bite.”

“No, thank you.”

“Come on, you have to.” Then he whispers, “My friends dared me.” He grips my wrist.

“Hands off,” I warn.

“I’ll give you a kiss and wake you from your slumber,” the kid says, puckering his lips.

“You’ve got the wrong princess,” I mutter, having already lost my patience for his antics.

I eye Elmo. We’re a team, and if a park visitor acts inappropriately, he’s supposed to step in and notify security. Useless, he stands there on his phone looking bored or amused, I can’t tell.

The kid’s grubby hands reach for me again. “Do you know what Prince Charming called Snow White when the shoe didn’t fit?”

I blink a few times, confused.

“Big Foot.” His eyes are unfocused, like he’s been working his way through all the sugar the park has to offer.

“Definitely not me.”

He grabs my wrist. “Come on, my friends dared me to get a kiss with you.”

Ew. My nostrils flare as anger sweeps through me. How old is he? Ten? Twelve? Eighteen? I can’t tell. He’s obviously hopped up on sugar. Where are his parents? His chaperone?

When he moves in for a hug, breaking character, I say, “Back off.”

He reaches his sticky hands for me, teetering closer. As I step to move away, my slipper catches on the inside hem of my dress and my heel hits the edge of the fountain. There’s nowhere for me to go.

No, no, no. Please no.

My arms windmill as I lose my balance. Although it’s the last thing I want to do, I reach for the kid’s shirt to keep from falling. But it’s too late. I topple backward into the fountain.

Splash.

The warm water spills over the side. It smells like disinfectant as it quickly saturates my gown. Already unstable, the kid lands partway on top of me as though we’d been embracing.

Elmo’s camera flash goes off. It’s then that I realize he’s captured the unfortunate moment on film. He’s laughing too. The twit.

My surroundings blur and shift into slow motion as I struggle in the shallow water. It’s like I’m reverse doggy paddling, trying to find my way to shore. All I can hear is a low hum in my ears.

My gown tangles around my legs and my wig dips over my eyes. It’s bad enough that the cameraman-kid took a photo, but I’m sure bystanders are filming with their cell phones too.

That low hum, which likely had been silent shock, all at once turns into titters, which become full-blown laughter. It hits me at top volume like a stereo dial turned to ten. The world speeds up again.

“No,” I moan as reality races toward me.

I shove the kid off me and try to get to my feet. It’s like moving through a vat of day-old oatmeal—not that I’ve ever done that. My soggy dress weighs me down. I tear off the wig so I can see, but that is a mistake because sure enough, people are taking pictures with their cell phones.

The weird kid who caused this problem leers at the cameras as though he can already see the taglines on the videos that will go viral in mere moments.

Mozzarella and Prince Chocolate-ring make a splash or Princess Takes a Spill.

No, he isn’t Prince Charming. He’s weird, greasy, and smells like cat pee. Or maybe that’s the fountain. Wait, could it be me? I have to get away from him and the situation.

Struggling to my feet, I stagger toward the edge of the fountain, cheeks burning. It’s not from the sun but the shame that I can’t even take the heat and keep this job. I’m sure to get fired.

“That’s one way to cool off,” Elmo says.

“With no thanks to you,” I retort, shoving through the crowd when they point like I’m a spectacle rather than a sodden character they’d stood in line to meet mere minutes before.

Whoever said fame is fickle was right. Not that I want anything to do with that. Nope. Playing Cinderella, I thought I was anonymous. But if anyone recognizes me, I’ll have to move again.

Walking through the crowd of park visitors takes on a blurry, surreal quality and my stomach churns. It’ll take a long time to shake the burn of humiliation. Then again, that’s nothing new.

I enter a cast members-only door and then hurry to the underground tunnels leading to the dressing room.

At the end of the hall, I gasp when I see a woman wearing a drenched dress, standing there wet and mortified.

Oh, wait, that’s me.

If there’s a hole around here somewhere, I’d like to crawl into it.

My long blonde hair mostly escaped the hairnet I have to wear with the wig, but bunches of it poke through in wet clumps. My eye makeup is a horrifying mess fit for a Halloween horror movie as it drips down my cheeks. The dress is completely ruined—that will likely come out of my paycheck.

A delayed and slow-motion panic seizes me. I turn in a small circle, trying to figure out an escape plan.

There is only one solution. Quit.

Sounds extreme, because any reasonable employer would understand that I didn’t throw myself into the fountain, break character, and ruin the costume.

There’s likely security camera footage to support my case.

However, that’s the problem. There’s camera footage—by the number of spectators gathered around with phones lifted—a lot of it.

It’s one thing to wear full makeup, a wig, and a gown while having hundreds of snapshots taken of me and the guests.

It’s quite another for countless people to record my “wardrobe malfunction” and everything that followed, then post about it online, possibly with my name attached to the commentary.

Don’t worry, I’m not on the run from the law or hiding out from gangsters. All the same, I don’t want my identity plastered all over the World Wide Web.

I’ve had enough fame and notoriety for one lifetime, thank you very much.

With a long exhale that reinforces that I’m making the right decision, I hastily change into regular clothes, but accidentally put my shirt on backward before telling myself to take a deep breath.

Chatter echoes from down the long hallway—my fellow castmates return for a shift rotation. Likely, they’ll have heard what happened.

I sweep everything from my locker into the same backpack I’ve had since high school and hurry through an exit on the other end of the room, avoiding the princesses and characters who’re capable of keeping it together and not making fools of themselves.

They’ll never know I was here. They’ll never know I left. I’ve learned to blend in, and for once, I’m relieved.

Down the hall, I knock lightly on the cast manager’s door, but there’s no answer. While I ride an employee golf cart to the bus stop, I type a letter of resignation to my boss in an email. There is simply no way I can go back after that fiasco.

The suffocating humidity plasters loose strands of hair to my neck. Hopefully, I look just enough like your average, run-of-the-mill wreck that no one recognizes me as Bigfoot Mozzarella from the fountain.