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 splashorPrincess 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.
