The Cinderella Theorem Page 9

  “No. Thank you, Macon. I’m fine.”

  “Excellent. I’ll see you tomorrow, Princess.” Then he added, “Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, thank you, thank you. That is all.” The mirror went blank, or rather, returned to the business of just reflecting.

  “So that’s how you hang up?” I asked Blaire.

  She nodded. “I’m glad you’re safe, Your Highness.” She hopped off the sink and left the bathroom, skipping. I turned to examine our mirrorphone more closely, but just then, Mom pushed back the shower curtain.

  “Oh, Lily.” She pulled me into a teary hug. “Were you scared? Was it awful? Oh, I always knew nothing good would come from giving that awful woman asylum. I wish there was a way to protect the stories and characters without protecting the villains that go with them.” During this speech, she was hug-walking me back to my room, where we collapsed on my bed. “Tell me all about it.”

  So I told her about the visit to Morgan and how I had been shocked that Morgan would be willing to vanish over something unmathematical, like soup. (“Oh, but Lily, you’ve got to forget logic and math once you portal…”) I told her about feeling stupid with Calo, because I didn’t know the entire history of every fairy tale. (“Well, you’ll learn…”) And I told her about being relieved to find myself back at home (“Better than in a dungeon!”) and about nearly finishing my algebra homework. (“Of course. Comfort math.”)

  “Well,” she said, as I finished my story. “One good thing has come out of this: Morgan’s happiness levels went through the roof. It was almost a complete turnaround.”

  “That makes sense. The next time her cook leaves, we’ll just send her someone to vanish.”

  Mom laughed at my sarcasm.

  “I suppose,” I went on, “Calo ought to give me some credit. I did manage to increase a happiness rating my first day on the job.”

  Mom laughed again. “But Lily,” she turned serious, “You may not know all the stories, you may not understand exactly what Smythe’s SFL is all about, and you may be terrible at staying on Morgan Le Faye’s good side, but,” she smiled, “you will be good at being the Protector. It is in your blood. You were born to do this. Don’t let today discourage you.” She smoothed my hair. “So! I’m going to make your favorite cinnamon toast for supper. And you’re going to do that last algebra problem I know your fingers have been itching to do.”

  “Algebra and cinnamon toast. And it’s not even Christmas.”

  She smiled and stood up, kissing the top of my head. On her way out, she stopped at the door, turned, and said, “I’m really glad you’re safe, Lily.”

  ~~~

  My father joined us for the cinnamon toast, which we ate in my room. I sat on the bed, with my parents on the floor leaning against my dresser. The whole story of my exciting afternoon had to be repeated for my father. He reacted differently than my mother.

  He laughed.

  Mom was not amused. “Why are you laughing, Matt? Our daughter could have been vanished away to a Sennish dungeon, and you are laughing. Why is that funny?”

  “It’s not that that’s funny, Ginnie.”

  Actually, he looked funny as he gestured with his toast, spilling cinnamon and sugar on his lap.

  “I just find it amusing that Lily actually stood up to Morgan.” At Mom’s shocked look, he continued, “Here we’ve got our best Happiologists catering to her every time her cook leaves or her hair gets tangled, and Lily, instead of staying quiet, says what everyone else is thinking. The look on Morgan’s face must have been priceless. ‘You’re willing to vanish over soup?’” He chuckled, choked on some toast, and started coughing.

  Mom whacked him on the back. “I don’t see the humor in that.”

  “Well,” my father managed, still coughing. “Unlike us, you’ve never been a Happiologist, and so you’ve never had the pleasure of working Morgan’s case. Therefore,” (more toast waving) “you’ve never wanted to say exactly what you think of her. It’s a simple equation,” he pointed to me. “Lily could delineate it for you, I’m sure.”

  Mom just shook her head at him.

  But I was struck by something other than the math in what my father had said. “You were a Happiologist? Really?”

  “Well, yes. That’s what being the Protector is. Just once you get the throne, you tend to delegate more. Don’t take as many cases–that sort of thing.” He shrugged. “That’s why we’ve got the HEA liaison office at the castle. Keeps me informed.”

  “So you’ve had Morgan’s case before? Did you ever make her mad?”

  “She was going to turn me into a horse.”

  “How did you avoid that?” I shifted my position on the bed, so I was closer to him.

  “Well, Anderson Grimm was my partner, and he—”

  “Grimm was your partner?”

  “Yeah, but he went by Andy in those days. Anyway, Morgan was upset because she hadn’t been invited to some banquet her brother was throwing–you know how Morgan and Arthur are.”

  Mom nodded and rolled her eyes.

  Dad continued, “So I was trying to cheer her up by telling some jokes. Word to the wise, Lily: avoid knock-knock jokes with Morgan. They do not lead to the desired result. I should have seen it coming, though. Her face turned increasingly red with each joke. And Grimm was looking nervous, too. So, I, being the young and inexperienced Happiologist that I was, kept right on telling the knock-knock jokes. Knock-knock,”

  “Who’s there?” I answered.

  “Horseshoe.”

  “Horseshoe who?

  “Horseshoe don’t know who it is. Open Up!”

  I groaned. “That’s a terrible knock-knock joke.”

  “Why, thank you.” My father smiled. “Morgan didn’t like it either. In fact, she looked angrier than she did before, if that was possible. Then her eyes got all narrow and dangerous, and she said,” he put on his best Morgan voice. “‘How would you like to be the horse to go with that horseshoe?’”

  “Really?” I asked. Morgan is just not a friendly gal when she’s unhappy. “Then what happened?”

  “Well, Grimm pushed me down, sat on me, and pleaded with Morgan to not turn his partner into a horse. I think he cited lack of funds to buy feed as a reason.”

  “He sat on you?”

  “Uh...yeah. He was trying to appeal to the part of her that enjoys pain and suffering. See, I was suffering by being sat upon, and Grimm was suffering because he was begging. It seemed to work. Morgan went up four levels of happiness.”

  “That is,” I paused, “simultaneously, the most and the least mathematical thing I’ve experienced in Smythe.”

  “What do you mean?” Mom asked. “And please,” she added, “explain it in such a way that I don’t regret asking you a math related question.”

  I smiled. Mom hates math. “I just mean that an outside observer, like me, sees that

  “Grimm pushing dad = x.

  “And the outsider can see that

  “Morgan being happy = z.

  “But the equation is

  “x + y = z.

  “The outsider can’t fully solve because, he or she doesn’t know y. It takes the insider’s knowledge to give you that y. You had to have Grimm there to make the equation work, otherwise Dad would be eating oats and carrots instead of cinnamon toast.”

  Dad laughed.

  “Let me check this problem with you in plain English.” Mom began gathering our plates. “It’s unmathematical to you because you can’t see the y, right?”

  “Right.” I handed her my milk cup.

  “But at the same time, it’s also very mathematical to you because Grimm can see the y and so complete the equation?”

  “Exactly.”

  Mom just shook her head, while she stood up. “Your dizzying math has made me tired. I’m going to do these dishes and go to bed.”

  Dad stood up too, cocking his ear. “Hey, Ginnie. I think I hear the mail. Will you check and see if it’s here?”

  Listening carefu
lly, I could hear a whizzing/thumping sound coming from the bathroom. Mom put the plates and cups on my dresser, and went into the hallway.

  “Yeah, you’re right, Matt. Wow. We have a lot tonight.”

  “I didn’t know the postal service delivered at night,” I said.

  Dad grinned. “The Smythian one does.”

  “To the bathroom?” I asked.

  Dad nodded.

  Why am I not surprised?

  “It’s delivered to the cabinet under the sink. It used to only come to the castle, you know, so you wouldn’t suspect, but now that you know our little secret, I’ve had it sent here again.”

  Mom came in. “It looks like mostly security briefs for you, Matt, but Lily, you got several cards and letters. Probably well-wishers from this afternoon.” Mom tossed some envelopes to me, handed my dad his mail, and gathered (for the second time) the dishes. “Sleep tight, Lily,” she called over her shoulder.

  Dad started out the door. “Don’t worry about Morgan. Pull her case file and check out what happened to Calo on his first visit to her.” He winked. “Good night, Lily.”

  “Night, Dad.”

  I stared after him, smiling slightly. I hope she turned Calo into a horse.

  As I looked at the letters, I heard a mental echo of what I had just said.

  Night, Dad.

  Since when did I start calling my father “Dad”? I mean, he is my father, so

  if he = father

  and father = dad,

  then he = dad, as well.

  But I don’t think I can call him that. I’ve only known the man for four days and a birthday dinner.

  If c = calling my father “dad,”

  and a = my physical ability to say the word “dad,”

  then I suppose m would = my mental ability to say it or to allow myself to say it.

  However m also = k + t.

  k = my level of knowledge about/comfort around my father. (I mean, I hardly know him.)

  And t = time.

  Therefore, c = a + m; m = k + t.

  How much time has to pass before I can call him “dad”?

  More than four days and a dinner.

  I sat on my bed and sighed. Never did I imagine that I would be using math to create an equation for figuring out when I could call my father “dad.” I’d pictured using math in pure mathematics research in the field of differential topology, sure, but never in “Night, Dad.”

  I pushed all math, pure or father related, out of my mind and turned my attention to the letters. There were five in all: one large manila one, two parchment colored ones, a yellow one, and a black one. I looked at the manila envelope. It was from Calo. I groaned as I opened it. A file folder slid out with a note clipped to it. Calo had written just two sentences on it.

  I told you not to say anything.

  Read this before work tomorrow.

  I really don’t like that boy.

  I tossed the file folder on the floor, and grabbed one of the parchment colored envelopes. There was a royal seal on the back: red wax with an A pressed into it. The letter was from King Arthur, apologizing for his sister and saying he knew how difficult she could be.

  The other parchment envelope was from Cinderella, wishing me the best and assuring me she was thrilled I was safe. She closed by inviting me to tea at her castle some afternoon.

  The yellow letter was sealed with an orange smiley face and written on yellow paper with orange ink. I had to squint at the brightness to read it. It was from Grimm, and it was very happy. Grimm was glad I made it home and thought it wonderful that I had such a unique experience on my first day. He and Calo are very different people.

  There was just the black envelope left. The address was written in grey ink. The letter was written in black ink on grey paper.

  Lily,

  I heard you managed to vanish today. Pity you didn’t make it to the Sennish dungeons. We keep one ready just for you. Do visit us soon, my dear–

  Levi

  I glanced down at the floor. A lily petal and a sparrow feather had fallen out of the envelope. I looked at my hands. They were greasy.

  11

  Chocolate Chip Cookies

  After washing my hands to remove the grease and brushing my teeth to remove the nagging Levi issue from my mind, I changed into my pajamas and rescued Calo’s file folder from the floor.

  The first page in the file was a schedule of events for the rest of my workweek at HEA. It seemed to be designed to keep me safe. Tomorrow, I would be learning about the “Happiness Monitors” and their relevance to HEA. Wednesday would be devoted to reviewing case histories, Thursday to examining hypothetical situations, to give me practice in making people happy, and on Friday, I would get to assist Calo in another case. However, to my mathematical eye, I saw that Friday’s plan was dependent on Tuesday plus Wednesday plus Thursday equaling success. I sighed and looked at the second sheet of paper.

  A diagram of a Happiness Monitor was drawn on the page. All the levels were marked and labeled on the hour glass design. In the bottom half of the hour glass (under “Happy” in the exact middle), the level “Could be Happier” was marked in bold, and “Unhappy” was bolded, underlined, and circled in red. Calo had written across the top of the paper: Memorize these levels for tomorrow. You will need to be able to fill in a blank diagram.

  Leave it to Calo to give me a test at work.

  The rest of the pages in the folder were a survey about Fairy Tales and other Smythian characters. The instructions at the top of the sheet were: “Please complete this survey. Your answers on this will in no way effect your employment at The Office of Happily Ever After Affairs. So, please, remain calm and do not panic as you take this test. The questions are designed to assist your superiors in creating a plan to help you learn more about the citizens of our world. Again, do not panic. And, for pity’s sake, don’t get unhappy about it either. We can’t afford to have our Happiologists vanishing on us. Enjoy!” The survey was five pages long (front and back; 5(2) = 10 pages).

  I groaned, found a pen on the floor, and started working.

  Some of the questions were easy. (How do fairy tales usually begin? How do they usually end? What color is Little Red Riding Hood’s cape? (That answer is in the question!) Name any two magical objects found in fairy tales.) Some of the questions I knew because of the time I had already spent in Smythe’s SFL. (Who is King Arthur’s sister? Who are the two main “writers” of fairy tales? What happens when Rumplestiltskin stamps his foot? What “mythological” creature speaks in riddles?) Some of the questions I just had to guess on, usually using mathelogical reasoning. For “How many step-sisters did Cinderella have?” I knew she would have to have more than one, as “sisters” is plural. Since that left me with every other possible number (except zero), I put two. It is plural, prime, and has the additional joy of being the only even prime number. For this question, in the fill-in-the-blank section, “______ ______ and the Seven Dwarves”, I put “Six Gnomes”. It makes sense. I can easily see dwarves and gnomes being friends and having adventures together; plus, six and seven make thirteen, which is also prime. Then, there were some questions that I had no hope of answering. (Name ten ancient Egyptian gods. (Uh…) Why should King Arthur never remove his scabbard? (What is a scabbard?) Compare Achilles and Roland. Explain how their tales shaped heroism. (Who are they?))

  By the time I finished the survey, I understood the need for the “don’t panic” warning at the top. It’s not a survey likely to boost your self-esteem. I’m just glad I can’t vanish (from unhappiness) yet. I devoted the last ten minutes before I fell asleep to studying the stupid monitor diagram.

  ~~~

  The next afternoon, Peridiom met me at the door with a Ziploc bag of pretzels. I thanked him, climbed the stairs, changed my clothes, grabbed my marble and Calo’s file folder of “fun,” and headed for Smythe’s SFL.

  When I arrived, Carey, the little man dressed in all yellow met me in Arrivhall. He gave me a note
from Macon.

  Princess,

  Things are a little hectic here today. (There was an upset in the kitchens when the Gingerbread Man came running through—with his entire story chasing him.) I’m sure you can find your way to HEA. Grimm returned your bike last night. Have a nice afternoon.

  Macon Mind

  I said goodbye to Carey and headed out of the castle, remembering to drop my marble into the key-deposit bowl. I enjoyed my bike ride to HEA until I got there. Calo was waiting outside, scowling as usual.[32]

  “Grimm sent me out here to make sure you made it.” He opened the door impatiently.

  “Well, I did,” I muttered shortly, pushing past him into the office.

  As we made our way through the cubicles, Calo asked, “Did you get the file I sent?”

  I scowled internally. “Yeah. Thanks for sending it. It was great.” My tone must have conveyed some of the internal scowl, because Calo resumed his external scowl and said, when we entered our cubicle, “Do you know how embarrassing it is to have your trainee disappear on her first day? And do you know how that embarrassment is further compounded when your trainee also happens to be the future Protector?”

  “What?”

  “Seriously, I can’t believe we haven’t had citizens storming our office, demanding you be removed. Do you realize how little you know about these people? How are you planning to protect them when you can’t even tell them apart?”