shrieks Marcella. “And why are you so wet?” The PIW’s lounging on her lavish bed, surrounded by piles of Fairytale Tattlers. “I took a bath,” I lie. The lake incident is none of her business. “Do you realize the ball is less than two weeks away, and I have absolutely nothing to wear?” Hello! Has she done a reality check lately? Her closet is so stuffed with gowns and shoes she could turn it into a resale shop. Except for the fact it’s always such a pigsty, no matter how often I straighten it. “Chop! Chop! Let’s get to The Trove before it closes.” She throws off her fur coverlet and pushes me out the door. I’ll have to pick up the dozens of tabloids strewn all over the floor later. *** The drive to The Trove, whatever the hell that is, is awful. The road is full of bumps, and I have to put up with Marcella’s non-stop babble about her ball gown. Her Royal Skankiness is so wrapped up with herself she doesn’t notice me gazing out the coach window. Lalaland seems different from how I remember it.
