Chapter 1
There once was a shoemaker who worked very hard, but was still very poor. . . .
—“The Elves and the Shoemaker”
I’ve never seen a princess before. And it looks like I won’t be seeing one today either.
Let me back up: I come from a long line of shoe people. My grandfather called us cobblers, but that sounds more like a dessert than a person. My family’s run the shoe repair at the Coral Reef Grand, a posh hotel on South Beach, since before I was born—first my grandparents, then my parents, now my mother and me. So I’ve met the famous and infamous, the rich and the . . . poor (okay, that would be me), wearers of Bruno Magli, Manolo Blahnik, and Converse (again, me). I know the beautiful people. Or, at least, I know their feet.
But, so far, I haven’t met a single princess.
“She should be here any minute.” Ryan, one of the college guys who works as a lifeguard, interrupts me as I rip the sole off a pair of Johnston Murphys a customer needs by eight. “My friends texted me that her motorcade’s down Collins Avenue.”
“And this affects me how?” I do want to go see her, but I have to stay at my post. Can’t afford to miss a customer.
“It affects you, Johnny, because anyone, any normal seventeen-year-old guy, would rip themselves away from the shoe counter if a hot-looking princess was in the lobby.”
“Some of us have to work. I have customers—”
“Yeah, shoes are important.”
“Money is.”
Ryan doesn’t usually talk to me. Like most guys my age who work here, he’s only earning money to gas the convertible he got for graduation or maybe to buy clothes. I notice he has on a new Hollister polo that’s tight in the arms, probably to show off the muscles he’s always flexing.
Me, I work here to support my family, and the only workout I get involves running penny loafers through a Landis McKay stitcher. Even though I’ll be a senior in the fall, I won’t be off to college next year. No money. I’ll probably be repairing shoes until the day I croak.
“Don’t you want to see her?” Ryan looks at me like I’ve admitted I’m wearing Pull-Ups or have gills. He flexes again.
Of course, I want to see her. I’ve been drooling over pictures of her on the covers of the Miami Herald, Miami New Times, Sun Sentinel, and USA Today newspapers that face out in the hotel coffee bar across the way. One tabloid claims she’s mated with an alien, but most of them show a hard partier who frequently disgraces her family and her country. She’s in Miami for some important, top-secret business, which probably involves consumption of many drinks with “tini” at the end of them.
Oh yeah, and I know she’s beautiful.
And I, who have the most boring life of anyone, should at least get to see her, so that when I die of an aneurysm, trying to rip out a tough stitch, at least I’ll be able to say I once saw a princess.
“Mr. Farnesworth doesn’t want us out there, gawking at her. Besides, what if someone shows up and I’m not here?”
“Some kind of shoe emergency?” Ryan laughs.
“Yeah. It’s always an emergency when you can’t wear your shoes. I can’t do it.” I try to say it with finality, the way Mom used to say, We can’t afford it, when I was little, and I knew there’d be no more arguing.
“What’s up?” My friend Meg sidles up toward me.
I’m glad to see Meg, who works the coffee counter next to our repair shop, but I know she’s going to be angry because her brothers, who worked last night, didn’t clean up at all. Like me, Meg works for her parents, helping out even during the school year. She’s my best friend, and usually the only friend I have time for. In middle school, I had a sort of crush on her. I even took her to our eighth grade dance. She wanted to make some other guy jealous, but for a moment on the dance floor, I thought there could be something there. But that was a long time ago.
Anyway, Meg will understand why I can’t go with Ryan.
Ryan flexes and looks Meg up and down, like he does every girl. “I was trying to talk Johnny here into taking five minutes off from the fast-paced world of shoe repair to go see Princess Vicky’s motorcade. This guy never wants to have any fun.”
Meg makes a face and lays her hand on my arm. “And why, exactly, would John want to see Eurotrash?”
“Hello?” Ryan says. “Because he’s a seventeen-year-old guy with normal male urges, and she’s got—” He holds both hands out from his chest.
“Really pretty eyes,” I complete his sentence.
Meg rolls her own brown eyes. “And the IQ of a single-celled creature.”
“Anyway, he’s not going.” Ryan just has to keep putting the boot in. “The boy is in love with shoes.”
“‘The shoe that fits one person pinches another.’” This I say with a wink to Meg. She and I collect quotes about shoes. I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to use that one. “Carl Jung said that.”
“Carl who?” Ryan asks.
“A Swiss psychiatrist,” I say. “Ever hear of Jungian—”
“Whatever,” Ryan says. “So you’re really not coming?”
Meg glances at me. “I can tell your customers you’ll be right back, if you want to go. But I’m sure—”
“Can you? Thanks.” I know Meg expected me to turn her down, but I really do want to go. Not that I’ll ever get closer to Victoriana than watching her check in from behind a potted palm. But still, it’s a brush with adventure, and adventure is something I get none of.
“Gotta go!” Ryan holds up his phone. “Pete at the door just texted that her limo’s in view.”
“You’ve got connections,” Meg says to Ryan.
“It’s the name of the game.” Ryan moves closer to her. “Maybe you and I could make a connection sometime—like, say, Friday night?”
I’m sure Meg will say yes. Most girls turn into puddles of drool around him. But she doesn’t even smile. “No, thanks. You’re not my type.”
Ryan looks as surprised as I feel. “What’s your type? Other girls?”
Meg shrugs, glances at me, then shrugs again. “Why don’t you go ogle your princess now?”
“You’re sure you don’t mind covering for me?” I know she does.
“Just go before I change my mind.”
Ryan glances back at Meg as we walk away. “She’s hot for you.”
“Yeah, right.”
“She is. You should go for it. She may not be that good-looking, but you can’t be too picky.”
“She turned you down flat.” I glance back at Meg, who’s still watching both of us. She flips her chin-length brown hair back from her eyes, and for a second, I remember that night in eighth grade. But when she sees me looking at her, she holds up her hands like, What are you looking at? “Nope, she and I are just friends.”
Still, I wave to her before I make the turn toward the lobby.
Chapter 2
The lobby is bustling like the Calle Ocho street carnival, but without the salsa music. A housekeeper leads six swans on their morning waddle around the hotel fountain. Another removes a cover from a parrot cage. The Miami sun streams through the thirty-foot-high windows at the front of the room, hitting the marble floors so they look like pure gold. It also makes it hard to see because the manager, Mr. Farnesworth, glances right in my direction. I think he’s going to come over, but then, his head snaps back, and I see why. Every bellhop in the place is entering, each carrying two Louis Vuitton suitcases. I skitter sideways, as quick as a crab, and stand as I’d planned, behind a potted palm, imagining what must be in those suitcases. The shoes. Prada, Stuart Weitzman, Dolce & Gabbana, Jimmy Choo, and Alexander McQueen!