Secret Life of a Children’s Party Princess

I thought a summer job at the Princess Academy would be a carefree escape. But I learned some hard lessons about real life while playing make-believe.

Illustrations by Camily Tsai

When I arrived at the Princess Academy, I was led into a dimly lit tearoom. I was 17, which meant that I had no idea what to expect from my first real job interview. The tearoom was elegant and cozy, adorned with soft cushions and teardrop crystals. Tangy-sweet hot cider in a gold-edged teacup sat on the table in front of my chair.

The owner of the shop — the queen of the castle — breezed into the room. Queen Amanda. She was wearing what I can only describe as princess daywear — a lace-up embroidered vest over a loose white blouse and a pink-striped skirt. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it had never occurred to me that there was such a thing as casual princess clothes.

Amanda sat down, poured herself a teacup of cider, and beamed at me. Mostly the interview consisted of Amanda gushing about my pretty hair and how it was fate that I’d applied when I did. They needed me.

And in a way, I needed them. I was at a point in life where I was beginning to realize the dubious nature of happily ever afters. My parents were in the midst of a gruesome divorce, which affected me so deeply I didn’t even tell my best friends about it. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to acknowledge its realness. I felt strongly that the drama and heartache were not what I’d signed up for when I was born — and not what my parents had signed up for when they’d gotten married 25 years earlier.

I needed this princess job as an escape from my reality of slamming doors. And more importantly, I needed it as a reminder that happy endings were still alive and well somewhere.