At Your Service by Jen Malone

one? I know we sampled all morning, but they are sooo addicting.”
    I smile. If only all guests could be as easy to please as Emily. She’s sweeter than the coconut flake cupcake I pass her. “Let’s walk up to 30 Rock and grab a bench there. The Today show should still be taping, so we can peek inside the windows. And hey, I know you’re leaving tonight and we didn’t make plans past this morning, but I’m meeting up with some friends from school later at the park and you should definitely tag along. I think you’d love them.”
    We link arms and walk up Forty-Ninth Street. Second to Christmastime in this part of the city, with the enormous tree in Rockefeller Plaza and the ice skaters and the store windows all decorated, spring is my favorite season in Manhattan. It’s like we all hibernated as much as possible through the slushy, gross part of winter, and now the city is coming back to life.
    I inhale the smells from the Sabrett’s hot dog cart and duck past a tourist holding up a giant IT’S MY BIRTHDAY, PUT ME ON CAMERA sign outside the windows of the studio. Emily and I snag a bench right across the plaza and dig into the cupcake tin one more time.
    â€œSeriously, you’re going to have to roll me onto the plane home. I’ll be in a major sugar coma.” Emily laughs. “Ooh, this is banana and chocolate. Yum! Want the carrot cake one?”
    But I don’t answer. I’m too busy watching the electronic news ticker that flashes all the top headlines across the top of the NBC studios.
    â€œChloe? Earth to Chloe?”
    But I just point.
    Breaking news: King Robert of Somerstein and his family, including Queen Caroline and their three royal children, Prince Alex, 14, Princess Sophie, 12, and Princess Ingrid, 9, to visit NYC next weekend.
    Emily squeals. “Ooh. Prince Alex. I’ve seen his pictures online. He’s sooooo cute! I wish my visit was longer. I could hire you to help me stalk him.”
    â€œI guess,” I answer, preoccupied. I’m not too up-to-date on European royalty and whether they’re cute or not, but I do have one burning question.
    â€œI wonder where they’re staying?”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    I think I’ve figured that one out.
    Clue #1: About six black, unmarked SUVs parked in front of the St. Michèle that are not being whisked off by a valet.
    Clue #2: An abundance of men in all-black suits roaming the lobby and doing things like picking up the potted ficus tree and peering intently under it.
    Clue #3: Mr. Whilpers blotting his sweaty forehead with a napkin-looking thingy he claims his mom made for him. Oh wait, that’s not a clue. That happens every day. The man sweats more than a bike messenger headed from the Village to 103rd Street.
    Actual Clue #3: My dad blotting his forehead with a crisp linen handkerchief. Now that is a first for any day the LaFous aren’t in town.
    The royals are staying HERE.
    Oh. Holy. Yikes.
    And they’re bringing the kids. Where there are kids, there is Chloe.
    Double. Holy. Yikes.
    Does that mean I’m in charge of them?
    â€œHey, did you hear the news?” Filipe asks. He’s a bellhop, which means he helps people take their luggage to their room. I glance around the lobby for Mr. Whilpers, because it would NOT be good for him to catch me hanging out with Filipe.
    Three years ago we got busted big-time for using two luggage carts as scooters in timed races around the fourth floor. We probably wouldn’t have gotten in that much trouble if I hadn’t also tied a bedsheet to the back of mine so I could pull Paisley along behind me. In my defense, I was ten. I’m not so sure what Filipe’s defense was.
    I lean against the grand piano. “Not officially, but I can guess. Royalty at the Saint Michèle? How cool is that?”
    â€œVery cool. Though Whilpers is having a conniption. He’s already ordered