At Your Service by Jen Malone Page A

new uniforms for all us bellhops and booked the entire staff haircuts in the beauty salon. The salon reserved for guests . He’s on a tear.”
    Oooh. I love when Marisa at the salon on our lower leveldoes my hair. She uses this cucumber-mint styling gel that smells amazing.
    Just then I spot Dr. Evil himself rounding a corner and quick as lightning scoot far away from Filipe. If I’m gonna survive the next week of preparation, I’d better keep out of the Whilps’s way. I’d say “lie low,” but no way am I going to miss being around while we get everything here set. The hotel is normally set for regular VIPs’ luxury, so I can’t WAIT to see how we ramp it all up for royalty.
    Besides, keeping busy with a week of school and hotel prep can only help to keep my mind off what might be in store for a junior concierge expecting a junior prince and princesses.

Chapter Ten
    T he next Friday afternoon our entire hotel staff lines up to welcome the King and Queen of Somerstein and their royal offspring. Every single inch of the hotel has been polished and spruced and buffed. Pillows have been plumped, pianos have been tuned, carpets have been replaced, a new chandelier was ordered for the penthouse suite, and our weekly fresh-flower order was quadrupled. We are ready.
    I’m back and forth between crazy excited and crazy nervous for my “make it or break it” moment. Crazy excited because attending to world-famous visitors can make the career of a concierge faster than our high-speed Wi-Fi signal connects our guests to the Web. Crazy nervous becausemessing up in any way in front of said world-famous visitors can end the career of a concierge quicker than our head doorman Johnny can hail a cab.
    Mr. Whilpers has positioned himself right at the inside edge of the revolving doors, so when the king enters the lobby, he’ll land directly in Whimpy’s potbelly. Yeah, some welcome. If that happened to me, I’d probably run screaming back to Somerstein.
    When the Whilps sees me looking at him, he puts two fingers up to his eyes and then turns them around toward me to mime, I’m watching you .
    Ooh, scary.
    As long as Mr. Buttercup stands by his decision that I can be trusted to take the royal kids around (well, trusted in the sense that their two bodyguards will be a foot away to make sure everyone is safe and secure at all times), I don’t see where Mr. Whimps will be watching anything other than me getting in good with the royals.
    But I lose my smirk every time I think of the epic task ahead of me. Seriously. Dad says I took to my new job like a duck to water (whatever that means), but this is like getting called up to the major leagues. Last night I got a whole “Now that you’re thirteen and a teenager, I really think you’re readyfor this new level of responsibility, and I’m putting my trust in you and counting on you not to let me or the Saint Michèle down” talking-to. Gee, Dad. No pressure or anything. Even though I actually want the responsibility, so I can prove myself.
    After that, Pay and I stayed up way too late (on a school night, no less, which made today in classes not so much fun) putting the final touches on a dossier of information on each of the royal kids. We figured they were probably too slick to use my patented slam book method of gathering intel, but, luckily, they’re celebrities, so getting the dirt on them wasn’t all that difficult.
    Here’s what we found:
    Princess Sophie, age twelve:
    Sophie is like a paper-doll cutout. In every picture we downloaded, it looks like she has one standard “I’ve been groomed for life as a princess” pose, and someone has just slapped on different hairstyles and outfits. Tea with the Queen of England? Hair clipped on either side and a sweet rose-colored sundress. Skiing with her father? Jaunty ponytail, stylish goggles propped on her forehead, and perfectly fitted