The Cinderella Theorem (10 page)

“Really?” I asked. Morgan is just not a friendly gal
when she’s unhappy. “Then what happened?”

“Well, Grimm pushed me down, sat on me, and pleaded
with Morgan to not turn his partner into a horse. I think he cited lack of funds
to buy feed as a reason.”

“He sat on you?”

“Uh...yeah. He was trying to appeal to the part of her
that enjoys pain and suffering. See, I was suffering by being sat upon, and
Grimm was suffering because he was begging. It seemed to work. Morgan went up
four levels of happiness.”

“That is,” I paused, “simultaneously, the most
and
the least mathematical thing I’ve experienced in Smythe.”

“What do you mean?” Mom asked. “And please,” she
added, “explain it in such a way that I don’t regret asking you a math related
question.”

I smiled. Mom hates math. “I just mean that an outside
observer, like me, sees that

“Grimm pushing dad = x.

“And the outsider can see that

“Morgan being happy = z.

“But the equation is

“x +
y
= z.

“The outsider can’t fully solve because, he or she
doesn’t know
y
. It takes the insider’s knowledge to give you that
y
.
You had to have Grimm there to make the equation work, otherwise Dad would be
eating oats and carrots instead of cinnamon toast.”

Dad laughed.

“Let me check this problem with you in plain English.”
Mom began gathering our plates. “It’s unmathematical to you because you can’t
see the
y
, right?”

“Right.” I handed her my milk cup.

“But at the same time, it’s also very mathematical to
you because Grimm
can
see the
y
and so complete the equation?”

“Exactly.”

Mom just shook her head, while she stood up. “Your
dizzying math has made me tired. I’m going to do these dishes and go to bed.”

Dad stood up too, cocking his ear. “Hey, Ginnie. I
think I hear the mail. Will you check and see if it’s here?”

Listening carefully, I could hear a whizzing/thumping
sound coming from the bathroom. Mom put the plates and cups on my dresser, and
went into the hallway.

“Yeah, you’re right, Matt. Wow. We have a lot
tonight.”

“I didn’t know the postal service delivered at night,”
I said.

Dad grinned. “The Smythian one does.”

“To the bathroom?” I asked.

Dad nodded.

Why am I not surprised?

“It’s delivered to the cabinet under the sink. It used
to only come to the castle, you know, so you wouldn’t suspect, but now that you
know our little secret, I’ve had it sent here again.”

Mom came in. “It looks like mostly security briefs for
you, Matt, but Lily, you got several cards and letters. Probably well-wishers
from this afternoon.” Mom tossed some envelopes to me, handed my dad his mail,
and gathered (for the second time) the dishes. “Sleep tight, Lily,” she called
over her shoulder.

Dad started out the door. “Don’t worry about Morgan.
Pull her case file and check out what happened to Calo on
his
first
visit to her.” He winked. “Good night, Lily.”

“Night, Dad.”

I stared after him, smiling slightly. I hope she
turned Calo into a horse.

As I looked at the letters, I heard a mental echo of
what I had just said.

Night, Dad.

Since when did I start calling my father “Dad”? I
mean, he is my father, so

if he = father

and father = dad,

then he = dad, as well.

But I don’t think I can call him that. I’ve only known
the man for four days and a birthday dinner.

If c = calling my father “dad,”

and a = my physical ability to say the word “dad,”

then I suppose m would = my mental ability to say it
or to allow myself to say it.

However m also = k + t.

k = my level of knowledge about/comfort around my
father. (I mean, I hardly know him.)

And t = time.

Therefore, c = a + m; m = k + t.

How much time has to pass before I can call him “dad”?

More than four days and a dinner.

I sat on my bed and sighed. Never did I imagine that I
would be using math to create an equation for figuring out when I could call my
father “dad.” I’d pictured using math in pure mathematics research in the field
of differential topology, sure, but never in “Night, Dad.”

I pushed all math, pure or father related, out of my
mind and turned my attention to the letters. There were five in all: one large
manila one, two parchment colored ones, a yellow one, and a black one. I looked
at the manila envelope. It was from Calo. I groaned as I opened it. A file
folder slid out with a note clipped to it. Calo had written just two sentences
on it.

I told you not to say anything. 

Read this before work tomorrow.

I
really don’t like that boy.

I
tossed the file folder on the floor, and grabbed one of the parchment colored
envelopes. There was a royal seal on the back: red wax with an A pressed into
it. The letter was from King Arthur, apologizing for his sister and saying he
knew how difficult she could be.

The
other parchment envelope was from Cinderella, wishing me the best and assuring
me she was thrilled I was safe. She closed by inviting me to tea at her castle
some afternoon.

The
yellow letter was sealed with an orange smiley face and written on yellow paper
with orange ink. I had to squint at the brightness to read it. It was from
Grimm, and it was very happy. Grimm was glad I made it home and thought it
wonderful that I had such a unique experience on my first day. He and Calo are
very different people.

There
was just the black envelope left. The address was written in grey ink. The
letter was written in black ink on grey paper.

Lily,

I
heard you managed to vanish today. Pity you didn’t make it to the Sennish
dungeons. We keep one ready just for you. Do visit us soon, my dear–

Levi

I
glanced down at the floor. A lily petal and a sparrow feather had fallen out of
the envelope. I looked at my hands. They were greasy.

After
washing my hands to remove the grease and brushing my teeth to remove the
nagging Levi issue from my mind, I changed into my pajamas and rescued Calo’s
file folder from the floor.

The
first page in the file was a schedule of events for the rest of my workweek at
HEA. It seemed to be designed to keep me safe. Tomorrow, I would be learning
about the “Happiness Monitors” and their relevance to HEA. Wednesday would be
devoted to reviewing case histories, Thursday to examining hypothetical
situations, to give me practice in making people happy, and on Friday, I would
get to assist Calo in another case. However, to my mathematical eye, I saw that
Friday’s plan was dependent on Tuesday plus Wednesday plus Thursday equaling
success. I sighed and looked at the second sheet of paper.

A
diagram of a Happiness Monitor was drawn on the page. All the levels were
marked and labeled on the hour glass design. In the bottom half of the hour
glass (under “Happy” in the exact middle), the level “Could be Happier” was
marked in bold, and “Unhappy” was bolded, underlined, and circled in red. Calo
had written across the top of the paper:
Memorize
these levels for tomorrow. You will need to be able to fill in a blank diagram.

Leave
it to Calo to give me a test at work.

The
rest of the pages in the folder were a survey about Fairy Tales and other
Smythian characters. The instructions at the top of the sheet were: “Please
complete this survey. Your answers on this will in no way effect your
employment at The Office of Happily Ever After Affairs. So, please, remain calm
and do not panic as you take this test. The questions are designed to assist
your superiors in creating a plan to help you learn more about the citizens of
our world. Again, do not panic. And, for pity’s sake, don’t get unhappy about
it either. We can’t afford to have our Happiologists vanishing on us. Enjoy!” The
survey was five pages long (front and back; 5(2) = 10 pages).

I
groaned, found a pen on the floor, and started working.

Some
of the questions were easy. (How do fairy tales usually begin? How do they usually
end? What color is Little Red Riding Hood’s cape? (
That
answer is in the
question!) Name any two magical objects found in fairy tales.) Some of the
questions I knew because of the time I had already spent in Smythe’s SFL. (Who
is King Arthur’s sister? Who are the two main “writers” of fairy tales? What
happens when Rumplestiltskin stamps his foot? What “mythological” creature
speaks in riddles?) Some of the questions I just had to guess on, usually using
mathelogical reasoning. For “How many step-sisters did Cinderella have?” I knew
she would have to have more than one, as “sisters” is plural. Since that left
me with every other possible number (except zero), I put two. It is plural,
prime, and has the additional joy of being the only even prime number. For this
question, in the fill-in-the-blank section, “______ ______ and the Seven Dwarves”,
I put “Six Gnomes”. It makes sense. I can easily see dwarves and gnomes being
friends and having adventures together; plus, six and seven make thirteen,
which is also prime. Then, there were some questions that I had no hope of
answering. (Name ten ancient Egyptian gods. (Uh…) Why should King Arthur never
remove his scabbard? (What is a scabbard?) Compare Achilles and Roland. Explain
how their tales shaped heroism. (Who are they?))

By
the time I finished the survey, I understood the need for the “don’t panic”
warning at the top. It’s not a survey likely to boost your self-esteem. I’m
just glad I can’t vanish (from unhappiness) yet. I devoted the last ten minutes
before I fell asleep to studying the stupid monitor diagram.

~~~

The
next afternoon, Peridiom met me at the door with a Ziploc bag of pretzels. I
thanked him, climbed the stairs, changed my clothes, grabbed my marble and
Calo’s file folder of “fun,” and headed for Smythe’s SFL.

When
I arrived, Carey, the little man dressed in all yellow met me in Arrivhall. He
gave me a note from Macon.

Princess,

Things
are a little hectic here today. (There was an upset in the kitchens when the
Gingerbread Man came running through—with his entire story chasing him.) I’m
sure you can find your way to HEA. Grimm returned your bike last night. Have a
nice afternoon.

Macon
Mind

I
said goodbye to Carey and headed out of the castle, remembering to drop my
marble into the key-deposit bowl. I enjoyed my bike ride to HEA until I got
there. Calo was waiting outside, scowling as usual.
[32]

“Grimm
sent me out here to make sure you made it.” He opened the door impatiently.

“Well,
I did,” I muttered shortly, pushing past him into the office.

As
we made our way through the cubicles, Calo asked, “Did you get the file I
sent?”

I
scowled internally. “Yeah. Thanks for sending it. It was great.” My tone must
have conveyed some of the internal scowl, because Calo resumed his
external
scowl and said, when we entered our cubicle, “Do you know how embarrassing it
is to have your trainee disappear on her first day? And do you know how that
embarrassment is further compounded when your trainee also happens to be the
future Protector?”

“What?”

“Seriously,
I can’t believe we haven’t had citizens storming our office, demanding you be
removed. Do you realize how little you know about these people? How are you
planning to protect them when you can’t even tell them apart?”

“Hey.
Aren’t you supposed to be teaching me all that? Or are you too busy running
around trying to have the best record?”

Calo
scowled again.

I
continued, “Yes, I am constantly aware, mostly thanks to you, that I know
virtually nothing about this world, and I know that variable significantly
subtracts from my success here. But,
I
am more than willing to learn.
The question is, Mr. Perfect Happiologist, are
you
willing to teach me?
Because I don’t see any other way out of this situation.”

“Did
you complete the survey?” Calo sat down at his desk.

“What?”
I asked, again–this time because I felt Calo’s question was an inappropriate
response to my rant.

“The
survey I sent. Did you finish it?” Calo calmly pointed to the file folder in my
hand, in case I still had no idea what he was talking about.

“Oh,”
I said, looking at the folder. “Yeah. Here.” I gave the whole stupid file to
him.

“Thank
you,” he said, handing me a blank diagram of the Happiness Monitor. “Fill this
out.” He turned back to his desk and began reading my survey answers.

I
went to my desk and started filling in the diagram’s blanks. Luckily, I have a
good memory, especially if I can apply a mnemonic device. I finished the “quiz”
in two minutes. Calo looked up when I handed it to him.

“You’re
finished already?” He looked skeptical.

I nodded,
trying to look annoyingly sweet.

“Alright.
Let’s see.” He grinned smugly as he grabbed a red pen from his desk and began
grading. The pen was poised to point out any error, but he got to the end of
the diagram without marking anything. He looked slightly puzzled; then he began
checking the diagram again. I smiled with (at the very least) equal smugness.
Score one for Lily.

After
a few more minutes of checking and rechecking, Calo finally put the pen down.
“So you’ve memorized the different levels of the Monitor.”

“Just
like you asked me to.” I smiled.

“It’s
just too bad you didn’t do what I asked yesterday at Morgan’s.”

I
opened my mouth to argue.

“Anyway,”
Calo went on, ignoring me. “Today, we’re going over the Happiness Monitor–its
history, uses, what the levels mean, etc.” He put an hourglass monitor on my
desk. It was full of white liquid. “Now, you were given a monitor of your own
at your presentation, correct?”

“Yes,
but mine has plaid liquid in it.”

“Right,”
Calo grabbed a three-ring binder and started flipping through it. “That’s
because your fairy godmother is Glenni. Her trademark is plaid. All of the
godchildren in her care have plaid-filled monitors. I, like most of us, don’t
have a fairy godmother catering to my every whim, so I have white liquid in my
monitor.” He pointed to the one on my desk.

“Wait
a minute,” I interrupted. “Your monitor? You have one?”

“Yes,
Lily,” Calo said, exasperated. “
Everyone
has one. Section 4G of the
Mandamus of Happiness.” He put the binder away, got down on his hands and
knees, and crawled under his desk. “And I quote: ‘Every resident of E. G.
Smythe’s Salty Fire Land,” (His voice was muffled and he had completely
disappeared under the desk.) “whether of fictional or natural creation, shall
employ and retain a Happiness Monitor in the Office of Happily Ever After
Affairs.’ End quote.” He came out from under the desk pushing a poster board in
front of him.

“‘Fictional
or natural creation?’”

Calo
pulled an easel out from behind his desk and placed the poster board on it. It
was a giant diagram of a Happiness Monitor. “Right. ‘Fictional creation’ refers
to the citizens from stories. Naturally created citizens are the ones like your
family and Grimm—people who have been invited to live here.”

“Oh.”
I mentally sorted fictional and natural citizens into a table. “Which are you?”

Calo
looked at me for a moment. I thought he was about to say something typically
rude and grumpy, but he just said, “Fictional. Fairy Tale, actually.”

“Really?
Which one?” I was a little interested, not because I’d know which story he
would be talking about, but because it seemed like something you should know
about one of your fictionally created friends. Corrie is a naturally created
friend, and I know her parents and about her background. Her dad is Irish and
her mom is Italian. (Although, it
is
possible that Calo doesn’t satisfy
the equation of “friend.”)

“
Puss-in-Boots
.”

“Is
that the one about the magic beans?”

“Uh...no.
That’s
Jack and the Beanstalk
.
Puss-in-Boots
is the talking cat.
Kills the ogre for his master, you know.”

I
didn’t know, but that wasn’t the pressing point. “You’re not a cat.”

“Well,
you
are
observant.” Typical Calo. “No, I’m not a cat. But I am a second
son.”

“And?”
Calo’s hints are about as easy to figure out as trying to plot a line with only
one set of coordinates.

He
sighed. “How you can know so little is beyond me. In my story, my father dies.
He left the mill–you do know what a mill is, right?”

“Yes.”
I’m not a moron.

“Good.”
He sighed in mock relief. “Anyway, Dad left the mill to my older brother, and
he left the cat, which happened to be talking (though we didn’t know it at the
time) to my younger brother. And I, being the second son, was left my father’s
coat and hat. My older brother and I didn’t get along so well, so I decided to
make my way in the world.”

“That
doesn’t seem very fair.”

“Well,
technically, the fairy tale is just about the youngest son. In the actual text,
my older brother and I are only in the first paragraph. But since we were
fictionally created–here we are.” He pointed to the hourglass on my desk.
“Citizens who must have their Happiness monitored.”

I
looked at Calo’s monitor. All the measuring liquid was in the bottom half of
the hourglass.
Under
the Happy line. “You’re unhappy.”

“No,
I’m not Unhappy. You vanish when you’re Unhappy, and yet I am still here. I’m
Less Than Less Than Happy. There’s a difference.”

“Oh.”

Calo
pointed to the Less Than Less Than Happy line on the poster. “This is where I
am. Less Than Less Than Happy is an acceptable state of happiness. People are
not always going to be Happy from day to day. Fluctuations are expected.
However,” he pointed to the line below Less Than Less Than Happy, “at the Could
be Happier Level, we, here at HEA, begin to be concerned.”

“Why?”
Could be Happier was still four lines away from Unhappy. “It seems a little far
from the vanishing point.”

“It
is a safety measure. We send out Happiologists at Could be Happier, because a
person who Could be Happier is easier to cheer than a person who’s Been a Lot
Happier,” he pointed to that level on the diagram, “Or a person who’s Not so
Happy.” The Not so Happy level was the one right above Unhappy.

That
makes sense, oddly enough. Well, as much sense as measuring Happiness can. “So
when a person’s monitor shows that they Could be Happier, a Happiologist goes
out and tries to cheer them back up to the Less Than Less Than Happy line?”

“Negative.”
Calo pointed to the Happy line in the exact middle of the hourglass. “When a
person is being cheered, their level must go up to Happy before the case is
closed. A Happiologist stays with that case until the person can maintain
happiness for three days. I mean, people
are
supposed to be living
Happily Ever After here, not Could be Happier Ever After. And they’re less likely
to have a relapse if we get them to Happy. Did you get all that?”