“Yeah, wel , I’ve had almost eighteen years to practice being the princess,” I say, “and I stil get it wrong half the time.”

“Maybe bigger things take more practice.”

“Maybe.” But I don’t have much more practice time left.

This is my final royal duty, and I need to get it right. I just don’t know how.

There are digital cameras, sketchpads, and graphite pencils sitting on the art tables when Doe, Shannen, and I walk in after lunch.

Shannen and I exchange a glance and say, at the same time, “Self-portraits.”

My shoulders slump. This is my least favorite kind of art project. When we did self-portraits at the beginning of the year, Mrs. Ferraro said we would do them again near the end so we could see how “our perceptions of ourselves” had changed. I’ve been dreading today ever since.

Mrs. Ferraro is real y big on what she cal s self-discovery projects—autobiographical col ages, representational free-form sculpture, self-portraits. I think it’s her personal mission to be both art teacher and therapist.

“Precisely right, Lily and Shannen,” Mrs. Ferraro says as we head to our table. “You may begin whenever you’re ready. Take a digital photograph of yourself, print it out, and then proceed to sketch your self-portrait.” I sigh as I sling my backpack under our table.

“I’m sure the girls can explain the project to you, Dosinia,” Mrs. Ferraro says, before scurrying after the rest of the students trickling in.

“What’s to explain?” Doe asks, sliding her briefcase next to her chair. “Click, print, draw.”

Doe and I have been on a kind of if-you-don’t-bother-me-I-won’t-torment-you truce since last night. Saves a lot of tears and bloodshed, but doesn’t do much to get the mutual-respect thing going between us. I’m going to have to step up and be the bigger mermaid.

Eventual y.

“Pretty much,” Shannen says. She grabs the camera.

“Who wants to go first?”

“Just get it over with,” I say, not in a higher-road mood.

We go out into the hal , where we’l have the cream-colored cinderblock wal s as a background. I’m first. Until last night, I probably would have made some kind of overjoyed face for the camera—having found and caught the perfect boy and figured out my future and al , I should be thril ed—but now the best I can manage is annoyed resignation.

Shannen makes a very supermodel pose, with her lips pursed, cheeks sucked in, and eyes smiling as wide as possible. I don’t tel her she looks a little crazed. That might influence her sketch.

When Dosinia steps into position against the wal , she asks, “So that’s a camera?”

“What?” I twist the camera back toward me, as if needing to inspect it. “Yeah. This is a camera.”

“You’ve never seen one before?” Shannen asks.

Doe shakes her head.

Sometimes it’s so easy to forget why she’s here—

besides to make my life miserable. She knows nothing about the human world and it’s my job, my royal duty, to teach her. This is the perfect opportunity to further her human education. And maybe make inroads on the attitude thing, too.

“Wel , then,” I say, smiling, “let’s do this photo shoot right.” For the next several minutes, Shannen and I coach Doe in a photo shoot of fashion-magazine proportions. At first she just stands there, a blank expression on her face, staring intently at the camera. We give her poses to try, trade out accessories, restyle her hair, until we’ve exhausted al possible combinations. We even grab a fashion magazine from the classroom to show her what fashion photography real y looks like. When Mrs. Ferraro pokes her head out into the hal and says it’s time to get sketching, we must have taken over a hundred pictures.

After returning to the classroom, selecting our photos for the project, and printing them out on the computer, we settle in at our table with the paper and pencils.

“That was fun,” Doe says quietly, her lower lip chewed between her teeth and her attention on the photo of herself.

“I’m glad,” I say just as quietly. “I had fun, too.” Wow. We each said something to the other without breaking out into either a fight or insults. It must be a record. I should declare a Thalassinian holiday to mark the occasion.

Too bad I won’t be in a position to declare holidays much longer, because that would have been quite a celebration.

For several minutes, the three of us sketch quietly at our table. I begin by faintly marking the outline of my chin and jaw, my neck, and my hair, giving myself a boundary to work within. Then I move on to smal er features—nose, lips, eyes, freckles. Eyes are always the hardest. I try to keep my pencil extra light so if—when—I have to erase and start over, it won’t leave big gouges in the paper.

Mrs. Ferraro comes around to our table for an evaluation.

“Lovely work, as always, Shannen,” she says, “though I do wish you would relax your lines. Art is not always crisp.

Some of nature’s most bounteous beauty is found in rough edges and shadowed contours.”

Shannen nods, but I can tel she’s mental y rol ing her eyes. Mrs. Ferraro has been trying al year to get Shan to loosen up artistical y. Clearly it hasn’t worked.

I slide my sketch to the left so Mrs. Ferraro can see it better. It’s not done or beautiful or perfect or good, even, but I’m not hating it as much as I thought I would. Although I’m definitely better behind the camera than with the pencil, it’s not an embarrassing effort.