II. Down the Rabbit Hole

Disney references: 15


"I don't think he's coming, Val."

Twelve fifty-four and twenty-seven seconds. Twenty-eight seconds. Twenty-nine.

I shift in my dress, a personal creation of cranberry Parisian lace and chiffon that I lifted off of a Chanel pattern and that I am still trying to pass off as the authentic thing. Drew, sitting across from me in sweatpants and glasses, scrutinizes me as I pour my wine glass full again.

"Maybe it's not a good idea that your only options right now are get picked up or get trashed."

"I'm not getting trashed," I say, like that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, even though the room has started to spin. I gulp down the purple Merlot and wipe my mouth on my wrist. "I'm just gonna drink until this feeling of being crushed under a guy's foot, again, goes away." I inspect my wine glass and add brightly, "And I'm about two more glasses until I'm there, I think."

"O-o-okay sunshine," Drew interjects. She reaches over and forcefully pulls the bottle out of my hands, setting it down on the floor beside her with a plunk. I think about just grabbing it back, but Drew's really good at putting me in a headlock.

"Why does this always happen to me?" I say, slumping further down into the recesses of the periwinkle couch and feeling smaller and smaller as I finish off my glass. "He was interested in me at the store, Drew. He was. You should have seen it. I wish you saw it."

"Well, obviously he's a d-bag, otherwise right now you'd be doing the mambo, horizontal or vertical unspecified, somewhere downtown instead of making my life hell here." Drew pats my arm and offers me a slice of cake. "Here, you really need to eat something unless you want to be very, very drunk soon."

"Isn't the remedy bread?" I ask her skeptically, and she scowls at me.

"We were out. And cake is bread. It just makes you fatter, faster." She makes me take the plate and turns on the television.

My eyebrows knot as I look down at the slice of buttermilk cake in my hands and I feel the wine swirl around uncomfortably in my stomach. I can't believe it. He's actually ditched me. Another guy is actually just leaving me in the dust. It's happened more times than I like to admit, but… call me crazy, but I thought Derek was going to be different. He seemed like such a genuine guy. I thought the rule was that if he works with kids and panics when you leave him in a Barney's menswear alone, then he would not brush you off at the drop of a hat.

What changed? Did he hear somebody trash-talking me behind my back and decide I wasn't worth it? Maybe it was Dee and Don, the annoying-as-hell Twiddle twins, who work in the tailoring department. I've always had a sneaking suspicion that they hate me. And they gossip about everybody. I furiously jab the fork into the pastry and take a bite.

Or maybe he just gets off getting girls' hopes up all around New York. Maybe he's having a laugh right now with his buddies about how sad I must be right now, in my living room getting drunk all by myself on my roommate's wine, crying in my makeup and ruining my perfect party dress with my tears. My dress that I picked out of the Barney's Chanel stock room and made to match his shirt.

The more I think about it, the madder I get. I have to know.

I stuff the rest of the sugary cake in my mouth, brush myself off, and stand up, getting a head rush. "I'm gonna go out."

Drew tears her eyes away from the courtroom drama she's watching, something bizarre about a blond girl on trial for beating her mother to death with a croquet mallet (or something), and looks at me. "Oh, uh, okay. Sure. Yea, you go cheer yourself up. You want me to come with?"

"No, you have to get up early tomorrow for your shoot. I'll be okay." I start hunting around for my cardigan, which, at around eleven PM, had been neatly hung on the coat rack by our door; however, half an hour earlier during my tantrum as to why Derek wasn't here, I threw it around and now I can't remember where I flung it.

I finally find it behind the television stand and shake the dust bunnies off the yellow sleeves.

"Where are you going?" Drew asks as I tug it on.

"To find him," I growl, and she does a double take.

"To—what? You mean, like, Derek?" She repeats it like I haven't yet processed what I'm doing. "You're going to find Derek?"

"At the ball, yep," I say snippily. "He thinks he can stand me up without an explanation and that I'll just take it lying down, well, he's got another thing coming." I shake my finger at the air and huffily pull my wavy black hair—curled especially for the occasion—out from my coat. Drew looks like I've rendered her temporarily speechless, and I redirect my finger at my nose. "Look at me. What do I look like?"

Drew blinks. "Um. Am I supposed to answer, or…"

"I'll tell you what I don't look like," I snap. "I am not some helpless little princess who's gonna cry myself to sleep because of him. Okay, good night."

"What? What, what, what?" Drew shoots up out of her seat when I storm towards the door and grabs my arm, her usually bored drawl now three notches louder, a rarity that I would appreciate if not for my current situation. "Val, do you hear yourself? Were you drinking wine or just crazy?"

I can barely hear her, but I stop for a second, something feeling out of place to me, before looking down at my feet and realizing that I almost stepped outside without shoes on. Beyond caring at this point, I stuff my feet into the nearest pair—a pair of black vintage Mary Jane Manolo's that kill my toes—and shrug. "I think I might be," I answer, and pull my arm from her grip.

As I stomp down our steps, a flash of white that looks oddly like a rabbit—but is probably just our neighbor's neurotic cat—streaks past me on the sidewalk, disappearing around the corner.

"Val, please don't! You just need more cake," Drew calls after me. When I don't respond except by clicking more noisily down the sidewalk in my shoes, she sighs and yells, "Well, okay, then you—you kick some ass!"

I love my roommate.


The cab pulls up alongside the ballroom at the Westin, and thank god for the ceiling-to-floor bay windows or else I would have actually had to go inside and be humiliated in front of everyone.

I hobble towards the windows a step at a time because, true to their form, the Mary Jane's are ruining my feet minute by minute. Stopping just short of pressing my nose against the glass panes, I scan my eyes across the crowd inside the brightly lit room and squint.

Derek isn't that hard to spot. He's the very attractive man in the middle of the dance floor in his Hugo Boss suit that I helped him pick out with half a dozen girls, reaching anywhere from the height of his knees to just below his chin, trailing behind him like a flock of pidgeons.

Besides the fan club, he doesn't seem to be with anybody so after about a minute or two of watching him creepily outside the windows in the shrubs and flowers, I'm wondering if maybe he seriously did just forget to pick me up or received some mixed message. Maybe I should just go inside, I think. I do have my dress on after all, and it's really too beautiful a pattern to go to waste, even if it isn't real Chanel. And we do match.

But as if on cue, a strawberry-blond woman dressed in a cerulean Oscar de la Renta ball gown comes sweeping up to Derek and saves me the trouble. When she taps him on the shoulder, he spins around and the way he smiles at her tells me everything I need. They don't kiss, they don't even hug; all he does is touch her right above her right elbow and lean in to whisper something in her ear. And then she laughs and pokes him, and walks away, tying on an apron—and effectively ruining the Oscar de la Renta in the process—to resume her station at a booth.

I suddenly feel very sober. What the hell am I doing, what did I hope to achieve? I am not going to be that crazy girl who screams at some guy who's obviously married or something in the middle of a dance floor filled with people. Nope. Not me. I reserve ruining my reputation for worthier causes.

I clunk away from the window in my shoes, letting out my breath in a whoosh. "I need a drink," I proclaim.

Trundling down the garden path, I look around for anything that might have alcohol inside. My gaze snags on a bar across the street, its title of The White Rabbit illuminated in all capitals.

Without further ado, I stumble towards it.


The White Rabbit is decorated in true Irish fashion, with mahogany barstools set side-by-side down the length of a rather short, but elaborately carved, bar. The place is crammed to the brim with patrons, all of who seem to be Wall Street businessmen who've lost their way. At first I don't get it—the place is clean and inviting but hardly anything five-star—but closer inspection on a row of square liquor bottles on the back shelf gives me the answer. The White Rabbit is the original maker and only merchant anywhere for the world famous Queen of Hearts scotch.

Well, whatever. I don't like scotch and I certainly can't afford the one-hundred-dollar-a-pop affair, so I'll just get a seltzer or something. I clunk over to the nearest empty barstool next to a white-haired man in a gray suit and top hat and plop myself down.

"What'll ye have?" A bartender asks.

"Um," I start, and mean to say seltzer, but what comes out of my mouth is, "Disaronno Sour, thanks."

"Yes ma'am," the bartender mumbles, but starts to mix my drink with expert flicks of his wrists.

While waiting for my alcohol, I peer at the guy next to me with his rather dated outfit. I thought he was old at first because of his peculiar top hat and white hair peeking out underneath, but upon closer inspection, I realize he's actually around my age. The guy's got a row of ear peircings, anyway. He looks like he should be in leather and bondage or something, not a costume from the nineteenth century. I'm just about to ask him what he's doing wearing that when somebody behind me shouts, "Oi!"

I whirl around—just in time to catch a full glass of spilled dark liquid all down my Chanel imitation dress.

"Oh my god," I gasp, more at the fact that an ice cube has just made its way into my bra, than for anything else. The culprit, a clearly wasted man reeking of alcohol, throws his giggling, foolish self into my lap.

I'm a little paralyzed as he staggers upright, using both my shoulders as support, and slurs out, "Sorry 'bout that, 'ere," and proceeds to take a bar napkin to attempt to—and fail to—wipe me down. A few strangled noises manage to make their way out of my throat. I wonder if I should punch him.

"Holy sh—hey, Max, come on," another voice, this one clearly exasperated, cuts into my temporarily rendered paralysis and I look up as a second guy literally pulls his drunk friend—apparently named Max—off of me. "That's not nice. Here. Let's get you a cab, sound good? I'm really sorry," he adds to me.

"Ahm awright," Max insists with an exaggerated wave of his hands, but almost falls over again, and his friend barely catches him.

"Right, sure, whatever you say. Hey Ernie," he says, tapping on the bar until the bartender comes over. "Call my driver for this one, will you?"

Ernie looks disgusted. "'Bout two ticks away from droppin' cold, would ye say?" he grumbles, but picks up the phone behind the bar and presses a button. "He's outside," he calls, and the friend of Max thanks him and drags Max, still stumbling and slurring and swearing, out of the bar.

In the immediate quiet afterwards, I dig the ice cube out of my dress and look down at it sadly. Well, so went the tragic debut of the Chanel imitation dress that I wasted an all-nighter and several pricks to the finger making.

I sigh and try dabbing at it with a few more napkins the bartender sets down in front of me, but it's no use—the amber liquid has absorbed straight into the chiffon in cloud-like patterns.

"Not like it's real Chanel," the white-haired guy abruptly mutters into his drink.

I blink and then scowl. "How would you know?" I say, swiveling my head up to glare at him—and see that he's drinking out of a teacup. It seems so out of place with his clearly dyed hair and dark eyes that I'm tempted to laugh. Maybe he's a method actor.

Then the door to the bar opens again, and Max's friend comes back in, clearly relieved to be rid of the alcoholic. Suddenly, I don't even care about the dress except for the fact that I probably look idiotic and pathetic in it—because I've just realized who he is.

He spots me and his blue eyes brighten as he approaches me. "Hey. I'm really sorry about my friend. He's—he doesn't get out much," he says apologetically.

"Uh," I say blankly. I remember how to speak words after a second. "It's just my dress."

We both look down at the remains of the fabric, and he grimaces. "Geez. I promise I'll pay the dry cleaning bill, or replace it… or something," he says.

I attempt to shake my head, though I think what happens is I jerk it around a little. "Um. It's okay."

"You sure? It looks expensive," he says.

"Oh, it's not real Chanel," I say dismissively, and he blinks at me a couple of times before chuckling and sitting down on the stool next to me.

"At least let me buy you a drink. Like that one," he suggests as the bartender plunks my Disaronno down with a side of lemon and another napkin.

I'm silent as I take a deep drink of my liquor and attempt to push what I want to say down in my throat. But I can't, and the next words out of my mouth are, "You're Ian Royal."

And the rock star whose last two albums have gone multi-platinum and, on an entirely different note, whose heirdom to the family throne of Royal Corporations is worth around one hundred million, and, don't even get me started on his jawline and his blue eyes and his shaggy black hair that just barely brushes into his eyes and his smile, grins at me, easy, like he's the most mundane person in the world and I just happen to know his name. "Ah, yes, yes I am."

He looks a little embarrassed so I nod, not sure what to do next. I decide, after that bout of idiocy, to go back to finishing my drink in silence. The drink that Ian Royal is buying me. Ian Royal is buying me a drink.

Fancy that.

Ian speaks up again after a second. "And—what about you? What's your name?"

"Oh," I say, and almost say, "compared to you, a nobody" when I catch myself, thank the lord. Sometimes alcohol makes me retarded, and sometimes it keeps me from being just that. "I'm just Valerie."

"Just Valerie? Are you like Madonna, you just have one name?" Ian teases, and I laugh.

"Valerie Shore."

He nods. "So, Valerie Shore—"

"Val," I cut him off. "Nobody calls me Valerie except my mom."

"All right then, Val. What are you doing here on a Friday night in a—what used to be a—nice dress all by yourself?"

For a second, I honestly have no idea—and then it all comes screaming back. In retrospect, my little tirade seems more than a little silly, and I don't really want to tell Ian, but something about him makes me crumble and tell him anyways. Or maybe I'm just drunk and eager to please my superstar. (That's probably it, really. Drunk and swimming in his blue multi-platinum, multi-millionaire eyes.) "I got dumped," I admit, and hearing it out loud makes me giggle, though the laughter comes out sounding a bit sad.

Ian shakes his head in sympathy. "Asshole."

"I know, right?" I agree, and take another sip of my drink. "Except," I can't help but add, "I was almost sure he wasn't this time. I mean, it happens to me so often you'd think I'd be able to sort the assholes from the good guys by now."

Ian frowns thoughtfully, propping himself up by his elbows on the edge of the bar table. "This happens to you a lot, then?"

Oops. So much for not looking idiotic. "Yea." I shrug. "I don't know. I don't know why." I cup the glass in between my hands and brood, staring down at my polished reflection on the tabletop as Ernie mixes drinks in the background against the clink of glasses and chatter. "I meet someone, and he'll ask me on a date, and then he either turns out to be completely insane, or he just never shows up." By now, I'm sure the alcohol is the one doing the talking because sober, reasonable Val is yelling at me from the back of my head to shut the eff up while I still have a little dignity left.

But, as always, drunk Val never listens. "Maybe it's me," I finish. The white-haired teacup man next to me suddenly starts coughing. I'm brought out of my pathetic little angst in time to see him duck out into the bathroom, still hacking away into a handkerchief.

I clear my throat. "Sorry. I'm not usually this pathetic."

"No, no," Ian says reassuredly. "Guys are just morons. Believe me, it's not you."

I give him a sideways glance, and see that he's smiling warmly at me. "Really?"

Ian nods. "Yea. Take it from a guy who's known you all of twenty minutes—which might not count for a lot but you haven't done anything in the time frame to make me disappear on you." He smiles at me and I giggle. In the low lights of the bar, his blue eyes contrast sharply to the darkness around us. I'm surprised that he seems genuinely interested, that he is actually still listening when guys, even Liam who I don't even consider a guy, usually shut their ears off when I start whining.

"Well, it sounds like you're having a wonderful night. First the asshole, then Max," Ian says sympathetically.

"Yea, killer." I scoff. I suddenly see my phone lighting up, and lift it up to my face. It's already past two a.m. Drew has left three messages for me. I click voicemail.

"Heyyy, Val, just wondering if you've told Derek off yet and all that. Also, if it turns into a knockdown drag-out fight and he sues you and you go to jail, can I have the dress you were wearing tonight? Yea, thanks. Oh, and call me when you get this so I know you aren't committing suicide. Bye."

I smile in spite of myself, making a mental note to stitch Drew another dress off this pattern in the near future since all this one's going to do is go in the trash. "Well," I say, "I'd better go. My roommate is, uh, worrying about me." I stand up—and instantly feel nauseous. Oh, now the alcohol decides to kick in.

"I'll take you," Ian decides after examining me. I feel a little unsteady on my feet, thank you, combination of Merlot, Manolo Mary Jane's, and Disaronno, and Ian's hand snakes out to catch my arm when I stumble a little.

"No, no, I'm okay," I lie, and Ian rolls his eyes.

"You sound like Max. Come on." He digs into his back pocket and throws a bill on the table; my eyes barely have time to widen as I realize it's a 100, but next thing I know, we're out in the crisp night air and Ian's hailing a cab for us.

"Where to?" The driver asks as I slide into the cushy black leather seats.

"Sixty-second and Madison, please," I tell him, and sink into the seats, Ian by my side.

As we start off, I look out of my window—and I see the man in the top hat. He is standing outside where we were standing a second ago, and he is just watching us as we zoom off, both his hands in his pockets and his hat tipped at an odd angle that almost covers all of his face. I can't help but think I know him from somewhere, and yet I know I've never seen him in my life. His eyes snag mine—and he gives me a lazy grin oddly reminiscent of a certain Cheshire cat. The sense of déjà vu is stronger than ever, giving me chills in my spine—and then the next instant a car passes in front of him. When I crane my head to look, I can't see him anymore. Then we've turned a corner and he's gone.

What just happened?

Ian catches sight of my face. "You all right?" He asks. I nod, rub my eyes, and try to forget about that. Probably just another side effect of being drunk and dazed.

Ian and I subside into silence as we listen to the jazz music the driver has playing in the car, and it's not uncomfortable. I study him from the corner of my eye. He seems like a good guy. He didn't even talk about himself like a lot of bigheaded celebrities I run into in my line of work do, even though, if he'd wanted to, I would have happily chattered away with him about his anticipated album that comes out next month, or his money, or his muscles, or whatever.

Then again, it's been established that I have less than stellar radar when it comes to men, so maybe I'd better reserve my judgment and just assume for now that he's guilty till proven innocent.

Still, I can't help feeling that this evening wasn't a total bust, and I go to bed having forgotten—mostly—about Derek and his Oscar de la Renta lover.


When I pull the door open to the Fontaine TV studio the next day, the whole production team is in the lobby seated around the oblong coffee table we bought off some Russian designer that's more aesthetically pleasing than functional and that nobody ever uses, ever—except, apparently, today.

My Saturday-Sunday job with Fontaine TV is my other job. I'm head of wardrobe for a for-hire production team. Half the time we work with the talk shows that Fontaine TV produces; the other half, we're an independent team including everything from lighting to creative directors to cameramen to makeup artists, to be hired out by directors and stars to shoot music videos, photos, commercials, whatever they need. We must be pretty good because we cost a bitch.

You'd think my station here would have gotten me discovered already since we work with top fashion designers a lot, but most of the time I don't even get a chance to tell them I make clothes. Once, Zac Posen asked me whose jacket I was wearing, and when I told him I made it, he was all excited for about five minutes—and then forgot about it in the next five minutes. Story of my life.

When the door swings shut behind me with a clang, everybody looks up.

"Hello, Val," Harriet March, my boss at this job, says. "Why don't you pour yourself a cup of tea and sit."

I raise my eyebrows. "I'm sorry—a what?" The only thing anybody drinks around here is coffee in the mornings and booze under the table.

"A cup of tea," Harriet says from between her clenched teeth. Well, she seems to be on edge today, to put it lightly. "We're meeting with our client's fashion designer of choice for our next shoot."

I look around to see who he or she is because I always love meeting the designers of whose clothes I have probably either bought or envied in shop windows. It doesn't take me that long to find him because he's the only man in the room glaring his ass off at me. My eyes almost pop out of my skull.

Wow. Something in the stars must be aligned in my horoscope this week, because I am in the company of none other than Sebastian Drake, known firstly for being the richest fashion designer under thirty—when he started out as a lowly model living in a studio in the slums at sixteen—and, secondarily, for his phenomenal ability to mix different prints and textures together all in one clothing piece.

He's basically my god.

And my god is looking at m like he wants to shoot me.

So I say, remembering that he is proper English and that's probably why we're having tea, "R-right, a cup, of tea," and promptly plunk myself down next to black-haired, black-lipped Lacey, one of the makeup artists—though you could never tell through all that black kohl and Gothicism of hers—and another good friend of mine (or would be if she weren't such a workaholic).

"What's his problem?" I mutter as I pull a teacup towards me and get handed the teapot. "Am I wearing a faux paus or something?"

"Here's a fun fact," Lacey whispers back. I notice she's wearing bright green reptilian contact lenses today and almost spill tea on myself. "Sebastian isn't just fabulous. He's also fabulously bitchy, capital B."

"How nice," I say, and then quiet down after Harriet gives me a Look. Ronald, one of our lighting guys sitting to my left, passes me a cranberry scone.

"So, Mister Drake, you were telling us about the feel of the scenery you want to have for this photo shoot…" Harriet says, turning back to Sebastian.

"Yes," he replies in a distinctly British accent, and then with a toss of his fire-engine red hair, pulls out a few black posterboards with sketches of the scene he wants illustrated for whoever his client is to model his clothes. The background scenery aspect usually doesn't concern me, so I look at the scene of our production crew instead. And then I almost burst out laughing.

The table we're sitting at is very narrow, long, and uneven—kind of like a distorted two by four. It's almost like we're at some odd formal dinner with the host sitting way in another time zone at the other end. Everybody with the exception of Sebastian and Harriet, who are seated on red couches like royalty, is crammed on the floor with either our knees drawn up against our chests or crossed Indian style. This isn't a problem as far as the girls go, but somehow, the four biggest guys on the team, Michael, Thad, Everest, and Lawrence, have all been jammed into one of the narrow ends of the table and are basically like bulls in a china shop, holding the tiny teacups in their huge hands like prissy English ladies while trying not to bump each other. When Lawrence's pinky finger comes unconsciously outward when he tips the cup towards his lips, I actually have to turn a snort into a cough. Beside me, I feel Lacey shaking with silent laughter.

I make myself turn away and concentrate on Sebastian's speech again.

"My line is all about geometrical shapes this time," Sebastian is saying. "Circles. Squares. Triangles. I want the room to be very clean and minimal yet a realistic space one can live in. Very neutral colors since my clothing is bright. I want it all in contrast."

"Of course," Harriet nods. Her assistant Madeline Hatterfeld is scribbling away on her notepad, her frizzy gray hair bobbing along with her head and her buck teeth biting down on her lower lip.

"Also, I will not be available all the time, especially during the music video which is to follow. I have buyers to meet with in Venice," Sebastian says, and Harriet points at me.

"Valerie is our head of wardrobe. She will take very good care of your clothes, and she makes excellent choices."

I almost drop my scone. I've never heard Harriet compliment me before—but it's probably for her own benefit; a team looks more competent if all its members are brilliant, and all. I smile at Sebastian, but he's fixed his death glare on me for the second time in under ten minutes.

"She is?" Sebastian says condescendingly. "Hmm. Perhaps I should send my own assistant to do the job."

I bristle immediately, but before I can defend myself, under the table Lacey elbows me hard in the ribcage and all that comes out of my mouth is a whoosh of wounded air. I stare at her indignantly, but she's shaking her head.

Harriet clears her throat in the silence. "I assure you Val is completely adequate. Exceptional, even. We've never had another client complain before."

"I am not just another client, Miss March," Sebastian informs her. He pauses before adding, "However, I suppose I should not doubt until after she makes a mistake."

By now, more than half the table is shooting secretive glances at each other, wondering if we really do have to work with this pompous asshole. I see Lawrence and Thad looking rather angry on my behalf, even, but the dainty pastel teacups still in their hands kind of cancel it out.

Lacey's still shaking her head at me, so all I do is hunker down and eat my scone.

Harriet is used to dealing with unreasonable clients, and she changes gears. "Erm, Mister Drake, when are we meeting your client? I thought he was going to be with you today."

"Ah, yes," Sebastian says, and checks his Patek Nautilus watch. "But for as long as I have known him, Ian Royal has never been on time to anything."

"Ian Royal?" I repeat incredulously. "Ian Royal?"

Sebastian raises an eyebrow at me. "Yes. Is there a problem? Your exceptional stylist has a very chatty mouth," he tells Harriet, who gives me another Look.

But I don't even care because I suddenly feel… I don't even know what I feel.

Max was bad enough, but… Ian is friends with this jerk?

I have a sudden feeling that my man radar was wrong again.

To be continued...

A/N: Thank you to all the reviewers! If you took a stab at the number of Disney references on the last chapter, the answer is on the Something Ever After website of which the link to is at my profile. The website also has character profiles and - soon - art and other neato stuff. Be sure to check it out if you have the time. I will be posting up answers to the previous chapters at the website every time I update. Hopefully you guys will have caught on that every chapter has a different Disney story "theme", though the running theme throughout the whole story is of course the Little Mermaid. Thanks for sticking with me so far, guys. Hopefully this story will live up to your expectations. I'm not wishing anybody happy Valentine's because I hate the holiday. So happy regular day :). Cheers.
- feb.14 2009

Chapter 1 FAQ:
What's up with the creepy white-haired man?
(And all other related white-haired man questions) Well, I've answered the question of his age in this chapter, but yes, it is perfectly fine to be creeped out by him. I'm not giving him a very obvious Disney character as of yet, so don't try to hard to guess who (or what) he is yet :). I don't want to give too much away, and I like that he's confusing you guys or making you guys guess, so, keep at it, kiddos :P.
Who's your favorite Disney princess and prince? To both questions: Sebastian. Sebastian the crab is my favorite Disney princess and prince. A close second has to go to Eric from Little Mermaid (obviously) for the prince, and Meg from Hercules for the princess because she reminds me of myself (even though she's not really a princess. Whatever).
What about least favorite? Snow White is supremely helpless and her voice pisses me off and the movie in general is the most Mary Sue thing I have ever seen. Also I really don't appreciate John Smith from Pocahauntas. She totally should have gone with Kokoum.
What's your favorite Disney movie? Assuming we're not talking about any Disney/Pixar collabs because that brings up a whole other field, I'd go with either Little Mermaid (again, obviously xD) or Tarzan. I LOVE Tarzan.