It was my idea to perform the experiment at the beach. Four miles of coastline separated the castle from the tourist trap called Grand Harbor State Park, but there were enough local lakeside homes to populate our sand with visitors.

The sandy staircase presented a problem for Whit. He made Mara cover her eyes, then scooted down the steps while I followed with the chair.

Twelve years in Michigan and Mara had never been to the beach. Mom bought her a teal one-piece for the occasion which she wore beneath a summer dress. For the experiment, she donned the blue shades from the costume bin, secured her hair beneath a backwards cap, and stormed the shore with kinetic enthusiasm.

“Excuse me, sir, do you have a moment to look at some pictures?”

Nobody could deny her pep. When they agreed to help, I pulled out my Canon A-1 camcorder, Whit snapped open the notebook, and Mara fanned twenty photos for the victim to peruse. “Take a look at these pictures and tell me which person you think is the most attractive.”

We scored fifteen interviews in the first hour and captured on tape a variety of responses.

Male, thirty-two years old: “I think this one's adorable.”

Female, asian, thirty-five years old: “She looks just like my daughter!”

Male, sixty-eight years old: “This girl has an old-world charm. Reminds me of a young Veronica Lake.”

Male, nineteen years old: “You're kidding me. I swear she looked legal!”

Female, twelve years old: “I want this girl to be my best friend.”

One boy slipped his arm around Mara and told her she was prettier than anyone in the photos.

Another guy was walking the beach with his girlfriend. When Mara pulled out the pictures, he exclaimed, “Do I look like a pedophile?” then noticed the picture of Mara... “That one,” he said. “Definitely that one.”

Another boy snatched the Polaroid of Mara, bolted down the shore, and put an end to the first half of our beach experiment.

On the steps, Whit scanned the results.

“What is it,” I asked. “Like, a hundred percent Mara?”

He sighed. “I think we need to up the ante.”

We returned to the house for peanut-butter sandwiches and lemonade, then scoured Mom's “Good Housekeeping” and Livy's “Seventeen” to give Mara tougher competition. Child models, lingerie models, Sharon Stone, the girl from “My Girl” (my pick), Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman (Whit's pick), the robot girl from “Small Wonder” (Mara's pick), and more. We snapped a new Polaroid of Mara to replace the stolen picture, then spent the rest of the afternoon at the beach.

Thirty-eight people were interviewed. Thirty-eight people selected Mara as the most attractive. Some called her “pretty” or “cute.” Others called her “precious.” A few called her “sexy.”

Around 5:30, a pinpoint of light caught my attention from the castle tower. It was a pocket mirror; Dad's nerdy way of calling us in for dinner.

We kept the results to ourselves at Mara’s request. It was “weird,” she said, and explained that she didn't want to make Livy feel bad, especially since we used her photo for comparison. “Your parents'll think I'm crazy.”

Whit slept over. At 10:30 the boys and girls were sent to separate rooms, but parents forget that bedtime only marks the beginning of a twelve-year-old’s imagination. The proof of Mara's ability spurred more and more questions, and we stayed up until three o’clock hypothesizing other powers and inventing ways to test them.

“Her voice!” Whit said, and I told him no.

The next morning, we proposed our ideas to Mara. She loved the prospect of superhuman abilities and participated fully in our barrage of silly experiments.

We tested for a sixth sense: telepathy, telekinesis, bending spoons, something Whit called “omni-linguism,” mental projection, teleportation... even flying. I don't need to tell you she failed every test... but not without an abundance of bonding time and scores of laughter.

“I bet you've got more powers,” I said, “you just gotta figure out how to control 'em.”

In the end, Mara was satisfied with her gift of “cuteness,” but asked to set aside the experiments to focus on the fairytale. Whit and I agreed. It was time to make a movie.