“What? That?” I asked. “Of course. I mean, you know I think pageants are—”
“The demise of society. Yes. Which is why I didn’t ask if you wanted to participate. Should I have asked you?”
“Seriously, I am so busy lately, a pageant would…” I tried hard not to laugh, because I knew my mom was being sincere. A pageant? Smearing Vaseline on my teeth and wearing a strapless bra and solving world peace? “It’s not my thing. And I’m fine with your emcee and consultation jobs—you have the personality and you’re great with fashion.”
“But…”
“But I don’t feel the same about Celeste.” I pushed our cart over to the checkout. “I just don’t. I don’t, like, hate her or anything, but it still isn’t easy seeing you two have your girlie fests every day.”
“Girlie fests?”
“Makeovers. Dress shopping. Coaching Celeste’s interview answers.”
“But you said you don’t like pageants.”
“I don’t! But I still like you.” I unloaded my ice cream onto the checkout counter “Look, why are we even talking about this? I’m fine with us. And Celeste isn’t a big deal—I’m just stressed about the play. I need to get home and read over the second act.”
“I’m sorry.” Mom touched my arm. “Why don’t I help you practice tonight?”
“Really? It’s Shakespeare. Pretty boring—”
“I love Shakespeare and I love you.” She kissed my forehead. Yep. In public. “We’ll even have our own girlie fest. Why don’t you pick out a magazine to go with your ice cream? Oh! And I’ll paint your nails. Get some hair dye…Have you ever thought about highlights? Your brown has some beautiful gold undertones we could play up.”
“Let’s start with ice cream and magazines,” I said. “And that cookies and cream is all mine…” My voice trailed off when I noticed the magazines in the checkout aisle.
Well, one particular magazine. Staring back at me from a glossy tabloid was…was…him.
Prince Karl of Fenmar.
And he was laughing with Elsa.
“Holy royals.” I yanked the magazine off the shelf and flipped to the article, nearly ripping out the pages in my frenzy. The picture was on page 39, after the newest interview with celebutante Floressa Chase.
Karl looked adorably stiff as he leaned against a speckled brown horse. Elsa had her arms folded across her chest, one toe pointed in the muddy grass. The sky was gray, the colors dull; but Karl and Elsa smiled at each other as if they lived on a rainbow. No one else was around them, so it seemed they’d stolen this moment alone and a paparazzo had captured it.
“Honey, you look like…like you saw a picture of yourself in there.”
Laughing together. Together. The two of them were spotted at a polo match, laughing together like old friends.
I ran my finger down the lines of print.
Did longtime friends Prince Karl and Princess Elsa spark a romantic relationship in Metzahg earlier this summer? Princess Elsa could not be reached for comment, but Prince Karl’s publicist stated that although the prince is indeed friends with Elsa, he is still happily dating Duchess Olivia. Karl and Olivia were spotted at Crown Prince Jasper’s christening last week, and the couple continues to be of great interest in royal circles.
Regardless of what her relationship with the prince may be, it seems Princess Elsa’s famously eccentric grandmother, Princess Helga of the former Royal House of Holdenzastein, had a change of heart regarding Elsa’s role in the royal community. Princess Elsa’s fall calendar will include exclusive regal events, though her schedule has yet to be announced.
I knew there was some truth to the rumor about Elsa and Karl, because I had been there, in Metzahg, as Elsa’s sub. I’d solidified their romance by kissing Karl after reading about Elsa’s devotion to him in her journal. This was the kiss that had almost cost me my job, but reading the article proved that my instincts had been right—they did like each other.
But as noble as my matchmaking seemed, I had a secret. A tiny piece of me wondered…maybe even hoped…that Karl’s feelings had deepened during my time with him. That he liked me too, although, obviously, he had no clue I existed.
The whole thing made my brain, not to mention my heart, hurt. I handed the magazine to the checkout lady. Mom grabbed another copy from the rack and thumbed through it. “That’s the prince that’s all over your bedroom wall now, right? His brother is much cuter. And who is the girl?”
“Princess Elsa of the House of Holdenzastein,” I said automatically.
“Wow. You’re very…knowledgeable.”
“I read it in the article. And besides, Prince Karl is cute, just not in an obvious way.”
She turned the page to the side. “Well, maybe he has a nice personality. He’s a little on the short side—”
“He’s five feet seven. Perfectly average!” I almost shrieked, ripping the magazine from her hand.
“Okay, sure.” Mom held up her hands. “I didn’t know you’d become such a crazy fan.”
While she paid for the ice cream and magazine, I glanced at the picture of Karl one more time. “I’m not crazy. I’m buying a magazine.”
“If you say so.”
“Seriously. Let’s go home. If I don’t get over my nerves, I’ll be lucky to make Tree Number One.”
Chapter
3
Having abandoned any hope of learning an instrument in this century, I went with Plan B and spent the rest of the weekend listening to an extensive classical music playlist and scrolling through my manual to see if I could find anything more about Karl and Elsa’s encounter. All I managed to find about Elsa were the notes I’d submitted last June to the sub chat room, a place where you can usually find dirt on royals that even the magazines don’t know. The Karl stuff was a repeat of the usual tabloid chatter: his relationship with Duchess Olivia, his work with the africa is hungry foundation, the scandals of his ridiculously good-looking and pompous older brother, Barrett. I knew that information already. The question I kept asking myself was: What is going on between Karl and Elsa? And the quieter, mixed-up question behind it: What does it have to do with me?
The royal drama also kept me from stressing about the audition. Okay, not true. I was beyond stressed. Now that I’d had so much practice “acting” as a princess, I secretly hoped I’d get a role. Nothing big—maybe a small speaking part. Before Façade, I’d never dared to believe my acting dream could be a reality. Anytime I’d tried out before, it was almost to prove to myself that I couldn’t make it.
Now I knew anything was possible. Possible, but not guaranteed.
I tried to explain my audition angst to Kylee when she met me at my locker after school on Monday, but every time I opened my mouth, it sounded like a gurgle.
“You ready?” she asked.
I gurgled yes.
“Drink some of my water. You need to stop that weird moaning sound every time you talk.”
I took a swig of her water and cleared my throat. “It’s a gurgle.”
“It’s gross.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” I drank some more water. “I’m going to pass out on the stage.”
“Maybe that’ll get you a part. Pretend like you’re falling asleep—that’s perfect for A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Kylee pushed me out the doors and into the front quad. Our steps fell into sync as we hit the sidewalk that separated the junior high from the high school. “Besides, you’ve done this before.”
“I’ve tried out for a play before, but I’ve never gotten a part. And those plays were not Shakespeare.”
Confession time: this probably makes me sound dumb, or just not deep, but I don’t love Shakespeare. Sure, the stories are great, but why keep it in ancient words that everyone pretends to understand, but no one actually does? I’m guessing I’m not alone in my feelings, but if you admit this, it’s like saying you don’t see the emperor’s new clothes. Loving Shakespeare makes you literary and artsy cool, two traits tha
t are an edge in the performing-arts world. Funky hats help, too—all the theater kids had them. I didn’t bring one, but I was wearing a shakespeare rocketh shirt. I figured that might earn me some street cred.
“Shakespeare is like anything else, with some thees and thines mixed in,” Kylee said.
“Don’t forget the aye and ere. Do you think people used to fall asleep in the middle of conversations?” I stopped walking when we rounded the corner. Sproutville High—ivydraped red brick, built in the 1930s and an easy double for an insane asylum—loomed before us. “I can’t do this. Let’s go home.”
“Nope. You’re doing it.” Kylee pulled me forward. “Here, tell me your monologue.”
“We weren’t supposed to prepare anything. The director tells us what we’re reading at the audition.”
“Just say something.”
I delivered a line, one that I’d memorized from the second act.
“See?” Kylee beamed. “You’re going to get a part, I know it. The words make sense when you say them.”
“Whatever. Shakespeare is probably rolling in his grave every time I read.”
“Who made up that expression anyway?” Kylee said. “Why is rolling in your grave bad? Maybe it means you’re a zombie or something. If your acting creates a Shakespeare zombie, I’d be all for that. Like, he could come on the stage during all his plays and be like…‘Iambic pentameter…bad. Brains…good.’”
I scrunched up my nose. “You’ve been watching too many of those gross horror movies again.”
“Better that than your old Audrey what’s-her-name movies.”
“What’s-her-name? What’s-her-name? Audrey Hepburn is only one of the greatest actresses to ever live on this planet. Or any planet. Oh my gosh, if I were in my grave right now, I would be rolling.”
“Doesn’t work if you’re still breathing. Then you’re buried alive, and that’s just sad—”
“ROLLING!” I yelled. Kylee giggled.
I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere between June and now, Kylee and I had reached that wonderful place. The one where you know things about each other that no one else does. Even more, you accept them.
Like, Kylee’s so cultured, if she had MP she’d probably skip over Level One and settle right into Level Two at Façade. She moved to Sproutville a year ago from Seattle with her professional, smart, cool parents (from India. My dad is from Idaho Falls. If there was a contest for coolness, her parents would get the grand-prize trophy and mine a nice participant ribbon). The Maliks take their daughter to exhibits and the symphony and poetry readings. But cute, clean-cut Kylee is also hard-core into horror movies and gory video games. Isn’t that awesome? I love that about her.
We walked around the building, stopping at the theater entrance door. Kylee gave my arm a squeeze. “So I’m going to run over to the band room to make sure that the woodwinds workshop I’m teaching next week is all set up.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And then I’ll be back in time to watch you try out.”
“Right.” I turned and stared at the doors.
“Desi!” she said. “Go in!”
The lobby air-conditioning hit me with a blast. I folded my arms over my chest, perspiration forming despite the new chill. The sign on the theater door, district play tryouts, made me sweat even more. Man, I wished they’d kept the junior high theater program. Now, on top of attempting all those thees and thines, I had to try out with teens old enough to drive.
Teens old enough to vote.
Old enough to grow Shakespeare-worthy beards.
A few frozen seconds later, I noticed Reed sitting at the table by the trophy case. His head was down, his pencil tapping to the music coming from his headphones. His black hair fell into his eyes, contrasting nicely with his tan skin. I dug a pen out of my backpack and signed the audition sheet in front of him. Had Kylee been there, the smile he flashed would have melted her into a pool of girliedom. Of course, I was immune to it. Pretty Boy in Idaho didn’t compare to Kind, Sweet Prince in Europe.
“Glad you decided to come,” Reed said. Sorry. Pretty Boy in Idaho with a hot accent. “Where’s your flute?”
“Um, I’m trying to get a part, not make the director scream in terror.”
“Then don’t say um. It’s Mrs. Olman’s pet peeve.”
“Um, thanks. I mean, oops, I already failed.” I read over the audition sheet. Introduction, stage movement, and choose one of the three provided monologues. Five minutes of talking, if that. Some of my princess substitute jobs lasted for days. I could manage five minutes.
I looked up to see Reed watching me, so I searched my mind for something to say. “Are you an assistant? Why are you doing sign-ups?”
“Because I’m a lowly freshman.”
“If you’re lowly, then what are the eighth graders?”
He laughed. “I’m not going to answer that. I can tell you what some seniors think about the junior high jumping into our play.”
“Jumping in? Yeah, right. It wasn’t our choice. And you guys have the advantage.”
“Oh, absolutely. There’re only a few seventh and eighth graders who showed up. I bet most got freaked by the whole high-school-Shakespeare thing. The chances of you actually making it are slim to none. Probably closer to none.”
I scuffed my left foot across the tile floor. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean…” Reed closed his eyes. “Sorry. Sometimes I don’t think before I talk. Even if it’s the truth.”
“So the truth is I shouldn’t even bother to audition.”
“No! It’s just, statistically, your chances might be lower. But if you’re a good actress, that’s not going to matter. And you don’t seem very nervous.” Reed fixed me with an intense stare. “Are you?”
I couldn’t make eye contact when he looked at me like that, like he was trying to hypnotize me to tell the truth. Whew, no wonder Kylee fled from him in the band room.
“Nervous? Me?” A good actress would have faked confidence right then. But I was too busy counting all the names on the sign-up sheet, each signature another chance I wouldn’t make it. Over fifty people auditioning for a play with maybe twenty parts. “No, I’m not nervous. I’m…I’m terrified.” I slumped my shoulders. “I’ve been reminding myself to breathe all day.”
“Hey, no worries.” Reed’s expression softened. “Everyone is nervous. Some people are just better at covering it up.”
“Like you?”
“Oh yeah. I already threw up once.”
“No way.”
“Sure. But I brushed my teeth, so now I’m minty fresh.” Reed glanced at the clock and stood. “I think that’s probably it for sign-ups. I’m going in, if you want to come. It’s always nice to have an audition buddy.”
Buddy. Oh no. Kylee. Two conversations with the kid, and I still hadn’t mentioned Kylee. “Yes! My friend Kylee is coming. She plays the clarinet. And, like, every instrument. And she’s really fun and cute.”
Reed slipped the sign-up sheet under his arm. “Sorry, so is she your audition buddy? I don’t want to break a sacred circle here.”
“No, I mean, save two seats—one for me, and one for Kylee. I’m going to go over this monologue for a minute.”
“Cool.” Reed leaned against the door and pushed it open with his back. “Oh, and make sure you say your name right when you’re on the stage. Mrs. Olman said you might as well quit now if you can’t do that.”
“Thanks for the added pressure.”
“Any time.”
The door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the theater lobby. Terrified—that word wasn’t big enough. If I psyched myself out any more, my heart was going to jump out of my chest and start quoting Shakespeare. I read through the monologues four or five times, deciding on the Helena part, then slipped into the theater.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust and find Reed in the back right corner.
“Did I miss anything?” I ask
ed.
“They already started,” Reed whispered. “She’s doing it alphabetically. What’s your last name?”
“Desi Bascomb?” Mrs. Olman’s voice rang out across the auditorium.
“Uh, here?” I waved.
“Yes, well, we’d like you there.” She pointed to the stage.
So much for having some time to calm down. I hurried down the aisle, noticing Celeste sitting in the second row with my former crush, Hayden. Hayden stared at me blankly, which I didn’t take personally since I was beginning to realize that blank was his specialty.
Celeste had undoubtedly wrangled Hayden into auditioning with her. If any eighth grader was going to get a part, it would be her—she’d always made the school and community plays in the past. No, I couldn’t let her get to me. Five minutes of quality. This was my chance.
I avoided making eye contact, instead focusing my full attention on not tripping up the stairs. Once I’d conquered the steps, I paused and squinted at the crowd. The lights were too bright to see faces.
I was supposed to say my name first, then walk to center stage. I opened my mouth and…
My name.
My…name?
Um…
Wait, don’t say um. Uh…
“We’re ready when you are, Miss Bascomb.”
Bascomb. That’s right. And my first name is…Desi! Huzzah!
“My name is Desi Bascomb.” I projected my voice as I strode to center stage. Then…I froze again. Come on, I thought. I’ve had harder acting jobs than this. These are high school students, not royalty. I fanned myself with my sheet. If I got through without passing out or flooding the stage with sweat, I could probably make Tree Number Two.
“I’m an eighth grader,” I continued. “My favorite color is teal and I like gummy bears.” I cleared my throat and looked down at my sheet, trying my best to ignore the fact that it was shaking. Or the fact that I’d had three Mountain Dews before this audition, and you can guess what I had to do. Or Dew.
The Royal Treatment Page 2
