A Princess in Theory

by Alyssa Cole

  “Another two people from her tribe have fallen ill,” Likotsi said quietly. “They do not know why. Yes, our medical specialists have been working themselves to the bone trying to figure it out.”

  Thabiso stood and began pacing. Between this and Alehk’s scheming he had a definite sense of unease. “Should we go back?”

  Likotsi shook her head. “As you said—you are not yet king. Your parents have the problem in hand, though you should let them know about your meeting with Omega Corp yourself. The only thing you can do apart from that is make sure that your decisions here reflect well on Thesolo, and that they are being made with our people’s—and Annie and Makalele’s granddaughter’s—best interests in mind.”

  She didn’t have to add And not your cock’s—the lift of her brow was enough.

  “I will.”

  Just then, the hideous buzzer squawked and Thabiso’s heart thumped harder in response. He turned and jogged to the door and opened it before it could sound again.

  Ledi stood there, eyes wide and a nervous smile gracing her lips. The unease that had seized him after hearing the news from home receded just a bit. There was something comforting about her presence, in the way she always seemed to know what to do if presented with a problem. It made him think maybe he could do the same if put to the test.

  “Hi,” she said.

  The word was barely a whisper, and the rasp of it unlocked the desire to draw her into his arms and kiss her. It was as if she’d made him her Manchurian Candidate when she’d moaned and shuddered in his lap only hours before, and now she was calling him to action. But there could be no more shuddering, or anything else, until he told her the truth.

  “Hey,” he replied, gripping the door frame instead of her hips.

  Her hair was down, a billow of curls that framed her face. She wore a purple T-shirt with a cartoon image of a brown-skinned woman in a lab coat holding a test tube on it. Tight black jeans accentuated her curves, and he supposed she was wearing shoes of some sort but his gaze had retraced its path back up and over the formfitting jeans and T-shirt. Desire stirred low in his belly, but when he met her gaze there was that distance again.

  Thabiso’s Adam’s apple suddenly felt too large for his throat. What was this nonsense? He wasn’t a boy being asked to go to the flower festival for the first time.

  “Are you still up for a train adventure?” she asked. “I’ve been studying and doing Western blots since five a.m. and I could use a break.”

  “Yes. I’ll be just a moment.”

  He walked back inside, grabbed his keys and wallet, and rubbed a dab of scented oil on his neck. It had been blessed by the royal priestesses of Thesolo and was supposed to bring luck. He’d need it if he was truly going to reveal his perfidy.

  “Make sure you tell her,” Likotsi whispered harshly. “And remember that your schedule is packed before the gala tomorrow evening. No running off like a boy shirking school.”

  “Okayyy.” He held up his hands. “Later, drill sergeant.”

  When he stepped out into the hall, Ledi turned to him, then wrinkled her nose. “What is that smell?”

  Thabiso froze, embarrassment stopping him in his tracks. Perhaps he’d applied too much of the oil? He lifted a hand to his beard, sniffing surreptitiously. He thought it smelled fine . . .

  “You were wearing it yesterday, too,” she said. “It seems so familiar, but I can’t pin down where I’ve smelled it.”

  She moved closer to him and went up on her tiptoes, her nose close enough to his neck that it tickled him, and inhaled. Thabiso clenched his hands behind his back, although he craved to pull her warmth closer, or perhaps to rub the oil over her body so her skin was slick and pliant under his fingers.

  “It’s eng oil,” he said, taking a step back from her as he reined in his racing imagination. “Made from a plant native to my country. It’s very common there.”

  Common enough that her parents would have worn it. He and Ledi were surely doused in it during their betrothal ceremony.

  Now! Tell her now!

  Thabiso struggled to find the right words and kicked himself for wasting his time before her arrival fantasizing about her body when he should have been planning how to break the bond that had been solidifying between them—and how to mend it afterward.

  If you can mend it.

  “Strange.” She shook her head. “Maybe one of the street vendors around here sells it?”

  “Perhaps, although it’s quite rare in the States.” He glanced at her and dipped his toe into the waters of truth. “Or perhaps it’s a scent from your childhood? Maybe your parents—”

  “Let’s go,” she said. “We only have a few hours before I have to study again.” Then she was marching down the hall, leaving him and his question behind. Her reaction to a simple inquiry about her parents didn’t bode well for his confession and all that would come with it.

  For the first time since he’d assumed his false identity, Thabiso wished he actually was Jamal: an American boy who had fallen for his coworker. If he were, there would be no lies to dispel and no truth hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles.

  Chapter 14

  Why is it so hot down here? What is that strange smell? Are those cats frolicking on the tracks? Dear goddess, they’re rats!”

  Ledi rolled her eyes, though it was hard not to be amused. Jamal had been acting like a lamb taking its first steps from the moment they left the apartment.

  When they’d stopped at the bodega on the corner and she’d ordered them sandwiches, his nostrils had flared in alarm. He’d stared in horror at the line of people calling out their daily lottery numbers near the cash register, and had recoiled from the display case of deli meats as she ordered their food.

  “What is your deal? These are the best sandwiches in the city,” she’d said under her breath.

  “Best?” Jamal’s nose had wrinkled in disgust. “Who knows how long that meat has been idling under glass? And the meat slicer looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since Bush was in the White House.”

  Julio, the co-owner of the store and the man making their sandwiches, had looked up with an angry glint in his eyes. “We’ve got a four point five Yelp rating, homie. You want some fancy shit, go to Gentrification Café or whatever, down the street.”

  “Ignore him,” Ledi had said to Julio, pushing Jamal farther into an aisle. “We’re going to buy more stuff. Definitely don’t spit in our sandwiches or anything, okay?”

  Julio had nodded while glaring after Jamal, who was wiping a film of dust off of a box of Grape-Nuts and holding his finger out to Ledi for inspection.

  Now they stood on the subway platform with a bag full of sandwiches, beverages, and random items she’d pulled off the shelves just to appease Julio, waiting for the Uptown A train. Jamal was still looking at her after his barrage of questions, so Ledi held up three fingers.

  “To answer your questions, it’s hot because the subway has its own weather system that varies by station. It can be a beautiful day outside, then you step onto a train platform and it’s like you’re standing in the devil’s asscrack.” She folded one finger down. “That smell is proooobably stagnant water. Or the decomposing body of one of the mole people who live in the tunnels.” She folded her middle finger down, leaving her index finger, which she pointed in the direction of two rats who were circling each other, about to engage in pawsticuffs over a half-eaten slice of pizza. “Definitely rats. This is their kingdom and we’re just passing through. Don’t ever think you have priority on these platforms, because they don’t back down and, despite the bubonic plague smear campaign, a rat bite will mess you up good.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” he asked. The rats on the track in front of them started squealing and rearing up. Ledi shuddered and dragged him down the length of the platform. The Grams in their cage was one thing. Wild sewer rats were entirely another.

  “Honestly, this station looks like it could collapse at any moment. I’ve read re
ports of America’s crumbling infrastructure but I’d assumed it was exaggeration.” He looked around at the stained ceilings and cracked, flaking paint.

  “This city is held together by hope and insomnia,” she said. “Who needs infrastructure?”

  “Americans,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  Ledi shrugged. “But seriously though, I hope you have traveler’s insurance because there’ve been some derailments lately.”

  Jamal’s head whipped toward her. “Wait, what?”

  A gust of warm air carried the familiar subterranean scent that preceded the rumble and screech of the train as it pulled into the station, then a rectangular steel car emblazoned with a circle of blue and white appeared. Jamal made a perplexed grunt.

  “It looks like the trains in movies, but . . . the movies I watched as a child. I imagined they’d be more modern by now,” he said as it pulled to a stop in front of them.

  One crowded car passed, but the one pulling up before them was empty, which set off Ledi’s subway sense. She grabbed him again and jogged to the next car down, which held a good number of people but wasn’t sardine-can packed.

  “Why did we run?” he asked. “More rats?”

  “Maybe. Never get on the empty train car when the ones on either side are full,” she explained. “That means that something not okay is going on in there. The doors between train cars are locked sometimes, and you don’t want to be trapped in a car with rats, random human excretions, or something worse.”

  “Why do I feel like I’m navigating some kind of dystopian nightmare instead of one of the most famous cities in the world?” Jamal asked with an incredulous laugh. He was smiling that big smile of his again, like they were on an adventure, and Ledi’s stomach fluttered in a way she couldn’t blame on the rickety train. His fingers curved around the train pole, and heat stroked through her as she remembered the press of them into her body. She looked away. They were just two friends out for a day at the park. It didn’t matter that he had seen her O face, had touched the embarrassing underwear she’d been forced to wear because a neighbor had been hogging the building’s shared laundry room.

  She glanced at him and realized he was studying her face.

  “One fun thing you learn when you study Public Health, especially infectious diseases, is that most societies are one step away from dystopia, really,” she said, trying to sound deep and like she hadn’t been thinking about their trip to fingerbangville.

  “You really know how to put a man at ease,” he said. “Next you’ll tell me the mole people who live in the subway tunnels are real.”

  Ledi widened her eyes in mock horror, looked around the car, and then leaned closer to him. “Someone told you the mole people weren’t real? Oh you poor little lamb. You don’t stand a chance.”

  He leaned closer, too. “I’d say my chances are pretty good. I’m quite lucky, you see, at least in my choice of shepherdess.”

  The stale air of the train car caught in Ledi’s throat. It wasn’t Jamal’s words. It was the way he looked at her when he said “choice.” Every interaction with another human was a choice, really, but the way the word rolled off of his tongue seemed intimate. She’d never really known the feeling of being chosen—it had been denied to her each time a foster parent sat her down with a guilty expression on his or her face. But Jamal said it like choosing her was something anyone would do.

  You’re reading too much into this. It’s not like he chose to be your neighbor. That was a fluke. Don’t get excited—you know what happens when you do.

  Suddenly an adolescent voice boomed through the train car. “Showtime! Showtime, ladies and gentlemen!”

  Jamal jumped, startled by the obnoxious shouts of a group of teen boys on the other side of the car.

  “What’s happening?” Jamal asked, stepping protectively in front of her. Ledi laughed, although she appreciated his chivalry.

  “Oh perfect, you’ll get the full New York City experience,” she said, tugging his arm so he was flush against the doors with her. “Stand back, and watch out for flying limbs.”

  One of the teens tapped on his cell phone and held up a small wireless speaker above his head. A second later, the train was filled with the thumping bass of the latest top 40 hip-hop song. Ledi hadn’t been listening to much music lately, but she’d heard strains of it from the windows of passing cars in her neighborhood and at the bodega as she waited for coffee, and bopped her head along to the familiar beat. One of the teens took off his fitted hat and began a popping and locking routine, tossing the cap up and around, spinning and catching it.

  “Hat dancing?” he asked, leaning close to her ear. “Is this what the youth are doing these days?”

  “Just keep watching,” she explained, curving a smile in his direction. She had grown up seeing these train performances—different boys, different dances, but always the same amazing athleticism. She’d long ago grown tired of them, but getting to be with Jamal as he watched for the first time made it all new for her. She kept her gaze locked on him, waiting for it . . .

  “Go! Go! Go!” the boys shouted as they began clapping. Jamal looked on skeptically, brows furrowed one moment, and then shooting up toward his hairline the next. She heard the telltale thump and looked back at the teen who had just flipped forward and landed on his feet in time to watch him Milly Rock for a few seconds, then segue seamlessly into a tight front somersault, followed by two backflips down the center of the moving train car. The dab he hit after that combination was well earned.

  “Holy shit,” Jamal said. “Is this normal? Boys flipping about on moving subway cars? I can barely stand without holding the pole and this child just reenacted an Olympic gold medal gymnastics routine.”

  “It’s pretty normal,” Ledi said. “It’s amusing until the first time you accidentally get kicked in the face.”

  “Brilliant,” was all he said, his attention locked on the dancers. He laughed and clapped along as each of the three boys cycled through their particular routines, doing a little two-step along to the beat and occasionally pressing his shoulder into Ledi’s as if urging her to join him. She couldn’t quite bring herself to let go enough to dance, though the rhythm of the music pulled at her. She clapped along, instead.

  The song wound down, and Jamal cheered, drawing a few looks from some of the jaded New Yorkers sharing the car with them. He was particularly impressed with the last boy, a break-dancer.

  “Anyone willing to fling himself on this floor after the information you’ve given me about bacteria should be considered an artiste of the highest caliber—obviously prepared to suffer for his art.”

  “I’d never thought of it that way, but I guess you’re right,” Ledi said.

  One of the boys walked by with an open backpack, holding it out for donations. People who had been rapt a moment before suddenly had their faces resolutely stuck behind e-readers and books, ignoring him. Ledi could see the bag was empty, but she rarely carried cash on her. She searched her purse, hoping she had a couple of bucks.

  “I’ve got it. You paid for lunch after all.” He rifled through his wallet and casually tossed in a few bills as the kid went by.

  “Thanks, mister,” the kid said with a nod and kept walking. Then he stopped and turned back, confusion on his face. He looked into the bag, then at Jamal, and then back into the bag. “Um . . .”

  Jamal waved a hand. “Thanks for a great show.”

  “Thanks, mister!” The boy turned and ran toward his friends on the other end of the car as the train pulled into the station.

  “Yooooo!”

  They ran out through the open doors, congregating behind a pole that blocked them from view.

  “What was that about?” Ledi turned and peered through the window as the train pulled away. The boys were peering into the backpack and shouting, the sound amplified by the acoustics of the train station. She leaned back against the door and crossed her arms over her chest to look up at him.

  “You know
how children are,” he said, shrugging it off. “By the way, the sign instructs you not to do that.” He pointed to the peeling, scratched-up DO NOT LEAN ON DOOR sticker over her head.

  “Okay. Now that I have you trapped on a train, I have to ask. How have you never taken the subway, or gone to a bodega? Never seen train dancers before? I know rich people—like, pretty rich—and they’re not quite as . . . disconnected as this.” She tried to cushion the bluntness of the questions in a teasing tone, but if she was going to give him some of her valuable time, she deserved to know who she was dealing with.

  The laughter left his eyes; it was strange to see him tuck away his emotions so quickly. It reminded her that she didn’t know him at all, despite the fact that she’d talked to him—and let him touch her—as if she did.

  “I’m just used to traveling in a rather different style, and moving in different circles, when I’m here.”

  The train began to slow down again as it pulled into the next station, the loud screech of its brakes against the rails drowning out the sound in the train car and drowning out the rest of his response.

  She moved aside to let a man off of the train, and then resumed her position in front of the door.

  “So, that ‘different style’ you’re accustomed to? I’m guessing it doesn’t mean you’re usually at an alpaca farm upstate?”

  He chuckled. “No.”

  “So you haven’t been traveling around the city via dromedary instead of train. I guess I would have seen video of that online.” She resumed her position against the door.

  “I had chauffeurs.” He took a deep breath and when he looked at her again a familiar fear sprang up in her. He was wearing the expression. The one that looked the same regardless of skin tone or age or gender. It was the expression her various foster parents had sported when they called her into the kitchen or living room, avoiding eye contact as they explained she would be leaving.

  Guilt.

  “I was hesitant to tell you about my wealth and my background because I wanted you to see me for me,” he said. “I’m used to people judging me for everything I own and represent, and not me as a person.”