by Kirsten Boie
Behind her, from the younger girls’ table, a clear voice rang out: “Pizza Princess!” There was laughter, as if it were someone’s birthday party. “Pizza Princess!” they sang.
“Come on and sit down,” Paula taunted. “Or is our Scandian food no longer good enough for Your Highness?”
“Pizza Princess!”
Jenna turned and ran.
On the way to his room, Jonas took off his tank top. He was late, so he had to hurry. He’d thought he might bump into her today, so he’d dawdled, running extra slowly, but there’d been no sign of her. He sat on his bed, tugged off his shoes and socks, and reached for his towel. Just when he’d grabbed some fresh clothes out of the closet and tucked them under his arm, Perry came through the door.
“Man, you’re late!” he said. “You’ll have the showers all to yourself.”
“So how come you’re still here, Mr. Punctuality?” asked Jonas.
“Whoa, sorry. What’s your problem? That time of the month?” said Perry.
“Shut up,” said Jonas. “You’re not exactly Joe Happy yourself. So what’s your problem?”
Perry looked at him. “Later, Jonas, OK? We’ve got to get to class,” he said.
“No deal,” said Jonas. “I’m not moving till you tell me what’s up. So spill it.”
“No way,” said Perry. “So hit the showers — you reek, by the way.” He turned toward the closet and pulled out a clean school shirt.
“No kidding, I went for a run,” Jonas answered. “But seriously, why are you acting so weird?” Then suddenly it dawned on him. “Your dad called.”
“Jonas, give it a rest!” Perry snapped, and yanked his blazer off its hook. The loop at the back of the collar broke, but Perry didn’t seem to notice. “Just … mind your own business.”
“Hey, dude, I’m only trying to help,” said Jonas, shuffling his feet impatiently.
Perry looked at him with a frown, as if he was thinking things over. Then he took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was almost normal.
“Dad’s going to force me into the army if it’s the last thing he does, apparently. He rants on and on about family tradition, letting the family down. But what about me, Jonas?” He angrily tried to force his arm into the sleeve of his jacket. “I really hate him sometimes. I mean, do I look like a soldier?”
Jonas didn’t respond. Perry was short and slim, certainly no action hero. Ever since Jonas had known him, he’d been useless at sports and regularly suffered the indignity of being the last one picked for any team. And he got endless grief about it from his father as a result.
“Yeah, you’ll make a good soldier,” Jonas said eventually. He really needed a shower now; the sweat was running down the back of his neck.
Perry didn’t look up. “Uh-huh, right,” he said. “You know I suck at sports. I’ve got no muscles, I’ve got no stamina, and I hate games!”
“But you’re, like, a thinker! A strategist,” said Jonas. “The world needs brainiacs way more than it needs musclemen.”
Perry laughed. “The world, maybe!” he said. “But that doesn’t include my father! Or the military academy! How do you think the other cadets are going to treat me when they’re all doing their thirty push-ups and I can only manage three? I’ll collapse halfway through the night marches. I’ll sink in the mud. I won’t be able to climb over their walls … What do you think is going to happen to me there? They’ll … they’ll do …” He thought for a moment. “… what the girls here do to Jenna! I won’t go! I don’t belong there.”
He grabbed his books and was gone.
“That’s it?” Jonas yelled after him. “You’ve been saying that forever! There’s something else, isn’t there, Perry?”
Silence was the only response. With a sigh, Jonas made his way to the showers. It didn’t matter how late he was now. He’d definitely missed her.
Jenna had been afraid that she’d be late for class. Pizza Princess.
As she entered the school building, she could hear muffled sounds. Most of the doors on the ground floor were closed, except at the far end, where a little girl in a very short pleated skirt came darting out of a room, only to disappear again with a startled look as soon as she saw Jenna.
Jenna went upstairs. Art was good. You didn’t have to answer questions in art — you could just keep your head down and concentrate on your own drawing or painting or whatever. The door to the studio was still open, so at least she wasn’t late. She could hear laughter, but then it stopped. A single voice was talking, loud, passionate, and then there was more laughter. She stiffened her shoulders and went in.
Immediately everything went quiet. She tried not to look at anyone, although she could sense that everyone was looking at her.
She put on a couldn’t-care-less expression. I’m Princess of Scandia, she reminded herself once more. A hundred years ago, I could have had them all beheaded.
She put her bag next to a vacant chair and sat down.
Patty, who was sitting on the chair next to her, leaped to her feet. “Eww!” she yelled. “Any spare seats anywhere else?”
Someone giggled. Does eating pizza make you that disgusting? Jenna wondered. This was getting childish.
“There’s no one sitting here,” said Paula. “Come and join me and Rachel.”
Jenna cast her eyes around the room. Now what was up?
In front of the class, next to the teacher’s desk, stood Ylva, surrounded by a group of smiling girls. They were all looking at something in Ylva’s hand.
“Oh, it must have found its way into my bag somehow,” said Ylva, and took a step toward Jenna. But Jenna still couldn’t see what she was holding. “From your bed. Do you sleep with her, Your Highness? I know you’re always kissing the glass, it’s all sticky, and you keep on talking to her … but actually going to bed with her …”
“Ugh!” cried a voice from the crowd.
Ylva raised her hand with fingers delicately poised, as if whatever she was holding was quite disgusting. The girls stepped aside, and now Jenna could see what Ylva had been talking about — though by then she had already guessed.
“Give me the picture,” she said in a hoarse voice.
“Don’t worry, Your Highness,” said Ylva. “You can have her back. Do you think any of us want your little lover-girl? We all prefer boys, just in case you hadn’t noticed!”
She stretched out her arm, offering the photo to Jenna: Bea on the hammock in her backyard, soaking wet in her bathing suit, laughing. In the tense silence, someone scraped a chair.
“Give me the picture,” Jenna said again, and took a step toward Ylva.
“Look out, Ylva, she’s coming after you!” said Patty. Her voice was shrill. The others screeched and laughed, and Jenna saw Ylva open her hand almost carelessly, so that the frame slipped from her hand and fell to the floor, where the glass shattered into a thousand pieces.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Your Highness!” said Ylva. “I went and dropped it! I must try not to be so nervous about you coming to get me. It’s keeping me awake at night, just knowing you’re there in the same room …”
“Eeeek!” cried a dozen voices in mock horror. Someone laughed. On the floor lay the shattered frame and the countless splinters of glass, with Bea’s photo underneath.
“You bitches!” cried Jenna, and bent down. Don’t cry, she told herself. Don’t cry! Don’t give them that satisfaction. She reached for the photo beneath the shards of glass.
“Ooh, she got her GF back!” said someone.
At that moment, a loud voice spoke from the doorway. “Jenna?” said the art teacher. “See me after class. Certain words are strictly forbidden at this school.”
The man had drawn the curtains to keep out the morning sun, and now he sat in the wing chair with his feet resting on his desk. He was exhausted. He needed some peace and quiet. It wasn’t easy constructing a plan of this complexity …
The ringtone from his cell phone startled him out of his reflect
ions. It was his second phone, the one registered in his chauffeur’s name. Who had he given this number to?
“Captain?” said the voice at the other end impatiently. “I haven’t heard from you for days!”
“Ah, Bolström, I should have known it was you,” he said, taking his feet off the desk. “I’m sure you know what I’ve been up to. Or don’t you have newspapers over there under your Brazilian palm trees?”
“Do you really think you’re that important?” said the other man irritably. “Now listen, Captain, Norlin and I are coming back, and don’t try to tell me why we shouldn’t. I know why we should, and that’s what matters most for me.”
“So why should you?”
“You need me,” said Bolström. “Didn’t I manage everything perfectly last time?”
“No, you didn’t! Pretending that the king was dead when really you’d kidnapped him — that was a shrewd move, I’ll grant you. And your miserable little puppet Norlin was an excellent pawn in the game. But the fact that those kids and the rebels were able to …”
“Mistakes were made, I’ll give you that,” Bolström cut him off. “But who would have imagined clumsy little Jenna actually finding out where Magnus was being held? And escaping from us to boot? Fate was against us, Captain, but now we shall put things right. I’m coming back.”
“You’re crazy.”
Bolström laughed. “On the contrary, Captain, on the contrary. Even though your antics may be too insignificant for the newspapers of this wonderful country to report”— he paused and then laughed —“the reforms in Scandia are not. I still own a mine in the north, remember? And a bit of oil. And I’m not prepared to give it all up.”
“I have a mine, too, you know,” said the man. He had stood up now and begun pacing to and fro. A ray of sunshine squeezed between the gap in the curtains and into the room, drawing a bright, shimmering circle on the polished parquet floor. Little grains of dust danced in the light. “And sheep. And oil.” He lit a cigarette as he paced. “But they still belong to me, Bolström, just as yours still belong to you. Even the new government won’t dare take our possessions away from us so soon!”
There was a moment’s silence. “Let’s not talk about what they will and won’t dare do, Captain,” said Bolström eventually. “Let’s talk about what they’ve already done. Look at the schools. Every wretched dark-haired brat in the north now has the same right to education as our sons and daughters in the south! Do you want your son working for some swarthy northerner when he grows up? And then there’s health care. Before we know it, there’ll be doctors all over the north, access to hospitals. And who’s paying for it? Who’s paying for all this, Captain?”
“Calm down, Bolström,” said the man. He dragged on his cigarette. “I know. It’s us paying for it — you, me, and everyone else who’s got more than the northerners think we ought to have. How much do you think I earn on a ton of bauxite or a barrel of oil since the new taxation laws went into effect? Not to mention the price of wool …”
“So why don’t you do something about it?” yelled Bolström. The man held the receiver away from his ear. “Didn’t I tell you what needed to be done? So why don’t you get on with it? All right, I’ve seen on the news that you’re beginning to introduce emergency rations — wonderful, at least you’ve paid some attention! But for the —”
“Bolström,” the man interjected, “will you just listen for a second! We’ve seen to it that all of a sudden there’s no more pork, vegetables, milk, and heaven knows what else. And what you may not have heard, while you lie there sunbathing on the beach in your sunshine state, is that everybody in this country is now convinced that it’s all the fault of the blackheads. Those barbarians are not ready to be in parliament. The press are already accusing them of creating an economic crisis, even though they’re only sharing power.” He gave a snort. “But you don’t care about that, do you? The fact that we’ve got the press on our side … Stupid of the king not to take control of the media last year, when you idiots let him escape — didn’t I say then that a quiet execution would have saved us all a lot of trouble, Bolli? And the blackheads are making the same mistake! It’s incredible! Democracy! Liberty! They really believe in those things! And what’s more —”
The telephone on his desk rang, and he could see from the flashing light that it was his secretary. He held the cell aside and picked up the buzzing receiver in his other hand. “Yes?”
“There’s an urgent matter to attend to,” said the secretary. He always sounded so high-strung and pressured. Why did he put up with him? “Apparently the rebels have launched an attack. An oil pipeline in the north of South Island — fortunately not a vital link —”
“I’m coming,” said the man, and hung up the desk phone.
When he put the cell back to his ear, there was a laugh at the other end. “Yes, that’s all good stuff, Captain, no doubt about it,” Bolström was saying. “The blackheads are naïve. But unfortunately this government has the legal right to stay in power for a long time still, and what do you think —?”
“I’m truly sorry to interrupt you, Bolli. I’d really like to continue this conversation,” said the man. On his way to the door, he opened the curtains, and sunlight flooded the room. “But my secretary is waiting for me. Turn on the news and you’ll see why. So you can stop criticizing us for not doing anything. We’ll resume our little chat at a more suitable time.” He switched off the cell phone without giving Bolström a chance to reply. Who knew when he’d switch it on again? And Bolström wouldn’t dare contact him on any other line.
Or perhaps having Bolström back in Scandia could be useful. Either way, no one could stop him from returning; that man would do what he wanted, regardless. And he had always been the brains behind the southern movement — nobody was as good at summing up situations or planning campaigns.
He hurried downstairs.
The talk with the art teacher had been laughable, and no one ever paid any attention to her, anyway. Teachers weren’t the problem — the other girls were.
If only she’d sent me to the principal’s, thought Jenna, then maybe I could have escaped to detention this afternoon, so I wouldn’t have to go with the other girls on the de rigueur Saturday outing into town — shopping, movies, strolling around, whatever. Those few hours breathing the air of the big, bad world — which in the case of the local town was neither big nor bad — and then back to the snug, safe cocoon of the boarding school. Except that it’s not safe or snug for me.
Of course, she sat by herself on the bus, as she did every week, but today she was more isolated than ever. Not only was the seat next to hers empty, but so, too, were those behind her and on the opposite side of the aisle. Instead, the girls were huddled together in the back. Jenna’s bodyguards sat a few rows behind her, and when the bus stopped in the large parking lot behind the department store to let everyone off and out into their Saturday freedom, Jenna was left alone with them.
She took a deep breath. The bodyguards always stayed a few feet behind her — big, fair-haired, arrogant men, who had learned to act as if they didn’t exist. Maybe we could have a conversation, thought Jenna. At least that would be something different. Hi, guys, what d’you feel like doing today? Maybe they could all go together to the tiny movie theater on Main Street and share a bucket of popcorn, and they’d all laugh afterward about whatever movie they’d seen. But during the first few weeks, she’d tried talking to the bodyguards as if they were her equals and she’d been shocked at their contempt.
And so once again she was on her own. I’m getting to know this town like the back of my hand, thought Jenna. It wasn’t very big, really — there weren’t any big cities in Scandia apart from Holmburg, and toward the north the towns were even smaller.
She could sense the men behind her. So where should she go? Apart from the main strip with the shops and the cinema, there was nothing worth seeing. So Main Street it was. Up and down, up and down, standing for a quarter of an h
our in front of each store window to pass the time. Jenna sighed. She walked from the parking lot to the rear entrance of the one and only department store, right across the ground floor toward the main entrance, which led out onto Main Street. But there was something odd about the place. Was this how it had always looked? She stopped.
Of course. The shelves were bare, and there were no piles of brightly colored goods on the display counters. What’s wrong? Jenna wondered. What have they done with everything? Shortages happen, but the store looked as if it had been looted, or was about to close down.
“But surely you’ve got shampoo!” an elegant lady was saying to the young salesgirl, who was shaking her head in embarrassment. “Any brand! I can’t believe that something as ordinary as shampoo is out of stock, even in this backwater town.” She frowned. “Are you trying to tell me I’ve got to go to Holmburg in order to get some shampoo?”
The young salesgirl turned red, and continued to shake her head.
“I’m afraid it’s not likely to be any better in Holmburg, madam,” an older sales assistant interjected. She had obviously recited her speech to plenty of other disgruntled customers, and spoke in a calm, friendly tone. “We’ve been told by company headquarters that they’re completely out of the same products at the flagship store. Evidently something’s gone wrong with getting raw materials to the factories and finished products to our warehouses. It appears that the government has been unable to coordinate the shipping required. The food situation is the worst of all.”
“Since when has the government been responsible for coordinating the shipment of shampoo?” asked a short man who had just loaded several bottles of laundry detergent into his shopping cart. “What does shampoo have to do with them?!”
