Romancing the Throne

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  It’s been a rough game to cap a rough weekend. The group took cabs back to campus after breakfast, and I’ve been downing coffee ever since to sober up. It’s not working—I’m still exhausted and have missed goals and passes at every turn, stumbling over routine plays and fumbling with my stick as if I’m a rookie. It’s not normally so difficult for me to snap my head back into the game. Then again, I’ve never played hungover before.

  My stomach churns. I feel like I might vomit.

  “What’s with you?” Flossie hisses to me. She points the butt of her stick at me accusingly. “You’re a mess out there.”

  I look at my stick doubtfully—as if it’s the problem, not me. “My head is killing me.”

  “So?”

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Don’t. Snap out of it. You’re a disaster out there.” Flossie is wildly competitive.

  “I know,” I say, irritated. “You don’t need to tell me.”

  Wilkinson blows her whistle. “Weston!” she bellows.

  As soon as I see the look on her face, I want to sink into the ground. I jog over to the sidelines.

  “Are you hungover?” she demands.

  “No.”

  “One of the girls told me you got wasted last night.”

  “Who said that?”

  “So it’s true.”

  “It’s not.”

  “I can smell the booze on you. You’re a walking distillery.”

  “Not sure why. I wasn’t drinking,” I lie.

  She narrows her eyes, leaning in so close I can see the freckles on her weathered cheeks. “Look. I’m not your mommy. You and I both know you’re not allowed to drink, but I don’t care what you do in your spare time. You wanna get wasted on wine coolers and warm beer? Be my guest.”

  I’m not in the mood for a lecture. I just want to get back out there and make this right.

  “But I’ve got a problem when your after-hours shenanigans start affecting my game.” She leans closer. The crow’s-feet around her eyes make her look like a shriveled lemon. “I don’t wake up at five a.m. for fun. I’m out here with you day in and day out, and the least you could do is show some respect—for me and for yourself. You’ve missed four passes. You’ve cost us several points. You got in Corrie’s way when she was lining up that shot. Is this your idea of a good time?”

  “No.”

  “What? I can’t hear you.”

  “No,” I say more loudly.

  “You want to screw up things for yourself—go nuts. But when you put my team on the line, I get pissed.”

  I sigh. “Okay, Coach.”

  “I don’t like your attitude!” she yells.

  “Okay. Sorry.”

  She looks at me sourly. Finally, after a pause of several seconds, she nods curtly. “Get it together.”

  I race back to the center of the field. Everybody is standing in a circle waiting for me.

  “Coach wants to make me the team punching bag.”

  I expect sympathetic looks, but everybody glares at me.

  “What?”

  Flossie rolls her eyes. “Seriously? You’re all over the place, you’re still hungover, and you were late to the game. Don’t expect us to give you a free pass because it was your birthday yesterday.”

  “You’re the one who threw me a party last night!”

  “And you’re the one who chose to get plastered.”

  “You were also late to practice twice last week,” one of the girls, a tall senior named Megan, pipes up.

  I look at her hard, hoping my stare will make her flinch. It doesn’t. “You all feel this way? You’re all annoyed?”

  They look back and forth between one another, but nobody says anything.

  I set my jaw, massively irritated. “Well, none of you are scoring, either.”

  More looks.

  “Okay. Whatever. Let’s just start scoring.”

  We break the circle as the ref throws the ball in. I launch myself after it, dashing around the players from Norfolk, trying to play the hurt and anger away.

  I run down the field, catching my cleat on a mound of grass and tripping. My head is seriously killing me. Behind me I hear somebody mutter, “Looks like Her Royal Highness is blowing it.”

  “If she’s not careful, she might smear her makeup,” somebody else says.

  I whip around, glaring. “What?”

  I try to figure out who said it, but everybody looks at the ground innocently as we line up again for the ball.

  “If you have something to say to me, then say it to my face,” I say, throwing my shoulders back and jutting out my chin. I look from person to person, but nobody says a word. One of the Norfolk players smirks at me.

  I look up in the stands, where Libby, Edward, and India are all watching the game. Edward looks dismayed.

  Flossie snaps her fingers at me. “C’mon, Charlotte. Shake it off.”

  I run back on the pitch without responding to her.

  The referee throws the ball in and I race across the field. I’m determined to take all this energy and channel it. I try my hardest to score, hoping to salvage the game, but all my passes miss, all my shots go wide.

  “Weston!” Wilkinson screams at me again.

  I run over to the sidelines, pulling out my mouth guard and bending over, placing my hands on my knees as I struggle to catch my breath.

  “Get it together!” she yells. “You’re a disgrace out there!”

  “Okay! God, I get it. Stop yelling at me!” I shout back. “I’m trying!”

  “WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME?”

  I open my mouth to protest, and Wilkinson yells, “Get off my field! You’re out!”

  Up in the stands, everybody’s whispering and giving me disappointed looks. Libby’s face is concerned, but Edward’s face is blank. I notice a few people nearby turning and looking at him, as if to see his reaction to my temper. India puts her hand on his arm but he shakes it off.

  The referee blows his whistle as my teammates run back onto the field without me. Game on.

  In the locker room after the match, I stand under the hot water, letting it run off my shoulders. I stand there for what feels like hours, thinking back on the day.

  My team lost. The final score was 0–5.

  What’s worse, I completely lost my cool—and everybody saw it.

  “What is with Charlotte? She’s a complete wreck.”

  My back stiffens as I try to make out the whispered voices.

  “She hasn’t been herself recently. I think Edward might be cheating on her with her sister.” That’s Flossie.

  “With that new girl Libby? You think?” I can’t place the voice—maybe Megan.

  “Wouldn’t you be humiliated? You land Edward and then he only wants to hang out with your sister? Cringe. How embarrassing.”

  My bottle of shower gel falls from my hands and lands with a thud against the tiles. I freeze.

  Neither of the girls seems fazed.

  “Whatever’s going on with her, she needs to figure it out. She was wasted on the field today. And the way she yelled at Coach? It’s going to ruin her reputation. I thought she was smarter than that.” Flossie again.

  “I don’t know. I feel sorry for her,” says the other girl. “It’s got to be tough.” A locker slams and the voices begin to fade.

  “Tough or not, she . . .”

  They exit the locker room and I can’t hear them anymore.

  I stand in the shower, water pooling around my feet, looking dumbly at the opposite wall.

  After I’m done getting dressed, I swallow my pride and text Edward while walking back to my residence hall. He left immediately following the game, and I didn’t have a chance to talk to him.

  ME: Having the worst day. Still totally hungover. Wanna stop by Colvin? Could really use a hug after that game.

  I stare at the phone, feeling a rush of relief as the ellipses start. He’s responding.

  But then the ellipses stop.
>
  After dinner, Colvin Hall comes alive. The halls hum with the sound of laughter and iPhones blaring dance music. Officially, Sussex Park has a mandatory study period from seven to nine p.m., but only the underclassmen get held to it. Instead of staying in our rooms, the girls of Colvin slide in and out of friends’ rooms and the common room, dressed down in yoga leggings and with hair messily tied in topknots.

  Usually, India’s room is the hub. Tonight, my room’s the designated hangout. India left campus after the game, doing something that none of us was able to piece together. I think she might have a new girlfriend.

  She’s as mysterious as Edward sometimes.

  He wasn’t at dinner, and he still hasn’t responded to my text. But while I previously felt sad and confused about the past couple of weeks, being ignored by him gives me clarity.

  I’m not sad anymore. Now I’m angry.

  I open a bottle of white wine, hiding it in a cabinet in case Arabella or McGuire makes a surprise appearance—unlikely, but always possible. I’ve also put a pack of Camel Blues and an ashtray under the bed and have placed a fan near the door blowing toward the open window. Libby is stuck in the library, finishing up an English assignment due tomorrow.

  I change out of my day clothes into something suitably loungy: a pair of black leggings and a Rolling Stones concert T-shirt I bought in London last year at a posh thrift shop. Everything was so expensive it might as well have been brand-new.

  Flossie and Alice are the first to stop by, wearing shrunken Sussex Park sweatpants and T-shirts that show off their bums and tummies.

  “What a weekend!” Alice says, pouring herself a huge glass of wine and sinking onto my bed. “I’m knackered!” She resembles a small hummingbird.

  “What have you got to be tired about?” Flossie asks. “You’re not the one who has to wake up at the crack every day for field hockey.” She shoots me a glance but doesn’t say anything else.

  “Yes, but I’ve decided to give up coffee. It’s got too many toxins, apparently.”

  “That’s stupid,” Flossie says. “Coffee is good for you.”

  “Coffee is not good for you. That’s a fact. Right, Charlotte?”

  “I couldn’t survive without at least three cups a day. But, yeah, you may be right. It’s probably not that good for you.” I shrug. “Life’s too short to worry about that, don’t you think?”

  “Besides, if you’re really worried about toxins, you should give up wine, too,” Flossie points out.

  “Now that’s stupid,” Alice says.

  “Whatever. How are you feeling now?” Flossie asks me. “Better?”

  I frown. “I’m fine. Nothing a handful of paracetamol and some water couldn’t cure.”

  “Coach went pretty hard on you.”

  “Yeah.” I pause, debating whether to complain or apologize. “But I deserved it.” Flossie nods, and I see a hint of respect on her face.

  “How’s Edward?” Flossie asks. “He seemed annoyed after the game.”

  “I haven’t seen him. I texted him, but he hasn’t texted back.”

  “Hmm. That’s odd. What about Libby? Have you spoken since last night?” she asks, lowering her voice. “She has a lot of nerve, if you ask me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Flossie and Alice exchange looks.

  “The party?” Flossie says. “Weren’t you upset by the way she was hanging on Edward?”

  “She wasn’t hanging on him—they were just talking. I was drunk and wasn’t seeing clearly.”

  They look at each other meaningfully.

  “If you’ve got something to say, just say it.”

  “It’s not really our place . . . ,” Flossie says.

  “We’re just looking out for you . . . ,” Alice says.

  “It’s the kind of thing I’d like to know . . .”

  “But I’m sure we’re wrong . . .”

  My heart starts pounding. “Let me get this straight. You think there’s something going on between the two of them—for real?”

  They exchange another look.

  “What do I know?” Flossie says, shrugging. “I wouldn’t be comfortable with it, but . . . I could be totally off base.” She doesn’t look convinced.

  The room gets more crowded as other girls stop by, but I barely hear the chitchat about classes and other students.

  “Did you see Marcy Lawrence in chapel last week?” Alice says. “I think she was stoned.”

  Sara Gibson looks around as if the room is bugged. “I heard she’s not just smoking weed. I heard she’s doing real drugs.”

  “What—like cocaine?” Flossie says. “That’s so naff. Nobody does coke anymore.”

  “Other things, too, though,” Sara says, nodding and sipping her wine. “Like Molly.”

  As everybody slips into a conversation about party drugs, I’m completely zoned out. I feel humiliated—clearly everybody’s been talking about Edward and Libby behind my back.

  My mind is racing through all the possibilities.

  If Libby and Edward are hooking up behind my back, I will never forgive them.

  “And don’t even get me started on heroin,” says Sara as Libby comes in the room. “It’s trendy now, if you can believe it.”

  Libby looks shocked. “What kind of conversation am I walking into? Heroin at Sussex Park?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” I say, frowning at her. “Sara’s talking about teenagers in bad towns. Nobody here is doing heroin.”

  “How was I supposed to know what you were talking about? I just got here.”

  I roll my eyes. “Have some wine,” I say, thrusting the bottle toward her.

  Flossie and Alice exchange another look.

  “So, Libby, where were you?” Flossie says.

  “I was doing homework—I’m drowning in it.”

  “Alone?” I ask, studying her face carefully.

  She looks confused. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Have you seen Edward?” Flossie asks. “He hasn’t texted Charlotte back all day.”

  “Oh.” She flushes, turning to me. “I saw him in the library when you texted. He had to go to Windsor at the last minute, but I wouldn’t take it personally, Lotte—he seemed really stressed about everything.”

  My heart sinks as my face burns, too—blushing deeply during tense situations is a family trait we share. Libby and Edward? It can’t be true. Can it? “Okay,” I say coldly.

  “Are you feeling better?” Sara asks. “I heard you were a wreck on the hockey field. Everybody’s talking about it.”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” I snap.

  Sara turns to Libby. “I love your dress!” I glare at her. She’s clueless.

  “Oh, thank you so much.” Libby fans out the black-and-white polka-dot skirt.

  “I don’t recognize it,” Flossie says. “Where’d you get it?”

  “I bought it online. Do you like it?” she asks anxiously. “I probably should have asked Charlotte before I purchased. I was taking a risk. It looked like a dress I saw in Elle.”

  “Cute.”

  “Good.” She looks pleased. “Fashion doesn’t come as naturally to me as it does to all of you.”

  “I don’t know,” Flossie says, taking a sip of her wine and exchanging a look with me. “This all seems to be coming rather naturally to you, indeed.”

  After everybody leaves, I try to get some maths homework done, but I can’t bring myself to concentrate. I keep looking at my phone to see if Edward has replied.

  Nothing. He’s never gone this long without responding. I’m clearly not a priority.

  And what is this nonsense about him rushing off campus but still having time for a cozy chat with Libby? It takes two seconds to respond to a text.

  How dare he ignore me?

  The fury inside me is coming to a boil. Sooner or later, I’m bound to explode.

  thirteen

  Every Monday morning, the entire school congregates in the chapel for mandatory convocation. Teachers m
ake announcements. Clubs put on skits to bring attention to their fund-raisers or to drum up membership. Students make impassioned pleas for the social justice cause of the moment.

  Once again, I’m running late, so I text Libby to go on without me. I’m so hurried that I barely have time to apply makeup, swiping an eye-shadow brush back and forth across my lids and making a quick slash with my eyeliner. Before I enter the chapel, I remind myself to calm down and take a breath. I run my fingers under my eyes to make sure there’s no smeared eyeliner or goop in my inner corners, and then smooth my damp hair back, slicking it into a neat ponytail.

  My humiliating performance on the field against Norfolk feels like a distant memory. Instead, I’m laser focused on one thing: confronting Edward. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m determined to talk to him today. He should be comforting me and making sure I’m okay after yesterday—not ignoring me. We never spend any time together anymore and I’m sick of this hot and cold.

  No guy treats me this way. I don’t care if he’s a prince.

  I sneak into the chapel, finding a seat in the back. Master Kent walks to the front of the lectern, jabbing the air with his pointer finger as he addresses the student body.

  “This year,” he booms in his plummy tones, “we’ll be taking up the theme of giving back. It’s critical to think of your fellow humans—less a responsibility and more of a privilege for most in this room.” He gives a rousing speech about the importance of charity, both in our local community and the world at large. He flashes his megawatt smile throughout the speech.

  As Master Kent talks, I scour the room for my friends. They’re all seated together a few rows up. Edward is next to Libby.

  Libby leans over to Edward and whispers something in his ear. He whispers something back. She responds, nodding emphatically.

  I study my boyfriend and my sister with narrowed eyes. This ends now.

  Suddenly, my phone pings with a text.

  EDWARD: hi! So sorry for radio silence yesterday, had a busy night with family stuff. really sorry you were having a bad day—hope you’re feeling better now? See you after chapel? Xxx

  Is he pity-texting me because Libby told him to?

  Oh, hell, no.

  After the assembly, I wait outside for my friends to exit. Flossie walks out first, a bored look on her face.