Romancing the Throne

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  Mistress McGuire

  Damn it. Now McGuire is doing surprise dorm checks?

  I change into my practice clothes and then book it down to the field.

  Despite hurrying as quickly as I can, it’s still already past seven when I get there: seven oh three, to be precise. The locker room is already empty, and I run onto the track, trying to fall in line behind the other girls.

  “I see you, Weston,” bellows Wilkinson. “Don’t think you’re fooling me by sneaking in with the other girls.”

  “Sorry, Coach,” I call, putting on a big show of running even faster to try to overtake the pack. After a few minutes of full-throttle running, I have to stop, standing on the sidelines to try to catch my breath.

  Wilkinson glares at me. “Weston, I’ll deal with you after practice. Get back out there.”

  It’s a rather uneventful practice, although I almost trip once or twice from tiredness. Once we’re done running, I wait on the sidelines for her to come talk to me, but she’s ignoring me, talking to the assistant coach and going over their clipboard. I walk back into the locker room with the rest of the girls and hope maybe it’ll blow over.

  No luck. As I’m wrapping tape around my knee, Coach Wilkinson comes barreling into the locker room. “Weston,” she barks. “Come with me.”

  I set the tape down in my locker, looking warily at the other runners. They’re all averting their eyes. I follow Wilkinson into her office and close the door. It’s just my luck that she’s my coach again this term for track.

  “Are you kidding me with this?” she asks.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “This morning was the fifth time you’ve been late to practice this year. Five times!”

  “But I’ve only been late once,” I protest.

  “Are you delusional? You don’t get a clean slate after the holidays. No way. I’m still paying attention. I don’t give a damn which sport you’re playing. You’ve been late for me five times since school began. That’s unacceptable. It’s disrespectful and demonstrates a complete disregard for not just me but for your fellow athletes. Do you think your time is more valuable than ours?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “No,” I say, this time louder.

  “‘No, Coach.’ And I don’t believe you. That’s not what your actions tell me. Your actions tell me that you don’t give a good goddamn about anybody’s time but your own. Seven a.m. doesn’t mean seven a.m. It means being in the locker room at six forty-five, ready to go, suiting up, taping your knee, or doing whatever it is you need to do to run. Showing up at seven oh five means you’re not on the track and ready to go until seven oh eight, and then we’re all having to stand around with our thumbs up our asses waiting for Lady Charlotte to grace us with her beloved presence. It ends today.”

  I’m not used to being on the receiving end of this type of rant, even when my parents are at their angriest. The difference between my parents and Mistress Wilkinson, obviously, is that my parents love me. Wilkinson is looking at me like I’m a cockroach on the bottom of her shoe.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t believe you. You were sorry the last four times you were late. This is it, Weston. I’m done.”

  I look at her blankly.

  “If you’re late one more time, and I mean fifteen seconds late, you’re off the team.”

  “But that’s not fair!” I protest.

  “It is the very definition of fair. You’re not the only athlete out there, and it’s not fair to hold up fifteen other girls just because one of them can’t tell time. I need you to step up, and I mean pronto, or you’re done.”

  I slink out of her office feeling a pressure in my chest. I want to scream or cry or throw something, but instead I head directly to the showers, hoping a hot one will calm me down.

  I’m sudsing up, fuming about Mistress Wilkinson, when I hear two girls talking by the lockers in low voices.

  “She really needs to get her shit together,” says one girl with a Scottish accent. It sounds like Sasha, one of the distance runners. “I’m sick of her waltzing into practice ten minutes late and acting like it’s no big deal. The rest of us manage to get there on time.”

  “I’m not even a morning person and I’m there five minutes early,” says another. Sounds like Katherine, a sprinter.

  “Charlotte’s put her foot in it this time.”

  The voices are getting louder as the two girls walk into the shower. They freeze when they see me.

  “Oh. Charlotte. Hiya . . . ,” says Sasha.

  “Um, did you just . . . we were just . . . ,” says Katherine.

  I grab my towel with as much dignity as I can muster and pick up my shower caddy, sailing past them without a word.

  Once I’m back in the locker room, however, I start crying. I wipe the hot tears away from my cheeks, trying to pull myself together as I slide into my school uniform. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror by the door as I’m about to exit onto the quad—my nose is red and my cheeks are blotchy.

  After classes, I go to the dining hall to grab a furtive lunch. It’s a typical slushy, freezing February day. I promise myself I won’t look, but I can’t help but sneak a peek at my old table. They’re all there: India, Alice, Flossie, Tarquin, David, Oliver, Georgie, Libby, and Edward. They’re laughing as David pounds his fists on the table, bellowing something unintelligible from across the room. Even Libby is in stitches, wiping the tears away from her eyes, and looking perfectly at home with all of them as they laugh at David’s usual antics.

  Libby looks over at me, as if sensing my presence. We lock eyes for several seconds, and she raises her hand as if to say hi. I’m about to take a step forward, to finally go talk to her and clear the air, when I see Edward put his hand on her arm, still laughing at David. My stomach clenches at the intimacy between them. I wonder what their relationship is like. Have they slept together yet? What do they do when they hang out? Does he like her weird sense of humor? It makes me sad that Libby has a boyfriend now and I haven’t even talked to her about it.

  I turn and walk away.

  Over the weekend, things get even worse. I’m exiting the library on Saturday night, lost in my thoughts, when I run into my friends. They’re all laughing and chatting away.

  “Charlotte!” Libby says.

  Georgie looks guilty.

  I look back and forth between everybody. India looks particularly embarrassed, as if she’s been caught with the enemy.

  “Hi,” she says. “We were just . . .”

  “Donatella,” I say. “I get it. No worries.” I remember mentioning to India this morning that I’d be skipping dinner tonight to study. They must have put it together last minute, since we’ve been eating our dinners together in the dining hall on Saturday night this term. Libby and Edward are almost always off campus together on the weekend.

  “Sorry,” Edward says, in a quieter voice.

  “We should have invited you,” India says.

  Libby and I are staring at each other. Is this what it’s come to? My friends sneaking around behind my back? Even India letting it happen?

  My chest tightens. “Gotta go,” I say. “Later.”

  I push past them, holding my books close to my chest for warmth. As I walk away, I realize that Libby’s birthday is coming up in April, and for the first time in forever, I don’t know how she’s spending it. It presses heavily on my heart. I hurry away from them so they won’t see the tears welling up in my eyes.

  “Wait!” Libby says.

  I turn around. “Yes?”

  “Do you want to come with us? We’re going over to Snog Point. Maybe we can all have some wine together?”

  As I look at everybody, I’ve never felt like more of an outsider.

  “That’s okay,” I say. “Don’t want to crowd you all.”

  A few days later, I get a note in my mailbox. It’s from Master Kent. He wants to meet with me today at three p.m. in his offi
ce, during my free period.

  As soon as I sit down, I know I’m in trouble.

  His office both looks and smells expensive. The walls are a kelly green with rugby photos on the walls. Behind a large oak desk, he sits, wearing a navy blazer. His cheeks are pink, his wavy hair is brown and deeply parted, and I catch my reflection in the unrimmed glasses framing his blue eyes. There’s a gold signet ring on the pinkie finger of his left hand.

  “Charlotte,” he says, his white teeth glinting in the spring sunlight. “How are things?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  “Are they? I’ve been hearing troubling reports. Professor Dark said you failed your most recent maths exam.”

  “I did.”

  “And Professor Carle indicated that you’ve been having trouble in literature recently.”

  “I wouldn’t call it trouble,” I mutter.

  “Mistress Wilkinson says you’ve been late to practice several times.”

  “Only a minute or two.” I wish I could sink into the ground.

  “And finally, Mistress McGuire has reported you for sneaking out during bed checks. Arabella Whiteley came to her and has seen you running through the campus grounds late at night on several occasions and has reported you for drinking wine.”

  I don’t say anything.

  He rests his chin on his knuckles, looking like Rodin’s The Thinker.

  “What’s going on, Charlotte?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you,” he says kindly.

  “Well, there’s not anything. Sir.”

  “Everybody stumbles on occasion, and I’m aware that the academic environment at Sussex Park is extremely competitive. It can lead to difficulties for even the most gifted student. I’ve spoken with your teachers, and they all report differences in your behavior. Not only have you repeatedly been late to class, you’ve been failing exams and have had a sharp decline in participation. You’ve always been an enthusiastic participant in student life, and your change in behavior has been noticed.”

  My cheeks feel hot. “And?”

  “It’s perplexing.”

  I fold my arms.

  “Between your field hockey performance last term and your declining marks this term, you’re jeopardizing your chances of getting into a good university.”

  “I’m having a rough patch.”

  “If it were just one class, it wouldn’t be ideal, but I’d understand. But you’re demonstrating a drop in participation and preparedness across the board. You’re one of our most promising bright lights, Charlotte.”

  As we look at each other, I feel like he’s trying to burrow inside my soul. I stiffen in defense, narrowing my eyes.

  He continues, “With your athletic promise, a scholarship has always been your best chance for a place at a top-tier university. Several of your professors have remarked on your previous desire to attend Exeter or Durham—or maybe even St. Andrews, like your father. I think those are commendable goals, but only achievable if you buckle down.” He leans in, placing his hands on the table. “It’s almost March and we have only a few months left in the year. I’m going to be quite blunt: if you don’t turn things around, and quickly, your chances at getting into a good university are in jeopardy. You must right the ship for the sake of your future. Otherwise, you’ll be looking back on this moment fifteen years from now with deep regret.”

  He waits for me to respond. My chest feels tight and my heart is pounding.

  “I’ll try to do better, sir.”

  He leans back in his chair, exhaling sharply. Disappointment is etched into his face.

  “I see.” He’s quiet for several seconds, looking at me over the rims of his glasses. Finally, he says, “We’ll have to call home to your parents to keep them abreast of the situation.”

  I close my eyes.

  “I understand it’s distressing,” he says, “but we must get you back on track.”

  “Do you have to call my parents?” I ask. “Isn’t there another way?”

  “You’re a shining star, Charlotte. It would be a shame to see you burn out.” He dismisses me, and I walk back into the waiting room in a daze.

  eighteen

  The following day, my mother shows up on campus. I’m shocked to see her—I was expecting a screaming phone call, not her arriving in person. She must have cleared her schedule to come down.

  Which means I’m in serious trouble.

  “What is the meaning of all this?” she demands once we’re settled in the small, heated back garden of a tea shop on the high street. Even though it’s freezing, she takes off her woolen coat, as if preparing for battle.

  “Mum, it’s nothing. They’re just blowing things out of proportion. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

  “Master Kent emailed me your transcripts, as well as reports from all your professors. These are going in your permanent file, Charlotte. Stop downplaying. It’s an enormous deal.”

  I look away, taking a sip of my tea. It burns the roof of my mouth, and I make a huge show of it. “Ow! I burned myself!”

  My mother ignores me. “I had to reschedule five meetings to come down here. We’re in the middle of shipping our autumn inventory. Do you understand what that means?”

  “Sorry to ruin your busy day.”

  “Enough. What’s gotten into you? They tell me you’ve been skipping class left and right, sneaking off campus, playing hockey drunk, screaming at your teachers—my God, the list goes on.”

  “It was the hockey coach, not a teacher,” I say quietly.

  “And what’s worse, you don’t seem to care. Do you understand that this will affect your chances of getting into a good university?”

  “Well, at least you have Libby to fall back on. Her future is set.”

  My mother regards me with narrow eyes. “Is this about Libby and Edward?”

  “I don’t give a shit about Libby and Edward.”

  “Language!”

  “Thank God you have one perfect child. Too bad I’m messing up all your plans for the future.”

  “Stop it!” Mum says, looking horrified. “Why are you saying that?”

  “Because it’s true. I heard Dad over Christmas, talking to you and Nana about how much smarter Libby is than me. How you aren’t worried for Libby’s future but you’re worried for mine. I get it—I’m a dummy, and my only shot at a good future is getting into a good university through sport.”

  Mum scoots her chair so close that I can smell her perfume, the same one she’s worn since I was a kid. “You’re breaking my heart. Nobody thinks you’re a dummy. I’m so proud of you—I always have been. We’ve never needed to worry about you.”

  “Not till now, right? I’ve messed up my year, and now it seems I’m messing up my whole life. Did you know that my friends have basically ditched me? I get stabbed in the back, and yet somehow I’m the pariah.”

  Mum looks bothered. “I know I can’t make you forgive Libby for what she did to you. But she’s your sister, darling. You can’t ignore her forever.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” I say. “You cut out Aunt Kat. What’d she do that was so much worse?”

  Mum looks away. “There are things you don’t understand, Charlotte. My relationship with your aunt is complicated.”

  “So is my relationship with Libby.”

  Mum sighs. “I wish you would forgive her. It was a regrettable thing and Libby didn’t handle it well. I agree with you. But by trying to punish her, you’re only hurting yourself.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “It is what it is.”

  “Fine,” Mum says, reaching into her handbag and pulling out a sheaf of papers. “That brings us to the other matter at hand. Can you explain these?” They’re credit card statements.

  I take the stack of papers, my heart pounding as I leaf through them. “Credit card statements?”

  “Here,” Mum says, taking them back. She runs a manicured finger down a page, stopping on a highlighted line.
“Selfridges: two thousand pounds. And another one.” Down the page her finger goes, stopping on another item highlighted with yellow marker. “Il Carpaccio: one hundred pounds.” She looks stern. “First of all, you know you’re not allowed to go into London without asking me and your father.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And secondly—two thousand pounds on clothes? One hundred pounds on dinner? This is unacceptable, Charlotte.”

  “It’s not like you don’t have the money,” I say, feeling sullen.

  “That is not the point. Your father and I have tried to instill good values in you, but you’re acting as if having a credit card is a right, not a privilege.”

  I shrug.

  “Unfortunately, until you start taking some responsibility for your actions, we’re going to have to cancel your credit cards.”

  I stare at her. “What? But that’s not fair! How will I eat?”

  “We pay for the school meal plan. You can get everything you need from the dining hall. You’ll be just fine.”

  “But what about coffees? What about going into town?”

  Mum looks at me, her expression sour. “What about it? You’re going to have to stop until you get your grades up and demonstrate to your father and me that you can handle it.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “We can and we already have. Your cards are cut off.”

  I stand up, my chair scraping loudly against the cement patio. “Why isn’t anybody on my side?”

  “Darling, it’s not about sides. Your father and I love you, but it’s time to start acting like an adult.”

  “Well, what do I need to do to get the cards back?”

  Mum is silent for a second, pondering. “You can get a job this summer.”

  “A job? Like, at a coffee shop?”

  “No, like an internship. Summer’s nearly here, and I don’t want you to spend another two months lying by the pool and shopping, like last year.”

  “And if I get a job, you’ll turn my credit cards back on?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Even though it’s only March, I swallow my pride and start applying for jobs online immediately: temp positions, the front desk girl at the Spread Eagle in Midhurst, a boat hand on a day cruise off Portsmouth. After a week of trying, however, nobody has bothered to get back to me. It seems there’s not a booming job market for seventeen-year-old girls with no quantifiable skills.