“Is that a thing?” I chuckle.
“Tonight it is,” she says. “We’ve got takeout oxtail with rice and peas.”
“Yum,” I say, my stomach growling, and I momentarily put my whole phone swap freak-out on hold, because, hey, whaddyagonnado?
We catch Zach hunched over the counter getting a head start on dinner.
“Uh-uh.” I swipe the box of fried plantains from him. “Weren’t you just eating cereal a minute ago?”
“That was an hors d’oeuvre.” He mimics the swag-erific way our dad would say it. Dad’s a chef at a country club restaurant, so there are a lot of French culinary terms he says with ’90s homeboy swagger.
“I take it we have to serve and eat the food with our fingers?” jokes Ma, eyeing Zach’s table setup. She gives Zach a playful poke in his side, and he grins like a little boy. I taste a smack of bitterness in their sweet exchange, recalling the times they didn’t get along so well.
“You know, that’s not a bad idea, Yvette,” says John. He reaches across the counter to hand me a few serving spoons to place on the table. “Maybe next week we’ll eat family-style without utensils, like they do in some parts of the majority world.”
“Well, it better be a day Zora’s not working with snot-nosed kids at the center.” Zach makes a grossed-out face that has me forgetting my troubles.
I howl out a laugh, taking a seat across from him. “Holdupwaitaminute! When did Mr. EMT-in-training over here become a bouncer at the germ-free club?”
Ding.
The front doorbell ring is a timely break to this round of verbal sparring.
Our classy one-note doorbell has been missing the “dong” ever since Zach banged his oversized travel trunk against it a few weeks ago. Ma asked him not to carry it from the car on his own, but no.
“Zach, you expecting somebody?” Ma freezes en route to the table, salad bowl in hand.
“Nope.” A trace of oxtail gravy sprays from his mouth.
“Neither am I, if anyone is wondering,” I say. “But I’ll get it.”
“It’s just that we know Skye is out of town,” John explains to me.
“I have more than one friend.” I stop searching the table for my cell phone. Habit. Normally, I don’t make a move without it, even if I’m just going to answer the door.
“Anyone older than ten? All your other friends aren’t tall enough to reach the doorbell,” teases Zach.
“Plenty of mature young people would love to have a friend who knows how to delegate,” I hear Ma say as I head up the entry hallway empty-handed. The poor woman thinks she’s defending me.
“Whose side are you on, Ma?” I shout over my shoulder as I reach for the knob.
I swing open the door, and there standing on our tiny front porch in my Appleton, New Jersey, neighborhood are the Men in Black from campus.
“SORRY TO interrupt,” says the square-jawed man on the left. “We’re trying to locate Mr. Whittelsey’s cell phone. We’ve traced it to this house.”
It takes me a moment. At first I ponder the familiarity of the name, which almost sounds like a professor’s. But, cell phone—
“Mr. Owen Whittelsey,” says the man.
My heart drops to my toes.
What is going on? These are the same Men in Black types I’d seen earlier at the library. What do they have to do with my cell mix-up? Or with Owen? Am I in some kind of trouble?
“Are you the police or something?” I ask. Our neighbor Mr. Stanley is now suspiciously pacing the sidewalk in front of our home. When he catches my eye, he gestures to his phone camera to let me know he’s prepared to start filming at any moment. I give him a weak wave.
“No, Miss,” the man on the right finally speaks. He has the same Landerelian accent as Owen. “We are the royal security assigned to Prince Owen of Landerel.”
“Prince?”
Say what, now? The news literally knocks me back a step. My jaw is hanging off its hinge and practically swinging from the blunt force of shock.
Owen is a prince? Like, a legit prince? As in pick a year, any year—oh, say 1414—and Owen could probably show me what his ancestors were wearing, doing, saying? A legit prince, as in castle-living, crown-wearing, throne-sitting, country-conquering, people-subjugating on repeat … for centuries?
At Appleton High School, we’ve got princesses, royal screw-ups, a few noble souls, and definitely a ruling clique. And sure, I’ve been to Queens. Countless times. But up until now, the closest I’ve ever come to royalty is getting a crown put on my tooth.
I could not be more shocked if I stuck a wet finger in a janky outlet. The guy hanging out in the library, making anonymous wisecracks through bookshelves? My realest human connection at this school was with someone who … is a rightful heir to some throne?
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
Wait. Owen is THAT prince? The thoughts on my mental turntable go zip-zip-zip like a vinyl-record rewind. I recall my mom’s excitement a few months ago when Landerel’s royal wedding announcement made the news. It was reported that one of the princes was engaged to marry a biracial Landerelian woman. People like my mom and her girlfriends have been losing their minds ever since, like “Gah! A brown-girl princess!”
What else? I know the royal family has three brothers. The eldest is already married with kids, the second is the hottie who broke hearts when he recently got engaged. He’s the one I would recognize if I saw him on the street. His face has been all over magazine covers. You can’t stand at a supermarket checkout without catching a glimpse of it.
But the youngest brother? From what I can remember, he was some gangly, awkward eighth grader the last time he made an official appearance that people in the States cared about. That was the Summer Olympics in Landerel four years ago.
“Yes, Prince Owen,” repeats the royal guard, or whatever he is. “Do you have his missing cell phone?”
“Yeah—uh, I—I have it,” I croak.
In a fog, I listen to their concern about privacy, and I answer that I have not accessed his phone details.
“No, we are not under foreclosure.” Ma is on the phone and headed my way. “Nobody is seizing anything. Where did you get that idea—?” Her voice trails off as she eyes the imposing figures in the doorway. John and Zach are right behind her.
“Thank you for the call, Ms. June,” she says to Mr. Stanley’s wife on the other end. “Everything is fine. You have a good evening.” Ma turns to me. “Zora?”
“Ma, there’s been a mix-up, and these men are here for a phone I took by mistake. I’ll go get it,” I say. The truth is, I can’t wait to be alone in my room so I can process this … and maybe scream the shock and confusion into my pillow.
Shaky legs take me upstairs while the security duo talk to my family. When I get back, Zach stands at attention like he’s wearing a suit of armor, John looks like he’s conjuring some calming spell with his hands as he speaks to everyone, but Ma looks like she’s on a game show.
“The actual prince? Ohmygod!” Ma shouts.
But then she looks at my face and back at the security. “Oh my God,” she echoes more ominously, wraps a protective arm around my shoulders, and pulls me close. “Are you accusing our daughter of stealing this phone?”
“We’d just like to know how it is she came to have it in her possession,” the square-jawed guard says as I hand Owen’s cell back to him.
“Wait. Did he tell you it was stolen?” I ask. Forget shocked; now I’m pissed. Who do they think they are, coming to our home and accusing us? Who do they think we are? We’re not their royal subjects, that’s for sure.
The Men in Black glance at each other. Then one of them repeats, “How did you come in contact with it?”
“Zora, you don’t have to answer that.” John holds out his arm like a parking gate barring entry to any more info.
These men are lucky to encounter John and not my biological dad. The “one and only” Kenney Emerson doesn’t do anything low-key wh
en it counts. If he were here, he’d probably shame them for having the nerve to come to our door. Dad loves showing people up for kicks. “Some folks need to be taken down a few notches,” he likes to say.
“I gave you his phone, so I don’t owe you anything else.” I rest my hands on my hips.
“Yo,” says Zach with a gleam in his eyes. “Sounds like they don’t even know where this prince even is.”
Game recognize game, my dad would say. And Zach has played almost every game at one time or another.
No comment from the security duo, except to pardon themselves as they take what looks like an urgent phone call.
“Ma, got anything in your pamphlets about how to handle royal bullies?” Zach shakes his head.
“Gentlemen, I’m afraid I’m going to ask you to get off our property,” says Ma.
The Landerelian man is off the phone now.
“Yes, madam. We would like to extend our deepest apologies for the intrusion. Everything has been sorted.”
“Sounds like they’ve just located the missing prince,” scoffs Zach.
“What about returning my phone?” I ask. “Owen has it.”
“We’ll be more than happy to retrieve and hand-deliver it tomorrow evening at this time, if someone will be home.”
“Another twenty-four hours?” I cry after they’ve gone. Owen had said on the phone that we could meet in the library again. I have to try to find him there tomorrow.
“Keep your head up, Zo,” says Zach.
“John, doesn’t someone from church have a relative who works at Halstead?” Ma is already working her Amen Circuit.
“I’ll give him a call,” says John before he heads to the kitchen.
“Speaking of phones.” Ma looks around. “Where’s the cordless?”
Ugh, I’d forgotten to put it back. A fitting way to end a baffling day. Zach smirks at me. I pick up a white envelope from the mail inbox and wave it in surrender like a flag.
ZACH DROPS me off at the train station the next morning. The whole car ride, he doesn’t seem to suspect anything different about the way I’m acting. But I feel different. Something about me has definitely changed since yesterday.
I wear my usual go-to denim skirt with a tucked-in V-neck tee and my gladiator sandals. But as Zach drives, I consult the mirror for any wayward curls. The early morning humidity has caused my shoulder-length hair to look extra puffy, so I pin up the sides and leave the back down. This new hairstyle makes my deep-set eyes and high cheekbones look even more pronounced somehow. I refresh my magenta lipstick and smooth down the coils of my side-swept bangs before I hop out of Zach’s car.
Once I arrive on campus, I feel even more lost without my phone. How could Owen just leave me flapping in the wind, knowing he’s got his phone and I don’t have mine? For every text I’m missing from Skye, I’m cursing him out under my breath. Skye is spending the summer at her drama-loving relatives’ house in Atlanta, so she probably has tons of juicy updates for me by now.
I take wider strides across campus. The sooner I start my search, the sooner I’ll meet Owen—er, get my phone back. He better show at the library first thing with my phone (and explanations). I was too pissed off last night to call him back for details. Instead, I’d emailed Skye, letting her know I was offline without giving much more info. That was all the headspace I could give to the situation, considering all the homework I brought home last night. And then I’d fallen asleep with my lights on.
I’m greeted by stately archways, ornate iron gates, and centuries-old buildings covered in ivy as I make my way over grassy knolls and around Frisbee-tossing students.
When I get to the same section in the library where I met Owen yesterday, I’m annoyed. There’s no sign of him.
I drag my busted feelings to Grant Writing class, still phoneless. Before everyone else shows, Professor Abdullah takes ten minutes with me to critique the proposal I’ve started writing for Walk Me Home funding. I show her the books I’ve picked up at the library, and she bookmarks a few proposals I can model mine on. After our discussion, I feel like I have a solid plan B and C in case I don’t win that grant money at the Gala. My professor seems to think I’m on the right track, too. She even calls me out during class. In a good way.
“For example, Zora’s chosen focus is Appleton, New Jersey, because of the connection she has to the city as her hometown.”
Of course, this info piques It Girl’s curiosity in me again. Right at the end of class, she and the whale-logo-wearing friend walk up to me. I’m so ready to shut her down. I need to get back to the library to look for Owen again.
“Wasn’t Appleton recently in the news for their disproportionate number of misdemeanors?” she asks randomly.
It was a sample study in a tiny section of the city, but whatever.
“Not every person in Appleton is intimately familiar with the back of a squad car,” I tell her.
“Zora Emerson?” I turn around to see a campus officer in the classroom doorway. “I’m Officer Kirkwood. Do you have a moment to discuss yesterday’s events?”
I might as well be in a dentist’s chair for all the discomfort I feel right now. In any case, It Girl’s voice is as piercing as a tooth drill.
“My, my, how awkward is this?”
Everyone has paused in their book gathering and has their eyes glued on me, or at least that’s how it feels.
I’ve seen this particular cop before. He always gives me a slight nod when he sees me in passing. I can’t get over how much he reminds me of my uncle Roland—the heavy eyelids, the ample forehead.
I will not be shamed. I refuse. Why is he here talking to me rather than His Holy Majesty in Honor?
“Have you reached out to Owen Whittelsey?” I ask. “He’s the one who has my phone.”
My words suck the air out of the room for a few seconds before it comes whooshing back, blowing eavesdroppers’ minds.
Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t have name-dropped. And, okay, I’ll admit that a large part of my flexing is an attempt to save face.
But It Girl and Whale Logo Guy each raise an eyebrow and loiter to watch my exchange with the officer. They might as well be munching on popcorn right now.
“We can discuss this at the station and include the other party. I’m here to help resolve this situation,” says Uncle-Officer.
This time I know all eyes are on me as I take what appears to be a perp walk to the police station. I’m sure they expect nothing less.
“Prince Owen of Landerel is here under VIP protection, and his privacy is of the utmost importance to the university,” explains Uncle-Officer on our walk to the campus police station. “Just be aware that during those times he can’t be located, his security can track him to his phone.”
I nod.
“I understand your family’s concern, so I’ll be sure this is settled quickly,” he says.
Aha. Ma’s Amen Circuit on 100. I instantly feel more at ease.
“The university won’t keep a record of this incident, unless you file a report,” Uncle-Officer says. “If you’d like, you can exchange contact information with Prince Owen, in the event you discover something wrong with your phone.”
I nod.
The same Men in Black from last night are waiting for us at the police station. Officer Kirkwood ushers us to a private room.
“Is Ms. Emerson’s phone present?” Uncle-Officer asks the Men in Black as soon as he closes the door.
As if on cue, the prince himself walks in, visibly upset at his security people. His face softens the second we lock eyes.
Owen looks way different than I expected. Far from the lanky kid of four years ago, he is lean but muscular. His angular face is dotted with a few freckles, and poking out from his vintage baseball cap are strands of ginger hair. His entire vibe is not at all stuffy, but approachable. Relatable. Cool, even. He looks like he’d feel right at home either traveling by subway or by yacht. And I can’t stand myself for noticing all these details i
n the span of seconds.
“Zora, I’m sorry,” he says, looking right at me. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“But it did happen,” I mumble under my breath as I snatch my cell phone he’s handing me. I just want to go home.
“Is there anything I can do to make things right?” he asks, searching my face.
“Oh, so now you want to make things right?” I fume, loud and clear this time. “Not before you have security show up at my home, or before you decide not to show up at the library, or—oh yeah, before I get a police escort from my class?”
“I am so sorry you went through that,” Owen says, sounding truly regretful.
“You know, for all your talk about the burdens of being privileged, you sure know how to use that privilege to get yours.”
Owen looks at me pleadingly. “Please know that my security went to your house without my knowledge,” he says quietly. “I would never have asked them to do that.”
Even though I’m relieved to hear this, it’s all too much to process right now.
“Well, you need to get on the same page with them, because what they did was intrusive,” I say.
“My deepest apologies to your family,” says Owen. “It’s my fault for not being forthcoming with my security team. I will keep them better informed in the future. If I may have the honor to see you again, things will be different.”
He wants to see me again?
I resist this distraction and command myself to hold firm. Refusing to acknowledge Owen any further, I thank Uncle-Officer and blow right past Owen out the door. I keep going, speed walking across campus, until I reach the train station so I can head home. At some point, Prince Owen gives up on following me with apologies. I can’t remember exactly where.
IT’S A sweet reunion with my phone! But I’m not going to front. On that train ride home, I Google the heck out of Owen.
Oh, the images. And the stories.
That Owen is a busy prince. Travel, parties, girls. So many girls. No wonder I got that angry phone call on his cell yesterday; I’m surprised there weren’t more. The Landerelian rumor mill has him linked to actresses, singers—you name it. And to back up the claims, they have the pictures of him hanging out with them. At the beach. On party buses. In selfies.
Truly Madly Royally Page 3
