Outside the window, there are more electric poles than trees, and more city buses than fancy coaches. We are now a world away from Halstead University, and it seems like layers of expectations are peeling away. Even the passengers shift from a cautious, reserved demeanor to a more relaxed, unrehearsed one. A couple in their twenties hold an animated conversation in Spanish, the conductor exits his hidden compartment to chat with a dude I recognize from my light-rail stop. A girl no older than Anaya smacks her gum as she speaks to her two moms, her little hands and wiry neck flowing to the rhythm of her storytelling. I feel safe and at home. I don’t have to play a role for this Halstead audience of one.
“We’re about to go through a tunnel. I will lose you, so I’ll need to hang up now,” I say.
“Do you have anything you’d like to add to the story?”
I don’t owe this reporter anything, especially anything I’m uncomfortable doing. It’s half past woman o’clock! is what my mom would say to me with a finger snap if she were here.
“No. But thank you for contacting me.”
Cell service out.
“An innocent mix-up” Owen called it. “Graceful” he called me.
Later that evening, after faking my way through dinner with my mom, stepdad, and brother (“No, really, everything’s going just fine!”), I lay my head on my pillow imagining these words spoken in Owen’s Landerelian accent. No doubt he delivered it with his effortless charm and a casual-cool manner. I bet he had the reporter eating out of his hand in no time.
I’m glad Owen has spoken to the “press,” because there is no way I will. The thought of being contacted by a student reporter for a response is wild, and kind of funny. Me, the topic of a breaking news story? My high school newspaper barely wants to interview me about registering senior citizens to vote, and now I have to face the fact that I may be the talk of the summer program. I hope not.
An hour later, I am still playing out the different scenarios of Owen’s interview in my head when I rethink Owen’s statement of apology. He’s used to this kind of scrutiny, so a need for that sort of statement must come up all the time. I think of all those girls I saw him with in photos online. I bet he mumbles things like “no-fault occurrence” and “exceptionally graceful” in his sleep. Wherever he winds up for college, I’m sure he’ll major in talking game. He probably wasn’t actually focused on getting the attention off of me. I’m sure he’s just doing his usual PR spin to try to save face. That’s why I can’t read his texts until I’m thinking clearly.
I’m still thinking about Owen, somewhere in the middle of a pros and cons analysis, when I finally drift off to sleep.
In the morning, though, the first thing I do is finally read his texts.
Hello again. I will take your silence to mean I should not call you. Very well. This is my attempt to text you a sincere apology and a promise. Please know I will correct any misconceptions surrounding the incident. Zora, I’m terribly sorry.
There go the butterflies fluttering in my stomach again. Ugh. What is it about this guy that’s got me in my feelings?
Next:
Hi, sorry to disturb you with another text message. You should be aware that a student reporter reached out to me, and I have spoken to him. I wanted to inform you in case he contacts you. I hope you’re well.
I can sense the regret stitched into his every text. Owen has it all covered—the sincerity, humility … Just about the only thing missing from his apologies is the “please, baby, please.” But I suppose royalty don’t get down like that. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already broken some type of protocol for getting way too close to “please, baby, please” than folks of his pedigree are allowed.
Since I’m already down the rabbit hole, I Google Owen some more.
Yup. He’s always surrounded by girls, laughing and going to parties. He does seem like someone I should catch a fast train ride away from. A couple of compliments from him in the middle of a press statement—and some earnest texts—shouldn’t change how I feel.
But this—the re-Googling—isn’t a good sign. He’s apologized. The student journalist is satisfied with his response. The whole thing is over. What more am I looking for? What am I hoping for? And how did I come to be in this position that I’m ghosting a prince?
I need to clear my head, and there is only one place I know of where I can do that. Saturday morning at my favorite bookstore cannot have come at a better time.
Ingrum’s Books is a beloved bookstore decorated to look like an old library. There are those wooden cabinets with the tiny drawers, retro index cards remixed into store signage, and the bookshelves are even the skeletal, look-through ones. The bookstore sits in an outdoor shopping plaza across from a plaza with a fountain. It’s only about eleven miles from Appleton, but it takes me two buses to get there. The foot traffic is still light when I walk into the store. It’s barely 10:00 a.m.
“Hey there,” the friendly bookseller greets me in her familiar way.
“Good morning, Eliana.” I smile back. “Please tell me the couch is still free.”
“This time you beat him to it. He hasn’t been in yet.”
“It’s my lucky day!”
“I’m happy for you,” says Eliana, laughing.
“If anyone asks, I’m off duty today,” I tell her.
It’s my own fault when people confuse me for an employee here. I have the bad habit of inserting myself in other people’s conversations, then showing them how to use the book request kiosk, pointing them to the nearest bathroom, or telling them when story time begins. Over the years, I’ve become friendly with the booksellers, too, which makes it even more confusing whenever folks find out I don’t work here.
I’m just a few paces away from the very vacant sweet spot in the back reading nook (the one flooded with sunlight, and with outlets within arm’s reach), but I find myself taking a detour instead. It means the bookish middle-aged man I have a friendly battle with for the reading nook may beat me to it today, but I don’t care.
I hook a left and head toward a sign that lures me over. I’ve never been interested in perusing these shelves before. The travel section is not my usual go-to. Without admitting my objective to myself, I scan the spines of the books listed in alphabetical order by destination, until I land on “L” for “Landerel.”
I choose the book with the most skimmable format and the most vivid photography.
Truth be told, these pages are structured for a child’s understanding of geography, but that’s what I appreciate about it. A few details stand out right away.
Landerel’s Population: Eight million.
Man, that’s like the size of New York City.
Landmass: Comparable to the State of Virginia.
I can totally picture that.
Language: English.
Spoken in the cutest accent.
Current Monarchy:
There it is. A picture of Owen’s family.
It’s a picture my mom would recognize now that she’s on round-the-clock royal wedding watch. This is from the wedding of the eldest son, Lionel. He and his bejeweled wife are waving to the adoring masses from a festooned balcony, flanked by a crowd of well-dressed people. The royal family in happier times, the caption reads.
Did I miss something? I turn back several pages until I see it: images from a funeral. Throngs of mourners line the streets in pouring rain. This was nine years ago, before their Olympic-hosting moment on the international stage.
I flip back another page and I’m face-to-face with the deceased. It’s a picture of a smiling teenage girl who looks like the female version of Owen. His ginger hair and defined jawline stand out on him as much as they do on this girl. The caption identifies her as Emily Whittelsey, the only daughter of Queen Mildred and Prince Consort Victor.
Owen’s sister.
I continue reading and learn that she died at the age of fifteen, when Owen was just eight years old. Apparently, when she was younger, a royal biogr
apher dubbed her the “redheaded stepchild.” Sadly, the unfortunate moniker stuck. The royal spokesperson’s act of holding the name up as a no-no had the opposite effect. The mean moniker found a home among the trolls for safekeeping. It looks like besides Owen, Emily was the only family member with that coloring. And she was considered chubby. The body shaming, the merciless trolling, the unflattering memes everywhere all threw her down a self-destructive path that ultimately led to her tragic death. Her body was found off a cliff in a mountain range along the southern coast of Landerel. It’s still unclear whether she tumbled or jumped, but the high level of alcohol in her system pointed to an accidental death. Either way, it was a tragic, needless end to a short life.
I didn’t expect to be moved like this. Not by a royal family. Here in an exclusive world that seems as far removed as possible from the average human experience, there is a sadness that humbles me. Emily is described as a “sensitive soul” who yearned to be loved and accepted. Identified as one constant source of Emily’s happiness in life was her baby brother, Owen. It’s tough to find a clear image of Owen. In any photos the two of them are in together, Owen’s head is bowed in laughter next to his grinning sister despite the rest of the family having a more stoic look.
I go back to the “happier times” photo and pull the book closer to my face for the zoom-in effect. I think I see Owen. Behind a waving white-gloved hand, I can just make out the right side of his much younger face. The corner of his smile. Half an expression of joy. One twinkling eye.
“Yes, that is me right there,” says a guy’s voice behind me.
I snap the book shut and whip around to see Owen standing right there in the travel books aisle. He’s holding a bouquet of bright, gorgeous flowers and extending it to me.
I’m so busted.
MY ROYAL crush in the flesh.
“Hi, Zora,” says Owen in a gentle tone. “I was hoping I would find you here. I remembered you said this is your favorite weekend-morning spot.”
“Oh.”
My breathing is shallow, like I’ve just climbed a flight of stairs. I still catch a heavenly whiff of the flowers and that alone makes this moment stink a lot less. As much as I want to act like I’ve forgotten Owen, I’m not going to convince him of this when I’m holding the Landerel travel guide in my hands. Owen’s eyes dart down to the cover of the book I’m still clutching and the corner of his mouth curls up in restrained amusement.
Silence sits its baggage between us like a rude person hogging up two seats on the bus, and I don’t know how to break it.
“These are for you,” says Owen. The warm tone in his voice, the fragrant flowers … it’s all not even close to what I expected when I came to this bookstore today.
He’s wearing his vintage maroon baseball cap again. Aren’t his countrymen fans of the game cricket? I guess the cap is his way of hiding his identity in public. I don’t think Owen needs to worry about anyone outside of campus recognizing him. He’s done a great job of staying hidden from the American spotlight, unlike his older brothers. I guess his family planned it that way.
I put back the book and accept the flowers. Not just because it’s the most beautiful bouquet I’ve ever seen, but because I need something to do with my hands, other than hold on to the Landerel travel book.
Yes, every single stemmed perfection in this bouquet is living its best life. But thankfully, the flowers are exquisite without being over-the-top. It’s a small, lightweight arrangement I can easily carry.
“Thank you,” I say.
I finally turn my full attention to Owen. Being on the same side of a bookcase with him is nice. Really nice. He stands a few inches taller than me in a crisp button-up short-sleeve white shirt, khaki shorts, and tan loafers. Under the shadow of his cap, I can make out his flushed cheeks.
“I hope this isn’t an intrusion on your private time. It’s just that I want to properly apologize to you, face-to-face,” he says. “I didn’t get the chance the other day, and texting isn’t the same.”
“Okay,” I say, looking into his hazel eyes.
He takes off his cap and holds it to his heart, just like a baseball player during the national anthem. I’m not sure if he is serious or not.
“Zora Emerson of New Jersey—”
“Appleton, New Jersey,” I clarify teasingly.
“Zora Emerson of Appleton, New Jersey,” he begins again. “I am solemnly sorry.”
He sounds sincere. Maybe he really did mean everything he said in his texts. But is that a mischievous gleam in his eye?
“And if there’s anything I can do to resolve matters any further …” he continues.
“No, I appreciate you speaking to that student reporter. That went a long way.”
“… or if there’s anything I can do to answer your questions about Landerel or my family, I’ll be happy to cover anything that book didn’t address.”
There it is. The real reason behind the twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, so we’ve skipped the humility and jumped straight into bragging rights. Wow, and in less time than a Landerelian sports car goes from zero to sixty,” I call him out with a smirk on my face.
“No, I can assure you, you’ve got my humility,” says Owen. He puts his cap back on. “Unanswered text messages have a particularly painful way of skewering the ego. But I’ll take that. I’ll say I even deserve that.”
“That’s better.” I smile.
How is he so easy to talk to? I feel my hesitations get blurry in the face of his sincere demeanor.
“But,” Owen says, his eyes twinkling again as he nods to the travel book, “I can be of service if you need to ascertain what features or even what blemishes I may or may not have on my face. Feel free to come in as close as you’d like to determine for yourself.”
“Oh, so you saw me … zooming in.”
“That I did.” He takes a random book from the shelf, leafs through it, then holds his face within an inch of its open pages.
I shake my head and briefly cover my mouth to hide my grin.
“Okay, get it all out,” I say. “But pack your toys because here come the Men in Black to get you.”
Owen wipes the mischief off his face faster than you can say “God save the queen.” He twists his neck this way and that way in search of the suits.
I can’t hold in my laughter.
“I got you! The look on your face.” I point at him like a child who’s just tagged someone It.
He tries to regain his cool and stuffs one hand back in his front pocket.
“Well played, Zora.”
Owen tips his cap without removing it. He is smiling with his whole face now, which makes him look all the more attractive. I hate that my heart is skipping like it’s the hopscotch Olympics.
I take glimpses at him, to avoid all-out staring. Owen clearly doesn’t believe in the same approach because I keep catching him staring at me. Like, now, he is staring a little too long.
“Let me guess. There are zero Black friends in your social circle,” I joke, hoping to snap him out of it.
It’s better than letting him believe I consider his fascination with my appearance kind of flattering. But he keeps looking at me like I’m calling out the lottery numbers he’s got on his ticket.
“Pardon my rudeness. I mean no offense.”
The warmth is back in his voice, which of course turns up the heat between us. Why does he do that? Could he know what that does to a girl who already thinks he’s cute, easy to talk to, and fun to be around?
What does Owen think this thing between us is anyway? If it can even be called a thing. Picture me hanging out with the aristocracy, trying to figure out why they speak like their jaws are wired shut. And let’s not begin to wonder what they’d think about me. Hanging out in Owen’s world would be unreal. I have an awkward enough relationship with the Halstead University wannabes every day.
The hesitations start to creep back in, and Owen can read it on my face.
“W
hat’s the problem, something in my nose?” He uses his cap to cover his nose as he pretends to check for himself.
I’m not sure if Owen is back to teasing banter or not. Surely he jests, right? He can’t be serious, so I’d be a fool to consider what I may or may not be feeling for him.
I’m too lost in my thoughts to react. Owen’s smile fades a bit, and his eyes are more piercing now, like he wants to capture my full attention. He fidgets with his cap.
“Zora, if I may—”
Suddenly, two stately black cars pull up outside the bookstore. Looks like the official Men-in-Black-mobile. Owen apologizes to me one last time and rushes outside. He makes himself known to the car before anyone can step out.
I watch him say something to the driver. And then he turns around and rushes back into the bookstore and finds me.
“I’d like to show you something,” he says. “Can you meet me Monday at the passageway outside Hurston Hall?”
In spite of it all, I know I won’t give any other answer. “Yes.” I smile.
“What time works for you?”
“Noon,” I tell him without wiping the smile off my face.
“Brilliant.” He smiles back. “See you then.”
He rushes back outside and hops into the waiting black car, and the sleek fleet carries him away.
THE SWEET perfume of the flowers Owen gave me yesterday (peonies, I learned when I looked them up online) is doing a great job keeping my Sunday blues away. My mom hasn’t been in my room yet, but I overheard her wondering if the heavenly scent wafting into the hallway was coming from her unopened box of incense. “That’s some powerful stuff,” she said at the time.
“Are you daydreaming?” Skye looks like she’s about to reach through the video chat screen and slap me awake. I’m on my bed, sharing space with more than a few crumpled paper balls and a notebook filled with pages of scribbled notes.
“Sorry, I was just wondering if there’s a way you can beef up the part where you talk about your purpose,” I tell her. Skye’s just read her speech to me and I’m helping her smooth it out. Funny how we both have a major event to attend. Mine isn’t a sure thing. I get an honorable mention but no guaranteed award—or money. Skye is being honored for her advanced work in robotics. She entered a contest months ago, and thanks to her high-scoring sophisticated design, she gets to show off her creation at a cool science center.
Truly Madly Royally Page 5
