“I was wondering if—” Zach pauses to yawn.
“Yes?” Skye sounds so hopeful, bless her heart.
“Does your uncle down there still run an Airbnb, and if so, what’s his name?” Zach asks.
Skye’s family is a colorful cast of characters. Being around her, you can’t help but pick up a funny story about different members and what they’re up to. Her Airbnb uncle is the one who always has box seat tickets to some concert or sporting event, is still clubbin’ on the regular at fortysomething years old, and seems determined to be an eternal bachelor.
“I’m not sure, but I could find out for you,” Skye says. Boy, she’s sobered up quick.
“Thank you. Do you have my number? I’ll have Zora text it to you,” Zach says.
“I’m not your secretary,” I snap at Zach. Mostly because I want to crack a smile on Skye’s face at his expense.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness.” Zach rolls his eyes. “Skye, may I please have your number? I’ll text you from my phone so you have my info.”
Skye gives him her number before she runs off the phone to get ready for her classes. I leave the house as soon as I’ve eaten the Taylor ham and egg on a roll my mom left me. It’s going to be another long day focusing on classes rather than anticipating my meet-up with Owen, so I’ll need all the brain food I can get.
On my way to the light-rail station, I take a detour two streets over to drop off the hair products at the Fredricksons’ home. The family with four big-haired daughters are on a tight budget, so styling products are low on the parents’ priority, but high on their girls’. They’ll make better use of this stash than my mom and I have.
I intend to do the bag drop on their front porch like I’d discussed with the girls’ mom. But Layla, the eleven-year-old who is most eager for these products, sees me and opens the door.
“Ohmygod, thank you, Zora!” Layla squeals. She gives me a quick hug, grabs the bag, and practically leaps across the carpeted floor onto the reclining chair in the living room to examine its contents. I follow her a few paces and lean against the open doorway.
“Don’t forget to save some for your sisters,” I joke.
“Eeeee!” she says, holding the shea butter moisturizer. “I wanna use this one today!”
The amused smile wipes clean off my face when I see the morning show news report on the TV behind her.
“There’s a prince on the loose in New Jersey,” the stiff-haired anchorman reports to his coanchors and in-studio audience.
The over-acting cohost leans in and guffaws. “Really? What exit off the turnpike?”
“Our sources tell us that Prince Owen, younger brother of Landerel heartthrob Prince Gideon, can be found walking the hallowed halls of Halstead University taking summer classes,” the anchorman reports. “The school would not comment on whether or not he is enrolled, but we can imagine the excitement surrounding him right now. Especially ahead of the much-anticipated royal wedding at the end of the summer.”
“Welp, there you have it—a prince in Joisey,” recaps the cohost with another guffaw. “You got a problem with that?”
A flood of thoughts comes rushing in, like What does this mean? Will there be a media circus camping out at school today? Are things going to change drastically now?
“Right, Zora?” I hear Layla break through. “Zora?”
I blink away the worry.
Layla looks at me, then back at the TV screen, trying to figure out what’s got me so shook.
“I better head out now, but text me if you need me to help braid your sisters’ hair.” I turn and flee before Layla can ask any questions.
WHEN I step on campus an hour later, I half expect the media to be hiding behind trees—or worse, sticking a microphone in my face. But, nothing.
At least, not until I walk into my Intro to Community Organizing classroom.
I’m the first one there, so I take a seat at the large conference table that anchors the space. Then a guy with dark hair walks in, and he sits down across from me. I know this is judgy, but he seems like one of those snobby socialite types you wouldn’t expect to be interested in a community organizing class. I’m learning most of the kids in my classes are into big billionaire-level or corporate philanthropy.
There’s a mildly exasperated look on this guy’s face now, as if he were hoping to be the first to arrive.
Sorry, Charlie.
He looks like he wants to say something to me, but I plant my feet on the floor, sit up straight, fire up my laptop, cue up my notes, and ignore him.
Then It Girl—Kelsey—walks in and takes a seat next to the dark-haired guy. Awkward silence follows. Yesterday, on my date with Owen, I was tempted to ask him about Kelsey—how he knew her exactly, why she was with him at royal events. But I didn’t want to spoil the moment by bringing her up, and I’m glad. Now I’m tempted to ask her about Owen, but I don’t.
This is so not me.
If this were Appleton, there would be far less mystery and I’d know all my classmates by now. Usually one week into doing anything, anywhere, I have a decent handle on the backstory of the place. A week is enough time for me to build a working knowledge of my surroundings, and the easiest way I get this info is by connecting with folks on a casual level, chatting and asking questions.
“You’re such a busybody,” the kids at my high school joke. But out of the other side of their mouths, they usually go, “Where would we get our info without you, girl?”
Choppin’ it up with folks is like scrolling through my Instagram feed. You get the highlights, a few low points, and a general sense of what’s good in the hood. Without speaking to people, I’d never know enough to help myself or others with info you didn’t think you needed. News about open part-time jobs, affordable guitar lessons, the tastiest Jamaican patties, DJs who can spin both hip-hop and Afrobeats music, the best Trinidadian roti, the quickest hair-braiding stylist, the closest West African seamstress, and, yes, of course, the dopest basement parties have all started with a casual conversation.
While I seriously doubt Kelsey knows the best hair product to keep my edges looking tight, she may know something else that could be of interest—aside from Prince Owen, of course. Like, maybe she’s tapped into the podcasting scene here. It’s supposed to be huge, and I’d love to know if there’s a good one on community organizing.
My curiosity is pushing me out of my corner. There’s so much to find out. For starters, who exactly is this girl?
“How’s it going today?” I say, breaking free from that Halstead Hopeful persona and feeling more like myself.
Kelsey looks surprised. Her eyebrows move closer to each other for a split second.
“Fine,” she answers tersely.
“That’s cool,” I say, as in Don’t worry, I won’t talk to you anymore.
Now she’s the one avoiding eye contact. She taps her perfect fingernails several times on her cell phone. I study her. Owen’s not-girlfriend. Owen hasn’t said anything about her. I have to say something to her about him. Right? My cool threatens to abandon me like it just saw its ghostly reflection, but I just manage to grab its Casper-sheet hem and yank it back.
More kids swarm into the class then, talking and laughing and filling up the table.
“How is everything?” asks the guy across from me. I’m as surprised by his greeting as Kelsey was of mine. “You know,” he says sincerely. “After what happened last week.”
“Thanks so much for asking, I’m fine,” I reply, successfully resisting my urge to ask, Jersey-style, “You tawkin’ to me?” Not the impression I am going for.
“I hope you know that if campus police had mistreated you or forcibly escorted you out, I was ready to film it.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate that.”
He holds out his hand. “Matt Aquino.”
“Zora Emerson.” I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
I have to say, he doesn’t seem as snobby as I’d assumed he was a
few minutes ago. Maybe I do need to give some people more of a chance.
By now, Kelsey is whispering to the whale-logo guy who today is wearing a pale pink polo with the collars pointed up like the sails of a yacht he probably lunches on. They both glance at me before resuming their conversation. Hmm. Could he be the journalism student who got the ball rolling on my breaking news story? If so, did Kelsey help connect the reporter to Owen? Did anybody see me and Owen on our campus date yesterday?
I decide to return my focus to the guy across from me.
“Do you know anyone else in our class?” I ask Matt.
“One of them was in my campus tour group months ago, and I’ve gotten to know about half of them from running into them at the dorm. What about you?”
“I commute, so you’re really one of the first people I’ve spoken to,” I say.
“That’s not really what I’ve heard,” Whale Guy butts in.
“What do you mean?” I say, raising my eyebrow at him.
“Just that there’s at least one person you’ve done more than speak to.”
Before I can formulate a response to that, Matt jumps in, endearing him to me so much more.
“You should come by the dorm tonight for Taco Tuesday, Zora,” he says. “We’re ordering in and having dinner together. It was fun last week, so we decided to make it a thing.”
I hesitate. “Maybe next time.” The last thing I need is more of this speculation swirling around me. And anyway, I have plans with Owen for this evening—not that I’m going to bring that up in front of Kelsey and Whale Boy.
Matt is cheerily undeterred. “Absolutely, next time.” He nods.
I give him a grateful nod back.
The professor’s presence grabs everyone’s full attention. We’ve all started to get used to being on alert for the questions he tosses at us every few minutes. His style of lecturing almost feels like going for a run with a person who likes to hold conversations at an eight-minute-mile pace. Not only do you have to keep up, but you need to maintain an understanding of what’s being said.
I notice Kelsey texting a few times during class, and I wonder if she’s reaching out to Owen. The minute he pops into my mind, it takes a little extra concentration not to revisit the thoughts of our amazing picnic, and hug, yesterday.
After class, Matt and I end up leaving at the same time. As we walk down the marble halls, I check for signs of Kelsey and Whale Boy, but thankfully they’re nowhere to be seen. It’s nice to have made a new semi-friend, and maybe at some point I’ll take him up on Taco Tuesday.
After I part ways with Matt, I think about the fact that things seem like they might be on their way to becoming drama-free. Maybe the insanity of this Halstead U summer peaked last week. When you start off like I did, there’s nowhere to go but boring. At least, that’s what I’m hoping.
“THERE’S THE perfect place in town to watch the sun go down,” Owen says.
We meet at the end of the day, finally, at the Clock, an Instagram-famous landmark at the entrance to the campus. Next to the iron gates that bridge the entryway’s brick walls is the nonfunctioning timepiece that students universally and simply call “the Clock.” Only shadowy impressions of its original clock face remain.
So many Halstead Hopefuls take selfies with it or rock dignified poses around it that to see it in person is almost a letdown. It’s physically of average scale and not at all larger-than-life, despite being a huge part of school lore. Still, there’s usually a small crowd at its feet, waxing poetic about how the Clock has inspired their lives.
I am more than ready for a sunset moment with Owen. He hands me two bottles of water from the vending machine for the uphill hike he describes as “terribly steep” in some places, and leads me a few blocks off campus and up the winding streets of a quiet residential neighborhood.
It’s a workout, so we collapse when we finally get to the short brick wall overlooking the Halstead campus and the towns beyond it. The brick wall borders the walking path and the grassy downhill drop.
I drink the last bit of water left in my bottle and take in the peaceful sight.
“How did you find this place?” I ask him.
“It’s amazing what you’re motivated to find when you’re just yearning for one second when your every move is not being tracked,” says Owen. “One evening, right after the whole phone debacle with us, I went over to the train station—thinking I might see you there,” he adds with a small smile, his cheeks turning red. I roll my eyes and nudge him. “And from that elevated platform,” he goes on, “I could see this lookout spot in the distance. I didn’t stop walking until I could find it.”
“You weren’t being followed by your security team that night?”
“No.” Owen’s voice lowers. “They gave me some space.”
We sit in silence next to each other, our shoulders touching. For a few minutes, we just take in the world below. The pre-sunset hues soften the Gothic heights of the library where we met. It gives the elevated stone bridge carrying crisscross trains a dreamy glow. We can see the clear space of the quad, the dense pockets of trees scattered here and there, the greenhouse we visited yesterday, and, beyond that, lit windows in cozy homes. Farther out are the white and red streaks of car lights on the Garden State Parkway. It’s mesmerizing.
“Quick question.” I break the silence. “Fairies or gnomes?”
Owen stretches an arm behind me and leans it on the brick wall.
“Gnomes for sure. Didn’t you hear R.J. talk about my green thumb?”
“Fair enough,” I say. I realize I’m starting to use some of Owen’s phrasing. How’d that happen?
“Don’t think I didn’t notice your choice of words,” he says smugly.
I laugh. “Hey, if you can mimic the Jersey accent, I can at least pick up a saying or two along the way,” I tell him.
“Fair enough,” he answers.
Owen is looking at me, and he is so close, I can hear him breathing. My cheeks get all tingly.
“Beautiful view,” I say when I shouldn’t have said a thing. This moment is so perfect.
“Yes, beautiful,” he says softly.
I turn my head to meet his stare. Our lips are inches apart, yet he’s still approaching me. I close my eyes and prepare to feel his kiss, when a dog barks right behind us.
Owen and I are startled out of our moment. We twist around to see two college-age girls walking a tiny yapping dog.
“It’s such a great view, isn’t it?” says the girl not holding the leash.
We nod politely and give half smiles.
“No one from Halstead knows about it because it used to be private property until last year, when they knocked down the old house that used to be here,” she continues.
“I want to brag about this, but then I wouldn’t want this place overrun with annoying Halstead students. No offense,” says the dog walker. “But I go to Rutgers.”
“No, none taken,” Owen and I answer at the same time.
Rutgers is on my short list of schools I’ll be applying to in the fall. It’s on Skye’s list, too.
“Hey, nice accent,” the non–dog walker says to Owen. “Where are you from?”
“Uh—” Owen seems to lose his cool worrying his cover is blown.
“Thanks, I’m from Appleton, up in Essex County,” I crack.
The dog walker’s friend thinks I’m being a wise guy, and she gets a little attitude over it.
“I was talking to him,” she says.
Owen takes my hand in his.
“We better get going,” he tells me.
“Wait, it’s a Landerel accent, isn’t it?” asks the dog walker. She seems like the brighter one, by far. “Oh my gawd. Are you that Halstead prince they mentioned on the news?”
“It is him!” agrees her friend. “Can we take a selfie with you, Prince Landerel?”
“I’m sorry, but I really shouldn’t,” says Owen. He and I stand up and start backing away from the girls. He’s st
ill holding my hand.
The attitude girl is already cuing up her phone for the picture.
“Please? It’ll only take a second,” she pleads. “If not, no one will believe we actually met you.”
I appeal to the dog walker. “Once this gets posted, your private lookout spot will be a thing of the past. So many people will start coming here, pitching a tent, waiting for a sighting … and I agree with you, it should stay a hidden gem for the neighbors in this community.”
Instead of answering me, the dog walker turns to her friend, who is giving me a superpower glare Daddy would be impressed by.
She thinks about this so long. When she speaks, she looks like she’s recovering from a cold-drink brain freeze. “I got it—I’ll just take a zoomed-in pic and no one will know.”
“That’s all right, there’s no need to make a fuss,” says Owen, still backing us away even though the girls keep following. “It was nice meeting you both.”
The dog walker already has her friends on video chat. She’s pointing the camera to us to give them a closer look.
“See?” she cries. “ It’s really him!”
“Who’s that girl with him?” says a voice on speaker.
“She said she’s from Appleton.”
Owen and I are so busted, and need to get out of here before more of their friends show up. I definitely feel fight-or-flight impulses kicking in. When things turn from chill to thrill this quickly, you can’t help but feel a rush of adrenaline.
Owen and I turn our faces away from both phones as we walk down to the end of the block.
“Perfect timing on getting your security team to give you more space,” I wisecrack, in an attempt to lighten the mood. But Owen seems focused on an escape plan. He’s on his phone with his security team now, giving them our exact location.
“I’m terribly sorry about this,” he says after hanging up.
“It’s not anyone’s fault,” I tell him.
You’d think things would blow over now that we’ve been tailed a block away from the lookout spot, but no.
“What? No picture?” A loud guy has joined the two girls who spotted Owen. He’s clearly amused by the selfie standoff going on. “How can you turn down the fans, bro? They make or break you, dude!”
Truly Madly Royally Page 8
