Truly Madly Royally

by Debbie Rigaud

  “Does that guy think you drop albums or something?” I whisper to him.

  “Just don’t look back at them,” Owen says, in his damage-control mode.

  “Okay, this has officially crossed over into a scene.”

  Owen shakes his head. “I took you off campus without proper security presence, and I shouldn’t have exposed you to this.” He answers his ringing phone. “Yes, I think I see you now,” he tells the caller. Whew. Sounds like our ride is finally here.

  That’s when I catch a glimpse of what’s going on half a block behind us.

  It looks like a mini party in front of a house. The two girls and the dog, the loudmouth guy, and about five of their friends are together now. One of them starts filming when he sees me looking back, and I show him the back of my head.

  I hear the girl I recognize as the dog walker second-guess herself. She says, “Maybe it’s not even him.”

  “Yeah, like, no offense, but why would he be hanging with someone like her,” someone responds. “Did you say she’s from Appleton?”

  “Ew,” says a third person loud enough for me to hear.

  Owen tries to get my attention. He squeezes my hand that he’s holding. “Zora,” he repeats. “You go in first when they pull up.”

  “Okay, sure,” I say. I can’t hide that I’m a bit deflated. No matter what you tell yourself, words offend. But the extra something behind those words—the belittling, the attempt to make me feel unworthy—that’s the part that is harder to shake.

  The sleek black town car has just pulled up. The Man in Black in the passenger seat jumps out and holds the door open while eagle eyeing the small crowd up the hill. I climb in first, and I slide over to make room for Owen.

  If they were doubting whether or not Owen was Owen, it’s confirmed now. Not everyone can make a distress call and then have a Secret Service–like response a few minutes later.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” Owen tells the driver, who I assume is the security chief, Colin, he told me about.

  There’s a whiff of tension in the car, but Colin keeps his I-told-you-so to himself, or perhaps he’s only putting it on hold until a more appropriate time.

  “Are you okay?” Owen asks me.

  “Fine, I’m fine,” I say. From the look on his face, he isn’t convinced. He doesn’t let go of my hand, and I squeeze it in an attempt to ease his mind. But the truth is, I still haven’t shaken off the shade from Owen’s fan club. And thinking of them as his fan club is a sign of the shade’s contamination of my mood.

  “Can we take you home?” Owen asks.

  I shake my head. “No, thank you. The train will be much quicker right now. And I have an audiobook to finish,” I add, which is a sort of lame excuse.

  “Okay,” Owen says with a sigh. He asks Colin to drive us to the train station, and the rest of the drive is silent.

  Owen walks me to the platform and waits for the train with me. This time, Colin isn’t far behind, and I’m okay with that. Owen found a spare baseball cap in the car, so he’s wearing it now. Just like when we walk together on campus, we don’t touch, but the way we stroll side by side makes it seem like there’s an invisible thread linking us to each other.

  I’m not doing a great job acting okay with everything because Owen still looks concerned.

  “I didn’t mean for our evening out to end this way,” he tells me.

  “That’s not what’s bothering me, exactly,” I say.

  I scan the distance for the lookout area we’ve just come from.

  “Something I said?” he asks.

  “Something I heard from those people,” I say.

  “What is it?”

  “They wondered what you were doing hanging out with someone like me.” I look at my toes. They’re painted orange, my go-to polish color for the summer.

  “Argh! They’re blowing my cover,” he says teasingly. “I’ve been selfishly hoping you don’t notice.”

  I take the bait and ask. “Notice what?”

  “Zora, of the two of us, you’re the one who’s truly regal,” he says.

  And right on cue, here’s my iron horse and carriage coming to take me back to my kingdom, where I belong.

  Owen is still standing on the platform as the train pulls away.

  “YOU AND Owen have been spending a lot of time together,” Ma singsongs into my room the next morning. I’m in front of my flimsy closet-door mirror, putting on two different lip shades in search of the perfect blend of plum.

  “What are you still doing home at eight forty-five on a Wednesday morning?” I ask her through the reflection. She’s poking around my dresser, smelling my lotion bottles. Like me, my mother is already showered and dressed in a comfy sundress. I’m not used to seeing her so casual on a workday. Her locs are all down, in a free-flowing style, instead of pulled back in a bun like she normally wears to work.

  “Today’s my office’s summer picnic, remember?” she says.

  “Already?” I recall Ma asking me to save the date, but I had to decline because of classes.

  “This will be the first one you and your brother will miss.” Ma pouts. When she gets nostalgic over how fast we’re growing, there are often tears. She doesn’t go for the telenovela lip tremble or makeup-smeared cry. But the cracked voice followed by the abruptly muted conversation is enough to make me feel sad. Less sad since she met John, though. The best thing to do is give her the silver lining, stat.

  “At least John can go, I hope?” I say.

  “Yes, he’s taken the morning off and is downstairs on a work call right now.”

  She snatches the brush out of my hand when I don’t stop to look at her.

  “How can I help you?” I give her my full attention. She looks happy to have it.

  “So, what’s the scoop? First you used to come straight home. Now it’s all campus sightseeing with Owen.”

  When I decided to keep Ma in the loop, I didn’t think she would be like a living, breathing Alexa, keeping track of my calendar and talking to me about it like she’s been programmed to.

  “We just like hanging out with each other, that’s all,” I tell her.

  “And my name is Steve Urkel.” Ma grins.

  “I’m going to the center before class,” I say. “And this line of questioning isn’t going to help me get there any sooner.”

  I leave her to snoop alone in my room, but when I get to the top of the stairs, I have to stop short or I’d fall over the rolling suitcase sitting on the top step.

  “Whose bag is this?” I yell to anyone within earshot, which is everyone.

  “Your brother is heading to Atlanta this weekend, and he’s being dramatic about packing for a week’s stay.” Ma pokes her head out of my room.

  “He doesn’t even leave until tomorrow! And if he keeps this here, the only trip that’s gonna happen is one of us tripping over it.”

  My threat works. Zach sleepwalks his way out of his room, grabs his bag, and proceeds to carry it downstairs. Grumpy mumbling aside, I must say, my brother seems fully committed to this new acting civilized mode. The old Zach would’ve kicked the luggage down the stairs.

  “Enjoy the picnic, Ma and John!” I shout before heading out the door.

  I’d promised my program kids that I’d eat breakfast with them today. If I wasn’t careful, I’d be late by at least ten minutes, which is an eternity to grade-school kids.

  “How you doing this morning, Mr. Stanley?” I greet my next-door neighbor. It’s good to see him sipping coffee on his front stoop, because it means I’m still on the early side. You can set your clock to Mr. Stanley’s daily routines. He’s retired military.

  “I’m still making roll call, I can’t complain.” The man bellows every time he speaks. He’d be great in a stage play.

  “That’s okay, I’ll complain enough for the both of us,” I say with a smile.

  Mr. Stanley’s explosive laughter clears the nearby tree of skittish birds.

  “I ain’t
worried about you one bit, Miss Zora,” he says. “You’ll always land on your feet.”

  Like the smell of Mr. Stanley’s fresh-brewed coffee, his words swirl and linger. I wait for it to drift on a summer breeze, so I’m not reminded that lately my self-confidence isn’t as strong as it used to be. I wonder if Halstead did that. Maybe I’ve just been faking it all this time.

  I’m rounding the halal meat store, when my phone starts blowing up with texts from Skye.

  Has he kissed you yet? she writes without so much as a morning greeting.

  No is my succinct answer.

  Why not?

  It’s a question I’ve been pondering a little lately. Okay, a lot lately. I take a deep breath and catch a whiff of car exhaust. Remembering our moment at the lookout point, I can’t help but think about that failed opportunity. The beautiful view, the romantic sunset …

  I don’t know. Maybe there’s something about royal protocol? I text back.

  It’s possible.

  I hear the Landerelian royal family is supposed to be super conservative, texts Skye.

  Then pause.

  Maybe you should make the first move, Skye writes.

  I will not, I respond.

  Okay, but if dude never finds the nerve to kiss you, you’ll kick yourself for not setting things in motion.

  I’ll take that chance. And then I wonder another thing: Has Zach reached out to you?

  Did he tell you he did? is her rapid reply.

  No, that’s why I’m asking you.

  He did.

  Do you know he’ll be down there this weekend? I text.

  Yes. But he may not have time to see me.

  If he does, I’d consider that a major hint.

  My phone rings right away, and I pick up.

  “You think so?” Skye asks as soon as I answer.

  “I do, yes,” I tell her. It’s still so weird hearing Skye get worked up over Zach. I wish I never brought it up. But I feel like I need to monitor the situation.

  “I’m not going to even read too much into things at this point,” Skye is saying. “And I’m not going to let myself look forward to seeing him, because he may not come.”

  “I think that’s a healthy way of looking at this,” I say. “My brother can be a heartbreaker, because he’s just so clueless sometimes.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Just keep enjoying the sights with Owen,” says Skye.

  “I am having so much fun hanging out with him,” I admit. “And it really isn’t an issue that he hasn’t kissed me yet.” And I mean it. I like taking things slow. I feel like we’re still just starting to get to know each other.

  “I’m a little jealous because geeking out over new places is the type of thing you and I do together,” Skye says with a laugh. “And funny enough, if you count our air-kiss greetings, even we kiss more than you and Owen do.”

  “Good-bye for now, Skye,” I singsong like my mother does. Skye chuckles and hangs up.

  I walk into the center just as I put my phone away. And after dropping my bag in the usual vacant locker and tracking the kids to the reading room, I’m ready to devote all my attention to them.

  This time they group hug me so hard, we all nearly tumble to the floor in laughter. No sooner have I physically untangled us all do I have to work through a tangle of verbal updates. I answer each child at first, until I just can’t keep up.

  “Zoorra, Zoorra, I read the whole entire book you borrowed me! Page one, page two, page three—” Prentice reports without taking a breath.

  “I’m proud of you, Prentice!” I smile.

  Dante can’t stop jumping up and down to get my attention. “My mom said we get to keep the cat so it can get rid of the mice!”

  “Congratulations!” I say. “On the cat, not the mice.”

  Then, from the raspy voice behind me: “Me, my mom, my brother, and my sister are going to the Mets game Friday.”

  At the same time small, sticky fingers are poking my side. “I thought my auntie would name my new baby cousin T’Challa, but his name is Will.”

  While Prentice continues: “—page eight, page nine, page—”

  “Okay, okay, guys!” I try and calm them down. “Sounds like so much has happened in just a week. I’m happy for all of you, but remember, we need to practice for the festival.” I may sound like the older, more responsible one, but really it’s an act. It’s either this or come up with an excuse to Ms. Nelson why the kids don’t have their routine together.

  The kids have decided to recite a poem together for the Fam Fest, which is coming up in a few weeks. After breakfast, one group heads to the playground and the other stays with me. They each say a line or two, and as of now, no one has any recollection as to who speaks what line. I have my work cut out for me.

  I give it one last push before leaving, in case I can lock in a good head start for next week’s rehearsals. As the kids chorus out their good-byes to me, I think of the Gala coming up fast. I can’t believe it’s in two days. I’m not nervous for me. I’m just stressing because of all the good I could do for these kids if I win. I may have some backup plans in the works, but nothing that could get the program $15,000 so fast.

  But the few extra minutes are the reason I am not the first to arrive to class. In fact, I am the last. At this point, the only seat available is right next to Kelsey. She has to remove her things from my chair.

  “Thanks,” I say under my breath as I sit. She doesn’t even say You’re welcome.

  She looks for a place to put her belongings—a designer handbag and … a cap? A maroon baseball cap. I can’t imagine her wearing that to class. I take a second look at the cap. Is that Owen’s? It looks like the exact cap Owen had on when he met me at Ingrum’s Books.

  I try to look away from it, but I guess I don’t succeed, because now Kelsey is aware of my eye problem. She glances at me and then starts petting the cap like it’s a purring kitten.

  It’s a message. Directed at me. And it’s coming in loud and clear.

  “WHAT IS this place?” Owen asks me. We’re in the musty basement of the Humanities Center, where I texted Owen to meet me after class. It’s not the most romantic spot, but it’s cool. I want to prove that I can take him off the beaten path, too.

  “The Halstead archives—photos from yesteryear mainly.” I’ve visited the archives once before, my first day at Halstead, but didn’t have time for a true perusal.

  “This is amazing,” he says appreciatively.

  You could probably take two bookcases from the castle library and stack them on top of each other and they would not be taller than these archive cases.

  “May I offer any assistance?” A thin elderly man wearing a lanyard appears from a back room and addresses us.

  “No, thank you,” I say. As he turns to leave, I have second thoughts. “Actually—are there any early history photos of African American students at Halstead?” I’m just taking a chance, and I keep my expectations low.

  We follow the man as he shuffles his way down one aisle after another until he hooks a right by a reference desk.

  “Early African American documentation can be found here, in chronological order from the founding of the university in 1833,” he says, gesturing to a blue binder.

  “Thank you!” I say.

  It doesn’t take long for me to find it. I have nothing in mind, and do not follow any logical search method. Gut and pure nosiness lead me to the binder labeled “The Clock.”

  There it is—the Clock with an actual clock face. Everything looks the same as it does now, with the exception of the fancy wrought-iron roman numerals. And standing underneath the clock holding a sign reading “A Time for Change” are four African American students—three guys and one girl.

  “This is incredible,” Owen whispers.

  “Excuse me while I zoom in for this close-up,” I tell him before I draw the photo closer to my face.

  “It’s a privilege to witness your zoom-in again, Zora, thank you,” sa
ys Owen with a smile.

  I hold the image within inches of my face, because I want to take in every last bit of info. I want to mentally scan and imprint this photo in my mind. The look on the four attractive faces—chiseled by angles, but softened by rounded curves—their style of dress and the sign they hold. Especially the sign. It’s white with black lettering in all caps. Each hand touches one part of it. They share the weight of the sign’s message.

  The photo, like most of the photos in the archives, is in a clear, protective sheath. Touching it directly is not allowed, no matter how much I suddenly want to run my fingers over it. I flip to the back of the photo and I’m excited to see handwritten notes there. The year of the photo is recorded. The names of the students. Their graduation date. I am floored. This photo was taken in 1886—during the Reconstruction era!

  “This is exceptional.” Owen says what I cannot. I’m too choked up to speak just yet. “Are you all right?” he asks, and rests a comforting hand on my back.

  I take a steadying breath. “It’s just, seeing this means so much to me. To come face-to-face with young trailblazing African Americans who grew up in the aftermath of slavery? It’s this shining real-world example of our resilience and determination as a people. And it’s right here at my fingertips. I feel like I found a pot of gold.”

  Owen rubs my back and nods slowly. “Imagine how seeing this will make your program kids feel,” he says.

  Thinking about it this way gets me excited. I pull out my phone and take a pic of the photo at every angle; then I leave the archives room walking on air.

  Owen and I emerge from the building into the summer humidity. It’s nice of him to walk me back to the library, where I plan on studying for a few hours.

  “Zora, I had hoped to ask you out for dinner, but plans have changed.”

  Oh. I wonder if those plans have anything to do with Kelsey.

  “In light of the recent news report, and because of what happened at the lookout the other day, my security team advised that we don’t go anyplace public for now.”