Truly Madly Royally

by Debbie Rigaud

  The more righteous I feel, the less intimidated I am by all this superficial attention. So, a Landerelian prince is into me and has invited me to the royal wedding. If anyone has a problem with that, they can kick rocks. I’m coming for anyone who comes for me.

  Taco Tuesday is the break I need from a straight three hours of studying. And this time, Owen is coming with me. He meets me at the library so we can walk over to the dorm together.

  There’s a sense we’re no longer anonymous on campus. Though no one outright gawks at us, we catch more glances than usual. Even more surprising are the subtle greetings here and there—eye contact, head nods, and even a faint wave. The worst is when passersby pause in conversation as we stroll by. But nothing uncomfortable happens, especially not to the level of last night.

  Perez is at the piano when we walk in. He is stupid talented and makes the piano sound like a full band. Dude can play any song we can think of by ear, as long as he’s familiar with it. Abby fills out the sound with some highlighter drumming. Uncle-Officer’s son Amir is also here.

  Kelsey also shows up. It happens to be the first time Owen is attending. Coincidence much?

  “I saw you walk in, so I had to stop by and see you,” Kelsey tells Owen.

  I leave her to chat with Owen. She always seems to have something pressing she needs to talk to him about. I’ve come to settle on the fact that this is just her personality. That and her painted-on underwhelmed expression. And who can blame her? It must be hard to impress someone who rubs shoulders with royalty and has traveled the world.

  Owen nods politely at what Kelsey has to say, while I catch up with Abby. She’s on a break from drumming.

  “You and Owen look great together,” she tells me. “Just so you know, the chemistry between you guys is giving me life right now.”

  “Aw, Abby,” I say. “Thank you. It’s not at all what I expected when I came to Halstead, but I’m having fun getting to know him.”

  “Drums, please!” Perez gives a shout for his bandmate.

  “This next track is dedicated to you guys,” says Abby. I crack up watching her exaggerated highlighter thrumming.

  “Hey, Taylor Ham!” Dominic greets me.

  “Whaddup, Pork Roll!” I yell back.

  Dominic has caught Abby’s bug, and he hits the floor with some zany moves.

  “You’ve got nothing on these fly Filipino moves.” Matt challenges him with some video game victory dance.

  Kelsey makes an exit right after somebody dims the lights and the room gets a club vibe going. Perez and Abby up the beats, and Dom starts a rap freestyle that gets everybody out of their chairs.

  Owen is tapping his feet to the beat.

  “You know this song?” I tease.

  “The amazing Onyx Santiago. I have all her albums.”

  I am floored. I stand up, sit down, and then stand up and sit down again. You would think I am at a Catholic church service.

  I’ve never seen Owen laugh so hard.

  “You refuse to give me any credit, but that’s okay,” he says. “At least I have haters. Not everyone can say that they do.”

  I pull Owen to his feet, and drag him to the makeshift dance floor.

  “Come on with it, then. How can you be this shy about dancing when we have a whole routine to perform in public?” I ask.

  “We?” He smiles.

  “Owen, I would be happy to be your date for your brother’s wedding,” I declare. “That’s what girlfriends are for.”

  Owen’s eyes widen, and he lifts me off the floor. He lowers my feet with a quick kiss.

  “Let’s hear it for the undercover couple!” Matt raises his cup. “You guys are safe to emote with abandon here.”

  We pull apart, laughing, and we start to do a two-step to the music.

  By the end of the night, we’re singing together off-key as we climb into my ride home.

  “Thanks for pushing me to hang out with your new friends,” Owen says. “I usually shy away from these type of scenes, but I had a proper good time.”

  “Good,” I say. “And don’t worry—I won’t expect it to be this fun at the wedding.”

  “Smart thinking,” he says. “But I promise to show you a fun time sometime during your stay in Landerel. There are so many cool places to check out.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “But, Zora, be prepared for round two with the media,” says Owen. “I was naive to think they would back off, and I see they’ll continue latching onto you as a way in.”

  “I’ll be ready,” I say.

  I guess it’s my turn to be naive.

  I AM so not ready.

  Yes, my mom’s been consulting with the royal communications people and a friend of a friend of John’s who runs a public relations agency in New York. With their help, she released a smartly crafted statement requesting privacy. It worked. In a way. Even though there have been no more crowds outside our home, the gossiping disguised as reporting keeps me looking over my shoulder.

  Skye makes it her mission to monitor Instagram and Twitter for chatter. She says she wants to see it first so she can warn me, and then she texts me emojis as signals. There’s the comforting visual of a thumbs-up emoji for low-chatter days and a red stop sign for the days I best not for any reason check social media.

  But sometimes I can’t help but sneak a peek.

  First come the unconfirmed reports of my attending the wedding: Is she or isn’t she? This type of story is more about explaining the traditions of Landerel. Beyond what Owen tells me, I learn that the wedding dance tradition is a presentation of Owen to society as the next unmarried sibling. When his brother Gideon was in this position, Gideon’s date was not the woman he’s about to marry. Having no older sibling, the eldest prince, Lionel, danced at his cousin’s wedding. Lionel’s date, though, was his future fiancée and wife.

  The next phase of this social media chatter gets under my skin. Cheery articles debating my worthiness to attend get posted here and there. For one, the press begins to question my royal wedding readiness: Does she know about etiquette? Has she so much as been to a quinceañera? Without losing that eerily pleasant tone or resorting to name calling, the media is pretty much saying I’m just an around-the-way girl.

  When I get home from classes one afternoon, my text alert rings out. Logic tells me I’m hearing the same chime as always, but somehow there’s a shrill tone to it. I pull my phone from my skirt pocket. Skye has sent me a stop sign emoji. My stomach starts churning. I look out the window behind me and see Owen’s car pull off.

  “How bad is it?” I ask Skye when she picks up on video chat.

  “Nothing so bad that everyone won’t forget all about it in a couple of days,” she says. Skye is walking outdoors. She’s holding the phone close to her face to compete with the sounds of cars swishing by.

  “Okay, I’m going to check,” I tell her. I walk through the house toward the back porch.

  “Does that stop sign mean anything to you?” Skye purses her lips with attitude. “It’s not worth scrolling through comment after comment.”

  “Comments about what?” I move my stack of books on the couch from yesterday’s study session and take a seat.

  “All those little stories you were told would go no further than a mock student newspaper?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I remember.” My breath grows shallow.

  “Well, they’re out. The cell phone swap incident, campus police escort out of class, even the Goodie award and prize money reversal.”

  I groan in response.

  For the rest of that week, I come straight home after classes and study on my back porch. When Owen wants to meet up for another campus picnic, I invite him over instead. And it’s fun—we end up ordering pizza and eating on the back porch—but I’m still on edge.

  One evening, I tell my mom I’m considering not going to the royal wedding, and she practically stands on her head until I agree to go with her to my favorite diner. The diner is our ha
ppy place, where we get together to either forget about our troubles or solve world problems. Well, at least problems in our tiny corner of the world.

  Once I pick at my eggs and hash browns enough to make a dent, Ma slides her plate over, anchors her elbow on the table, leans toward me, and cues her serious-talk voice. “I know you want to hide from all the critics right now,” she says. “It’s strange seeing your name in bold type in the tabloids and thrown around on the internet. It’s strange for me as your mother, believe you me,” she says. “But, Zora, honey, the press is no different than the voices in your head, telling you to doubt yourself. And you, baby, have conquered your inner critic before.”

  I look out the window at the sun shower pelting down. Ma rubs my forearm.

  “That day the press showed up outside? You were such a warrior. I know you can hold steady on that. You got this, Zora.”

  “Thanks, Ma,” I tell her. “I’ll think on it.”

  “You keep thinking, and I’ll go on and keep praying,” she says.

  I decide to take things day by day. By the time Thursday rolls around, I’m looking forward to seeing the camp kids as planned, but I’m dragging my feet to the community center. Ms. Nelson will no doubt have a million questions for me, and I doubt she’ll take “no comment” for an answer. But there’s no way I can skip going.

  “Shall we drop you off at the community center?” Owen asks me during our ride home after classes Thursday afternoon.

  “Sure.”

  A part of me is enjoying being chauffeured around, but another part is missing being off the radar. Okay, so maybe I was never off the radar in Appleton, but that was by choice. Maybe in a way, I’m missing my old low-key life. But Ma, John, and Daddy all agree the Men in Black car ride is the best approach for the final weeks left of the summer program. And the best part about this setup is hanging with Owen at the start and end of each day.

  Ma says she’s glad she doesn’t have to worry about who will approach me on the train ride to school. She secretly can’t wait for my school year to start back up, because then she’ll know I’m mostly in Appleton.

  “You’re welcome to come in and meet the kids,” I tell Owen. “I’m sure they’d love to hear a little about life as a royal.”

  “You really do view everything as a lesson to share with these kids,” he says with a laugh. “Okay. Text me when I’m cleared to come inside. I know you’d rather have a few moments with them first.”

  I only take a few paces into the center, when Ms. Nelson spots me.

  Mr. Lance at the front desk makes an apologetic face. I brace myself.

  “There you are, Zora,” she says. She pulls me aside and looks around to make sure there’s no one within earshot before beginning.

  “Hi, Ms.—”

  “Now, I’m not going to get all up in your love life or anything,” she cuts me off. “And I’ve never had eyes for anyone other than boy-next-door types, if you catch my meaning. But I do know that if everything is appropriate in the eyes of the Lord, you’re not being disrespected or made to feel less than, then nothing anyone else says should matter.”

  Wow, that’s a relief to hear. Ms. Nelson is pretty much telling the trolls to suck it, and I’m here for it.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “In any case, he’s better than that lackadaisal boy with the overgrown ’fro and the tattooed arm you used to walk around with.” Ms. Nelson grimaces.

  “Um, you mean my brother, Zach?”

  “But oooh, girl, you caught the big fish, didn’t you?” She stomps away chuckling to herself. I can still hear her tickled reaction bounce off the walls down the hall.

  I go in to see the kids and tell them I have a surprise guest. When Owen walks in, the kids greet him as they would any visitor. They have no idea who he is, and this makes a smile spread across Owen’s face.

  He once told me this is a reason he loves being in the States so much.

  “I once spotted the world’s most celebrated football player on a busy New York City street, and no one looked twice at him.”

  “That’s because of the identity-hiding helmets they wear during the game,” I teased.

  “I mean football as in soccer,” he said, and then we both cracked up.

  In the center with the kids, Owen introduces himself and says that he’s a prince of a country called Landerel. Some of the kids ooh and aah, and they all have tons of questions. Owen talks to them about the obligations and responsibilities of his role as a royal. And he answers that, yes, he does live in a castle but, no, he doesn’t live in a fairy tale.

  It’s a great discussion. Owen asks the kids to think up ways they have obligations to their friends and families.

  “I have to feed my cat,” says Dante.

  “My bed won’t make itself, so I need to do it,” says Anaya.

  “Oh yeah, I have to work on our family puzzle a few minutes each day,” shouts Prentice.

  “That ain’t one.” Dante sucks his teeth. “Oblimations can’t be fun.”

  “Obligations,” I correct Dante.

  “And yes, they can be fun if you take interest in what you’re doing, or team up with the right people,” Owen says. He winks at me.

  Then he glances around the room, and he sees what I recently brought in to hang on the wall: a copy of the picture of the Reconstruction-era African American Halstead students.

  “Wow,” Owen says, nodding to it. “You brought that here, Zora?”

  “Yes, the kids love wondering about what became of them,” I say. “So, we’ve been doing a little digging to research them.”

  “What have you found?” Owen’s face lights up.

  “This woman went on to graduate Howard Law School, in DC,” Anaya says proudly, pointing.

  “One student was from Monrovia, Liberia,” remembers Prentice.

  “The other was a son of a university janitor and graduated summa cum laude and went on to get his PhD,” I say.

  I go from laughing to tearing up. I turn my back to the kids before they see me, and take a few paces away. Owen puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “I’m just moved by their resilience and success so much, it still chokes me up,” I say.

  He nods in understanding. I think I see emotion welling up his eye, but he blinks it away before I can tell for certain.

  “Some of the kids’ families and I have been talking about re-creating that photo with the kids posing the same way,” I tell Owen. “They’d represent academia’s future students.”

  “That’s a really powerful idea,” he tells me.

  For the rest of his visit, he makes an awesome assistant. He’s observant and attentive, offering warm smiles and encouraging words to the kids when they need it. They give him a group hug as he leaves.

  “You looked like you were having fun in there,” I tell him as we ride back to my house.

  “I was,” he says. “Your energy was contagious. I love how you treat them with tenderness yet also like little adults.”

  That makes me happy to hear.

  “Seriously, kids remember the feeling people give them,” he goes on. “My older sister taught me that. She asked my opinions, my ideas, my help. I try to bring this to my interactions with all children because of her.”

  “She sounds like an amazing person,” I say softly. Suddenly I become aware of the weight of my words in this moment. I don’t want to say the wrong thing, but I want him to know I care. I reach out for his hand and lace my fingers through his.

  “She meant everything to me.” He smiles sadly, then glances my way. “She would like you.”

  “I guess I’m kind of meeting her in a way, through you.”

  “Yes.” He sits up. “Through me, she’ll be represented at the wedding. It would have been her night to dance with someone she cares for.”

  It would’ve been her time. But now, it’s our time. And mine. I can almost see those Reconstruction-era students waving their sign at me. “A Time for Change.” For me,
right now that means a change of heart. I’ll try not to sweat what’s said about us on social media.

  “Well, then we better represent.” I sit up, too. “Let’s do it for Emily.”

  “For Emily.” He nods with a smile.

  THE NEXT day, when I’m leaving class, someone unexpected is waiting for me outside in the hall.

  “Zora, we never met in person,” he says. “I’m Finn Burlington, the student reporter you spoke to over the phone a few weeks ago.”

  I almost roll my eyes right in his face. But with all my strength, I push back the attitude bubbling up.

  “Yes?” I ask him.

  “I’m working on a piece for the Halstead Chronicle. We’d like to profile you.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Well, you’ve been talked about on local and even a bit of national news, and we’d like to give you an opportunity to speak about your experiences in your own words.”

  I want to walk away, but that would look like I’m running from something. Why should I? I have nothing to hide.

  “I’m sure you helped out a bit in making me newsworthy,” I say, thinking of the recently released details.

  “Well, I—”

  “You all right, Zora?” Matt is suddenly at my side.

  “You don’t have to answer now,” Finn says. “I realize you have a lot going on. But I’ll text you my number so you can reach me when you’re ready.”

  “Or not,” says Matt.

  We watch Finn walk off like his mission is accomplished.

  But no. This just won’t do.

  “Hey, Finn,” I hear myself say. Finn looks just as surprised as I feel as he turns around and I walk over to him. “I can meet you Monday at noon at the east entrance of the campus.”

  “Th-that works!” Even if it didn’t work for him, the thirsty, wide-eyed look is not the face of a person who would miss this opportunity.

  “Will you be bringing a photographer for the story?” I ask.

  “Yes, I can definitely arrange that,” he says, giddy that I’m being so cooperative.

  The next Monday, when Finn arrives with a photographer by his side, he’s perplexed to find me waiting with Anaya, Prentice, Dante, Ms. Nelson, and Owen.