“Oh, Prince Owen,” Finn says. “I’m not sure I’m authorized to speak to you as well.”
“I’m just here to observe,” says Owen as casually as he can muster.
“Yes, Owen was impressed with your invitation for me to tell my story in my own voice,” I say. “It’s nice when allies stand up and refuse to participate in questioning girls about the guys they may or may not be connected to.”
The photographer smiles her approval, but Finn looks at her like Caesar must have looked at Brutus.
“Just one more thing before we get started,” I say. Owen picks up the long wooden easel lying on the ground and props it up. I uncover the large, blown-up photo of Halstead’s early African American students and place it on the easel.
“I promised this field trip would only last two hours,” I say.
The three children pose in front of the brick base of the clock. I check against the photo and give them a thumbs-up. If I could respond to choreography as easily as they do, I’d truly be slaying on the royal dance floor.
For the final touch, I hand Anaya the sign we worked on together. As in the original sign, it reads: “A Time for Change.”
“Here are release forms signed by their parents with the correct spelling of their first names,” I tell Finn. “Please do not use their last names.”
“We are the future of academia,” the kids shout as the photographer snaps pictures of them.
A small crowd forms. People clap and murmur appreciatively, taking their own photos with their phones.
“Have you visited the campus archives?” one woman—a professor—asks the photographer. “If they have any more of these early photos, this would make a great gallery show.”
I look at Owen, who’s beaming proudly at me.
I’M JUST finishing off my makeup, getting ready for the last day of classes, when that one-ding doorbell rings. I sprint downstairs to answer it. Skye charges in, and I’m instantly enveloped in a bone-crushing hug.
We jump up and down in a fit of giggles, until she stops short and grabs onto her side.
“I sprinted all the way here,” she pants. “I need some water.”
While she hydrates in the kitchen, we catch up on the stuff we didn’t have the time to cover during our short phone chats. Skye absolutely loved her program and is convinced I would, too. She shows me photos of her robotic creation, her robotics classmates, the Atlanta sights, and, of course, her selfies with Zach.
“Aw, look at how much fun you two are having,” I say.
She says something unintelligible in a pitch only dog ears could pick up. In fact, I think I can hear a faint howl coming from outside.
I shake my head.
“Oh yeah?” she says. “Let’s see you keep a straight face when I mention Owen’s name.”
I cover my mouth with my curly strands so as not to give myself away too easily. Skye points at me.
“Look at that! And I didn’t even mention the part about his flying you first-class to a real-life castle in Landerel,” she laughs.
“You have your stuff ready?” I keep a smirk on my face as I change the subject. “C’mon, we have a train to catch!”
“Ugh, I figured you’d be sentimental and want to catch the train on your last day of class,” says Skye.
“Maybe you’ll get the security chaperone experience this afternoon at the beach.”
When we step outside, Zach is already in the car waiting to drive us to the train station. It was the only way I could get my parents to agree to my taking the train instead of my now-usual Men in Black escort.
Skye does a happy hop before running up to give Zach a hug. When they break apart, he holds the front passenger door open for her with a smile.
“You mind if I sit in the back with Zora?” she asks him sweetly.
Here it comes. I wait for him to say this isn’t a rideshare and he’s not getting paid. But instead he graciously says, “That’s cool.”
Skye and I chat nonstop on the way to the station. Our train is waiting on the platform for us, so our conversation isn’t disrupted by any hiccups along the way. We find two seats and talk U of A vs. Rutgers vs. Halstead, college campus life, and royal wedding! Of course when we discuss the wedding, we lower our voices. Rush hour commuters don’t seem to care about anything but outpacing the clock, but you never know.
When we arrive on campus, I lead Skye right to the library, where Owen and I arranged to meet up before class.
“Best friend, meet boyfriend,” I whisper to Skye as we approach Owen, because it’s too dorky to say aloud.
“Aah, the boyfriend meets the best friend,” says Owen, stepping forward to shake Skye’s hand.
“You two belong together,” Skye mumbles to me before greeting Owen.
Skye repeats this a few more times throughout our afternoon outing to the Jersey Shore. With classes wrapped up and a strong finish with high marks and college credit toward graduation, there’s a lot for everyone to celebrate.
Skye, Owen, Matt, Abby, Perez, Amir, and I, with, of course, Pork Roll Dominic there to guide us, scale the boards (boardwalk) and enjoy disco fries (fries with gravy). We get in a beach volleyball game (the girls beat the guys), and take a dip in the Atlantic Ocean (Abby’s first time).
Aside from Abby and Matt, who attend the same school, we’re aware that we may not hang out again. So it feels right to drag out this day just a bit. When Owen puts his arm around me as we watch the sunset, I know I’ve accomplished so much this summer, but it’s far from over. And I’m especially glad my time with Owen isn’t over yet.
OWEN LEAVES for Landerel a few days before Ma and I do. Saying good-bye is sad even though I’ll see him soon. I guess it feels like the dress rehearsal for when we’ll really have to go our separate ways. I’m assuming that will be after the wedding since there’s no reason for him to come back to the States. The program is over. But I’m not going to let this get me down. Not when so much excitement is happening.
I’m going to the freakin’ royal wedding! In a designer dress!
The evening of our overnight flight to Landerel, Skye helps Ma and me do a final luggage check for everything we need to bring. Then we carry our luggage downstairs.
“Ay, Zora, Ma, Skye,” Zach calls to us, holding the front door open. “Let’s all wait out front for your pickup.” When we head out to join Zach and John, we see it: A crowd has formed outside of our home. But it’s not the media. It’s Mr. Stanley, Ms. Nelson, Anaya, Prentice, the owner of the Jamaican store, Layla and the rest of the Fredrickson family, and the mayor.
It’s the most amazing send-off I’ve ever seen. I tear up as people wish us a good flight and a great visit.
“Please sneak in a dab or something while you’re dancing,” says Layla. That gets a good chuckle from the crowd.
“I think I’ll save that move for our next block party,” I say.
“Don’t remind her,” scolds Mr. Stanley. “Y’all can hide from her and her block party duties sign-up sheet—I live right next door!” Everyone laughs again.
“Thank you, everyone!” I say. “Wherever I go, I’m taking Appleton with me!”
From our airport ride to the first-class flight, Ma and I are treated like royalty. We start off politely repeating, “We’re fine, we’re fine,” to every offer on the plane for more snacks, an extra blanket, a different movie. But once we’re high above the Atlantic Ocean, we stop playing it cute. “We’re fine” grows up to be “Thank you, I will have another” and “Yes, please.”
In between delighting in the comforts, Ma and I keep looking at each other in disbelief.
“Did you ever imagine?” Ma stares wide-eyed at me.
“No, not this.” I shake my head.
Neither Ma nor I have ever traveled much farther out of the States than Toronto. And we drove there. Crossing the Atlantic is pretty special for us, but it’s too dark outside to appreciate it.
“We’re closer to the Motherland than ever before,”
Ma says. She’s always wanted to visit West Africa and walk the land of our ancestors. Secretly, John has booked her a surprise birthday trip to Ghana. Ma is obsessed with all things genealogy, and her DNA results show the bulk of her ancestry comes from that region. I keep the secret to myself, knowing she will be so excited when she gets that gift come September.
I manage to get some sleep in the fancy reclining seat-bed, and before I know it, it’s morning. As we begin our descent into Landerel’s Glenby International Airport, it already feels like a different planet. The open fields are a special kind of green. And everything about the buildings, highways, and traffic patterns is structured differently. I can’t wait to take a closer look.
After we get our luggage, we find our driver waiting for us, as Owen promised. He holds an elegant sign that reads “Zora and Yvette.” Mom and I look at each other and grin for the millionth time so far.
Owen said he wouldn’t be able to pick me up himself—he’s recognized too easily here, no matter how many hats he wears. This is his country; his face is well known in these parts.
It’s disorienting looking out the window as we drive through the streets. For one, everyone looks refreshed and revitalized, like they got a good night’s sleep. It’s about 3:00 a.m. in Jersey and I feel it. And when you throw in the left-side-of-the-road driving and the endless roundabouts, you get the sense that we’re far, far from home. But surprisingly, these differences feel more exciting than scary.
The hotel we’re staying in is as posh as they come, in a moneyed area of the capital city of Glenby. It sits right across the street from what looks like Glenby’s version of Central Park. Our driver tells us that the park houses the royal church and castle where the wedding and reception will be held. This is such a world away from life in Jersey.
A doorman in a top hat ushers us in. The hotel is dripping with elegance, and I can’t get enough of the ballroom vibe. A friendly hotel representative escorts us to our space on the tenth floor. We don’t have a hotel room. It’s a hotel suite! I’m talking two bedrooms with two private bathrooms. In the main living space, there are what appear to be freshly delivered flowers on the coffee table. It’s a delphinium arrangement, the same plant Owen grew at Halstead’s greenhouse.
There’s a card from Owen with a sweet welcome message for me and my mom. Below his name is the same local phone number he texted me before my flight. I promptly call him using the hotel phone.
“You’re here!” Owen sounds so excited.
“Can you believe it?! We’re going to check out the area, maybe grab breakfast. Are you able to join us?”
“I—I can’t,” says Owen.
“You can’t?” I ask.
“Royal duties,” he says with a groan. “But I booked you and your mom on a great tour of Glenby this afternoon.”
“Yay! Thank you!” I bounce on my toes. “Will we see you before or after the tour?”
“I’d love to see you after the tour if that works for you,” he says. “There’s so much going on here, but I’m planning on making a getaway before dinner.”
I wish I could see him sooner.
Ma and I are too excited by all the amazingness to worry about that now. We shower, change into summery-cute yet pedestrian-friendly clothes, and head off on a day of adventure. We grab a quick breakfast and walk a bit of the park, which we learn is called Glenby Green. Soon, we are so sleepy, we have to pinch ourselves to stay alert. Being wide-eyed keeps tourists from looking the wrong way before crossing the street so they won’t miss a lorry (aka truck) heading their way. In an unrelated story, we think we learn a Landerelian cuss word.
We head back to the hotel, where Ma and I take a nap and recoup. We enjoy a lunch of fish and chips in the hotel restaurant, and then we’re ready to hit the tour. We sit top level on a double-decker bus and hop off to visit town squares bustling with charm, museums that rival New York’s, historic churches, and universities way, way older than Halstead. We look both ways, three times, at every intersection. Ma takes countless pictures of every last one of these sites. The woman goes hard with her tourist flow.
We’re exhausted when we get back to the hotel, but I’m eager to see Owen. Maybe we can have an early dinner together. I call him to find out what time he’ll be coming.
“I’m not,” he says.
“OBLIMATIONS,” OWEN says, then pauses to listen for my chuckle. But there’s only silence. “Duty calls again, and I’m expected to join my family for dinner with Sadie’s family. I’m terribly sorry, Zora. I wanted so much to see you tonight.”
I go back to my early transatlantic flight refrain.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m fine.”
But as the kids in my program would say, duty stinks.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, though?” Owen asks cheerfully.
“Tomorrow,” I echo.
“Glide, sway, dip, slay,” bellows Jethro, our dance instructor.
Owen and I are in a sunbathed dance studio in downtown Glenby, literally bright and early the next morning. I don’t have to glance at the mirrored wall to know that we are also a breath away from stepping on each other’s toes. At this point, I wouldn’t mind causing him a bit of pain. The only reason I get to see him today is because he has to be here, and that’s not a good feeling. Since arriving on his turf, it’s been hard to distinguish what he does out of duty and what he does out of desire.
“Don’t look so stiff.” Jethro winces like it’s his feet that are in peril. Such an offense would be a fashion misdemeanor, because his sneakers are as stark white as the walls of this studio. Apparently, you don’t get to be the chief royal choreographer with scuffed footwear.
All that social climbing and he keeps his kicks pristine. What’s even more impressive is his backstory, which he told us after I said I’d never waltzed before. Jethro is not at all from Landerel. Or any place in Europe. He’s from the Appalachian foothills of Ohio … by way of Brooklyn.
“Miss Zora, pick up your feet. You will not be wearing running shoes or house slippers on that night, but heels. Where are your heels?”
“Can they be wedges?” I can’t get with the toe torture that comes with heels. And I have narrow size sevens! Heels started out being worn by men centuries ago and should’ve stayed that way.
“We have this one morning to prepare before the grande dame Lady Lois gets here later.” Jethro ignores my whiny question. “And nothing less than a tight routine with elegant postures will do. Take a quick water break, throw on your wedges, and then let’s get back to it.”
I’m not as afraid of Lady Lois as Jethro seems to be. Apparently, she’s my “handler” while I’m here. To me, her arrival means I get to try on beautiful gowns. To Jethro, it means an evaluation that could cost him his reputation. So I need to get this right.
Owen heads to the same corner of the room and cracks open the water bottles set out for us.
“It’s so good to see you, finally,” Owen whispers to me, wrapping me in his arms. It’s amazing to see him, too, and my stomach butterflies start flapping, but I purse my lips like I don’t believe a word he’s saying.
“I’m sorry we haven’t been able to spend more time alone,” he says. “But this afternoon, I’ve arranged for a visit for you to Sister’s Keeper, that impressive community organization you mentioned to me.”
I finally look Owen in the eyes. It’s like his amazing memory is his superpower, and he uses it to delight people around him. “Really? I can’t believe it. Thank you.”
“Time.” Jethro calls us back to the floor.
“But you’re still not off the hook for ghosting me last night,” I say.
“It’s inexcusable, I know,” he says. “I underestimated how in demand I would be. I’m not even the groom!”
Jethro is not here for the chatter. “Positions, please!”
I stick out my chest, and Owen puffs out his. When Jethro starts up the classical piece again, we gracefully respond in kind to the soaring strings a
nd passionate piano. I think of how Skye would approach this dance challenge. I flair out my fingers to add panache like I know she would. This space no doubt holds the spirit of auditions past and future. On another day, there could be talented musical theater hopefuls auditioning in here. I channel their energy, too. I stretch my neck and hold my head high. Owen adjusts to my elongated frame, which elegantly extends his reach, too.
“Better,” says Jethro. Owen and I take it. It’s the closest thing to a compliment he’s given us all morning. Owen winks at me. I put up my fist and he bumps it with his. Jethro catches our celebration.
“ ‘Better’ is a relative term, dears,” Jethro clarifies. “And considering I’m comparing it to how you started, you have no time to stop and pat yourselves on the back!”
As if on cue, Owen steps on my toe. We avoid eye contact because we can’t trust ourselves not to crack up. Jethro cuts off the music and commands us to take it from the top once again.
We run through the four-minute dance countless times. Truth be told, because Jethro starts the music from the beginning every time we make a mistake, we know the opening choreography better than the ending. But we must be doing something right because Jethro’s comments go from “Better” to “Yes!” At first, it sounds like Jethro is saying “Worse!” but I tell him it must be a Midwestern accent we’re picking up.
“Between the two of us, you think my accent is the one that stands out?” Jethro says. “Mmkay.”
Jethro is about to ask us to take it from the top once more when Lady Lois floats in as if she’s on a cloud. She’s an imposing figure, that’s for sure. And even though she’s facing us, we somehow are only able to perceive her profile. It’s like she’s perfected the art of remaining at an angle. It’s a highly aristocratic view of her, which I’m sure is what she’s intended. She might as well be a talking coin or a life-sized clay bust.
Jethro rushes to greet her.
Truly Madly Royally Page 18
