Truly Madly Royally

by Debbie Rigaud

  Owen. Owen. I scan the room for his ginger hair, but there are a few decoys.

  “Zora, you made it.” Owen touches the back of my elbow, and I turn around with a start.

  “Owen!” I smile. He wraps his arms around me and kisses my forehead. I’m glad he doesn’t seem put off by my unfortunate hairdo. “Do you need anything?” he asks softly.

  “Some water would be great,” I say.

  Promptly, Owen flags down one of the waiters, who delivers me a glass of sparkling water.

  “Thank you,” I say to the waiter, and then to Owen. I lean my head on his shoulder for a moment.

  “Owen?” the queen beckons from a few paces away.

  “Come with me. I’d like to introduce you to my mother.”

  I really don’t want to budge from this sweet spot. Nothing about the judgy look on his mom’s face makes me want to meet her. I’d love nothing more than to carve two comfy foot grooves into the floor and settle in.

  Owen takes my hand to coax me forward.

  The queen looks younger than I’d realized. She can’t be too much older than Ma. She wears a conservative but slim eggshell dress and her blond hair is in a sleek bun. Her husband, Victor, always seems to be in the opposite corner of the room from her. Like now.

  “Mother, may I present Zora Emerson of New Jersey,” Owen says proudly.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Queen Mildred,” I say.

  I reach out my hand and then take it back quickly, remembering the curtsy protocol. Recovering, I position my right foot behind my left and dip slightly. When I stand upright and reunite my feet, I lose my right mule. The queen’s mouth forms an O.

  “Is this the American girl we’ve been hearing so much about?” Owen’s brother Gideon asks as he arrives with Lionel. The brothers are good-looking, blond versions of Owen, though of course I think he’s cuter than both of them. I shake hands with each of them.

  The queen takes this opportunity to pull Gideon, and unfortunately Owen, to another part of the hall. Owen gives me an apologetic look over his shoulder.

  But his eldest brother stays to say hello. “Jolly good to meet the American girl my brother can’t stop prattling on about,” says Lionel with a devilish grin. “Welcome, Ms. Onyx Santiago,” Lionel adds, referring to Owen’s favorite R&B singer. I’ve had enough practice at Halstead to know how to deal with condescending comments tinged with bigotry. So I stay on the offense, just in case.

  “When I’m not on tour, I go by Zora.” I don’t miss a beat.

  “An American with the dry wit of a Landerelian? I approve,” says Lionel. “I should not tell you this, Zora, but our brother is smitten—the likes of which we haven’t seen.”

  I smile into my drink.

  “Yes, we do hope someday you’ll grow to like him,” continues Lionel.

  “Aw, well, I’m warming up to him.” I smile. “Slowly.” We share one last guarded chuckle before he strikes up a conversation with newcomers to the hall. Feeling more at ease, I take a stroll around the room, glass of sparkling water in hand. Sadie and Gideon seem like a cute couple. I pause a moment to find the bride-to-be. She’s surrounded by well-wishers, and she maintains a gracious smile and gentle head nods. She looks amazing in a structured crème dress.

  Just like Ms. Earley, Mr. Stanley, and other elders from Appleton, I am a witness to history as I stand here in this room. A biracial woman is joining this royal family that reaches back through centuries of European rule. Here she is, just as proud of her African heritage as her Landerelian.

  When we’re called to the dinner table, I’m relieved to see I’m seated next to Owen tonight. His reassuring arm bump and warm smile are back where I remember them. He whispers into my ear about some of the craziest people in the room, filling me in on hilarious royal backstories. But he’s not even finished eating before his mother summons him away to greet some special guests.

  After dinner, people continue to mingle in the room. I’m trying to hide out in a corner when Sadie, the princess-to-be, wanders over to me.

  “How are you, Zora, is it?” she asks in her sweet Landerelian accent.

  “Yes!” I say nervously. “Hello—and congratulations to you.”

  “Welcome to Landerel,” she says. “I’m happy to have you here.”

  “My mother and so many American women of color send their best wishes.” I smile when I think of what Ma’s reaction will be to this story.

  “Well, please tell your mother thank you. I can feel their love and support, and it truly is appreciated.”

  A woman who is dressed like a guest but is clearly on the clock says, “Pardon. If I may—” and walks away with Sadie.

  I know this woman is working at the queen’s behest, because the queen eyes her as if checking whether the mission is accomplished. It appears as if—and this is not too far-fetched to wonder—they’re trying to keep the few brown people in here from clumping together in one place. Maybe this Sadie snatcher is like the royal answer to Showtime at the Apollo’s Sandman. Sandman only hits the stage if you’re getting booed, and he’ll gleefully yank you off with a long hook.

  Having had a little practice mingling with standoffish people at Halstead, I make my way around the room. When I join a small gathering of chatting people, the conversation stops. They all look at me like a human fart.

  Now I’m starting to think the order to keep Sadie from me is less about brown grouping and specifically about me. Just to check my theory, I approach another clique. They respond to my greeting, but their voices trail off soon into silence. They act like there’s nothing else under the Landerelian moon to talk about among the group. Sure, they are less obvious with their shade, but it’s shade nonetheless.

  I hear an American accent close by, and the sound makes me so happy, I want to do the Fresh Prince Carlton dance.

  “I’m Austrian,” the girl says when I greet her, dousing my enthusiasm.

  “Oh, cool,” I say awkwardly. “I guess I was thrown off by the American-sounding accent.”

  “I was educated at an international school in Austria, but I was born and raised there.”

  “And that’s cool,” I repeat. “I guess what I meant was, like, hearing a familiar accent kind of—well, I know it doesn’t mean—oh, never mind.” And I walk away.

  I find Owen escorting an elderly man out the door.

  “Perfect timing,” he says when I walk up to him. “I think that’s the last of my hosting obligations.”

  “Well, I hope so, because it seems like your mom put a shun hit on me, and everyone knows.”

  Before he can respond, Royal Sandman is back.

  “Pardon,” she says, clearly ready to drag Owen away.

  “Wait just one minute,” I cut her off. I turn to Owen. “You see what I mean?” In the same nasty-nice formal tone I’ve been hearing, I tell the woman, “I’d like a word with Owen, if I may.” Two can play that game. She stands aside as Owen and I walk to the corner of the room.

  “Zora, I think you’re mistaken about her,” says Owen in conflict-resolution mode. “That is Ms. Dunigan, whom I’ve known since childhood. She always has everyone’s best interest at heart.”

  “Oh, I’m imagining things?” I feel my inner Kenney coming out. To heck with waiting for an appropriate time and place to have a meltdown.

  Owen looks surprised.

  “I’m not saying that. I don’t mean to come across like that’s what I think. Can we start this conversation over? I think the stress of my being back is—”

  Then Sandman appears, like our chat time has expired. Oh really? I’m about to go full-blown Kenney, when—

  “Zora, join us.”

  It’s Sadie, waving me over. She is chatting with three women, and when I walk over to them, they introduce themselves as friends who met at school over a decade ago. In the next few minutes, these girlfriends are making me giggle and teasing me about Owen.

  They’re cool. Sadie’s cool. My temper cools.

 
I glance at the queen and her sidekick Sandman and think, Not today, Your Highness. Not today.

  An hour later, the party is over and Owen is still otherwise … engaged. He breaks from posing for family photos to give me a hug good night. He looks sorry I’m leaving, but a bit relieved at the same time. I wonder what that’s about …

  Regardless, it’s time I leave and get a head start on tomorrow. Literally. I plan on an emotional do-over so that I have a much smoother outing at the wedding.

  “Baby, that is gorgeous,” says Ma when she sees my hairdo the next morning.

  Last night when I got back to the hotel, I went into action. I co-washed my hair, flat-twisted it, and used Ma’s flexi rods on my ends. This morning, I finger-combed it loose and, voilà! The flat-twist roller set always comes through for me. It just took some remembering about the many times it has.

  In fact, I had to recall a number of things, like … I got this, and I’m built for this life of challenges, triumphs, and everything in between. So what if my mule slips off my foot in front of the freakin’ queen, or if I’m on some official royal shun list? I survived it. The sky didn’t crash onto Earth. I moved on. Massaging my scalp in the shower helped jog my memory.

  I admit, ever since I started at Halstead this summer, my self-doubt stock has gone up a thousand percent. Before this, the biggest change I’ve had was when Ma married John and we moved from Appleton’s rougher East Ward to the other side of the Garden State Parkway. But in every case, the people I connect with are just people. No matter who they are or what the size of their bank account is, they turn out to be no different than the characters I’m used to dealing with in my old neighborhood.

  There is no way I’ve flown this far just to be a wallflower. I came here to represent. I came here to dance at the reception. That’s what I’ll do.

  Now when I look in the mirror, I see a glammed-up version of Zora from around the way. In a killer royal-blue gown. Rocking the dopest hairstyle. Topped by a fascinating fascinator. Memory fully restored.

  Ma looks beautiful in a soft-rose fitted designer dress. The hairstylists were happy to use their curling rods and portable hair dryer when she instructed them how to style her locs. Curly tendrils cascade to her shoulders, and a faux-diamond-studded accessory adds sparkle to the side of her do. She has special tickets to sit right outside the Chapel of St. Margery, where she will be among the first to view the newly married couple emerge.

  You would think we personally know the bride and groom, we are so excited. As we climb into the car and drive toward the royal grounds, I watch Ma’s face as she experiences all of the awe I felt when I rode to the castle yesterday. She keeps shaking her head, amazed.

  “Have you ever seen anything so—?” she asks.

  “I know,” I say, smiling.

  Today is a lot less quiet. There are cheering throngs of well-wishers lining every inch of the drive, until we enter the royal grounds.

  We get as close as cars are allowed, and walk the rest of the way up an unpaved circular driveway in front of the castle’s west entrance. It’s a gorgeously sunny day, and invited guests and chapel ticket holders are greeting each other and offering compliments. Ma and I spot some major celebrities, but we play it cool. We’re sure we’re also walking right by Landerelian superstars only locals would recognize.

  A dapper attendant checks our passes and points Ma to a charming garden lined with white chairs.

  “This is me,” she says. “And ohmygod I think I’ve gone to heaven. Look who I’ll be sitting near.”

  I look over Ma’s shoulder at a group of African women in traditional dress. They kind of look familiar. “Are those the women you read about?” I ask.

  “Yes, they traveled here as a symbol of the two merging societies,” she says, breathless.

  For a second, I feel like the parent dropping her off at the first day of school.

  “Go, see if you can sit with them,” I say. I’m happy for Ma.

  I turn and make my way inside the chapel, when I’m stopped in my tracks by the sight of a person that definitely is familiar.

  Kelsey is staring right back at me.

  “WOW, I almost didn’t recognize you,” says Kelsey. Her underwhelmed tone makes it clear she’s dragging my Halstead student look.

  “Hello to you, too, Kelsey.” I roll my eyes.

  Kelsey and I are handed programs and ushered into the old chapel. It’s crowded and slow-moving in the entry foyer.

  “Where are you sitting?” I ask her, half hoping she’ll be far away, and half hoping we’ll be seated together. Like her or not, she’s a familiar face when I can really use one.

  “Well, I was originally going to sit with my father, ambassador to Landerel.”

  “Interesting, don’t think I’ve ever met anyone with the first name Ambassador.” I smirk at my own joke.

  “But,” Kelsey continues, unfazed, “a dear friend asked me to keep his girlfriend company.”

  Oh.

  Once we finally clear the foyer, my eyes adjust to the darker interior and I see I’m in the company of giant saints peering down from stained glass windows. Side by side with the centuries-old architecture is state-of-the-art camera equipment. The wedding is being televised across the globe, and the TV crew members do their best to be invisible in black tuxes.

  There are at least four sections of church pews, the first two of which are reserved for family and members of the wedding party. Kelsey and I are led to the middle of the second block of pews. Our guide checks our passes one last time and gestures for us to be seated.

  “After you,” I tell Kelsey, because I want the aisle seat.

  I can’t help but notice most of the faces here are like Kelsey’s—haughty and a bit distant. For a second, I catch my own face tightening up in that same mold, but I shake it off. Standing on the edge of that slippery slope makes me wonder if Kelsey was once more connected than detached. Was there a time she felt she had to change in order to adapt?

  Right there in the aisle seat of that pew is where I find my calling. If I could make a living watching people file in and then reporting my findings to Skye, I’d take the job. It’s thrilling! This must be what it’s like to have great seats at the New York Fashion Week shows. All of the amazing dresses, suits, accessories, and, of course, hats. I recognize a “schoolmate” of Gideon’s from last night’s dinner. He is winning every title in a jacquard high-collar jacket and matching turban fit for Indian royalty. Speaking of headgear, it turns out there are a million and one ways to accessorize hats and fascinators. So far, I’ve spotted ruffles, feathers, satin ribbons, silk flowers, netting, gemstones, buttons, pins, and even porcelain figurines. In most cases, the more elaborate, the better. I see one fascinator that looks like a windblown, inverted parasol.

  I come my closest to catching the Holy Ghost when my eyes land on a thing of exquisite beauty. A woman walks in with the African version of the fascinator. The bursts of color, the vivid patterns—what an amazing surprise. Behind her, there are more people with African-inspired accessories, be they handbags, tux lapels, pocket squares, and, best of all, elaborately tied headdresses. Squeee!

  It all makes me wonder what the setting would be if this were a royal wedding in Africa. I think about the article Daddy had texted me, “Trace Your Lineage to African Royalty.” I read it, and learned about the Benin Kingdom. Just like the stained glass saints in this chapel, the Benin people brought divine faces to life through art. Except theirs were carved into busts, masks, and tool handles made from precious materials.

  Once everyone is seated, the pre-wedding procession begins. The heavenly voices of the boys’ choir’s echo through the space. Cheers rising from Ma’s garden crowd outside alert us that VIPs are on their way down the aisle.

  First to walk down the aisle are Owen’s parents, Queen Mildred and her husband, Victor, the prince consort.

  And then there’s Owen, escorting the bride’s mother. Owen’s royal wedding suit rocks my world. He
is wearing a luxe black tux with a touch of sheen to it. It’s a retro classic and he’s wearing it with suave style. Owen’s on the right side of the aisle, the same side I’m seated. As he comes closer, he keeps his gaze forward, where his brothers are. Just as I wonder if he’ll pass by without noticing me, Owen glances at me peripherally, and then does a double take. It’s not at all an exaggerated gesture, but here in the land of emotionally conservative folks, it stands out. I hear soft chuckles behind me. Kelsey looks over her shoulder and fixes one of her glares on the person tittering.

  When the crowd cheers again, it’s for Gideon and his best man, Lionel. Wearing black tailcoat tuxedos and white gloves with a fly modern twist, they walk side by side down the aisle.

  After Owen seats Sadie’s mother, he greets his brothers at the head of the church. They chat in hushed tones, and smile at relatives in the first few aisles.

  Seeing them all together makes me think of Emily, the sibling who is missing. The only daughter of the family isn’t here physically to witness this day. And if I can feel this absence, I can’t imagine what Owen must be going through.

  The flower girls and ring bearers are about to make their way down the aisle now. I happily let them distract me from a tearful moment. But immediately I start tearing up when I see the little biracial girl included in the procession. How amazing for brown girls watching back home to see themselves reflected in this way.

  I wipe my tear on the sly, but Kelsey notices. She takes a peek to confirm what she’s suspecting, and I roll my eyes when she looks away. But then she turns back to me with a tissue from her handbag, and I’m surprised by the gesture.

  The garden crowd goes wild, which can only mean one thing. The bride has arrived. We stand and prepare to fawn over her. Sadie’s father walks her partway down the aisle, and then she walks up to her groom on her own.