by Karin Biggs
“Are you an alto or soprano?”
After Chip’s definitions of the two words, I felt I was better suited as a soprano.
“Princess Piper, I believe the Mondarian Anthem is a comfortable fit for your voice range.”
“Praise to Mondaria, the superior kingdom
Under a ruler we shall never abandon.
The snow-covered mountains—magical and unique.
Our love and togetherness make strong what is weak
We stand for a kingdom so great and so free
Oh Mondaria, we sing for you with glee!”
I laughed out loud. The superior kingdom? Capalon had been the superior kingdom since winning the War of the Ancient Data centuries ago. Mondaria wanted the Ancient Data destroyed since they considered it to be the root cause of the demise of the old world. But the people of Capalon knew the precious information was necessary for human advancement. The Mondarian queen forfeited the Ancient Data after a Capalon citizen executed the unarmed Mondarian king. She famously stated that even the most sophisticated technology would never mend her broken heart, then issued a mandate deeming Capalon as Mondaria’s eternal enemy. She forbade her kingdom to buy or use Capalon products created from the Ancient Data and ordered her people to kill any Capalon citizen that entered her land. Her grief was viewed as a foolish weakness by Capalon and served as a cautionary tale for Capalon children about the repercussions of emotional delusion.
It would be impossible for me to sing the words of the Mondarian anthem and mean them, but finding my mother would also be impossible without setting foot inside the king’s Mansion. I let out a defeated sigh. “Fine. Play on repeat till I have the thing memorized.”
After an unknown amount of time, pounding on the restroom door ended my singing. “Get a move on, honey. My restroom is not a rehearsal studio,” said a woman’s voice from the other side.
I pulled my bag over my shoulder and opened the door to see an elderly woman wearing a dirty apron.
“I apologize for my unacceptable behavior,” I said, hoping to diffuse any cause to call the guard.
She blinked her wrinkled eyes. “Oh…well, it’s alright, honey. I just need the bathroom for my other customers. We go through a lot of coffee here, if you know what I mean,” she said with a smile.
I nodded even though I had no idea what she meant.
After walking the main street of Badger River for a couple of hours, practicing in available bathrooms and alleyways, it was time to head to the bus stop. I checked the audition paper to make sure I was in the right location and waiting at the right time since I was the only person at the stop. Then a rectangular-shaped vehicle pulled up, and the driver opened the vertical doors with a lever. “Headed to the king’s Mansion for court auditions?”
I nodded.
“Come on up.”
I climbed the steps into the vehicle, spotting a carpeted aisle that divided five rows of brown leather seats. Two girls sat together in one seat in the middle of the bus and both pairs of eyes followed my every move.
“I just need to check your ID and make a call to verify your record before you sit down,” said the bus driver, holding his hand out to me.
An identification check?
My heart leapt into my throat and I suddenly wanted to exit the vehicle, sprint down the mountains and back to my kingdom. What if my altered version of Paris Marigold’s ID didn’t pass the inspection? Would I be killed instantly on the spot in front of the inquisitive girls?
I handed the man my identification card as blood pounded in my ears.
He held a black box to his mouth with a spiral cord connected to the console beside him. “Yeah, I got Paris Marigold of…Green Heights?”
“Standby,” said the voice on the other end.
I felt the eyes of two other girls burn into the side of my face as we all waited for a response.
“She’s clean,” said the voice.
The driver smiled and handed me back the ID. “You’re good to go. Have a seat.”
I was flooded with relief, but also apprehension as I walked the carpeted aisle. What if other Mondarian teenagers were more attuned to the characteristics of a Capalon princess than Ari?
“Sit by us,” said the girl on the aisle seat with long, auburn hair. “I’m Genevieve.” She extended her hand.
“I’m Paris.” I reciprocated the social gesture I had witnessed outside the restroom of an outdoor recreation shop, then took a seat across the aisle from the two girls.
Genevieve’s eyes widened. “Your name is Paris? I love that name! I want to be a chef someday and Paris used to be the culinary capital of the world!”
“And the city of love,” said the girl beside her with light blonde hair and crystal-blue eyes.
“Oh, this is Heather,” Genevieve said. “We’ve been best friends since we were eight.”
I waived to Heather as the bus lurched forward, then leaned back as it descended a slope of the mountain.
“Isn’t this the nicest bus you’ve ever been in?” asked Genevieve.
It was the largest ancient multi-passenger ground-vehicle I had ever been in. “Yeah,” I said.
“What part of Badger River do you live in?” asked Genevieve. “I have an uncle who lives up by the Christmas tree farm.”
“Oh, I’m actually from Green Heights,” I said, remembering my new facts about my fake life.
Heather’s blonde head poked around Genevieve’s shoulder. “Why did you get on at the Badger River stop?”
“Um…I wanted to get a cinnamon roll and hot chocolate.”
“From Dan’s? They have the best in Mondaria,” Genevieve said. “But of course, one day I’ll have a restaurant with the best of everything in Mondaria,” she said with a smile. “So, let me guess—you’re a singer?”
I nodded.
“Me too!” Heather said.
Genevieve pushed her red hair behind her shoulders and straightened her back. “I’m a magician.” She then looked me up and down. “Paris, is that what you’re wearing for your audition?”
Compared to Genevieve and Heather’s made-up faces, flower-printed dresses and tangible confidence, I looked like an antique commercial airline on a tarmac of Capalon speedcrafts in Ari’s baggy flannel shirt and grey Capalon pants. “Yes?” I answered.
Genevieve shook her head. “They won’t let you on the Mansion lawn with that look. Didn’t your Junior Court advisor tell you about the audition process? Wait, I don’t remember seeing you on Green Heights’ Junior Court. Are you homeschooled?”
I didn’t know what a Junior Court or homeschooled was, but in lacking facts about what seemed to be a well-known activity, I hoped the obvious term would cover me. “Yes, I’m homeschooled.”
“That explains it!” She bent down and pulled something out of her bag. “Here, you can use my spare dress. I packed an extra one in case something happened.”
I accepted the white dress with a radiant-pink flower pattern and the two girls stared at me. “You want me to put it on now?”
“Yes! We’re only two towns away from the Mansion. And we can help you with your make-up and hair, too…if you want,” Genevieve said.
I could tell from her tone that she was trying to be polite, but I was clearly in need of improvement. Having never changed clothes in front of anyone other than droids, I nervously unbuttoned Ari’s shirt while trying to use the dress as a shield. I managed to slip the dress over my head and remove Ari’s shirt in a swift motion. As Genevieve zipped me up, my eyes drank in the dress as a welcome differential—clothing with color. But with its string-like straps and exposure of the top of my back and chest, I felt nearly naked.
The bus slowed to a stop and its doors opened for a girl wearing black pants and a dark-blue, fitted shirt. She had to be at least a head shorter than me with toned arms, shoulder length dark brown hair and olive skin. I was instantly jealous of the coverage of her outfit and after the bus driver cleared her ID, she took the seat behind me.
Genevieve started to introduce herself, but the girl cut her off. “I just want to make something clear,” she said, pausing Genevieve’s words with her hands. “I’ll learn your name, but I won’t be your friend until after the audition and we’re official court members.”
Genevieve’s brows lifted and her mouth puckered. “Ok…well, I’m Genevieve, this is Heather, and that’s Paris.”
“Layla,” said the girl with a nod.
“So, Layla, are you a drummer?” asked Genevieve.
Layla shook her head. “Singer. Nice try using stereotypical judgment, though. What is it again? Drummers are the strong, brainless ones. Magicians are nerdy and socially awkward. And singers are the beautiful whores, even the guys.” Layla leaned forward to Genevieve. “Let me guess, you’re one of the beautiful whores, aren’t you?”
Genevieve scoffed. “I’m a magician. Heather and Paris are singers. You won’t last a day at the Mansion with that attitude.”
The girl flashed her middle finger, then slouched back in her seat. The gesture was new to me, but from the look on Genevieve’s face, it was meant to be insulting.
Heather piped up from behind Genevieve. “Let’s talk about something else, like the court men!”
Quiet laughter bubbled in the seat behind me.
“We can talk about boys without being whores,” Heather said with narrowed eyes. Then she lowered her voice as if she were sharing classified information. “We’ll be with the most sophisticated, talented boys in all of Mondaria!”
Ari’s face flashed into view and I blinked to erase the image. Mondarian boys had to be the absolute last thing on my mind. And it would be a miracle if I was even offered a spot on the court, having only learned my audition song that morning.
“I have a boyfriend,” Genevieve said. “He’s apprenticing for my father’s plumbing business.”
Layla grunted. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
Genevieve dug her nails into the leather seat. “Why are you so rude?”
“Why are you so dense?” Layla spat back. “If we make the court, we’ll live and breathe Mansion life and nothing else. No time for fun and especially no time for weekend getaways to see hometown boyfriends. Better end it as soon as you make it or should I say if you make it.”
“You’re terrible.”
“You’re an ignorant bi—”
“You guys!” Heather shouted. “Shut up and look out the window.”
We passed a brick road lined with alternating red, green, blue and yellow wood-paneled storefronts with lacey-white trim beneath slanted roofs.
“I can’t wait to shop at the ritziest stores in all of Mondaria,” Heather said with her nose pressed against the window.
A wrought-iron arch displayed the name of the sight as “The Village.”
I had to blink my eyes a few times for my brain to register not only the burst of alternating colors, but the massive mountain that served as the backdrop to the shops. The four of us stared out the windows in silence and after The Village left our sight, the bus lurched up another slope to reveal my target—the Mondarian king’s Mansion. Surrounded by pine trees and constructed of layered tan, slate and copper stones, I felt as if I was staring at my beloved creek’s interpretation of a human dwelling, beckoning me to enter.
The bus paused for a security check at a gate before rolling onto the grounds, passing a semi-circular drop-off etched into an expansive green lawn and parking in a side lot. About seven other parked busses opened their doors to exiting teenage girls—all in dresses, curled hair and make-up. The peaceful awe I held for the Mansion dissolved at the sight of my other competitors.
“Crap on the king, I forgot to do your hair and make-up, Paris,” Genevieve said.
I scratched behind my ear. “Oh, it’s not important.”
“It is if you want to impress the judges,” she said pulling some things out of her bag.
It was ludicrous to think that a hairstyle and an enhanced face were critical factors in judgment based on talent but I was no longer in Capalon, the land of logic.
Layla sighed. “Maybe Paris doesn’t want your help and she’s too polite to say anything, Gen.”
“Maybe Paris was homeschooled and needs my help, Layla,” Genevieve hissed.
Layla turned to face me. “Well, what’ll it be?”
The two girls stared me down, and I became the subject of the quickest battle ever conceived. I concluded that Layla wasn’t one to upset but I couldn’t refuse an offer to complete my Mondarian transformation. “I could use some help.”
Layla let out a “psh” sound and Genevieve bounced into my seat. She redid my ponytail, making it high and tight and poked something into the band that pinched my scalp.
I winced with each insertion. “What are those?”
“Hairpins,” Genevieve said. “Now turn.”
Genevieve held my chin in her hand, glided a pink stick over my lips then handed me a mirror. “I would have done more, but it’ll have to do since we have to get off the bus now.”
The small hand-mirror reflected a tight ball on top of my head and fluorescent-pink lips. Evelyn would have died from a fatal occurrence of coronary thrombosis at the sight of me.
We stepped off the bus and followed the crowd to meet a tall girl with curly tawny hair and a sharp nose. “Ladies,” she shouted over our heads, “please follow me and refrain from talking.”
My fists held onto the straps of my backpack in a death-grip as I moved forward with twenty other girls, climbing the stone steps into the Mansion of my enemy king.
The threat of sudden death sent a chill down my spine as the girl led us into an entryway with a low arched ceiling and a round brass chandelier, casting a low light across the stone walls, red area rug and wooden high-backed chair. Our eyes naturally fell to a wide staircase, leading to an undiscovered new world.
The tawny-haired girl instructed us to find a seat or a spot on the floor as she handed us papers on clipboards. “My name is Agnes Airendale. I’m a Fourth Season singer and Manager of the Ladies of the Court. Please fill out your applications and then we’ll begin the auditions in the Polaris Auditorium.”
I found a spot on the area rug next to Layla and after writing down my fake name, fake hometown and fake birthday, my mind drew a blank for the remaining questions.
“How come you’re not writing anything down?” whispered Layla.
“I…don’t know what to say.”
“Ah, the homeschooled princess needs help. Allow me,” she said, taking the application out of my hands.
I almost asked Layla how she knew I was a princess, but then remembered the use of endearing terms I overheard in Badger River. ‘Honey’ and ‘baby’ did not, in fact, address a bee’s sugary creation or an infant. As she scribbled away, my eyes searched for clues about my mother—signs that pointed to a hidden prison, a painting of the king holding a knife to her chest or note taped to the wall with my name on it.
Agnes interrupted my thoughts to collect our applications. “I’ll take these up to Maestro Leto, and when I come back, I’ll bring you in one by one in alphabetical order to perform. When you’re done, the maestro will tell me which room he’s selected for you. After everyone has auditioned, you’ll find out if you’re in the room for those who’ve made it or the one for those who will be sent home.”
Agnes disappeared up the staircase, sending the small lobby into a burst of sounds as the girls practiced their audition pieces. I witnessed dropped cards in the middle of a magic trick, loud vocal exercises with strange words like mee, may, mah, and moo and tapping drumsticks against wooden armrests and exposed surface of the stone floor. I resisted the urge to command Chip to play the latest Innovator Report on full volume in my ears to drown out the incessant noise.
Agnes’s presence in the lobby served as the only reprieve from the cacophony as she took girls one at a time up the stairs for their audition. Genevieve Littleton was the first of the four of us from our bus
to perform for the elusive maestro. I echoed Heather’s sentiment of “good luck” while Layla retreated to a dark corner to shut her eyes and mumble the lyrics of her song.
I hummed the tune of the Mondarian Anthem as I processed an explosion of concerns. Was my talent worthy of the king’s performance court? I could technically sing, but what did I know about talent compared to real Mondarian girls? What exactly did Layla write down on my application? If I was revealed to be the Capalon princess, would Evelyn mourn my death? Or would she easily discard me from her life as she had done with Mother’s vial? And would the Mondarians kill me on the spot or torture me until I begged them to end my life?
I hugged my knees to my chest as the thoughts sent a wave of terror through my body.
Layla emerged from her corner. “You okay, Paris? Do you have stage fright or something?”
I stared at a small stain on the rug. “There’s no such thing as stage fright, only the autonomic nervous system’s reaction to a stimulus which sends the body into a fight-or-flight response.”
“Um, what?” asked Layla with a laugh.
I blinked over dry eyeballs.
Layla unwrapped a small oval and dropped it in her mouth. “The only thing I gathered from that explanation was that there’s no such thing as stage fright, which I don’t believe for a second. I mean, I don’t have it, but I’ve seen plenty of people who do.”
The lobby went silent.
“Paris Marigold, you’re up,” Agnes said.
Layla curled her fingers into fists and extended her thumbs. “There’s no such thing as stage fright! Good luck!”
Heather told me to shatter an appendage and displayed a wide smile which I found to be a confusing combination of words and facial expression. I carried my backpack at my side and followed behind Agnes, climbing the set of stairs to a long hallway dotted with brass chandeliers. We rounded a corner and Agnes opened a set of doors leading into a massive, dark auditorium.