American Royals

by Katharine McGee

  NINA

  “I’m thinking of dropping Film Studies,” Rachel announced, reaching across the table to swipe one of Nina’s French fries.

  They were in the freshman dining hall at King’s College. It was one of the older buildings on campus; the arched wooden ceiling rose high above them, and massive pendant lights hung over each table.

  “Same,” agreed Logan, the guy who Rachel was on-again, off-again seeing. They must be on-again right now, from the way they’d been deliberately bumping elbows throughout the meal.

  “Wait, why?” Nina asked. When Rachel tried to steal another fry, she slid the plate across the table in amusement.

  The three of them had agreed to take Film Studies together: Rachel and Logan needed a fine arts credit, and as for Nina, she’d just thought it sounded interesting. Plus, it counted toward her departmental GPA. Perks of being an English major.

  Logan shrugged. “Too much work. Who wants to attend film screenings every Thursday night?”

  “You can still go out Fridays and Saturdays,” Nina reminded him.

  “And Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Sundays,” Rachel added, only somewhat kidding. Nina had known her to go to parties on pretty much every day of the week. Honestly, she appreciated it; anytime she felt like doing something, she could count on Rachel to know what was going on.

  Nina leaned back in her chair, stifling a yawn. She’d gone over to the palace last night to curl up in one of the media rooms and watch a movie with Jeff. After they’d gotten away with it in Telluride, it felt silly telling him that she couldn’t come over—though Nina still felt weird about sneaking around, trying to avoid Sam.

  When the movie ended, Jeff had insisted on driving back in the car with her: “A normal boyfriend would take you home.”

  “A normal boyfriend would walk me to my door,” Nina had countered.

  Perhaps because it was so late, the campus quiet and deserted, Jeff had taken her words to heart. Ignoring his protection officer’s angry grunt of disapproval, he’d followed Nina out of the car and walked her to her dorm’s entrance, watching as she scanned her campus ID over the key-card reader.

  “Let it never be said that I can’t act like a normal boyfriend. At least a fraction of the time,” he’d teased, and dropped a quick kiss on her mouth.

  Nina smiled at the memory of his thoughtfulness, then started to push back her dining hall chair. “Either of you want froyo? I saw that the machine has salted caramel today.”

  “Could you bring me some?” Rachel had her phone out and was scrolling idly through her newsfeed. “You still owe me, since you missed my New Year’s Eve party.”

  “I was sick.” It was a flimsy lie, but Nina hadn’t come up with anything better.

  She was getting tired of all the secrets that kept crowding into her life, multiplying and building on each other.

  “Fine, fine, I’ll come with you,” Rachel started to stay—and froze. She was staring at something on her phone, her mouth open in shock.

  “Everything okay?”

  Logan leaned toward Rachel to read over her shoulder. His eyes widened, and he lifted them incredulously to Nina.

  “Are you dating the prince?”

  Nina’s stomach plummeted. “How …”

  Rachel wordlessly slid her phone across the table.

  Nina was stunned to see her own face sprawled on the home page of the Daily News. THE PRINCE’S SECRET NEW GIRL! ran the headline, which had been posted just fifteen minutes ago—along with photos of her and Jeff, from last night’s goodbye kiss.

  “I recognize that archway! Nina!” Rachel squealed, incredulous. “You’ve been making out with Prince Jefferson outside our dorm and never told me?” A few students at nearby tables turned in their direction, curious.

  “Oh my god,” Nina whispered, her mind racing.

  Someone must have known about them. She hadn’t seen anyone nearby last night, and from the high resolution on the photo, she could tell it hadn’t been taken on a phone. This wasn’t an accidental royalty spotting.

  Someone had been lying in wait for them, stationed across the courtyard with a long-lens camera, just hoping for the chance to snag a picture like this. But who had possibly known? Had Jeff told someone?

  Nina zoomed in to look at the photos in closer detail, then winced in immediate regret. She looked disheveled and sloppy. Her coat wasn’t fastened, and beneath it her shirt was riding up, revealing a line of bare midriff. Somehow the angle made it look as though she was the one draped over Jeff, as if she was coming on to him rather aggressively.

  The article contained just enough truth to make it dangerously credible. It stated that Nina was the daughter of the Minister of the Treasury, who also happened to be the king’s former chamberlain, and that she now attended college just a few miles from the palace—which she had apparently chosen because she wanted to stay near Jeff. She was clearly a fame whore, a social climber—“though the prince is so far above her, social mountaineer is a better term,” the article pointed out.

  People Nina hardly knew had come out of the woodwork to denounce her: She wasn’t even pretty or nice enough to make homecoming court, sniffed a girl in Nina’s high school class, who spoke on the condition of anonymity. She’s been friends with Princess Samantha for years, and the whole time she’s been using the princess to get access to Jeff, someone else chimed in. The article had even tracked down an unflattering picture from one of the football games in the fall—with Nina in the background, taking an enormous bite of a hot dog as mustard spilled down her shirt.

  The adjacent picture was of Daphne Deighton, reading to kids in the children’s wing of the hospital. When you stacked them next to each other, it made Nina look … trashy.

  “The picture really isn’t all that bad,” Rachel said, watching Nina’s face. “At least you have a healthy appetite? And school spirit!”

  “Daphne Deighton would never allow that kind of photo to be taken,” Nina said quietly. Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? She wasn’t Daphne.

  People didn’t hesitate to say as much in the comments. Nina was taken aback at how vicious they were. Everyone seemed to have their own reason for despising her—because she had two moms, or because she was Latina, or simply because she was a commoner. They attacked her tattoo and her pierced cartilage and her hipster wardrobe. #TeamDaphne, cried out one commenter after another.

  Seriously, Jeff, get rid of that skanky commoner

  I don’t know who she is but I hate her

  The beginning of the end for the royal family

  Or, strangest of all: Don’t worry, the queen will just have her killed.

  The blood drained from Nina’s face. She had known this would happen, had told Jeff that America would never approve of her as a match for their beloved prince. And events had played out exactly as she’d feared. In the span of a single half hour, she’d gone from blissful anonymity to being the most hated girl in America.

  Someone must have started circulating the article around campus email chains, because it suddenly felt like the dining hall, normally a low rumble of conversation, had erupted into agitated gossip. Nina sank farther down on the bench.

  “I’ll find out who took that football photo and incinerate them,” Rachel said under her breath.

  If only it were as simple as a single photo, Nina thought sadly. Though she was still grateful for Rachel’s vehement and unquestioning support.

  She glanced down at her phone and saw, belatedly, that she’d received dozens of text messages in the past ten minutes. Most were from Jeff, variations on Are you okay? and I’m so sorry and Please call me. A good number of the rest were from Samantha, alternating between versions of I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!! and I’m getting worried—please call?

  Her parents had only sent a single message: We’re here if you want to come home and talk.

  Nina forced herself to stand, ignoring the hungry, curious eyes around the room. “I’m sorry, I—I have t
o—I can’t—” she stammered. Rachel nodded in understanding.

  Somehow Nina made it outside. She started toward the bus stop on the corner, wrapping her arms around her torso. She was wearing a thin fleece, but she couldn’t bring herself to go back to her dorm room for a real jacket; she couldn’t wait another instant before getting out of here. She stared down at her chunky brown boots.

  “Look, it’s her,” someone whispered. Nina glanced up and saw two women staring at their phones, then at Nina, and back again. They began snapping hurried photos of her.

  “Jeff could have had any woman in America, and this is who he chose?”

  “Is she seriously about to take the bus with us?”

  They were no longer even pretending to keep their voices quiet.

  Nina brushed past them with her head held high, stepping out onto the curb to hail a taxi. She couldn’t remember ever being so grateful to slide into a backseat. She told the driver her home address and closed her eyes.

  Her phone kept buzzing. Nina fished through her purse for it and saw that Samantha was calling, again. She started to accept—but her finger paused over the bright green icon. Did she really want to talk to Sam right now? Part of her longed to, if only to unload some of this onto her best friend. But she knew she would also have to explain why she’d kept a secret this big. She didn’t have the energy for that conversation right now.

  “Miss? Are you sure this is the right house?” the taxi driver asked hesitantly. Nina looked up, and cursed aloud when she saw her street.

  It was flooded with paparazzi.

  Their townhome lacked any sort of gate or fence, so the photographers had flocked all the way onto the front lawn, in a cluster that was at least six people deep. The moment they realized she was pulling up, they swarmed toward the car, their bulbs flashing in a steady eruption of light.

  “This is the right house,” Nina said hoarsely. She thrust a wad of cash toward the driver, then threw open the car door and tried to run toward her porch.

  The paparazzi shuffled alongside her, thrusting their cameras into her face, bombarding her with questions. Nina, baby, are you in love? Nina, what’s the prince like in bed?

  She ducked her head and tried to move faster, but several of them had darted ahead to get in front of her, circling her tighter and tighter, like a noose. A few of them actually grabbed at her with rough hands in an attempt to slow her down.

  Nina pushed through to her front door, fumbling with her keys, which she dropped in her confusion. She knelt down to scramble on the front step for them, and just as she picked them up, Julie opened the door and pulled her swiftly inside.

  The door slammed shut behind her, and the entire world went from roaring chaos to blissful silence.

  “Mom,” Nina said, broken. She started to step forward, but her mom’s expression stopped her.

  “Nina. You have a visitor.” She nodded to the man poised on a wingback chair, one leg crossed over the opposite knee. It was the king’s chamberlain, Lord Robert Standish. His graying hair was close-cropped, his mouth drawn into a harsh line.

  Isabella sat across from Robert, the two of them staring at each other—two sets of warring brown eyes, one fierce and protective, one cool and disdainful.

  “Miss Gonzalez,” Robert began, which was oddly formal; on the rare occasions he’d addressed Nina in the past, it was always by her first name. “Please, have a seat,” he offered, as if this weren’t the Gonzalezes’ house.

  Well, technically this house did belong to the Crown. It was a grace-and-favor house: a property owned by the royal family, and leased rent-free to those who worked in their service. Nina and her parents had lived here for twelve years, ever since her mamá took the job as chamberlain.

  Nina remained standing. “Can’t you get rid of them?” She jerked her head toward the front door, to indicate the raucous hordes of paparazzi outside.

  Robert held out his hands in a helpless gesture. “If you were a minor, you would be protected by the privacy laws of the Press Compliance Commission, but now that you’re eighteen, there’s very little I can do.”

  Nina sank onto the deep blue couch across from him, next to Isabella. Her mom took the spot on her other side. It was reassuring, Nina thought, having a parent on either side of her. Defending her flanks from the attack that was surely coming.

  “I’m here to discuss your relationship with His Highness Prince Jefferson,” Robert began. “But before we get started, let me say that I am here in an unofficial capacity. The palace can’t officially be seen encouraging this sort of behavior.”

  “What sort of behavior? Nina has done nothing wrong!” Isabella challenged him. Julie wordlessly reached for Nina’s hand and squeezed it.

  “We can’t condone premarital relations,” Robert said carefully. “Which you should know, Isabella. You’ve been in my position before.”

  Nina squirmed. “We haven’t—I mean—” She couldn’t believe she was saying this, but she felt the need to clarify. There had been absolutely zero premarital relations between her and Jeff.

  Not that she hadn’t been considering it.

  “Miss Gonzalez, that part of your relationship is none of my business,” Robert hurried to say. “I’m simply here to discuss appearances. As long as you and His Highness are together, we’ll need to strictly regulate any trips that you attend with the Washington family, make sure you stay in a separate building. If I had known,” he added forcibly, “I would have housed you in the guest cottage at Telluride, along with Lord Eaton. But you were supposedly there as a guest of Her Highness Princess Samantha.”

  It was irritatingly pompous, the way Robert couldn’t talk about anyone without using their full titles.

  But if she wasn’t allowed to stay over at the palace … “Does that mean that Jeff can come see me in the dorms?”

  Robert winced. “That would be far too public.”

  Nina pursed her lips. She couldn’t help wondering how this conversation had gone when the palace had attempted it with Daphne Deighton. Or maybe they never had. Maybe Daphne was so perfect and proper that no one had ever needed to reprimand her for anything.

  “I get it. No royal sleepovers,” she said stiffly.

  “And we’ll need to discuss your security as well, now that you’re a figure of public interest.”

  “My … security?”

  “Unfortunately, unless you are engaged or married to a member of the royal family, we cannot provide private security using taxpayer dollars. I encourage you to reach out to your local police chief—or the campus security when you’re at school—if you ever feel unsafe. Especially if any of the reporters and photographers attempt to gain illegal entry to your home.”

  “What?” Nina’s mom cried out, her face a dark thundercloud.

  “They’ll start going through your trash, so either shred it or drive it all the way to the processing center yourself,” Robert said in a maddeningly matter-of-fact tone. “Especially sensitive items, like receipts or prescriptions—they will sort through the bins for that kind of thing. I sincerely hope you don’t keep a diary.”

  “Not since I was in third grade.”

  He nodded. “As for your wardrobe. Unfortunately, unless you are engaged or married to a member of the royal family”—he had this speech down pat, Nina thought, unamused—“the palace cannot be seen funding your wardrobe. However, we were hoping you might invest in some new pieces if you plan on attending any upcoming events with His Highness. I know that you and Her Highness Princess Samantha are friends, but you can’t be seen constantly rewearing dresses of hers. The fashion bloggers track her clothing choices; they’re bound to take notice.”

  Her mom let out a low hiss. Nina held the chamberlain’s gaze. “I didn’t realize my outfits were such a problem,” she said levelly. Didn’t he have better things to do than worry about her clothes?

  The palace had definitely never had this part of the conversation with Daphne, because Daphne never looked less than
absolutely perfect.

  Robert visibly struggled to find an answer. “The palace does prefer that hemlines be kept to right above the knee. And it might be better if you refrained from being photographed in sweatpants in public.”

  “She’s a college student,” Nina’s mom cut in. “She’s perfectly entitled to wear sweatpants!”

  But Robert had already moved on. He held out a manila folder containing a heavy stapled packet. Nina glanced at the opening line: THE UNDERSIGNED, NINA PEREZ GONZALEZ, HEREBY AGREES TO ENTER INTO THIS CONFIDENTIALITY AGREEMENT.

  It was a nondisclosure contract.

  Nina had seen these before: they were distributed to Samantha’s and Jefferson’s friends, to anyone they invited over to the palace or who attended one of their parties. But never in all her years of friendship with the princess had anyone requested one from her.

  Her mamá stood, gesturing toward the front door. “I think we’re done here. Please feel free to tell the gathered press that they can leave as well.”

  But something else had occurred to Nina. “Even if you can’t touch the press, can you do something about the online commenters? What they’re saying about me … doesn’t it count as abuse?” she asked quietly.

  Robert’s features relaxed into something approaching sympathy. “Unfortunately,” he began—Nina waited for him to say unless you are engaged or married to a member of the royal family, but instead he went on—“freedom of speech is a constitutional right in America. I sincerely wish I could have those comments removed, and have the commenters banned from the internet. But it’s completely legal to be ugly, and petty, and mean-spirited. I truly am sorry, Nina,” the chamberlain added, sounding human for the first time that day.

  Isabella shut the door behind Robert, then turned to lean against it. “Oh, sweetie. Are you okay?”

  Nina struggled to hold back the onslaught of tears. “Honestly, mamá, I’ve been better,” she managed, with a broken attempt at a laugh.

  Nina’s mom still held tight to her hand. Isabella moved swiftly to her other side and began rubbing her back with soft, soothing gestures. “I wish you’d told us.”