Romancing the Throne

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  “Don’t get mad at me. I don’t make the rules. It’s helpful to be aware of what’s expected from you.”

  “Enough of this,” Mum says. “I don’t want you filling Libby’s head with rubbish. She’s dating a nice boy, and that’s that. Everything else is just noise.”

  Nana rolls her eyes, looking grumpy. She takes another sip of brandy, changing the subject. “What kind of things do you do together? Date nights?”

  “We go to our favorite Indian restaurant for fish curry and tandoori chicken. Sometimes I watch him play polo. I’m teaching him how to use my DSLR camera. And his marks are a bit low in history and biology, so we spend time together revising in the library every night.”

  “Sounds like you’re building something very real,” Mum says, smiling.

  “Sounds a bit dull, if you ask me,” Nana says.

  “Well, thank goodness nobody’s asking you, Mother,” Mum says, frowning at her before turning back to Libby. “He seems like a lovely boy.”

  “I’m so happy you like him.”

  “And you’re fine with all this, Charlotte?” Nana asks.

  “Oh, I’m totally over it. Edward and I dated for like half a second. Anyone could see their connection. I just want Libby to be happy.”

  My sister smiles at me. “I am,” she says. “Thanks in no small part to you.”

  After a lengthy, competitive Scrabble competition—surprise, surprise, Libby wins—Mum, Dad, and Nana head to bed, leaving me, Edward, and Libby alone in the sitting room.

  “Well, I guess I should go to bed.” I want to review the wireframes Bill’s coders have sent me. We’ve been lobbing emails and texts back and forth all week.

  “Oh, no, don’t!” says Libby. “Stay with us and watch Big Brother.”

  I look back and forth between the two of them. “Are you sure? Wouldn’t you rather be alone?”

  “Alone with this girl?” He pulls a face and jerks a thumb in Libby’s direction. “The horror!”

  Libby giggles. “Stay. Please. I’ve barely seen you in months.”

  “Okay,” I say, settling down on the sofa and pulling a blanket over me. “Twist my arm.”

  I get a text from Robert.

  ROBERT: How’s tricks? You surviving?

  ME: Ha! No, it’s all good. Everybody’s getting along

  ROBERT: How’re the wireframes going? You giving Zuckerberg a run yet?

  ME: Patience, young Jedi. The force is strong.

  I giggle to myself at my Star Wars reference. Robert will think it’s cute.

  Libby and Edward look over at me. “Is that Robert?” she asks.

  “Yeah. We’re texting about Star Wars.”

  Edward’s eyes widen. “You are texting with a guy about Star Wars . . . voluntarily? Who is this bloke?”

  “You know him—Robert. Your prefect.”

  “You and Robert?” A smile spreads slowly across Edward’s face. He nods. “I like it.”

  I blush. “Me and Robert nothing. We’re just friends.”

  He and Libby exchange a look. Libby grins. “Whatever you say, Lots.”

  Every once in a while, I look up from the wireframes on my phone to peek at Libby and Edward. It’s nice watching them together. There’s a sweetness between them I wasn’t expecting: the way she offers him popcorn and feeds it to him, the way he gazes at her and reaches over to brush her hair from her eyes. They’re curled up together on the other sofa, the light from the screen reflected on their faces, and I think about how they seem to just fit.

  Edward seems more relaxed around her, too. I don’t know if he’s like this all the time, or if it’s the coziness and relaxed atmosphere of my parents’ house, but he seems in his element. It’s not hard to imagine him sliding right in and becoming a member of the family. Judging by tonight, Dad is ready to sign adoption papers.

  Of course, if he does become a member of the family, it means this is the new normal. No longer will I have my sister all to myself. I’ll have to share her.

  At one point, he looks down at his phone and starts laughing a little.

  “What’s that?” asks Libby.

  “My mum is checking in. She wants to make sure everything is going okay.”

  “First time meeting the parents?” Libby asks, poking him with her elbow.

  “No, I make this a regular habit. The houses of Midhurst are littered with remnants of my overnight visits. I’m staying at your neighbors’ next.” He pokes her back, grinning cutely. “Of course this is my first time meeting the parents.”

  Libby burrows deeper into his arms, looking cozy.

  “Tell your mum you have a new father now. I don’t think Dad’s going to let you leave,” I say, giggling.

  It’s only awkward when Libby gets up to make more popcorn, leaving Edward and me alone during the adverts. We stare at each other from opposing sofas, each reclining and buried under blankets.

  “So,” I say.

  “Um.”

  “Well, this is awkward.” We both laugh nervously.

  “Thanks for . . . uh . . . for being cool with the whole thing,” he says.

  “Cool is my middle name.”

  “I thought it was trouble.”

  “I’m a woman of many colors.”

  “I guess I’ve never really said it to you, but I’m sorry. I didn’t handle everything so well . . . you know, back then.”

  I don’t feel the need for a big apology from Edward. Just knowing he treats Libby well is enough.

  “That means a lot—thank you. But it’s all good. I like seeing you with Libby. It makes sense.”

  “She gets me.”

  “Well, she actually listens. Instead of, you know, banging around like a lunatic. Like some people,” I joke self-deprecatingly.

  He chuckles. “You weren’t a lunatic.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But seriously,” he says. “I know how much your relationship means to Libby. She’s been miserable these past few months without you. Not because of me, obviously—”

  “Obviously.”

  “But she just, you know, needs somebody to confide in, I guess. It’s a lot to take on.”

  “It . . . or you?”

  “Oh, I’m perfect,” he quips. “Surely you remember that. No—the pressures, the expectations, my family.”

  “The Firm.”

  He frowns. “Right. The Firm.”

  “I’m always going to be there for Libby—she’s my sister. You don’t need to worry.”

  “It’s just . . .” He looks embarrassed, his voice a bit shaky. “I’ve been sold out by people close to me before. I’ve never let anybody from outside my family get as close to me as Libby. I’ve never been able to let my guard down like that. She knows everything, and I’m okay with it. I like it. I trust her.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “I need to know I can trust you, too,” he says in a rush, his speech faster than normal. “If Libby tells you private details. Now that the press has wind of the relationship—not to mention the fact that you and I . . . you know . . . first—they’re already poking around. A call from a reporter is an inevitability.”

  “Edward, I would never.”

  “You don’t know how they can be, Charlotte. They’ll promise you everything—that’s what they do. They’ll find your weakness and they’ll exploit it. If you have a secret, they’ll blackmail you. If you have a wish, they’ll make it come true. Anything, as long as you give them the scoop on me.” His face is a slideshow of shifting emotions: hurt, anger, anxiety, hope. “I have a zero-tolerance policy for people talking to the press about me. Zero. I need to know that you understand that. I need to know I can trust you,” he repeats.

  “You can trust me. I’m a vault. Your secrets are safe with me.”

  His face relaxes. “Thank you.”

  “Unless they offer me the cover of Entrepreneur magazine. Then I’m totally selling you both out and moving to Silicon Valley.”

  He laughs. “Noted.�
��

  “What’s so funny?” Libby asks, coming back into the room with two large bowls full of freshly popped popcorn. She hands one to me and then slides back under the covers with Edward, giving him a little peck.

  “Oh, Edward and I are just plotting out all the ways I plan to exploit you both for fame and success. First I’m going to hold a press conference talking about your terrible taste in television. Then I’m going to live-tweet all of Edward’s disastrous attempts at making legitimate Scrabble combinations—‘omg’ is not a word—and then finally I’m going to take all of my zillions of dollars and move to San Francisco, where I plan to date Elon Musk and become queen of Silicon Valley.”

  “Elon Musk is married,” says Libby.

  “Nah, I think he’s divorced again. Who can keep up?”

  “Not Liam Hemsworth?” asks Edward, laughing and twisting as Libby tries to tickle him under the covers.

  “Hollywood is out. Tech is where it’s at,” I say.

  Libby looks over at me, grinning. My heart explodes. She deserves every second of happiness.

  And, honestly, so do I.

  twenty-two

  It’s been a long, hard spring. We’ve been blanketed with months of gray, rainy weather that make me want to curl into a ball and never leave my dorm room.

  But not long after Edward visits our house and meets our parents, the clouds that have become a permanent fixture the past five months are suddenly gone. The damp starts to dry out. The sun makes fleeting appearances. Warmer days are finally around the corner.

  As the big track meet approaches, I throw myself into my sprints with an intensity I’ve been lacking all year. My time on the track has increased—not substantially. Just by a few tenths of a second.

  But sometimes, a tenth of a second is all it takes for everything to change.

  Six intense weeks of juggling schoolwork, track practice, and app paperwork have left me feeling physically exhausted—but emotionally, I’ve never felt more energized. Selfsy is now in beta mode. Bill and I have gone from once-weekly phone calls to daily Skype sessions. There’s still a snag with the Facebook login, and we’re getting close to missing our proposed May 15 deadline to submit it to the app store—but I have faith. I know we’re going to crush it.

  My friends can’t believe it.

  “So, you’re going to be like an app mogul?” asks Flossie one night in May over wine in India’s room, looking impressed.

  “I don’t know about mogul, but we’ll see,” I say. “If all goes well with Apple and they approve it when we submit on the thirtieth—assuming we make our deadline—it should go live in mid June. Then it’s all about marketing and publicity—getting the word out and hopefully getting downloads. According to Bill, that’s the hardest part. But if we get enough active users, then we release the Android version, and then web. And then maybe we’ll localize it—you know, release it in other languages.”

  “And how do you plan to do all that?” India asks.

  “I mean, obviously it would be nice if you all shared and ’grammed it to help get the word out.”

  “Of course,” Flossie says. “We wouldn’t dream of not supporting.” She smiles at me.

  “Thanks, Floss. Every little bit helps. Bill has some marketing team who he uses for all his launches. I guess he wants to do a big social-media campaign and was thinking of running Facebook ads and doing something through Pinterest. He said after we get fifty thousand downloads—if we get fifty thousand—we can talk about hiring a PR firm.”

  “I am super impressed,” says India. “This is beyond legit, Charlotte.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  “I can’t believe how fast it all happened,” Georgie says. “Where’s my fairy godmother?”

  “Has your mum turned your credit cards back on?” Alice asks me.

  “I’ve been so busy with the app that I forgot to ask. I’m sure she will soon enough. And if not, maybe soon enough I won’t need their cards anyway.”

  “Your parents must be really proud,” says India.

  “I hope so. I think so.”

  “Whatever,” says Flossie. “Parents are easier to please than you think. What’s important is whether you’re proud of yourself.” She holds out a bottle. “More wine?”

  The following week, it’s the day of the big meet. We’re running against the girls at Marlborough, and I’m determined to prove to Coach Wilkinson—and myself—that I have what it takes.

  I feel like I’ve really whipped my life into shape. The app’s beta is in great condition and we’re on track to be approved. Libby and I have a standing lunch date. I’ve been heading to the library a few nights a week to get my grades back up. I’ve put in good time at the gym working out, trying to get my strength up. I even find time for an extra half-hour run every morning, making sure my speed is up to snuff. I’ve shaved that extra tenth of a second back down—but now I want to push myself further.

  Coach Wilkinson thinks I have a chance of breaking the school’s 200-meter record—but I don’t want to jinx it. I carbo-load the day before the match and promise myself that I won’t be disappointed, no matter the outcome. After all, it’s not about how fast you run—it’s whether you muster the courage to run, period.

  Clearly, Coach Wilkinson’s mumbo-jumbo affirmations have been rubbing off on me.

  In the locker room before the game, I tape my bad knee, rubbing my wrists anxiously.

  “You okay there?” Flossie asks at her locker.

  “All good. Excited.”

  “Excited enough to break the record?” she says, raising an eyebrow.

  “I won’t,” I say. “There’s no way.”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I’ve seen you running the past couple of weeks. You’re not looking bad out there.”

  My stomach is a mass of butterflies. “What about you?” I ask, changing the subject. “You’re doing the sixteen-hundred meter, right?”

  She nods, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. Flossie is a yoga devotee, something clearly visible in her long, sinewy limbs. There’s a fluidity to her movements I don’t think I’ll ever possess. Sometimes I wonder if it’s because of who she is—there must be a certain security in knowing the world will always open its arms to you, no matter how you act or what you do.

  “I’m so impressed by distance running,” I say. “I don’t have it in me.”

  “Sure you do. It’s all about maintaining your pace, but keeping a little something in your back pocket for the last minute. You reserve it, bide your time, and then just when your opponent thinks they’ve won—bam. You unleash it. Strategy,” she says, smiling.

  I slap her a high five. “Well, good luck,” I say. “We’ll celebrate after the meet either way.” I’m happy that Flossie and I are now on decent terms. I don’t think the two of us will ever be BFFs, so our recent détente is probably the best I can hope for.

  We head out onto the field. The weather is hot by May standards. The afternoon sun beats down, hard and unyielding.

  I grab a paper cup from the water cooler by the track and pour myself a cup of Powerade, chugging it. I already feel warm. I’ll have to make sure I don’t get dehydrated out there today.

  The stands are packed on both sides, with a few Marlborough fans sprinkled among the Sussex Park supporters. Our friends are all there to lend support. Georgie’s running the 400 meter and hopes that she might place. Libby jumps up and down, holding a Sussex Park banner and brandishing it enthusiastically. Next to her, Edward gives me the thumbs-up.

  “Gooooo, Charlotte!” I hear her call, waving the banner back and forth and grinning. India and Alice wave at me from the stands. The support from my friends calms the butterflies in my stomach.

  My event isn’t for half an hour, so I put on my headphones and crank up my inspirational playlist, finding a place in the shade to watch the events. The girls’ 4x100 relay is up first, followed by the boys’. Then the girls’ 1600 meter, and so on, down the list.


  I take off my headphones to cheer for both Georgie’s and Flossie’s races. Georgie runs well, coming in third, while Flossie places second. I think I know them well enough by now to guess that Georgie will be thrilled, while Flossie will be gutted.

  Finally, it’s my event.

  I take my position on the track, the din of the crowd fading into the background as I concentrate.

  Run your own race, Charlotte, I tell myself. It’s just you and the track. Nothing else matters.

  I’m in the fourth lane, in between a tall brunette runner from Marlborough and a Sussex Park first-year. I take my mark. The starting gun blows and I push off, giving it everything I’ve got.

  I pump my arms and legs as fast as I can, keeping my head down so that the only thing I see is the track. The race is a blur. I’m neck and neck with the brunette from Marlborough. Every time I think I’ve outrun her, I catch the faintest glimpse of her in the corner of my eye. My feet start tingling as they slap against the pavement in rapid succession, and my lungs are burning. As the finish line looms, I dig deep inside myself, trying to unfurl whatever secret reserves of strength I might have. I can do this. I have to.

  I cross the line, my chest thrust out, only slowing down once I’m well beyond the finish.

  The first thing I see is Libby jumping up and down, looking ecstatic. I bend over and lean my hands on my knees to catch my breath, looking up at the scoreboard: I’ve broken the school record by point two seconds.

  “Atta girl!” says Wilkinson, jogging over to the finish. She slaps me on the back so hard I feel like my teeth might fly out. “You see? I knew you could do it. The only person you were competing against was yourself.” She gives my back another few thrusting pats of encouragement and then rushes away to oversee the last couple of races.

  Libby hops down from the stands, engulfing me in a hug. Edward waits off to the side. India, Alice, Oliver, Tarquin, and David are across the field, consoling Flossie and hugging an elated-looking Georgie. Tarquin throws his arm around Flossie, but she shrugs it off. Only India can get through to her, it seems. India puts her hands on either side of Flossie’s face and says something. Flossie seems to visibly relax.