Truly Madly Royally

by Debbie Rigaud

  But there’s only one photo of him that I wish I could unsee—Owen with It Girl. Unlike the pics of him hanging out with girls on the town, they’re together at what appears to be a formal, even royal, event. I spend more time than I want to admit studying exactly how they’re standing next to each other. Prince Owen and Kelsey Reston at the Queen’s Annual Garden Party honoring veterans, the caption reads. So It Girl’s name is Kelsey. How does she even know Owen?

  But what do I care?

  I close out the window and I scroll through my messages. One missed call from Daddy. And only one text from Skye? I crack a smile watching the short “Hi, Zora!” animation she created with her young cousin Kyree.

  The phone rings. It’s my dad. Even if I didn’t have the choice yesterday, he’ll find it suspicious and even rude if I send him to voicemail a second time in as many days.

  “Hi, Daddy,” I answer, even though this is the last thing I need right now. I usually have to be mentally prepared to talk to my dad, but he’s even tougher to tolerate if he’s upset and lecturing me about not staying in touch. Better to avoid that scene by picking up his call now.

  “I was expecting a call back from you, Zora.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. The past few days have been unpredictable. I was juggling a few things at once.” I do not want to explain a cell mix-up with a crown prince to my father.

  “You know you still have a daddy. Or are you confusing me with that Artificial Intelligence robot John?” he asks facetiously. “You know, no matter how real they look, AI will never replace a human.”

  “That’s not nice, Daddy, and you know that.” I shake my head and try not to laugh … loud enough for him to hear. I don’t want to encourage him. My dad knows I share his wicked sense of humor. It’s not something I’m always proud of.

  He, on the other hand, doesn’t hide his laughter.

  “It may not be nice, but I see you didn’t say it’s wrong.” He barely gets these words out before he whoops and cackles again.

  “I’m on the train and about to go in a tunnel soon, Daddy. How are you? Is everything all right?”

  “I’m fine, princess, it’s you I’m calling about. I saw your name mentioned in the Appleton Weekly for this fancy gala happening next week. Congratulations, sweetheart!”

  “Aw, thank you, Daddy.”

  I hadn’t told my dad about the Gala, because over the years, he hasn’t taken much interest in my community projects beyond the flat “that’s nice” response. I get the sense that he’d rather I go into a more exciting field. “Thankless jobs,” as he calls them, are for invisible people, and my dad is all about staying visible.

  “Go on to your do-gooding—we’ll talk more about it when you call me back,” he says. “You have a good day and keep making your human daddy proud.”

  That is so sweet of him. Well, aside from the insult to John. But I can’t believe I actually got a small boost from talking to Daddy.

  There’s one more person I need to talk to. As soon as I’m home and up in my room, I call Skye.

  “Zora, how you gonna call me during KATUNI? You know today is the elimination round,” Skye says in one breath the moment she picks up my call.

  I didn’t forget about Skye’s Thursday-afternoon rule. Watching Kenyan animators compete is her weekly obsess—er, ritual.

  Not two months ago, as we had sat at a coffee shop mapping out our summer class schedules, she’d reminded me, “Don’t forget to do something for fun, too, Zora. Look at it as your treat for working hard all week.”

  Now I tease, “Aw, come on, didn’t you miss me?”

  “Hmmph. You’re lucky this is my second time watching it. The first time around, Kyree asked too many questions.”

  “Why are you treating that boy like your intern?” I ask, while removing the dug-in pins from my big hair and massaging my scalp.

  “He’s only ten and he’s cooler than I am. He has me looking like the auntie and I’m barely seventeen. It just ain’t right.”

  The girl is a perfectionist and believes she can do everything—from robotics to dance moves—better than most people. If I know Skye, she won’t leave Atlanta until she’s mastered every new concept she comes across. This can be a good thing because she mostly uses her competitive edge to benefit others. This means I won’t have a choice in the matter: I’ll be learning every animation technique, robotics idea, and dance move from her the minute she gets back to Jersey. And she can’t come back soon enough. Her program runs through mid-August, so that means at least five more weeks before we get back together to map out our Appleton High senior year goals.

  “You knew who you were dealing with when you flew down there,” I remind her. “Atlanta is the new New York City.”

  “Yes,” she whisper-screams in exaggerated shock. Knowing Skye, she’s already unraveling her silk headscarf by now. After so many sleepovers over the years, I’ve gotten used to Skye’s constant hair checks for any dents. If she sleeps on her signature blown-out do in some wacky way, she can pin it down flat in the morning, but I know she’d rather retie her headscarf a million times to try to avoid it. I imagine her retying her scarf just as quickly as she untied it. “Back in elementary school when I used to come down to Atlanta, saying you’re from New York or New Jersey used to get you instant respect. Nowadays they expect us to bow down and kiss their ring. It’s incredible.”

  “Funny you should mention bowing and ring kissing … I have something to tell you.”

  As I spill all the tea on my brush with Prince Owen of Landerel, Skye gasps, squeals, shouts, and emphatically orders me to shut up, several times. And then—complete silence.

  Ring.

  I haven’t noticed Skye had literally hung up in shock.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Woo!” Skye still sounds shook. “I just had to let that sink in. But I’m good now.”

  “Good.”

  “I think …”

  “Skye?”

  Ring.

  “Whew! This is way too much, but I’m glad you told me.”

  “You’re the only one who knows, so please keep it to yourself.”

  “Of course,” she says.

  I hear a beep. I pull my ear from the phone to see a text from a number I don’t recognize.

  Hi, Zora. This is Owen. I hope you don’t mind my reaching out to you here. My preference would be to call you, but if you rather I text or not contact you at all, I completely understand. I want to express my deep regrets for what transpired. I am sorry. You did not deserve that.

  “Zora?” Skye asks, and I realize she’s been waiting on the line.

  I return to our call and tell her about the text I just got.

  “Wait. What?” Skye says. “Okay, now listen to me carefully. Prince or no prince, if you feel you’ve been treated unfairly, you don’t have to answer his texts.”

  “It’s not even that, it’s—” My voice trails off and gets small.

  “You like him.” Skye’s words have that “aha!” tone to them. “My best friend has a royal crush on the prince of Landerel.”

  “Huh? I wouldn’t say that.” Then why am I smizing? And remembering how cute he looked in that maroon baseball cap today? “But I admit I kinda had a real nice time talking to him.”

  “And you could see hanging out with him again, and getting to know him better.” Skye nails it.

  “Well …” is all I’ll give her.

  “Why won’t you admit it, though?” Skye asks.

  “It’s silly. I’m not trying to get involved with anything distracting while I’m in this tough program.” I pick at the loose threads on my pillowcase’s embroidery. It’s taken a few paychecks from my old ice cream parlor job, but I’m managing to redecorate my room with stuff I buy entirely from local and online small businesses. At this point—aside from the furniture—I can hardly pick out one thing my mom bought.

  “Zora, you’re human. You can’t help what you’re feeling. And you can’t be a
bout grant writing or the Walk Me Home program all the time.”

  I’m quiet, because I don’t have an answer to her refrain about not being a workaholic. It’s not like Skye doesn’t go hard for what she wants, too.

  “Oh, I didn’t even ask you about your presentation,” I remember.

  “No, don’t worry about it. It went fine. I’ll tell you later. I’m going back to my show now.”

  “Wait, one last thing! I never heard the end of that story from two days ago—did Kyree really end up sleeping at the school overnight?”

  “Yes, my aunt and uncle fixed him good. I don’t think he’ll try that stunt again anytime soon,” she laughs.

  I wake up the next morning knowing just what I should do, and it doesn’t involve Halstead University, or Prince Owen (I didn’t answer his first text, and he sent two more—both of which I avoided reading). I’m going to visit Anaya and the other kids from the Walk Me Home program again. They’ll be so excited that I was able to visit twice in one week.

  “Don’t you have one class later today?” My mom pokes her head in my room before she heads to work. My stepdad is already solving IT emergencies at his job, and Zach is no doubt still asleep after his late-night shift for his EMT internship.

  “It’s more of a study hall,” I explain. “The professor already gave us the syllabus and he expects us to keep pace on our own.”

  It’s only half a lie. My community organizing class is more freestyle than the others, but we are still expected to attend the lectures. I still haven’t made up my mind whether I’ll go in. I just don’t want to deal.

  “You’re back!” says Ms. Nelson when she sees me. She’s carrying a box full of supplies to the shed tucked under the oak tree at the edge of the playground.

  “Hi, Ms. Nelson.”

  I walk over and give her the hug she deserved when I saw her on Wednesday. If it weren’t for Ms. Nelson’s generosity, this summer camp would not have happened.

  Ms. Nelson continues our conversation as if she saw me just a minute ago.

  “Did I tell you I met a few of the students who go to Halstead U-ni-ver-si-ty,” she overly enunciates each syllable again. “Yes, ma’am. A group came down last week to teach my grandson and other kids to swim.”

  I become fixated with the duct tape in her supply box and imagine sealing Ms. Nelson’s lips with it. I’d rather talk about anything but Halstead U.

  I take her supply box and she holds the shed door open as I enter.

  “Right there is fine.” Ms. Nelson points to a cleared-out wooden shelf. Once we’re outside, she detains me again with her long story.

  She leans back against the tall boulder next to the shed, a cozy perch for her extended rambling.

  “Mm-hmm. Started a swim program for our youth last year all by themselves, they did. They got all types of national press for it, too. Our own Media Club produced a montage of all the news segments that aired coverage. It was on NBC, ABC, CBS, and I’m not just talking local news. Remember?”

  I don’t want to remember.

  “But”—she pauses for a beat—“regardless of whether they started the swim program to be called heroes, or even just to see how our hair reacts to water, those generous kids still dedicated their time to help others less fortunate.”

  Her words are jabbing me in the ego. Halstead students aren’t the only ones who can help this community. I still have the chance to do my part. Campus gossip isn’t worth risking my mission.

  “If you don’t need any more help, I really should be going to class,” I hear myself say. “I’ll just pop in to say a quick hi to the kids.”

  I check the time on my phone. I can still make my noon class if I leave soon.

  “Go, go!” Ms. Nelson puts up a threatening finger. “Don’t you go up there and show those folks you operate on Black People Time. Stay prompt!” Her cowlick is trembling again. “And if you try jaywalking up there like you do down here, they’ll lock you up. They are not gonna give you as many chances to mess up as they give their own. You get my meaning?”

  “Yes, Ms. Nelson,” I say over my shoulder. I stop into the main building to give a few hugs to the kids, and then I’m on my way.

  On the train, I give myself a different kind of pep talk. The facts are, I had a wack first week. I’m used to planning, predicting events, and having more control. But hey, occasional chaos gonna chaos.

  By the time I make it through an uneventful class and pack up my things to head off campus, I’m feeling relieved enough to cheer. I’m glad I didn’t stay away from school. Nothing nutty happened. Plus, I didn’t see a trace of—eye roll—the prince.

  This is good.

  While waiting on the Halstead U platform for the train, grateful for my drama-free day, my phone rings.

  I don’t recognize the number, but I’m in a good mood, so I answer anyway.

  “Hello, is this Zora Emerson?”

  The guy’s voice isn’t familiar, but he sounds like someone my age.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Finn Burlington, a reporter with Halstead’s journalism summer program, and I’d like to interview you for a story we’re working on about your run-in with Prince Owen of Landerel.”

  That feeling when you think you’re home free and trouble literally comes calling? Yeah, it pretty much sucks.

  “ZORA, ARE you there?” the caller’s voice pipes into my ear. Actually, it’s more onto my cheek, because that’s how low my phone slides, thanks to a sudden onslaught of stress sweat and shock-induced weakened grip.

  I close my mouth before a truck drives through it. After a deep inhale of suburban train station air, I recover the phone.

  “Wha-what kind of story?” I don’t care to hear the answer, which makes my question instantly ironic.

  “The situation between you and Prince Owen,” he says as if he’s already tired of me playing dumb.

  I swallow to keep my stomach from coming up with this morning’s bagel. I’ve hardly had time to process this … non-thing between me and Owen and we’re already a public discussion.

  My silence prompts the reporter kid to expound, unwittingly digging his hole deeper.

  “A journalism student from your Grant Writing class witnessed you being led into the campus police station because of some mix-up with Prince Owen’s phone. We’ve deemed that newsworthy,” he says.

  “Oh,” I realize aloud. “I didn’t know anyone followed us.”

  I do a mental rewind to that humiliating moment and search for details I may have overlooked. Did I miss the fact that someone from class tailed us to the station?

  Our conversation pauses then, because it would be decidedly un-Halstead of either one of us to shout over the screeching brakes of the arriving train. I’ve been a summer program student here long enough to know that Halstead Hopefuls work hard to out-Halstead the institution’s actual full-time students.

  I board the train in a daze and make a beeline to a seat. No one even dares outpace me to it. But I am vaguely aware of passengers stepping out of my path. And I hear an elderly woman complain to a fellow passenger, “What kind of putz doctor sends out a patient with dilated eyes?” Great. Now I have people confusing my dazed expression with vision impairment.

  That’s a new one. But I’ll just have to lay that one down. I have more pressing issues keeping me awake in my daydream at the moment. I’m still coming up with no recollection of someone shadowing me to the station.

  “Do journalism students generally stalk people around campus?” I ask the reporter on the phone. I decide to stay on the offensive.

  The reporter lets out a sheepish chuckle, and then, “Let me backtrack here. That is not the type of journalism I mean to project. I want to be factual, and I’m afraid I haven’t been.”

  Somehow, I’ve frazzled the reporter without even meaning to. I guess he’s taking my comment as a whistle blow to his journalistic integrity. I’m just trying to avoid his questions, but it’s having a rattling effect on him.


  “A journalism student in your class witnessed the campus police confirm your possession of Prince Owen’s phone, so of course we deemed that newsworthy,” he rephrases. I can hear him choose his words carefully, and he speaks with a hint of respect that was missing before.

  What a relief. No one followed me after all.

  “Oh, now that makes sense,” I say, getting a feel for the upper hand and kind of enjoying it.

  “Let me also say this story will not be posted or made public. The university is careful about the prince maintaining his privacy. What you tell me will go in a story we’re preparing for in-class use only.”

  The farther the train pulls away from the Halstead campus, the less bent I am to play the Halstead Hopeful role. This is an interesting turn of events.

  “What do you need to know?”

  “We’d love your response to Prince Owen’s quote. He was kind enough to give us a brief interview to set the record straight.”

  I cross my legs at the ankles, then quickly uncross them to fidget in my seat before crossing them again. The man in the oversized suit sitting next to me gets up and exits, so I slide over to his window seat for more privacy. I turn my back to everything and tuck in closer to the window. Thankfully, the reporter doesn’t pick up on how frazzled I’m suddenly feeling.

  “I’m listening,” I say evenly.

  “Quote, ‘This was an innocent mix-up that unfortunately led to a humiliating event for Ms. Emerson. It was simply a case of what happens when two students are immersed in their studies and look-alike phones inadvertently get swapped. I had Ms. Emerson’s phone, but I did not know her name or identity. I am sorry for the embarrassment that this no-fault occurrence has visited on Ms. Emerson, and I would do anything to have this lens of scrutiny look away from her. She was exceptionally graceful in cooperating with officials and assisting in this situation’s resolution.’ End quote.”

  I breathe normally and lean back in my seat for the first time.