Truly Madly Royally

by Debbie Rigaud

  “Welcome, Lady Lois.” He is almost trembling. “We’re honored to—”

  “Let’s see the choreography,” she cuts Jethro off.

  Jethro gets to the play button quicker than we expected. The music begins a millisecond later. Owen and I have to throw down our water bottles and race to the center of the dance floor to catch our musical cue.

  Even though the music fills the space, there is a deathly silence in the room because of the tension Lady Lois’s presence creates.

  “That’ll do,” she says before we’ve come to the end. Jethro looks relieved; that must be high praise from Lady Lois.

  “Miss Emerson, I’ll need you to gather your things and come with me,” she says. She nods toward Owen, and then leaves the room.

  “Where is she taking me?” I ask Owen.

  He gives me another hug, even though we’re both a little sweaty. “I think Lady Lois has some items on her agenda for you,” he explains. “And I have to go meet my brother now for his suit fitting. But I’ll meet you later?”

  “Later,” I say, squeezing his hand.

  I grab my bag and walk out of the dance studio, where Lady Lois is waiting in the hall … with Ma!

  “Are we leaving?” I ask. Lady Lois ignores my question and keeps walking.

  “Are we being deported?” I touch my mom’s arm and ask under my breath. Ma smiles and taps my hand.

  “Your gown sizing, remember?” Ma reminds me. I can’t believe I let Lady Lois’s intimidation tactics throw me off the fashion scent.

  The three of us get into the waiting black stretch town car. Inside, Lady Lois grabs a large binder and a tablet and gets to business.

  “Right, I’m Lady Lois, and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” she says, ignoring the fact that we’ve been in her presence for the past fifteen minutes or so. “I will be your handler whilst you’re in Landerel and I’m here to provide you both with your styling requirements.”

  As I’m already aware thanks to social media, there’s buzz about what I’ll wear to the wedding, what style, which designer. I don’t mind that buzz so much. There’s nothing wrong with a healthy competition among designers who are all vying for my attention.

  Lady Lois proceeds to show me proposals from five top designers. I’m in awe. These are designers I’ve heard of, ones I’ve followed on Instagram just to get a glimpse of their genius. I can’t afford nor do I have the desire to wear designer clothes, but the low-end clothes I buy and wear are sometimes inspired by them.

  My mom and I lean in and soak up the beauty of the designs while Lady Lois turns to different pages in her binder to let us feel the swatches the clothes are based on. This is so much fun.

  Then we move on to hair and makeup. The survey Lady Lois has me fill out on the tablet will help the hairdresser and makeup artist know how to style me.

  “I see here you haven’t checked off the available hair styles listed. I’ll just put blown out straight,” she says.

  “Uh, I’d rather wear my hair curly,” I say.

  Lady Lois eyeballs me over the retro-cool frames of her reading glasses. “I … see,” she says.

  “Zora’s hair can be worn in so many beautiful styles, like these,” says Ma, ever ready with images to prove a point. Ma holds her phone out to Lady Lois and scrolls through one photo after another of me in different naturally coily styles.

  “Yes, well, that settles it,” Lady Lois says. We can glean from the haughty purse of her lips that coily coifs aren’t her personal taste. But they don’t need to be. Ma and I smile at our coup.

  As her last act, Lady Lois snaps a pic of me with her tablet. She rides the rest of the way in silence.

  When we step out of the car, I whisper to Ma, “This is going to be way more fabulous than I ever imagined.”

  “Let’s hold the happy squeals until we’re home.” She beams.

  “We’ve arrived,” says Lady Lois as she leads us toward a sleek building. “Let’s go in.”

  Sixteen floors up, we enter a designer studio. I’m told that at different appointment times several designers will come to make an appeal to me. Could this be really happening? This place looks like the behind-the-scenes room at a fashion show. A really tall woman with angular features and leggy strides smiles at me as she leaves the studio. I wonder if she’s a model prepping for her Vogue photo shoot or something.

  “Everyone, I’m proud to present to you sixteen-year-old Zora and her mother, Ms. Yvette,” says Lady Lois in a commanding voice. The busy staff respectfully pause their ironing, steaming, sewing, measuring, and sorting. Of course, they also start assessing me, giving me head-to-toe once-overs.

  “Now, Zora, you are going to hear us commenting on you physically, but we know the confidence and grace you exuded during your dance rehearsal is what truly matters most,” Lady Lois says, surprising me with the casual compliment. “This team will advise you in all things fashion, so that you’ll have the best designs to match that spirit as well as your personality, personal style, and physical qualities.”

  Okay. I nod my head in understanding.

  “Hello, Zora,” says one friendly woman. “Are you ready? We promise to make this fun for you. Let’s start with your music choice. Any special requests?”

  With a thumping playlist on repeat, people wearing thin measuring tapes like scarves take measurement after measurement. And gown after gown is handed to me to try on, along with the fanciest hair accessories. “Fascinators” they call them. My fitting room is makeshift, but Ma stands guard at the curtain to make sure I have all the privacy I need.

  Each stylist is also wearing a sleek black fanny pack containing all of the tailor needs to solve any fashion emergency. They pin the back of the gowns I try on until they fit me like a glove.

  Ma puts her hand over her heart or mouth each time I step on the platform in front of the full-length mirrors. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing myself. The gowns give me a Hollywood-starlet-on-a-red-carpet vibe. I look and feel spectacular, though a part of me feels guilty about it. If only everyone I know could experience this. My dad for one would relish this. And Skye. And, of course, Anaya. In fact, all of the kids in the program and at school would, too.

  “Zora?” My mom catches that look on my face.

  “Ma, how about if we throw an annual Royalty for a Day party back in Appleton? I’m sure my principal would donate the school gym …”

  “Let’s talk about that later, hmm?” Ma says sweetly. “Right now, just enjoy your moment.”

  “Okay, but on our way home, can we stop at a supply store? There are a few things I need to pick up tonight.”

  “The moment, Zora,” she repeats. “The moment.”

  After three hours of nonstop fittings with doting designers, we settle on a royal-blue gown that I can’t stop staring at.

  “Mini squeal now, just because I can’t hold it in anymore?” Ma asks.

  I nod my head yes. We clutch each other’s hands and squeeee together when no one is looking.

  THE TOUR of Sister’s Keeper blows my mind. We learn about the origins of the place as a shelter for women and children, and how it grew to also help resettle refugees and immigrants in its changing community. We are in the original space where the organization got started. There are offices and meeting rooms here. And lots of old and new framed photos of the people they’ve met with, right here in these offices. World leaders, spiritual leaders, celebrities, and everyday people. Ma and I take selfies in front of some of my faves.

  “Oh, there’s Sadie!” I point out a photo of the princess-to-be.

  “She used to volunteer here as a teen,” says our tour guide. “She lived in this area as a child, and said she always wanted to give back as thanks for what Sister’s Keeper did for her friends and family.”

  The building next door is newer and open to the diverse, heavily immigrant community it serves.

  Ma and I sit in on a talk there about the new programs serving the influx of refugee famil
ies from war-torn parts of the world.

  Once the talk is over, Ma and I head out for a stroll into the sunshine.

  Sofia, the royal security woman who drove us here, tries to usher us straight into the car. But Ma and I insist on walking out into the neighborhood awhile.

  I’m so glad to be out among the people. The area is so different than where we’re staying. Here kinda reminds me of Appleton. There’s more of a down-home vibe, with people holding lively conversations in all types of languages on front stoops, music thumping from car stereos, and kids playing in the streets.

  “Watch out for the lady!”

  A girl of about eight pins the runaway soccer ball—or, I guess, football—with her foot, pausing the street game until I walk safely by. I greet her with a smile and nod my thanks for her shout-out.

  A lady.

  Wow, that’s a first. It sounds so regal. So noble. Lady Zora. Or Lady Emerson. Maybe Lady Zora of the Emerson Dynasty. I’m not entirely sure how the royal court would address me, but here in the streets of Landerel, a kid has christened me a lady.

  I feel my spine straighten, my hips sway. Even my shoulder bag is lighter. It’s hard to remember what I’d been so nervous about all week. Lady, you got this, I tell myself. You’re fierce, and you’re from a long line of brave women.

  As I strut by in my restored confidence, one miniature player with scraped-up knees and a scrappy vibe looks impatient. She examines me with squinted eyes and bunched-up lips, not the least bit fooled.

  “That’s not a lady, that’s a girl!” she blurts.

  Poof! There goes that confidence boost. I laugh in spite of my worries, and Ma laughs with me.

  OUR HOTEL suite is a busy scene the next afternoon. One after another, stylists, a hairdresser, and a makeup artist all arrive to give me pizzazz for the rehearsal dinner. There’s even a royal etiquette lady schooling me on dining protocols.

  A rack of clothing wheeled in holds dress options for tonight. As I thumb through the rack in awe, the glam squad preps their tools while watching the nonstop live coverage of the wedding on TV.

  I watch, too; I’m curious to get as much scoop as possible about which designers other people are wearing. Just when I feel at ease about the talk centering on Gideon, there’s a news report about Owen.

  “Prince Owen is flying above the radar these days, and recent reports paint him as having shed his wild-boy image,” the reporter standing on a busy Glenby street corner says. “Young girls everywhere are noticing that he’s matured quite nicely. The lucky girl he is bringing to the wedding is an American from the state of New Jersey. But, we’d like to know, what do girls closer to home think of the prince?”

  “He looks ripe for a proper snog,” says a girl on the street.

  “And what of his American girlfriend?” The amused reporter pronounces it “go-u-friend.”

  “That can’t last,” the girl replies.

  Everyone in the room avoids eye contact with me. I feel like shrinking.

  Ma walks in at the perfect time. “Zora, look who’s here,” she singsongs.

  I never thought I’d be so happy to see Lady Lois. It just feels comforting. I walk over to her and actually give her a light hug.

  “Oh my,” she says. But the gleam in her eye tells me she understands. “I don’t normally get such greetings.”

  I can tell. The room is even tenser than when the news report was playing.

  “Chop-chop,” she tells me. “You are to go to hair and makeup now.”

  Soon, I’m settled in a chair chatting with my makeup artist. I ask her about her neighborhood and hear fascinating stories about what it was like to grow up with five human siblings and four canine ones.

  When she turns the chair to the mirror, I am loving how beautifully the tones of my lipstick and blush match my brown skin. “Thank you,” I tell her.

  I stay in the same chair and leaf through Landerelian gossip magazines, waiting for my hair to get done. Cover to cover, the tabloids are all royal wedding everything, with a special focus on the bride’s and groom’s personal lives before and after they met each other. It’s hard not to get sucked into every page.

  Not one, but two stylists are working on my hair. They stand at each side of my head and use super-skinny curling irons on strand after strand. I’m faced away from the mirror, so I ask as many questions as I can about what look they’re going for.

  “It’s going to be fabulous, you’ll see,” says the stylist to my right.

  “You have a lot of hair, so four hands are better than two,” says the other.

  Neither of them have coily or even curly hair, but that’s not too much a cause for concern. Some of the top experts in natural hair care are people you wouldn’t expect.

  After what feels like an eternity, they turn me to the mirror. I almost gasp out loud. It looks like I’m wearing a motorcycle helmet. The shape of this hairdo is nebulous. Layers of Little Bo-Peep ringlets are piled so high, my entire coif wouldn’t fit into a selfie.

  “You like it?” one of the hairstylists asks.

  “I—I don’t normally wear it like this,” I say.

  “Well, of course you don’t. This is a special occasion, so nothing normal will do.”

  “I—you’re right, this isn’t … normal,” is all I can say.

  “Now hurry and get dressed so you can show your mum the whole package.”

  The whole package is unfortunately sitting on my head. And it’s oddly shaped.

  “The car is waiting downstairs. You have ten minutes!” Lady Lois pokes her head inside our suite. She’s distracted and on the phone, so she doesn’t see me gesturing to her. What’s the Landerelian sign for SOS?

  I drag my feet to my room to get dressed. I had been so worried about the stylists getting my makeup tone wrong that I didn’t think of my hair.

  “Are you all dressed?” Ma knocks on the door.

  “Come in,” I grumble.

  Ma scans me from the toes up. My kitten-heeled pointy mules are looking fierce. My legs have a tanned glow. The copper-and-black polka-dot dress is a retro wonder. Its flowy skirt and mid-century belt are snatching wigs out here. The flawlessness of my makeup—crushing it. And then … record scratch.

  Ma’s face when she sees my hair confirms everything.

  “Okay, don’t panic,” she says. “I have extra hair pins.”

  “I’m going to need lots. We’re talking a lorry load of pins, Ma.”

  Ma pins the front half of my hair into a French roll. She does the best she can, but I’m still not feeling this hairdo. I kiss her good-bye but wish more than ever she was coming with me to this rehearsal dinner.

  “Remember to curtsy upon meeting the queen, just as we rehearsed,” Lady Lois says. She stares at my hair, train-wreck-gawker style, as we get into the black car to drive to the dinner. It’s tough to hear her around my noise-canceling curls.

  At least I get to hang out with Owen tonight. I feel like I haven’t seen him in forever.

  The car navigates a smooth twisty road through the enormous park until we enter a canopied entrance to what must be the royal grounds. I grab my phone and get my camera ready. We come upon a peaceful pond, which reflects its foresty surroundings. I try to capture the leafy reflections, but a large white bird with a yellowish head and long beak swoops down at that moment, sending ripples through it. Once we cross a charming old brick bridge, the sight of Highbury Castle poking through the trees grabs my attention. It is breathtaking. I can’t stop snapping pics from every angle. I turn my phone from portrait to landscape and back again. I zoom in on the brickwork, the stained glass windows, and the iron doors. The early evening sun perfectly outlines all the Gothic filigree details on the castle’s peaks.

  “Oh, wow! I can’t imagine what it must look like inside!” I say.

  “Our first stop is the reception location in the East Wing of the palace,” says Lady Lois.

  “Is there a difference between a castle and a palace?” I ask. />
  “Technically this is a castle, originally built as a fortress. But it’s had some upgrades over the centuries, like its decorative windows,” says Lady Lois.

  If I had Wi-Fi in this car, I’d email Anaya these photos. She’s obsessed with drawing castles. There’s a budding architect in her, I think.

  The car drops us off, and we enter the East Wing’s marbled halls and are led to the grand banquet. It faces the pond, and the view through the floor-to-cathedral-ceiling glass wall almost knocks me on my booty.

  Are these rich people kidding me right now?

  I can’t imagine the epic cookout the whole of Appleton would love to have right outside. The marble-top patio table would no doubt be the scene of Daddy’s spades game challenge to John. That would easily draw a crowd.

  Inside the hall, the tables are already elegantly dressed and waiting for the big day tomorrow. There’s no faux-wood-paneled dance floor framed by lighted trim like there was at Ma and John’s reception. It’s all marble everywhere. I hope the heels I wear tomorrow won’t slip.

  As if reading my mind, Lois gives me the rundown for tomorrow: what cues to listen for, who to look out for, and where to stand right before the dance.

  “Where will I be seated?” I ask.

  She points out a table near the wall. As soon as I see it, I get a sinking feeling I know the answer to my next question.

  “Where will Owen be seated?”

  “At the second table from the bride and groom,” she says.

  It’s cool. That makes a lot of sense, I tell myself to let the nervous fluttering in my stomach fade away.

  When we arrive at the Wilhelm Drawing Room for dinner, I’m struck by the textured wall covering and stunning oil paintings hanging on the walls. Though it’s a large room, the decor is much more intimate. There are soft chenille settees and chairs angled in the corners, and the long dinner table looks set for a Thanksgiving meal. The lighting has a candlelit tone to it, giving everyone’s faces a warm glow.

  Everything seems to be in full swing by the time Lady Lois and I step in. People are mingling and chatting it up, and Lady Lois makes her exit. If it didn’t look like I was wearing a fuzzy pillow around my head, I would stand a chance at entering unnoticed. But who am I kidding? People would notice me even if my hairstyle were not an issue. Aside from the bride and her father, I’m the only other brown person around for miles.