The Royals Next Door

by Karina Halle

  Georgia clears her throat and then looks to the unsmiling people sitting in the plastic chairs facing us. Maureen Portier, the chairwoman of the board, is the only person I recognize.

  Then I’m introduced to Jerry Bluth, the vice chairman; Angela Kim, the union representative; Marty Howe, the secretary treasurer; Alexander LaCroix, who I’m told will be recording the meeting (and who I also know works for the newspaper); plus a trustee.

  Barbara Mischky.

  To be honest, I’ve never met the infamous senior Mischky in person, only seen her face posted many times in the paper’s editorials, but in person she looks more like Amy than I could have imagined. A face that could be pretty if it weren’t full of such spite.

  And right now, all that spite is directed at me.

  “Piper, I’m going to let Maureen speak since she is the one who called this meeting,” Georgia says to me. “Just so you know, this is all a formality of what we must do for every complaint. I know this is your first meeting with the board, but this isn’t a usual meeting and it’s a closed one. Alexander is only recording it for transparency’s sake.”

  Maureen clears her throat. I’ve only met her a handful of times, and she’s a pretty stern lady with a pinched face and a close-cropped haircut, but she’s not particularly unkind, just tough.

  “Ms. Evans,” Maureen begins, adjusting herself in her seat so she’s sitting up taller, folding her hands in her lap over her notebook. “Thank you for coming here on short notice. I want to reiterate what Georgia said. This is an investigation because it’s what we have to do when a complaint is lodged. We are here to tell you the complaint, why it matters, and then hear your side of the story. We are not judge, jury, and executioner, and the aim of this meeting is not over termination. It is merely a follow-through.”

  That should make me feel a little bit better, but it doesn’t. I feel like a little kid up here, being judged and presided over anyway.

  “Now, as was mentioned in the email, a trustee member came across several things that put your role as a schoolteacher here in question. I am going to read off the two things that we vowed to investigate. One is that pictures were published last Friday, between you and the bodyguard of the Duke and Duchess of Fairfax, whom we know are staying on the island. The photos taken were a breach of privacy on your behalf, and even if you were having an intimate moment with someone else, it is none of our business. However, the pictures were taken at Lake Maxwell, which has been sectioned off by the Island Committee and the Watershed District board. The lake is considered private property, and under BC law, you are subject to trespassing. So there is that.”

  “May I speak?” I ask, raising my hand.

  She nods primly. “Of course.”

  “It doesn’t say private property on those signs, and how could it be considered private property if there are houses that share it? Are you suggesting that all those houses own the property along with the waterworks department?”

  Yeah, I know I’m kind of wasting my time here on this point—there are so many conflicting theories floating around the island about why the lake is sectioned off, it would take all day to unravel them—but I want them to know that I’m not going to just sit back and take a dressing down. I’m right too. There is a fence, there is a notice of no swimming or ATVing due to it being a watershed, but there are no signs about it being private property. Maybe it’s a moot point, but I’m going to take it.

  “Regardless,” Maureen says, “the signs specifically tell you to stay back, and going around the fence doesn’t avoid the issue. The point is, you are a schoolteacher of impressionable children, and to see you doing something like this reflects very badly on you and the school.”

  Okay. Fine. She’s right about that, then.

  I must have an air of defeat around me, because I catch Barbara Mischky smiling at me from the back row.

  “Which then brings us to the second issue,” Maureen says. “Which is the fact that you have a romance book podcast.”

  Jerry, the vice chairman, snorts at that.

  I immediately give him the nastiest look I can muster.

  He stops smiling.

  “Now, what a teacher does in their private time is not an issue so long as it doesn’t hurt anyone. But when faced with this, it was pointed out that if a teacher was promoting pornography outside the classroom, there would be very swift punishment toward them.”

  I nearly choke on a laugh. What?

  “I’m sorry,” I say, raising my hand again. “Are you suggesting that my romance podcast is akin to promoting pornography?”

  Maureen’s face goes red. She clears her throat again. “I am saying that perhaps it could be perceived that way.”

  “Well, have you read a romance? Better yet, have you listened to my podcast?”

  She shakes her head.

  My eyes bug out. “You’re calling me up here to try to clear my name over something and you didn’t even bother listening to the supposed evidence?”

  Maureen clamps her lips shut and looks away.

  I stare at everyone else. “Did any of you?”

  “I did,” Barbara says, her voice smug and tight. “I listened to one, and that’s all I could take. You’re an extremely crude and disgusting person and definitely not suited to be teaching the innocent children here.”

  I am so flabbergasted, so angry, that I don’t even have the words. I don’t even know how to proceed.

  It takes everything inside me not to call her the same word Harrison used to describe her daughter.

  “My podcast,” I begin, my voice tight, “is directed to a mature audience. To the romance-reading audience. It’s okay to read about sex. It’s okay to have a book that’s focused on both people falling in love and the woman’s own pleasure. The genre has a lot of stigma attached to it, but only because some people are afraid of women’s empowerment and sexuality.”

  “It’s smut,” she practically spits out.

  “It’s smut, and it’s wonderful,” I tell her. “What’s so wrong with smut? What’s wrong with a book that focuses on sex? On romantic relationships? And on top of that, in a respectful way. Why is sex in movies and in TV and in art and in music and in literary novels considered okay, but a romance novel isn’t?”

  She looks shocked. “It’s wrong . . . It’s prostitution.”

  She’s really reaching now. “So now you’re saying that a romance novel is akin to prostitution. Okay then.” I look at Maureen. “Is this why you called me here? Because this is what you believe? That a romance novel, or talking about a romance novel, is the same as prostitution? Never mind the fact that I can also debate you about sex workers and the lack of support and care they get. I’ll save that for some other time.”

  “No, of course not,” Maureen says. “Look, this is all very complicated.”

  “Actually, I don’t think it is,” Georgia speaks up. “As the principal of the school, I think I should get a say in the matter.” She gives me a supportive smile. “I know Piper is an excellent teacher. What she reads or does in her own time is her own business. But I will say you are making this out to be something it’s not. Just because you have a prejudice against romance novels doesn’t mean that what you believe is true. It means you’ve bought in to a dangerous, inherently anti-feminist narrative. I read a whole range of books, and some of them are romances. I wish I had known about Piper’s podcast before, because I would have loved to have felt like part of a community, especially when so many of the readers get shunned for it. As it was, of course, Piper’s podcast was anonymous until it was more or less doxed. Wouldn’t you say that’s correct, Piper?”

  I’m trying not to smile at how she’s going to bat for me, but my heart is being warmed over. “Someone called up my mother and asked her a few questions about me. My mother thought she was helping, but the podcast would have remained anonymous otherwis
e.”

  “Because you’re ashamed,” Barbara says.

  “Because I knew that someone like you would have an issue with someone like me talking frankly about sex. That’s why. But you know what, grill me all you want over this, try to shame me. I won’t be ashamed, I will not retract, I will not back down. I am a proud romance reader, and I’m not ashamed of what I read or what I discuss with other readers. Nothing you can do or say will make me feel that way.”

  A loaded silence fills the room, and everyone stares at me, gobsmacked. I want to look over at the door to see if Harrison is still there, but I don’t dare. Besides, I can still feel him.

  Maureen clears her throat again. “Okay,” she says slowly, rubbing along her temple. “You have made your point, Piper. But there is still the issue of swimming at the lake.”

  “There is no issue,” I tell her. “You know why? Because it cancels out. I have a right to privacy. Those pictures were posted without my permission. Furthermore, it was Barbara’s daughter, Amy, who identified me in the pictures, which makes me think this whole thing is a conflict of interest. Certainly Barbara here is biased.”

  “I am not biased,” she says in a huff.

  I ignore her. “I have a right to privacy. Maybe I shouldn’t have been in the lake, but you don’t have the right to preside over everything I do. Those photos should have never been published.”

  “It was in public,” Maureen says.

  “But it wasn’t, according to you,” I remind her. “Look, you gave me the two reasons why you called this meeting, and I argued my case on each one. But what it really comes down to is, you don’t know me. You can’t vouch for me. Only Georgia here knows me, and that’s because I work with her. I’ve lived here for years, and yet I barely recognize any of you. That’s partially your fault, for not getting to know your educators. It’s also partially my fault for being a hermit. But why am I a hermit? Because I don’t feel welcome here. I feel like if I’m myself, I’ll be judged and pushed to the side. It’s hard to see it when you’re in it, but since I still feel like an outsider, I’ll explain to you what I see, from the outside looking in.

  “Why do people move to a small town or to an island?” I start ticking off my fingers. “They want peace. They want privacy. They want a sense of community, a place where they can both be themselves and belong. But that’s not what they get anymore. There is no peace when there is no privacy, when people think they have the right to know everything about a person, purely so they can judge them. There is no sense of community when people are made to feel like outsiders. We should be protecting each other, looking out for each other, respecting each other. But that doesn’t happen.”

  I point at the secretary treasurer, whatever his name is. “You. See, I don’t even know who you are. We’re told about community, but we don’t even really know each other. Why do you think the duke and duchess moved here to this island? Was it for the weather?”

  The man looks around for help, his eyes wide beneath his glasses. “Uh, no?”

  “Do you think they moved here because they wanted a place to relax, to be themselves, to live their lives out from under that ever-present microscope?”

  “Uh, yes?”

  “Well, you’re right. That’s what they wanted. But that’s not what they got. We should have been protecting them from day one. Instead, all you did was complain about the media circus. You complained about the people coming in, people, as if they don’t contribute to the economy. You looked at them like they were outsiders, and you do that to a lot of people, not just them. And it’s not unique to this place; this happens everywhere. We’re so obsessed with our little bubbles that we become afraid to let other people in. We put blinders on, and we shut people out, and when we do finally look at them, we think we have the right to know everything. This isn’t about getting to know your fellow neighbor; this is about finding ways to continually shun them. If we want to truly be a great community, we have to be inclusive, regardless of what someone does, or reads, or where they come from.”

  I’m tired now. My mouth won’t stop flapping, and I’m babbling and off-topic, and I knew this would happen once I got going.

  “All right, Piper,” Maureen says after a moment. “Are you done?”

  “Are you?”

  She nods. “We’ll deliberate and let you know.”

  I have to fight to not roll my eyes. After all that, pouring my soul out, defending my character, they still have to talk it over? Fucking bureaucracy.

  I get up, giving Georgia a grateful smile, and then leave.

  The moment I’m out the door, I practically collapse in Harrison’s arms.

  “Good job,” Harrison says to me, holding me close, his chin resting on my head. “You were phenomenal, Piper. You really were.”

  “I feel like an ass,” I mumble into his chest.

  He chuckles warmly. “Well, you did not sound it.” He pulls away and peers at me, holding me by the shoulders. “And nope, you certainly don’t look it either.”

  “Is it too early for a drink?” I whine as he puts his arm around me and leads me out of the school.

  “There’s a cidery around the corner that I’ve been itching to try,” he says. All the right words.

  Twenty-One

  I barely slept last night. I tossed and turned, my mind full of thoughts that went nowhere and worries that multiplied. Oh, and copious amounts of cider. After the “hearing,” Harrison and I plunked ourselves down on one of the picnic tables and drank a bottle of cider, then bought some more and headed back home and down to the dock. He had the day off, so we were able to just be alone and enjoy the sunshine.

  I guess that’s what kept my brain preoccupied, because as soon as I was alone in bed, that was when I started thinking and fretting.

  Was I going to lose my job?

  Did I say too much?

  Did I say the wrong things?

  How much power does Barbara Mischky have?

  Was I too rude?

  Was I too proud?

  As a result, I didn’t sleep at all until I started to see the light of dawn through my bedroom window, and that’s when my body finally decided to rest.

  I passed right out.

  It’s now noon, and my mouth feels like it’s full of cotton balls and my head is heavy. I had that disoriented feeling of waking up late—it’s like taking a nap, throws your whole day off.

  I glance at my phone. There’s a text from Harrison asking how I am, and yes, a simple text still makes my heart do backflips, but there’s nothing else. I check my email, and nada. I would have thought they’d have made a decision by now.

  I slip on a house robe and pad out into the kitchen. It’s raining now, a freshness and relief in the air after such a hot week, and my mother is standing by the coffeepot. It’s percolating, and the smell fills my nostrils. Even though I am a wreck, it’s still awfully cozy here.

  “Piper,” she says softly. “I heard you stirring. I thought you could use some coffee.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say, leaning against the island as she pulls the pot off the burner and pours me a cup. I hold it in my hands and take a sip, looking past the windows and out to the deck, where a dense fog has moved in, obscuring the ocean and making the trees look like ghosts.

  “Piper?” she says again, her voice sounding raw. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me what happened yesterday?”

  I stare. Oh shit. She knows.

  “What do you mean?” I play dumb, even though there’s no use.

  “The meeting. You were being investigated by the school board.”

  “Let me guess: Someone called you up and asked you about it?”

  “No,” she says. “I saw it online. On the ShoreLine’s website.”

  “You what? You saw it?”


  “Yes. A video. My god, Piper, I’ve never been so proud of you.”

  While her admission warms me, it does nothing to abate the shock that’s running through me. A video? A video of yesterday? My one-person defense over lake swimming, community, and romance novels?

  I immediately dig my phone out of my robe pocket and go to the website.

  Sure enough, front page is an article entitled “Local Teacher Defends Right to Privacy,” which I suppose is the simplest way of putting it.

  It’s written by that dude with the key-lime mineral water name, Alexander LaCroix, and during a quick sweep of the article, I’m surprised to see that the whole thing is in my defense. In fact, it paints me very favorably. Maybe this is to make up for that article written about Harrison at the Blowhole and the subsequent royals smackdown, or perhaps he’s tired of Barbara Mischky’s editorial letters. But either way, he told the truth and made good points on how we need to band together as a community instead of looking for ways to keep people out.

  And then there’s the video.

  I click on it and watch for a moment until it all becomes too much. First of all, I should have worn more makeup, because I look tired as hell; second of all, I make the absolute worst facial expressions; and third of all, I’m rambling. At least I think I am.

  But no matter what I think, it doesn’t matter, because that video is out there in the world now.

  Somehow I’ve gone from a reclusive hermit to having paparazzi harass me, to articles written about me and my ex, to sexcapade lake pictures and then heartfelt speeches, all shown worldwide, all in the span of a summer.

  It takes me a moment to realize the turn my life has taken.

  Those damn royals, I think. And yet I’m not mad. Because there is change in the air for all of us, a fire that’s growing. Sometimes you just need a spark. Sometimes you just need a new neighbor.

  “Why didn’t you tell me, sweetheart?” my mother asks forlornly.