She laughs a little. “Gee, thanks.”
“Any time,” I say, opening my closet and pulling out my suitcase. “Listen, I know this’ll be hard for you—a big wedding with hundreds of people you don’t know, but the truth is, all that matters is that Pierce is madly in love with you, and when this one day is over, you two will be together forever.” I put on a mock-dreamy tone on the words ‘together forever’ to keep things appropriately brother-sister light.
“Thanks, you bonehead.”
“You’re welcome, Bridezilla. Okay, I better get going. I should really read over this list and start packing.” I quickly say, “Last joke, I promise,” before hanging up.
Tossing my phone onto the bed, I walk to the kitchen of the small staff villa that has become my home. Other than my surfboard leaned up against the wall, there’s nothing personal in it. No family photos, no mementos of my life. Just a small bedroom, one bathroom, and a kitchen/living room combo, which is where my surfboard lives. It’s enough for me though, especially because I’m not here much.
I open the fridge and take out a can of beer, then crack it open. For the first time, I’m not excited about leaving home to go explore some new part of the world. I spot a sippy cup under my coffee table and smile to myself as I pick it up. My one-year-old niece Clara was here this afternoon for a few hours. I babysat her while Libby and Harrison were busy with a staff meeting. Man, she’s adorable. The way she runs everywhere, her little diaper-clad bottom swinging from side-to-side. Her little giggle. The way she holds her arms up to me and says, “Up.” I’m going to miss that little tyke for the next however-many weeks or months that I’m gone. But it’ll all be worth it.
I hope.
Nasty Nonagenarians in Turquoise Track Suits
Arabella
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen.”I smile as I stare into the crinkly faces of the eight remaining members of the Nonagenarian Mall Walkers Club. They’ve been invited to the palace for a special tour to celebrate one hundred miles of mall walking this year—a vitally important milestone that only a senior-ranking royal can properly acknowledge (or so I’m told). As much as I wish I cared, I have bigger fish to fry today.
Last week, I submitted a proposal to the senior staff, and my father, to become an ambassador for the United Nations Equal Everywhere campaign—an organization aimed at making girls and women equal to boys and men everywhere on the planet. Important work that would allow me to travel the globe, making it a more fair and just place. (I can almost feel my cape flapping in the wind behind me as I hurry down the halls of injustice).
Anyway, in exactly ninety minutes, a meeting will be held to discuss it, and I amdesperateto be in that room. Not because I actually think they’ll listen to me, but because the chances my father will say no are far greater when he doesn’t have to risk seeing the disappointment on my face. I've also requested permission to wear a red minidress to the Davenport wedding this weekend, which is purely strategic on my part. There’s no way in hell they’ll allow me to wear red to anything—especially not a formal event with tons of press. According to royal protocol, red and jewel tones are not for ladies. They’re for ladies of the night. Princesses must choose muted pastels. Think cupcakes, a table set for Easter dinner, or better yet, Easter cupcakes, and you’ll have it spot on.
I’m currently dressed in a skirt suit in passionless peach, and for tonight’s Annual Avonian Medical Association Gala, I’ll be dressed in a mind-numbing mint chiffon gown. But I digress, because I was talking about the meeting. The purpose of asking to wear something I know they’ll never allow is to increase the probability of a yes for the thing I really want (to be a UN Ambassador).
I glance at my watch, then look at the group, confident in their ability to traverse the width of the palace in under an hour. They may be a little older, but they’re also elite athletes. They’re even dressed in matching turquoise track suits with red piping, and turquoise jackets that bear the words ‘Ninety is nifty!’ in bold letters on the front. The back reads ‘Nonagenarian Mall Walkers. Get Walkin’ or Start Dyin.’
They must be a peppy bunch, no?
Hmmm. None of them are smiling back at me. I wonder if I'm talking too quietly.“For those who don't know me, I am Princess Arabella, and I'm delighted to welcome you today to the palace on behalf of the entire Langdon family.”
A tall thin lady with a tight, grey bun holds up one hand. “There's no need to shout, dear. We’re not the Nearly Deaf Mall Walkers.”
A short, plump woman with blue hair jabs the tall one in the ribs. “We’re theNearly DeadWalkers.”
A few of them break into laughter, while a lady toward the back says, “Could you speak up, please, miss? We can't hear you.”
Blue Hair rolls her eyes and sighs loudly.
“I'm sorry,” I say, gesturing for her to come closer. “Would you like to come to the front?”
“Oh yes, that would be lovely.” She inches her way toward me while I wait.Crap, this is taking her quite a while.
“Shall we get started?” I say.
“Pardon me?” the one man in the group asks, turning his head so his right ear is facing me.
“She asked if we should get started,” Blue Hair shouts at him.
“Where’s the king? I was hoping we could meet him this time,” Tall Thin Lady asks.
“Yes, why isn’t he doing the tour?” the man says. “Orat leastPrince Arthur? We had a woman last time, too.”
“Last time we had his pretty wife, Princess Tessa,” Blue Hair tells me.
“Yes, thepeople’sprincess,” a curly-hair woman with the thickest glasses I’ve ever seen adds. “Where isshetoday?”
I pause, then force a smile. “She’s probably around here somewhere.”
