No, the right thing to do is to step up, put a stop to whatever Dylan is about to do, and let Arabella focus on the work she’s doing. That’s what a good partner does. So that’s what I’m about to do.
Well, that’s what I’ll do in about thirty-six hours. For now, I’ll just sit here being used as a pillow by the man to my left who’s fallen asleep and now has his head on my shoulder.
19
Princesses, the Paragons of Oppression
Arabella
Well,this certainly sucks mouldy doughnuts. Day two and I have yet to add anything of value to the conversation. But even worse, my presence here is actually adetrimentto the cause because the press is camped out in front of the building and the only thing they want to do is keep the conversation about me being a whiny, entitled brat going. They have no interest in interviewing the incredible women here about what the UN is doing to advance women’s rights around the world. Sad really.
I’m surrounded by the world’s brightest and best—women who have fought on the front lines of it their entire lives, whereas I’ve spent years feeling put upon because I don’t have total autonomy over my wardrobe. I’m afraid that Phillip Crawford and the rest of the advisors were right about me—I don’t belong here, which is utterly disappointing.
So far, I’ve remained a silent observer in a Chanel suit, even though the other women have been very welcoming and do seem interested in hearing from me. Well, most of them anyway. There is one nasty in the group, Dr. Sandra Highbrow (yes, that’s her real last name). She’s a professor of women’s rights at Cambridge and class A be-otch who came right out yesterday at the cocktail hour and asked me what exactly I bring to the table, other than bad press. Those were her exact words. I couldn’t even think of a good response, so I just gave a weak laugh, hoping to pass the entire thing off as though I thought she was joking. But she wasn’t, which she made very clear by following up her question with, “No, seriously,whatare you doing here?”
I froze up, but luckily one of the other ladies piped up with, “At the moment, she’s trying to enjoy her Cosmopolitan, Sandra. Leave her alone.”
To be honest, I should probably go home. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt the cause, which is exactly what I’m doing. I’veneverfelt like such a giant wazzer in my entire life. And there’s really nothing I can do to fix it, is there? I said what I said, then it got recorded and shared with the world, which means I will forever be known as Princess Precious. End of discussion. For decades to come, when anyone googles me, that stupid clip will come up first. I have never,everbeen so angry at myself for anything, and instead of setting that aside and managing to find ways to contribute, I keep hearing a voice in my head telling me I’m a fraud, I don’t belong, and I can only make everything much worse by being here.
At the moment, we’re in breakout rooms. There are ten of us sitting around a boardroom table brainstorming ideas for the next phase of the equality revolution. Well, nine women brainstorming, plus me. Dr. Malika Jelani is leading our session this morning. The topic is assisting women in rural areas in making strides in home-based businesses, something I know nothing about. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I discreetly take it out of my jacket, only to see it’s Will calling.
Of course he would call at the exact moment when there is no possible way I can answer. Biting my bottom lip, I glance at Malika, hoping I can make eye contact and excuse myself. But the eye contact makes her think I have something to say.
She gives me a hopeful smile. “Yes, Princess Arabella, you look like you have some ideas to add to our brainstorming session.”
“Oh, yes,” Dr. Highbrow says. “Doshare with us how you managed to squirrel away a few dollars by knitting hats out of the sheeple who love you.”
Malika, who’s standing at the head of the table, folds her arms and tilts her head at Dr. Highbrow. “No, we mustn’t do that. Princess Arabella has been every bit as oppressed as any other woman here.”
No! Please don’t. My cheeks burn. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”
Dammit, I missed his call.
“Of courseyou have,” Malika says, then looking around the room, she adds, “Arabella lives in one of the oldest patriarchal subsets of society in human history—royalty. Everything decided by birth order rather than aptitude and life goals, no autonomy whatsoever, not even with regard to her own body. She’s even obligated to bear children.”
“It’s honestly notthatbad,” I say, with a light chuckle. “I know I made some unflattering comments about my life recently, but I really am fully aware of my unusual level of privilege. When I made those comments, I was —”
“Suffering from dehydration and exhaustion?” Dr. No Brows says, wrinkling up her nose. (I’m calling her that because she clearly plucked her eyebrows into oblivion in the nineties, and also because I’m extremely immature when I’m upset. Add that to the list of things I hate about myself).
My phone starts buzzing again and it’s all I can do not to leap from my chair and run out of the room.
“She absolutely was suffering that day,” Malika says, sitting down in her chair. “Here is a woman who has barely even been allowed to do anything physically or mentally challenging her entire life. So when she managed to break free of those shackles, the first thing she did was test herself beyond the reasonable limits of any human. She has the heart of a true warrior.”
No Brows snorts.
“Oh, no,” I say, utterly humiliated. “I’m honestly a very average person. And my greatest wish is to find a way to help the truly oppressed.”
“Don’t you dare! You’ve been oppressed as much as anyone,” Malika says. “My friends, we, as a group, need to embrace poor Arabella and help lift her from the depths of her dungeon.”
“It’s fine, really,” I mutter. “I’d be much happier to focus on the needs of the rural women in economically depressed areas.”
“And we will,” Malika says. “But we must not forget our sisters in need in palaces around the world.”
My phone buzzes again, and I glance down at Will’s picture, my heart squeezing in my chest. Three calls in a row? Something must be wrong. “I am so sorry, I must take this call. There is an…urgent situation that requires my immediate attention.”
Malika looks taken aback for a second, then quickly recovers. “Yes, go ahead, my dear. You can tell us what you were going to say when you return.”
“Thank you,” I say, standing and rushing out of the room.
