“What’s going on?” I asked.
Not leaving her perch on the wall, my mom tossed something on my couch—tossed—the woman who believed walking too quickly was tantamount to spitting on the pope.
I leaned forward to see what it was: a magazine.
I snatched the glossy thing up. There was a photo of me in a tiara from my last birthday, when my hair was still long, before Abby took scissors to it. I was smiling at someone off camera. A bold, black serif headline overlay the photo.
AMERICA’S CRIME PRINCESS
The Crowne family is no stranger to scandal. With the most recent unearthing of Beryl Crowne’s illegal practices, the world thought the Crowne family had turned over a new leaf. But could America’s Princess also be tied into something criminal?
I hadn’t had a panic attack in a few years, not since I’d started chewing benzos like Tums, but I felt one coming on.
I quickly flipped to the story, trying not to think of the three bodies that had shadowed my room all night. They had a photo of me smiling next to some Wall Street guy that, I guess, was arrested for fraud. I didn’t remember him, like I didn’t remember the hundreds of people I shook hands with.
Nothing about Grim or the Horsemen.
My heart calmed—a little.
This wasn’t the first lie someone had told about me. Secretly a Scientologist. Member of the Illuminati. Married to this prince or that heir in some secret wedding.
It was just the first time they were almost right.
“It’s not true," I said. “You know this kind of story blows over.”
“There’s more.”
Frowning, I kept reading. On the last page was a horrible candid photo of me beside a red wooden cottage with white trim.
My stomach dropped. I knew that building.
There were things my mother and I didn’t talk about, things we pretended never happened. The year her perfect, eldest daughter overdosed and was sent to a chic rehab in Sweden? Definitely one of those things.
Gemma Crowne is known for perfection. The perfect nude lip. The perfect pink mani. But if America’s Princess hides a pill addiction—what else is she hiding?
I set the magazine down, winded. “How did they get this?”
My mother said nothing. She should be angry. My pristine crown was tarnished, so she should be giving me a smile while saying something diabolical. Instead, she just…leaned against the wall.
Her eyes were glassy, her posture soft.
Oh.
She came over, stroked my hair, and then left without another word. That wasso muchworse than if she’d called me a failure. It was like she was giving up.
Guilt tore shreds into my stomach.
Maybe that was why I went, to prove to my mother I could be what she needed.
Prove I wasn’t an addict.
Prove I wasn’t slowly sinking into shadow.
I was America’s Princess.
Hours later, the bags under my eyes expertly color corrected, I stared at the orange-and-gold door of the teahouse, trying to tell myself to go inside. The people within were probably foaming at their expertly filled mouths. For the first time, Gemma Crowne’s shiny, spotless persona had a crack in it.
Stalling, I took out my phone. My notifications had blown up.
