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And it’s not just trending in Europe or in Asteria. It’s trending worldwide.
Apparently, the revelation of my father’s scandal has caused a national incident. Apparently, it’s given extremist political parties all the excuse they needed to start talking about war. Is that all it takes?
Yes, that’s all it takes.
***
The next morning gives a new meaning to the words rude awakening.
I wake up with Bianca glaring over my bed, her white-blond hair hanging down to her chin, her eyes flashing.
“What?” I croak.
Who knew that throwing up for the entire night would leave me weak and groggy in the morning? Totally unexpected, right? I feel like death warmed over, and that’s putting it mildly. I also seem to have the headache to end all headaches.
Great.
I have all the side effects of a hangover without having gotten drunk. And I set out to be normal. How unnormal can you get?
“What did I do?” I ask, because she seems too mad to speak.
She is sputtering, unable to form words. And Bianca is the coolest, kindest person ever. I didn’t think she was even capable of being mad, let alone this mad.
I swing my legs over and try to sit up. Everything goes black, the blood draining from my head. I probably need to eat something, but my stomach rebels at the thought.
“Please tell me what I did now,” I beg her.
I’m sure it’s me. It’s always me. Well, it’s either me or my dad. Or the palace, in general. Which, in effect, is me. I get to shoulder all of the responsibility (and none of the fun).No, stop complaining, even if it’s inside your head.
Fix this, whatever it is.
“You,” Bianca says, and her bottom lip trembles. She has perfect, luscious lips, the kind that girls get injections to have. The kind that filters try to give you. But she has this effortless symmetry in her face that is absolutely breathtaking. And absolutely icy right now. “You have been sleeping.”
“Sorry.”
“No,” she sighs and sits down on my bed. “Don’t be sorry for sleeping, don’t say that. I meant to say… I don’t know what to say. I know it’s not your fault, but…”
“What is it, Bia? Just say it, I’m scared.”
“Oh, you aren’t scared yet,” she says and gets up to walk to the window. That’s when I realize that she is dressed in yoga pants and a cute white sweater that leaves her taut midriff bare. She was dressed for yoga. And yet, she is not in yoga.
Oh no, what happened?
I get up, reeling a little on my feet, but I steady myself with a hand against the wall and follow her to the window. The grass outside our building is a sea of reporters.
A curse escapes me.
“Yes,” Bianca says. “I agree.”
I’m already running for the door. I fling it open and come face to face with Hector. His eyes look tormented.
“It’s ok,” I tell him at once, knowing how he must feel. Powerless and trapped. Like me. But right now, every student in our entire building must feel like that, and that is all kinds of wrong. “It’s ok,” I repeat, “tell me what I need to do to make this go away. Do I need to call him?”
By him, I mean my dad. His Majesty. Hector knows what I mean; his eyebrows draw together.
“I did,” Hector says, running a hand through his yellow-brown curls. “And as much as his majesty needs to talk to you, he agreed that there is nothing he can do on his end. He has already called for backup, but it will have to be a significant detail, and it will be some hours until they get here.”
Hours? We don’t have hours. Kids must be freaking out all over the dorms, and if Bianca couldn’t get to her yoga class, which she never misses, then everyone else will miss their classes too. Over my dead body.
