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Someone bangs on the door, and barely waits for me to say ‘come in’ before they fling it open. It slams on the opposite wall with force.
“What’s wrong?” Hector bursts into the bathroom, all wide shoulders and furrowed brows. He takes one look at me in my towel and out-of-control curls and his eyes darken. I nod towards the painted tiles.
A curse flies out of his mouth, and his hand is already at his mouthpiece, calling for help. Hector is tall, athletic and brown, his skin only a shade or two lighter than mine. He has a crown of tight, sun-kissed curls, fused with yellows and browns, and blue-green eyes that change color with the light. If he wasn’t constantly wearing his military-style bodyguard’s uniform, he would totally be mistaken for a model. His features are so unique, I have never seen anyone like him in the whole world. And I have practicallyseenthe whole world.
“There is really no need—” I start saying, as if it will make a difference.
“Liv,” Hector says quietly. “You’re crying.”
It’s true, I am. And not just about the ‘die’ thing.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
Hector swears some more instead of another answer. I know how he feels.
One day, I promise I’ll be stronger.
But today, I let him sit with me as I cry. In a minute, he’s informed that backup is here, and then he picks me up in his arms and takes me away from the words.
***
Within seconds, our dorm room is flooded by guards. Well, they are five in total, but the room is small and it’s immediately cramped with all of these huge dudes in it. My Parthenon posters and the piles of books next to my rose-gold laptop on my desk look small and childish next to all these huge dudes. They are telling me to hurry and get dressed so we can get out of here.
As if there is anywhere to go.
“There’s obviously no assassin hiding in here,” I beg. “This was just something a stupid student scribbled, inspired by today’s Rotten Royals post. I was just in yoga practice, for crying out loud. I need that shower, Hector.”
But the fact that I need to shower so badly doesn’t seem to move anyone, and Bianca and I are shepherded outside while they check out our room and its premises. Hector guards us, pacing in circles around us as we sit on the carpet outside our door.
“So you think it’s them?” Bianca asks.
By ‘them’ she means the Rotten Royals.
“Obviously, it’s because of them. But I have no idea if thisisthem,” I shrug. “I don’t think so, it would be really crazy. Did you—?” I stop.
“Tell me,” she prods.
Bianca is a fashion model. A top model, actually—she used to work as one in her teens. She has those sharp cheekbones, icy-blue eyes, straight white-blond hair that just brushes her shoulders, and perfect, alabaster skin that makes other girls hate her on sight. She is also five ten, and moves with the grace of a gazelle.
Next to her, I look like a child.
I am small and brown and have thin, wiry arms and legs, and huge, untamed hair, which I have been forced to straighten by the palace advisors. To be honest, I’m sick of straightening it, but as yet I haven’t had the courage to bring back my natural afro. I used to daydream of a ‘make-back’, the reverse of the ‘makeover’ scene they do in movies, where I would feel free to go back to my natural hair.
I was hoping to be able to do that here in Vermont. To be normal. To be myself.
Well, that’s all out of the window now.
What has it been? A month and a half?
That was as a far as my semi-normal university experience was allowed to go.
And then, boom. The news of my father having a horde of illegitimate children broke out, and everything was ruined.
“Have you read the Rotten Royals posts?” I ask Bianca.
Her cheeks go pink.
“I have,” she admits. “Am I a horrible friend?”
