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His children.
His Majesty King Mihail does not have only one daughter, the Crown Princess Olivia of Asteria. He has more children, fathered with various royal or non-royal ladies from all over Europe’s royal families. The news spoke about ‘an illegitimate offspring’.
The news lied.
There are more than one of us.
#wetherottenroyals
four
Trending hashtag for today on most social platforms: #wetherottenroyals
Within a few hours, the Rotten Royals have a launched a website and a blog. And they have started posting more than one-liners. Great, just great.
I barely made it to a few weeks of ‘normal’ here in Vermont.
Well, as normal as you can get when you have a bodyguard follow you everywhere, from class to sports practice to your dorm. But I had an amazing friend and roommate, and was starting to make more. Very tentatively, but I was getting there.
I needed more time.
I always seem to be needing more time. I always seem to be running out of time, while everyone else breezes through things, light years ahead of me. But I seem to be always stuck behind, fighting against a current that most people do not even know exists.
Right. Enough whining.
I have to try to see all of this as another opportunity to be strong and brave.
I resist the urge to hide in our room and climb into bed to cry myself to sleep all day, and instead go to class as normal. No one kills me. Yet.
***
The best of the ‘normal’ things for me about Vermont, apart from Bianca, is basketball. The minute I stepped foot on campus, I joined the basketball team. I mean, how could I not? It was late August and the campus was nothing but green grass and blue skies as far as the eye could see. A few white buildings housing the classrooms, libraries and dorms were scattered across it, but there was so much space and calm beauty seeping in from the surrounding woods, that I immediately felt like a child. I wanted to run, to pound the ball, to shoot it through hoops.
I didn’t even think: I signed up.
And I have enjoyed every single moment of practice, even though my coach, a second-year student with hard-rock abs and eyes so blue they should be illegal, hates me.
Well, I hate him too, so there.
His name is Marco. Even his name is hot. Anyway, it’s not his hotness that makes me hate him (although that doesn’t help). It’s mostly the way he pushes me and calls me ‘my queen’ mockingly, and I immediately get week in the knees, especially if it’s hot enough for him to have pulled off his shirt and those abs could cut glass, like, good Lord, I—
Ok.Stop. Focus. Before you faint.
I did not come here to look at some douche’s abs, ok? And Marco is definitely one. He somehow managed to sleep with almost every female first-year before the trees on campus started getting orange leaves. That’s some impressive stuff right there. But he’s a talented coach, and I love basketball practice with him and the other girls. The basketball team is having a party tonight: I have known for days, but I wasn’t planning on going.
After classes, I go to practice, and once that’s over, I am sweaty and annoyed at my idiot coach. Marco used to play state, but had an injury, so he had to stop that for a while. I think he still plays division, but I’m not sure. What I’m sure is that he is sour and closed off. He’s a brilliant player and coach, but he gives off arrogant vibes, and doesn’t do anyone favors, not even me (which I love), and always yells to us about our flaws.
It is pure heaven to be annoyed for once. And to allow myself to feel it. To show it, even. I think that I missed basketball for sure, but I missed being ‘allowed’ to get annoyed even more. Playing basketball again is the best high ever, although after giving it up five years ago, I am incredibly out of shape. Hence, the irritated coach. Irritatingas well.
But it’s so refreshing to be treated as a human being for once, to be yelled at, instead of everyone walking on eggshells around me. Treating me like glass. I had not realized how sick and tired I was of it.
You rarely think of it, but it’s so incredibly normal to be irritated, isn’t it?
And to be invited to parties. That’s normal too.
So, because I’m scared and mad and irritated, I decide to go to the basketball team’s frat party after all.
I run to the dorms, take a shower (I scrubbed the words off the tiles before class, even though Hector wanted to do it, but I said no, it’s my job), shaking in fear of what I’ll find written on the wall every time I open my eyes. But there are no new words there. There are no new posts either, except for the ones already trending on twitter, and I asked Hector to block it on my phone, so we’re good.
