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He’s on the way back to the airstrip when he sees it, emblazoned on the side of a brick building, a shock of color against a gray street.
“Wait!” Alex yells up to the driver. “Stop! Stop the car!”
Up close, it’s beautiful. Two stories tall. He can’t imagine how somebody was able to put together something like this so fast.
It’s a mural of himself and Henry, facing each other, haloed by a bright yellow sun, depicted as Han and Leia. Henry in all white, starlight in his hair. Alex dressed as a scruffy smuggler, a blaster at his hip. A royal and a rebel, arms around each other.
He snaps a photo on his phone, and fingers shaking, types out a tweet:Never tell me the odds.
He calls June from the air over the Atlantic.
“I need your help,” he says.
He hears the click of her pen cocking on the other end of the line. “Whatcha got?”
FOURTEEN
Jezebel@Jezebel
WATCH: DC Dykes on Bikes chase protesters from Westboro Baptist Church down Pennsylvania Avenue, and yes, it’s as amazing as it sounds. bit.ly/2ySPeRj
9:15 PM · 29 Sept 2020
The very first time Alex pulled up to Pennsylvania Avenue as the First Son of the United States, he almost fell into a bush.
He can remember it vividly, even though the whole day was surreal. He remembers the interior of the limo, how he was still unused to the way the leather felt under his clammy palms, still green and jittery and pressed too close to the window to look at all the crowds.
He remembers his mother, her long hair pulled back fromher face in an elegant, no-nonsense twist at the back of her head. She’d worn it down for her first day as mayor, her first day in the House, her first day as Speaker, but that day it was up. She said she didn’t want any distractions. He thought it made her look tough, like she was ready for a brawl if it came down to it, as if she might have a razor in her shoe. She sat there across from him, going over the notes for her speech, a twenty-four-karat gold American flag on her lapel, and Alex was so proud he thought he’d throw up.
There was a changeover at some point—Ellen and Leo escorted to the north entrance and Alex and June shuffled off in another direction. He remembers, very specifically, a handful of things. His cuff links, custom sterling silver X-wings. A tiny scuff in the plaster on a western wall of the White House, which he was seeing up close for the first time. His own shoelace, untied. And he remembers bending over to tie his shoe, losing his balance because of nerves, and June grabbing the back of his jacket to keep him from plunging face-first into a thorny rosebush in front of seventy-five cameras.
That was the moment he decided he wasn’t going to allow himself nerves ever again. Not as Alex Claremont-Diaz, First Son of the United States, and not as Alex Claremont-Diaz, rising political star.
Now, he’s Alex Claremont-Diaz, center of an international political sex scandal and boyfriend of a Prince of England, and he’s back in a limo on Pennsylvania Avenue, and there’s another crowd, and the imminent barf feeling is back.
When the car door opens, it’s June, standing there in a bright yellow T-shirt that says:HISTORY, HUH?
“You like it?” she says. “There’s a guy selling them down the block. I got his card. Gonna put it in my next column forVogue.”
Alex launches himself at her, engulfing her in a hug that lifts her feet off the ground, and she yelps and pulls his hair, and they topple sideways into a shrub, as Alex was always destined to do.
Their mother is in a decathlon of meetings, so they sneak out onto the Truman Balcony and catch each other up over hot chocolates and a plate of donuts. Pez has been trying to play telephone between the respective camps, but it’s only so effective. June cries first when she hears about the phone call on the plane, then again at Henry standing up to Philip, and a third time at the crowd outside Buckingham Palace. Alex watches her text Henry about a hundred heart emojis, and he sends her back a short video of himself and Catherine drinking champagne while Bea plays “God Save the Queen” on electric guitar.
“Okay, here’s the thing,” June says afterward. “Nobody has seen Nora in two days.”
Alex stares at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’ve called her, Zahra’s called her, Mike and her parents have all called her, she’s not answering anyone. The guard at her apartment says she hasn’t left this whole time. Apparently, she’s ‘fine but busy.’ I tried just showing up, but she’d told the doorman not to let me in.”
“That’s… concerning. And also, uh, kind of shitty.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Alex turns away, pacing over to the railing. He really could have used Nora’s nonplussed approach in this situation, or, really, just his best friend’s company. He feels somewhat betrayed she’s abandoned him when he needs her most—when he and Junebothneed her most. She has a tendency to bury herself in complex calculations on purpose when especially bad things happen around her.
“Oh, hey,” June says. “And here’s the favor you asked for.”
She reaches into the pocket of her jeans and hands him a folded-up piece of paper.
