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“You got his number right?” I said. “Or he got yours?”
My mom sighed again.
“Kato, it wasn’t like that,” she said. “We didn’t date or anything, it was, um, a spontaneous liaison.”
I heard a snort from my brother in the corner, even as I looked at Violet incredulously. Yeah, Karl and I were fifteen but old enough to figure out what my mom was saying. Although she spoke in riddles, Violet was telling us that Prince Georg had taken her as part of the Mile High Club, that we’d been conceived in a plane lavatory about five miles up in the air, going five hundred miles an hour. Holy shit, it was straight out of some fucked-upPlayboyfantasy.
But I wanted to know more.
“But why didn’t you keep in touch? Did you tell him about us?” I asked insistently, determined to get some answers. Again, I was an adolescent and every teenage boy is sensitive, especially when it comes to daddy issues. Boys are growing, listening, developing their characters at that age and Karl and I were no exception.
Violet sighed.
“No, we didn’t keep in touch, honey. I knew that Georg was someone important, but baby, I’d never even heard of St. Venetia before,” she said. Clearly, my mom wasn’t one for world geography or political history. “I was young and besides, it was just a one-time thing. By the time I realized that you guys were on the way, the flight was long over.”
Okay, so it was literally wham, bam, thank you ma’am. But that didn’t answer how she’d finally figured out his identity. So I pressed for more.
“How did you finally discover that our dad was Prince Georg?” I said slowly. “What tipped you off?”
My mom sighed again.
“I was flipping through a magazine, the latest issue ofOk!” she confessed, “and I saw a spread of the St. Venetian Palace, with your dad and his wife posing,” she said. “It was a shocker, sure. I’d never expected to figure out who he was, tearing out my hair at how to provide for my new babies, when suddenly the magazine opened and poof! It was like magic. Your dad is a rich man, royalty even, and I figured he’d be interested in knowing he had infant sons.”
“But he didn’t,” I said with a definite tang of bitterness in my voice.
“He didn’t,” my mom confirmed. “I contacted the embassy, I contacted the Palace, but all I got back were denials that Prince Georg had even been on a flight to Israel at that time. It was like I was some insane person, some crazy girl trying to make a buck off of him. So I gave up after a couple years and moved with you guys to the United States. And here we are,” she said with a wry smile, gesturing to our humble home. She’d bought the house as part of a foreclosure sale and done no repairs to the place, so it was sadly rundown, sinking on its foundation, the counters dated and dreary, our furniture from a church giveaway.
“But did you try to contact him again?” demanded my brother from his corner. Karl was lifting weights and stood momentarily still as he caught his breath, panting slightly.
“No baby, I didn’t,” said my mom. “When you hit a wall like I did, a wall that seems impenetrable, you give up. I figured Georg had a wife, a son already, he wasn’t interested in us.”
And my brother just shook his head, his face grim.
“Fuck that,” he ground out before turning back to the mirror, staring at his image. “Fuck that,” he said once more, shutting us out. Because it was only too easy to google Prince Georg and his happy family, pictures of the old dude with his wife and first-born, legitimate son, Prince Kristian. We hated them, hated their guts, the lavish estates, the pictures of them going to state balls, society parties, dressed to the nines. And the worst part was the family resemblance. Because yes, we looked like Georg and Kristian, with the same black hair, blue eyes, and dominating, muscular builds. Clearly royal blood ran thick.
But what the fuck. Our half-brother was everything we weren’t, rich, educated at the best schools, with the world at his fingertips. By contrast, my twin and I were blue collar guys who worked with our hands, eking out a living on a boat. Not exactly men who had bulging 401ks or brokerage accounts to make girls salivate. But life takes twists and turns … and there was a stop at St. Venetia on the manifest.
CHRISTINA
Miss Carroll’s Finishing School for Young Ladies was every bit as bad as I’d anticipated. The name was the first thing. Really? Was there really a Miss Carroll? Or was it just a marketing ploy to lend authenticity, make it seem like there was a heart, a mind behind the institution?
Of course, my parents shouldn’t have been worried because we’re supposedly rich as all get-out, minor nobility around these parts. My dad is rumored to own the Royalton Race Track as well as a couple shopping centers in the city center, flying around in our G5 and a couple small-prop planes. But it’s actually a house of cards, a mirage because our fortune has been ebbing away, generation after generation, and the real estate we own? Well it’s held by a trust with our name at the top, but beneficiary owners are the real puppetmasters. So it’s all a sham, and my conversation with my parents about fixing our situation was painful to say the least.
“Christina,” said my mom, looking down her long, pointy nose at me. Somehow, despite the fact that I was standing and she was sitting, Mary still managed to look down her nose. “We need to talk. Please sit.”
“Mom,” this isn’t a good time, I said pointedly. I’d been meaning to go to the library, read up on Andorran history. Although I wasn’t academic per se, I still felt a responsibility to understand my country, its long and rich past.
My dad shot me a sharp look from his antique desk.
“Sit down, young lady, we have some things to go over,” he said sharply.
So I dropped into an overstuffed armchair, sighing. I guess the library could wait. I’d reached a part in the fifteen hundreds that was especially riveting, discussing the ascension of the feudal system and I wanted to map out its development. After all, my ancestors made their fortune by renting out our land for others to farm, collecting bounty in the form of crops and I wanted to learn more about this antiquated practice that was so central to our family history.
“Dad, is this about college?” I asked wearily. “I know, you’re legacy at St. Marten’s, I’ve applied there already.”
“No, this isn’t about St. Marten’s,” he replied, “And I’ve already told the Dean you’re applying this year, we’re buddies after all.”
“Then can I go?” I asked. “There’s some stuff that I want to read up on at the library.”
