I sit in the side room alone, crying for so long that I think I might've dreamt the entire thing. The chocolate festival, dragging Aderyn along, playing the hockey match and clenching victory in my tiny hands.
Then being barred from playing another game. Tears rest on my eyelids, almost desperate not to fall. Desperate not to process this happening at all.
All this for being late.
I know I can't stay here forever, but the idea of going out there, surrounded by people who could potentially recognise me, and then the emotions on my face… I don't want a stranger's pity. I don't even want the team's pity, if any of them are still here.
So I wipe my face and duck my head as I sprint out of the stadium amongst crowds. Many people are leaving now, fanning out into the parking lot and avoiding the occupied vehicles that queue to leave the complex grounds. I find Zelda and Aderyn at the taxi rank, waiting in a substantial line for the yellow cars that dot the sidewalk, and slide in next to them.
"Finally! I thought we'd have to—" Zelda catches my expression. "Whoa. What's wrong?"
"Gail?" Aderyn whispers, smoothing a hand on my shoulder. The touch soothes but it's like putting Vaseline on a wound – a release from the pain, not the damage.
I quietly explain what happened. Zelda is so shocked she physically flinches as the words leave my mouth.
"You can't be serious. Bellona can't be serious. She can't—" Her fingers tangle in her blond wig. "You scored the winning goal! She can't take you out for being late!"
"Well, she did."
Aderyn puffs up her chest. "I'll go back and change her mind—"
"What? No!" I snatch Aderyn's sleeves before she can escape and embarrass me further. "This— she's not the type of person who would change her mind like that."
"She hasn't met me," she says. "I'm your elder sister, aren't I? I'm supposed to stick up for you."
"Shit, I can't believe I'm saying this, but Aderyn, don't." Zelda's hurt is evident in her own gaze. "She's manager. Her word goes. She gave me a lecture about tardiness in the box, but I didn't think— didn't think she was gonna' do this to you, G. I'm sorry."
I'm sorry doesn't bring back my place on the team. Just when I was starting to feel like one of them, like I belonged, and Bellona rips it away. The others will depart to matches across the province, and I'll be left in Los Angeles, repeating my one victory over and over again in my head.
A taxi picks us up and silently delivers us back to the hotel. In the bathrooms, we wash off our make-up and hide our disguises, and Aderyn guides us back to the rooms. By that point my tears have pretty much dried, giving way to a hollow pit in my stomach. To be filled with what? Bitterness? Resentment? Anger? At this point, all I feel like is a failure. That I've done this to myself. That I deserve it.
In the elevator to our floor, Aderyn fixes her bonnet. "Leave the guards to me."
Sure enough, Naomi's mouth drops open when we approach.
"What— you— you were inside!" she splutters.
Aderyn glares down the bridge of her nose at us. "These two were having fun with the laundry chute."
"It was fun," Zelda protests.
Naomi's gaze lands on me, but she clucks her tongue and opens the door for us. The room is ablaze with a lit fireplace in the corner. The Selected, Silas, Kajika, Jasper, Parker and Sheng, play cards on the coffee table. Sheng rockets to stand at the sight of me.
"Oh," Silas begins, eyebrows raising on his forehead, "that explains why neither of you responded when we knocked."
"They went down the laundry chute for fun," Aderyn reiterates, sending us another glare that, for some reason, makes me want to laugh, despite everything. Silas opens his mouth, but Aderyn cuts across. "And if any of you even think about doing it, I will report you to the queen herself for unprofessionalism and misbehaviour."
Silas' mouth promptly shuts.
Sheng's eyes meet mine. If there's anyone else here who can read me like the back of a cereal box, it's him, and his head tilts just so slightly. What's wrong? I shake my head. It's none of his business – it will never be his business.
"It was awesome, do it," Zelda whispers to Silas before she shuts the door on them in my room.
I approach the window that overlooks the cityscape. San Francisco broadens around me, the lights of the skyscrapers and buildings beyond pocking the darkness that swathes the view. It gave me hope before, looking out like this into the thrilling beyond, but now it's nothing but dread, despair.
"Chin up," says Aderyn, clasping her hands together. "It's not forever, the barring. It's only until you can prove you can be on time."
"That's only part of the problem. I…" I rub the back of my neck. "How can I ever be spontaneous and genuine and not worried about having to escape royal palaces and vigilant security details if I'm only faking at being Susanetta Vivas?"
The words pour of me from some hidden crook of my heart. I've always known Susanetta can do things Gail can't and Gail can do things Susanetta can't, but keeping them separate – keeping them isolated – is what's causing this hurt. This divide inside me like a chasm, with only a flimsy bit of rope to attach the two.
"Whoa, back up," Zelda says. "You're not suggesting… a grand reveal, are you?"
"No! No." It would never work. Susanetta will never merge with Gail. "But… it's just… hard. The only reason we managed to go to today's game is because Cami happened to have an architecture talk in the same city. That's not going to happen every time. We got lucky."
Zelda braces her hands behind her. "I mean— I figured we could work it out as we go. You're the princess. You could make up that you want to go on a date or something—"
"And if the Selection finishes before the tournament does?"
"Don't shoot the devil's advocate," Zelda says with a sheepish expression. "I'm not trying to dogpile you. Just help."
"But Gail…" Aderyn begins, "how long did you think you could keep it up before there were repercussions like today?"
I wish Aderyn hadn't spoken, because the question forces me to look inside myself, to see how long I've been deceiving my brain into thinking this whole hockey thing would work out in the end.
I sigh and sink into the armchair. "I… I don't know."
"It's just…" she pauses meaningfully, "I know you have it much worse than I do, but I don't know how long I can keep this a secret. What if I'm put in a position where I have to tell them about this? What if the captain, or the king or queen asks me?" She holds herself again. "Have you ever asked them?"
"Asked them what?"
"If you could join a hockey team?"
I look at her with alarm. "Are you crazy?" I don't mean to sound so snappish but it's so jarring to even think that. "Roy barely lets me leave the palace as it is. You think he'd let me join a hockey team?"
"All I know is that you won't be able to keep this up forever," she says, driving a deep wedge in my heart. "Sooner or later, someone will find out. Whether that be someone who can keep the secret… or someone who can't."
The journey home is quiet and unassuming. I keep to myself, earphones in, drowning out the world as I replay the match in my head with a dark-tinted lens. The victory, the high of yesterday, is tainted with my barring, and I'll never be able to feel the same joy I did, even in nostalgia.
We get home and for the day I don't do anything. If anyone notices my sullen mood, they don't comment or even try to pick me up from it, and I'm left to my own thoughts until the next morning. The sun barely crests over the horizon when a short, curt knock interrupts the bleary, dreamless sleep.
"Who… who is it?" I croak.
"It's Yamato Watanabe, Your Highness. We were meant to have the presentation meeting this morning, remember?"
Oh. Right. The presentation. My whole double life has been upended but nothing has changed here, at the palace, during the Selection. Jasper left sometime yesterday after saying his goodbyes, and that was about the only thing different from any other normal day.
After yesterday, it all seems so… mundane. Even though I know my circumstances are too exceptional to be mundane.
"Sorry, I… I forgot," I call.
There's quiet for a moment. "Well, please make your way to the Amendment Drawing Room promptly. Everyone else is waiting. We need to practice."
A bitter laugh escapes me. Maybe Susanetta and I do have more in common than I thought.
I summon Aderyn to bring me a small breakfast and help me dress. Aderyn is entirely stoic as she brushes her hair, as if knowing one wrong word can tip me into tears again, and I appreciate that she's giving me time to process. When I leave for the Amendment Drawing Room, I'm as presentable as can be.
I go inside without waiting to knock, enveloped in the delicate blue and cream shades of the furniture and curtains. The boys have called for breakfast snacks already – toast racks surrounded by every pot of jam, vibrant fruits that glisten in the sweet morning sun, croissants with warm cheese and generous slices of ham, the thick aroma of coffee that chases away my sleepy head. Politely the boys stand to attention.
"The princess arrives!" Avian calls, grinning from ear to ear. "I saved you some blueberry jam. You're welcome."
"Oh, I already ate, but thank you."
He shrugs. "More for me." He sits and proceeds to dump the rest of the dark blue jelly on his toast.
Soren's plate is empty save a few crumbs, so he scooches over so I can join him and Avian on the sofa. Yamato and Elliot are in separate armchairs opposite us, pretending like the other is totally invisible. I see nothing changed in my brief absence.
"Your Highness," Elliot greets, smiling gently. "How are you?"
"I'm fine," I say. Sleep didn't give me total respite from the restless melancholy, but it alleviated it somewhat. "Ready to knock this presentation out of the park."
He nods once. I think he wants to do the same, but admitting to it would be admitting that he wants to work with Yamato. Which he doesn't.
"Let's go over everyone's talking points," says Yamato, oblivious to the moment. There's not even a crumb on his plate, so he mustn't have eaten anything. "As I'm doing the introduction, I'll start." He holds his notes as he reads from the bullet points. "The Selections of the past have been fuelled by political motivations, many of which because of the political tensions and civil unrest of the time. Though this may not be the case today, there are many examples where Selections are used as tools to not only marry royals to highly popular candidates, but also to feed the positive image of the royal family."
Yamato continues, and I increasingly despair. He's written so much. Like, a scholar amount. Like Soren's essays for JJ amount. Glancing at Avian's notes, I can see he doesn't have anywhere close to Yamato's level. Even I'm just winging it from what I know, and it doesn't compare.
After maybe three minutes of the turmoil of Damon Illéa's Selection described in minute detail, Yamato finishes.
"Way too long," Soren says bluntly as he sips from a glass of orange juice.
"It sets the tone for the presentation."
"Our presentation is five minutes maximum," Elliot says. "The only tone it sets is that it's long-winded."
I don't think Elliot said it any more bluntly than Soren's comment, but somehow it makes my chin want to fold into my neck, then my brain, then out of existence entirely.
Yamato bristles, but his expression is chastened. "I can cut it down."
"Good."
"Let's hear yours next, then," Yamato says, turning his body to face Elliot. There's no amusement there. "You have Diantha."
Elliot shakes his head. "Avian should go next. He has Clarkson's. That's next chronologically."
"No. If you were listening, Diantha's Selection follows nicely from my point about polarising royals."
"I was listening," says Elliot, voice level with irritation. "Otherwise you'd be distracted by my drawing, wouldn't you?"
"I'll just go next!" Avian says, chipper tone forced. "We can, er, just see how mine goes for now. Please."
Yamato hesitates, but nods his head to continue. Avian powers on, stumbling through his points, but my eyes are focused on Yamato and Elliot, and the tension that pronounces the muscle in their bodies. I swear a vein throbs in Elliot's neck.
"Too short," says Soren, after Avian is finished.
"You said that last meeting."
Soren pauses. "Still too short."
Avian lets out an aggravated sigh and runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know what else to talk about. Clarkson was a big douchewad. That's pretty much all there is to his history and character."
"I agree with Soren," says Yamato, coolness returning. "You have good points, but you need to elaborate on them more. Your running time was only forty-four seconds."
"Bro," Avian says, nonplussed, "you were counting?"
Yamato raises his phone from the table – I didn't see it behind the teapot. "Yes. This must be timed perfectly."
"There are five of us for a five-minute presentation," I say, hoping the chill in the room is from an errant breeze and definitely not any tension in our group. "That's a minute each. Yamato, if you want to run over a little, then Avian can work with the forty-five seconds."
"I like this idea," Avian says.
"I'm sorry, Your Highness," Yamato says, "but I disagree. We need to balance them out. A minute each works."
"It doesn't have to be exact though… right?"
"It should be. The queen, Mister Rudy, JJ and Lady Lilly Carter will be judging us. Something they will look for is the weighting of our presentation. If one of us hogs the spotlight, they will pick up on that."
Will they? Will they really? I don't think it's that deep, but I daren't say so to Yamato, whose wan expression doesn't quite hide the feverish determination that glows in his dark eyes.
Soren's lips roll. "Maybe we should take a break."
"Take a break?" Yamato says. "We've barely just begun—"
"I agree with Soren!" I pipe. Immediately an idea pops into my head – I still have to convince him of the greatness of ice hockey, right? Even if I can't play any more big league matches, I still love the sport and want to share it with him. "Let's play a game!"
"But we don't have time for—"
"I am the princess," I remind airily. It's meant to be a joke, but Yamato's mouth clamps shut. "Besides, it's good team-building! We need it so our presentation runs smoothly."
Yamato can't possibly want to agree, but he concedes as he sits back, so I say, "Let's play, is it true or is it not?"
"What game is that?" Avian says.
"I say a statement, and you say whether it's true or not. Simple enough, right?"
Avian snickers. "Is Soren a big donut? True or true?"
Elliot guffaws. "Aw, don't be mean… even though it's true."
Soren rolls his eyes, but there's the slight curve of his lips.
"Yes, you play like that, except with nicer questions. More fun ones!" I give Avian a pointed look. "Who wants to go first?"
"For real," Avian says, as he sits back and his eyes narrow. "I am handsome, true or false? I can take honesty. Go on."
"True, of course," I say warmly.
Elliot sighs. "True. You cut an imposing, manly figure. I just can't beat that."
"Shut up, Elliot."
Elliot laughs.
"If I say true, will you never call me a donut again?" asks Soren.
"On my word."
"Then true."
"Thanks, donut."
All eyes turn to Yamato. I think for a moment he'll say true just to get it over and done with, but he sits back, ponders on his answer. "False." It ejects into the room like a gunshot.
"Ouch."
Yamato shrugs. "You're not my type."
Avian nods. "I admire your brave words, Yamato, even though you're just lying to yourself because I'm everyone's type."
There's a glimmer of amusement in Yamato's gaze. "I thought you could take honesty?"
"I'll go next." Elliot grins. "My drawing skills are great."
"True," I say instantly. "I think that portrait of Cami you did was great!"
He goes red in the cheeks. "Thanks."
"False," says Avian, who sniffs indignantly. "You haven't drawn me yet, and therefore your skills cannot possibly be that good."
"I'll draw you right now." Elliot takes a pen and scribbles on a napkin. His 'portrait' of Avian is literally a potato with eyes.
Soren clears his throat as he looks at the picture. "Definitely false."
"Yep," says Avian, grimacing as Elliot laughs.
"True," says Yamato, in a surprising amount of brevity, though he doesn't look Elliot in the eyes as he says, "I would be insulted if your constant distractions weren't even worth it."
Elliot laughs – actually laughs. My heart grows in my chest. I did this! If I can bring them together at the same time as making Yamato change his mind on ice hockey, I will have done more than I planned to do ever in a thousand million years.
"My turn! My turn!" I say gleefully. "Ice hockey is a great sport."
It's like the temperature drops.
Avian senses it – I know he does, by the way his eased body becomes taut like the strings of a nocked bow. Silence follows my statement and my happiness begins to fade.
"True, obviously," Elliot supplies, though his chuckle is forced. "Ice hockey is the best sport ever."
"True," Soren says, no explanation needed.
"Sure, I like ice hockey," follows Avian. His glance darts to me with increasing confusion, like, why would you bring this up?
I ignore him. "Yamato?"
Yamato is stiff. All that fun and laughter and brief moment of happiness is drained away into the gutters of stoicism. Hands on lap, with no less gusto, he says, "False."
"False? Why?" I say, before Elliot can jump in.
"It's not for me."
"But it's so wonderful! You play as a team, you get to skate, and you get to channel some competitive spirit into the game. It's kind of like ice skating, don't you think?"
"With respect, they are nothing alike."
"How?"
Yamato swallows. Whether he's just preparing to launch into a speech, or the topic has frazzled a few of his nerves, I'll never know.
"Ice skating requires finesse, discipline. Something that ice hockey lacks."
"That's not true," Elliot says. "Discipline is what makes ice hockey. Finesse, maybe we're lacking there, as you say, but it's not like ice skating needs the same level of stamina or strength or strategy."
"When you can do a triple axel, I'll take your word for it."
"When you can do a fake toe pull into a lateral pass, I'll eat my words myself."
"Is it my turn yet?" Soren asks.
But it's too late. Yamato blows a sigh.
"If you cannot accept that I have a different opinion than you, then you'll never make it in the world."
"I accept different opinions just fine. What I don't like is blatant insults directed at me!"
Yamato stands. "I think this is enough for today." He gathers his stuff and makes towards the door. "Everyone keep working on your parts. There's no room for error. We'll meet again tomorrow, when Elliot has calmed down."
"Yeah, flounce out when I call you out on it! Go on!" Elliot jeers after him. Yamato doesn't take the bait and leaves, the door slamming behind him.
A silence so palpable wraps around me like a suffocating blanket. Oh heck. That is not how I planned that to go. At all.
So much for team-building.
Elliot's jaw clenches and relaxes in the space of a few seconds. "I-I'm sorry, everyone," he says quietly. "I don't… I'm not…"
"It's okay," I say, even though it's not, and this is probably going to affect our presentation.
"Shit, Your Highness, was asking that question really the best thing to do?" Avian asks, so openly and honestly that I can't even be mad that he's being so crass.
"I asked it because I wanted to see for myself. I never asked for what followed." I stand up, brushing non-existent crumbs off my dress. "I'm going to talk to him."
I have to chase him to catch up. Yamato isn't much taller or leaner than I am, but his strides sure do eat the carpet. I snatch his arm for him to stop, and he jerks to a halt. His face – totally impassive. Like the entire ordeal didn't even happen.
"What was that all about?"
"You asked for my opinion, and I gave it," he says.
"Yes, okay, but can't you see how much that hurt Elliot?"
"Hurt Elliot?" he echoes with a dry laugh. "You mean like every time he's insulted my profession whenever I walk into the Men's Parlour?"
"He—" He wouldn't right? "He only started doing that because he was retaliating against you."
"No, I'm pretty sure he started it when he said ice skating was a pansy sport in comparison to ice hockey." He twists his arm out of my grip. "And I frankly don't have the tolerance to deal with that. Not when ice skating means so much to me. And if that makes me look like I'm 'flouncing', then so be it."
"That's not right. Avian and Soren said you first said that ice hockey was a terrible sport."
"It is."
My head jerks back. "So you admit you said it?"
He rubs his temples. "Maybe I did, but then I left it buried. Meanwhile Elliot continues to get rankled about me and ice skating, bring it up at every opportunity."
I'm too winded to say anything. A pansy sport? Would Elliot really say something so mean? Yamato takes this as a pause to breath nosily through his nose.
"It's fine, Your Highness. I… I'm sorry if it's been difficult to mediate between us. I don't mean to personally insult you, when I say I don't like ice hockey. I'm not going to stop you from enjoying it." He looks away. "I just don't have the energy to deal with him right now."
"You do realise how bad this looks though, right? For you and Elliot?"
He straightens. "I know. But I'm standing my ground. I think Elliot will want to do the same. I just want this presentation over."
His head dips in a dismissing nod and then he turns on his heels and leaves.
So not only does Yamato hate ice hockey, but now Elliot hates ice skating? The two conflicting opinions war and clash inside my brain, so much that a headache rises from the ashes, and I have to massage my forehead. It's clear that neither knew who started it, even though they'll both say it was the other, but now it's clear that it's built on pettiness and nothing more.
And that is fixable.
My goal has changed. I can get Yamato to enjoy ice hockey, and I can get Elliot to enjoy ice skating. If the two sides reconcile, then our presentation isn't hopelessly doomed to as much of a disaster as a meteor blasting into earth right now. My fists clench over my heart – I've got a plan, an inkling of an idea. There's a better way to solve crises than words.
So I will make a decree. The next time we meet for our group presentation, we're doing it on the rink.
"Come in, come in, gentlemen, Your Highness!"
That afternoon, Rudy and Romilda corral the Selected and I into the Great Room, transformed into an empty space, chairs pushed to the side and lacquered floor shining. I'm not sure what's up with the smug twinkle in Romilda's eye, or the self-satisfied smile that lingers on Rudy's face, but something about it makes me think this won't be an ordinary etiquette class.
Rudy waves, calling for silence. "Settle down, please."
"I hope you're all well-rested and excited to start this class, because we do have quite the fun surprise for you all!" Romilda claps her hands with such childish wonder it's like she inhabits a body of the wrong age. "I'm thrilled to announce that you, all eighteen of you, will be hosting our annual Christmas ball!"
There's a wave of shock and sullen mutters that passes over the room. I gasp, if only because the Christmas ball isn't just a neat evening do, it's the event of the year. The only time the entire palace prepares for a ball so grand, a dance so beautiful, a night of such vibrant festivities, that giving it to the Selected seems like handing them each a wailing child and expecting them to know exactly what to do with it.
This sentiment is shared amongst a good number of them. Parker goes positively pale. "We have to organise a ball?"
"Indeed," Rudy says, his self-satisfaction only widening his grin. "This is a true test of your ability to organise, to come together, and to create something. The Christmas ball is an annual tradition here at the palace, falling on Christmas eve. It is often attended by many high-profile visitors and celebrities. The decorations must be tasteful, the music sublime, the food delicious, and all must complement the highlight of the evening, the Christmas waltz, a dance practiced and performed by a certain group of attendees."
I love the Christmas waltz, simply for the pomp of it all. Last year I danced with one of the new male guards, who had allegedly won a lucky pot to dance with me, and the poor fellow stumbled out after the last note aired to vomit on the grass outside because all the twists and turns made him dizzy with nerves. Meanwhile it made me feel like I was flying.
I glance to my lefts and rights. I guess this year it won't be a guard, or Roy, as it was the year before that. One of these boys will get to dance with me.
As if picking up on my thoughts, Romilda claps. "The Christmas waltz is a continuous dance with no partner changes. As such, one of you lucky gents will have the opportunity to dance with Her Highness."
"However," Rudy paces down from the group. "We can only permit the best dancer to pair with Her Highness. So in these classes we will learn the waltz together, and the best dancer will partner with Gail on the night."
Titters arise. Behind me, snickers arise as the boys nudge each other. "No chance for you then, Stumble Toes Sheng," mutters Avian, and I have to cough discreetly to cover the laugh that threatens to erupt from my mouth.
Sheng, dancing? That. Is. Hilarious!
But I promise to give them all a fair chance. Including Sheng. Maybe.
"And what about the rest of the Selected?" Kingsley asks. "You know, the ones unfortunate not to win the princess' hand in the dance?"
"You will be paired with maids who have kindly volunteered," says Rudy.
Romilda nods. "Rudy and I have been practicing our waltz skills to teach you all. I hope you're ready for the intensity!"
"Pffft. How hard can it be?" says Parker.
Poor boy.
It might as well be the learning to walk class again, for all the times boys fall and trip and crash into one another. Romilda and Rudy take hands and demonstrate how to pose, how to lead (for the gents), and how to travel across the floor, as smooth as silk. Having done this many years, I've already mastered the waltz's fine technicalities, but watching the boys trying to dance is like watching the first episode of Dancing with the Stars. They're all so stiff.
Well, most of them. Naturally Valerian is so good as he leads me gently across the floor. It's with strong muscles that he holds my back – I feel his supple strength as we flow, as he picks up the steps so fast I'd think he'd done this before.
"How is my waltzing, Your Highness?" he asks with that deep, annoyingly attractive voice of his. "Am I holding you too tightly?"
"Oh no, you're holding me juuuuust right." I don't mean to sound so slick as I say it but I can't help it, his voice does strange things to my knees. "Are you sure you haven't done this before?"
"Positive. I have taken dance lessons before though, to improve my posture for photo shoots."
"It's paid off."
He beams.
Rudy pairs me off with Kingsley next. Typically, it seems he and Valerian are neck-and-neck, with Kingsley being equally as good, maybe a little more proficient, at waltz. He takes my hands firmly, showing command, and we glide together like two fish in the river. Except his fish is very hot.
He winks at me. "I have danced before."
"So I can see."
He chuckles under his breath. "I would be the perfect partner to you, Your Highness. I can guarantee, with my skill, that I won't mess up any routine that you have planned."
"I don't doubt that." I glance to my left – Jeremiah has accidentally stepped on Ansel's toes and is hawking profuse, sincere apologies as Ansel mutters curses under his breath. "It will take some work to get everyone into waltzing shape."
Then my eyes fall on Sheng, and a laugh bursts out of my mouth like a spy car ejector seat. He and Avian are attempting – strong word, attempting – to get the movement right. There's a bounce to the waltz that comes with practice, and Avian seems to have nailed it, but Sheng? He's actually bobbing up and down trying to copy. Like fish bait on a rod.
Kingsley's gaze follows mine, and he mashes his lips together to not laugh in vain. "Dancing is obviously not for everyone."
"On the contrary," Rudy says, as he passes by, raising Kingsley's shoulders and knocking his foot against Kingsley's shins to tuck them in. "Anyone can dance, should they have the right teacher."
Kingsley's cheeks burn, but goes back to being his very Kingsley self when Rudy asks me to switch partners again.
"I think it might be better if you pair with people less skilled," he says.
Kingsley can't argue with that. Romilda pairs me with Ben next – for some reason Ben struck me as someone who was mightily capable of dancing, but as he demonstrates his skills, AKA his drunken ambling which is supposed to be the basic travel, I find out quickly that I'm very, very wrong.
"Ow, that's my toe!"
"Shoot, my bad, Your Highness. I thought we were trying to mirror each other."
"Yes, yep. That's right." I shake my head and focus back on Ben, who is grinning and not giving much care to how well he does, only that he does. "It's quite distracting moving from partner to partner."
"I can imagine. Hey, are we still on for an MCU date?"
"Emsee—" Wait, he means that film series, right? "Yes! That would be wonderful. Not that I know anything about superheroes."
"You don't need to know anything. It was based off a really old comic book series." His eyes twinkle with mischief. "Think I could come to this dance in a cape?"
"Only if you come in tight spandex as well."
"That would make me so powerful. Like Shaggy."
"Like who?"
"Ah, no one." We practice a turn, and he gets it. "How's that?"
"That was great!"
He preens like a peacock. "Watch this."
He proceeds to twist me violently around before pulling me up, only to catch himself on my leg and fall on his butt. I've never seen someone stand up so fast. I can't stop giggling.
Rudy strides over, less concerned and more bemused. "Everything okay here, Ben?"
"Fine fine, Mister Rudy."
"He fell over," I say.
"It's false. No way. Not this time. She created it. Not this time. No. Not this time. It's totally made up. Pure fiction."
"… Ben, I literally watched you as your behind connected with the floor," says Rudy, with a roll of his eyes. "Be more careful. You won't win Her Highness' hand for the dance by making a fool of yourself."
But he grins at me, because he knows making a fool of himself is exactly what makes me laugh.
I'm surprised and yet not surprised when my last partner is Nicholas. I never took him as the dancing type, but he seemed to be good at everything, let alone law and politics. A frown mars his otherwise handsome face, his ducked brows shadowed by a sweaty mop of chestnut hair.
"I'm not sure I can do this," he admits.
"Sure you can!" I pipe. "So, the pose! Hold my right hand with your left." He clamps it tightly. "Not so hard! I don't want to burst a blood vessel!"
He coughs, relaxes. "Sorry."
"Okay. Now other hand on my waist." This time, his grip is much more suitable. My skin buzzes with warmth, despite the layers of fabric between the touch. "Tuck in your butt."
"My butt is tucked in."
"It's sticking out. I can tell. Your frame is curving outwards."
Face heated, he straightens.
"Don't hunch."
He raises his chin.
"Push out your shoulders."
They relax.
"Now stick your tongue out."
"… Wait, really?"
"Kidding! I wondered how far you would go." I grin and laugh, but Nicholas isn't finding it as funny, forcing a chuckle from his throat. So I cut my amusement and tug gently on his blazer. "Now, this is where you lead me. So take a step forwards, and I'll take a step back."
He steps forwards – well, more lunges into my personal space, and I stagger back then fall with a soft "oof!" and an ache that sparks up my spine like an electric shock. Nicholas is too slow to grab me.
"Ack! I'm so sorry!" He offers me a hand, his cheeks going red.
"That's okay." Though really, how hard is it to step forwards? I readjust our positioning. "Here. Let's try again."
He shakes his head. "It's not okay. I need to get it right."
"It's the first class. Promise we're not going to be mad."
He doesn't look like that's an acceptable answer. Funny, in that first debate we went to watch, Nicholas seemed so at ease, almost like he belonged with the stuffy politicians and their high IQs and wordy vocabularies, but here, out of his element, Nicholas puffs up like a balloon with frustration. The way his brow furrows and his neck tenses… it's a contrast, so different from that suave persona that saved me from the oiliest of ministers, and it kind of makes me want to laugh.
Then his gaze hardens at my amusement. "Please don't pity me."
"Pity you? No! I just find it sweet that you're trying so hard."
"Well, I do want to win this thing."
Of course. Because at the end of the day, that's all that matters.
Sobered by the seriousness of it all, I teach him a few more steps. Nicholas loosens his posture enough that his floor travel improves massively. Still ramrod straight, but enough that he lifts his head and takes pride as he leads me across the floor.
"Wonderful job, Nicholas!" Romilda pipes, hands clapping. "Though you must relax! Your face looks like it's about to launch into the stratosphere."
Nicholas rolls his jaw, cheeks flushing for the second time today.
"You have stiff competition," Romilda's eyes drift to both Kingsley and Valerian, who are sweeping their maids across the floor as they glare at one another, "but don't let that discourage you."
She goes to fawn over the next pair, but the damage is done. Nicholas clenches my hands the entire time I try to teach him. Oh dear. Looks like he has a classic case of perfectionism.
I'm not looking for someone perfect. I'm looking for someone who will try, and take things in their stride when they don't succeed.
I make a mental note about it as the class ends. Rudy lines all the boys up by the wall.
"A decent first attempt, gentlemen. There are some clear stand-outs amongst you, but without having taught you the steps to the dance, there's no way knowing who will win."
"Next few classes, we will be teaching you the choreography," Romilda follows. "More details about the other things you'll need to organise for the ball to follow. But the dance is most important! Absolutely!"
"Indeed." Rudy smiles knowingly. "You won't have to start until after your history presentations this week. I'm particularly looking forward to those."
He might be the only one. Scratch that, I think as I glance warily at Elliot, who is in turn glaring at Yamato. He is the only one.
A/N: Hi everyone! Oh dear, looks like Gail can't catch a break. Lots of spicy drama in the Selection, and for once Kingsley didn't generate it, hahah. Hope you enjoyed this chapter.
In case you haven't seen, you should check out Michelle the Editor's oneshot The Bullet and the Book! It takes place late into tsats and features our favourite love-to-hate social parasite, Katrina Berg. If you've read tsats or are reading it (spoiler warning though!), I would highly, highly recommend checking it out. It's so beautifully written and evocative.
Thankies, friends.
~ GWA
NTT: "Would you be able to explain in more detail what a meme is?"
