CHAPTER 4
Monday, the 16th of November, 2239
Henri Pemberton, Viscount Enfield
"Sir?" The driver asks from the front seat of the limousine sent to transport me from my home to the Angeles airport, or the biggest Angeles airport anyway. There were several scattered around the large province.
"Hm?" I ask, jostling the duffel bag I had packed for the palace. Inside was my laptop, tablet, earphones, a few notebooks, among other things.
"Do you want to get out of the car now or wait for some of the other gentlemen to arrive?" he says, his tone betraying that it wasn't the first time he had asked me. Shoot. I didn't mean to ignore him.
"Sorry, I didn't hear you the first time." I apologize quickly, "I'll go over to the airport now." I tell him. It was better than sitting in this car for the better part of an hour. I understand that everyone wanted to see the selected arrive at the airport, but I still found it annoying that I had to go to the airport which was nearly an hour and a half from my house and then head to the palace rather than just go straight to it in the first place.
The driver nods, pressing a small button on the dashboard. I hear him say something in a low voice, a higher pitched voice responding. A second later a guard with silky black hair tied in a tight bun and tan skin appears, her face wearing a peppy smile, "Your Highness," she greets as I open the door, stepping out of the car.
I wince slightly, "Just address me like you would the rest of the selected boys. Please." I don't need anyone getting upset at me for my royal title. I'm sure people already thought it was unfair that I was even in the selection in the first place, having people call me the same as they would the actual royal family would be rubbing salt in the wound.
The guard looks amused, "Whatever you wish sir." Much better.
The Angeles airport looks the same as it always does, the glass exterior shining in the sunlight. With Halloween over the decorations are beginning to come down, being replaced with wreaths and snowmen. A bit early for Christmas decor, but what did I expect? I'm led to a roped off area near the exit. People rush to and from their flights, barely sparing a glance at me.
The guard makes polite conversation with me as we wait for some of the other selected to arrive, "You'll be traveling with the selected from Likely, Columbia, and Belcourt," she says.
"Not Sonage?" Sonage was right below Angeles, I had assumed that they would group the provinces together.
The woman shakes her head, "You were supposed to, but there was a thunderstorm in the southern part of Somage. The plane couldn't take off." She explains patiently.
"Oh." The sky is mostly clear in Angeles. Must have been in the really southern part. "What's your name?" I ask, feeling bad that I've been referring to her as the guard in my head for the entirety of our conversation.
"Officer Ortega," She informs me, "So, are you excited for the selection sir?" She asks.
"Yeah. I think it'll be a great chance to get to know the princess." I say. She knows I'm lying and I know that she knows I'm lying. Why would she even ask that question anyway? I don't remember her in particular but Officer Ortega probably knows who I am. Most of the staff does for that matter. Maybe she was just trying to give me practice for the interviews. I guess that was nice of her.
"Yes, it will be." She gets a message on the wire she has in her ear, holding up a hand in the universal sign for me to be quiet. Not that I particularly liked where the conversation was headed anyway. "The men from Columbia and Likely are here," she tells me.
Sure enough, two guys make their way over to me. Both seem about my age, the one on the left a few years older, and both carry some form of luggage. Two guards trail them as they approach me. "Hey." I say as a way of greeting. They both nod, not responding. I wonder briefly what they think of me. Great, another thing to worry about. I knew some would be jealous, but I figured that they would at least attempt to be civil. "I'm Henri," I say in an effort to bridge the awkward silence that had settled over the group.
The one on the left smiles tersely, it's obvious he doesn't mean it. "I'm Nyson, Nyson Avery. I'm from Columbia"
The one on the right just nods, "Owen Polls." He doesn't include his province, but it must be Likely. That's the only one left.
No one says anything for a long time. Is the whole selection going to be like this or are these guys just quiet? I'm trying to refrain from calling them jerks until later notice. There's no need to make assumptions about them. They could just be shy or nervous. It must be nerve wracking for them. Nyson seems cordial, and Owen seems… fine. I shouldn't get too worried that they all hate me before even meeting me. Not yet at least
Nyson fiddles with a button on his coat. We're all dressed roughly the same. Dark pants and shirts in varying muted colors. The palace had assigned us all clothes to wear, probably grouping us together in order to make the colors on the pictures pop. Carrie had let me pick the color, texting me photos a few days ago. Frankly, I didn't really care what shade of blue I wore, but I appreciated the gesture nonetheless.
I don't know how much longer it'll take for the Belcourt guy to come, but maybe if I wish hard enough the plane can fly a little bit faster. Standing around with people who were reluctant to engage in conversation with me was not my idea of a fun time.
Owen, who seems to dislike the silence as much as I do, speaks, although it is to Nyson not me. Wonderful. "Is this your first time in Angeles?" Owen asks.
Nyson nods, "Yeah. I never really had the chance to travel before."
"I've never come here on vacation before, but I have family here." Own says, "It's only really a 40 minute drive from Likely, sometimes we had school field trips here."
"Sounds sweet." Nyson says. "Columbia is just filled with mountains." Personally, I found the mountain ranges in Columbia to be rather pretty, but I guess if I saw them every single day of my life then I would get sick of them too. The skiing there is great.
"Angeles has some cool coastlines." I add in, trying to include myself in the conversation.
"Nice." Nyson says to me, while Owen just nods. Normally I would give up and hope to find people to talk to at the palace, but I am determined to make these people like me if it's the last thing I do. Maybe they just need some time to adjust, I'll try to approach them again later. Either way by the end of this selection, Nyson Avery and Owen polls will be my friends.
With that thought in mind, I let them talk to each other without giving my input into any matters. No use interjecting myself into a situation where I'm clearly not wanted.
"What caste are you again?" Owen asks Nyson. Judging from Nyson's bulky, muscular frame I would go with either a 2 or a 7.
"A 7." Nyson says, "How about you?" I was right then. He probably did some sort of outdoorsy work. His skin showed the mark of spending a few too many hours under the sunlight.
"Well, I was a 3, but I'm going to switch to a 4 once I get into culinary school." Owen pauses for a second, "I guess I still am a 3. I don't think my application got processed before the selection started."
"Can you make ramen?" Nyson looks curious.
Owen nods, "I like to think that the ramen I make is better than the ones you stick in the microwave with hot water."
"I'll be the judge of that." Nyson says, "I do think of myself as a bit of a ramen connoisseur."
"A ramen connoisseur?" I repeat before I can stop myself.
"Don't judge me."
"I'm not judging." I say, backtracking quickly. I don't want him to dislike me and be mad at me. Even if a ramen connoisseur is probably pretty high up on the list of the weirdest things that I've heard in the last week. "That's cool."
Nyson appraises me for a second, "Thanks."
Finally, when I began to feel like the universe was intent on making me suffer, a fourth young man joined us, his pale blond hair close cut to his head. "Ryan Forbes," he says as he shakes each of our hands. "How long have you guys all been waiting for me?"
"Don't worry about it." Nyson says, "It wasn't that long."
Oh, and this random guy he's nice to? Guess it wasn't just him being shy.
Still, despite Nyson's assurances, Ryan has the decency to look embarrassed. "Sorry about that, I left my headphones at home and I asked my driver if I could go back to get them."
'Did you end up getting them?" I ask, rather interested in his answer. Maybe his driver had taken pity on him and went back to get them.
"Ah. No." Ryan flushes slightly. That sounds like the palace I know.
Officer Ortega -who must be the highest ranking of the four guards assembled here- claps her hands, "Please follow me gentleman. You should have already been briefed on all this over the weekend, but in case any of you forgot, let me reiterate. When you walk down the red carpet you may wave, but please do not talk to any of the reporters or crowds assembled. No posing for photos, no signing autographs, and for heaven's sake, please do not accept any gifts. Those are major security hazards."
The boys, Owen in particular, look a bit taken aback by the excessive rules. "We can't talk to them?" He repeats, dumbfounded. I guess the regulations do sound pretty harsh, but it's just common knowledge for me. At this point, I don't even think about the protocol, let alone be startled by it.
"No, you may not." Officer Ortega tells him, keeping a pleasant smile on her face. "Please hand your bags to Alden." She says, gesturing to a middle-aged man that I didn't notice until now.
"Can you carry all this?" Nyson asks the man, seeming concerned.
Alden laughs slightly, "I was going to use a luggage cart." That's good, I had been wondering the same thing myself.
I hand my bag to him, stretching my shoulder as I do. It was nice to finally be free of it. The bag had been pressing on my shoulder muscles for far too long.
"Follow me everyone." Officer Ortega motions for us to walk behind her. Instead of going out the way I entered, she leads up to a smaller exit. The pathway is covered by a red carpet -a bit of excessive in my opinion- and barriers line the walkway, crowds of journalists, cameramen, and just general well wishers standing outside. I pity the poor people who are trying to make it to their flights on time. Judging by the size of the crowd, there wouldn't be any parking spots left.
Sure enough, the moment we step outside people yell questions our way.
"Do you think you can win?"
"What was your reaction when you were chosen?"
"Have any of you met the Princess before?"
"How much are you being paid?"
The last one makes me chuckle. I'm not sure how much money the rest of the guys are making from this, but for the palace to compensate me for my involvement in this would technically be classified as paying off an foriegn official.
Needless to say, that wouldn't be happening.
The whole process takes less than 5 minutes. We're quickly shuffled into a limousine stocked with various types of snacks. I end up sitting next to Owen, who I can tell is less than thrilled about this arrangement. Not that I'm too happy about it myself, but at least I have the common courtesy to not give an annoyed sigh when I sit down. Some people really need to learn their manners.
"That was a lot of people." Nyson remarks, watching the airport shrink as we turn onto the highway.
"And that's the understatement of the century." I mutter to myself. Nyson though, hears and snorts a laugh.
"You're right, it was a boatload of people." He corrects himself, much less hostile than I would have expected. Maybe I was starting to wear him down.
"I couldn't believe the amount of people who showed up to the send-off in my province." Ryan adds.
"Me either," says Nyson. "I didn't know that many people live in Columbia. How about you, Henri?" he asks. It's the first time one of these guys has referred to me by name all day. Thank God, I was getting tired of having to force myself into the discussions.
"I didn't have one. Most people in Angeles who want to see the selected would just go to the airport. It would be a waste of time." I explain, giving a shortened version of what someone from the palace had told me on Saturday.
"That sucks dude." Nyson says apologetically.
I shrug, "Eh. What can you do about it?" I didn't really care. Sure, it would have been nice to have a send-off, but then people wouldn't have gone to the airport which would have been unfair to the rest of the selected. Besides, I wasn't about to argue with a palace official over something so small.
No one else talks much for most of the trip, not until we reach the gates to the palace. Like the airport, this is lined with people. Only, due to the tinted windows of the losuine, these people wouldn't be able to see us.
As the palace comes into view, the guys around me all suck in a breath. I try to act surprised as well, but my reaction is a few seconds too late, earning me some weird looks from my carmates. Uh oh. Hopefully they don't think too much about it.
We must be the first group to arrive, as the palace is far calmer than I thought it would be. A blond woman who I have never seen before greets us, "Hello everyone," she chirps, her voice higher than I would have thought for someone her age. "I'm Lady Van Der Witts, I will be acting as your etiquette teacher for the entirety of the selection." She leads us somewhere as she speaks. I'm not sure where it is we're going.
Before I can stop myself, the word "Lady?" slips out of my mouth. I press my lips shut to avoid angering her further.
Miss -I refuse to call her by a title that she doesn't have- Van Der Witts glares at me for a second, "Yes. I'm actually a distant cousin of yours."
"You- you are?" I choke out, taken aback by the ridiculousness of that statement.
"Yes. I'm related to your 7th cousin." She says seriously. Her bright red dress swirls around her knees, an almost blinding color.
"M-my 7th cousin?" I repeat, trying not to laugh. Frankly, I don't even know who my 7th cousin is, and that's only if I actually have one. Going by this woman's credibility, that's a big if. A small cough alerts me to the rest of the guys who have developed deep frowns at the mention of my royal title and Miss Van Der Witts' supposed relation to me. Am I going to have to walk this fine line between making conversation and angering the other selected every day? That's a lot of effort.
Miss Van Der Witts takes a deep breath, closing her eyes before addressing us again. "Station 1." She says, tapping Owen on the shoulder. Nyson is 2, and Ryan gets assigned to 3. She says nothing to me, pushing the doors to the large room open.
The room, which I recognized as a parlor, had been cleared of all it's furniture. Instead, sleek black salon chairs stood around, each one connected to a marble station equipped with brushes and hair dryers. Metal carts of hair products were positioned around the room, there was one in close proximity to every station. Upbeat music was playing in the background, though I couldn't make out any actual lyrics.
The boys comprehend her instructions, each one heading to a different station marked with their assigned number. "What about me?" I ask Miss Van Der Witts.
"Wait till a station opens up. It shouldn't be too long," she tells me, barely sparing me a glance.
I look at the crowd of stylists in their black uniforms standing near the back of the room. "What about all those stylists?" I ask, "There are plenty of seats open."
"They're on their lunch break." She snaps. "Just sit there." With that, Miss Van Der Witts leaves before I can point out the absurdity of what she just said. I sigh. I haven't even been here for an hour and already everyone -including my alleged cousin- hates me. This is going to be a long few months.
With nothing else to do, I sit on the dark couch lining the wall. I feel guilty looking through my phone while being at the royal palace for a selection, but it's better than sitting by my lonesome without the added distraction of whatever social media has to offer.
The room steadily becomes louder, the chatter of the stylists, the sound of water rushing from the multiple faucets, and the breathy screams of the blow dryers filling the large space. About 20 minutes later another group of guys come in, escorted by Mis Van Der Witts. At this, she finally talks to me, telling me to go to Station 4 as I should have in the first place. You would think that my supposed family wouldn't delegate me to waiting for a nonexistent lunch break to be over.
The bearded man assigned to me smiles in greeting. "Do you have any preferences for your hair sir- I mean, Your Highness."
For not the first time today I cringe, "You don't need to call me that." I say, looking at my reflection in the mirror.
"Oh- I apologize," he says, frowning. "How would you like your hair sir?" He asks again.
"Whatever you think is best." I say. I don't think it's in my best judgement to tell a royal hairdresser how to do my hair. "Just, don't give me bangs please." I add as an afterthought.
"Of course sir," the stylist says, laughing slightly. He leads me over to a common area filled with marble counters, sinks set into the middle to wash the selected's hair. A blond boy with hair down to his shoulder is in the seat next to me. I smile at him, but I'm not sure he sees as his head is tilted back at an almost 90 degree angle, meaning his viewpoint is mainly just the ceiling.
I sit in silence as the stylist washes my already clean hair. I know it's only been a few hours since the selection officially started, but I'm not sure how much more of this I could take. The boys I met all seem to vary from being moderately standoffish to downright disliking me. Not to mention the delusional etiquette teacher. Just a few months. That's all it is. I just didn't know that participating in a fake selection was going to be this brutal.
Once my hair is cut and styled, my eyebrows plucked, and my teeth whitened, the stylist sends me over to the far corner of the room that contains racks of clothes labeled with names. Mine is towards the back, filled with suits, sweaters, button-downs and the like. I grab a navy blue suit from the rack, changing in the fitting rooms that had been set up.
I inwardly groan as another person directs me to the neighboring room for interviews. The noise is beginning to form a headache in my temple. I just want this day to be over already.
I end up waiting towards the side as the blond boy I had seen earlier conducts his interview. "How was your flight Sir Nathaniel?" Lindsay asks, today in a pair of white jeans and a black and white patterned blouse.
The boy- Nathaniel, takes a second before answering, "It was my first time in business class, or any part of the plane other than economy, so I really enjoyed that. They gave out ice cream on the flight, which was definitely my favorite part." Nathaniel answers smoothly.
"Really?" Lindsay asks, "What would you say your favorite flavor of ice cream is?" She leans forward slightly, extending a microphone to him.
Again, Nathainel pauses before giving his response. "I like coconut, but vanilla is a classic." Huh, odd flavor. I've never tried coconut ice cream, although I've had ice cream made from coconut milk, but my personal favorite is rocky road.
"Coconut ice cream." Lindsay repeats, chuckling. "Boy, I would love some ice cream, if only I wasn't lactose intolerant." She says more to the camera than Nathainel. I can tell it throws him off, but he tries to smile through it.
"They make dairy-free ice cream." Nathaniel tells her.
"And thank God for that!" Lindsay exclaims, "Now, are you lucky enough to be able to drink milk without your body hating you?"
"Yeah, I am vegetarian though." Nathaniel interjects. "I still drink milk most of the time."
"How has the palace accommodated your dietary preferences?" Lindsay asks again.
"I mean, I'm not sure yet. They haven't served us any food so far." Nathaniel smiles uneasily, clearly not comfortable with the interview.
Lindsay nods, clearly sensing Nathaniel's uncomfort, "Well, on the behalf of Illéa, I wish you the best with your food in the future. I can assure you that the royal kitchens make some of the best vegetarian quiche you have ever tasted. You'll love it, I'm sure. Thank you, and have a great day." Lindsay holds her smile for a few more seconds before the camera operator signals that the camera is off.
"Thank you," Lindsay says to Nathaniel. "There should be someone to escort you to your room." She glances around, realizing about the same time I do, that whoever was supposed to escort Nathaniel had left. "Let me go track them down, actually." As Lindsay leaves the room, Nathaniel comes over to me.
"You're Henri, right?" He asks, "The duke or something."
He's a few inches taller than me, so I have to look up to respond, "No- I mean, yeah, I'm Henri, but no, I'm not a duke."
"Oh. What are you then?"
I really don't want to be getting in this conversation right now, but I answer, "A viscount." I say, knowing how ridiculous my title sounds.
Still, Nathaniel nods. "That's cool." He raises his hand for a high five and I return it, surprised by the gesture. "I think my tour guide is here. See ya later."
Once Nathaniel is gone, Lindsay turns to me. "One sec Henri." She tells me, "I just need to change the casing on the microphone, it has that other boy's germs all over it. So, how's it going so far?" She asks, as she pulls the foam casing off the silver microphone.
I'm not going to tell her how horrible it is so far. First of all, it's not Lindsay's business. Second, if I did tell her, there's no guarantee she would keep the information confidential. Of course she wouldn't tell the public, she's better at her job than that, I'm more worried that she'll tell Carrie. I don't need her to know that I couldn't make it through three hours without complaining.
So, I merely shrug. "It's alright. I haven't really gotten the chance to talk to most of the people so far. The guys all seem really nice so far." At least I could lie convincingly, or I wouldn't make it far in life.
"The one in before, Nathaniel seemed chill." Lindsay remarks. The 27-year-old report host saying chill makes me want to wince, but I don't move my face muscles. I get the feeling that it wouldn't go over too well with her.
"Chill? I don't know, I didn't talk to him long enough." I stammer, "Yeah, I guess if you think so."
"Did you see the polls for the selected so far?" Lindsay passes me a glossy magazine, a page in the center folded halfway down. I open it, looking at the numbers.
"I don't think it means much." I say, putting the magazine down. "The opinions will change once people actually see interviews."
Lindsay barks a laugh, "Are you always this negative?"
My cheeks flush, "I'm not being negative, I'm being realistic." I mutter quietly.
"Oh come on, I'm just teasing." Lindsay says brightly. "You're right though, the opinions are going to bounce all over the place. Smart boy. Most of the guys I've shown that to haven't figured that out yet. Those poor saps. They are not going to be happy come next week."
"Lindsay, that's mean." I say. Almost none of these boys have ever had their names in the newspaper before now, of course they would be unaware of how quickly sentiments shift.
"I'm not being mean, I'm being realistic," she jokes. "Okay, the mic is set up. You ready?"
"Yeah. I'm ready.
A/N: Hi everyone! I hope you are all having a fabulous monday. Just a quick reminder that forms are due in a little less than a week. November 1st. If you could get it in sooner it would be great, but just make sure to take your time. Additionally, if anyone would like to submit a character, please do. If you can't make the deadline, just ask and I'll be happy to give you an extension. Also, I now have a pinterest for this story, it's under Fairycutie. I don't really have a lot to say in this A/N section. Just know that I will be doing this story for Nano, and if I manage to hit 50k during November I literally don't know what I'll do.
Have a great week!
