Page 17 of American Royalty

“No way!”

“Seriously?”

“That’s the old movie my dad is obsessed with.”

Jameson pointed to the middle of the class. “Whoever made that comment is getting an F for the term!The Matrixisn’t old! It’s notCasablanca.”

“What’sCasablanca?”

“Now you’re just being a git.”

More laughter.

Jameson continued. “People interested in philosophy have watched this movie often and can discuss it for hours. Think of Neo, going through his life, working at the computer company, selling bootleg discs until someone comes and ‘drags him outside.’In the movie, this would be Trinity, taking Neo to see Morpheus, who offers him the red or blue pill. Once Neo takes the red pill it’s as if his eyes have adjusted to the light. He’s now aware of the Matrix. That the world was different from what he thought. Now imagine if Neo went back to the people he sold the disc to at the beginning of the movie and tried to explain the Matrix to them?

“Even better, Cypher betraying the team—”

“Spoiler!” someone yelled out.

Jameson dipped his head in acknowledgment but continued. “You have to wonder if you can be truly comfortable in anything you know. As you live your life guided by a certain belief system, and something breaks through that’s different from what you know, would you be brave enough to pursue it? Or would you stick to comfortable and familiar illusions? Who determines what knowledge is valued? Who determines what knowledge is crazy? What is the origin of knowledge? And once knowledge is attained, do you have the duty to share that knowledge with others who don’t have it, even at the risk of death?”

The alarm on his cellphone trilled and he pressed the screen. “That’s a good stopping point. On Tuesday, I’ll expect you to have completed the worksheet and to bring any questions you have. In a few weeks we’ll start reviewing for exams.”

The room filled with the groans and noises of students gathering up their belongings, and Jameson did likewise. He undid the transmitter pack clipped to his slacks and the small microphone hooked to the front of his navy button-down shirt. He had office hours in fifteen minutes, followed by a departmental meeting and drinks with Rhys at the pub.

Grabbing his phone and bag from the shelf behind the podium, he headed out of the building and across the quad. It had rainedearlier, but the sun was making a valiant effort to shine through the cloud cover. He stuck to the concrete footpaths, instead of crossing the grass.

The Plato’s Allegory exercise was one of his favorites. Jameson knew there were many misconceptions about philosophy, including the belief it wasn’t relevant in the modern world, but by its very nature, philosophy was an enduring field of study. Students who studied it learned to write clearly, think critically, and spot bad reasoning, highly sought-after skills in the current workforce. There was nothing he enjoyed more than standing in front of a class and discussing, sometimes debating, the big questions of the day. It was one of the many reasons he loved his work.

Quite unlike hisotherduties. The thought of donning his role as a member of the royal family, becoming the focus of millions of eyes and opinions, caused him to break out in hives.

He was so caught up in his thoughts he didn’t notice the student coming toward him until they’d bumped into one another.

“Sorry about that,” he said, stepping to the side.

The boy mirrored his movements. Wearing a cap that covered most of his face, he whipped out his phone. “Prince Jameson, the queen named you one of her Counsellors of State.”

Shock held him immobile.

“Has she brought you in to detract from the public’s growing dissatisfaction with the queen’s job?”

Fingers tightening on the strap of his bag, Jameson watched as students and faculty slowed to ogle, their gazes fixed in wide-eyed fascination on the unfolding spectacle.

“Now that you’re older, do you have a new perspective on your father’s relationship with Gena Phillips?”

It felt like a long time, but in reality, the boy had rattled the questions off quickly. Jameson barely had a chance to react before security grabbed the guy. His cap flew off and Jameson noted it wasn’t a student but an older man.

His chest tightened, embarrassment heating the nape of his neck and tips of his ears. He’d worked so hard to be like everyone else. To keep his unwanted royal life away from his sacred professional one. And with the presence of this rogue paparazzo, the first, but definitely not the last now that he’d tried, Jameson’s efforts had been rendered useless.

News of this encounter would sweep the campus faster than the press reporting on a royal scandal.

“FUCK, MATE. SORRYyou had to go through that.” Rhys Barnes, his friend and fellow professor, aimed his dart at the circular target and let it fly.

Jameson shifted on the leather-topped pub stool, his fingers gripped around his second pint. “Thanks.”

The encounter with the paparazzo had derailed his ability to focus. He’d rescheduled his meetings and texted Rhys, hoping to persuade him to come along for an early drink.

It hadn’t taken much convincing.