Page 15

FIFTEEN

DANNI

I’m sitting in the back seat of the Kowalczyks’ Mercedes-Benz, wearing the soft-peach dress Mom bought me for my cousin’s wedding last year, freaking out so badly there’s a risk I’m going to puke all over it. We’re on our way to the palace for the queen’s birthday celebration, and there are multiple terrifying things waiting for me there. The king and queen of the country, for a start. Also, there’s the tunnel of photographers we have to walk through when we get there—something Eleanor’s spent half the car ride warning me about, so I know it’s gonna be bad.

But at least I’ll have Eleanor, and Rose. Especially Rose.

I’ve been doing some reading these past few weeks. I’ve learned a ton of stuff, too. For example, I found out that Henland was part of the British Empire up until the 1700s, when the country won independence and crowned Rose’s great-great… really great-grandparents king and queen. Which means Henland is a former colony, and never did any colonizing themselves, which I’ll admit makes me like Rose’s family more.

I run a hand down my tan leather seat and stare out of the tinted windows, watching the apartments and houses turn into estates as we get closer to the wealthy area of the city. I’ve seen pictures of the palace plenty of times while researching, but when it looms into view, it still blows my mind a little. The palace is a towering, cream-colored monster of a building with about a million huge arched windows and balconies, all illuminated with rich, glowing lights. And there’s a courtyard, too. Is there ever a courtyard. It’s sprawling, and massive, and absolutely teeming with people. It’s like a fully packed concert stadium out here.

“Do we have to walk past all those people?” I ask Eleanor, feeling my heart drop right down to my shoes.

“Nah, there’s a back entrance. They’re just here to see the royal family on the balcony.” She checks the time. “They’ve probably just done their appearance, actually.”

We join a line of very fancy cars that, I assume, are also making their way to the back entrance. Eleanor texts Rose that we’re almost there, then looks up at me and shoves her phone in her pocket. “Okay, time to brace for the photographers,” she says. “It’s only for a minute, while we’re in the foyer. They aren’t allowed in the party.”

I’m not sure if she keeps telling me to brace myself because I look like I’m dreading this, or if it’s just because she’s gotten to know me over the term. I appreciate it either way. I stick close by her as we walk through the entrance and into a marble-floored room. A long carpet is stretching out ahead of us with footmen to either side of it. All down its length, a line of royal guards stand at attention. And behind them are dozens and dozens of photographers, talking among themselves and fiddling with their cameras. When they notice us they hesitate. Their eyes drift over me like I’m totally invisible. But then they see Eleanor, who is definitely not invisible. She, like Molly, has been photographed with Rose about a million times over the last few years. I’m learning the media is kind of obsessed with the royal family and everyone adjacent to them.

We’re inundated in half a second. Even though there’s a rope cordoning us off from them, they’re somehow engulfing us.

A few times in my life, someone’s turned the flash on and taken a photo of me a little too close. Or I’ve been lying in bed in the dark and trying to take a selfie, only to get pummeled by white light. This is that, times a hundred. A thousand. It’s like I don’t exist, and the photographers don’t exist, and we’re not standing in a room at all. The only real thing is strobing lights. A universe of flashes. And the calling, all of them calling over each other, mostly trying to get Eleanor’s attention, and others shouting to ask my name. Eleanor, who is this? Hello? You? Hey. Blondie. Who are you? How do you know the royal family?

Why are you here?

Why am I here?

My heart’s racing, and there’s a dull roaring in my ears. I think Eleanor might be saying something to me, but I can’t hear a thing—not even my own thoughts—aside from that roaring. I just stand, staring, as my breaths become harsher and faster.

The crowd of photographers suddenly turn their attention to the side. I barely register it. Someone is beside me.

Not Eleanor. Rose.

She places a gentle hand on my back and gives the paparazzi a practiced smile. “It’s okay,” she says to me, and I barely hear her over the suddenly muted roar. My eyes zero in on her lips as she speaks, to help me figure out what she’s saying. “This is a lot, even for me.”

Then, her face changes. It takes me a beat to realize she’s noticed me staring at her lips. She raises an eyebrow, like she’s asking me what I’m looking at. I tear my eyes away, my cheeks red-hot. Please tell me no one got that on camera.

Speaking of cameras, I finally get a grip on myself then and smile for them. I’d better smile, I figure. I might be nobody, but right now I’ve got Rose’s hand on my back, which might make me somebody special enough to end up in another article. And if that happens with me looking stunned and dazed—after the bulldozer photo that did the rounds online a few weeks back—I might never get over the shame.

Rose would make for a great photo, though. If she’s usually pretty, tonight she looks unbelievably gorgeous in a tea-length dress with off-the-shoulder sleeves. It’s in the exact same shade of soft green as her eyes.

“Shall we head in?” she asks, steering us along the carpet. Her hand is still warm against my back, I realize suddenly. This seems like a super long time to hold physical contact—especially when Rose isn’t exactly a touchy-feely sort of person to begin with.

“You look lovely,” Rose says to me, which I’m sure she’s said to everyone she’s seen tonight. “Though I’m disappointed the jacket didn’t make an appearance.”

I want to reply, but I’m still fuzzy from adrenaline. The only sentence my brain offers up is, You’re so fucking pretty. And even though she just complimented me, there’s no way in hell I’m saying that out loud. When I don’t say anything, though, she looks worried. “Do you need some air before we go in?”

Focus, Danni . “No, nope, I’m good.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

I turn to her and plaster on a smile. “I’m all good. Let’s go.”

The noise of the crowd gets louder as we pass through the hallway and reach the entrance doors. Then, the footmen open them, one on each side, and we’re hit by a wall of deafening noise: a roaring mixture of laughter, talking, and music. Debussy, I realize as we enter, only to spot a whole-ass orchestra on a stage to my far left. There’s got to be hundreds of people here. All fancy, all wearing suits and evening gowns and tiaras, and mingling like they’ve all known each other forever. Ice sculptures of the queen’s likeness and the royal emblem are scattered around the room, and there’s a champagne fountain nearby, and every inch of the room seems to be covered in giant floral arrangements of pinks, blues, and whites.

“Holy shit,” I say, and Rose lights up at my reaction.

“Wait till you see the aerial ballet performance,” she says. “That’s in an hour or so.”

“Is Santi here?” Eleanor asks before I can reply. I have the feeling she’s been sitting on that since Rose got here. So that’s why she’s wearing a dress that Marilyn Monroe herself would call “awfully skintight.”

“He’s around,” Rose says. “Do you plan on actually speaking to him tonight?”

“I do,” Eleanor says, more than a little defensive.

Rose raises her eyebrows, but before she can roast Eleanor, some guy in a tuxedo grabs her arm and vanishes with her into the crowd. Cool, bye, then.

“What’s Santi doing here?” I ask Eleanor. “Did Rose invite him for you?”

“Nope. His mother is the Spanish ambassador.” Eleanor scans the crowd—looking for Santi, I assume—but then she nods somewhere through the sea of people. “Hey, it’s Rose’s parents. Do you want to meet them?”

I blanch, and look at the ground. “Oh, no, that’s okay.”

“Really? Not even to say happy birthday?”

I literally cannot think of anything less appealing than bothering the queen of Henland right now to wish her a happy birthday when she’s probably got no clue who the hell I am. She will definitely, one thousand percent survive without meeting me. Besides, everything Molly drilled into me earlier today—a blur of rules about what everyone needs to be called, and who I’m allowed to talk to, and how deep I have to curtsy—has vanished.

“Maybe we can just get something to eat?” I say weakly.

“Best idea you’ve had all night. Let’s go.”

Waiters with appetizer trays are weaving through the crowd, and we grab a couple of pieces of hot finger food from them, but we hit the jackpot when we find a massive buffet table overflowing with cakes, pastries, and a chocolate fountain.

“Molly is gonna be so pissed she missed this,” Eleanor says. “She said last year the only thing missing was macarons, and look. A whole tower of them. I’m gonna steal her some.”

“You know she didn’t want to come, right?” I ask, just to check.

Eleanor stops smiling. “Yeah. I know.”

I realize too late that I was meant to play along and pretend nothing’s wrong. Because if we don’t acknowledge a problem, it goes away, or something.

Not far from us, Rose is standing with Alfie, talking to a middle-aged couple I don’t recognize. Alfie looks more or less like a model, all sharp jawline and perfectly coiffed hair, and he’s beaming and chatting and bringing the couple to laughter like he was made for this. I would do anything to be confident like that. Rose is standing close-close to him, too. Like, right up in his personal space.

They look like a couple. They aren’t one, though, right? Surely I’d know if they were.

I’m so busy watching Rose, I don’t even notice at first that the king and queen have joined her.

King Edward is a surprisingly short man in person compared to how he looks in photos, with a receding hairline and glasses perched on his strong nose. He seems to be in a cheery mood, and he claps a hand on Rose’s shoulder while grinning. If the king looks happy, though, it’s nothing compared to the beam on Queen Maisy’s face. She’s dressed in jewel tones of deep blue, and her glossy brown hair is swept up in a simple chignon below a tiara. The queen is where Rose gets most of her features from. They’re as beautiful as each other. They look like fairy-tale royals, the kind you romanticize as a little girl, before you grow up and realize most royal families are made up of pretty normal-looking humans who just happen to have a glossy lifestyle.

Not this one, though. Normal is the last word I’d use to describe Rose.

Eleanor leans in with an urgent whisper. “Danni, Santi is getting a macaron. He’s getting a macaron .”

This is actually my first time seeing Santi. Santi, it turns out, looks like any guy off the street, with a long face and thin, short brown hair. That’s the hair Eleanor spent half a day staring at? She must be down bad.

“Isn’t he incredible?” Eleanor asks, and I nod as enthusiastically as I can. “What do I do?” she asks, grabbing onto my arm. Before I can even answer, she steels herself and answers for me. “I’m going in.”

“You’ve got this. I believe in you.”

She takes three quick breaths, jumps on the spot, then casually walks over to the macaron stand. I shuffle closer to eavesdrop and grab a pastry in the process.

“Hola,” Eleanor says alarmingly loudly. “Soy un… una del nombre es ella Eleanor.”

My Spanish is shaky, so I only have a vague idea of what Eleanor just said. But from the look on Santi’s face, he feels the same, and I’m pretty sure he speaks Spanish.

“Hi?” he says.

Eleanor hesitates, and I start racking my brain for an excuse to rescue her if this goes south. Or south-er. “Wait, no. Ella nombre… del una… I’m Eleanor.” She beams and sticks her hand out.

Santi surveys her, and I hold my breath, but he takes her hand and holds it between them. Oh, thank god. “I’m Santi. You’re friends with the princess, right?”

I take that as my cue to leave. The only thing is, I don’t know where to go, exactly. I don’t know anyone, and the idea of introducing myself to the random rich people in the room—a ton of whom seem to be literal royalty—is, frankly, horrifying.

So, I sort of… work the room for a while. And by that, I mean I do aimless laps. When was that aerial show meant to start? At least that’ll give me something to focus on, so I don’t look so lost and out of place.

As I walk, I think of Molly, who must be feeling weird about being at Bramppath tonight, no matter what she thinks of Rose. Wish you were here, I text her. Eleanor’s smuggling you some macarons.

Her reply comes quickly. Omg love you both. Thank you. And have fun for me!

At some point, I end up at the mouth of a sprawling hallway. It’s empty here. Quieter. No one to glance at me, wondering who the hell I am and why I’m here. So, I start down it.

The marble flooring beneath me is dull gold, red, and forest green. On either side of me are columns covered in ornate designs of what looks like legit gold. Every few feet, stone-trimmed alcoves shelter priceless statues and vases. I steer clear of these. I would rather not get myself into lifelong debt by breaking one, thanks all the same.

I pass about a billion sprawling doorways, peeking into them as I go. It’s like a museum, room after room filled with rich tapestries, and vases, and statues. Antique armchairs, sturdy wooden desks, fireplaces and daybeds and violins and—violins?

My shoes squeak on the floor as I stop to get a better look. It’s not violins, plural. There’s a violin, displayed next to a cello—both of them standing in front of floor-to-ceiling windows. Farther in is an enormous gold-trimmed harp. And against the back wall is the most stunning grand piano I’ve ever seen in my entire life—and that includes the photos I put on my “when-I’m-rich-one-day” manifestation mood board last year.

I definitely shouldn’t be wandering into random rooms and touching shit, but it’s like I’m hypnotized. You can’t just see an instrument like this and walk past it like it never happened. Holding my breath, I run my fingers over the cold, dark surface. It’s a concert grand piano—a perfectly restored antique. It’s decorated with jewels, and it’s got a mother-of-pearl border. If I had to go full The Price Is Right, I’d guess it’s worth more than my house.

For the record, I’ve read “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.” I know damn well you do not waltz uninvited into strangers’ rooms and sit on their chairs and sleep in their beds and play their ungodly expensive pianos.

And of course, I touch it anyway. Just one key. Just to see.

It’s beautiful.

I stare at it for a while, wrestling with myself. Then I run to the hall to check. It’s deserted. Everyone here is in the ballroom, which is about a mile away. I can barely hear them, so there’s no way anyone could hear me over the orchestra. So, no one would ever know, right?

I head back to the piano, splay my fingers over the white keys, and start playing from memory.

The melody begins slowly, delicately. The music resonates rich and deep, and the room’s acoustics give it an echo like I’ve never exactly heard before. I couldn’t ask for a better sound. Gradually, my heartbeat slows along with the tempo, and I fade out. I don’t exist outside of the music anymore. Maybe I never did. The point of my being lies in my fingertips and what they can translate on these keys. They know what they’re doing without me having to think. I watch my hands skirt across the keys, gaining momentum. On and on.

The special thing about music, I think, is how it connects people. Even if we don’t speak the same language, or like the same things. Even if we don’t like each other. I can sit at a piano and feel my feelings and play a song, and transplant those feelings into someone else without saying a word. And even when those feelings are sadness or grief, there’s a melancholy sort of beauty to them that makes the shared emotion welcomed.

I hate that I know all of this about music, and I still can’t use it for the purpose it’s meant for because I’m so terrified of that connection. Because opening myself up to strangers is putting myself on a platter for them to pick apart and criticize, and I just can’t . But I wish, right down to my soul, that I could. A part of me knows that if I could just learn to trust the world, I might be able to use music to do so much good in it. I was given a gift, and I work my butt off to cultivate that gift, and here I am at the final hurdle, wasting all of it because I can’t believe that if I let the world see me, it’ll like what it sees. Not when so many people in my past felt otherwise. And honestly, it’s felt like every time I’ve tried to explain this to someone—my piano teachers, my mom, Rachel—they haven’t gotten it. Why would I put this much time and effort into piano if I don’t want to perform?

God, the thing is, I do want to. I just don’t know how to become the sort of person who can .

I used to be. I’ve been taking lessons since I was five, and Mom had me playing songs for family and friends even earlier than that. But that was until last year. I played a piece for the school talent show, and Maddison and her crew—the girls who gave me hell back then—giggled loudly the entire time. Then, after the show, Maddison came up and said, “Good job” with a shit-eating grin. The kind that lets you know she actually means That was embarrassing to watch.

The same happened when I played as part of the orchestra in the local theater production. Maddison hunted me down at school and, laughing again, she told me she saw me play at the musical. Again, there was a joke there only she and her friends got. Then the last straw happened when Maddison found an old video I’d posted of myself playing, and she tagged a bunch of her friends in the comments, who then went on to tag other people. Obviously, there was some sort of group chat happening in the background. I never found out what they said, but my imagination could fill in the blanks just fine.

I’ve never been able to even think about playing for people without getting nauseous since. All those years of practice, right down the drain.

But when Rose and I spoke at the rugby game, she told me some things about her life that made me feel weirdly seen. She knows—even more than I do—what it feels like to be hated by people you’ve never personally hurt. But it’s more than that. She feels like she was given this incredible opportunity by life, and that she’s screwed it up beyond repair, and she doesn’t know how to become the person she wants to be. If anyone can relate to the frustration of feeling like you’ve fallen short of all this potential you had, it’s me.

Suddenly, something’s wrong. I snap out of my thoughts, wrench my hands away from the piano, and whip around.

I knew someone was behind me. It’s Rose, leaning against the doorframe on her left side, a weird look on her face.

I want to die on the spot as I try to figure out a way to explain myself. Nothing instantly comes to mind.

“Well, don’t stop on my account,” Rose says in a cheerful voice. “I was enjoying that.”

Her voice bounces off the high ceiling with the same vibrating richness of the piano. And there’s something about her posture right now, how she’s resting her weight on the door all casual and careless, that makes my mind foggy again. She’s teasing me in that way she always does, her voice warm and her eyes laughing, with a tiny edge of legitimate mocking that stops it from tipping into cheese.

Right now, I realize we’re totally alone. We’ve been totally alone a few times before—ducking into my bedroom so I can dump my books before dinner, or watching a movie, or just hanging out and talking—but it’s never felt weird like this.

“Sorry,” I say, like an idiot.

“What for? It sits in here like an ornament. It’s a waste, don’t you think?” She kicks off the wall and crosses the room as carelessly as she stood. “Snapping up something that was made to produce music, just to own it. So that you can lock it up in a silent room no one ever enters, where it won’t do anyone any good.” She reaches my side and, towering over me, she presses middle C. She’s really, really close to me.

“Well,” I say, swallowing. “I don’t think even the top players in the world earn the kind of money to buy something like this.”

“Isn’t that exactly the problem?” Rose murmurs, almost to herself. “Anyway. You’re probably the best thing to happen to it in years. Don’t stop.”

I don’t think even the king himself could pay me enough to go back to playing alone with just Rose in the room. Not like this. So, I pretend I didn’t hear her. “Did you ever learn?” I ask.

“Oh yes. I got quite proficient.”

“Really?”

She nods, and gestures to the seat. “May I?”

I should get up, right now. There’s only just enough room for two on the bench. But I apparently lose my grip on reality, because instead of doing that, I shuffle over. And instead of asking me to move, she squeezes in beside me so she’s pressed firmly against me, shoulder to hip. And instead of leaning away, I take a deep breath and hold steady. So does she, but when she breathes out through her nose, there’s a shakiness to it that makes me wonder if this is too close for her. Maybe I made her uncomfortable when I didn’t stand up? But then I realize she’s probably just nervous to perform. If anyone can relate to that feeling, it’s me.

Clearing her throat, she takes her pointer finger and starts stabbing at the piano. A few notes in, I realize where I recognize the tune from. It’s “Heart and Soul.” And a simplified version of it at that. Of course she isn’t taking this seriously. She never is.

I fight to keep a straight face as she glances at me. “Don’t you know it?” she asks. Oh, right. It’s a duet.

“I’m familiar,” I say wryly, and I jump in with the bass line.

Rose shoots me an indignant look and swats at my left hand with hers. Her skin brushes against mine as she does. “Hey, one finger, please,” she says. “You’re showing me up.”

There’s something about the sheer ridiculousness of playing with a single finger on this particular piano that becomes too much for me before long, and I can’t stop myself from breaking out into giggles.

“I can’t see what’s so funny,” Rose says. “We’re making something beautiful together.”

“I’m sorry, did I ruin the moment?”

“Less apologizing, more majesty.”

“It’s hard to be majestic with one finger, Rose.”

“I’m managing it just fine.”

Suddenly, Rose stops playing. I trail off and give her a questioning look.

“I can’t remember the rest,” she says ruefully. “It’s been about five years.”

“Eh,” I say, waving a hand. “Quick refresher course and you’ll be playing concertos in no time.”

Rose lifts her knee and shifts so she’s angled toward me on the seat. “Could you teach me?”

“To play concertos?” I ask. “Oh, sure. Give me an hour.”

She holds out a hand for me to shake it. “And in return, I’ll teach you a triple axel.”

I stare at her hand for way too long before I take it. “Deal. Is that hard?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Was it hard for you?”

She barks a laugh, still holding me. Her thumb moves against my palm, and my eyes flicker down to look at our hands before I can stop them. “I can’t even do a single axel. God didn’t want to make me overpowered. I thought we were slightly exaggerating our promises.”

“We were, but I can play concertos.”

“Well, now I’m even more impressed. And I’m much more difficult to impress than you.”

I raise our joined hands up and down, finishing the handshake. Rose is slow to let go, and there’s no way I’m imagining how long we’ve been looking at each other. The same way I definitely wasn’t imagining it when she kept looking at me in Eleanor’s room a few weeks back.

The silence has been going on for too long, and I feel like I need to fill it, but I can’t think of a single thing to say. Rose’s self-assured grin has dropped off a little, and she’s scanning my face like she’s looking for something. She bites her lip, and I must lose all grip on reality, because for one delusional moment I actually think it feels like the energy before a first kiss. Where your fingertips tingle, and your heart starts to trip over itself as it races downhill, and you can’t tear your eyes away from one another until suddenly the space between you isn’t there at all anymore, and you don’t even know who closed it.

Like I said, delusional. Because we don’t kiss. Of course we don’t kiss. In what universe would that happen? Instead, Rose hops up and holds a hand out to help me to my feet. “Anyway, in all seriousness, please feel free to visit during the school holidays to play her. It’ll give her something to live for.”

I close the piano lid and hurry to keep up with her. “Thanks.”

God, I really am totally delusional. What kind of ego do I have? I’m definitely not imagining this, says the girl projecting her bonkers fantasy onto a normal, innocent situation. Thank god thoughts are private, because I think I would straight-up die on the spot if Rose ever found out what was going through my head in there. She’d skip right past “light mocking” and howl with laughter.

As long as I make sure I keep both feet firmly planted in reality, I’ll be fine. The last thing I need is to make one of my brand-new friendships weird before I’ve even made it through a whole term.

Especially not a friendship I’m starting to really, really care about.