Page 7 of Role Model

My video has been international news for a week. As a result, I’ve been invited to a state dinner at Buckingham Palace. The King and Queen will be there, along with their two children. Plus the president of the Unites States and her daughter.

I tell Fizz I don’t want to go when she next takes Gideon and me out for ice cream.

“You don’t have a choice,” Gideon tells me cheerfully. “They didn’t invite us! Only you, Aeriel.”

“Because I’m too old, silly,” Fizz tells him. “Once children turn eighteen, they don’t look good in the staged photo ops anymore.”

I glance at Ilya, who is as silent as ever. “I really don’t want to go.”

“The whole world thinks you’re the greatest kid alive,” Fizz says, and I can see that she’s trying to make 47 me feel better. I don’t know why. I’ve been so awful to her. “Enjoy it. Have fun!”

We’re called back to the house for a pre-dinner meeting.

I can’t express how dull these meetings are.

Grownups talk about meetings so often – I sometimes think that’s all they ever do.

Eat, sleep, meetings. And now they’re forcing me to do the same thing.

Keren is waiting for me; when I arrive she simply barks at someone to dress me and then bring me back to film a “quick vid”.

If I never hear the words Quick and Vid again, I will be very happy.

“I don’t want to wear a dress,” I tell Margaret, the woman dressing me.

“You have to wear one,” she snaps. She’s holding two, both on fabric hangers. One is a blue organdie and the other a pink chiffon. “Girls in the public eye wear dresses.”

“But I don’t want to be in the public eye.”

“Too late. Now choose one, Aeriel. Come on now, we don’t have long.”

“I. Do. Not. Want. To. Wear. A. Dress.”

Margaret finally looks at me, really looks at me. As if finally realising that I’m a person and not an extension of the adults she knows. She opens and 48 closes her mouth, visibly wanting to say something and then thinking better of it.

“You’ll be letting your whole family down if you don’t do this,” she finally says and it crushes me. It’s the worst thing she could have said. I think about how tired Mum and Dad always look. How worried my grandparents sound when they phone me.

“The blue,” I mumble.

When I step back into the main area of the house, Keren rolls her eyes and cries, “Finally! Stand there.”

She positions me into place and a tablet is held up once again for me to read from, as the social media team film me.

“Hi, everyone,” I say. “It’s Aeriel, here.

I’m so excited to be heading to Buckingham Palace tonight to join their Royal Highnesses Prince Richard and Princess Victoria for a state dinner.

We will be welcoming President Carmichael, the First Gentleman and their daughter, Cassidy. I look forward to making new friends–

“CUT!”

I stop, frowning. “What?”

“You sound like you’re going to a funeral. Try and be happy.”

“I am trying.”

49 “If that’s you trying, Aeriel, I’d hate to see you phoning it in.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, not trying.”

It’s not fair. I am trying. They’re not inside of my head, they don’t know what I’m feeling. I know I’m not always great at showing what’s really going on inside, but it’s not fair of them to decide that they know.

“Go again. And smile!”

*

Mum is very nervous. When we arrive at the palace, we have to go through some security checks before being led to the reception area.

A man in a fancy uniform tells us that there will be a lineup, and we have to say “your majesty” to the King and “ma’am” to the Queen, and that it’s “ma’am as in ham, not ma’am as in harm”.

“We’re Scottish,” Dad says happily. “We would never pronounce it ‘Marm’ anyway.”

I laugh, but Mum throws us both a look.

“And it’s Madam President,” Dad tells me. “Your Royal Highness to the royal kids, but I’m sure the 50 president’s daughter doesn’t mind you calling her Cassidy.”

“I don’t want to say ‘your royal highness’ to someone my age,” I say.

“It doesn’t matter what you want, you’re doing it,” Mum hisses as we wait to be announced. “You’re a role model now, remember? Act like it.”

As soon as we’re announced, Mum and Dad are swept away by people who don’t even see me.

Mum is surrounded by people wanting to shake her hand.

I start to wander, as none of the grownups here want to even notice a child, let alone speak to one.

I slip into the corridor, though I don’t know if you can call it that.

It’s a hallway that you could fit our first house in Scotland inside.

I peer into an adjacent room and spot a boy a little older than me in a worn jumper and faded jeans.

His trainers are scuffed. He’s sitting on one of two thrones, looking up at the ceiling with a bored expression.

“Are you meant to be at the party?” I ask him.

He starts at the sound of my voice and stares at me. I see recognition dawn on his face. “You’re Aeriel Sharpe.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve seen your videos. They’re everywhere.”

51 I shrug. “Not my idea.”

“The grownups think you’re going to make all the children in the UK behave.”

I laugh at that. “Yes, it’s very stupid of them.”

“Has school been a nightmare?”

I’m surprised by his cleverness. “Yes, actually. But… it wasn’t great before.”

He glances about and gets up from the throne. “Are you bored of these stuffy things, too?”

I smile sheepishly. “Yes.”

“Did you know, the royal advisors have this trick that they do?”

I shake my head. “No, I didn’t know. What is it?”

“They like to get everyone huddled together before the King and Queen enter. At least thirty minutes before they arrive. They do it to get everyone nervous and panicky, so that when the royals come in–everyone turns into a simpering, fawning idiot.”

I burst out laughing at that. “Wow. Okay.”

“Does your mum have her team do that, too?”

I think about it. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

A comfortable silence falls between us and I take in the grandeur of the room again.

“Do you want to run up and down the corridor?”

I glance back to this strange boy and wonder what 52 he’s actually doing here. “Sorry?”

“The corridor? It’s long and fun to canter up and down in.”

So that’s what we do. We gallop up and down Buckingham Palace and laugh as our feet thunder on the carpet.

We ignore the hum of the important adults in the rest of the palace and find freedom in acting like sheepdogs herding an invisible flock; like the collies back in Scotland who come alive when they’re allowed to run.

We stretch our legs and laugh and shriek.

Everything feels less scary and more fun, until–

“Aeriel?”

I hear Dad’s frantic whisper from the massive, ornate hallway.

“Aeriel?! What are you doing?”

Dad is standing in the doorway, looking flustered.

Like he did that one time when we were all going to the theatre and Mum kept getting phone calls, meaning that we would miss the curtain.

I watch as he takes in the boy I’ve been playing with and a change comes over him.

Something in his face hardens, but he forces a tight smile.

“Excuse us, your Royal Highness.”

I round on the boy, glaring. “What?”

53 He gives me an apologetic smile but does not deny the title.

“Aeriel,” Dad says shortly. “Come on. His Highness will need to get changed; I think.”

“Yes,” the boy says wearily. “That’s true. See you at dinner, Viral Girl.”

“That was Prince Richard?” I whisper to Dad as he marches me back into the reception area.

“Yes,” Dad says. “I’m shocked you don’t recognise people, Aeriel, I really am.”

It’s facial blindness. I have real difficulty identifying people, especially out of context. I have to see someone quite regularly in order to recognise them. It’s only become more difficult since Mum’s win.

“You didn’t say anything, you know, Aeriel-like to him, did you?” Dad presses as we re-renter the large room full of twinkling chandeliers and formally dressed people.

“What do you mean?” I say, insulted.

He throws me a quick smile. “Nothing. Be good now.”

What happens next is a blur. The President and her family arrive.

The applause is so overwhelming, and there are so many people in the room, it makes me feel like someone is covering my mouth with their hand.

I feel panicky. Like I should dive under a table and hide.

Then the royal family enter after a man with 54 the voice of a foghorn announces them.

I realise that Richard was right about all of the fuss being used as a tool to make everyone nervous.

Mum is now standing with the two important families, greeting them with the smile she only ever uses at work. Dad slowly moves me to join everyone and I’m worried that they’ll hear my ragged breathing.

“This is my daughter, Aeriel,” Mum tells them all.

“What a curious name,” the King says, smiling down at me. He looks too normal to be a king. If he weren’t wearing the regalia, he would pass for one of the fathers at my school.

“My husband and I met studying Shakespeare, sir,” Mum tells him.

“Ah,” the Queen breaks into a triumphant smile. “A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

“The Tempest,” I correct her.

Ariel was a spirit who served the wizard, Prospero. And did everything he said.

Now everyone is staring at me. I realise that I was probably not meant to say anything at all, let alone tell the Queen that she had the wrong Shakespearian play. I also didn’t bow my head, which I was told to do.

But I’m a Scot. We’re not supposed to bow to anyone. Mum believed that, too. Once.

55 “You’re a little superstar,” the President says. She seems more relaxed than the other grownups, her smile actually meets her eyes. She reaches out to gently shake my hand. “You had all of my staff gathered around a cell phone, most of them crying. You’re a little online sensation.”

I have no idea what to say but the King speaks for me. “You may have to fill us in, Madam President. Prime Minister. We’re not always up to date on the comings and goings of the internet.”

“Well,” the President speaks with great warmth and enthusiasm. I can see why people voted for her. She’s all charisma and teeth. “This little lady made the most amazing speech about having autism–”

“Being autistic,” I breathe but no one hears me.

“–so inspirational, saying it doesn’t define her, it’s something she overcomes and that kids like her can do anything.”

It all sounds so warped; I want to correct it, the same way I corrected the name of the play but I can’t find the words.

I just know that none of them understand, but they think they do, and they’re getting it all wrong.

I don’t overcome being autistic like it’s a hurdle on a pitch.

They are the hurdle. They are the obstacle.

I don’t understand why they can never accept that autistic people are complex and that we can be so much 56 more than just someone sad or someone inspirational.

“Very impressive,” the King says and I don’t know what to do.

“You should meet my daughter,” the President says. She throws her arm around my shoulders and walks me away from the stiff circle of world leaders.

“Aren’t they intimidating?” she whispers to me, in a conspiratorial way that makes it seem like we’ve been friends forever. “I always get nervous at these things.”

That cannot be true. She’s the President of the United States. Mum once said that Americans invented modern politics and I have to believe it in this moment. It’s like falling under a spell. She knows I’m scared so she’s pretending she is too, to make me feel more at ease.

“Cassidy,” she says, as we reach a tall girl who is speaking to some other guests. “This is Aeriel Sharpe. You’re going to be dinner buddies.”

The girl turns and smiles a beatific smile, one that shows how at home she feels at events like this – state dinners with a million people to remember and so many conversations you have to pretend that you’re interested in.

“Finally, someone my own age,” she says.

I feel the president’s arm stiffen on my shoulder. “I thought we discussed the nose ring?”

57 “We did discuss it,” Cassidy says, still smiling. “I think it goes with the outfit.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say quietly.

“Hey, you too,” she says. “I saw your video. They made everyone at our school watch it.”

I grimace. The idea of hundreds of schoolchildren in Washington DC watching a video I was forced to film is excruciating.

“I’ll leave you both to complain about your famous parents,” the president says and before I can turn around, she’s gone. Swept away by other party attendees.

“So, your name’s Aeriel?”

I turn back to the president’s daughter. “Yes.”

She tilts her head and regards me for a moment. “Your accent is strange. You don’t sound as hoity-toity as everyone else here.”

People mentioned my accent a lot when we first moved to London. “I’m Scottish.”

“Oh, rad. I’m part Scottish, I think. Or maybe Irish? Are they the same thing?”

This is a common occurrence for Scots. Everyone has the magical, mystical, not real version of Scotland in their heads.

The hills and the stags and the roaming in the gloaming.

I just smile and nod, knowing they 58 have no idea of my Scotland.

The real Scotland. The one with Glaswegian men who pretend to chase you with a big fish from the market stall just to make you laugh.

Or the protesters who constantly camp outside of the parliament building in their tents.

The man who walks from one side of Edinburgh to the other every single day, so often that he became a local legend whose prowess spread far and wide.

The old ladies at the garden centre who would get together to chat over soups and scones.

The street painters. The bus drivers. The snow. The rain. The rare days of sun.

I want to go home.