I wipe my cheek with a napkin, then toss it at her. “No, you’re just reading gossip, and besides, none of that really has anything to do with me.”
Narrowing her dark eyes, Isabel props her elbows on the table. “You really think that?” she asks, and I shrug, uncomfortable.
Okay, so yes, this will have something to do with me, but maybe I can just take a crash course in royal etiquette before the wedding, then go back to living a life where I never have to know how deeply to curtsy to anyone.
“So what is my super hot not brother-in-law up to on those sites?” I ask, more to distract myself than anything else. Over at another table across the shop, I can see Hannah Contreras and Maddy Payne glancing over at Isabel and me, and I have a feeling we’re the subject of their whispered conversation. I like Hannah and Maddy fine (when you live in a town as small as Perdido, you’ve basically known the same people all your life), but I’ve never been the subject of gossip before and have to say, it’s not a fave.
“Well, he broke up with his girlfriend, so sayeth Off with Their Heads,” Isabel informs me. “Some also super hot Argentinean girl whose brother is a famous polo player. So to get over that, he and his buddies went to Monaco, but then . . .” She leans closer to the screen, squinting a little. “One of Seb’s friends noticed a dude taking pictures and decided to fight him. Threw the guy in a fountain. Then Seb pulled the photographer out and sent him a very large check the next day to cover the cost of his camera.”
“So basically, the same as one of our typical weekends,” I say, turning back to my test. “Got it.”
Giggling, Isabel takes another sip of her iced mocha. “Easy icebreaker at the wedding, at least.” Picking up her laptop, she turns it to face me. There’s a huge picture of Sebastian in a gorgeous suit, flashing a big grin, one hand up in a wave. His hair darker than Alex’s, but the camera’s flash still picks up hints of red. His eyes are just as blue as Alex’s, though, and I swear to god, even in a crappy paparazzi picture, they seem to sparkle. There is a guy on either side of him, one a good head shorter than Seb with dark curls and a scowl, the other sandy-haired and actually smiling at the cameras.
Isabel taps each guy in turn with one pink fingernail. “These guys are, like, always with Sebastian. Tabloids call them ‘the Royal Wreckers.’ Guys from crazy-posh families who went to school with Seb or something.”
“‘Seb’?” I echo, raising an eyebrow, and this time, Isabel has the grace to blush a little bit.
“I’ve been reading tons of this stuff!” she insists. “And all the papers and websites call him Seb. That’s the kind of thing you need to know, Dais. I mean, we haven’t even gotten to Princess Flora yet, and that’s where the real scandal is.”
I shake my head and click through to the next page of my test. “The less I know, the better,” I say. “I’m just going to get through the wedding, come home, and then the rest of . . . that” —I wave my hand at the screen, taking in the website, drunk Sebastian, his debauched, rich friends, all of it— “can be Ellie’s thing.”
Isabel makes a face at me, setting the computer back on the table and studying it again. “It’s a shame that proximity to boys like these is wasted on you.”
“It would be wasted on you, too,” I remind her, “what with Ben and all.”
At the mention of her boyfriend, Isabel just shrugs. “Ben would want me to fulfill my dreams, Daisy, and if one of those dreams is making out with a prince—”
“Ugh, stop!” I toss a balled-up napkin at her, and she laughs again.
But then, after a second, she rests her elbows on the table. “I’m serious, you know. Not about making out with Seb—well, I mean, I’m serious about that, too, but you really do need to look into all of this. Know what you’re getting yourself into.”
I look back to the page in front of me, chewing my lower lip. “I didn’t get myself into anything. El got us all into this, and she and Alex say nothing is going to change.”
Isabel goes quiet, and I look up from my test. She’s leaned back in her chair, her dark eyes slightly narrowed, and that means I’m about to get some serious Isabel Alonso Truthiness in my life.
“Dais,” she says, and yup, here it comes. “Why are you so resistant?”
Scooting closer to the table, she takes my wrist, shaking my arm. “A prince, Daisy. Castles. It’s a whole new world opening up to you, and you should be, like . . .” She lets go of my wrist to clench both fists in the air, opening her mouth to give a sort of silent shriek of excitement, eyes squeezed shut.
I laugh, flicking her with my pencil. “I’m not all”—I mimic her gesture, then drop my hands back to the table—“because this isn’t my thing. It’s Ellie’s. And now it’s . . .” I don’t want to get into that, not even with my best friend, but Isa is merciless.
“Oh no,” she says. “Not the wistful ‘if only . . .’ look. Spill.”
Shooting her a glare, I shrug my shoulders, wondering how even to explain it. Finally, I settle on an example.
“Okay, remember when I was in fourth grade, and my parents lost their minds and decided to do that road trip out west?”
“The Grand Canyon Incident,” Isabel says, nodding sagely, and I point my pencil at her.
“That’s the one. So on that trip, we ended in California for the last day, and I wanted to go see the Winchester Mystery House because obviously.”
“Obviously,” Isa echoes.
“But that same time we were there, this college Ellie wanted to check out in San Francisco was doing an open house, and she wanted to go to that. So my parents said we’d add an extra day—do Ellie’s college thing first, then, on that extra day, go see my thing.”
Isabel tilts her head to one side. “Fair,” she decides, and I nod.
“Problem is, we all ate these little shrimp thingies during the open house, and then got food poisoning, so there was no second day. No Winchester Mystery House. And I get that it was an Act of God—”
“An act of bacteria, but continue.”
“But the point is that it’s always been like that. Ellie’s thing, then my thing if we have time. And I can’t even be mad about it because Ellie’s thing is always, like, going to see a college, or volunteering at Habitat for Humanity, or taking a summer trip to Guatemala to teach English.”
I hold up my hand, turning it to one side, keeping my palm straight. “She’s always been laser-focused on stuff that matters.”
Dropping my hand, I shrug again. “And I just want to see weird houses or exhibits or whatever, so I get why her stuff has to come first. It’s just . . . marrying Alex means her stuff is always going to come first. We’re going to spend the rest of our lives planning Christmas around her schedule. And like I said, I can’t be mad about it. I get it. I just . . .”
This time when I trail off, Isabel doesn’t call me on it, and I shake my head.
“Less focus on Ellie and royals, and more focus on Key West,” I say, tapping the end of my pencil on the top of her laptop screen. “We are now at two weeks, and we still haven’t coordinated wardrobes.”
If there’s one thing that can distract Isabel from talk of “Seb,” it’s our Key Con visit, and she nods, giving me an exaggerated wink.
“You’re right,” she agrees. “Eyes on the prize.”
We’re talking about the trip—namely, what we’re going to wear and what panels we want to hit up—when Hannah and Maddy enter my peripheral vision.
I’ve known both of them since third grade, but they’re both approaching so hesitantly, you’d think we were total strangers. I can actually feel my heart sinking.
“Heeeey, Daisy,” Maddy drawls, playing with the ends of her hair. It’s about the same dark blond mine used to be before the big dye job.
“Um. Hi?”
“So. Your sister.” That’s it. Literally all she says, like that explains it
all, and I just nod at her. Across the table, Isabel is slumped down in her chair a little, watching them both as she taps her nails on her plastic cup.
“You’re going to be in the wedding, right?” Hannah asks. She has the same black hair as Isabel, although hers is cut in a long bob, the points brushing her shoulders as she leans closer. “And, like, on TV?”
Maddy shifts her weight from one foot to the other, moving a little closer. “And are you gonna move there? To Scotland?”
Hannah shakes her head at that, eyes wide. “I mean, you’re basically going to be a princess, right?”
Sighing, I take a sip of my tea before saying, “I’m not really allowed to talk about it.” Then I drop my voice to a whisper and add, “For security reasons.”
Maddy and Hannah both widen their eyes, stepping back a little, and Isabel grins at me before schooling her face into a serious expression and adding, “Yeah, she had to sign papers and shit. If she talks about any of it, she’ll get in trouble. I mean, big trouble.”
“Isa!” I say sharply, and then glance around, like people might be watching us. “You know what happens if they hear us!”
I give Isabel my best solemn look, then draw my finger across my throat. Isabel swallows hard, looking properly scared.
“Jesus,” Hannah breathes, and Maddy looks at me with her jaw hanging open.
“Just . . . don’t ask me about it, okay?” I say, and both Hannah and Maddy nod so hard I’m surprised their necks don’t snap.
They go back to their table, whispering again and genuinely looking a little pale.
“We’re evil,” Isabel says, rattling the ice in her cup, and I shrug.
“Proactive.”
Going back to my test, I let Isabel go back to her gossip surfing, thinking I might grab some kind of fried seafood on my way home this afternoon. High-stress days require high calories, so . . .
“Oh holy god!” Isabel yelps, and my head shoots up. For a second, I think maybe she saw a bug or, even worse, a snake—Isabel is deathly afraid of all things slithery—but then I see her eyes still glued to the screen, her face going kind of gray underneath her tan, and I know it’s much worse.
EXCLUSIVE: “DAISY WINTERS DUMPED ME FOR A ROYAL UPGRADE!”
Seems like Eleanor Winters is not the only member of her family with royal ambitions. According to our exclusive interview with Michael Dorset, Daisy’s most recent boyfriend, now that Daisy’s sister, Eleanor, is not just Prince Alexander’s girlfriend, but his fiancée, Daisy has seen her own prospects skyrocket.
“Daisy has always been a really chill girl,” Michael tells us. “You know, laid-back, never gave a [expletive deleted] what other people thought of her. But she’s been different since Eleanor started dating Prince Alexander. And once they were engaged? She wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
When asked if he thought Daisy would be setting her sights on Alexander’s brother, Prince Sebastian, Mr. Dorset shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s obvious everything with her sister has gone to her head.”
Mr. Dorset then played for us a sample of a song he’d written for Daisy Winters, a song, he claims, that left the soon-to-be-royal-adjacent high schooler unmoved.
I KNEW IT!!
Ahem, Gentle Readers, was I NOT just wondering wheeeeerrrrre the heck Eleanor-Not-Ellie’s family was? And did you not DELIVER, my angels?? YOU DID! SO! So we knew our Miss Eleanor comes from $$$. Maybe not the same kind of F You Money she’s about to marry into, but still. Her dad was a rock star—albeit suuuuuper briefly—and her mom writes those mystery books where people get killed in small towns in really cutesy ways. You know, “Oh no, the local pastry chef was stabbed with a cake server!” THAT kind of thing. But we KNEW that stuff, so the BIG FIND is that our Eleanor-Not-Ellie has a HOT YOUNGER SISTER. Don’t they all? Attaching a pic someone sent me below, and ommmmggggg, the hair!! Don’t you KNOW Miss Eleanor is NOT HERE FOR THAT? I swear I used to have a Little Mermaid doll with hair that color. ANYWAY, her name is Daisy (and her dad once had a song called “Daisy Chain,” which adds a nice touch of ICK to everything), she’s in high school (this is why we haven’t heard much about her before now, according to my “sources”—Alexander’s scary family wanted her left alone because she’s not eighteen, which seems kind of dumb based on how many Celebrity Rug Rats I’ve seen in tabloids, but whatevs). TMZ has an exclusive interview with her wastrel of an ex, who is saying she dumped him because, like her sister, she has PRINCELY AMBITIONS. She works at a GROCERY STORE of all things, aaaaaand I’m giving you a link to her Facebook because hey, not like we don’t already know I’m going to hell, so let’s add RIBBONS TO THE HANDBASKET, SHALL WE? It’s pretty boring, NGL, but come on. She HAS to be the slutty one, right?
(“I KNEW IT!!,” from Crown Town)
Chapter 6
“Can I just state for the record that being called ‘the slutty one’ when I had exactly one boyfriend for less than a year is deeply unfair?”
Even through the computer screen, I can feel El tighten her shoulders as she shoots a glare toward the tiny camera. “Daisy, this is not funny.”
We’re all in the dining room, me, Mom, and Dad, crowded around my laptop. Ellie is in Edinburgh in the flat she shares with another girl who works at her publishing company, and since it’s about 2 a.m. there, she’s speaking in a whisper for the most part throughout our emergency family Skype session. She’s still dressed from work, too, which, weirdly, makes me feel kind of sorry for her. “Jammies by 5 p.m. or die” is practically my motto.
So maybe that’s why I keep my own voice soft when I reply, “Trust me, I know it’s not, El. I’m the one who had to delete her Facebook. Which, by the way, was so totally not boring. I had all those pictures from last year’s trip to Colonial Williamsburg!”
“I feel the lack of a book of faces is truly the least of our concerns at the moment,” Dad says. He’s sitting next to me, drinking cranberry juice out of a wineglass.
Mom is currently indulging in a cigarette. She quit about ten years ago but still gets three smokes a year to be used in either celebration or crisis.
There is no doubt what kind of cigarette this is.
“It’s just one blog post,” Mom says, stubbing out her cigarette in the lumpy clay ashtray I made for her two years ago when I went through a pottery phase. It’s supposed to be shaped like a hand, but it looks a lot more like a claw if I’m being honest. The fact that I painted it green doesn’t help. “It isn’t as though this is in the papers, or on the telly. Who reads those blogs anyway?”
“More people than you’d think. Even the lower-level blogs like Crown Town get around a million unique visitors per month,” a voice says off camera from Ellie’s side, and I see my sister glance off to her right before she turns her laptop slightly, sharing the frame with a woman in a cream jacket and tartan scarf, a gold pin winking at her throat. Her hair is dark and sleek, tucked behind her ears, and honestly, she could be twenty-five or fifty. It’s impossible to tell.
“Mom, Dad, Daisy, this is Glynnis,” Ellie says. We can only see half her face now, Glynnis’s taking up most of the screen. “She works for Alex’s family as a sort of . . .”
When Ellie just trails off, Glynnis’s scarlet lips spread in a wider smile. “Let’s say a liaison,” she supplies, giving the word the full French treatment. “I’m here to smooth anything that needs smoothing.”
Another flash of teeth, and Dad grumbles, setting his wineglass down so hard a bit of juice sloshes over the side. “Oh, I know you people,” he tells Glynnis, nodding at her. “The ones who keep things out of the papers, you are. The ones who made up ‘exhaustion,’ as though that’s a thing people actually have.”
Glynnis’s smile doesn’t falter even a little bit, which impresses me. For the most part, my dad is the mellowest dude in the world these days, but when he uses that piercing stare, it’s easy to remember that o
nce upon a time, he could hold the attention of entire arenas.
“Even so,” she says, her voice brisk. Unlike my sister and Alex, Glynnis actually sounds Scottish, especially when she adds, “So it’s clear that we’re in a right fix now, isn’t it, Winters family?”
I can feel cold sweat breaking out between my shoulder blades at that. I kept thinking that if I just pretended this blog post was no big deal, it actually wouldn’t be a big deal. Kind of like how I thought I could just keep out of the wedding stuff except for actually showing up at the wedding. Isabel would have called that naive, but I was calling it “self-preservation.”
“The problem with these sorts of sites,” Glynnis continues, pulling out her smartphone and tapping at the screen, “is that new information triggers a game of one-upmanship. Crown Town posts your Facebook, so Off with Their Heads will want yearbook photos, interviews with friends or old boyfriends, anything they can find. And then, of course, some of the more legitimate press will follow, and before we know it, the entire thing is out of our hands.”
My sweat situation gets worse as thoughts of me on the covers of magazines with stupid headlines over my face start filling my brain. Why would they want me when they have El, who is way better at this kind of thing anyway?
Glynnis is still talking as I fight off my panic attack, and it takes me a minute to realize what she’s saying. Only when I hear “So I can arrange Daisy’s flight” do I look at the screen.
“Wait, what?”
Mom is sitting back in her chair, arms crossed, looking over the top of her glasses at Glynnis. “The entire summer?” she says, and I look over at her, my eyes wide.
“Hold up, what’s going on? Sorry, I was having an existential crisis, so I wasn’t really paying attention.”
Ellie’s face appears on the screen again as she leans over Glynnis to give me a Maximum Big Sister Look. “Maybe try to focus on things that are explicitly about you?”
“Maybe don’t give me a hard time when this whole thing is happening because of you?” I snap back, and Mom touches my arm, shaking her head slightly.