My family swarms into the room like a plague of locusts. They’re all screaming and jumping around and Dad shakes me and then Mom shakes me and they keep cheering and dancing. Kat stands near the doorway to the hall, arms folded across her chest. My eyes latch onto her since she’s the only presence currently making any sense to me.
“Kit! Kit, you made it!” Mom grabs my face for a second before running across the room. “I knew you’d make it! I could feel it in my gut! I’m telling you, I knew it!”
I wish I knew a single thing, personally. Beau’s voice comes on to say something about me, but everyone’s still celebrating for some reason and I can’t hear anything besides “cyborg” and some mention of green eyes.
Everyone disappears into the kitchen again, even Sheri. Kat is the only one left behind. She moseys over to her bed and drops into it like a block of concrete.
“Congrats,” she groans into her pillow.
My throat is all dry, “Thanks?”
What does this mean? What happens now?
I lie back and stare at the traces of water damage across the ceiling, the cracked paint visible under the peeling wallpaper, the multiple carpets stacked on top of each other to protect from the cold floor.
Maybe this is a good thing. An opportunity to do something about all of this, about our situation. Even if I’m not sure I want it and definitely didn’t ask for it, this could be a way to make things better for all of us. A little fame, no matter how short-lived, can go a long way. Provided I know what I’m doing, which I don’t. I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to be feeling right now, much less how I’m supposed to make this mess useful.
The new year comes with distant fireworks. I meet it with wide eyes, staring out the window while my family whispers about royalty and fame.
I get a call on my arm at six in the morning after the night of the announcement from a lady who introduces herself as Sloane Dalton.
“I have been assigned as your manager and publicist,” she tells me after I’ve confirmed I am indeed Kit Sullivan. “I call to inform you of your obligations during the preparation period.”
“Okay?”
“I am operating on the assumption that you have fully read and understood the contract you signed when you submitted your form.” Her tone warns against any negative reply.
“Sure.”
“Good. Your social media presence is non-existent, which makes my job and your task the coming days much easier. However, if you decide to change this, any and all content and updates you post to any and all platforms must be approved by and vetted by me, understand?”
Mom and Sheri are starting to wake up and look at me with big eyes. I shake my head at them to stay quiet for now.
“Sounds reasonable,” I tell Sloane quietly.
“Good. There are many things you must learn and understand and I will help you in mastering them, but for now, until your team arrives at your place of residence, all you need to do is to keep a low profile. There are likely journalists and paparazzi heading your way right now, and I urge you not to speak to them, and suggest considering using a disguise when out in public.”
I can almost feel my pores squirting ice-cold sweat along my back. Journalists? Paparazzi? Heading my way? She might as well have told me there are enemy troops inbound and thanked me for my sacrifice. The idea of being surrounded by a crowd of professionally obnoxious people triggers my fight-or-flight response, and I’m suddenly fully awake.
“W-when is my team arriving?” I ask Sloane anxiously even though I have no idea what “my team” even is.
“We should be there to pick you up around six PM. You’ll be taken to the royal family’s private train station in Duncross, where you will receive aesthetic treatments before being dropped off at the station in Cerise to wait with the other girls. Once everyone has arrived, you will be taken to the Golden Seat Hotel for the introductory shoot.”
Right, the competition is taking place in in Roseden. I’ve completely forgotten that part. I try not to think of how much I’ll miss my family during the six months, but it’s made a bit more palatable knowing I won’t last that long.
“I could just stay inside all day?”
“That would be ideal, yes,” Sloane replies and I breathe out.
“Do I need to pack anything?”
“You are allowed one bag of sentimental items that you can carry on your person, along with one set of clothes. Everything else will be provided by us.”
“Will I have to pay for anything?”
“No, your stay and accommodations will be covered by the royal family.”
Ah, finally I’ll see some of my tax money at work. At least there’s that.
I take a deep breath and decide to scream into a pillow later.
“Stay inside all day and wait for people to come pick me up. Got it. Anything else?”
“I will tell you more upon meeting you later today, so unless you have further questions, I suggest you get some more sleep and get ready to leave at noon.”
I ask her about my team, which she tells me she’s a part of, along with a makeup artist and a “wardrobe consultant,” which I’m pretty sure is a made-up joke job for nepo babies. They’ll be picking up contestants by train while giving us any needed makeovers. She notes I won’t have to travel to the train station myself and that they’ll pick me up by car.
Once she hangs up, I want to hide under the covers and never speak to another person again. But I have to explain the call to my family and endure their speculations about the contest.
Mom bribes me with breakfast in bed (omelet with very processed fried hot dogs) so I do my best to participate in the conversation, but it’s like I’ve been put in a glass box where I can see stuff happening but can’t interact with any of it.
While everyone watches Hana Howell’s vlog about her participation in the Royal Roulette — news she shares by rambling at a hundred words per minute and punctuating each sentence with a squeal — I sneak away into the bathroom and sit down on the toilet lid, breathing deeply.
What is happening? Is this real? Did my garbage audition really land me a spot on the show that’s about wooing the prince? Am I really leaving home in six hours to go live in another province, miles and miles away from my family, with a bunch of strangers? And I’m going to be watched? By millions of people?
I’m aware I’m hyperventilating, but can’t stop it. I’ve never been away from home. Only once, at summer camp, when I was seven. I’ve never been outside of Viera, outside of Duncross, even. Am I supposed to quit my job? Has my boss already fired me if he saw the announcement? Should I call him? What am I supposed to say? How will I find another job when I get back?
Nothing makes sense anymore.
Sloane’s warnings turn out to be right. By four there’s a couple dozen journalists outside the motel building and I’ve been waiting inside, trying to pack my bag with Mom’s help while Dad is out there “selling my brand,” as he put it. I even catch a glimpse of him on Kat’s phone. He’s my parent, so of course people won’t believe him overmuch, but I still appreciate the effort.
The press presence peaks by the time six PM rolls around, and the parking lot is practically swarming with them when the spotless chrome limousine rolls in.
The reporters swarm around it, their cameras following them like eager dogs. Someone spots me looking through the blinds and points, and I dodge out of the way before anyone else can notice.
“They’re here,” I say to my family.
We’ve all been sitting around in a weird, expectant silence, exchanging glances but not much else. Mom and Kat have done their best to pretty me up after a long shower, but I still feel out of place in my own skin. And now there are tears stinging my eyes.
I don’t want to go.
I scold myself for being so childish and swallow the pain. I’m twenty, not ten. I should be fine leaving home by now. I should be ready for the unexpected. Besides, I can cry later when I’m alone, so I don’t mess up the makeup Mom and Kat so carefully did for me.
A knock makes us all jump. Mom crosses her fingers for good luck before bouncing over to the door and swinging it open.
“Is this the Sullivan residence?” I recognize the voice of Sloane a second before I see her face.
She’s younger than I expected, mid-thirties at most, and has her curly brown hair pulled into a sensible bun, its shade only slightly darker than her skin tone. She’s also wearing sensible glasses to compliment her sensible gray suit.
“It is!” Mom says. “Please come in!”
Sloane’ lips twitch in the direction of a smile and she stiffly steps inside, followed by a pale young woman with explosively colorful hair and a timid-looking man with gold floral tattoos framing his face, almost glowing against his deep brown skin.
“My name is Sloane Dalton and I have been assigned as Katrien’s manager during her time as a contestant of the Royal Roulette.” Sloane turns to me. “This is Charlene Halifax and Oz, your make-up artist and stylist, respectively.”
Oz? What kind of name is that? I think he’s just one of those people who use only one name because he’s famous enough that he doesn’t need a second. Which has backfired since I have no idea who this guy is. Well, aside from my designer, apparently. If those tattoos and see-through plastic shirt are any indication of what’s to come, I should find myself a fallout shelter and never return.
“Nice to meet you,” I say carefully.
The awkward silence is cut short by Charlene squealing in delight. She’s spotted Sheridan, who looks very unenthusiastic and also uninteresting, kind of like a nine-year-old child, so I have no idea what Charlene’s deal is. Maybe the children in Roseden must reach marketable adolescence before they’re released from their tubes.
“Who’s this little darling?” Charlene says and squats in front of my littlest sister. “What’s your name, honey?”
“Sheridan.”
“What a pretty name for a pretty girl! Maybe we’ll find you a prince too, hmm?”
Sheri smiles politely and looks to me and Kat for help, but Charlene has already lost interest and stands up, looking around at all of us. “Such a gorgeous family! All stunners, not a dud to be found! Oz, we should bring all of them to the studio for a photoshoot.”
Charlene loses interest again and seems to finally realize she exists in a physical space, “This is such a dump. You lot are like roses blooming in a landfill. Oh, so beautiful. This is so poetic. And we’re here to pluck Katrien and make her one of the flowers in a wonderful princess bouquet. Isn’t that right, Sloane?”
“Let’s not dwell on the implications of that metaphor,” Sloane decides, then looks at me. “Are you ready to leave? We still have nine provinces to visit tonight before we arrive in Cerise, and I’d rather we stay on schedule.”
“Wait, I have some questions,” Dad says.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sullivan, I’m afraid we can’t delay longer than necessary. You will have contact with your daughter once she’s settled in Cerise. Katrien, we’ll give you a moment to say goodbye. We’ll be right outside.”
Sloane opens the front door and “my team” steps out to the eager blabbering of the reporters. Silence falls once they’re gone, and again, we’re all just standing there.
I glance around at the apartment that’s been my home for seven years, now. The stained linoleum is supposed to be orange, but age has turned it brown (an improvement, to be honest). The outer glass in the one window is cracked and the blinds are broken. The metal cots are covered by thin mattresses and tattered sheets. Sheri’s books are stacked beneath her cot, pages missing and covers torn. Mom has a box under hers where she keeps her favorite shoes from her youth that she only brings out during special occasions, like birthdays. Like yesterday.
Part of me hopes this will be a chance for me to improve all of this. Another part of me selfishly wants to stay. This is home, no matter how ramshackle. Home is where family is.
Mom takes a step closer and embraces me tightly. The scent of cheap soap and lemon deodorant fills my nostrils and I bury my face in her shoulder. This pain is so familiar to the one I would feel when I was a child and she dropped me off at daycare, except it hurts more now because I’m not supposed to be feeling it.
“I’m proud of you, Kit. I don’t care if you win or not. I just want you to have a good life, you hear?”
I suppress a sob.
I want the same for them, too. Only I don’t know if I have what it takes to make that happen.
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