Truly Madly Royally

  To teens who lift up their communities in tiny and tremendous ways. We got you. You never walk alone.

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  FOR CENTURIES, the famed halls of Halstead University have echoed with expansive dialogue, provocative debate, and poignant questions. Or something like that.

  But not at this moment.

  “Yes,” I repeat to the incredulous faces around me. “I really do commute in every day.”

  There’s an audible gasp among my fellow students.

  “So, y-you’re a local?” says the obvious It girl of the group. People lean in when she speaks and agree with her before she’s even made her point. She probably owns the yacht they all look like they’ve just stepped off of.

  “Well, local as in fifty minutes by train and light-rail,” I joke.

  “Is it safe?” the girl sitting catty-corner to me asks, extra earnestly. I look away before she feels compelled to give me a sympathy hug. On an unrelated note, she’s the same person who used the term “third world” earlier.

  Deep sigh. Why did I come to class fifteen minutes early today? If this were one of the common lecture halls, I’d be fine. But in a room that can barely fit the oval conference table we’re all seated around, it’s tough to zone out these Yacht Club kids.

  “You don’t drive?” It Girl will not let this go.

  “I won’t be seventeen until September,” I say. “Until then, I’m saving up for a car.”

  “Why don’t you just … ask your parents for one?” a wide-eyed boy asks.

  Blocked.

  My answer is to busy myself with my phone. There’s too much awkwardness not to live-text this situation to my best friend, Skye Joseph. Since my summer program started a few days ago, I’ve been sending daily text-isodes of my “Overheard at Halstead U” series for Skye to binge-read.

  Ready for this? I type, and then quickly summarize the conversation I’ve just had.

  Ugh. Sorry, Skye responds right away. But that’s what u get for taking the bait.

  I chuckle to myself. It’s true. This all started when some student asked another what the driving age is in New Jersey. (Everyone else at this program seems to be from out of state or even overseas.) I never miss a chance to rep my home state, so I jumped into the conversation with the answer. Serves me right.

  Skye sends a follow-up text. Don’t let them stress you. The brave, get-things-done Zora Emerson I know would just keep moving.

  Easy for Skye to say. While we both got accepted into college-prep summer programs on actual college campuses, she’s at a welcoming HBCU in Atlanta, and I stayed in New Jersey to attend snooty Halstead University. That’s like the difference between going to a house party and going to a club. Or getting a ride from your ride or die, and a lift from Lyft.

  “I almost wrecked the new Tesla,” the It girl is saying now. She tucks her sleek gold strands behind a pearl-studded ear.

  “You should practice on the family car next time,” says a guy with that pink whale logo on his cap.

  “That is the family car,” she answers with a titter.

  Guffaw.

  The more she talks, the more I gather her star sign is Snob rising. But at least she inspires new material for my next text-isode of “Overheard at Halstead U.”

  I never thought I’d be so happy to see the professor walk in.

  After class, I plug in my headphones and resume the audiobook I need to finish for another class. For a while, the memory of my annoying exchange with It Girl and her friends buzzes louder than the narrator’s voice.

  It’s true. You won’t see many people from Halstead U schlepping anywhere on a train, unless it’s to Manhattan. There’s even someone on campus so loaded, he has a security detail. I’ve seen his sleek fleet of black town cars, but I’ve never run into Richie Rich myself. I overheard someone refer to him as royalty, so he’s probably a spoiled corporate heir or something.

  As out of place as I feel just being in class with these students, I can’t imagine how uncomfortable it would be sharing a dorm room with one of them. I’ve convinced myself that that is the bright side of receiving a scholarship award that doesn’t cover room and board.

  Days like this make me happy I get to leave campus. And today I’m leaving earlier than usual. This afternoon at 3:00 p.m. is the Appleton Summer Soak & Arts Fest at the local summer camp. It’s like Water Day and an art presentation rolled into one. Some of the grammar school students from Walk Me Home, the after-school chaperone service I started freshman year, have enrolled at the camp. Thanks to Walk Me Home, I’ve become an adoptive big sis to lots of Appleton kiddos. I promised the kids I’d come to the center today to help hang their final artwork. I can’t wait to see their proud little faces.

  Just one quick stop before I head to the train station.

  Halstead U has an impressive campus, but no architectural star shines brighter than the school’s acclaimed library. It looks like a legit castle. Gothic and majestic, some sections are almost three centuries old! But as ancient as the library’s exterior structure is, the interiors have been recently renovated. And talk about modern and cool. It makes Appleton’s public library look like a clunky, old-school iPod.

  I reach the castle doors just as my audiobook’s chapter on digital philanthropy ends. I have half an hour before my train home, which should be more than enough time to swing by to pick up the book I reserved.

  The twisting grand staircase that slices through the cathedral-ceiling entryway leads me right to the reference room. But just as I scan out the book, my cell phone rings. Loudly. How could I have forgotten to turn off my ringer?

  I silence it as quickly as humanly possible but still get glares from people quietly studying at large oak tables. In sending the caller—my mom—to voicemail, I somehow call her back. On speaker! I hang up just as soon as the call goes through. Of course, my mom takes this as her cue to ring back. Even my phone’s buzzing manages to sound loud. Heading down the echoey stairs to the main entrance is too risky. So I slip out of the reference atrium and hang a right into an area with rows of tall bookcases. It’s a carpeted room, which absorbs the sound of the incessant buzzing. There doesn’t seem to be anyone in this area, so I answer the call to find out what Ma’s emergency is.

  “Hold on,” I say.

  In my half a dozen visits to the library, I’ve never ventured to this part. Even though the maze of bookcases is clear of any other students, I still work my way to the back.

  “Ma? Hi.”

  “Are yo
u okay?” She sounds worried.

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’m at the library.”

  “Oh, good. Your day went well, then? Now that you’re nearly a week in, you feeling better about being there?”

  “It’s getting better.”

  “Are you sure, baby? I don’t want you to be so stressed out about this.”

  “I know I was nervous about coming here, but your constant checkups are making my anxieties harder to shake off.”

  “What anxieties? You have anxiety?”

  “Mother, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just a little hard to feel comfortable here. But I’m sure it’ll get better.”

  “Yes, of course it will get better. Maybe you’ll find another student you can relate to?”

  “Ma, I’m like the only person commuting, so I don’t get to hang out with kids at the dorm. And to be honest, it’s like half these people are speaking a different language. I could barely follow this one guy’s presentation in class earlier.”

  “I’m gonna pray you find a friend there you can relate to. You know God always listens to a mother’s prayer,” she singsongs.

  “Yes, Ma, okay.” She is like a broken record sometimes, but it’s sweet of her. “I gotta go. See you tonight.”

  I hang up the phone, rest my forehead against the bookcase, and sigh.

  “Great, now I’m worrying my mom,” I chastise myself out loud. “Not cool.”

  “At least you know which way to look as you cross the street.”

  The guy’s voice comes from the other side of the bookcase. He is obviously reacting to my private conversation. I try to look at him, but the shelves are so well stocked, I can only see flashes of his steel-blue shirt through the rows of books.

  “And as for another language,” he goes on, “be grateful you haven’t been caught referring to the last letter in the alphabet as ‘zed.’ ”

  He has a distinct British accent. Who is this guy? Normally, an unabashed eavesdropper would be my least favorite person. But something about him doesn’t set off any alarms or piss me off … yet. Maybe it’s his refreshing lack of smugness, which is hard to come by in this place. Still, I can’t let him off the hook that easy.

  “Have I stumbled onto some library stand-up comedy routine?” I ask, slightly annoyed.

  “I’m sorry. It was my poor attempt at lightening the mood.” He’s clearly embarrassed.

  “Maybe next time don’t base your jokes on eavesdropping?” I say.

  “Right,” he says, sounding sheepish. “Sound advice. Pun intended.”

  I smirk to myself.

  “Anyway, you wouldn’t want to swap problems,” I say, thinking back to that morning’s pre-class chitchat. “If you really heard what I’ve been going through, you’d decide you’d be better off ‘zed.’ ”

  He chuckles. “Aah, I see what you did there. What sorts of problems keep a clever pun artist like you awake at night?”

  I play along. Something about this anonymous church confessional setup makes me spill the tea.

  “Let’s see—the classes here are twice as accelerated as my high school’s most advanced ones. I feel like I’m in a foreign world every time I step on campus. Oh, and there’s a whole community of people I’d let down back home if I don’t do well here.”

  I can’t believe how honest I’m being about this, at last. And it feels easy doing it.

  “Well, it sounds like my lonely world now has a population of two,” the guy says. “I’m barely keeping up with my classes, I am a foreigner everywhere I step, and, oh, there’s a whole country of people I would let down if I didn’t do well.”

  “How are you coping?” I ask. He seems so okay with it all. I have to know his secret.

  “Oh, I hide out in the library, for one,” he answers with a smile in his voice.

  I’m smiling, too. I rest my elbows on the bookcase, not even trying to see his face through the spines now. “I get it. I have a bookish hiding place, too. Weekend mornings at Ingrum’s Books out on Route 42. That’s my escape.”

  “I found you!” says a girl who does not have a British accent. I recognize the voice—it’s It Girl herself. She’s on the other side of the shelf. I feel an eye roll coming on. “Have you been avoiding your fans again?” she’s asking the British-sounding guy.

  “Nothing like that,” he tells her. “I just need to stay here in this spot. I’m getting the best Wi-Fi signal and I don’t want to lose it, nor do I want it to go away.”

  I can tell by the way he says it that that remark is meant for me.

  It Girl seems to take the hint and leaves. I’m relieved.

  “Was that your girlfriend?” I ask. “She sounds … thoughtful.”

  “She is a very thoughtful person, but no, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Not that that was my pickup line or anything,” I tease. “Just so we’re clear.”

  “Oh, we’re clear.” His voice is smiling again. Pause. “Do you have someone?”

  “Me? Nah.”

  The only boyfriend I’ve ever had moved to Philly three months ago and doesn’t bother keeping in touch like he’d promised. I guess for him our relationship is out of sight, out of mind.

  “What did your not-girlfriend mean about all your fans?” I ask the boy behind the books.

  I can practically hear him shrug. “Just that I have a pretty hot ticket to a big event at the end of this summer, and I suppose a few different girls want to be my plus-one.”

  “Who would you take if you didn’t have to worry about expectations?” I ask him.

  Again, I catch glimpses of his steel-blue shirt between the books. Sunshine from the skylight bounces off of it as he shuffles around. He moves closer to the bookcase, and I get a whiff of spearmint candy. Is he chewing gum?

  “Well, there is this girl I’ve seen on campus a few times this week.”

  “What is it you like about her?” I ask.

  “She’s beautiful. And I don’t know, there’s this self-possessed air about her that makes her stand out.”

  “Sooo, why don’t you ask her to your event?”

  I come short of patting myself on the back for single-handedly solving his problem.

  “She’s never noticed me. She’s always zoned out, plugged into her music. I don’t think I’m her type anyway.”

  I don’t like hearing about yet another campus princess making someone feel small.

  “She sounds kind of self-obsessed if you ask me,” I tell him. “If she won’t even acknowledge you, you’re better off without her.”

  His silence means he isn’t ready to give up his dream girl. Poor guy.

  He changes the subject. “What’s the toughest part of being here for you?”

  “Are you recording this?” I ask. “Because if we’re going for this anonymous real-talk confessional, I don’t want what I say to get out.”

  “Noted and agreed.”

  I smile at the charming way he speaks.

  “If I may make a proposal?” he asks ultra-politely.

  “No, I will not be the plus-one on your hot ticket. I barely know you!” I tease.

  “Fair enough. Then my follow-up proposal will be that we each place our cell phones in sight as a guarantee that no devices are recording what’s being said.”

  “Noted and agreed,” I mimic him. I am giddy. This is so much fun!

  He slips his phone through two hardcover burgundy textbooks and rests it on the shelf. And then it seems like he is attempting to slide out the book to the right of his phone.

  “Hey, no peeking!” I scold playfully.

  “Never! Why would I mess up the great dynamic we’ve got going?” He chuckles. “I’m just making room for your phone.”

  “Fine.”

  I reciprocate by squeezing my phone in next to his. Once we’re both eyeballing phones, the real conversation begins.

  “So, are you a college student or in one of the pre-college programs?” I ask him.

  “I am pre-college. I ha
ve the option of starting college here in the fall, but I’ll be attending back home.”

  “Aw, well, congratulations on your acceptance to Halstead U anyway.”

  “Cheers,” he sheepishly thanks me. “I’m curious—what is the hardest thing you find about attending classes here?” he asks.

  “Not damaging my eyes from rolling them so much,” I’m surprised to hear myself admit.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s barely been a week, and somehow I’m already feeling so over everyone and everything. Instead of hearing what classmates are actually saying, whether it’s ‘I’m tired’ or ‘Sorry I’m late,’ I just hear ‘I’m privileged’ or ‘Sorry I’m privileged.’ ”

  “Sorry I’m privileged,” he confesses. “And not only just because I’m a straight white male. I’m a straight white male from a long lineage of privileged people in power—with the ridiculous bank accounts to prove it.”

  “Whoa, that’s like coming straight out the womb Beyoncé,” I say with my eyebrows practically at my hairline. “Beyoncé didn’t even come straight out the womb Beyoncé!”

  “That’s like coming straight out of the womb Beyoncé, but without any of the talent or hard work, yet people are throwing EGOTs at you, following you in droves, and waiting with bated breath for you to do something amazing.”

  “Not that I feel sorry for you—which I don’t … that much …” I can’t decide. Rolling in dough or not, I wouldn’t want to lug around expectations that heavy. “I can relate—on a much smaller scale.”

  “It’s the quickest way to feel inadequate.”

  I like his way of making light of his worries. And his manner of speaking really is so cute.

  “Are you British?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Same accent, though?”

  “We do share accents and some lineage, but I hail from a bit farther southwest of the British Isles. In the Celtic Sea.”

  I can’t picture it.

  “I’m from Landerel,” he says. “We are to the Brits sort of like Canada is to America, similar accents and all.”

  “Oh, cool!” Now I am impressed. Though I couldn’t say exactly where it is on the map, I have heard of Landerel. “For a tiny country, Landerel has a history of exceptional community organizing at the grass-roots level. Sister’s Keeper was founded there. It’s a global model!”