Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Callum
The next few days are surreal. Pigs flying around an ice-skating rink with leprechauns and fairies sprinkling them with pixie dust kind of surreal.
Photos of me are everywhere. Everywhere.
I turned on the TV to a random Japanese channel last night, and even they had a photo of me on the top right of the screen as the news presenter spoke rapidly with an intense expression. The only words I recognized were my name.
The idea that I am worthy of this amount of attention still seems so ludicrous it’s up there with the pet rock trend and pineapple on pizza.
I work in an insurance call center.
Or I did, anyway. I officially resigned yesterday.
It’s fair to say that Becca had a slightly different attitude toward me when I called to say I was resigning.
Emily also seems to have changed her opinion of me in the few days since we saw each other, if her interviews with media outlets are anything to go on.
With headlines like My Date with the Prince and I was with Callum when He Found out He was Heir!
she’s gushed about how nice and humble I am.
And apparently, I looked “like someone hit by a stun gun” when Spencer told me I was now heir to the throne.
Emily is also auctioning off her blouse with the red wine stain.
When I checked last night, bidding had reached over a hundred thousand dollars.
I’m trying not to think about that too much because it hurts my mind.
If the results of my clumsiness are worth so much, someone should really talk to my childhood friend, Ewan’s, mom to see if she still has the pieces of the vase I broke when Ewan and I were attempting to breakdance in their living room when we were twelve.
Today, I have another morning of lessons in royal etiquette from Raymond.
He tries to keep his expression neutral as he guides me through intense media and protocol training, but his mustache betrays him, the left side twitching up every time I say or do something wrong.
Unfortunately, his mustache gets quite a workout.
There’s a lot more to being royal than I’d previously appreciated.
I’m forbidden to give out my autograph or take selfies with anyone.
I can never eat garlic and shellfish is discouraged.
My shoelaces have to be ironed. Due to the Royal Marriages Act of 1772, I’m required to ask the Queen’s permission before proposing to someone.
I must always carry a black outfit when traveling in case I have to urgently go somewhere for a funeral.
I focus as hard as I can on Raymond’s lessons, but they’re overwhelming. I feel like the major piece of knowledge I’m gaining is becoming fluent in the language of Raymond’s mustache. I’m not sure how much that will help me in my service to the British public.
That afternoon, when my half-siblings, Amelia and Nicholas, are ushered into a meeting room, I can see some of my confusion reflected on Amelia’s face. She’s blinking behind her glasses like a bewildered owl.
I stand and move toward them instinctively, then stop, hovering awkwardly. Because hugging is definitely not part of our family tradition.
We give each other hesitant smiles instead.
“Hi, Callum.” Nicholas holds out his hand. “Good to see you.”
I shake my half-brother’s hand, acutely aware we’re being watched by a whole bunch of royal officials with fancy-sounding titles like Lord Chamberlain and private secretaries of Buckingham Palace, Clarence House, and Kensington Palace, all staff of The Royal Households of the United Kingdom.
It’s not exactly your typical family reunion.
“Good to see you too,” I say.
Our father died when I was eight, Nicholas five, and Amelia was only two.
If he hadn’t, I’m sure I would have spent more time with my half-siblings. But we grew up half a world apart. And as I’m basically just a male version of my mother, I don’t even share their dark hair, strong brows, and startling blue eyes that mark them as siblings.
I look nothing like them. I sound nothing like them. But they’re the closest family I have left.
We all take a seat around the meeting table, and it turns out that the main purpose of the royal staff getting us together is to deliver a lecture about our expected behavior now that we are in such close proximity to the crown.
"Your behavior needs to be impeccable, above reproach.” My grandmother’s private secretary, Clive, seems to direct that comment mainly at Nicholas, who shuffles in his seat uncomfortably.
I’m guessing some of Nicholas’s behavior that makes the tabloids doesn’t reach Clive’s threshold for the standards we need to maintain.
Then Clive extends his penetrating gaze to me.
“In regard to politics, the royal family’s position requires the support of all politicians, so you cannot be seen favoring one party over the other. You cannot express your views on any political matter. You have to be strictly impartial. And as part of that, you are not allowed to vote.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “I’m not allowed to vote?”
“No. Technically it’s not forbidden by law, but by tradition, members of the royal family do not vote.
As a constitutional monarchy, the royal family is the symbolic head of the country, but all governance is carried out by the Parliament and the prime minister.
The monarchy is a source of stability and continuity, and being politically neutral means they can be a unifying presence no matter which party is in power. ”
I nod. It makes sense. Although the idea of never voting again seems weird.
“And how are you planning to handle the fact that the heir to the throne is an American?” Nicholas asks, his crisp public-school accent sounding even more precise than normal.
My shoulders stiffen.
“Trust me, we are very well aware that the heir to the throne is now American, and we shall do everything we can to mitigate that.”
Mitigate it? My nationality is something to be mitigated now?
“I’m half-British,” I offer up feebly with a weak smile.
No one smiles back at me.
After the meeting officially finishes, I remain at the table, slightly shell-shocked. Which appears to be my modus operandi right now.
Amelia lingers near me. “Are you all right?”
“By all right, do you mean, am I quietly freaking out over the fact my life will never be the same again? Because I’m definitely doing that.”
She huffs a quiet laugh. “It’s a bit of a whirlwind, isn’t it?”
“I’d say it’s more on the scale of a category-five hurricane,” I say.
She glances over at the doorway where a few of the palace courtiers are having a discussion.
“I’m really not sure the royal advisers reflect the diversity of modern-day Britain,” she says in an undertone.
I snort. Because she’s right, there’s not much diversity in age or race among the palace courtiers.
“We’ll be all right if we support each other,” she says quietly. “You know Nicholas and I have your back, right?”
I let out a shuddering breath. “Thanks. That’s good to know.”
That night, Amelia reinforces the concept by sending me a bunch of memes about sticking together. Her last one shows an innocent cat with the title. “We gotta stick together. So you scratch your back, and I’ll scratch your arm.”
At least my sister can make me laugh.
The next day, I wake up to yet another round of Sell Your Story about Callum to the Highest Bidder. This time it’s my old high-school teacher talking about me to The Daily Beacon.
“Nice kid who always seemed to have his head in the clouds but then occasionally offered an insightful comment on an obscure topic that made you realize he actually had a functioning brain after all.”
Thanks, Mr. G. But at least it’s better than Brett McCallister—who I apparently went to kindergarten with—who gave an exclusive interview to the Daily Chronicle detailing the time I ate all the paste in kindergarten and then barfed it up all over everyone at nap time.
I don’t even remember Brett McCallister or the incident he’s describing, although I intensely dislike the smell of paste, so there’s a good chance his story is true.
Just as I finish the article, there’s a discreet knock on my bedroom door.
“Come in,” I say.
Herbert has a polite smile as he comes in holding a tray.
“Your breakfast, Your Royal Highness,” he says.
Yeah, the whole servant thing still freaks me out. Herbert has been assigned as my personal valet, which officially means he helps me get dressed, but he also does tasks like being my personal alarm clock and a potential lifesaver when I’m faced with cufflinks.
After I admitted that I’m not a morning person and normally skip breakfast, Herbert offered to bring me a tray of toast and coffee to start the day.
He sets the tray on the ornate bedside table next to my bed. It seems wrong to just sit and watch as Herbert pours me a cup of coffee.
“I can do it.” I lean forward to help, but unfortunately, I somehow pull the cup away so he ends up pouring a stream of coffee onto the tray.
Herbert’s face remains expressionless as he uses the stiffly starched napkin to mop up spilled coffee. Herbert has, so far, proven to be unflappable, which I think will be a very helpful trait when he’s working for me.
As Herbert leaves the room, blanketed in a thousand apologies from me and probably thinking about asking for hazard pay, I receive a message on my phone from Scott.
Hey, you up for a call?
Definitely.
The video call comes in, and I eagerly accept it.
Scott and Cliff are sitting together on Scott’s small patio, and for a second, I’m breathless with homesickness. I feel the pang so acutely that I swear I can smell the familiar scent of Scott’s barbecue grill.
I quickly calculate the time difference. It’s eight a.m. here, so it must be midnight there. Judging by their clothes, they’ve just returned from a night out.
How many times have I sat on that same patio with Scott and Cliff after a night out, bemoaning the state of my love life?