Page 111 of Prince Charmless
She hit me on the bicep.
“I was a late bloomer,” she informs me. “That was taken before my Accutane era.”
I spot another photo of her in a cap and gown. And a hood.
She squints at the picture I’m looking at. “I look so bad in hats.”
“You have a master’s degree?”
“Yeah, in computer science with a certificate in AI and machine learning that I never use. Absolute sausage fest,” she says like it’s no big deal. “If you ever have trouble sleeping, I can send you my thesis.”
Melina’s always joking about how I must be so smart because I went to a fancy Ivy League school with its own ski hill, but she’s more educated than me. If she’s not proud, then I’ll be proud for her.
When we enter the kitchen, Melina makes a beeline for the oven and looks inside. “Who is all this food for, Mom?” she asks in Spanish, then says something else I don’t catch. We’ll see if my high school Spanish and a current thirty-day streak on Duolingo will help me tonight.
The squeaky floors and scuffed oak table make the kitchen feel lived-in and warm. Colorful dishware and utensils scatter the counter along with whatever her mom’s been cooking. When I pass the threshold, Sonia gasps and takes off her apron. When she leans into me, I expect her to peck me on the cheek, but I go stiff when her arms tightly wrap around my chest. Strangers don’t usually hug me.
Sonia grabs my forearms. “Prince Taylor,” she says. She and Melina are very similar-looking, tall and smiley, except Sonia has curly hair streaked with gray.
“Taylor, please.”
“He’s skinnier in person,” she says in Spanish to Melina. “We’ll fix that.”
“Runs in the family,” I say. Along with nearsightedness and dyslexia. Thankfully, I didn’t get the latter.
Sonia puts a hand on her chest. “Hablas Español?Lina said you forgot it all. I told her I don’t mind as long as he’s handsome.”
Oh God, please don’t make me speak it.
“Gracias pero hablo Español muy mal.”
I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life.
“Wow, your brother’s Spanish is much better than yours,” Sonia says with a smile.
I respect her honesty.
“He sounds like a conquistador,” Mateo grumbles while taking down plates.
Because I went to school in Spain, my accent, if I have any, probably sounds more European than anything else. Most of my classes were in English anyway. I think, as a prince, people expect me to speak multiple tongues. The only reason Tom is a polyglot is that he likes to play into stereotypes and wouldn’t know what to do with his personality otherwise.
Melina takes me aside and lowers her voice. “I told her to make Argentinian food. It’s what she’s best at. I think her original plan was to go completely overboard and cook you the national dish of St. Claire.”
I lower my voice, too. “Ironically, I don’t even like turducken.”
After some polite conversation, wine, and a delightful childhood story concerning a microwave Melina exploded by forgetting to put water in a mac and cheese bowl, Mateo sets some plates down in front of us. The white fish is topped with colorful spices, herbs, and cuts of lemon. The dish is very colorful. There are people in this world who avoid ordering bonier fish because they’re harder to eat, but those people are lazy and don’t know what they’re missing. I wait until everyone sits, and Melina takes a bite.
Jesus fucking Christ.
It’s like my tongue has burst into flames. I enjoy spicier food, but this is on another level. There has to be something wrong with it, right? I look around the table to see everyone eating and conversing normally. The second bite is just as painful, so I takea sip of wine. I stare into the cloudy eye of the dead fish.How am I going to finish you?
Melina nudges my elbow. “It’s not too hot, right?” she chides. “Mateo always made the food extra spicy for whichever boy I brought over.”
Ah. I’ve been poisoned. So both the Ramirez twins are insane. Mateo tenses when I make eye contact.
“No, it’s delicious. You guys are great chefs.”
His brow furrows like he’s surprised I didn’t snitch. Yeah, I can handle your little games, Mateo. Baptism by fire, bring it on.
