Page 24 of Prince Charmless
“That doesn’t matter. The press won’t care.” I lean toward him to make my point clear. “Thomas, I’m the one who’s been cursed with being the eldest. One day you’ll be free to fuck off and do whatever you want, whereas I don’t get that privilege. In the meantime, the least you can do is help out.”
His expression changes like I’ve maybe gotten through to him. “You know what?”
“What.”
He crosses his arms. “No.”
Or maybe I haven’t gotten through to him. “What do you mean ‘no’?”
“I’m not going. I am a grown adult. And I know how to fly a plane.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“I’ve been sitting at celebrity tables for years, and they’re finally putting me in with actual players. Not because I’m aprince, but because I’m good at poker.” Tom points at me. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
Vinnie barks as if he has any say in this argument.
“I didn’t know this was something you’re so passionate about.”
Tom rolls his eyes. “Of course, you didn’t,” he says sharply. “You’re a big boy, Taylor. You can survive the stupid fundraiser by yourself. I know you just want me there so you don’t have to do all the talking, but it shouldn’t be that fucking hard to be nice to people for a couple of hours.”
He ignores me calling his name, and storms out of the kitchen, his dog trailing behind.
I’m not sure what just happened, but Tom is too happy-go-lucky to stay mad for long. He’ll probably get over this by the end of the morning.
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It’s been four days since Tom has talked to me. I rephrase my text to him a couple times before sending it.
Me: its impossible to avoid me forever we live in the same house
Me:if I cant convince you this is a dumb idea I know who can
He types for a couple of seconds but doesn’t end up saying anything. I knew that would scare him.
I didn’t want to resort to this, but here I am outside the mahogany double doors at the palace.
That’s right.
I’m telling Dad.
His four staff members stand and quickly bow their heads when I enter. They know the gesture isn’t required, but the palace aides are staunch royalists and will do anything they can to suck up around my Dad.
Every time I see my father, his hair gets whiter, and ever since he’s lived here, I’ve been seeing him less and less. My grandmother had a health scare about the time I got back from university, so he moved to the palace to prompt a shift in sovereign duties. My dad took some of her jobs, I took to doing some more public speeches, and Tom, well, we just let Tom take care of the easy puff pieces none of us want to deal with, like adopting a floppy-eared senior dog from the local human society or wishing people a happy birthday when they turn a hundred. It’s pointless, but so are a lot of things that regard this family.
“You said this was a good time,” I say, looking at all the papers everyone’s holding.
“You’re my son. You don’t need to schedule an appointment.”
He shoos his minions away, and they all but sprint out of his office. One accidentally brushes my shoulder and apologizes like he’s infected me with an incurable virus.
I sit in the chair across from him. “How tightly wound do you have them?”
“Any more, and they’d be a ball of twine.” He smiles like he’s proud of this fact.
My father runs his staff like he runs a ship. Probably because he has run a ship. He was a naval officer for multiple tours. By not doing the same, he and many others believe I haven’t fulfilled my ‘princely duty’ to the country. Whatever the hell that means. The press can call me weak and unpatriotic, but I’m not fighting overseas in some unnecessary war just to get people to like me.
Dad sees me notice the pack of cigarettes on his desk. The gangrenous tongue has always been my least favorite image on St. Claire’s plain tobacco packaging. The pictures of rotten teeth and eye surgery look like Monet’s in comparison.
