Page 39 of Prince Charmless
“Your whole TV Prince Taylor character. You’re kind of boring in interviews.”She sounds like my publicist.“I could find some very colorful words to describe you, but none of them would be ‘boring’.”
Boring is better than my alternative. I’ve been told St. Claire thinks I’m ‘bitchy’ based on rumors started by people who’ve worked with me before. The rumors are true, but that doesn’t mean everyone has to believe it.
“It’s not a character,” I say, switching lanes. “That makes it sound like acting.”
I just try to be the most generic version of myself for the public. They don’t deserve any more of me than that. And I’m not an actor. I hate actors. I’m more of a charlatan or your run-of-the-mill-fraud.
“Then what are you doing if not that?”
“How can I be acting if Prince Taylor is me? I’m just cutting out all the parts of my personality that aren’t very stately and adding some qualities that are.”
“That sounds exactly like acting. You’re very method.”
She’s thinking too much into this. It’s not that deep, right?
“Guilbert?” Melina shouts with butchered phonetics. She’s on her phone, and unfortunately, I know what she’s looking at. “Your government name is Taylor Guilbert Alexander de la Favresse-Rengault II? That is disastrous. I thought Melina Ramirez-Chadwick was long. Your license must be the size of printer paper.”
Taylor was my father’s youngest brother, who died in infancy. He had the middle name of Guilbert, so I’m stuck with it as well. My full Catholic name is Taylor Guilbert AlexanderErasmusde la Favresse-Rengault II. Yes, Erasmus. The priest told me that my confirmation name should be the saint whose patronage inspires me, and absolutely under no circumstances should I pick a name because it ‘sounds cool’ or ‘is the patron saint of something ridiculous’. Of course, I did both of those things. St. Erasmus is the patron saint of abdominal pain. I guess thirteen-year-old me thought that was funny.
“It’s unfair,” I mutter.
“What’s unfair?”
“You can look up all my secrets, but I can’t with any of yours.” I’ve tried, but she’s not on social media.
She turns off her phone. “A name isn’t a secret. Your Wikipedia page is a dull read, anyways.”
Good. I’ve lived life carefully to have the dullest and least scandalous Wikipedia page possible.
“What do you want to know?” she asks. “I’m an open book.”
We pass a streetlamp. Everyone once in a while, we pass one that lights her face, and I sneak a glance. There are lots of things I want to know, but I can’t seem to formulate a single question.
“What’s, uh, your middle name?”
Why did I go with that? It sounds like you want to steal her banking information. What’s next? Mother’s maiden name? Name of your first pet?
“We don’t have middle names. My parents forgot. I’ve always been a little jealous of everyone else, even if they have something really embarrassing like Guilbert.” I’m not going to correct her pronunciation. “What else ya got?”
Another street lamp.
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Me and my twin brother Mateo. He’s a tattoo artist. And regular artist. I think my mom passed down her steady hand to him.”
“And your father? What does he do?”
After a few seconds of her not answering, I realize how much of an asshole I am.Nice going, Taylor. Really outdid yourself with that one.
“I’m sorr—”
“He’s not dead.”
I wait for her to go on, but she doesn’t. I won’t press.
“What do you want for dinner?” I ask.
“I thought you had it planned.”
