Page 96 of Prince Charmless
Not all the comments have been negative. In fact, there’s been more commentary about the negative commentary than the negative commentary itself. I guess I sparked some sort of feminist conversation. Something about the media’s historically abhorrent treatment of women involved with royalty. It’s probably interesting discourse. I would care more if it weren’t about me. Many think that yours truly, being my regular-degular middle-class girl self from the suburbs of who cares where, could be the one to save the monarchy from its eternal existence of stuffiness. They think I could be the breath of fresh air for an out-of-touch family. Sorry, St. Claire, I don’t think I’m the savior of this thousand-year-old institution.
The worst part is, I was starting to believe it. While brushing my teeth in the hotel washroom, I daydreamed of weddings and kids and frolicking through the Alps. Happily ever after type BS. It’s like I was a little girl who just watched Cinderella for the first time. How embarrassing.
Now there are strangers online confirming what I already knew to be true. A wench with an immigrant mother who dares to show anything above the ankle is not a princess and will never be one. It’s why a relationship that’s more than physical seemsso preposterous to me. I didn’t mean to offend him, it’s just hard to believe he was serious about wanting more.
Text me if you need anything,were his last words to me on the tarmac.
I didn’t text him. He can’t give me what I want.
I don’t know why I’m treating this like a breakup. How can I miss waking up next to someone when we’ve only had sex once? Whatever. Nothing a little terrible TV, lethargy, and my friends Ben and Jerry can’t fix.
Mateo stares out the passenger window of my Prius. “Do you think he’s seen it?” he hedges.
Ah yes. The elephant in the room. Dad isn’t completely cut off from the outside world. He gets TV and magazines, both of which I’ve been plastered all over.
“Probably,” I mumble.
Explaining this all to Mom was hard enough. She’s wonderful, of course, and told me that everything is going to be okay and painted my nails pink to ‘cheer me up’.
Mateo returns my Hello Kitty bobblehead to the dashboard, then rummages around my glove box for something else he can play with during our drive with spotty phone service. After reading my insurance, he reaches behind me to grab a grocery bag.
“When did you get this?” he asks, pulling out the new sketchbook I bought.
“A few days ago.”
“What are you sketching, Lina?” He thumbs through the blank pages. “Nothing? Why buy a sketchbook if you’re not going to use it?”
I thought I could get back into drawing to distract my mind from The Mess (trademark pending), but “I guess I haven’t had any ideas.”
“Well, at least take it out of the car.” He pokes my shoulder. “You’re scared.”
“Scared of what? A book? I’m not scared of a book.”
He tries to poke my shoulder again, but I slap him off. After parking in front of the beige cinder block building, Mateo takes off his chain, and I, my scarf (they’re not allowed inside even when it’s cold as balls out). We leave our phones in the car because I don’t trust the guards with them. The one thing I bring is a clear plastic bag of coins because the only food we can eat is from the vending machines. My father is in a minimum security prison, which I guess means he can walk around and isn’t housed with serial killers, thank God. My brother and I have to travel an hour to see him. We’re the lucky ones, because some families have to travel further and don’t have the time in their day to spend commuting.
As soon as Mateo gets out of the car, he throws my sketchbook to the ground.
“What are you doing?!” I yell as he punts it down a parking space.
He points to it lying upside down on the asphalt. “Jump on it.”
“What? I just bought it!”
“Do it, Lina.”
“I’m not—”
“Do it!”
I look at my poor, tattered sketchbook, frown at it sympathetically, then jump like I’m putting it out of its misery.
“Is there some philosophical purpose for this?” I ask atop it.
Mateo pushes me off and picks up the sketchbook from the ground. The cover is ripped, the pages are dented, and the back has an imprint of my shoe.
“The worst mindset for art is feeling like you’re ruining something perfect,” he says, dusting off the gravel. “It’s easierto make mistakes on something that’s already trash. I’ve done some of my best drawings on napkins.”
I think now is the time to say that my brother is a bit strange. Occasionally, he drags me to pretentious art shows where all the canvases are painted the same color. He’ll stare at them for ten minutes straight and use words likecontextualandsublimeto describe their aura to me. Sometimes I wonder if he and the other gallery attendees dressed in post-industrial streetwear are seeing something I physically can’t. Still, he may be right. Like figuring out most things in life, art is trial and error. Maybe it’d do me good to make some errors.
