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Nikolai seemed like a real nice guy… may he rest in peace.
But through it all, even though I was actually the disastrous before version of every makeover movie, I also had the tools and tricks to pretend I wasn’t. Even if I knew that my default setting was a walking disaster.
But that’s why I loved my crowns. When I wore them, I wasn’t Michaela Caldwell, the socially awkward misfit. I was Princess Coco, the regal and refined.
I smiled at my fellow princesses in their fancy dresses. It was fun to pretend and escape reality for a couple of hours.
Because, in truth, reality kinda stunk.
“Come on, Mick,” Marjorie wouldn’t let up. She leaned against the doorway of our bedroom to glare at me where I rested on my bed after the party. “Jax wants you there, and Scobey won’t come unless I bring a date for his friend.”
I stretched my neck from side to side. “That party wiped me out. It’s not easy being a professional princess.”
She stared me down, deadpan. “You make it look easy, Michaela.”
“Well, it’s not. I mean, I love it, and I’m glad we made rent.” I gave a quick glance at our one-bedroom apartment we shared, decorated in part by my crowns and sashes from the wins of yesteryear. “But it takes a lot out of me. You go. You can have them both.”
“That’s cute, but I get a lot more attention being the friend of the ex-pageant queen than I do on my own.”
“That’s not true.” In my eyes, I was still that clumsy girl I had been in high school. Perpetually stuck in the awkward duckling phase. Big teeth, big ears, wavy auburn hair that frizzed out. I wasn’t classically beautiful. I was unusually intriguing, and I made it work.
“I didn’t want to do this.” Marjorie pursed her lips and put on what she called her game face. “But until you agree to go out tonight,” from her back pocket, she removed a small envelope, “I’m holding your Fitzmail hostage.”
“Fitz wrote?” I rose from the bed, eager to read the letter.
“He did, and until you agree with me, I’m not letting you have it.”
“Mar, this is crazy.” I took a step toward her, but from her other pocket, she produced a lighter and I stopped short. “And that’s downright insane.”
“I’ll do it.” The flame flickered to life and she hovered the envelope above it. “You do not know ho—Ow!” She tossed the letter as the flame burned her finger. “That’s hot!”
“That’s why they call it fire.” I leaned down and scooped up the envelope with its blackened corner. “What did you think was going to happen?”
“I thought you’d agree before I got burned.” Her lip pouted out. “Please, go with me?”
While I wasn’t a fan of being manipulated, but I was also a big softie. “Fine. I’ll go.”
Her excitement exploded in a squeal. “We’re meeting them at Murphy’s in an hour. It’s going to be so much fun.” Once satisfied, my roommate left me with my smoldering mail. I slipped my finger into the edge of the envelope and popped the seal with the F embossed in red wax. If anyone could fix my mood, it was Fitz.
We’d met my freshman year of high school. Thanks to my mom’s new job, I found myself in a posh school, a place we could only dream of affording, admitted on a scholarship. I had zero friends and Fitz was a foreign exchange student with a goofy, not quite British accent, ears too big for his head and high-water jeans. With my eccentric demeanor and his ungainly appearance, we were a pair of misfits—me, an odd duck, and him, an awkward giraffe. We made a perfect match, our connection so strong that it felt like we were rewriting the definition of friendship.
We rarely spent a moment apart. For the next year, I showed him everything from Big Macs to arcade games and roller skating. We had sleepovers on the trampoline and talked about the mysteries of the universe or gossiped about the popular kids. Because he spent more time at my house than with his host family, he became a part of my family.
Before Fitz, ever since Dad died, I felt like I had no place in the world but having him around was like he’d carved out a spot for the two of us where everything made sense. He never cared that my house was small, or my clothes weren’t name-brand. At a time in my life when the world made me question my worth, Fitz made me understand I was enough. I owed so much of who I’d become to him and our friendship. I’d never found another friend who meant as much to me as Fitz.
My only complaint about Fitz, or rather Leonidas Ignatius Fitzborough III, was that he had a habit of telling grand stories about how he was a prince in Nolcovia, a tiny European country smushed somewhere near Luxembourg. He had fanciful tales about carriage rides, sprawling properties, and a royal palace where he lived.
And the kicker? I had to keep his hidden identity a secret.
Right…
Excuse my sarcasm.
In reality, I knew it couldn’t be true. Why would a prince end up at Calbright Academy? Swanky private school or not, I knew it wasn’t possible. But playing secret prince made him happy, so I let him have his stories.
I had to give him credit. He told a lie that was difficult to fact check and seemed convincing. Nolcovia was a real country, but it was so small it didn’t even have a Wikipedia entry back when we were kids. Honestly, his stories never bothered me, so I stopped trying to verify a long time ago. We were friends either way.
Of course, acceptance of his nature didn’t stop me from teasing him a little. He eventually went home, and at his insistence, we wrote letters to offset the cost of international calls and the massive time difference. I’m sorry, but what prince worries about phone bills? Just another silly fib I let slide in the name of friendship. As a nod to his wild tales, I always signed my letters: Royally Yours... Princess Coco.
