Apparently "Privileged"

You’re privileged. Not everyone has the honor of making such a decision. That’s what they all say.

Ever since I was little, I’ve been told what an honor I have of being the eldest son to the king. Heir to the throne. It’s a privilege. An honor.

And yet even the court can’t possibly understand what kind of thinking goes behind it. Not only must I take the throne, but a wife as well.

That’s my problem: there are too many to choose from. And out of all of them, all one-hundred and sixteen of them, there isn’t a single girl that I like. Not one of them has a sense of humor, nor the decency to respect other’s business. Snakey, gossip machines, they are. And Father insists that I marry one of them.

A fate worse than death.

Now, before you think of me as rude or unfair to women, know that I tolerate a sixteen-year-old sister that is the same as my potential wives.

All while a secret girlfriend hangs in the balance.

She suggests that we run away. Out of the country to another land where we can live in peace. But my face is known all over the world. And if I’m found behind enemy lines—which is everywhere, thanks to Father—I’ll be killed on sight.

Unhappy marriage or death? Oh, and remember: I’m privileged to make this decision for myself.

“She’s pretty,” Bethany, my sister, murmurs in my ear. She points to a stick of a girl. Her lips are twisted into a tight frown, her skin a sickly white. She’s obviously not enjoying herself.

“We’re not looking for pretty,” Father says, sparing a glance at Bethany. She sits taller in her seat, pursing her lips. Father motions to a small crowd of girls. “Those are the general’s daughters. I advise that you pick one of them.”

Father never advises me. By the glare we exchange, I understand that he’s actually telling me that I should choose one of them.

I nudge Bethany. “Any suggestions?”

My sister’s nose wrinkles with distaste. “Nuh-uh. I don’t talk to any of them. They’re all so . . .”—she glances in Father’s direction to see if he’s listening—“intimidating.”

“Reassuring,” I murmur. I give her a pained smile. “Wish me luck.”

She smirks. “I’ll hold my breath for you.”

I chuckle as I descend the short staircase that surrounds the throne, plummeting myself directly into the group of the general’s daughters.

They stop their conversation when I make my way into their midst. “Good afternoon, ladies,” I say, plastering a smile I’ve learned to fake over the years.

“Prince Bartholomew,” the older-looking one says, crossing her arms over her broad chest. Her platinum-blonde hair is tied up into a serious bun, her dress only covering what is necessary. No big, obnoxious skirt or puffed sleeves.

Soldiers. Each and every one of them. Built like one, trained like one. My palms start to sweat, and I feel like they’re all putting guns to my head with their eyes.

“My name is Valerie,” the same girl says, extending her hand to me. “Our father says I’m the only one he’s really letting you marry.” She shrugs at her sisters. “The rest are just here.”

I raise my eyebrows, giving her a firm shake. I can tell by her grip that she’s as strong as she looks. It’s intimidating.

“You’re assuming already that I will choose you?” My voice rises with every word.

Valerie only grins. “I think we both know that it’s not your decision, Bartholomew.” She glances over my shoulder at Father. “You’re going to end up marrying the girl that your father wants. He will make the decision.”

“For better or for worse,” I mumble.

Valerie laughs darkly. “Of course, Your Highness.”

A familiar laugh interrupts our conversation. I turn my head in the direction of the abrupt bursts, my eyes desperately searching for its owner.

“Is everything alright, Your Highness?” My eyes meet Valerie’s again.

“Uh, sure. I’ll talk to you later.” I move through the crowd and away from her, making my way over to a group of girls. Did I hear who I think I just heard?

I approach the back of a young girl in a plain, blue dress. I tap her shoulder gently. She flinches under my touch.

“Excuse me, Miss?”

She turns her head, enough to where I can only see the side of her eye. “Can I help you, Your Highness?”

“Why, I’d like to have a conversation with you, is all,” I say, taking a polite step back.

Slowly, the girl turns around, fixing me with wide, chocolate brown eyes. Her frizzy, curly black hair has been brushed back into a serious bun. The sporadic, lighter splotches of her skin—her “imperfections”—have been painted out of existence with makeup. But one splotch peeks over the collar of her dress.

A grin that I know far too well spreads across Rainey’s lips. “Is there something about my appearance that troubles you, Prince Bartholomew?”

I smirk, coming a bit closer. “Quite the opposite, actually,” I whisper in her ear. But, careful not to let anyone else see, I tug the collar of her dress farther up on her neck. “What are you doing here?”

“I was drafted,” she says with a frown. “That’s why I haven’t been coming for the past few nights.” She tries her best with a small smile. She even shrugs a little, as if it doesn’t bother her. “It’s alright, though. It was either war or rot away on the streets.”

“Unless I convince my father—” She stops me with a kick on the ankle.

“You know your father won’t budge. He’s not going to let you marry a nobody,” she says harshly.

I take her arm in my hand. I squeeze tight, as if to show her how desperate I am. “You’re not a nobody, Rain,” I say through gritted teeth. “And don’t you dare let anyone tell you differently.”

She pulls away, frowning. “I’m not going to stop you from trying,” she says. “But I wish you wouldn’t put hope where none should be.” Rainey begins to slip back into the crowd, and I try to go after her. But a hand catches me by the elbow.

“Careful, Your Highness,” Valerie says, pulling me in her direction. She raises her eyebrows, knowing very well what just happened. “You almost tripped over your own feet.” She glances toward the throne. “In front of your father.”

“Thank you,” I whisper under my breath.

Valerie nods her head in shallow acceptance. “Don’t mention it.” Then, under her breath, “Really, don’t mention it. And you know as well as I do that your father will never let you go off with that street rat.”

I pull away from her, taking my arm from her grasp. “She is most certainly not a street rat.”

“Especially with the curse that she has,” she says as I walk away. Her words still follow me, even though I try to ignore them. “All she will do is infect you.”

But she’s wrong. The last thing Rain would want to do is hurt me. And she’s not ugly. She’s beautiful, a piece of art because of her so-called “imperfections.”

And if you asked her, some people would say that she is nothing. A broken shell on a beach that nobody wants. The peel of the banana that everyone throws away. And those same people call me privileged.

Well, they’re wrong. About both of us. I’m the flawed one.

And she’s apparently privileged.