A Guide to Charming Royals

Chapter Fourteen: ARIAH

Leila shifts in the driver's seat, casting an uncomfortable glance from the nursing home to us. We smile at her, our lips aching from the continuous stretch. But this is for the best, for her, so she doesn't feel the slip in our mundane conversations and behavior. We are still Ariah, her friend, and not some princess she has to bow to. Not that she's bowed. Yet.

We follow her stare, bouncing eagerly in our seat, like Deen does every time we're discussing Sofia. "I'll be in and out. Really quickly."

"You're going to embarrass me," she says, dropping her face into her hands. "What if Salar realizes I sent you?"

"How would he?" we ask, unlocking our door. "Have you mentioned me to him? Have you showed him my picture?"

She doesn't answer, shoulders sulking. At last, she's agreed to let us walk into the nursing home, to catch a glimpse of Salar. It's not necessarily Salar we're interested in, it's more about understanding Leila, about the people she hangs out with, the person she is when she's not with us.

From the very first time she stumbled into the gym, eyes flaring with anger, dressed in a t-shirt too big for her and baggy sweat pants, we wanted to understand her. Her eyes had assessed every guard in the room with us, the kickboxing trainer, before she eventually settled on us, as though she knew, she knew the gym had been booked out entirely for us.

"Who do you think you are?" she'd asked. This eleven-year-old Leila, who hadn't bowed to us then, and wouldn't bow to us now.

We'd been so close to flaunting our title. Instead, we remained quiet, shaking our head at the closest guard, and silently telling them to not engage. We wanted to know who this girl was, what she could do. So, we waited, and eventually, she said, "I come here to practice every day and by claiming the entire place to yourself, you're ruining my training. What will you do alone? Afraid of people laughing at you? You think you'll have better luck training with adults than children? You think adults don't laugh? They'll pretend to be your friend to your face, and behind your back, they'll laugh."

We offered her our hand. "I'm Ariah." The words came easily to us, just like we'd spent the last four months practicing to be able to blend in with the people in Calgary. This was part of the process, booking out the gym only for the first couple of days so Dadi Jaan could be satisfied no one would hurt us. Eventually, we'd be given a chance to interact with other children.

Leila slapped our hand away. "Why are you hogging the entire place?"

"You can train with me," we said.

"No thanks," she answered, folding her arms across her chest.

"Then why are you here?"

"I don't have to answer you."

We chuckled, knowing, the way one knows when they're about to get sick, or they're hungry for food, that Leila would be our friend. She'd be our friend for who we were without any labels attached to us, any dead sisters haunting us. Or we might have pressured her into the role, but still, she was ours.

And the next day, we had our guards change our school, wanting to follow Leila to wherever she went. She fit into our life like a missing puzzle piece finally found, and we, at last, had an anchor.

Now as we slip inside the nursing home, our thoughts return to this morning, about the questions she'd ask, we wonder if Deen had been right, if we should've let our worlds remain separate.

But it doesn't matter anymore. Because we made our choice, and now we have to face the consequences.

We sneak past the secretary at the front, and like Leila had said, she barely passes us a glance. Salar is supposed to be in the kitchen, because that's where he spends most of his time apparently. We're about to ask one of the workers about Salar, but Leila begged us not to do so, because if he got wind of it, Leila would become an even bigger stalker in his eyes. The narrow walls divide into a wide space, like a school cafeteria, elders sitting at tables in their cliques, awaiting their food.