Eadlyn Selects

A Mannequin of Myself

I wake up the next morning with a woodpecker trapped in my head. It's pecking little holes all over my skull as punishment for my drinking last night. I chug a water, take two aspirin, and wipe my schedule clear. I've decided to go to this gym I've heard so much about. I'm sure I could have a personal trainer meet me in my room, or a yoga instructor, or a whatever-I-want. But I want what Jocelyn from the infirmary described.

It's early, and few people are in the gym. It gives me a chance to scan the room without looking too much like a gawker.

The walls are mirrors, and the equipment is well spaced and pristine looking. A techno beat is playing at a reasonable level through the loudspeakers. I head toward the right corner, where there are a fleet of treadmills.

I hop onto one and see that it has a TV built into its control panel. Sweet. I put on the morning news with closed captioning and make a note to bring my earbuds next time. I set the pace to a moderate speed and check the clock. I could make this my morning routine, instead of checking email for news I could get it here while working out. I could be the first sorta buff queen.

Five minutes later, I have learned that the worst thing for hangover is exercise. Or maybe it's me. My legs are acting like I've never used them before, my knees wonking out and my thighs quivering. Five minutes. I'm not thinking the future queen will be that buff.

Heath has been my shadow since I woke up and accused him of standing there all night. He didn't reply, but by his face I could tell he was judging me for drinking too much. I try not to meet his eye when I stop the machine. After wiping the treadmill down, I slink out of the gym. Heath stands outside my room where I finally get some privacy to shower and dress.

I miss Neena, even though I sting at the idea that our time together was a ploy. That whole six months that she gave me hand massages and hung my designer clothes up—was she silently hating me? What does it mean that I never suspected her?

I pull on jeans again, and a cashmere hoodie that Lucy gave to me two Christmases ago. It's so soft and comfy, I'm surprised I never even tried it on before.

I blow off my meetings without even checking my email to find out what they are about. Instead, I wander out to the gardens.

I try to clear my mind and sketch. My one conversation with Jocelyn revealed that I have no real exercise in my life and no concrete ways to de-stress. This is my one thing, my drawing. I like to design clothing best, but I also like to gather inspiration from my surroundings. No wonder I'm not too energetic after dry meetings in bland work rooms with buttoned up advisors.

In my sketch, I try to capture how the fountain's shadow falls on the row of rhododendrons, almost making the two forms meld into a new thing. I work for a long time on it.

I'm embarrassed about last night. But I don't regret the feeling of Kile on my lips and against my body, the way he touched me so reverentially yet with passion. What's between us isn't about me being the future queen. He's one of the few who don't care about that.

Rubbing my forehead, I admit to myself that he would be miserable as prince consort. Just as he is miserable as a royal family guest. He hates living in the castle. He's here only til he is able to leave, and Marlee holds the strings to that decision. Or does she...

I made him a promise. I said I'd talk her into letting him leave if he helped me with that first kiss. I've put him off long enough, because I like him. I feel safe with him. But that's not right. He should be here because he wants to be, not out of some weird guilt or fear of crushing his mom.

If I truly liked Kile—and I think I more than like him—then I would let him go. I'd help him to be free to pursue his true love: his architecture and design.