The first thing I learn about American schools is that no one knows how to walk like a civilized person.
Everyone moves in packs. They clog the hallways like herds of loud, badly coordinated animals. People shout across the lockers, slam doors, drop books, laugh too loudly. It's chaos.
And I am walking right through the middle of it.
"Just keep moving," Charles murmurs beside me as someone nearly collides with my shoulder. "If you stop now, they'll eat you alive."
"I survived French politics," I reply under my breath. "I can survive your hallway."
He chuckles. "We'll see."
Our first class—English literature—isn't as bad as I feared. The teacher, Mrs. Carter, has kind eyes and speaks slowly, like she's trying not to scare anyone. She smiles brightly when Charles introduces me and immediately asks if I'd like to read aloud.
Of course.
I stand, smooth my skirt, and read a passage from the book they're studying—some American classic about fields and sadness and 'dreams.' My accent thickens deliberately, my pronunciation careful. The room goes silent, and I can feel everyone watching me.
When I finish, there is a small pause.
Then someone whispers, "That was… hot."
Americans.
Mrs. Carter beams. "Wonderful, Monique! Your reading was beautiful. Thank you."
I sit down, trying not to roll my eyes.
"So," Charles leans over to whisper, "if you wanted to make everyone obsessed with you on day one, you're doing great."
"I did not ask for their obsession," I mutter back.
"Too late," he says. "You have main character energy."
I do not know exactly what that means, but I'm sure it is annoying.
By mid-morning, I have survived English and history. History was… painful. The teacher mispronounced at least three French names, and when he said "Bonaparte," something inside me broke a little.
Now it's time for something called "Advisory."
"Basically," Charles explains as we walk down the hallway, "it's a glorified homeroom. You check in, pretend to talk about your feelings, and listen to announcements no one cares about. Madison is our advisory rep."
Of course she is.
We step into a classroom different from the others—no rows of desks, just chairs in a loose circle. Students are already sitting and talking. Madison is at the front, leaning against the teacher's desk like she owns it.
When she sees me, her smile appears instantly.
"Monique!" she calls. "Come sit with us."
Her tone is sweet. Her eyes are sharp.
Charles glances at me. "You okay?" he murmurs.
I lift my chin. "I am not afraid of her."
He grins. "That's the spirit, princess."
I walk forward, my steps measured, and slide into a chair near Madison. She shifts just enough that the rest of the group forms around her, and me by default.
"So," she says brightly, crossing her legs. "How's your first day so far?"
"Loud," I answer honestly.
A couple of students laugh.
"It's always like this," a girl with bright red braids says from my left. "I'm Aaliyah, by the way." She gives me an actual warm smile—not one of those fake American ones. "If you survive lunch, you'll be fine."
"Lunch?" I echo.
Madison's eyes light up.
"Oh, yes," she says. "You're going to love our cafeteria. It's… an experience."
The way she says it makes it sound like a threat.
Our advisory teacher, Mr. Lopez, walks in then, saving me from having to respond.
"Good morning, everyone," he says, tossing his bag onto a chair. "We have a new student today, but I see you've already met her. Welcome, Monique."
"Merci," I say politely.
He hands out some papers and launches into announcements about upcoming events, club sign-ups, and something called Homecoming.
"Homecoming is a big deal here," Madison whispers to me, even though Mr. Lopez is still talking. "It's like… a huge dance. With a game. And a parade. And a court."
"A court?" I repeat slowly.
"Yeah," she says, smiling like a shark. "Homecoming king and queen. You'd fit right in."
I resist the urge to flinch.
"Perhaps," I say carefully, "I would rather observe than participate."
Her smile tightens. "We'll see."
By the time lunch finally arrives, my brain feels full.
Not of knowledge—no, that would be too useful—but of names, faces, schedules, and an incredible number of rules about where you can and cannot sit during certain periods.
The cafeteria is enormous. Tables stretch across the room, each one already claimed by some invisible social law. Athletes in one corner, artsy-looking students in another, a group with laptops and chess boards near the windows.
And, in the center, the royalty.
Not actual royalty, of course.
Just Madison and her court.
She spots me almost immediately.
"Monique!" she calls, waving me over. Her voice cuts through the noise.
Charles nudges me lightly. "You can sit with me and my friends," he says. "Or… you can go sit with Madison."
He says her name like it's a warning.
I look at his table—crowded, loud, a mix of people who all seem comfortable with him. Then I look at Madison's—perfect posture, perfect hair, perfect control.
If I choose Charles, I align myself with the president's son.
If I choose Madison, I walk straight into the lion's mouth.
I hand my tray to Charles for a moment. "Hold this."
He blinks. "Wait, what are you—"
I walk toward Madison.
Her smile widens. "See?" she says to her friends as I approach. "I told you she'd come."
I sit across from her, laying my napkin on my lap like I'm at a formal dinner instead of a cafeteria with fluorescent lights and questionable pizza.
"Thank you for inviting me," I say. "It is… generous."
Her eyes flick briefly toward Charles, who's watching us from across the room.
"Oh, of course," she says sweetly. "We love meeting new people. Especially ones who know Charles so well on their first day."
There it is.
I tilt my head. "We live in the same building," I say. "It would be strange not to know him."
One of her friends, a girl with heavy eyeliner and a glittery headband, leans in. "So, like… what are you, exactly?" she asks bluntly. "Like, are your parents in politics? Are you some kind of CEO kid or something?"
I feel my shoulders stiffen.
"I am from a political family," I say carefully. "But I am here to study, like all of you."
Madison stirs her salad thoughtfully. "There are rumors, you know," she says casually. "People talk. Some say you're from, like, a royal family. European, obviously. I mean, you look like you'd be a princess."
My fork pauses mid-air.
Across the room, Charles shifts slightly, watching my face.
"And what do you say?" I ask.
Madison smiles slowly. "I say… labels are overrated," she replies. "As long as you sit with the right people."
Her meaning is clear.
At that moment, Aaliyah appears at the end of the table, carrying her own tray.
"Hey," she says to me, ignoring the way Madison's eyes narrow. "Cafeteria tip: never eat the meat on Tuesdays. You'll survive longer."
"Thank you for the warning," I say, genuinely grateful.
Madison's tone turns colder. "Did you need something, Aaliyah?"
"Yeah," Aaliyah says, completely unfazed. "I wanted to know if Monique wanted to sit with us tomorrow. Since, you know, we actually talk about real stuff and not just… what color the Homecoming banners should be."
A couple of Madison's friends gasp quietly. Madison's smile doesn't move, but her eyes flash.
"Aaliyah," she says, her voice like ice, "we were in the middle of a conversation."
"And now you're not," Aaliyah replies cheerfully. "So, Monique?"
I look between them.
This is more complicated than any diplomatic dinner I've ever attended.
Pick Madison, and I stay in the most powerful circle.
Pick Aaliyah, and I pick honesty.
Back home, my mother would say: Choose the people who tell you the truth, not the ones who tell you you're perfect.
I set down my fork.
"Thank you for inviting me today, Madison," I say politely. "Your table is… very organized."
Her eyes narrow just a fraction.
"But tomorrow," I continue, turning to Aaliyah, "I would like to try something… different."
Aaliyah grins. "Cool. See you then." She walks away, not bothering to look at Madison again.
Madison's fingers tighten around her fork.
"So," she says lightly, "you're making friends fast."
"I am trying to meet many people," I say. "It is my first day."
She studies me for a long moment, then her lips curve into that perfect, polished smile.
"Of course," she says smoothly. "Just remember—you only get one first impression here, Monique. People tend to remember who you sit with."
I meet her gaze without flinching.
"In my experience," I reply softly, "people remember what you do more than where you sit."
From across the room, I hear someone choke back a laugh. When I glance up, Charles is grinning openly now, like he's watching his favorite show.
Madison follows my gaze, then picks up her water and takes a slow sip.
"Welcome to Lincoln," she says, her tone now unmistakably edged. "I'm sure you'll… shake things up."
I smile politely.
"I usually do."
Afternoon classes blur together—math, where the teacher seems allergic to joy; science, where I'm paired with a boy who smells strongly of gym socks; and French, which is easily the most surreal experience of my life.
"Today," the French teacher announces proudly, "we have a real French person among us."
Everyone turns to stare at me.
I resist the urge to melt into my seat.
"Monique, would you like to help correct pronunciation?" she asks eagerly.
I spend forty minutes listening to people massacre my language.
When class ends, Charles is waiting for me outside the door, leaning against the wall.
"How many times did you consider faking your own death in there?" he asks.
"Seven," I reply. "Maybe eight."
He laughs. "You survived. I'm proud of you."
We walk toward the front of the school together. Students begin to spill out of the building, some getting into cars, some heading for buses.
"So," he says, glancing at me. "First day verdict?"
I think about Madison's smile, Aaliyah's courage, the staring, the whispers, the way my name rolled around in unfamiliar mouths.
I also think about how, for several hours, no one called me "Your Highness."
"It was… different," I say finally.
"Different good? Different bad?" he presses.
I consider.
"Different…" I repeat slowly, "possible."
His eyebrows rise. "Possible, huh? That's… something."
As we reach the steps, I notice Madison standing near the parking lot, surrounded by a smaller group now. She's watching us. Not smiling. Just watching.
"Looks like you're already on her radar," Charles says quietly.
"I assumed I was the moment I walked in," I reply.
He shrugs. "Just… be careful with her, okay? Madison doesn't like when people don't play by her rules."
I straighten my shoulders.
"Then she is going to hate me," I say calmly.
He laughs. "You really are something else, you know that?"
Our motorcade is already waiting near the curb. A driver opens the door, and I hesitate before getting in.
"Charles?" I say.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For… not telling them. About who I am."
He looks almost surprised. Then his expression softens.
"Your life is complicated enough," he says. "You deserve one day of choosing who you are. Even if it's just at school."
I nod.
"Tomorrow," I say, "I have lunch with Aaliyah."
He grins. "Good choice."
"And Madison?" I ask.
He glances toward her again, then back at me.
"She's not used to sharing the spotlight," he says. "But I think she just met her match."
I smile faintly.
"Then," I say, "this is going to be interesting."
I climb into the car, and as the door closes, I catch one last glimpse of the school—of Madison's calculating eyes, of Aaliyah laughing with a friend, of Charles shoving his hands into his pockets as he walks toward the other car.
America is loud.
Messy.
Complicated.
But as we pull away from the curb, I feel something I did not expect to feel on my first day in this strange country.
Not just frustration.
Not just annoyance.
Something dangerously close to… curiosity.
And that, I know, is where all trouble begins.