If there is one thing Americans love almost as much as parties, it is themes.
By Wednesday, Lincoln Private Academy looks like a craft store exploded.
Posters, banners, flyers—everywhere. The Homecoming game is in three days, the dance right after, and it seems the entire school has decided that color-coordinated chaos is the only way to prepare.
"GO EAGLES!" someone has painted in enormous blue and gold letters across the main hallway.
Underneath it, in much smaller, messier handwriting, someone has added:
And also maybe graduate?
I snort.
"Monique!"
Aaliyah rushes up beside me, dodging a group of students carrying an entire roll of crepe paper.
"You okay?" she asks. "You smiled. I was worried for a second."
"I am capable of joy," I say. "Rarely, but it happens."
She grins, then hooks her arm through mine and tugs me closer to the wall to avoid being trampled by the cheer squad.
"Welcome to peak Lincoln," she says. "The week where no one does homework and everyone pretends football matters more than the climate crisis."
"Does it not?" I ask dryly.
She snorts. "Don't say that out loud near the field. They'll revoke your cafeteria privileges."
I glance around.
Everywhere I look, people are buzzing.
Planning outfits.
Arguing about decorations.
Speculating about the Homecoming court.
I hear snatches of conversation as we walk.
"Do you think Madison's going to win again?"
"Obviously. Who else?"
"Maybe she won't even run this year."
"Please. She'd run for prom queen at her own funeral if she could."
I hide a smile.
We pass a table in the main hall where two student council members are manning a sign-up sheet.
HOME COMING COURT NOMINATIONS, the poster reads, with a small drawing of a crown above it.
The crown is not broken.
Yet.
"Ugh," Aaliyah mutters. "Here we go."
A girl with glittery eyeliner taps the poster with her pen.
"You should totally run, Madison!" she is saying. "You're basically royalty already."
Madison stands on the other side of the table, clipboard in hand, her smile in place.
"Let's focus on the charity first," she replies smoothly. "Court talk later."
Her eyes flick briefly in my direction.
"Morning, Monique," she calls.
"Bonjour," I answer, stepping closer.
The sign-up sheet is already half-full.
Names I recognize.
Names I don't.
I scan it quickly.
Madison Hayes.
Of course.
No Charles.
Yet.
"Thinking of putting your name down?" Jonah asks from behind the table, looking entirely too amused.
I arch an eyebrow. "Do I look like I enjoy being voted on?"
"You look like you enjoy being in charge of things," he says. "This is one of those things."
"I already have a crown," I mutter.
"Exactly," he says. "Two-for-one special."
Aaliyah snorts. "Leave her alone," she says. "The last thing she needs is more people treating her like decor."
Jonah holds his hands up in surrender.
"Just saying," he says. "Could be fun."
Fun.
Not a word I associate with crowns.
Madison watches me, head tilted slightly.
"If you put your name down," she says casually, "you'd win."
"What makes you so sure?" I ask.
She smiles thinly.
"Half the school already thinks you're a fairy-tale," she says. "Might as well give them a happy ending to vote for."
My stomach twists.
"I am not a fairy-tale," I say coldly. "I am a person."
"Sure," she says. "But that's not what they're looking at when they click."
Something in me bristles.
It's not that she is wrong.
It's that she says it like it's… inevitable.
Predictable.
Acceptable.
"I have no interest in your crown," I say, my voice low.
A murmur ripples through the little crowd around the table.
Madison's smile doesn't move.
"You might not," she replies softly. "But your name does."
I open my mouth to argue.
Before I can, a familiar voice cuts in.
"Hey."
Charles slides into the space between us with the ease of someone who has been diffusing tension his entire life.
"Is this the part where we start dueling with glitter and megaphones?" he asks. "Because I did not bring my armor."
"Go away, American boy," I mutter.
He blinks, then grins.
"I see we're at the 'insult me when you're stressed' part of the week," he says. "My favorite."
He glances at the sign-up sheet.
"Homecoming nominations," he says. "Ah yes. The annual popularity contest disguised as tradition."
"Are you running?" Jonah asks.
"Absolutely not," Charles says promptly.
Madison's gaze sharpens.
"You might not get a choice this year," she says.
He laughs. "I always get a choice."
"Do you?" she asks quietly.
Their eyes lock.
I feel Aaliyah shift uncomfortably beside me.
There is history in that look.
So much of it.
"Anyway," Charles says breezily, breaking the moment, "I just came to steal France for fifteen minutes. I need her help with something very important."
I cross my arms. "If it involves taste-testing cafeteria pizza, the answer is non."
He leans closer.
"Spirit Week," he says. "They're trying to pick a theme for Friday. It's currently between 'Decades Day' and 'Country Pride.' We need a tie-breaker."
My eyebrows shoot up.
"Country Pride?" I repeat.
"Yes," he says. "Like everyone wears clothes from their heritage and waves flags and sings songs and stuff."
"That sounds like a diplomatic nightmare," I say.
"Exactly," he replies. "So please help me kill it."
I glance at Madison.
She shrugs. "Student body vote," she says. "Blame them."
"Come on," Charles urges. "Let's go talk to the committee before they order five hundred tiny flags and a life-size inflatable bald eagle."
I sigh.
"He is not lying," Aaliyah whispers. "They did 'USA All Day' last year and it was… a lot."
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
"Fine," I say. "I will assist. But only because the idea of theme costumes based on twenty countries at once gives me a headache."
"Spoken like a true diplomat," Jonah says.
As we walk away, I feel Madison's gaze on my back.
It is not hostile.
Not exactly.
Just… measuring.
Again.
The Spirit Committee meets in the art room, which smells like paint, paper, and desperation.
Painted banners are draped over every surface.
"GO EAGLES!"
"BEAT RIVERTON!"
"SPIRIT WEEK – SHOW UP OR BE LAME!"
I read that last one twice.
American motivational techniques are… unique.
"So," says a girl with pink streaks in her hair and a clipboard in her hands, "we've got Monday: Pajama Day, Tuesday: Twin Day, Wednesday: Anything-But-A-Backpack Day, Thursday: School Colors."
She looks at us as we enter.
"And Friday," she continues, "is still undecided. It's between 'Decades' and 'Country Pride.'"
"Please define 'Anything-But-A-Backpack,'" I say.
She grins. "You bring your stuff to school in something that's… not a backpack. Last year someone used a microwave."
My eyes widen. "Pourquoi?"
"Because people are insane?" she says cheerfully. "Anyway. What do you guys think? Decades or countries?"
"Decades," I say immediately.
"Countries," one of the boys counters. "Our student body is diverse, man. Let people show it off."
"In theory, yes," I say. "In practice, you will have people stereotyping entire cultures with costumes they bought in five minutes online."
Pink Streaks winces. "She has a point."
"Also," I add, "if you encourage everyone to bring flags, someone will get into a fight."
"How do you know?" the boy asks.
I stare at him.
"Because humans exist," I say.
Charles coughs to hide a laugh.
"Decades it is," Pink Streaks declares, scribbling on her clipboard. "'80s hair and '90s grunge can't start a diplomatic incident. Probably."
"Unless you count crimes against fashion," I mutter.
She beams at me.
"Thank you," she says. "You're good at this."
"I am good at avoiding unnecessary wars," I reply.
"Same thing," Charles says.
We slip out of the art room and back into the hallway.
"That was… weirdly satisfying," I admit.
He grins. "Welcome to student government adjacent. It's like real politics, but with more glitter."
We walk in comfortable silence for a few steps.
Then I bring up the question lodged under my tongue all morning.
"Are you going to let them put you on the Homecoming ballot?" I ask.
His smile fades around the edges.
"I told you," he says. "I'm not running."
"You don't have to run," I say. "They can still write your name."
He shoves his hands into his pockets.
"Maybe they will," he says. "Maybe they won't. Either way, I'm not doing… that again."
"'That'?" I ask.
"The stage," he says quietly. "The crowns. The photos. The whole 'first family future' performance. I get enough of that in real life without adding a cardboard version at school."
I bite my lip.
"Would it be different," I ask softly, "if the second crown didn't come with an expectation?"
He glances at me.
"You mean if it wasn't, 'Madison and Charles, future president and first lady of student council'?" he says. "If it wasn't a prequel to something?"
"Yes," I say.
He thinks about it.
"Maybe," he says finally. "But I don't trust this place to let it be just a title. They never do."
I understand.
Too well.
Before I can respond, the bell rings.
We split off for our next classes.
As I walk to history, I feel a light tap on my arm.
I turn.
A girl I've seen a few times in the hall—short brown hair, nose ring, oversized hoodie—stands there, holding out her phone.
"Sorry," she blurts. "I just—can I show you something?"
I hesitate.
"Yes?"
She thrusts the phone at me.
On the screen is a student forum page.
The top post reads:
HOME COMING PREDICTIONS – PLACE YOUR BETS 🏈👑
Underneath, a poll.
QUEEN:
Madison Hayes – 57%
Monique de Beaumont – 39%
Other – 4%
KING:
Charles Winchester – 82%
Other – 18%
My throat goes dry.
"This is not official," I say.
"I know," the girl says quickly. "It's just… people are already talking, you know? I just thought you should see it before someone shoves it in your face at lunch."
Her cheeks are pink.
"I'm Lily, by the way," she adds. "We have art together sometimes. Your drawings are really good."
"Merci," I say faintly.
She shrugs. "Anyway. I'm sorry if this is weird. I just… hate when the whole school has a secret about you before you know it."
"It is not weird," I say. "It is… helpful."
"Cool," she says, relief flooding her face. "Okay. I'm gonna go before I say something awkward."
"You already did," I reply.
She laughs and hurries away.
I stare down at the numbers again.
Madison.
Me.
Charles.
Not candidates.
Characters.
I lock the screen and shove my phone into my blazer pocket.
History is a blur.
Dates.
Battles.
Men making terrible decisions.
I am only half-listening when I hear my name.
"—unlike Princess Monique, who seems to be taking a very modern stance on monarchy."
I blink.
The teacher, Mr. Daniels, smiles in my direction.
"Sorry," he says. "I shouldn't embarrass you. We were just talking about public image versus actual power in historical rulers. Marie Antoinette, Louis XIV… and our contemporary examples."
Several heads swivel toward me.
"Oh good," I mutter under my breath. "Compare me to the beheaded queen."
The girl beside me snickers.
"Do you think she deserved it?" someone in the back asks.
"The beheading?" Mr. Daniels clarifies. "Or the reputation?"
"Either," the student says.
Mr. Daniels sighs.
"History is rarely that simple," he says. "She was trapped in a system she didn't create. She also made choices that did not help her case. The problem was not just one woman. It was an entire structure."
His gaze flicks to me again.
"Which is something we might remember when we talk about modern figures," he adds.
I appreciate the attempt.
I also appreciate that the conversation moves on quickly.
After class, as I collect my books, he approaches my desk.
"Miss de Beaumont," he says quietly. "If I ever make you uncomfortable by using you as an example, please let me know. Old habits die hard in history teachers."
"It is fine," I say. "I am used to adults pointing at me while they explain things."
He winces.
"That sounds… unpleasant," he says.
"It is occasionally entertaining," I reply. "But thank you."
He nods.
"Also," he adds, "you were right about the Treaty of Utrecht last week. I looked it up."
"Of course I was," I say.
He laughs.
At lunch, Homecoming buzz is louder than ever.
People compare dress ideas.
Talk about corsages.
Whisper about who will ask whom.
I drop my tray at Aaliyah's table.
She looks up.
"You look like you saw a ghost," she says.
"Worse," I say. "I saw a poll."
"Oof," Jonah says. "They found it."
"You knew?" I demand.
"Yeah," he says. "It's been up since last night. Aaliyah wouldn't let me show you."
"I wanted to give you one calm morning," she says defensively. "Sue me."
I sigh, dropping into my seat.
"Madison first, me second, other third," I say. "Charles at the top for king."
"Yup," Maya says. "The internet has spoken."
"I hate the internet," I mutter.
"Same," Priya agrees.
"You don't have to accept it," Aaliyah says. "You can publicly say you're not interested. People will still write you in, but at least you've made a statement."
"Or," Jonah says, "she could flip it on them."
We all stare at him.
"How?" I ask.
He leans forward.
"Okay, hear me out," he says. "What if, instead of just saying 'no thanks,' you say, 'I'll only accept if the court is made up of people who actually represent the school?' Not just the usual rich pretty folks. Theater kids. STEM nerds. Scholarship students. People who never get this kind of spotlight."
I blink.
"That is exactly what I told Madison," I say slowly.
"See?" Aaliyah says. "You're already infecting us with your radical ideas."
"It is not radical," I say. "It is basic fairness."
"Basic fairness is radical in America," Maya replies. "But I like it."
"Still," Priya says softly, "that means you'd have to stand up there too. With a crown."
The image flashes in my mind.
Me.
On a stage.
Again.
Beside Charles.
Under Homecoming lights.
With Madison.
With kids who've never felt seen.
My chest tightens.
"I do not want it," I say.
"Want what?"
Charles drops into the empty seat beside me, stealing a fry from my tray.
"The crown," I answer.
He chokes on the fry.
"Excuse me?" he splutters. "Did you say that out loud in a cafeteria?"
"I meant the plastic one," I clarify. "Relax."
"Oh," he says. "The meaningless one. Right."
"Is it meaningless?" I ask quietly.
He looks at me.
Then at the posters on the wall.
Then at the clusters of students glancing our way.
"No," he admits. "Not to them."
Aaliyah clears her throat.
"Question," she says, looking between us. "Have either of you actually decided what you're going to do if people vote for you?"
"I have decided not to think about it," I say.
"That's not a plan," she replies.
"It is my current plan," I insist.
She sighs.
"And you?" she asks Charles.
He shrugs.
"Same," he says. "Denial is a coping mechanism."
"You two are impossible," she groans.
After school, the football team takes over the field for practice. The bleachers fill with people pretending to do homework while actually watching.
I find myself drawn there, even though I have no particular interest in large men chasing a ball.
The air smells like grass and sweat and cheap popcorn from a machine near the concession stand.
I sit halfway up the bleachers, far enough from the field to have some distance, close enough to see.
"Didn't peg you as a football girl," a voice says.
I turn.
Madison drops onto the bench beside me, a thermos in hand.
"I am not a football girl," I reply. "I am a curiosity girl."
"Curiosity killed the monarch," she says.
"That is not how the saying goes," I reply.
She unscrews the thermos lid.
"It does in my head," she says, taking a sip.
We watch the field in silence for a moment.
Charles is out there in a blue jersey, running drills. He moves easily, laughing with his teammates, shouting calls.
He looks… free.
"At least down there, no one cares about your last name as much as they care about your aim," Madison says quietly.
"Are you sure?" I ask. "I would think having the president's son as your quarterback is… useful."
She snorts.
"Oh, it is," she says. "Boosts funding. Parents love it. But the guys on the line? They care more about whether he can throw the ball than whether he can give a speech."
We watch as he drops back and launches a perfect pass.
The crowd on the bleachers cheers.
"He's good at that," she says, almost grudgingly.
"He is good at many things," I say without thinking.
She glances at me sharply.
I clear my throat.
"I meant… sports," I say. "And irritating me."
She huffs a laugh.
"You two are going to make the rumors worse," she says.
"Let them talk," I reply. "They always will."
She considers that.
"About the poll," she says suddenly.
"You saw it," I say.
"Of course I did," she replies. "It's my job to see things before other people do."
"Do you care?" I ask.
"Yes," she says simply. "I worked for this. I'm not going to pretend I don't care when someone suggests handing it to someone else because she has a cooler accent."
I wince.
"That is not why they—" I begin.
"I know," she says, cutting me off. "You're not… stealing anything on purpose. But your presence changes things. That's what you were born to do, right? Walk into rooms and shift gravity?"
It is not said with kindness.
It is not said with hatred either.
Just… resignation.
"I am trying to be careful," I say quietly.
"I can tell," she replies. "That's what makes you dangerous."
We sit there, two girls with too many expectations balanced on our heads, watching boys throw a ball under the setting sun.
"Do you want to be queen again?" I ask suddenly.
She is quiet for a long time.
"I want," she says slowly, "to not have last year be the only thing they remember."
I think of that photo.
The empty space.
Queen without a king.
"They won't," I say. "Not if you write something better on top of it."
She looks at me.
"And you?" she asks. "What do you want from all of this?"
I watch Charles on the field, laughing as someone nearly tackles him.
I watch students in the stands, wrapped in blankets with school colors.
I watch the way the whole place seems to be leaning toward Saturday like a wave.
"I want," I say slowly, "a Homecoming that does not turn me into a symbol more than I already am. I want to leave this country knowing I made at least one thing better, not just messier. And I want…"
I stop.
"What?" she presses.
"I want to dance once," I admit softly, "without wondering who is watching."
She blinks.
Then, unexpectedly, she laughs.
"Good luck with that," she says. "We live in the age of phones."
"Then I will settle for pretending," I say.
She leans back, eyes on the field again.
"Maybe," she says, "if we do this right, by the time they're done staring, they'll be looking at more than your dress."
"Like what?" I ask.
"Like who you choose to stand next to," she says.
The implication hangs there.
I do not answer.
The whistle blows.
Practice ends.
A few minutes later, Charles jogs up the bleachers, still in his jersey, hair damp with sweat.
"Hey," he pants, dropping onto the bench on my other side. "You came."
"I was dragged," I say.
"No, she wasn't," Madison lies. "She floated here on a cloud of judgment."
"Accurate," I say.
He laughs.
"So," he says, wiping his forehead with the edge of his shirt, "what are we all brooding about?"
"Nothing," Madison says quickly.
"Everything," I say at the same time.
He looks between us.
"Cool," he says. "Love the clarity."
Madison stands, dusting imaginary dirt off her jeans.
"I have to go," she says. "Poster emergency. See you two tomorrow."
She walks away, shoulders straight, head high.
Charles watches her go.
Then he looks at me.
"So," he says. "Want to lie to each other and say Saturday is going to be fine?"
I laugh once.
"Yes," I say. "Let's."
"Okay," he says. "Saturday is going to be fine."
"Saturday is going to be a disaster," I reply.
He grins.
"At least we'll be in it together," he says.
My heart does that annoying flutter thing again.
"I did not agree to that," I say.
"Too late," he replies. "You're already in my scandal radius."
I roll my eyes.
But as we walk down the bleachers together, the field lights flickering on behind us, I realize something.
Homecoming is not just a game or a dance or a crown.
It is a test.
Of who we are when the whole school is watching.
Of who we stand beside when the music is too loud.
Of whether I can be both princess and person in a room full of people who want me to be one or the other.
The tension is building.
The polls are ticking.
The banners are drying.
And somewhere between France and America, between crown and classroom, between Madison's control and Charles's chaos, I am starting to see the outlines of something else.
Not a fairy tale.
Not a scandal.
A choice.
Mine.
And when that stage light hits me on Saturday—because of course it will—maybe, just maybe, I'll be ready to stand in it.
On my own two feet.
With my own words in my mouth.
And with the people I chose beside me.