If there is one thing Americans do better than drama, it is pretending drama is about school spirit.
Homecoming day is proof.
By eight in the morning, Lincoln Private Academy has turned into a costume party for people who pretended they were above costume parties.
Everyone is in blue and gold.
T‑shirts. Hoodies. Painted faces. Glitter.
Banners flutter from the windows, hand‑painted slogans dripping slightly because someone got too excited with the paintbrush.
"GO EAGLES!"
"CRUSH RIVERTON!"
"MAKE HISTORY (AND PASS MATH)!"
I have to admit, they're committed.
"Here," Aaliyah says, shoving something at me as I step out of the car.
I look down.
A blue and gold scarf.
"I already have a scarf," I say, gesturing to the pale one around my neck.
"That one says 'Paris in autumn,'" she replies. "This one says 'I might actually care if we win this ridiculous game.'"
"I do not," I protest.
"Exactly," she says. "It's aspirational."
I take it.
Not because I care about the game.
But because it makes her smile.
My outfit today is a compromise: dark jeans, a white blouse, navy blazer. The scarf adds a streak of school color. My hair is in a low ponytail again. If the cameras are going to be here—and they will be—I at least want to look like I chose this.
"Hey," Charles calls, jogging up beside us, backpack slung over one shoulder. His face is painted with two thin blue lines under his eyes. His jersey hangs over his hoodie. "Nice scarf, France. Look at you, assimilating."
"I am supporting the textile industry," I reply. "Do not get excited."
He grins.
"You coming to the game tonight?" he asks.
"Yes," I say. "Apparently, this is an important American ritual. Like Thanksgiving. Or suing people."
Aaliyah snorts so loudly she scares a passing freshman.
"And the announcement?" Charles presses.
My stomach flips.
The announcement.
At halftime, they will read the Homecoming court results.
Names.
Titles.
Photos forever.
"I am not thinking about it," I say. "That is my plan."
"That is not a plan," he replies.
"It is my current plan," I insist.
He sighs. "Okay. Denial buddies it is."
Classes are short today.
Apparently, when there is a game, education is a suggestion.
By midday, no one is paying attention. Teachers give up halfway through lessons and let people work on posters or talk quietly. The hallways are full of half‑finished signs and people yelling over each other.
"Monique, look!" Jonah says, waving a banner at me in art. "We made you."
He turns it around.
It is a cartoon eagle wearing a tiny crown.
I stare.
"It's symbolic," Maya explains. "School spirit plus monarchy equals… you."
"I am not an eagle," I say.
"Metaphorically," Jonah says.
"Metaphorically, I am also not an eagle," I reply.
They laugh.
Even the teachers seem looser today.
In French, Madame actually lets me read a passage and does not cry when I correct her accent.
In history, Mr. Daniels ends the class by saying, "Remember: empires fall. Football games end. You'll all still have homework Monday."
Groans echo around the room.
He glances at me.
"That includes you, Your Highness," he adds.
I sigh. "Tragic."
By late afternoon, the campus transforms again.
The field is lit by tall floodlights. Bleachers rise on either side, already filling with people. A band warms up near one end zone, brass gleaming in the fading light. Parents, siblings, neighbors all pile in, wrapped in blankets and team colors.
Vendors sell hot dogs and something that smells aggressively like artificial cheese.
I stand at the edge of the bleachers, taking it all in.
"Overwhelmed yet?" Aaliyah asks, appearing at my elbow with a bag of popcorn the size of her head.
"Yes," I say. "But I am choosing not to show it."
"That's your whole brand," she says. "Come on. We saved you a seat."
She drags me up toward the middle, where Jonah, Maya, and Priya are already crammed together.
"Welcome to our suffering zone," Jonah says, scooting over.
"You came," Priya says quietly, smiling.
"I said I would," I reply.
On the field, the players run drills.
I spot Charles easily.
Number 12, jersey tight over his pads, helmet tucked under his arm as he listens to the coach. He looks focused. Less like a joke. More like an athlete.
I find myself holding my breath as he jogs onto the field with the team.
"He's good, you know," Priya says softly.
"I have heard," I say.
"You'll see," Aaliyah adds. "He has that stupid golden‑retriever‑with‑a‑cannon‑for‑an‑arm thing going on."
"Golden retriever?" I echo.
Maya laughs. "I'll explain later."
The band strikes up.
The other team runs out.
The game begins.
I don't care about football.
I tell myself this over and over.
And yet.
Every time Charles throws the ball, my heart jumps.
Every time someone runs toward him too fast, I grip the edge of the bench.
Every time the crowd roars, I find myself shouting, too, even if I don't fully understand what just happened.
"Okay, so when they get it into that zone, it's a touchdown—" Jonah starts.
"I know that," I say. "I am not completely ignorant."
"You don't have to know the rules," Aaliyah says. "Just cheer when we do well and boo when they do."
"Very nuanced," I reply.
By the time halftime approaches, the score is close.
Too close.
Riverton is up by a field goal.
The announcer's voice booms over the speakers.
"And that will bring us to halftime!" he calls. "Don't go anywhere, folks—we've got your favorite part of Homecoming coming up: introductions of this year's Homecoming Court!"
My stomach drops.
"Oh no," I whisper.
"Oh yes," Aaliyah says grimly.
Students begin shifting in their seats, leaning forward. The band starts playing an upbeat march. Cheerleaders line up near the fifty‑yard line.
A row of students gathers at the edge of the field, ready to walk out.
I recognize some of them.
Madison, in a deep blue dress under her coat, hair perfect even in the wind.
Others from student council.
Athletes.
People I've seen in clubs.
My heart hammers harder.
"Don't freak out," Aaliyah says.
"I am not freaking out," I say.
"You're squeezing my arm like I owe you money," she replies.
I force my hand to loosen.
The announcer booms again.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your Homecoming Court nominees!"
One by one, names are read.
"From the senior class—Tyler James!"
Cheers.
People clap.
He jogs out, waves, looks vaguely embarrassed.
"Priya Shah!"
Priya squeaks.
"What?" I gasp.
She goes red. "I forgot to tell you," she whispers. "I didn't think I'd actually make it."
"Go," I say, shoving her lightly. "Allez."
She hurries down the bleachers, face flushed, as her name echoes again.
More names.
More cheers.
Then:
"Madison Hayes!"
The sound that rises from the bleachers is deafening.
She walks out like she was born for this. Because she was, in a way. Waves. Smiles. Owns it.
"And… Monique de Beaumont!"
Everything stops.
For a second, I think I misheard.
Then the sound hits.
Cheering.
Whistling.
Someone near the top yells, "Vive la France!"
I want to disappear.
"I did not sign up," I hiss.
"Doesn't matter," Aaliyah says, eyes wide. "You're on the ballot. They voted."
"My mother will kill me," I whisper.
"Your mother will post a very supportive statement," Jonah mutters. "Now go."
"I can't," I say. "This is—"
"Already happening," Aaliyah cuts in. "You can either walk down there like it's your choice or look like they dragged you."
Her words back in the White House echo in my mind.
What do you want, Monique?
One day where I am not only the princess.
I stand.
The sound swells.
I feel dozens—hundreds—of eyes on me as I make my way down the steps.
My legs are steady.
My heart is not.
On the field, the grass feels softer than I expect.
The wind bites my cheeks.
Lights glare.
Madison's gaze flicks to me as I take my place in line.
Her expression is unreadable.
Then, very slightly, she smirks.
"Welcome to the circus," she murmurs.
"At least the costumes are better than at Versailles," I murmur back.
She huffs a laugh.
We stand shoulder to shoulder as the announcer lists names, accomplishments, clubs.
I only half-hear mine.
"—exchange student from France, daughter of prominent European political family, active in language club and student council initiatives—"
Lies.
Embroidery.
Partial truths.
It doesn't matter.
What matters is this:
I am standing here because they put my name down.
But I am staying here because I chose not to run.
Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably five minutes, the announcer booms:
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, it is time to announce your Homecoming King and Queen!"
The air tightens.
I feel it like a chord pulled taut across the field.
"Your Homecoming King…" he says slowly, dragging it out, "by a considerable majority…"
Of course.
"—Charles Winchester!"
The stadium erupts.
I almost laugh.
Of course.
I glance toward the sidelines.
He's standing near the bench, helmet off, hair damp with sweat, jersey smeared with grass stains.
He looks stunned.
The coach claps him on the back, mutters something in his ear. His teammates shove him forward, hooting.
"Go!" someone yells.
He jogs out onto the field, looking half‑mortified, half‑amused.
"Oh, he's dead," Aaliyah mutters from the stands. "He is so dead."
He reaches our line, breath visible in the cool air.
His eyes find mine.
For a moment, the noise falls away.
There is just me.
Him.
And the memory of his words in the car.
I'm not doing that again.
Apparently, he is.
Differently.
On his terms.
"Your Majesty," he says under his breath as he takes his place.
"You are the king," I reply. "Not me."
He winces. "Don't remind me."
"And now," the announcer booms, drawing out the vowels like a game show host, "your Homecoming Queen…"
The entire world seems to hold its breath.
I know who it will be.
Of course I do.
This is her stage.
Her story.
"—Madison Hayes!"
The sound that follows is less an explosion, more an exhale.
Yes.
Of course.
She doesn't move for a half second.
Then she steps forward.
Smile bright.
Spine straight.
This is what she expected.
What everyone expected.
The announcer continues.
"Congratulations to our queen, Madison," he says. "And a special note of thanks to our runner‑up, Monique de Beaumont, who received a remarkable number of votes for a first‑year student."
I want to evaporate.
Instead, I clap politely.
Madison glances at me.
Her eyes are shimmering.
With triumph.
With relief.
With something else.
I nod once.
It is not surrender.
It is acknowledgment.
This is hers.
Tonight.
She takes Charles's hand when they place the plastic crown on his head and the tiara on hers.
Flashbulbs pop.
Phones rise.
The announcer drones on about tradition.
For a heartbeat, last year's photo recreates itself.
Except this time, the space next to her is not empty.
He is there.
Present.
Choosing.
I cannot hear what they say to each other.
But I see the stiffness in his shoulders.
The way he squeezes her hand once, quickly, then lets go as soon as they're allowed.
They do the required walk to the fifty‑yard line, wave to the crowd, pose.
Then it is over.
The band plays.
The court disperses.
"Runner‑up isn't bad for someone who didn't want to be up there," Aaliyah says when I make it back to the bleachers.
"I still do not want it," I say. "That was… enough."
She studies my face.
"You okay?" she asks.
I think about Madison's eyes.
Charles's expression.
The weight in my chest.
"I am…" I begin.
I stop.
I search for the right word.
"Alert," I say finally.
She nods. "Good enough."
The second half of the game is more intense.
Maybe because the court announcement is out of the way.
Maybe because I am too keyed up to sit still.
Lincoln is still behind.
Not by much.
But enough that the energy is taut.
"Twelve minutes," Jonah mutters. "We can do this."
"There is too much yelling," I say.
"That's the point," Maya replies.
On the field, Charles looks more focused now.
Less distracted.
He calls plays.
He throws.
He gets knocked down.
He gets up again.
"Why do you care?" I ask myself silently, every time my heart jumps.
The clock ticks down.
Riverton scores again.
The crowd groans.
"Okay," Aaliyah says. "This is not going well."
Lincoln gets the ball.
Last drive.
My palms are sweating.
I do not know all the rules.
But even I understand that this is it.
Do it now.
Or lose.
They move down the field.
Little bits at a time.
Short passes.
Runs.
Stalls.
Then.
Ten seconds left.
Twenty yards to the end zone.
The coach calls a timeout.
The team huddles.
From here, they look like a knot of blue and gold.
When they break, Charles steps back to his position.
The stadium feels like it is breathing with him.
He glances toward the bleachers.
Toward me.
Our eyes meet.
He nods once.
Like this is also a performance we have agreed to share.
The ball snaps.
He drops back.
I swear everything slows down.
Riverton's defense charges.
He dodges one.
Then another.
He looks.
Sees nothing.
Right at the line, just before they crush him, he runs.
He dives.
The noise is so loud I cannot hear my own thoughts.
He crosses the line.
Touchdown.
"Did he—" I start.
"Yes!" Aaliyah screams in my ear. "He did!"
The band blares.
People are on their feet.
Students are hugging.
Someone behind me spills an entire drink.
I do not care.
On the field, his teammates pile on top of him.
For a moment, he disappears under a sea of bodies.
Then he emerges.
Breathing hard.
Laughing.
Alive.
I let out a breath I did not realize I was holding.
"Okay," I say. "Maybe football is slightly less stupid than I thought."
"High praise," Jonah says, wiping his eyes.
Lincoln wins.
Of course they do.
It feels scripted.
But in a good way.
The night air is cold when we finally leave the bleachers.
"See you at the dance?" Aaliyah asks, bouncing on her toes.
"Yes," I say.
She squints at me. "You don't sound excited."
"I am… nervous," I admit.
She squeezes my arm. "We'll be there. You're not walking into that gym alone."
"I never do," I say.
From the field, I see Charles talking to his coach, to his father, to reporters. Cameras flash. Microphones appear.
He gives a few answers.
Smiles.
Then, when he thinks no one is looking, he leans over, hands braced on his knees, and exhales like he is finally letting the weight off his shoulders.
He looks up.
Our eyes meet across the chaos.
He grins.
And for a brief, impossible second, it feels like this moment is not for the cameras, not for the voters, not for the alumni.
Just for us.
Back at the White House, the post‑game awkwardness feels heavier than my boots.
"Good game," the president says, clapping Charles on the back so hard he almost falls into his cereal.
"Thanks, Dad," he mutters.
"Congratulations, Monique," the First Lady adds as we sit. "Runner‑up on your first Homecoming. That's impressive."
"Merci," I say. "I am… glad Madison won."
My mother raises an eyebrow.
"Oh?" she asks.
"Yes," I say. "If I had won, it would have been another headline I did not choose."
She considers this.
"Fair," she says.
Charles looks at me.
"Did you mind?" he asks quietly, when the adults turn to other topics.
"What?"
"Being up there," he says. "Hearing your name. Hearing mine."
I think about it.
The glare of lights.
The weight of eyes.
The way my heart pounded when they said his name before mine.
"I minded the lack of warning," I say. "But… no. Not entirely."
He looks… surprised.
"You're not angry I didn't bail again?" he asks, half‑joking, half‑serious.
"No," I say. "If you had, she would have stood there alone again. And that would have been cruel."
He swallows.
"You're a better person than I am," he says.
"Obviously," I reply.
He laughs, the tension easing.
After breakfast, as we both head toward our separate rooms to get ready for the dance, he pauses at my door.
"Hey," he says.
"Yes?"
"Tonight," he says. "If things get… weird. Overwhelming. If the cameras won't leave you alone. Find me."
"You will be busy," I say. "King duties."
He makes a face. "My only duty is not to trip in front of the entire gym."
"And to dance with your queen," I remind him.
His expression shifts.
Softer.
Sadder.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "That too."
He leans one shoulder against the doorframe.
"But I can spare one dance," he adds. "Maybe two. For a certain French complication."
My heart does that ridiculous jump again.
"You assume I want to dance with you," I say.
He smirks.
"You're here," he says. "You could have stayed in France. I'm choosing to take that as a yes."
I roll my eyes.
"Go shower, American boy," I say. "You smell like victory and grass."
"Wow," he says, backing away. "Flattery and insults. My favorite."
When he's gone, I close my door and rest my forehead against it for a second.
Homecoming game: survived.
Homecoming court: survived.
Homecoming dance: incoming.
I look at myself in the mirror.
Princess of France.
Student at Lincoln.
Runner‑up.
Friend.
Complication.
"Okay," I tell my reflection. "One more performance. Then you can sleep for a hundred years."
She stares back at me.
Somehow, she looks… ready.
Or at least willing.
Sometimes, that is the same thing.