Here, though, here is different, and no one seems to care who they all are, not that Imperia can tell them, because everyone here thinks fairy tales are make-believe. So Imperia can’t say,
I’m next in line to the throne
, and expect it to mean anything, and she can’t threaten them with her grandfather’s Ultimate Authority, and her glares don’t seem to be working either.
She has no real tricks any more and she tried to tell Daddy that, but he didn’t understand. Daddy’s a pacifist, and he’s probably not going to like the way that Imperia defended Grace—Daddy’s going to hate the idea of fists—and Imperia doesn’t want the principal to say anything. Imperia’s been sitting on the expensive leather chair next to the reception desk, hugging her legs to her chest and resting her face against her knees, wondering how she’s going to manipulate this conversation.
After all, Imperia doesn’t have charm and she’s too young to have magic (Girls don’t come into their magic until they’re too old to have children), and so she’s just going to have to wing it. And time has proven that Imperia isn’t good at winging things.
“Miss Encanto,” the receptionist says, putting a hand on the little thing that looks like an earbud jutting out of her ear. “Principal Daley will see you now.”
Imperia takes a deep breath but through her nose, a trick she learned a long time ago. If she takes it through her nose, no one knows she’s trying to calm nerves. Grandmother taught her that and a few other tricks, all designed to show how strong she is even when she’s not feeling strong at all.
Then Imperia puts her feet down decisively and stands up straight, raising her chin just like Grandmother taught her to do. It makes her look regal, or so Grandmother says, and right now, Imperia needs regal.
She doesn’t have anything else to help her. She can’t even rely on clothes to help her (which is Mom’s best way of coping) because she has to wear the stupid school uniform, all black and gray with a white shirt that inevitably get covered with food stains, and a coat over it all that’s really hot, especially at moments like this. She also has to wear knee socks and the most uncomfortable black shoes ever invented.
No one looks good in this outfit which, Daddy says, is the point.
But Imperia is trying. She walks to that ornate door, pulls it open, and steps inside.
The principal’s office smells of lavender and old wood. Normally, Imperia would like those smells, but this moment isn’t normal. She stands with her hands behind her back because she knows better than to sit uninvited. Not that the chairs in here are comfortable. They’re wooden chairs with red leather seats, designed as miniature torture chambers (as Daddy said after he sat in one), but they do match the couch off to one side.
Principal Daley sits behind her desk. She’s a tiny woman with a pile of black hair. She gets to wear whatever she wants, which is usually something silk and expensive. Even her glasses are expensive. Right now, they’re perched on the edge of her nose, a chain hanging from the earpieces on either side of her face. The chain glitters in the overhead light. Principal Daley is reading a piece of paper and doesn’t even look up as Imperia stands there.
“Don’t hover, child,” Principal Daley says, immediately putting Imperia on the defensive.
She’s not
hovering
. She’s
standing
, waiting like she was trained to do. But she forgets: No one in the Greater World knows the finer points of etiquette. (If they knew the finer points of etiquette—and they knew who she was—they would all bow their heads as she passed.)
Imperia moves toward the chair slowly because, after all, Principal Daley didn’t tell her to sit, just told her to stop hovering. Imperia’s beginning to figure out how elliptically conversation works in the Greater World, and assumes that a command to stop hovering is also a command to sit down.
So she does. Gingerly.
Principal Daley sets her paper down, takes off her glasses, and lets them fall against her chest. “How is your sister?”
I don’t know
, Imperia wants to say.
Your goons dragged me off before I could check
.
But she knows better. Daddy said to treat Principal Daley the way Imperia would treat Grandfather because Warren Excellence Academy is Principal Daley’s little kingdom. So Imperia knows better than to mouth off.
But she isn’t quite sure how to answer the question, so she falls back on the cliché about honesty and the best policy.
“The last time I saw her, she was standing with her hand over her mouth,” Imperia says.
“Hmm.” Principal Daley’s lips twitch. Imperia wonders if she’s hiding a smile, then decides that’s not possible. Principals and kings don’t smile, at least not involuntarily. “I see you took the matter into your own hands.”
Imperia doesn’t answer that. It’s an incriminating—if true—statement that’s better left alone.
“Your father has been quite angry with us about the way Grace has been treated,” Principal Daley says.
“He’s not the only one,” Imperia blurts, then bites her lower lip.
“He calls it bullying,” Principal Daley says.
“It
is
bullying,” Imperia says. “They’re calling her names. She cries every day, and you’re not doing anything.”
So much for watching her tongue.
“That’s why you decided to do something on your own.”
Imperia sits tall in the chair, keeps her shoulders back and meets Principal Daley’s gaze. Imperia is not going to admit she’s wrong, because she’s not wrong, no matter what the rules are, no matter what Daddy says about violence. Skylar Kennedy Campbell wasn’t listening to reason. Skylar Kennedy Campbell wasn’t listening at all.
And besides, nothing can compare to the feeling that Imperia had when Skylar Kennedy Campbell toppled backwards, her nose gushing blood all over her white shirt, and her eyes filling with tears.
“You do realize that Skylar’s parents are going to want an apology,” Principal Daley says.
“They’re not going to get one.” Imperia crosses her arms.
“No, I suppose not.” Principal Daley sighs. “So I’ll give you a choice. You can apologize or I can talk with your father.”
“Talk to him,” Imperia says. “He’s the one who told me that I should stand up for Grace. Someone has to and it’s clear this school is not going to.”
Principal Daley’s mouth thins, just like Grandmother’s when she’s trying not to speak her mind. “I can also write you up. In this school you have three warnings before you get expelled. If you get expelled, you will be part of a list sent to other exclusive schools in the area notifying them about problem children.”
“Is a write-up a warning?” Imperia asks.
“Yes,” Principal Daley says.
“Then give me a damn warning,” Imperia says, hearing an echo of her grandfather’s voice in her own. “And if swearing gets me another warning so be it. I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done. I think you people play favorites here, and because my family is unknown and Skylar’s isn’t, you’re favoring her. My father will understand and he and Grace are the only people I care about.”
The principal’s eyes brighten for just a moment. It’s almost a twinkle. Imperia has the distinct impression that she’s both amusing and impressing the principal, but the principal can’t say anything because she’s afraid of Skylar’s family.
Which makes Imperia even angrier.
“For the record,” Imperia says as she stands up, “I really don’t care if you expel me. I thought school would be wonderful here, but it’s not. It’s all about who you are, not about what you can learn. So expel me. I’d rather be home-schooled anyway. And it would certainly be better for Grace.”
“Hmm.” Principal Daley says, picking up that paper and putting the glasses back on her nose. “
Would
it be better for Grace? After all, if you get expelled, she won’t have a protector here.”
Imperia straightens. “She’ll leave with me.”
“Ah, but your sister is getting marvelous grades and behaves beautifully, even when faced with difficult circumstances.”
Principal Daley’s twinkle suddenly reveals itself as something evil. She isn’t admiring Imperia. Principal Daley knows she has Imperia beaten.
“If you get expelled, your sister will remain,” Principal Daley says.
Imperia opens her mouth to say,
Daddy will take her out of school
, and Daddy probably will, but Imperia doesn’t know that for sure, and besides, why continue to argue with Principal Daley? The woman is the king here, and kings always win when they fight on their home turf.
Even if Imperia and Grace leave,
especially
if they leave, Principal Daley will still think she won.
“Am I excused?” Imperia asks.
“You’re not excused, child, but you may leave,” Principal Daley says.
Imperia stares at her for a moment, but Principal Daley studies the paper in front of her as if Imperia doesn’t exist. Which makes Imperia even angrier, just like it’s supposed to.
Finally, she turns, leaves, and concentrates very, very hard on not slamming that carved door shut. She doesn’t want Principal Daley to know just how mad she really is.
Imperia doesn’t want Principal Daley to know that she’s won.
THREE
At least Grace is better. Imperia finds her in the crowded cafeteria, which is more like a restaurant, with potted plants and more damn wood, as if this stupid school was in some snowy mountainous region instead of one of the hottest places Imperia has ever seen.
The cafeteria smells like hamburgers and pizza, but it has a huge salad bar and a low-fat menu that rivals some of the area’s most exclusive restaurants. A lot of kids are supposed to eat only from the low-fat menu, and there are employees here who actually enforce parental food decrees.
Imperia is glad she isn’t under a parental food decree, but she does think the food in the place could improve. There is no mutton, for example, nor is there any stewed pigeon, both favorites of hers. The game meats are frowned upon—she isn’t supposed to admit that she’s eaten wild boar, apparently—but bland chicken breast is okay.
She thought the food would be better here in the Greater World too, but she was wrong about that as well.
Fortunately she and Grace share a lunch period so Imperia’s been able to defend Grace. Most of the trouble happens at lunch, although this morning’s trouble happened before class even started. Then Imperia spent two hours in the principal’s office which, even she has to admit, hadn’t gone as well as she would have liked.
After leaving the principal’s office, Imperia hurried to the cafeteria only to find Grace sitting calmly at one of the back tables, having a toasted ham-and-cheese sandwich, something she’s fallen in love with. Imperia hasn’t found anything to love yet on the menu, but she hasn’t really looked, as busy as she’s been defending Grace.
This lunch period, though, Grace is happily munching away, a closed book beside her. The closed book is odd too (Grace usually reads in crowds) but even odder is that Grace is grinning—at a gaggle of girls who are sitting with her.
Imperia doesn’t recognize any of them.
Her stomach clenches and she wonders what these girls have planned for Grace. Especially since Grace is looking particularly relaxed, and when Grace looks relaxed, she also looks pretty. Normally, everyone agrees that Imperia is the family beauty, much as she resents it since her so-called beauty comes from Mom. (In fact, Imperia looks
exactly
like Mom did at the same age, minus the ashes and the dirt, of course.)
But Grace looks like a blond version of Dad, all square-jawed and blue-eyed. Grandmother says Grace will grow into her looks, but that’s not a phrase that anyone likes, especially Grace, who wants to have her looks now.
It’s hard to be the duckling in a family of swans, particularly a somewhat chubby duckling with a square jaw and a shy manner. Shy chubby ducklings usually get ignored, which Imperia is beginning to think preferable to this relentless bullying that Grace has endured since they’ve come to the Warren Excellence Academy.
And Imperia is afraid the bullying is going to start again.
Imperia stalks over to the table, her hands already clenched into fists. The bruises on her right hand ache as she does this, but she tries to ignore it all.
Grace looks up as Imperia gets closer and smiles as if she’s really, really happy. Now Imperia is very worried, because she knows how this stuff works: Get the victim to go along, thinking that she’s in the group now, and then say or do something so crushing that it destroys the girl’s spirit.
Imperia wants to say she’s never done anything like that, but of course she can’t. She’s the second in line to the throne, for heaven’s sake. If someone needed crushing—and a few kids did back at the palace—then Imperia found it best to do the crushing herself.
“Grace,” Imperia says with some caution in her voice. All the other girls at the table look up, and Imperia realizes they’re Grace’s age. The girls who’ve been picking on Grace are older.
Some of these girls are a bit portly and a few wear somewhat hideous glasses. One girl has a French manicure—or would if she hadn’t chewed off the tips and the cuticles—and another girl has braids that are coming loose.