The Prince: A Selection Novella (HarperTeen Impulse)

again.
    She had a scar on her wrist, a scrape she got climbing a tree when she was eleven. It was my fault. She was a bit less ladylike at the time, and I convinced her—well, challenged her—to race me to the top of one of the trees on the edge of the garden. I won.
    Daphne had a crippling fear of the dark, and since I had fears of my own, I never teased her for it. And she never teased me. Not on anything that really mattered anyway.
    She was allergic to shellfish. Her favorite color was yellow. Try as she may, she could not sing to save her life. She could dance, though, so it was probably even more of a disappointment that I didn’t ask her to last night.
    When I was sixteen she sent me a new camera bag for Christmas. Even though I’d never given any indication that I wanted to get rid of the one I had, it meant so much to me that she was aware of my likes, and I switched it out anyway. I still used it.
    I stretched beneath my sheets, turning my head toward where the bag rested. I wondered how much time she’d spent picking out the right one.
    Maybe Daphne was right. We had more history than I’d recognized. We’d lived our relationship through scattered visits and sporadic phone calls, so I never would have dreamed it added up to as much as it truly did.
    And now she was on a plane back to France, where Frederick was waiting for her.
    I climbed out of bed, shrugged off my rumpled shirt and suit pants, and made my way to the shower. As the water washed away the remnants of my birthday, I tried to dismiss my thoughts.
    But I couldn’t shelve her nagging accusation about the state of my heart. Did I not know love at all? Had I tasted it and cast it off? And if so, how was I supposed to navigate the Selection?
    Advisors ran around the palace with stacks of entry forms for the Selection, smiling at me like they knew something I didn’t. From time to time, one would pat me on the back or whisper an encouraging remark, as if they sensed that I was suddenly doubting the one thing in my life I’d always counted on, the one thing I hoped for.
    “Today’s batch is very promising,” one would say.
    “You’re a lucky man,” another commented.
    But as the entries piled up, all I could think about was Daphne and her cutting words.
    I should have been studying the figures of the financial report before me, but instead I studied my father. Had he somehow sabotaged me? Made it so I was missing a fundamental understanding of what it meant to be in a romantic relationship? I’d seen him interact with my mother. There was affection between them, if not passion. Wasn’t that enough? Was that what I was meant to be aiming for?
    I stared into space, debating. Maybe he thought that if I sought anything more, I’d have a terrible time traversing the Selection. Or perhaps that I’d be disappointed if I didn’t find something life-changing. It was probably for the best that I never mentioned I was hoping for just that.
    But maybe he had no such designs. People simply are who they are. Father was strict, a sword sharpened under the pressure of running a country that was surviving constant wars and rebel attacks. Mother was a blanket, softened by growing up with nothing, and ever seeking to protect and comfort.
    I knew in my core I was more like her than him. Not something I minded, but Father did.
    So maybe making me slow about expressing myself was intentional, part of the process intended to harden me.
    You’re too stupid to see love when it stands right in front of you .
    “Snap out of it, Maxon.” I whipped my head toward my father’s voice.
    “Sir?”
    His face was tired. “How many times do I have to tell you? The Selection is about making a solid, rational choice, not another opportunity for you to daydream.”
    An advisor walked into the room, handing a letter to Father as I straightened the stack of papers, tapping them against the desk. “Yes, sir.”
    He read the paper, and I looked at him one last time.
    Maybe.
    No.
    At the end of the day, no. He wanted to make me a man, not a machine.
    With a grunt, he crumpled the paper and threw it in the trash. “Damn rebels.”
    I spent the better part of the next morning working in my room, away from prying eyes. I felt much more productive when I was alone, and if I wasn’t productive, at least I wasn’t being chastised. I guessed that wouldn’t last all day, based on the invitation I received.
    “You called for me?” I asked, stepping into my father’s