The Prince: A Selection Novella (HarperTeen Impulse)

in the back of the studio. “Thank you.”
    “Me, too,” Mom said, and the two young women walked away.
    I toyed with a container, trying not to think about the passing seconds.
    “Maxon, sweetie, are you really okay?” Mom asked, looking not at me but at my reflection. I looked back at hers.
    “It’s just . . . it’s . . .”
    “I know. It’s nerve-racking for everyone involved, but at the end of the day, it’s just hearing the names of a few girls. That’s all.”
    I inhaled slowly and nodded. That was one way to look at it. Names. That was all that was happening. Just a list of names and nothing more.
    I drew in another breath.
    It was a good thing I hadn’t eaten much today.
    I turned and walked to my seat on the set, where Father was already waiting.
    He shook his head. “Get it together. You look like hell.”
    “How did you do this?” I begged.
    “I faced it with confidence because I was the prince. As will you. Need I remind you that you’re the prize?” His face looked tired again, like I ought to have already grasped this. “They’re competing for you, not the other way around. Your life isn’t changing at all, except you’ll have to deal with a couple of overly excited females for a few weeks.”
    “What if I don’t like any of them?”
    “Then pick the one you hate the least. Preferably one that’s useful. Don’t worry on that count, though; I’ll help.”
    If he intended that to be a calming thought, he failed.
    “Ten seconds,” someone called, and my mother came to her seat, giving me a comforting wink.
    “Remember to smile,” Father prompted, and turned to face the cameras confidently.
    Suddenly the anthem was playing and people were speaking. I realized I ought to be paying attention, but all of my focus was driven toward keeping a calm and happy expression on my face.
    I didn’t register much until I heard Gavril’s familiar voice.
    “Good evening, Your Majesty,” he said, and I swallowed in fear before realizing he was addressing my father.
    “Gavril, always good to see you.”
    “Looking forward to the announcement?”
    “Ah, yes. I was in the room yesterday as a few were drawn; all very lovely girls.” He was so smooth, so natural.
    “So you know who they are already?” Gavril asked excitedly.
    “Just a few, just a few.” A complete fabrication, pulled off with incredible ease.
    “Did he happen to share any of this information with you, sir?” Now Gavril was talking to me, the glint from his lapel pin sparkling in the bright lights as he moved.
    Father turned to me, his eyes reminding me to smile. I did so and answered.
    “Not at all. I’ll see them when everyone else does.” Ugh, I should have said the ladies , not them . They were guests, not pets. I discreetly wiped the sweat from my palms on my pants.
    “Your Majesty,” Gavril said, moving to my mother. “Any advice for the Selected?”
    I watched her. How long did it take for her to become so poised, so flawless? Or was she always that way? A bashful tilt of her head and even Gavril melted.
    “Enjoy your last night as an average girl. Tomorrow, no matter what, your life will be different forever.” Yes, ladies, yours and mine both . “And it’s old advice, but it’s good: be yourself.”
    “Wise words, my queen, wise words.” He turned with a wide sweep of his arm to the cameras. “And with that, let us reveal the thirty-five young ladies chosen for the Selection. Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in congratulating the following Daughters of Illéa.”
    I watched the monitors as the national emblem popped up, leaving a small box in the corner showing my face. What? They were going to watch me the whole time?
    Mom put her hand on mine, just out of the sight of the camera. I breathed in. Then out. Then in again.
    Just a bunch of names. Not a big deal. Not like they were announcing one, and she was it.
    “Miss Elayna Stoles of Hansport, Three,” Gavril read off a card. I worked hard to smile a little brighter. “Miss Tuesday Keeper of Waverly, Four,” he continued.
    Still looking excited, I bent toward Father. “I feel sick,” I whispered.
    “Just breathe,” he answered back through his teeth. “You should have looked yesterday; I knew it.”
    “Miss Fiona Castley of Paloma, Three.”
    I looked over to Mom. She smiled. “Very pretty.”
    “Miss America Singer of Carolina, Five.”
    I heard the word Five and realized that must have been one of Father’s throwaway