The Prince and the Punk [EDITING]

Chapter 42

Janice

It's been a nonstop party in the outskirts of Unum.

When the king was first shot, celebrations broke out in the street and lasted days. Even two weeks later, the energy remains. People I pass on the street seem happier than I've ever seen anyone in this neighborhood, and it's alarming.

The way people here—namely Dics—see it, the King has been guillotined. It's perceived as a step toward revolution, a great day for anarchy. A holiday for every detached anti-monarchy nut under the sun.

I'd like to think I'm much more sensitive, but part of me can't help feeling relieved by the event. Maybe the king wasn't a complete monster, but he was certainly mad with power. Anyone with that little empathy doesn't deserve to run a kingdom.

Or maybe I'm just still bitter about the whole draft thing.

I'm sure it's a load off Xavier's back, too. I mean, the guy made it his personal mission to control his son's life. His death must make things a lot less stressful.

Not that I condone murder. Especially not when it's committed by that bitch Francine Herman.

Frankly, I forgot she existed once the fighting started. By then, there wasn't any room to hate each other, and once I got home, I had a lot more to think about than her stupid vendetta. Yet here she is, resurfacing to add yet another layer of drama to life.

I sigh, giving a halfhearted wave as a particularly rowdy group leaves the café. They're the only customers I've had today, but they leave a bigger mess than a full dining room would. Cloth napkins are soaked, stained, torn, and quite possibly ruined, and cold fries are scattered all over the place. There's even a broken glass on the floor, and a huge puddle the of soda and ice it once contained.

I throw the dishes that are still intact into the sink and return to the front with a rag. I sweep the crumbs, shards, and fries into the trash can and wipe down the counter, grimacing when I put my hand in something sticky.

When I finish the counter, I go to mop up the soda on the floor, but I barely make it past the counter before slipping on an ice cube and plummeting to the ground like a cartoon character. I fall flat on my back and lie there for a minute, the wind knocked out of me.

Someone—Danny, I assume—laughs and reaches an arm out to help me up.

I pull myself up with a small grunt and nearly fall back down when I realize whose hand I'm holding.

It's not Danny's.

It's Xavier's.

I feel my cheeks flush bright red.

"Hi," he says.

"Uh... hi," I mumble. "I didn't see you come in."

"Yeah, you seemed busy," he snickers.

"Cleaning!" I reply. "You know how it is—if I don't do it, no one will."

I realize I'm still holding his hand and let it go abruptly, taking a step back and clearing my throat.

"I mean, what if someone important came in? I'd be humiliated!" I continue with an awkward laugh.

He smiles. "God forbid I was someone important."

I chuckle, and there's a pause. "Um, I'm sorry about your dad."

Xavier's face falls. "Don't—don't worry about it."

"Yeah..." I mumble. "You've probably heard that enough times by now."

"And then some."

Silence ensues.