The New Royal Blood (Book 1)

Chapter 1

A/N: This is a fanficiton of the Selection. It does not have the same characters of the Selection but the idea is originally Kiera Cass'. I am in the process of editing it and changing it now but for the time being it is a fanfiction. Please do not comment that this story is too much like the Selection-it is called a fanficiton for a reason. Thank you. xoxo Alexis

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I don't want to compete for someone's heart. If you have to compete for their heart then it's never yours in the first place. That's what President Bider and royal family wants 50 girls to do. It was on Fox news last night. Every elligible lady, ages 15-19, are required to enter a selection to compete for a man that none of them have ever met, let alone seen. But I have to at least enter this contest. If I don't, they'll arrest my family.

"Camry, you need to fill out the form. Now," my mother calls from the living room.

"No," I groan.

"Cam, you know you have to fill it out. Maybe you will get selected," Emory, my little sister, says.

"Let's hope not," I mutter as I grab the form out of my mothers hand.

"Let's hope so, young lady. We could use a little extra income," my mother says.

"We don't need any extra money, Momma," I say. "And besides, I don't want to be in a contest for a mans heart when I don't even like him."

"How do you know that? You've never even met him," Momma exclaims.

"Exactly. He's never even made an effort to come to the U.S. to let us see him. I don't know what he looks like," I say.

"I heard that he was coming the week the selected are to be announced."

"Momma, the selected get letters sent to them. I don't think it's announced on national televison," I say slowly.

"Honey, it says it on the form," she says. I quickly scan it and sure enough it says that it'll be annoucned on TV and mailed to us.

"Ha!" I say.

"What?" Emory asks.

"It's going to be on TV and they're going to mail it," I say triumphantly.

"Just fill out the form," my momma sighs, "then tomorrow we'll go and get your picture taken."

"See momma, it obviously isn't randomly picked if you have to take pictures," I say but take the form and fill it out.

**********

"Get up, get up, get up!" my mom wakes me and I groggily roll over.

"Why?" I groan.

"You need to get ready for your picture!" she says. I sigh but then have a brillant idea.

"Fine, get out," I say, pushing her out of my room.

Once the door is closed, I turn to my dresser and pull out my favorite pair of sweats. They're gray with blue writing. Then I find a comfortable pink t-shirt and put it on. After pulling my hair into a messy bun, I apply a little bit of mascara and go to the living room.

"I'm ready," I call as I grab the form.

"Okay, then lets-," my mom starts to say but then lets out a squeak.

"What in the world are you wearing?" she screams.

"Sweats and a t-shirt," I respond.

"Go. Change. Now," she demands.

"I'm wearing this. I'll put on earings if you like or lip gloss but I'm not changing," I say. Seeing that I wasn't changing my mind my mom huffs and then walks out the door.

"Emory, we're leaving," I yell to her.

"Okay, I'm coming," she says but stops dead when she's see's my outfit.

"You really don't want to go, do you?" she says and I nod.

"I don't want some stupid chance to be a princess, or whatever the selected are called, to change who I am and what I wear," I explain as we get in the car.

"I understand, I guess but I would've dressed up at least a little," she states.

"Hey, I put on a little mascara," I protest and she starts laughing.

"Yeah, like anyone can see it," Emory says between giggles.

"That's the point," I smile.

"Where are you supposed to take your picture?" she asks once she stops laughing.

"The capitol," my mom answers.

"So, like Washington D.C. capitol or the capitol of South Carolina?" I ask.

"The capitol of South Carolina, Camry. Why in the world would we go to the countries capitol to take a picture and turn in a form?" my mom asks.

"Well, you didn't specify where it was," I say and she just rolls her eye's.

"We should be there in fifteen minutes. Please tell me you brought a change of clothes and a straightner," my mom begs and I laugh.

"Nope," I giggle.

"Lord help us," she says.

"Why don't you want to selected, Cam? You get to go to a palace and live in luxery and have dresses," Emory croons.

"I don't want to live far away from home and I hate dresses, you know that," I say.

I really do hate dresses. I don't even like to dress up for church. And I love my family, I don't want to go so far away. I've never been outside of South Carolina or out of the country so the thought frightends me.

"What about the luxery?" Emory asks as we pull into the state office.

"I guess it would be nice. That and having a big room."

Outside the office, there's a line of about 25 girls. All of them have styled their hair and are wearing beautiful dresses. At least half of them have a ton of make-up on their face while the other half has just has a little. I'm the only one in sweats. I smile at the thought.

"Go get in line," my mom urges and hands me the form.

I go stand behind a girl in high heels, a yellow dress that's bedazzled on the top, and has a ton of make-up on. She turns and looks at me.

"Oh, honey, you shouldn't even try. You aren't going to get selected looking like that," she scoffs.

"That's the plan," I smile at her. Her mouth drops open.

"You don't even want to get selected?" she asks.

"Not at all," I reply.

"Then what are you doing here?" she asks.

"I have to be here. It's the law to enter," I say and she rolls her eye's.

"I guess people from the south don't take anything seriously," she says.

"What do you mean? You don't live in South Carolina?" I ask.

"No, I'm visiting my great aunt who lives down here. I live in New York City but we weren't going to make it back to the big apple in time turn in my form so I had to turn it in here," she complains.

"But you have to enter from your home state," I protest as the line moves up.

"Technically, I can enter here because of my great aunt," she says.

"Well good for you," I say sarcastically.

"Sabrina Carters. Remember that name," she says.

"Why?"

"Because, I'm going to be the new Princess of England," she says and turns around.

Finally it's my turn. I hand in my form and stand in front of the camera.

"Are you sure you want to wear that?" the photographer asks.

"As sure as I'll ever be," I say and put on a big smile hoping that I'll never be picked.