A Prince's Tale

Chapter Two

Today she is making a scrapbook of memories; cutting out shapes of flowers and stars with multi-colored papers that come in stripes, polka dots or print. Blanket hovers in the background, being a good little helper as he runs around fetching whatever she wants.

“Get me the glue,” she’ll say and he’ll happily dash towards the other end of the room, scooting back on his hands and knees with said glue clutched in his small hands.

Sometimes she lets him stick on a glittering star on the page…or allows him to sift through the many photographs piled beside her. He dare not mess up her hard work though, or she’ll have a lecture ready to be unleashed in a second. Blanket doesn’t seem to mind anyway. He loves watching his older sister work on something creative. He wishes he could be as clever and smart as she is, and is simply content to observe, learn and listen whenever he can.

“Check it out, Prince,” she invites and holds up the finished page to her older sibling who’s been a silent sentry in the corner of the room all this time.

He lifts his gaze from the computer screen; a frown of mild irritation on his visage; for he hadn’t been paying that much attention. With his headphones on and Jay-Z blasting in his ears, he’s tuned them out for a while, but wonders what she wants now as she holds up the colorful scrap page filled with pictures of their visit to the Malniks over Christmas.

He shrugs and mumbles something about her efforts being ‘okay’, before turning back to the game he’s been playing on the laptop. He’s determined to get to level ten in the next hour; or at least before they head out to the studio to meet their father. All he has to do is get past this gargoyle and then -

“Whatcha playing?” comes the sudden question and then the long flow of black hair that promptly blocks his view.

“Blaaanket,” he whines and tries to push him aside gently. “Go away! Sheesh. Go draw or something.”

“Don’t be so mean,” Paris chides from the floor, even though there’s none of the venom in her voice. She’s humming a tune from ‘High School Musical’ – major crush on that Zac Efron! – as she colors in a row of flowers to prettify the garden. “You should teach Blanket how to play the game.”

He rolls his eyes and tries to glare at the boy who’s now perched at his feet with a hopeful expression on his visage. Ever since Nana Grace was fired/let-go, it’s been tough having to explain to Blanket that their ‘surrogate mom’ was no longer in the picture. He wonders how long it will take before Blanket finally figures out that Nana Grace is not actually on vacation. With a purse of his lips, he recalls the stilted conversation he had with his father over it (after Paris had come running into his room with tears in her eyes):

“So…she’s not coming back ever?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Prince, Daddy has to work now, okay?”

“But she was nice-”

“There are some things you just do not understand, and when you get older…it will make more sense to you.”

“But I am older now. You said I was big enough to…”

“Go to your room, Prince. This conversation is over.”

His stomping into the room after that had earned him a grounding; but that was cool. He deserved it for being such a smart ass back then. What wasn’t cool was now having to do all the extra work. Dad hadn’t hired anyone new…yet; so it was up to he and Paris to become Blanket’s babysitter even if he didn’t really relish the role that much.

He opens his mouth to tell his kid brother something akin to ‘go find your own game’ when the door opens and a familiar head/face sticks itself in.

“Hey, guys!”

“Omer!” Blanket squeals in delight and dashes up and into the arms of the older boy. “You came! Yay!”

“Hi, Omer!” Paris hails and rises to her feet, while wiping her hands on the legs of her jeans. “We’re all ready to go.”

“Cool. Prince?” Omer eyes the oldest with a smile. “You ready, bro?”

“In a minute,” he replies with a ghost of a smile, while trying to squash down the sudden surge of jealousy that fills him at the sight of his siblings attaching themselves to the newcomer. He knows he really shouldn’t feel this way, since he’s known Omer like for…forever, and in a way considers him as an older brother. All the same, he wonders how Omer can always manage to look so cool in his designer clothes and latest gear; randomly coming and going whenever he wants and taking over the role of ‘big brother’ whenever he feels like it.

“See you downstairs then,” Omer says and tips his New York Yankees hat before leaving the room with the chattering duo behind him.

In the silence, he plays for a while, but gives up when he realizes he’s got to get his ass in gear or they’ll leave him behind. He shuts off everything…well besides the music still blaring from his iPod, and rises to his feet to stretch. He paces to Paris’s handiwork and admires her efforts with a dull surge of pride. She really does try to do her best; to capture some sense of normalcy in their otherwise chaotic lives. They’ve been forced to move from place to place ever since they got ‘kicked out’ of Neverland; and even though Dad has promised they’ll find a decent home to call their own soon, it’s hard all the same.

He stoops to his haunches and turns the pages slowly; there are pictures of them from when they were in Bahrain; pictures of them with some of Dad’s celebrity friends; pictures of them having fun at birthday parties (and there’s that ridiculous picture of him with cake all over his face…how embarrassing!) …oh…and of course the baby pictures…and…her.

His real mother.

Debbie.

His fingers caress the smiling face tenderly – the face that looks so much like his sister’s – and he wonders what could have been if she had remained a driving force in their lives. He knows he’s not to question about her; it’s a rule Dad had instilled in them since they were little. Sure they had a mother – they must have come from somewhere – but she would not be a factor in raising them, and goodness knows she’s kept that end of her bargain all these years.

In the grand scheme of things, he really feels…nothing for her. Is that terrible of him? He knows he ought to have a connection…a bond of sorts with the woman who bore him for nine months; yet all he feels for her is a distant affection – a ‘thank you’ for bringing me into this world, one might say. The few times she’s come to visit – way back when they were smaller – she had acted like a relative; simply inquiring about their welfare and giving them toys or playing with them for a few hours before leaving.
Perhaps in a different life they would have been the best of pals, but for now –

“Prince?”

He looks up sharply. Paris has been watching him from the doorway for goodness knows how long; a small knowing smile on her lips. He blushes in embarrassment and rises to his feet; trying to act as if he hadn’t been lost in his reverie for a while.

“So you like it?” she asks.

“It’s all right,” he reluctantly agrees, while trying to ignore her yelp of delight as he walks past her and out the room.

They walk in silence for a while, and when she slips her hand into his, he barely flinches or pulls away. It’s a routine so familiar to them; neither is aware they do it subconsciously.

“Do you miss her?” she finally asks in a quiet voice just as they notice Omer swinging Blanket around in circles; much to the little boy’s delight.

Do I miss her? He weighs the question on his mind and tries to dissect it as best he can. He knows what she wants to hear, and realizes that it’s something that’s been the truth for far too long. Besides, they both know that they cannot afford to claim her all to themselves anyway. Can you imagine what would happen to Blanket if they did?

“No,” he finally replies with a light shrug, a small smile and a gentle squeeze of her fingers. “We hardly even knew her.”

We never really knew her after all.