The girl who didn't want to be a princess E-Book

Marcela Citterio

• Herausgeber: The Orlando Books
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 463

Beschreibung

"My name is Aurora but... I am not beautiful. I don't like to sleep a lot. I don't dream of falling in love. I am not loving or tender nor delicate. I don't even sing in the shower. And above all: I do NOT want to be a princess". Argentina awaits Prince Tiziano Brembo dei Gelsomini, who will participate in a Formula 1 race in honour of Juan Manuel Fangio. Aurora is just waiting for the engines to start roaring.  But sometimes what we are expecting is nothing like what actually happens. An unexpected meeting in a hotel, her diary (which she calls Madonna) and a video that goes viral ("Royalty is overrated. I find princes boring, useless, puppets, weak, dull… Boring, did I already say it?") unleash an unexpected bet between Tiziano and his father, the king: he must survive undercover, hiding his true identity as a prince, for a week. If he loses, he will have to get married and leave Formula 1. And the prince does not like to lose. He wants his freedom. Tiziano will become an ordinary citizen... and the Madonna Thief. A love story that could be beautiful and perfect… like a fairy tale. But it's not. Because fairies do not exist, because tragedy can arrive disguised as an accident, because the bride can be abandoned an instant before reaching the altar, because an escape can end in death, because it cannot be possible for the story of a girl who did not want to be a princess to have a happy ending.

Leseprobe

General direction: Marcela Citterio

Editorial direction: Verónica Chamorro

Cover and interior design: Valeria Miguel Villar

Correction: Martín Vittón

Cover illustration: Eugen Dibuja (María Eugenia Hernández)

Author photography: Alejandra López (Make up, Pablo Valverde)

Ebook production: Libresque

© Marcela Citterio, 2022

© The Orlando Books, 2022

www.theorlandobooks.com

First edition: September 2022

First digital edition: Dicember 2022

ISBN 978-987-48671-9-3

Citterio, Marcela

The girl who didn't want to be a Princess / Marcela Citterio. - 1a ed. - Ciudad Autónoma de Buenos Aires : The Orlando Books, 2023.

Libro digital, EPUB

Archivo Digital: descarga y online

Traducción de: Alicia Amende.

ISBN 978-987-48671-9-3

1. Literatura Juvenil. 2. Novelas Románticas. 3. Narrativa Argentina. I. Amende, Alicia, trad. II. Título.

CDD A863.9283

All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, or recorded in or transmitted by an information retrieval system, in any form or by any means, mechanical, photochemical, electronic, magnetic, electro-optical, photocopying , or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the company.

To Chiara Emma, my Tati, my daughter, my first reader, my Sun, my winter, my coffee with milk, my partner for series, travel and dreams. Without you, this book and The Orlando Books would not exist.

PROLOGUE

AURORA

On rainy days they should suspend weddings. For sure, they are ideal days for a first kiss, to make love until we run out of breath, for a perfect crime, for the saddest funeral, for a suspense movie marathon, to sleep and sleep and sleep... To cry for loved ones that we’ve lost and for those we are afraid of losing, to reflect on death and oblivion and time... To read until our eyelids close even without giving them permission, to sleep without thinking about what will happen when the rain stops , to dance like the couple from ‘La la land’, to eat a chocolate volcano without feeling guilty for breaking your diet… Or for the definitive goodbye of a pair of lovers. For everything… except for a wedding.

Yes, even if there is a saying that says “wet bride, lucky bride”, or that the French say “Mariage pluvieux, mariage heureux” (“rainy wedding, happy marriage”), or even if for Hindus a union of marriage on a rainy day will be stronger because, they say, a knot that gets wet is more difficult to untie, I insist: it is not a good idea to get married on a day like this.

Although the ceremony takes place on a magical island, neighbouring Capri, who it competes with in beauty and splendour, although in the Principato dei Gelsomini the jasmines that live up to their name shine on every balcony, in every bouquet, in every centimetre of the island, although all the inhabitants are attentive and at the service of the wedding of the prince and the ‘commoner’, although the bride and groom are awaited by a wonderful church built many centuries ago, charming, gigantic and with art that moves even a non-believer; even if there are thousands of umbrellas and cars ready to meet the needs of the guests, even if the party is in a real castle... Even if everything is like in a fairy tale, please, not in the rain.

Because fairies don’t exist, because tragedy can bring umbrellas and cars ready to meet the needs of the guests, even if the party is in a real castle... Even if everything is like in a fairy tale, please, not in the rain.

Because fairies do not exist, because tragedy can arrive disguised as an accident, because the bride can be abandoned an instant before reaching the altar, because a flight can end in death, because it cannot be possible to have a happy ending to the story of a girl who didn’t want to be a princess.

TIZIANO

I always had everything I wanted. From my birth, nothing was ever denied to me. For me, the word “no” does not exist. My father used to say “caro mio, per noi la parola ‘no’, non esiste”. I was always convinced that he was right. I grew up as a prince, believing that the world was mine.

Until I met her.

And she was my whole world. A beautiful world. Unknown to me.

I knew I had to be ready for anything if she approached me. I knew that she didn’t deserve my doubts or my uncertainties.

I knew that life is short and she made it worthwhile. Too bad I didn’t make the right decision. Too bad I wasn’t afraid of the consequences. Too bad that, by looking for a solution, I ended up with a bigger problem. Too bad I didn’t hesitate. Too bad…

Because she deserved for me to keep my word, for me to raise my hand and say “present” at the right time and in the right place, for me not to get lost in search of something other than being together.

The girl I wanted to be my princess... She deserved a story with a different ending. And our love deserved it too.

AURORA

Thanks to Madonna, my life is organised. And no, I’m not talking about the singer, who I adore, of course. I’m talking about my diary. I named her Madonna on the first of January this year. And the It really has been a great help. I couldn’t have done half the things I’ve done if Madonna hadn’t been there. Always close to me, to remind me of every pending goal that I’d proposed for myself during the year.

It all started when I read an article online about the importance of writing everything down. But when I say everything, I mean literally that: eveeeerything. And not on my cell phone, which is what I used to do and never seemed to work at all.

There is no plan, idea, concept, dream, mission etc that I don’t write down. This means my mind is permanently clear, because I already have everything there, in my great life companion: Madonna.

Of course not everything always turns out the way I write, think and design it (I also read that planning was very important)... but, well, that’s another problem.

Today is a completely different Sunday in December to all the other Sundays of the year. It will be my first time.

Obviously, not in the sexual way. It’s the first time that I’m going to go to a Formula 1 race. It’s been years since there’s been one held in Argentina, but this will be an exception.

I was a fan when I was a little girl, I didn’t miss a single race on TV. For as long as I can remember, Sundays have been synonymous with racing and cars. I’ll never erase them from my heart, the breakfasts with us all as a family, with my parents, my four brothers, my dogs, the lowering of the flag. But I don’t want to think too much about it right now because I’m going to get emotional. When my parents died I turned to motorcycles and never wanted to watch a car race again. When I was little, before each race me and my dad played a game where we’d quiz each other on information about the runners and the teams. The one who won could choose the flavours of the ice cream that we would inevitably eat while watching the competition. I always won thanks to my intuition. During the week leading up to a race, my brothers did me favours in exchange for me asking for the flavour that they wanted. My dad knew a lot more than me, but he liked to prepare me ready to over take him. Since he died, I never read a word of anything that was to do with Formula 1. But I need to work and this never imagined possibility sprung up. It’s not just for the money, it’s also because it encourages me to face all these memories, to stop it being an emotional taboo. To make it happen, I had to interview along with I don’t know how many girls and they chose me as one of the waitresses who will serve the clients VIP pit. I was nice in the interview and could remember each one of the glorious Fangio championships, which is who this event is in honour of, so I think that helped me. It’s awesome to see how a little girl’s game can be transformed into a door opener when she grows up.

But back to the main topic; I didn’t start the day like I had organised. I didn’t have sweet dreams, but instead some damn nightmares. I woke up every hour to go to the bathroom. And, when I finally fell asleep, I felt totally soaked through in my bed. I panicked. I thought I no longer controlled my bladder, and at seventeen that really is a problem. But no. My youngest pup, John Lennon, had peed on me.

I got out of bed at 3am, took a shower, looked for a mattress in my brother’s workshop and I lay down to sleep with the seven dogs on me, of course. At 4, when I should have got up to meditate, I turned off my alarm. At 4:10 I turned it off again, and at 4:20, when I should be doing sit-ups, I broke my phone screen. Nope, it wasn’t on purpose, but the truth is that the shot against the wall was excessively strong. I almost started crying when I saw Shawn Mendes (my phone) in a deplorable state, with the screen totally bust. Luckily, I’ve just checked and it’s still working, although I have a hard time reading the messages with the screen so splintered.

I take a deep breath. I exhale. I take a deep breath again. I exhale again. It will have to be enough to replace my meditation and put me back on track for the day.

I need to focus. I go to Madonna. Instead of ticking each point off as done (I also read that in a book, that it gives you security to meet small goals), I put next to 4am “I did not sleep. I did not meditate. I woke up pissed all over by my puppy. I ended up on an old mattress. I broke my phone screen. I couldn’t even have a positive thought”. Next to 4.20am, I cross out the bike and sit-ups, and put a line through the salt bath too, as at this point I’m afraid to fall asleep in the bathtub. I replace it with a hot shower.

I go under the water, which is boiling, just as I like it, and I try to visualise the perfect and wonderful day that I’m going to have. But then the water starts to get chilly. More than chilly, bone cold. More than bone cold, freeeezing! I feel like I’m in the middle of the Perito Moreno glacier, and that reminds me of my parents and my brothers on an unforgettable vacation. But hey... we have to keep going.

It takes me ten minutes of shivering and teeth chattering to recover. I change quickly: light blue jeans, a white top (because they’ve predicted 30 degrees in this suffocating December in Buenos Aires), just a little bit of lip gloss and voila, time for breakfast.

When I go into the kitchen to make myself a quadruple strength coffee, I can’t believe what I see.

The table is set with steaming coffee, freshly made toast done, butter…

“Am I not the best older brother?” Diego asks me with a smile.

“Sure, you are the eldest, but that best part…” —and I break out laughing when he fakes a rueful little face.

“I woke up two hours early and you treat me like this?” he says to me, playing the victim, while he hands me the coffee.

I don’t know if I’m dreaming.

“I already fed your seven dogs,” says Martin, who’s just walked into the kitchen. He clearly hasn’t gone to bed yet, which doesn’t surprise me. On Saturdays, the pizzeria next door to our car garage is open until really late. Although we’ve argued about it many times, I have to admit that my brother is the number one cook of Italian food. I try to get over this surprise when Pablo appears with an amazing bouquet of jasmines, my favourite flowers. “For the prettiest sister I have...” he tells me. And sure, it’s not like he has another sister. I think I’m about to faint!

Why so much attention all of a sudden? Am I dreaming? Do they think I’m at death’s door?

“I didn’t do anything, I didn’t bring you anything, but...” says Nicolás, while eating one of my pieces of toast “..but I wanted to wish you luck, little sis.”

That’s it. I am definitely going to die.

I look at them fascinated and, perhaps today, when they’re all being so nice and attentive, I understand a little bit the fact that all my friends are in love with them.

Description of the four wildlings:

* Diego: 23 years old, he is a car mechanic in the workshop we have on the ground floor of our house and he is a rally driver when he manages to get sponsors. Tall, two metres, with straight dark brown hair and olive green eyes. Star sign: Leo.

* Martín: 22 years old, he is the chef of the family restaurant, which is obviously called De Rosa, like our last name. It’s right next to the workshop where Diego works. He is also very tall, with super short blonde hair and amber eyes. Star sign: Gemini.

* Pablo: 20 years old, florist. He works at the stall that my grandmother had all her life, in Saavedra. He is an expert in arming bouquets and says he doesn’t want to do anything else in his life. 1 metre ninety one, light brown hair, untidy kinky curls that fall all over the place, grass green eyes. Star sign: Pisces.

* Nicolás: 19 years old. The tallest of all: one metre ninety-five. He has long brown hair and black eyes. Playing guitar, saxophone, piano and uncountable other instruments. He sings. He would be the perfect guy if his vice wasn’t poker. Star sign: Aries.

No one is albino like me. None have the colour of my eyes, super light grey almost like pearls. None have white hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes. But thanks to years of wanting to be the same as everyone else without succeeding, I finally accepted that I am different, and that’s that. One way I do look like them is that I am tall. Not as tall as them (thankfully), but I do tower over almost all the other girls in my class.

My four brothers are my family. My whole life.

I rush to finish my breakfast and get on out the door. I live in front of the Saavedra Station and I’m lucky that the train always takes me everywhere I need to go. Today it’s to Recoleta, to a five-star hotel. The vans that take the employees to the racetrack leave from there. It’s six in the morning and I’m already fifteen minutes late, according to Madonna.

Conclusion? Thanks to my four brothers, my morning started off wonderfully. Everything indicates that it should continue like this, right?

But unfortunately we have Murphy’s Law, which means all these things:

1) If something can go wrong, it will.

2) Toast always falls butter side up.

3) The other queue is always the fastest.

4) Carrying an umbrella when rain is forecast makes it less likely to rain.

5) No matter how many times a lie is proven to be a lie, there will always be a percentage of people who will believe it to be true. A lie can travel all the way around the world while the truth is just putting on its shoes to head out.

6) You will always find lost things in the last place you look for them.

When I arrive at the station, they announce that the trains are delayed! I call home, desperate. Going on Adele (my motorbike) is not an option. Parking at that hotel would be more expensive than my salary for the day. Luckily, Diego agrees to take me. When he shows up with the keys to a 25 year old BMW that he has in to be fixed, I feel that today I will be able to overcome all my obstacles. But... let’s not forget point 1 of Murphy’s Law:

1) If something can go wrong, it will.

While he’s driving me, we talk about the subject of his infidelity. It comes to mind because I’m just reviewing with Madonna my notes for today. Of course, Diego denies how much of a terrible womaniser he is. And of course takes advantage to change the subject and focus on giving me a thousand and one tips on how to behave on the racetrack, regardless of the fact that I am not one of those people who like hyper protection. That’s what we’re doing when the car breaks down. Not at a traffic light or in a quiet corner, but smack bang in the middle of Avenida del Libertador, one of the biggest and busiest in the entire city. We have to get out, signalling to the traffic, and open the bonnet. We take turns trying to fix it while we argue about what’s wrong with it.

“The fuel pump fuse is blown.” I say. “Let’s fit the spare one, that’s in the back”.

He looks at me and smiles.

“You’re learning fast, huh?” he says, the cheeky git. But I like the pride in his eyes.

After five minutes we manage to get it started, although my hands are a bit dirty and smeared with oil. Not to mention my nose, too. I arrive at the Four Seasons on my last breath and just in time. Nothing like what I’d had planned with Madonna. I run out of the car without thanking Diego, who continues giving his advice. When I’m at the hotel door and I want to go inside, they stop me. It’s logical. I’m a long way from looking like a potential guest. I explain to the kind (or rather NOT so kind) gentleman at the door that I am one of the employees that is going to take the minibus to the racetrack and he tells me to come through, take the first right, then a left, and finally down some stairs where on the right they will give me more information. I take two steps, or three maximum, and I begin to mix up all the directions he’d given me. I’d come in, I turned left, then right, and instead of stairs, I find an elevator. When its doors open, out come about twelve people running to where I’m stood. Of course, they don’t see me. And that sure doesn’t usually happen with this monochrome white colour that characterises me. They knock me over, I fall to the ground, and nobody stops to help me: They all run out like crazy people waving around their cameras. Who knows where they’re going. I’m left spread-eagled, with my hair all over the place, with one contact lens less than before. Yes, I am short sighted, and I use contact lenses or glasses. I can see perfectly fine right now, but with only one eye.

I lean over to look for the other contact lens, which I don’t understand how could have flown out of my eye, but I reckon it’s one of the possibilities of Murphy’s Law: toast always falls on the butter side down. And I, obviously, feel like a piece of toast. From the floor, feeling bruised, and wanting to find my missing contact lens, I see that from the other elevator HE comes out.

HIM in capital letters. HIM underlined. HIM, the sexiest of them all. HIM, most damn hot.

HIM. HIM. HIM. HIM, the most... everything.

TIZIANO

I want to escape from the press, from the hotel employees who spy on me, from my bodyguards, from the girls who yesterday wanted to spend the night with me, from those who want to spend the next one with me.

I want to teleport to the racetrack, disappear, evaporate. Holy Madonna! Un po’ di tranquilità! When I get out of the elevator, looking around, satisfied for having managed to escape... porca miseria!

I trip over something. Rather, with someone: a girl who is on the floor, spread-eagled, with her straight white hair completly messed up. She also has white eyebrows and ivory eyes framed by white eyelashes that look at me with a mixture of horror, astonishment and something else that I don’t know what it is. “Tutto bene? Si è fatta male?”, I inquiere her.

She looks at me like she’s in shock. That’s when I realise that maybe she doesn’t understand any Italian. I try to think in Spanish while she keeps looking at me. I don’t know if the blush on her cheeks is due to the shock or embarrassment.

“Are you okay?”, I ask her.

“Yes, falls are my specialty,” she tells me, deadly serious. “I think they are very necessary because when you get back up, it makes you stronger and happier. Like me right now.”

I forget about my escape and approach this strange girl. Will all Argentine girls be like this? I realise that she is looking at me, but she intersects his gaze with the rug. I’m intrigued. I get even closer. She smells like freshly cut grass.

“Every wound and every fall should be transformed into wisdom” she tells me. “In the end, no one will remember how many times you fell but how many times you got back up. I mean... well, that…”

“Ok… is she making fun of me?” I wonder.

“If you fall, I’ll pick you up, and if not, I’ll lie down there with you,” I tell her, staring right at her, and I feel like I could ski in her eyes. All of her reminds me of snow, of an avalanche.

She opens his eyes without blinking.

“Julio Cortázar,” I quickly add the name of the person who said that phrase because I see her, what, furious? Meanwhile I stretch out my hand to help her get up, because she is still there, on the rug, but she doesn’t accept it. She gets up, takes a deep breath, proud and even somewhat defiant. “They attribute it to him, but I did not read that phrase in any of his books,” she tells me without hesitation and manages to make me feel ignorant. You should be more careful next time you cite an Argentinian author.

I took the wrong path, but I’m perfectly okay. Thanks.”

I definitely don’t want her to go. I run to cut off her step. “A coffee?” “Ehhh... No, I’m not working here.”

What’s she saying? At that moment, she bends over and starts looking for something on the floor. I lean down with her.

“I didn’t ask if you worked here... I don’t even know your name.”

“Aurora.”

“A Princesses name,” I add, and I know that in this I am not mistaken. That is why I dare to add “Buon giorno, Principessa” —as much just to say anything because I feel more and more useless in front of her. Is this a sign?

“I’m not a principessa and you’re not a prince, so better I’m going to get a move on as I have to go to work.”

She looks back down at the rug, snorts in disgust and it blows up her fringe a bit.

“Cosa c´è? Hai perso qualcosa?” I ask, trying to be useful. “I lost my contact lens, but if I don’t hurry up I’m going to lose my job.” I look at her lips and it occurs to me to stop talking and kiss her. Stop thinking and kiss her. Drop everything and kiss her... kiss her... take her to bed. Undress her. Love her, at least for a while.

“I’m leaving,” she says, getting up. Oblivious to what I’m thinking.

She smiles. And it lights me up. Erases my worries, my fear, my panic for today. And she runs away.

“Where are you going?” I yell, but I can’t bring myself to run after her.

I hesitate to follow her. It’s the first time that a girl didn’t recognise me, the first time someone treats me in a normal way, the first time I feel like running after someone, but it’s not worth it anymore. I’m not worth it. Not for her.

When I want to react, thousands of flashes surprise me. The press have caught me. They immediately start making me questions. They want to know why I said that I wish I hadn’t been born a prince... “Ma che palle raga!”

My escape has come to an end. She left. And I was left alone. More alone than ever. As alone as the notte.

AURORA

I’m in the truck, heading to the racetrack, along with many girls who talk and talk all the time, while I write in Madonna. I return from the place where I was: on the floor, with him getting out of the elevator.

He is the cutest boy I have ever seen in my life. And that with just seeing him with one eye. My God, what would it be like if I could have seen him with both of them! The tallest, handsomest, most beautiful and all the words that end with ‘est’. He seemed to want to escape from someone, maybe the same thing happened to him that happened to me and those savages ran him over. I don’t know, I can’t think properly. He should be prohibited from walking freely in the world…

Some strands of his dark blond hair were escaping from under a black cap, and he had blue eyes, but a blue that I’ve never seen... A dream jaw. Yes, I dream of jaws like this: square, perfect, chiselled... they are my weakness. Of course I never knew they existed. And a perfume of wood, juniper and sea… that enveloped me. Over and over.

He asked me if I was okay in perfect Italian. And me, who loves that language and speaks it fluently, was left breathless. But I didn’t dare to tell him to carry on speaking in his native language because I couldn’t even get a word out. He spoke to me in the formal ‘you’,

“Si é fatta male?”. How I’d have loved to tell him that seeing him was making me feel “benissimo”!

I couldn’t stop looking at him. He is identical to Mick Jagger. Same lips, same nose... but with different colouring. That blue of his eyes… I think he asked me something, I didn’t quite understand what because my brain couldn’t even think. Worse, I couldn’t even get up. I said something stupid about falls in Spanish, though I could have spoken in Italian, but no... all that part… I apologise, Madonna, but I seem to have memory lost. What I do remember perfectly is when he told me, with an edible smile (if smiles are edible): “If you fallssss” (because Italians pronounce a lot of esses together, I love it how they do that) “I’ll help you up and if not, I’ll lie right down withsssssss you.” I heard it like that.

Right. A gunshot would have had less effect on me. I think that I should get myself some oxygen so I don’t pass out if I see him again (although it wouldn’t hurt to drown and have him do mouth to mouth resuscitation). I don’t know what he saw in my face that he immediately cleared up for me who that phrase is by, I think he was afraid of coming off as a macho. I took the opportunity to tell him that it is uncertain whether it belongs to Cortázar, so he doesn’t underestimate me. I came off like a fanatical reader. (which I am not), I just remembered a comment Pablo had made the other day at dinner on the subject (he does love to read). Oh and I refused his hand when he wanted to help me up. Let’s see if you think I’m one of those girls who are waiting to be rescued... No. Imagine, Madonna! When he asked me for a coffee, I thought it was better to leave as soon as possible so as not to lose the little dignity I had left. I didn’t like that. Ok, I’m going to be a waitress but at the racetrack, why would you think I have to serve you coffee there? Just then I saw something on the floor, something that could be my lost contact lens. “Better start concentrating on finding it”, I said to myself.

The point is that what I saw was not my lens. As I still couldn’t find it, he bent down with me to look for it. I am not one for having impulsive urges, but I swear I could have done it without even stopping to think that I don;t even know his name, and kissed him until my lips fell off. Devour him. Undress him. And I could go on listing even more fantasies cause this guy got me burning like never... But luckily, as soon as I realised my hormones were going crazy, I said to myself: “Enough, I’d better go before I make a fool of myself, because clearly this boy is bored and is only being nice, like all Italians”. By now I was convinced that I was in front of a “vero Italian”. Born and raised in Italy. Oh! On top of everything, he was using the formal ‘you’: he’s 100% Italian. When I see him again, I’m going to tell him to use the informal “you”, so much formality isn’t necessary and I am not Italian. Although I won’t see him again.

Anyway, I ran away without looking back. Everything was so so fast that maybe it didn’t even happen. Wish me luck, Madonna. The day is just beginning. It started badly, fulfilling Murphy’s Law. But this encounter isn’t part of that law. This meeting is a good omen or... Maybe not, maybe it is another Murphy’s Law: when you meet a boy you fall literally head over heels for, but they disappear and you have no way of seeing them again. Is that how it’s going to be? Well, I better stop thinking about sex... I mean him... I have to work.

Kiss, Madonna, we’ll follow from here later.

Now I’m here, at the racetrack. I close my eyes for a moment to just listen to the noise of engines because the cars are doing free laps. I open my eyes. I could wake up to this sound every morning. I walk past the different teams; Campbell, Davidson, Henderson, Thompson, until I get to the one I’m working in, the Armstrong team’s box. I saw this corridor hundreds of times on TV and I can’t believe I’m walking along it now. I pretend to be used to this and separate myself from the other waitresses who have already gone to change to listen to two mechanics. The fastest vehicles in the world are here. Too bad it’s not my role to stay and listen to the engines. I better focus on the task at hand.

They give me a royal blue suit that makes my white hair stand out even more. At first glance it looks good, although this skirt is a little... short. Or am I too tall? One metre seventy five is only what models should be, not normal girls like me. Every school ceremony was terrible for me, always I was the last in line. Even worse when my bust started to grow and to grow... In my opinion, disproportionately. I feel like I’m a set of excesses. Except for my waist, which is very small... If I can’t hold the waist of this uniform up with something, my skirt is going to fall down and I’m going to end up in a thong.

I lock myself in one of the individual bathrooms. I’m not going to use the loo. I’m going to meditate. It is a habit that I have when I feel very nervous. Being at the race that’s in honour of my idol, with how much I used to talk about him with my parents, has left my head in the clouds. One by one my memories pile up and I realise that my eyes are starting to drizzle. Take a deep breath. I want to prevent the shower from turning into a rain storm. I start imagining a golden sphere that covers me, when I hear the voices of two men. What’s going on? I’m in the women’s bathroom! Unless… nooo!

I was clearly wrong. I spy through the lock of the small cubicle and I see the two of them and the uniforms they’re wearing. They have their backs to me but I can guess who they are by how they are dressed. I did my research before attending this race (one always has to know as many details as possible about a new job, it is important to be prepared) and so I know that one of the drivers of the Armstrong team is the prince of I don’t know where, and the other is Stefano Corso, world champion of the last three years.

You can’t hear very well what they are saying and I’m hoping they don’t catch me. What is clear is the accent, the musicality of the language… the same as the Italian boy. Uuuff. I look for Madonna in my bag and write:

Stop thinking about the Italian boy.

Stop thinking about the Italian boy.

Stop thinking about the Italian boy.

Etc.

Once they’re gone, I take a deep breath and walk out. I’d do anything before going through the embarrassment of using the wrong bathroom. It’s a shame they’re not unisex, that’s one of my fights at school, but I still can’t get them to install them. Women and men. Binaries. Everything is black and white. And the grey, and the red and blue? Anyway. There’s still a long way to go. Luckily I get mad about toilets and for a minute I think about something other than the elevator boy. The thing is, I’m late to start serving the VIP people. A supervisor gives me a lecture, but the race is about to start (hopefully), so he shuts up and I concentrate on the job. And I try to forget about the cute guy from the hotel. I instantly remember that I shouldn’t be thinking about him. My cell —Shawn Mendes— plays over and over his little tune with messages from my brothers. I think of our family Sundays and our bets to guess the winner... I think of my Mum and my Dad, who are gone. I think life is unfair. And death, even more so. And again I feel my eyes water. So to prevent the tsunami of water from destroying everything, I return to concentrating on the Italian guy... I mean, on my job. The excitement of being here now finally returns. I send two kisses to heaven, I wink at them because I know they’re close and I look towards the track. I even feel happy.

The tribute race is about to start, millions of viewers are waiting for the start from their televisions, thousands more in the stands, and I can’t believe I’m here. I pinch myself but I still don’t come back to reality. Where I do come back to is to my childhood: I want to throw away the tray, go and listen to the engines, ask questions to all the mechanics, ask a racer to let me drive a lap... just one, even if just that! I know that it’s impossible, but it was also impossible to be here and yet here I am. Is there such a thing as impossible? It may be that some things are, but others, from so much dreaming and hoping for them, they become possible. Oh what do I know, that’s what I believe now, after finally achieving that something I’d dreamed of for so long could become a reality. Although I didn’t achieve anything if I think about it, it was the work of the cosmos, which put me here to help me overcome my sadness and bring me back to my passion for these engines. I only snap out of all this thinking when my supervisor points out to me the tables where a group of girls are waiting to be served. As soon as I see them, I get excited, because I love that there are so many women here, fans like me of the races. So I head straight over to them, happy. But they make my head spin with all their orders and with the thousands of selfies they keep taking. I realise that the least they care about are the cars. They keep asking me questions that have nothing to do with engines. It seems like they would like to be in my place. They want to know who I’ve seen and served. I disappoint them by saying no to everything they ask me, but they keep insisting. They’re boring me, but they are clients and I am the waitress, so I can’t tell them that they’re being unbearable, as I would to my friends.

After a thousand meaningless questions, it is seen that they left for the end the one that interests them the most and one of them asks me: “Have you served the prince?” “No,’’ I reply. “But you’re dying to, right?”

“No way. I’m not interested. I don’t even know who he is.”

Those words make me the centre of attention of these five beautiful and model-like girls.

“How could you possibly not care about meeting a prince?” —is the question I finally get to hear, among many interruptions. “Why should I care?” Where has my plan to not interfere in things that don’t concern me gone?!

These girls could never understand me. At 15 years old, my parents asked me if I wanted a party or a trip to Disneyland. I asked for a motorcycle. And after a year I changed it for a better one, and now, at 17, I just changed it for an even better one, to practice at the motocross track: Adele is my pride and joy.

“Could it be that the pale girls are different in everything?” another asks, and the others all laugh. Clearly they find it funny making fun of me. It’s not the first time I’ve had to face this. What they don’t know is that when one is born “different”, one learns to fend for himself since kindergarten. Or before, I think I learned to defend myself since I came out of my mother’s womb. I know down to my bones what it feels like to be looked at with pity and how peoples eyes change quickly when they see you looking at them to try and not to be noticed. But I keep quiet because I promised myself not to get distracted from my work. I don’t feel like fighting and ruining my day. I don’t want to prove Murphy and his laws right.

I go back to that table to bring them a gin and tonic and they insist: “You can’t deny that everything about royalty is exciting” says one of the girls, returning to her monotheme.

“Royalty is overrated. I think princes are boring, useless, puppets, weak, dull... boring, did I say that already?” I shrug my shoulders so that they finally understand that I care less about this prince than a split fingernail (which usually matters pretty damn little to me) and I go to look for their missing orders, without suspecting that these girls had filmed me with a cell phone.

An act of evil that could have gone unnoticed, of course. Except that in a matter of minutes a simple video converts into Twitter’s most viral video of the day, and is the most commented on in all social media networks (and I’m pretty sure in all chats as well, considering the sheer amount of messages that arrived to my phone).

A video in which I appear to be slating royalty and the prince in question… But I don’t worry, in a while all this will be over and done with. Everyone will forget about the video, like me about my nail, which just broke.

TIZIANO

Seventh place. I didn’t want this. I have worked so hard to make a good debut in Formula 1... I dreamed of being on the podium. I don’t like this taste of defeat at all. I don’t like losing. Nope, I can’t handle it. Sono incazzato nero. I’m furious. I feel awful. I wasn’t born to be in the anonymous heap of those who mean nothing. Being seventh is like not having come. I feel like a cretin. I am nothing. I’ve fallen so low I’m reaching the basement of my self-esteem.

I’ll go change and try to be alone for a while. I don’t pick up to persevering Alessia, though I see her fifteen missed calls, nor my father, who I reckon must be happy that I’ve lost.

He never wanted me to race in Formula 1. I think the king understands pretty little about my passions. But he hasn’t had a choice but to accept it because we made a barter: he allowed me to race and I would stop my “love scandals” and commit myself to Alesia.

Disgusting. But I said yes. And now I feel like a worm lost in the darkness of this hole this fucking seventh place hat plunged me into.

Another message from Alessia on WhatsApp.

ALESSIA

You came out beautifully on the cameras, my love. All my friends are so jealous of me for having you.

The truth is that I read it and I can’t believe it: is this what she says to me after having lost my first race? And on top of that, she thinks she “has” me. Like an object.

I don’t reply.

Stefano walks in pissing himself laughing. And you’d think he wouldn’t be finding many things to laugh about, considering he finished ninth. He shows me his phone and continues laughing.

“What am I missing?”

“Your perfect Spanish will help you find out the answer.”

He shows me a video on his cell phone. The first thing I see, and adore, is a beautiful albino girl... I freeze before I hit play and react: the ragazza is the same as the one I ran into this morning at the hotel, when I was escaping from all the journalists. She is unmistakable. And she’s talking about... what’s she saying?

“I think princes are boring, useless, puppets, weak, dull... boring, did I say that already?”

Is that what she thinks? It bothers me a lot, even if I pretend it’s a load of rubbish, that I don’t care... The truth is that I don’t like that a girl I saw this morning and have been thinking about the rest of the day, thinks that about me when it’s not the case. Because with me you can have fun like no one else in your life, because I’m not useless even if I came seventh today (oops, maybe she’s right and I am somewhat useless, but I am not going to admit it, and less today), nor I am weak, much less bland and never ever a puppet.

Although that is the word that I discover that hurts me the most. Because it’s true. I am a slave of my last name, of rules from centuries past, of archaic customs, of a crown that I never asked for.

I am grateful for everything I have, but being forced into getting married is something I can’t digest. Although all my life has been prepared for this, it feels like death: we all know that we are going to die, sooner or later; and yet I calculate that when the time comes, it surprises you. This forced marriage is the same.

That’s why I get so mad at this girl, because today I don’t want to get mad at myself for something else.

I leave, already changed, while the award ceremony is happening for those who finished on the podium, and I see her at the bar. Impossible not to notice her. In addition to her total white colour, she’s stunning, striking, sensual. His legs are eternal. She’s like a magnet, and I‘m dragged towards her as she comes and goes catering to capricious and haughty girls. I recognise their type because they are like my girl friends. Maybe even like all my friends. Like me, I guess.

It turns out then that she was a waitress and is serving in my cabin. Extraordinary! In bocca al lupo I tell myself to bring me luck and: Crepi (because if I don’t close the saying properly, it can bring me the opposite of luck, and today is not the day to keep calling misfortune on myself). I’m going over. Heading to her. I can’t deny it: she is bellissima.

Another message from Alessia:

ALESSIA

Who is the girl who was horrid about you? I haaaaaate her.

I don’t answer this time either. I can’t believe the news has reached the Principality of Gelsomini. I can’t believe this girl has been able to distract me from my defeat today, to the point that I just want to go and show her that she is wrong about everything she said. Until the point where I want everyone to disappear, to stay with her, to taste her kisses, her hands, to know if she likes sex full of passion or sweet and gentle, to smell her perfume, and hear her moans... I even carry on thinking about her when all of these girls surround me and start talking non stop. They want to take pictures with me and ask me to get them to sign their t-shirts... They’re charmingly obscene.

I try to get to that defiant waitress but it seems impossible. It takes me half an hour to break free, and by the time I do, it’s too late. She is gone. And what’s worse: she hadn’t even realised that I was there, surrounded by these crazed fans who wanted to take something of mine. God knows how my clothes haven’t been ripped, but they managed to pull out a few strands of my hair. Luckily I have plenty.

My bad mood gets even worse when I go to the office to talk about the race and find the king in person. I mean, my father. I didn’t know that he’d come to see me race, he was obviously very discreet, him and his escorts.

“It was my first time. I’ll give my absolute best when the championship starts.”

“You should have given your best today, which was a tribute, and wasn’t even an official tour.”

I’m not surprised by what he’s saying to me. It’s always like that with him, he wants all or nothing. The truth is that this time, in addition, he has an objective: he wants to announce that I am leaving Formula 1 before the start of the season next, to get married.

Yes, he is convinced that I am wasting my time, money, that I’m exposing the Crown to ridicule... And he thinks my wedding seems like an excellent idea.

“The official season hasn’t started yet, I’m not going to give up.”

“The Principality of Gelsomini only loves those who succeed. If it goes like this for you again in the next race, I’m doing you a great favour. You look good for having come to this tribute and you can return to fulfil your obligations. As this girl says, the one who is humiliating you on social media... you are useless. So do what’s right and let the palace have some peace.”

I make it very clear that I am not going to give up. Racing cars is my passion and I’m going to defend it. Also, since when does my father get carried away by the comments that a girl leaves on social media?

“That girl doesn’t know what she’s saying, or who I am, or anything. And don’t rejoice so much, because that girl you value so much isn’t just slating me, she’s insulting you too, or didn’t you notice? She’s talking about an overrated royal family... Or do you only know how to listen to things that make me feel bad but you avoid what happens to you too?”

He gets even angrier.

“You couldn’t survive an hour if you weren’t a prince.”

And there I look him straight in the eye and I surprise myself by telling him.

“I could perfectly survive and I’m going to prove it to you.”

That was not expected. It’s not easy to surprise my father like this, so I take advantage of the moment and go for more.

“I bet you I can live here, in Buenos Aires, without telling anyone that I am a prince and without using my credit cards or my money... for as long as you want.

My father takes the opportunity to tell me that my money is his, and I also take this opportunity to remind him that his money is the citizen’s who maintain the principality.

The king laughs. A lot. Hard. Too hard. And that laugh is what gives me more strength. Because his mockery feeds my need for revenge. I think of my mother, how much she hated the Crown, in all that she suffered by being queen.

“One month? Is it a bet?”

“No, son, I don’t need that much. If we bet, for example, one week, I’m sure by the third day you’ll be begging me for protection.”

I laugh now. And I tell him to forget that I exist for exactly seven days from midnight today.

“Do you think I’m going to let you live here, without escorts?”

“If we were at war, you would have sent me to the frontline, father. Didn’t you prepare me for that? I’m not afraid of living without using my title. If I win this bet, I will compete all next year in Formula 1 and I’m not marrying Alessia.”

“And if I win?”

“I will stop racing and get married. Do you accept or are you afraid of losing?”