Diary of a Reluctant Ruler

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James was sitting on the backseat, bag and music spread out over the leather.

The boy is a greek god, I swear.

Don’t swear, it’s bad for you.

What, will my tongue fall out?!

Well, I’m not making any promises.

“Hi-i…” I stuttered, my heart failing, “Why do you keep appearing?!”

“Sorry,” James replied, hands-in-the-air-surrendering.

“Mr. Jacinthe’s car broke down,” Jade explained.

“Oh no,” I cried.

“Oh yes,” James said, “Stalled, good and proper, in the middle of the university lot.”

“Did you call the road services?” I asked.

“They couldn’t do anything, towed it away and asked if I needed a lift. I said no thank you and rang up Nick.”

“He sent a message to me, and hey presto,” Jade finished.

“I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Be a shame if it was, I love that car…”

James trailed off as he contemplated his Mercedes.

“It looked pretty new though,” I commented.

“Just restored well,” James explained, “It’s fairly old underneath.”

“Oh,” I sighed.

“So how are you?” James asked, “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“If, by ‘in a while’, you mean last night at dinner, when you studiously ignored me, then yes, I suppose you’re right,” I sniffed.

“Aw, don’t be like that, Phil,” he grumbled.

“Like what?” I asked.

“All uppity and snobbish.”

“Well, sor-ree,” I sang, childishly.

I wasn’t exactly sure why I felt the need to be quite so annoying.

“Now you’re being childish.”

“No? Really?”

“Come on, we can’t all be Prince Charming,” James said.

Ah, jealousy…

Ah, jealousy what?

The reason behind his meanness, you banoffee pudding!

“No, I don’t suppose so,” I sighed.

“Some of us are just more suited to being the sexy bad guy,” James smirked, laughing hard.

I snorted.

Which was very unladylike and would probably have Grandmother execute me if she ever found out about it. You are henceforward sworn to secrecy, you hear me?

Who are we talking to?

Dunno… Imaginary audience.

“And some of us are naturally modest, it seems,” Jade added as she turned the car into the palace drive.

“I’m curious,” James began, leaning forwards in his seat, “How does Nick have your number?”

Jade glowered.

“I gave it to him.”

“And why might that be?” James asked.

“Guess,” Jade shot back.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to embarrass you,” James said.

“No, that’s the least of you worries,” Jade said, still frowning.

“Wouldn’t want to invoke your wrath, more like,” I said, imagining Jade chasing James around the garden, throwing those ninja-circle-blade things…

“No, that would be a fearsome thing,” James contemplated.

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” I quoted.

“Hey!” Jade cried, “I haven’t been scorned!”

“No!” James laughed, “Quite the opposite it seems.”

“Oh shut up,” she said, getting out of the car.

I grabbed my stuff off the floor, trying to make it to the door handle before she could.

Drat, she’s too fast.

The door swung open just as I reached for the handle.

“Thank you,” I mumbled, in a mess of papers.

“My pleasure,” Jade said, “Just stop discussing my love life.”

“I didn’t start it,” I protested.

“No, you’re right,” she laughed, “I’ll deal with him later.”

James had grabbed his stuff and was standing in the arched entrance. Jade pointed at him and then drew a slim finger across her throat very slowly. He grimaced in mock fear.

I smiled and thanked Jade, then followed him in.

“Got any homework?” James asked.

“Sadly, yes,” I sighed.

“What on?”

“Geography; I have to list the geographical features of the west coast of Adria, along with the pros and cons of living in a seaside town such as Little Orburrow.”

“Youch,” he replied.

“You got anything?” I asked.

“Also a ‘sadly yes’,” he said, “I have to compose a typical blues era piece, complete with at least one instrumental part, and one singer.”

“You have to admit, that sounds better than geographical features,” I coaxed.

“We-ell, maybe. But have you ever tried composing something? It’s often the worst stress imaginable.”

“Then why on earth did you choose composing as a career path?!”

“I didn’t, I chose performing. The composing is an accompaniment in the minor key.”

“I guess.”

“Why don’t you try it and see how you fare?” he asked.

“You’d have to do my homework,” I replied.

“Done,” he answered, grabbing my hand and forcing it into a shake.

“But, hang on! I can’t compose! I can’t play the guitar or anything!”

“You play the piano, right?”

“Yes, but…”

“Well, get to work Schubert.”

“I prefer Tchaikovsky,” I sniffed.

“Fine, you still have to get to work!”

I rolled my eyes.

This doesn’t sounds like a good idea…

James’ deadline for the composition was Friday the next week.

I spent my entire weekend, (in between attempting to take part in an Archey contest with the Lorainian royal family, appearing publicly with them at the opera house, and trying to save my soul at church) attacking the piano in a blues-type fashion.

It did not go so well.

By the Thursday I had an 8-bar blues, and the lyrics went something like this;

I had a cat,
His name was Pat,
He wore a big hat,
And slept in my flat.

I had a dog,
Her name was Mog,
But she was a slob,
‘n didn’t like Bob,

Bob was a parrot,
He liked a nice carrot
But now he is gone,
He slept too long

I have no more pets,
They all went to the vets,
And I am alone,
With only ma phone,

*jazz improvisation*

Feeling so sad,
So sad and blue
I think I’ll go buy
A cockatoo…

I was not looking forward to our rendezvous in the library Thursday. I’d already cheated and done my own homework as well.

Not that I don’t trust James but…

I just don’t trust James.

So when Thursday came round, I nearly forgot the dance class. Jenn was on my tail out of English though, and I laughed half-hysterically, half-relieved when I found that I still had an hour or so to prolong the inevitable.

But even dance couldn’t save me.

I found myself in the Library far too soon; manuscript in hand, written out neatly from the rough copy in preparation. I grimaced as James came in, blue folder in hand.

“Voila!” he said, elaborately indicating the folder.

“Viola back at ya,” I replied, waving my papers.

“May I?” he asked.

“You really don’t want to,” I hesitated.

“I really do,” he smirked.

“Fine, swap on three,” I suggested.

“Okay,” he agreed, “One, two…”

“Three!”

We each snatched blindly, only succeeding in throwing paper everywhere. I laughed, fumbling to pick up the folder before he could get it back.

“Well, that was successful,” James mumbled, glancing from my one piece of paper to his twenty-five.

My eyes widened as I flicked through the file.

“This is awesome,” I cried.

“Don’t be sarcastic, Phil, I know it’s-”

“No, I mean it,” I cut in, “This is just as good as anything my teacher writes!”

“Well, it’s nothing compared to this,” he sighed.

“Oh come on,” I moaned, “Just because this is good, doesn’t mean you have to be nice!”

“It’s true,” he said, “Will you play it for me?”

“What?!” I cried, “No!”

“But I don’t know what it sounds like,” he grumbled.

“Well, I can’t sing.”

“Tough.”

James leapt up, dragging me with him, then pushing me like an overgrown parcel out of the door and down the corridor towards the morning parlour, which held the large, white grand piano. He pushed me into the piano stool, placing the paper in front of me.

“Play!” he commanded.

I rolled my eyes grumpily, but then fixed them seriously on the music.

I began to play, all-too-aware of his gaze on the side of my face. I cleared my throat and sang the first verse, a little nervously, then gaining confidence. James joined in on the second, and I laughed at his improvisation, a little more confident.

I had a cat!

His name was Pat.

He wore a big hat.

And slept in my fla-a-at…

“Well,” he said as I came to the end, “The vocals were a little out but…”

“Oi!” I yelled, hitting him playfully on the arm.

“I meant mine! Mine!” he cried.

I frowned at him, then turned back to the piano, deciding to play something. My fingers took the position of another one of my compositions, so I started playing that. James sank down onto the edge of the stool next to me, watching my fingers move across the keys. It felt… comfortable.

I moved over after a while, and James pulled a book of duets off the top of the piano. We stumbled through them together for a while, hands crashing mid-air when we attempted to cross over.

I gave up and James continued on his own, slipping into something different, layered, beautiful, hands crossing over and under, weaving a pattern bright, elegant yet simple. Then he slipped into the minor, and it hit me with a wave of melancholy; I was entirely in love, and without a hope of redemption or satisfaction.