Loving my Forbidden Prince

Jeans, Dust and Denmark

The bell signalled the end of the last period, and a wave of relief washed over me as I stuffed my advanced history textbooks and notebook into my bag.

“I want a seven-page paper from each of you,” Miss Cohen announced, peeking at us through her bulging glasses. “Detail the meteoric rise of Denmark, and propose brilliant ideas on how to keep it that way.”

Everyone, including me, groaned in response.

It had been three months since my encounter with the Prince, and if Denmark wasn't on my radar before, it was everywhere now. For some reason, I saw Denmark in everything I did, from my history class to my daily life.

According to a certain topic in my history syllabus, ‘America and Other Country Affiliations’, it has been seventy years since Denmark established the first unified European monarchy, absorbing the remaining European royal houses, including the British crowns of Scotland and England.

The story, as it was taught, was very dramatic, tragic and heroic. Europe had been overwhelmed by the waves of mass migration of foreigners, during the reign of King George XVI. Citizens begged the British monarchy to act, but it was a lover of all nations and refused to intervene, letting the people suffer the gruelling consequences. Denmark, under the reign of King Henrik VIII, stepped in instead. Backed by the United States, they drove out the migrants and launched a brutal campaign to ‘free’ Europe. It was a bloody war, and once the United States threw its support behind Denmark, the other monarchies knew that they didn’t stand a chance, and it was only a while before they were wiped out. A peaceful resolution was eventually reached, and Denmark was granted a continental throne as a reward for ‘saving’ Europe.

A truly motivational story, indeed.

Now, when it came to the Prince, I had thought that our ‘encounter’ had at least meant something, but that little fantasy died fast the moment I had scavenged through the tabloids about him. If anything, he was what you would call the ‘rouge spare’.

It didn't help that my Google app insisted on sending me every new headline about him.

A sudden bang on the classroom door made me blink, jolting me out of my thoughts.

Realising I was the only one left in class, I tried to stand up and leave, only to realise that my clothes wouldn't budge. It took me a frantic few minutes to understand that my clothes were glued to a chair in an ugly prank. I knew who was responsible. I struggled hard, and I finally freed myself, but not before ripping out my jeans on my buttocks area wide open. Great.

Slipping my phone out of my pocket, I dialled my little brother's contact number, Michael.

If anything, I didn’t want to be late at the agency today.

He answered on the first ring, and the irritation in his voice told me he already guessed I was in trouble.

“What’s it this time?”

I rolled my eyes. “I need a clean pair of jeans,”

“location?”

“My classroom,”

He hung up on me. In a few minutes, he was in my class, shutting the doors behind him.

“I borrowed a set of jeans from the janitor's closet, and they smell awful.” He said, wrinkling his nose as he tossed them to me. Then he leaned back against the door and folded his arms, studying me.

“You know, it's high time you ripped a certain someone's jeans back. You can't keep doing this forever,”

The jeans did give off a putrid smell alright, but I had no choice except to endure them till I got home to change.

“This is my final session in vogue,” I mumbled sheepishly, tugging at the torn jean fabric. “I would love it to be drama-free,”

I could practically feel him rolling his eyes at me.

“Trust me, changing into a godforsaken janitor's pair of jeans in your classroom after school is already more drama than anyone needs.” He paused slightly and clicked his tongue– the thing he does when he is truly pissed. “Do you ever, even once, think of how this makes me look?”

I didn’t say a word as I pulled the stank jeans up my thighs. He wasn’t wrong. For a ninth grader, Michael was ridiculously six feet tall, broad-shouldered, fit and had handsome features that didn't make me look like his sister. While I led a painfully boring social life, my brother was way up ahead in the game, winning everything: soccer team, lady admirers, and popularity to spare. I knew his rivals must’ve shoved my bullying into his face over and over again, and since we were actually close-knit siblings, it pissed him off more that I had refused to retaliate or allow him to do anything about it. Still, I was grateful he always had my back.

He hissed at my silence and shot me a glare as I swung my backpack over my shoulder.

“Easy there, tiger,” I said half-heartedly, hoping to lighten up his mood.

“Very rich, coming from you,” He grumbled, opening the classroom door for me. “At home, you are the tiger. At school, you are something else that I wish for at home.”

I let out a chuckle. “You wish,”

He shut the door behind us, and as I looked up at his scowling face, my gaze drifted to his hair. “Your blonde roots are back again,”

Mom had always dyed his hair black since we were babies. I had no idea why, and I had always assumed it was to match mine. But even when Michael got older, my mom still made it a rule. Eventually, she had asked him to choose between wearing a wig and dyeing it black. Because he went along with it, I decided not to question it.

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbled, “I'll fix it up today,” Then he suddenly snapped at me. “Don’t change the subject, Ingrid.”

I laughed lightly and patted his back as we walked down the scanty hallway. A couple of pretty girls winked at Michael, giving him obvious looks of approval.

“Interesting,” I teased him, and he immediately looked away from me. “Can you just listen?” My voice turned serious. “I don’t retaliate because I’m weak. I just choose my battles.”

He turned again to me, raising an eyebrow.

“Just choose your battles?” He echoed. “When you mess up at home, the consequences are predictable. They won’t go too far. But school bullies? There are no limits. I’d rather deal with the pain than let things escalate.”

“That’s a messed-up way to think, sis. No offence.”

“Whatever,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. We finally reached the parking lot. Thankfully, my brother's beat-up Mercedes convertible had been fixed recently, otherwise I would have been forced to take the school bus in my foul-smelling jeans, and everyone would’ve had a reason to poke at me.

“I can't wait for you to take those off,” my brother groaned, waving a hand in front of his nose. He turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life, but not without its usual abnormal jerking.

“Have you ever given girls a ride in this?” I teased, grinning as I reached for the air conditioning button.

“Nooo! Don't do that!” he yelled at me.

But it was too late. Billows of dust blasted straight at us from the air conditioning vents, engulfing our eyes, nostrils and mouth. I was sure our clothes were ruined.

Stupefied, I stared at my brother, and with our dust-filled mouths, we both burst into heart-filled laughter.