If there is one thing I did not expect from America, it is this:
Mondays can actually get worse.
I thought yesterday was bad enough with all the headlines and the breakfast meeting and the carefully polished statement where I had to remind millions of strangers that I am, in fact, human. I thought perhaps, mercifully, the universe might let me breathe today.
The universe says non.
It does not.
"Monique, tu es prête?" my mother calls from the hallway.
Almost.
I am standing in front of the mirror tying my hair into a low ponytail instead of a bun today. It feels… looser. Less like a helmet, more like myself. I slick on lip gloss, dab a little perfume, and smooth my blazer.
New day.
Same drama.
When I step out into the corridor, my mother gives me one quick, assessing look. She doesn't say anything about the ponytail. That is her way of saying she approves.
"Security has increased around the school," she says as we walk. "You may notice new faces. Do not panic."
"Je ne panique jamais," I say automatically.
I panic frequently.
"I'll be at the embassy for most of the day," she continues. "There are meetings with the State Department. If anything happens, your security detail will reach me. Or your father."
"Or the internet," I mutter.
She pauses and turns to me at the top of the stairs.
"Monique," she says quietly, switching into French, which means she is about to say something that matters. "You handled the weekend well. Better than many adults I know."
I blink.
Is that… praise?
"Merci, Maman," I say.
She touches my cheek lightly.
"You do not have to be perfect," she says. "Just… aware. And remember: you are allowed to enjoy things too. Not everything has to be a fight."
"I know," I lie.
She kisses my forehead and lets me go.
Downstairs, Charles is waiting by the front door, backpack over one shoulder, hair damp from a shower. He looks up when I come down the last step.
"Hey, France," he says. "Ready for round three?"
"Of what?" I ask. "America? School? Being a trending topic?"
He winces. "Too soon."
We step out of the White House together, surrounded by agents who pretend they are invisible. The autumn air is crisp again, the sky pale blue.
"Did you sleep?" he asks as we slide into the car.
"Oui," I say. "A little."
"You?"
"Define sleep," he says.
We both know what that means.
The drive to Lincoln is almost normal now.
Almost.
Students still stare when we pull up, but the stares are… different. Less like we are aliens, more like we are extremely confusing transfer students who come with extra security.
"Remember," Charles murmurs as we walk up the steps, "if anyone asks, you did not marry me over the weekend."
"Please," I scoff. "If we got married, I would not choose Madison's basement as the venue."
He laughs.
"Fair," he says. "You'd probably pick Versailles. Or the moon."
"The moon has better taste," I reply.
Inside, the hallway is its usual chaos. Lockers slam, voices overlap, someone drops an entire stack of papers and curses loudly.
Life moves on, even when the world thinks it is about you.
At my locker, there is something new.
A folded note, stuck in the vent.
Of course.
I glance at Charles.
"Fan mail?" he asks. "Death threat? Marriage proposal?"
"I do not accept any of those before eight a.m.," I say.
I pluck the note free and unfold it.
The handwriting is neat, dark blue ink.
Your post was brave.
The rest of this place is not.
Be careful who you trust with the parts of you that aren't on camera.
P.S. – The croissants in the cafeteria are still a crime.
No name.
Just a small drawing of a tiny crown in the corner.
Not like mine.
A broken one.
My chest tightens.
"Anonymous wisdom," Charles says, trying to peer over my shoulder.
I fold the note before he can see the drawing.
"Just someone reminding me that your cafeteria is an insult to France," I say lightly.
"Accurate," he replies. "You want me to complain to the principal?"
"Complain to the chef," I say. "The principal did not overbake them personally."
He grins.
The bell rings.
We scatter to our first classes.
By third period, I can feel it.
Something simmering.
Not from the adults this time.
From the students.
In English, people whisper less.
They ask me, timidly, what book I read in my last school.
In history, the boy with gym-sock smell actually offers me a pen when mine runs out.
In math, a girl slips me a piece of paper that simply says: Your post made my mom cry (in a good way). Thank you.
It is… strange.
To be thanked for existing.
For not screaming.
For saying I will not always get everything right.
Between classes, I pass Madison in the hallway.
Her hair is perfect. Her smile is back.
But there are tiny cracks in it now that only someone who has seen her truth would notice.
"Hey, Monique," she says.
"Bonjour, Madison," I reply.
"You survived the weekend," she comments.
"So did you," I say.
She laughs once.
"One of us looked better in the photos," she says.
"None of us looked good," I reply. "The lighting at your party was unforgivable."
That actually earns a real smile.
"I'm hosting a student council meeting after school," she says. "We're discussing the Homecoming charity project. You should come."
I narrow my eyes. "Why?"
"Because you have a platform now," she says simply. "You might as well use it for something other than survival."
I blink.
That is… not a terrible point.
"I am not on the council," I say.
"You don't have to be," she replies. "You're an international guest star. You get special appearances."
I consider it.
Meetings. Plans. Influence.
I know this world very well.
"I will think about it," I say.
She nods.
"Think fast," she says. "We start at three."
Then she is gone, swallowed by the crowd.
"What was that?" Aaliyah demands, appearing at my shoulder like a suspicious ghost.
"An invitation," I say.
"From Madison," she deadpans.
"Yes," I say.
"To student council," she continues.
"Yes."
She stares at me.
"You're not going," she decides.
"I have not decided yet," I reply.
"You are absolutely going," she says. "I can see it in your little royal brain. 'Ooh, a meeting where we can fix things.'"
I sigh.
"Would it be so terrible," I ask, "to try?"
She pauses.
"No," she admits. "But promise me if she starts measuring you for a Homecoming crown, you will run."
"I will walk," I say. "With dignity."
"Fine," she says. "Walk quickly."
At lunch, the cafeteria feels noisier than usual.
But this time, the noise isn't about me.
Posters have gone up on the walls.
HOME COMING WEEK – SPIRIT DAYS! GAME NIGHT! DANCE!
Photos of last year's events are printed beneath—students in face paint, people cheering in the stands, Madison on her lonely stage with a crown on her head.
The caption under that photo makes my stomach twist.
QUEEN WITHOUT A KING.
Someone has drawn a mustache on it in pen.
American teenagers are brutal.
I sit with Aaliyah and her friends.
They are already arguing about spirit day themes.
"If they do 'Pajama Day' again, I'm not coming," Maya says. "I refuse to be photographed in flannel."
"I think it's cute," Priya says. "We all look like exhausted raccoons. It's honest."
Jonah nudges me. "So, Your Highness," he says. "Are you going to grace our tragic little Homecoming with your presence?"
"What is Homecoming, exactly?" I ask. "A dance? A game? A ritual sacrifice?"
"Yes," he says. "To all three."
Aaliyah grins. "It's basically a giant distraction from the fact that our education system is on fire," she says. "We dress up and yell and pretend everything's fine."
"Also, there's a parade and a court," Maya adds. "And a lot of bad decisions afterward."
I look at the poster again.
At Madison's crown.
At the empty space beside her.
"And this court," I ask. "Anyone can be on it?"
"Anyone who wins the vote," Jonah says. "Though 'anyone' usually means 'people who already run things.'"
Aaliyah snorts. "Last year was a mess. The way Madison's name was literally printed on the ballots next to 'Queen'…"
Jonah laughs. "Yeah, that was subtle."
"And Charles?" I ask quietly. "His name was next to 'King'?"
Aaliyah's smile fades.
"Yeah," she says. "And then he didn't show. It was… brutal."
I glance across the room.
He's at his usual table, nodding absentmindedly at something one of his friends is saying, but his eyes are distracted.
I have a thought.
A dangerous one.
What if the point is not to avoid the stage this year?
What if the point is to change what it means to stand on it?
I shake my head quickly.
Too soon.
Too much.
"Stop planning revolutions in your head," Aaliyah says under her breath. "You're doing the royal thinking face."
"I always think," I protest.
"Yes," she says. "That's the problem."
After school, instead of going straight to the car, I find myself standing outside the student council room.
A sign on the door reads: STUDENT GOVERNMENT – MEETING IN PROGRESS.
Voices murmur inside.
Part of me wants to turn around.
To go home.
To pretend I did not hear Madison say, You have a platform now.
The other part—the louder part—the one that dragged me into the markets in Iris and made me face rebels on my own stairs—pushes me forward.
I knock once and push the door open.
The room is full.
Not with the whole school, of course, but with a hand-picked group.
Madison stands at the front, a clipboard in hand. A handful of other students sit around a long table: some I recognize from advisory, some from clubs, some only from the edges of the cafeteria.
Everyone turns when I enter.
"Monique," Madison says, her smile almost… pleased. "You came."
"Bonjour," I say. "I hope I am not interrupting."
"Not at all," she replies. "Grab a seat. We were just getting to the fun part."
I sit near the middle, not at the head, not at the back.
"What is the fun part?" I ask.
"Choosing our Homecoming charity," she says. "We raise money every year with the game and the dance. This year, I thought we could… expand."
A boy with a student council pin raises his hand. "Expand how?"
Madison's eyes flick briefly to me.
"Internationally," she says.
Of course.
"We have a unique opportunity this year," she continues smoothly. "We have an actual foreign royal in our halls. We also have a First Son whose family has ties to a lot of global organizations. If we pick the right cause, we could do something bigger than just repainting the gym or buying new uniforms."
She looks at me.
"Imagine," she says, "raising money for something in France. Or somewhere else that matters to you."
My throat tightens.
I think of flooded villages.
Of refugee camps.
Of underfunded schools.
Of headlines that never make it to American teen phones.
"Or," she adds quickly, "something here that connects us. Exchange programs. Cultural scholarships. Not just a one-night check. A relationship."
The room hums.
She is good at this.
Very good.
"What do you think, Monique?" she asks. "Would your family be… comfortable with that?"
All eyes swing to me.
It is not lost on me that she is putting me on the spot.
But she is also… giving me a choice.
At least the illusion of one.
"I would have to speak with my parents," I say carefully. "And with our embassy. But in principle…"
I let the word hang there.
"In principle," I continue, "I think using our attention for something that is not only about ourselves is always a good idea."
Madison's smile brightens.
"Great," she says. "Then let's brainstorm some options."
The next twenty minutes feel familiar.
We throw out ideas.
Local shelters.
International aid groups.
Educational foundations.
I listen.
I suggest.
I push, gently, away from vague, feel-good names toward organizations that actually do what they claim.
At one point, I catch Madison watching me, her eyes much more calculating than her smile.
She is taking my measure.
The way my mother and father do.
The way Lucia does, in a different story across the ocean.
You are not the girl I was promised.
Here, I am not the girl they expected either.
And that is fine.
When the meeting ends, students drift out in pairs and threes. Madison stays behind, stacking papers.
I linger.
"So," she says at last, not looking up, "what did you think?"
"Of your agenda?" I ask. "Efficient. Slightly manipulative. Effective."
She smirks.
"You say that like it's a bad thing," she replies.
"It is not always," I admit. "But you could have asked me privately before using me as motivation."
She lifts her head.
"You would've said yes anyway," she says.
"That is not the point," I reply.
She holds my gaze.
"Point noted," she says.
We stand there for a moment.
"Why are you really doing this?" I ask softly. "The charity. The expansion. The speeches."
She looks briefly away.
"Because," she says quietly, "if I am going to be the girl in all their photos again, I want at least one of them to mean something."
I think of her alone on the Homecoming stage.
Of the caption.
Queen without a king.
"You know," I say slowly, "you do not have to stand on that stage this year."
Her eyebrows shoot up.
"Excuse me?" she says.
"You heard me," I say. "You could choose not to run. Not to let them put another crown on your head when you are still learning if you want it."
She stares at me like I have grown a second head.
"And let who take my place?" she demands. "You?"
I blink.
"No," I say, horrified. "Absolutely not."
"Then who?" she presses. "Some other girl who hasn't learned how to use it? I worked for that stage, Monique. I bled for it. Literally. I twisted my ankle once running from a budget meeting to soccer practice."
I almost laugh.
Almost.
"I am not saying you have to disappear," I say. "I am saying you have a choice."
She shakes her head.
"Not really," she says. "Not anymore. They expect it. My parents. The school. The donors. You don't just… step out of a spotlight like that and go back to being nobody."
Her voice is flat.
"I did," I say softly.
She looks at me.
"You stepped from one spotlight to another," she says. "Don't pretend you don't know exactly how to stand in them."
Touché.
"Maybe the answer," I say slowly, "is not to step out. It is to move the light."
She frowns. "What?"
"You can keep the crown," I say. "If you really want it. But you can also share the stage. Change what it means to be standing there. Make it about more than who looks good next to whom."
I hesitate.
Then I say it.
"The court," I say. "The titles. The photos. Use them. Put people up there who would never get there otherwise. Not just the usual faces. Make them seen. Give them some of that power you are so good at holding."
She blinks.
"That's… radical," she says.
"In France," I say, "we call that Tuesday."
She laughs, short and sharp.
"I'll think about it," she says.
"Do," I reply.
When I step out into the hallway, Charles is leaning against the opposite wall, waiting.
"Stalking me?" I ask.
"Monitoring," he corrects. "What's the council verdict? Are we saving the world with glitter and football now?"
"Something like that," I say.
He falls into step beside me as we walk toward the parking lot.
"You know," he says, "for someone who hates being watched, you walk into very visible rooms on purpose."
"I am used to visible rooms," I reply. "I am less used to being in them with people my own age."
He nods.
"Did Madison try to recruit you for queen?" he asks lightly.
"Not yet," I say. "She is still deciding whether to share the crown or burn it."
He laughs.
In the car, as the city slides by, I reach into my bag and pull out the note from my locker.
I haven't shown it to anyone yet.
Broken crown.
Be careful who you trust.
I trace the little drawing with my thumb.
Somewhere across an ocean, in another story, rebels paint broken crowns on walls.
Here, in America, someone draws one for me.
A warning.
Or an invitation.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Charles says lazily.
"That is very cheap," I reply.
He grins.
"Euro for your thoughts?"
"Better," I say.
I hesitate.
Then I tuck the note away again.
"Just thinking," I say, "about crowns."
"And?" he asks.
"And how heavy they feel," I say quietly, "even when you are not wearing them."
He is quiet for a moment.
"Maybe," he says, "we should both learn how to take them off, sometimes."
I look at him.
"You first," I say.
He smiles.
"Deal," he says.
Outside, Washington glows in the late afternoon light.
Inside, in this moving little box of diplomacy and teenage chaos, I realize something.
France.
America.
Palaces.
Parties.
Crowns.
No matter where I go, I am always going to be standing on some kind of stage.
But maybe—for the first time—I am beginning to understand that I can change the play.
Rewrite the lines.
Pick my fellow actors.
And if the world insists on turning my life into a story, then at the very least, I will not be a background character in it.
I will be the narrator.
In my language.
On my terms.