The Royals Next Door by Karina Halle
Twenty
I stumble out of the bathroom, my phone clutched in my hand, and run right into Harrison in the hallway.
He immediately grabs me by the arms, holding me, his eyes anxiously searching mine. “Piper,” he says gruffly. “I am so sorry.”
I blink at him, unable to get my head on straight.
“I didn’t know if I should have said anything about the pictures or not,” he goes on. “I certainly didn’t want to spoil your dinner. But I thought it would be best that we came clean. They’d find out sooner or later.” He peers at me closer. “You’ve seen the pictures, haven’t you?”
I nod, my lips moving, but it feels like forever before words come out, like everything is moving in slow motion. “I saw the pictures. But I don’t care about the pictures. I don’t care about what they wrote. I . . . I just got an email from the school board.”
“The school board?”
“Yes. They said I’m under review.”
“What?!” he exclaims, his eyes wide. “Because of the pictures.”
“Yes. No. Here.”
I pull up the email on my phone and give it to him, my hand trembling.
He reads it over, his frown deepening, his eyes blazing as he goes.
I’m in deep shit.
According to the email, someone filed a private complaint about me and my personal “hobbies,” saying that I’m unfit to be a schoolteacher and that they don’t feel comfortable with someone like me teaching at the school. The school board has to take the complaint seriously, so they’ve set up a meeting on Monday for me to state my case in front of everyone.
The reason?
It’s not just the pictures. I could understand a little if it were the pictures. Even though it was a private moment, I was in an area where I shouldn’t have been, and the press is painting me as a little wanton, which definitely doesn’t help with the next part.
The next part being that my podcast is out in the open.
Whenever my mother did that interview today, the news got printed really fast. Romancing the Podcast, though not the subject of the article that I believe is in the Daily Mail (which is much worse than TMZ), was mentioned.
A romance podcast shouldn’t be a big deal.
But whoever filed the complaint has made it a big deal.
Something something, a public schoolteacher shouldn’t have a public podcast where she discusses sex and reads explicit sex scenes out loud.
Never mind the fact that it wasn’t public until today, that it’s been operated anonymously. I suppose I could just deny it’s me, but I guess once you do know it’s me, it’s easy to connect the dots.
I’m fucked. And the funny thing is, this is exactly why I wanted to keep the podcast a secret, because I knew that someone somewhere would take offense at it and then call for me to lose my job over it.
And that’s exactly what’s happening.
Harrison finishes reading and hands the phone back to me.
“Sue them,” he says angrily.
“I can’t sue them.”
“They have no right to fire you over something you do in private. Over sex? Over discussing sex? That’s preposterous.”
“They’re looking for any way to vilify me, you know that.”
“Not they,” he says. “Someone. Someone who filed the complaint. The school board will side with you, once you state your case. Not that you should have to state your bloody fucking case; you’re entitled to do whatever you want on your own time so long as it hurts no one, and this hurts no one.”
“Except that someone wants to hurt me. They want to prove a point.”
“It doesn’t say who they are.”
“No. But I have an idea. It’s either someone from Joey’s family or it’s Amy’s mother. The town crier. She’s blocked a bike lane from being built, a bike lane that would prevent the dozens of accidents and collisions we have on our main drag every year, just because it would promote tourists to come visit. If she’s that rooted in stasis, there’s no way she’s going to let this fly.”
He sighs. “I guess we’re going to have to wait and see. You know I’m coming with you, right?”
“I’ll be fine.”
He puts his hands around my waist and dips his head, looking at me sincerely. “It’s for your own protection, and I mean it.”
He leans in and kisses me gently. “I’m really sorry it had to be this way,” he murmurs, running a hand through my hair. “I thought we had a little more time with each other before we were exposed.”
“I did too,” I tell him, kissing the corner of his mouth. “But I don’t regret it. I don’t regret it coming out, because I have to say, I was feeling pretty sick at the thought of keeping it from Monica. I would have kept the secret for you, but it didn’t feel right. Now she knows and . . . I guess she’s okay with it.”
“She owes Eddie money,” he says with a soft smile. “I guess he bet that one of us liked the other one. I wonder if she owes him double now that it ended up being mutual.”
“Liked,” I say. The word, though accurate, sounds so small and puny on my tongue. “I more than like you, Harrison Cole.”
“And I more than like you, Piper Evans.”
“And I think the two of you are the cutest thing since sliced bread,” my mother’s shrill, tipsy voice comes through, breaking us apart.
“Since when is sliced bread cute, Mom?” I say wryly.
“Since you cut a little happy face in it,” she answers matter-of-factly.
The thing is, I should be mad at her because she’s the reason that this shit is all happening. But I know it’s not her fault. And the last thing she needs is to know that I’m being investigated by the school board. It’s better I say nothing at all.
She gives us another approving look before she walks into the washroom and closes the door. I grab Harrison’s hand and give it a squeeze. “I’m not going to tell her about the email, just so you know.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’ll blame herself. And rightly so, but it will send her on a downward spiral.”
“But doesn’t your mother have a right to know? You can’t keep hiding all the bad things from her, Piper. You know it doesn’t work.”
He has a point, but he doesn’t have my mother.
“I’m protecting her,” I tell him. “You of all people should know what that’s like.”
He studies me for a moment and then nods. “Come on. Let’s at least try to enjoy the night.”
He gives my hand a squeeze and leads me to the back deck.
Monday rolls around before I know it.
I did my best to try to slow the weekend down. On Saturday, Monica, Eddie, Harrison, and I went for a walk along a trail not many tourists know about, named for the Canadian astronaut Chris Hadfield. It takes you past old-growth cedar groves, then through a fairy-tale-like forest with exposed veins of quartz and moss, and along a gurgling creek that runs out into the ocean, to a grassy knoll where you can sit and watch the pleasure boats, seals, and sometimes orcas glide past.
We didn’t run into anyone until the end of the trail, and they only gave us a second look and a smile and carried on.
On Sunday, Harrison spent the evening at my house.
A night off.
My mother decided to give us some privacy and said she was going into town, which was surprising but appreciated all the same.
I wanted Harrison to stay over, but he said he didn’t want to push his luck. Even though he’s a free man to do what he wants, we’re both still trying to figure out the balance here. Obviously I’m okay with whatever, at least until school starts again after Labor Day (if I even have a job . . . ), but Harrison has never had to balance a relationship and his job before. I know he wants to make sure he’s doing right both ways, so he’s taking his time. And so if that means he’s not spending the night here yet, then that’s okay with me. As long as I get some lovin’ and some quality time before he goes.
But he does stay true to his word when it comes to protecting me.
So at nine thirty the next morning, he’s knocking at my door, ready to take me to the meeting.
“Where are you going?” my mother asks from the couch, already engrossed in some soap opera.
“Just to town,” I tell her. “Text me if you need anything?”
She gives me a once-over. I do look extra professional today. My hair is pulled back in a low bun; I’m wearing a white shirt and black pants. I look like a waitress.
I leave before she can say anything else, smiling at Harrison.
“You still haven’t told her?” he asks.
“Shhh,” I tell him, my finger to my mouth. “She has surprisingly good hearing.”
“Piper . . .”
“This is for the best,” I tell him. “Now come on, let’s take my car. I don’t want to show up in anything royal-related. I’ll look like a pompous ass.”
“You’d take Oscar the Grouch over a pompous ass?”
“Every time. Get in.”
He gets in and then we’re off, and suddenly I wish I wasn’t driving because I’m gripping the wheel so hard that my knuckles are white and my palms are sweating.
“Hey,” Harrison says gently, putting his hand on my leg. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to do great.”
I give him an incredulous look. “I know you’ve seen me when I get nervous. I babble. I’m going to babble. I’m not going to say the right thing.”
“You will,” he assures me. “You will. Trust yourself. You’re sticking up for yourself, your podcast, your habits, perhaps even your love life, if it comes to that, and I sure hope it doesn’t. You know yourself the best, and you sell yourself the best. Anyone with a brain will be able to see your whip-smart mind and beautiful heart.”
God. I’m melting here.
I give him a look full of longing, the kind of longing that makes me want to pull the car off the road and climb on top of him. “Please stop being so nice to me.”
“I’ll never do that.”
“It’s going to go to my head.”
“If you know how amazing you are, the world will be a better place.”
Where did I find this man again?
Oh right. The royals next door.
Harrison’s kind words and pep talk, combined with the pressure of his soothing palm on my leg, keep my nerves in check for the drive, but by the time we pull in front of the elementary school, I’m a nervous wreck again.
Naturally, it being a Monday in the middle of summer, there aren’t many cars here. I recognize the principal’s station wagon, plus the electric car of the chairperson, and five other cars. I’ve never actually been to a school board meeting before, since I’m not on the board (and have never been in trouble), so I have no idea what to expect.
“You’re going to be fine,” Harrison says to me again as we walk toward the front doors, giving my hand another comforting squeeze.
It’s so weird being here in the summer; it feels like a place from a dream. In a way it’s best that I avoid the building on my months off and get back into the swing of things in the fall. Being here now feels like a mistake, like I’ve stumbled into some other dimension. It makes me realize how different I am in the summer, when I’m not working, than when I am. Not that either version of me is bad, but they do feel like different people.
We walk in through the doors and toward the first classroom on the right. The door is open, and there’s a low murmur of voices.
I stop just outside and look up at Harrison. “Do you mind waiting here?”
“Not at all,” he says, leaning in and giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’ve got this.”
I’m not sure what I’ve got. But I know I’ve got his support. And that counts for a lot.
I step inside the classroom and see seven heads swivel toward me.
I try to take them all in at once, but at the same time they’re a blur, like I see nothing at all.
“Piper,” the principal, Georgia Hopkins, says to me. She gives me a shaky smile and gestures for me to sit down at the front beside her.
I am so nervous I might just pee my pants.
It’s hard to swallow, I feel like I’m almost choking, but I manage to walk across the room toward her without fainting or screaming.
Georgia has always been a great principal, beloved by both the kids and the staff, and I know from the apologetic look in her eyes that none of this was her idea. That puts me a little more at ease, knowing there is one more person here who has my back, even if the other person is waiting outside the door.
Georgia clears her throat and then looks to the unsmiling people sitting in the plastic chairs facing us. Maureen Portier, the chairwoman of the board, is the only person I recognize.
Then I’m introduced to Jerry Bluth, the vice chairman; Angela Kim, the union representative; Marty Howe, the secretary treasurer; Alexander LaCroix, who I’m told will be recording the meeting (and who I also know works for the newspaper); plus a trustee.
Barbara Mischky.
To be honest, I’ve never met the infamous senior Mischky in person, only seen her face posted many times in the paper’s editorials, but in person she looks more like Amy than I could have imagined. A face that could be pretty if it weren’t full of such spite.
And right now, all that spite is directed at me.
“Piper, I’m going to let Maureen speak since she is the one who called this meeting,” Georgia says to me. “Just so you know, this is all a formality of what we must do for every complaint. I know this is your first meeting with the board, but this isn’t a usual meeting and it’s a closed one. Alexander is only recording it for transparency’s sake.”
Maureen clears her throat. I’ve only met her a handful of times, and she’s a pretty stern lady with a pinched face and a close-cropped haircut, but she’s not particularly unkind, just tough.
“Ms. Evans,” Maureen begins, adjusting herself in her seat so she’s sitting up taller, folding her hands in her lap over her notebook. “Thank you for coming here on short notice. I want to reiterate what Georgia said. This is an investigation because it’s what we have to do when a complaint is lodged. We are here to tell you the complaint, why it matters, and then hear your side of the story. We are not judge, jury, and executioner, and the aim of this meeting is not over termination. It is merely a follow-through.”
That should make me feel a little bit better, but it doesn’t. I feel like a little kid up here, being judged and presided over anyway.
“Now, as was mentioned in the email, a trustee member came across several things that put your role as a schoolteacher here in question. I am going to read off the two things that we vowed to investigate. One is that pictures were published last Friday, between you and the bodyguard of the Duke and Duchess of Fairfax, whom we know are staying on the island. The photos taken were a breach of privacy on your behalf, and even if you were having an intimate moment with someone else, it is none of our business. However, the pictures were taken at Lake Maxwell, which has been sectioned off by the Island Committee and the Watershed District board. The lake is considered private property, and under BC law, you are subject to trespassing. So there is that.”
“May I speak?” I ask, raising my hand.
She nods primly. “Of course.”
“It doesn’t say private property on those signs, and how could it be considered private property if there are houses that share it? Are you suggesting that all those houses own the property along with the waterworks department?”
Yeah, I know I’m kind of wasting my time here on this point—there are so many conflicting theories floating around the island about why the lake is sectioned off, it would take all day to unravel them—but I want them to know that I’m not going to just sit back and take a dressing down. I’m right too. There is a fence, there is a notice of no swimming or ATVing due to it being a watershed, but there are no signs about it being private property. Maybe it’s a moot point, but I’m going to take it.
“Regardless,” Maureen says, “the signs specifically tell you to stay back, and going around the fence doesn’t avoid the issue. The point is, you are a schoolteacher of impressionable children, and to see you doing something like this reflects very badly on you and the school.”
Okay. Fine. She’s right about that, then.
I must have an air of defeat around me, because I catch Barbara Mischky smiling at me from the back row.
“Which then brings us to the second issue,” Maureen says. “Which is the fact that you have a romance book podcast.”
Jerry, the vice chairman, snorts at that.
I immediately give him the nastiest look I can muster.
He stops smiling.
“Now, what a teacher does in their private time is not an issue so long as it doesn’t hurt anyone. But when faced with this, it was pointed out that if a teacher was promoting pornography outside the classroom, there would be very swift punishment toward them.”
I nearly choke on a laugh. What?
“I’m sorry,” I say, raising my hand again. “Are you suggesting that my romance podcast is akin to promoting pornography?”
Maureen’s face goes red. She clears her throat again. “I am saying that perhaps it could be perceived that way.”
“Well, have you read a romance? Better yet, have you listened to my podcast?”
She shakes her head.
My eyes bug out. “You’re calling me up here to try to clear my name over something and you didn’t even bother listening to the supposed evidence?”
Maureen clamps her lips shut and looks away.
I stare at everyone else. “Did any of you?”
“I did,” Barbara says, her voice smug and tight. “I listened to one, and that’s all I could take. You’re an extremely crude and disgusting person and definitely not suited to be teaching the innocent children here.”
I am so flabbergasted, so angry, that I don’t even have the words. I don’t even know how to proceed.
It takes everything inside me not to call her the same word Harrison used to describe her daughter.
“My podcast,” I begin, my voice tight, “is directed to a mature audience. To the romance-reading audience. It’s okay to read about sex. It’s okay to have a book that’s focused on both people falling in love and the woman’s own pleasure. The genre has a lot of stigma attached to it, but only because some people are afraid of women’s empowerment and sexuality.”
“It’s smut,” she practically spits out.
“It’s smut, and it’s wonderful,” I tell her. “What’s so wrong with smut? What’s wrong with a book that focuses on sex? On romantic relationships? And on top of that, in a respectful way. Why is sex in movies and in TV and in art and in music and in literary novels considered okay, but a romance novel isn’t?”
She looks shocked. “It’s wrong . . . It’s prostitution.”
She’s really reaching now. “So now you’re saying that a romance novel is akin to prostitution. Okay then.” I look at Maureen. “Is this why you called me here? Because this is what you believe? That a romance novel, or talking about a romance novel, is the same as prostitution? Never mind the fact that I can also debate you about sex workers and the lack of support and care they get. I’ll save that for some other time.”
“No, of course not,” Maureen says. “Look, this is all very complicated.”
“Actually, I don’t think it is,” Georgia speaks up. “As the principal of the school, I think I should get a say in the matter.” She gives me a supportive smile. “I know Piper is an excellent teacher. What she reads or does in her own time is her own business. But I will say you are making this out to be something it’s not. Just because you have a prejudice against romance novels doesn’t mean that what you believe is true. It means you’ve bought in to a dangerous, inherently anti-feminist narrative. I read a whole range of books, and some of them are romances. I wish I had known about Piper’s podcast before, because I would have loved to have felt like part of a community, especially when so many of the readers get shunned for it. As it was, of course, Piper’s podcast was anonymous until it was more or less doxed. Wouldn’t you say that’s correct, Piper?”
I’m trying not to smile at how she’s going to bat for me, but my heart is being warmed over. “Someone called up my mother and asked her a few questions about me. My mother thought she was helping, but the podcast would have remained anonymous otherwise.”
“Because you’re ashamed,” Barbara says.
“Because I knew that someone like you would have an issue with someone like me talking frankly about sex. That’s why. But you know what, grill me all you want over this, try to shame me. I won’t be ashamed, I will not retract, I will not back down. I am a proud romance reader, and I’m not ashamed of what I read or what I discuss with other readers. Nothing you can do or say will make me feel that way.”
A loaded silence fills the room, and everyone stares at me, gobsmacked. I want to look over at the door to see if Harrison is still there, but I don’t dare. Besides, I can still feel him.
Maureen clears her throat again. “Okay,” she says slowly, rubbing along her temple. “You have made your point, Piper. But there is still the issue of swimming at the lake.”
“There is no issue,” I tell her. “You know why? Because it cancels out. I have a right to privacy. Those pictures were posted without my permission. Furthermore, it was Barbara’s daughter, Amy, who identified me in the pictures, which makes me think this whole thing is a conflict of interest. Certainly Barbara here is biased.”
“I am not biased,” she says in a huff.
I ignore her. “I have a right to privacy. Maybe I shouldn’t have been in the lake, but you don’t have the right to preside over everything I do. Those photos should have never been published.”
“It was in public,” Maureen says.
“But it wasn’t, according to you,” I remind her. “Look, you gave me the two reasons why you called this meeting, and I argued my case on each one. But what it really comes down to is, you don’t know me. You can’t vouch for me. Only Georgia here knows me, and that’s because I work with her. I’ve lived here for years, and yet I barely recognize any of you. That’s partially your fault, for not getting to know your educators. It’s also partially my fault for being a hermit. But why am I a hermit? Because I don’t feel welcome here. I feel like if I’m myself, I’ll be judged and pushed to the side. It’s hard to see it when you’re in it, but since I still feel like an outsider, I’ll explain to you what I see, from the outside looking in.
“Why do people move to a small town or to an island?” I start ticking off my fingers. “They want peace. They want privacy. They want a sense of community, a place where they can both be themselves and belong. But that’s not what they get anymore. There is no peace when there is no privacy, when people think they have the right to know everything about a person, purely so they can judge them. There is no sense of community when people are made to feel like outsiders. We should be protecting each other, looking out for each other, respecting each other. But that doesn’t happen.”
I point at the secretary treasurer, whatever his name is. “You. See, I don’t even know who you are. We’re told about community, but we don’t even really know each other. Why do you think the duke and duchess moved here to this island? Was it for the weather?”
The man looks around for help, his eyes wide beneath his glasses. “Uh, no?”
“Do you think they moved here because they wanted a place to relax, to be themselves, to live their lives out from under that ever-present microscope?”
“Uh, yes?”
“Well, you’re right. That’s what they wanted. But that’s not what they got. We should have been protecting them from day one. Instead, all you did was complain about the media circus. You complained about the people coming in, people, as if they don’t contribute to the economy. You looked at them like they were outsiders, and you do that to a lot of people, not just them. And it’s not unique to this place; this happens everywhere. We’re so obsessed with our little bubbles that we become afraid to let other people in. We put blinders on, and we shut people out, and when we do finally look at them, we think we have the right to know everything. This isn’t about getting to know your fellow neighbor; this is about finding ways to continually shun them. If we want to truly be a great community, we have to be inclusive, regardless of what someone does, or reads, or where they come from.”
I’m tired now. My mouth won’t stop flapping, and I’m babbling and off-topic, and I knew this would happen once I got going.
“All right, Piper,” Maureen says after a moment. “Are you done?”
“Are you?”
She nods. “We’ll deliberate and let you know.”
I have to fight to not roll my eyes. After all that, pouring my soul out, defending my character, they still have to talk it over? Fucking bureaucracy.
I get up, giving Georgia a grateful smile, and then leave.
The moment I’m out the door, I practically collapse in Harrison’s arms.
“Good job,” Harrison says to me, holding me close, his chin resting on my head. “You were phenomenal, Piper. You really were.”
“I feel like an ass,” I mumble into his chest.
He chuckles warmly. “Well, you did not sound it.” He pulls away and peers at me, holding me by the shoulders. “And nope, you certainly don’t look it either.”
“Is it too early for a drink?” I whine as he puts his arm around me and leads me out of the school.
“There’s a cidery around the corner that I’ve been itching to try,” he says. All the right words.
