Royally Crushed by Niki Burnham

to me, let alone ask if he could hang with me in the library again today.
    “Fräulein Winslow?”
    I jump about a mile. The guy standing behind me is definitely not who I was expecting. He’s about fifty years too old to be Georg, and his voice sounds like he’s been chain-smoking since he was seven. I wouldn’t want my voice to sound like that even if I was a hundred. I make a mental note to limit my emergency smoking to once a year, if that.
    “I hope I did not disturb you.” The man smiles. He’s got gray hair and a potbelly that sticks straight out. He looks more pregnant than fat. But he’s wearing a nice suit and he’s smiling, so I figure he’s okay, even if he did call me a Fräulein and has such a thick accent I can barely understand him. Plus, this section of the palace isn’t exactly open to the world. There’s a metal detector and a fleet of security guards to get through first.
    “No. May I help you?” I ask. Dad would like that I’m being all formal and polite.
    “My name is Karl Oberfeld,” he says, “but you may call me Karl. Your father mentioned that you are spending today in study, so I thought I might bring you some refreshment—a Coke and some pretzels, perhaps?”
    I sit up straighter. “Um, sure. But you don’t have to. I mean, I can get my own from my apartment.” It still feels weird referring to a group of rooms with motel decor as an apartment , but Dad assures me that’s what it is.
    “It would be my pleasure to bring you a snack from the kitchen.” I can tell from his expression that he thinks it’s odd that I want to get my food myself, so I tell him okay, I’ll take a Coke and pretzels, but to make it a Diet Coke.
    Of course, when he walks away, I realize I should have said Coke Light. I sound like such an American. It’s kind of embarrassing.
    So a few minutes later, when I hear footsteps again, I turn around expecting Karl. Of course, now it’s Georg. And of course, I’m looking desperate, since the very mention of Diet Coke has made me thirsty.
    “How’s the studying going?” Georg asks. I just wave at my books with a you-know-how-it-goes flip of my hand. He takes the chair next to me, but seems a little hesitant, as if he’s afraid he’s interrupting. I have to wonder: Why does everyone always seem to feel uncomfortable here? Like they’re bothering you just by wanting to talk. Is this a palace thing?
    “You don’t have to memorize all those for the exams”—he jerks his head toward the formulas scribbled on my notebook page—“they give them to you. They just want to see if you’ve learned to apply them.”
    I can’t help but groan in total disgust. “You’re kidding, right? I’ve been trying to pound these into my brain all over again.”
    “You’re better off not studying at all, I think.” He leans forward as he says this, and there’s a cute little twinkle in his eyes, like I’m amusing him. “Though I’m sure my parents would make me study too.”
    I laugh. He might be a prince, but he’s cool. I hadn’t thought about it, but I suppose it wouldn’t look good for Prince Manfred and Princess Claudia if their only sonflunked out of school. It’d probably be all over the National Enquirer . Or the Schwerinborg Enquirer , if there’s such a thing. So much for Georg living a total life of luxury.
    “I don’t know what it is,” I say, “but as soon as I finish an exam, all the formulas I have to memorize for it go right out of my head. I figure that if I get a job in a lab someday, no one’s going to care if I open up a book and look up a freaking formula. Besides, since I’d be using them every day, and I wouldn’t have to worry about learning stuff for five or six other classes at the same time, I’d memorize them whether I wanted to or not.”
    “Exactly!” He’s giving me that slow, sexy smile again, and it’s like we have this scary-weird-cool connection. Then he adds, “Not that I want to be a scientist. I think