Royally Crushed by Niki Burnham Page A

it’d be about the most boring job in the world. Or, at least, it would be for me,” he says, covering, and I can tell he’s worried that I’m secretly dreaming of becoming a rocket scientist and he might have offended me. “Is it something you think you’d find interesting?”
    “No way!” I laugh again, even though all this giggling is probably making me sound like one of those bimbettes from Christie’s favorite TV show. Eeww. I compensate by telling him, “My science grades have always been really good, all As, but there are things I’d rather do with my life.”
    “Like what?”
    I hesitate. Telling him I want to sketch for a living would make me look like I’m too stupid to do anything real . Like be a lawyer or an architect or run my own business or something, which is what my parents want and expect. But I just can’t get myself psyched up for anything like that. Not yet.
    “I’m still thinking about it,” I finally say. “Most of my friends’ older brothers and sisters seem like they change their minds once they get to college, so I’m trying not to get too focused on any one thing until then.”
    “So what will you major in?”
    “Nothing that has to do with science, that’s for sure,” I joke. “But I’ve got two more years to figure it out. You’re a junior, though. So what about you?”
    Of course, as soon as the question is out of my mouth, I think, Duh, Valerie! The dude’s got his future all mapped out. He’s going to rule a country! He’s going to major in economics or political science or something like that, and then he’ll work in some government job until his father kicks off.
    I am amazed by how stupid I can be sometimes.
    Thankfully I am saved by my dear buddy Karl. Apparently Georg saw Karl in the hall and told the old guy what he wanted too, ’cause Karl has a Coke Light for me, a Coke for Georg, and a mondo-sized bowl of pretzels. Healso has a few cut-up sandwiches on a tray, which make my tummy start to rumble the minute I see them.
    I can get used to service like this.
    Karl gives Georg a little bow, then leaves the room. A bow . Georg must think, judging from my idiotic question, that I’m a disrespectful smart-ass.
    “If I could be anything at all,” Georg says, handing me a sandwich on a little plate, “I think I’d be a professional soccer player.”
    “Really? Do you play a lot?” It occurs to me that it’s probably rude to ask, since I’m guessing most Schwerinborgians (if that’s what they’re called—I’ll have to check with Dad—maybe it’s Schwerinborgers or just the Borg , like on Star Trek ) would automatically know this kind of trivia about their prince. But since this is the way I talk with my friends, and Georg’s never actually come out and told me he’s a prince—and doesn’t seem to want me to know, judging from the way he was uncomfortable with Karl bowing to him in front of me—I decide to just be my laid-back, friendly self, and so what if he thinks I’m rude.
    Although my laid-back, friendly self was also of the opinion that someone with Georg’s background would dream of a sport that involves horses and where he has to wear jodhpurs. Not soccer .
    “I play indoor soccer all year. And at school I madevarsity on the outdoor team my freshman year.” He says it without bragging, simply as a statement of fact. “I had to work pretty hard to do it, though. I was certain I’d get busted back to the JV team after every single game.”
    “But you weren’t, were you?”
    He shakes his head between sips of Coke, and his cheeks get pink. It’s totally cute.
    “Next year, when I’m a senior, I hope I’m the captain. I’d really like to play pro for a year or two before I go to college.” He glances up at the fireplace, where there’s an oil painting showing a woman who’s probably one of his ancestors. She’s wearing a high collar and looks just as constipated as all the old guys whose portraits are hanging in the halls.