Practice Challenge Part 1
Turns out I’m an impatient idiot. I don’t know how many parts i’ll do, I think 2? either way, here it issss. Ehm...hope you enjoy? Please enjoy. I beg you
Higher Ambitions
It’s an obvious choice to apply. It would be a great opportunity. A national tradition. A historical event happening once every generation- if we’re lucky. In my opinion it couldn’t possibly be cancelled again, even if the Prince was in love. It would simply be unwise from a political point of view. They must have agreed with me, since the engagement was cancelled and applications arrived this morning. In a perfectly pressed envelope, the Royal emblem on top of the page with that thick structured paper I favour. Regina Carla Wright, neatly typed in a regal, cursive font. It can’t be said the Royal family doesn’t know how to present themselves, even on paper. Of course I won’t accept if my courses have to suffer from it, but some arrangement can easily be made. Hansport University usually promotes outside experiences. Moreover, I’m sure it would look good on my resume, might I get in. Do Royals write recommendation letters?
"You should sleep." I hear behind me. I look over my shoulder to see my uncle Aran sitting in roughly the same position as I am, hunched over some papers. There's a fort of binders build around him, the soft desk-light enhancing the circles under his eyes. He’s a lawyer and working on a case. Has been for the last couple of weeks, and has gotten slowly more buried in work, his fort growing in size every day. My own fort is located at the dinner table at the moment. Some discarded coffee-cups form the front, followed by an impenetrable wall of books and notebooks. The wounded soldiers can be counted by the amount of ink spots I keep managing to end up on my hands. It's three in the morning. "Hypocrite," I mumble, loud enough for him to hear. "Nerd," he fires back, not looking up from his work either. "Actually, I will have you know that I'm not doing any schoolwork right now." I smile a little smug, seeing how he starts to frown. "Job?" I shake my head. "Extracurriculars?" "Wrong again." I tap the papers against the table to straighten them. "It's a Selection application." "What!" He jumps from his chair, an excited smile on his face as he approaches me. A stack of his papers fall on the floor but he ignores it. He must really be excited. I should have known, and not just from his reaction when they announced it. At least once a year, he forces me to watch the previous ones, calling it quality time. I don’t know if becoming gradually more disappointed in the previous state of our country can be considered quality. Neither can the whole procedure. The candidates’ debate skills are mediocre at best, no matter how much they bat their lashes. Not that it matters. But it should. At least, if I get the chance to have any say in it. “You never said anything about applying,” he says, pleasantly surprised. “I wanted to research the procedure first,” I reply, filling in my whole name and age. "They're asking for the colour of my eyes and hair, but no essay whatsoever,” I comment, checking the front and back of the form twice to be sure. Uncle Aran looks with me from over my shoulder. “It's already ridiculous," I add. "Of course, how else can Prince Arin romantically compare your political viewpoints to a summer's day." He makes a twinkling movement in the air with his hand, as if he's coating me with glitter as my fairy godmother. I grab a blank piece of paper anyway and write my name and date at the top. "Appearances shouldn't matter as much for the future freaking Queen of the country." "Says the pretty girl. Besides, if this were a democracy, people would be voting for whoever is most entertaining to watch, you know that." He shrugs. Considering how he roots for the same sassy mean girl every rewatch, I’m not surprised he’s indifferent to the Selection being what it is. Or was. It’s some time ago now. "Maybe that's why we're not a democracy," I state, starting my first sentence. He does not look amused and even somewhat disappointed. In me or the country, I'm not sure. I'd say the latter is more justified. Sighing, he starts to walk to the stairs, picking up the cat along the way. "I'm going to sleep, and so are you," he says. "I'm coming in a second," I reply as I continue writing on why I should be admitted to the Selection. Why I would be a great addition even. Why I- "You're putting that pen down right now or I’ll burn that essay of yours first thing in the morning." I begrudgingly comply. “Usually my second draft is better anyway,” I argue, though putting my pen down. He shakes his head, mumbling something about craziness to the cat. She seems to agree. Of course she would. Traitor.
My hair drips a little on the table from my swim, wetting the morning paper. I catch up on the Globe’s articles- skipping the endless pictures of celebrities handing in their application forms- and drink my coffee. “Any news?” Aran grumbles, pouring his own coffee in a huge mug. He’s not a morning person. “MRTFLR is doing good in the stock market, and they voted against-” “I meant about the Selection you’re applying for.” “Oh,” I answer, “Only about who is and who isn’t going to apply. So no.” He quickly throws back his coffee, already late for work, motioning for me to tell him anyway as he does. “Alright, some Two named Angela is applying, she even broke up with her boyfriend for it,” I read, disinterest coating my voice. Who reads this stuff? My question is answered by uncle Aran’s genuine interest on his face. “She did?!” he brings out, knotting his tie around his neck quickly. Apparently she’s known for something. “Uh, yeah. Oh, and your favourite actress Tianna isn’t.” "Objection!" "You're a lawyer, you know that's not how it works. It should be used-" "I know, honey, but sometimes people try to be funny." He shakes his head like I’m a lost cause and kisses the top of my head, before he grabs his briefcase to go to work. I hate when he does that. Like I don’t know the joke I’m a part of. One would expect I’ve caught on by now through trial and error. Yet somehow I fail to notice people make intentional mistakes to be amusing. My therapist said it was coming from my compulsive desire to be right. I replied she was wrong. The sessions stopped shortly afterwards. Besides, there was nothing left to discuss. My parents’ death had been talked about in excessive detail. I had told her about it enough times. I wasn’t going to cry about it anymore, let myself be miserable and useless. It wouldn’t make sense to let myself dwell on that any longer. I mean, the whole thing is almost 10 years ago now. There is nothing to say other than that they were successful, hard working people. Going on what should have been a short political trip to Swendway. Dad was Hansport’s Mayor, mom started as his assistant and became his spokeswoman. They made the perfect team. They’ve raised me till the age of twelve to be just as hard working, just as ambitious and successful. And I will be. That’s the least I can do in their memory. Try to be even an ounce of what they had hoped for me. They named me Regina, after all. Though I prefer Reggie, the Latin meaning of it still stands. Queen. I suppose subtlety wasn’t their forté. Uncle always says mom focussed way more on the second meaning: female ruler. Usually he adds that above all she wanted me to be happy. I don’t know what my dad meant by my name. I suppose fathers tend to call their daughters their little princesses anyway. However I don’t remember either of them focussing on me becoming anything other than successful. The most royal part about that were dad’s own ambitions to become an advisor in the Palace. An ambition I follow. Uncle never really talks about my dad much. A lingering resentment is usually audible in his words. What for, I don’t know. I know Mom wouldn’t have gone on that plane if she didn’t want to. He seems to think she was simply too loving for her own good. But I’ve seen clips of her as my father’s spokeswoman. She could be ruthless. Uncle has different memories with her of course, being her brother. That’s why I’ve never understood why he has gotten rid of all their work, everything through the shredder or in the fireplace. I would have clinged to every piece of paper of them if I had the choice. Their handwriting, their way with words. Reading interviews in old newspaper just isn’t the same. Imagining the words as you look at pictures isn’t either. Aran just said it was better that way, and me being twelve and grieving, I nodded. Now I find myself compulsively reading in archives or watching them make speeches at festivities. Trying to find advice in their political statements, their decisions for our Province. It never works of course.
The halls are surprisingly quiet. Or well, I’m not surprised really. It’s the second week of the new semester and people are still sleeping off their hangovers as usual. Already slacking. I don’t mind. I like it better like this. The ancient buildings, the statues and the dusty library just don’t feel the same when there’s people walking around bragging about their keg stand of the night before. How someone can walk among the same places that some of the most accomplished people of our country have walked and think only about their next sexual conquest is beyond me. Since a marble statue has some problem wrinkling their nose at those people, I take the liberty to do it for them. So I don’t mind the thinner crowd. Besides, at least halls like these permit me to read and walk at the same time. I finished my essay in between my Political Science classes and I go over it again now. I admit I am unsure about the quality, since there’s no clear assignment. Of course, there’s no real assignment at all. But that’s where they’re wrong. Therefore the extra effort could only work out in my favour. Just before I can fully reread it, Ethan rips it out my hands. “What’s this?” he asks, apparently too incompetent to read, “You’re applying? I didn’t know you had the hots for the Prince.” He looks surprised and amused, checking out my essay. Ethan Brookes. One of the most promising students at Hansport University, on his way to graduating with honors and possibly at the top of his class. If it weren't for me, of course. It’s been this way since the very first lecture I attended. Whatever position one of us takes on a subject in class, the other will oppose it. Sure, it keeps me on my toes. But he’s also annoying enough to keep standing on my toes. “You’re applying with an essay?” he lets out with a chuckle, “You know that’s not how it works right, it’s not college.” “If college did work like that,” I say, grabbing my papers back, “You wouldn't have gotten in here.” He rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” Weak argument. “I just don’t think they make crowns big enough for a head like yours.” Never mind. Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “I don’t think Royal Advisors wear those anyway,” I counter, lifting my chin somewhat. “Ha!” he lets out, snapping his fingers at me, “Of course. I knew your heart couldn’t have magically thawed out for the Prince.” I scowl at back at him, much to his amusement. “I’d argue having a heart of ice beats not having one,” I add coldly, sweeping my braid off my shoulder before I turn away, leaving him annoyed or entertained. Or both. Either way, I don’t have time for his antics. I am on a mission. It takes another couple walks in the area close to his office, but then I spot Professor Matthews. He is at the end of the hallway with a thick stack of papers under his arm, glasses on top off his head waiting to get tangled in his messy hair. Or what’s left of it. I power walk to catch up with him. “Good morning Professor.” He jumps. “Fucking hell,” he mumbles. Not very professional. “Morning Miss Wright.” “I wanted to talk to you about the-” “I really don’t have the time, Miss Wright,” he says quickly, turning to the hallway on his right and advancing his pace. I follow. “Of course, but I just wanted to ask-” “No, Miss Wright,” he sighs loudly, “I can’t give you extra bonus points because you’ve given me two papers on the topic. Yes, they were both sufficient.” “Sufficient?” “Good, they were good. Now leave-...I have to go,” he replies, swiftly going into his office to hide. Perhaps I should add persistent to my application, under qualities, I joke to myself, feeling accomplished. I realise that that makes me unlikeable in the eyes of some. Nevertheless I tend to follow the thoughts of Niccolo Machiavelli. It’s almost impossible to be a good politician and also a good person. This proposes the age old question whether to be feared or loved. Both can be argued for, but in my opinion feared has the upper hand. A leader of any degree is not someone to love, it’s someone to look up to. Someone to respect, to trust and to make decisions for you. Someone who looks at a problem as a whole and can conclude what’s best when the people can’t do that for themselves. It’s impossible to be good at all things, yet a politician should be good at those things most of all. And in that sense it’s also impossible to be both loving and kind, as well as a good politician. So I won’t apologise for who I am. I have higher ambitions than being loved anyway.
