“All hail the Sofa Queen,” one guy said at a pub.
“Cheers, BHS!” said another, at breakfast, referencing a British furniture store.
“Are you getting the next round, Bex?” Lady Bollocks said one night in the JCR. “Don’t forget, here at Oxford we keep the drinks all the way up at the bar rather than under our bums.”
Most of the teasing was casual, except possibly Bea’s—although even that I could handle; I wasn’t ashamed of my dad actually working for his wealth. But my friends never succumbed to nor stood for those jokes, nor made any of their own, and my gratitude for that loyalty colored and heightened my appreciation of everything. Which therefore kept me from acknowledging the raging case of Clivus interruptus that was developing every time Nick and I settled in for a Devour marathon, and I wasn’t doing anything to stop it.
What nobody knew, and neither he nor I said aloud, was that my room had become a safe haven for Nick. Although he trusted his friends with his life, he wasn’t as liberal with his self, yet something about those uncinematic, quotidian hangouts in my room relaxed his grip on the real Nick. He grew comfortable shuffling in wearing the old Snoopy pajama pants that had been Freddie’s Christmas gag gift; bringing in coffee and crosswords when it was too cold to take them outside; tasting and rating the relative wretchedness of the microwaved meals we bought at the market. Certain columnists claim Nick liked me in spite of my being an American, but—not to discount my sweatshirts and ripped jeans, nor the alluring way I stopped bothering to brush my hair when he came by—I think it was because of it. Imagine knowing everyone in your life would one day have to stop calling you by your name and honor you as their sovereign. It’s impossible for that not to erect walls, even subconsciously. But with me that wasn’t an issue, and I enjoyed letting Nick be, for perhaps the first time in his life, unremarkable.
Meanwhile, Devour—never exactly a critical favorite—was pulling out all the stops to get ratings in its sixth season, like trapping the shape-shifter in the body of a ninety-three-year-old nun, and delivering a cliffhanger that involved an actual cliff and, unexpectedly, an actual hanger. Night Nick and Night Bex had been fiending, so when a disc arrived in late October with a Post-it in Lacey’s perfect script reading simply, Minotaur alert, I stuck it under Nick’s door and returned to my room to wait him out.
Nick burst in two hours later. “Sorry, I was out with India. We need a bat signal so I can come home as soon as these get here.”
He stopped short when he realized I was on the phone.
“Everything’s fine, Dad, that’s just my horribly impatient hallmate Nick,” I said into the receiver.
“He’s pretty loud,” Dad said.
“He was raised in a barn.”
Dad chortled. “I’m going to tell the Queen you said that.”
“I’m going to tell Gran you said that,” Nick was whispering at the same time.
“Put him on the phone, honey,” Dad said. “Prince or no prince, if this Nick fellow is going to run around your dorm room I should at least get the chance to scare him a little.”
“Dad, we’re just friends. And he probably isn’t allowed to talk to you.”
“Oh, I most certainly am,” Nick said, snatching the receiver from me. “Hello, sir,” he said in an absurdly proper-sounding voice. “This is Nicholas Wales speaking.”
This is one of my favorite memories. The put your man-friend on the phone gambit was the greatest gift my dad gave Nick, because it said from the get-go that he didn’t view him any differently than any other guy who hung out in my bedroom.
“What studies, sir?” Nick said into the phone. “Are you quite sure she’s doing any?”
I kicked at his leg.
“Oh, indeed, loads of trouble,” he said. “I expect she’ll get kicked out of the country fairly soon. Sharing humiliating stories might help—you know, really good blackmail material, to keep her on the straight and narrow.”
I lunged at the phone but Nick stiff-armed me away from him.
“That is shocking, sir,” he said.
“You are dead to me,” I called out in the general direction of the phone.
“Oh, that one’s even better. That’ll do nicely,” Nick said. “Thank you, sir. Yes, my royal upbringing should be a wonderful influence. Oh, and if you’ve got any in Liverpool red, my mate Gaz would love a Coucherator.”
“Those things would never fit up these stairs,” I hissed loudly.
“Maybe we can fit it in through a window,” Nick said. “Right, sir, we’ll measure it. Have a wonderful night. Go Cubs.”
“Sycophant,” I said, reclaiming the phone. “We’re already out of the playoffs.”
I let my dad know rather colorfully what I thought of that whole scene, and then hung up. Nick was studying me, a mischievous expression on his face.
“You threw your prom date into a rubbish bin?”
“He was being too handsy!” I protested. “He kept trying to hump my leg on the dance floor, and then told me he had a pearl necklace for me in the limo. So I may have spiked his punch an obscene amount, and the Dumpster was right outside—”
Nick held up his hand. “Oh, I heard,” he said. “Although not the necklace thing; that is disgusting. But there is also the matter of a pet hamster named…let me see if I get this right…Prince Nicky? Whom you tried to flush down the toilet?”
“Lacey named him!” I said. “And he fell in! He was fine! He was aquatic!”
“I ought to call PPO Furrow and have you reevaluated,” Nick said.
I held up the latest Devour episode. “No sudden moves, Nicky. I can end this for you right here, right now.”
Nick took his usual spot on the fluffy rug and raised a hand. “Twinkies, please,” he said airily. “Be a good subject and pass them along. It’s what your father would want.”
I threw the pack at his head, which he caught deftly before it smacked him in the nose.
“Treason,” he said. “I quite like your dad. I can’t wait to meet him.”
I grabbed the Cracker Jack and grunted.
When the credits ran—Spencer Silverstone threw supernatural acid at her romantic rival, a mortal named Carrie, and it gave her a mind-controlling scar with a murderous agenda—we plunged back into the end of season two (known to me and Lacey as The Ill-Fated Talking-Candle Experiment), which led to a lively debate about the laws of shape-shifting. Nick finally groaned and rolled over straight into a half-eaten microwave curry from the local supermarket.
“I am numb,” he said, picking congealed lumps of chicken off his arm. “Oh God, is it getting light outside?”
He ran to my window. “It has gotten light outside,” he amended, squinting at my travel clock. “It’s seven fifteen, Rebecca Porter.”
I yawned forcefully. “Night Bex and Night Nick strike again.”
“Rebecca,” Nick said in a whisper-bellow. “This is very bad.”
“Why?” I peered up at him, crunching my pillow under my cheek.
Nick began pacing, picking things up and then immediately putting them down again.
“Well, for starters, I have spent another full night in your room and Clive is not going to like that,” he said.