He takes his bag and his binder and storms out.
The minute he’s outside the building, he pulls out his phone on impulse, opens up Google. There are test dates this month. He knows there are.
LSAT washington dc area test center, he types.
3 Geniuses and Alex
June 23, 2020, 12:34 PM
juniper
BUG
Not my name, not anyone’s name, stop
leading member of korean pop band bts kim nam-june
BUG
I’m blocking your number
HRH Prince Dickhead
Alex, please don’t tell me Pez has indoctrinated you with K-pop.
well you let nora get you into drag race so
irl chaos demon
[latrice royale eat it.gif]
BUG
What did you want Alex????
where’s my speech for milwaukee? i know you took it
HRH Prince Dickhead
Must you have this conversation in the group chat?
BUG
Part of it needed to be rewritten!!! I put it back with edits in the outside pocket of your messenger bag
davis is gonna kill you if you keep doing this
BUG
Davis saw how well my tweaks to the talking points went over on Seth Meyers last week so he knows better
why is there a rock in here too
BUG
That is a clear quartz crystal for clarity and good vibes do not @ me. We need all the help we can get right now
stop putting SPELLS on my STUFF
irl chaos demon
BURN THE WITCH
irl chaos demon
hey what do we think of this #look for the college voter thing tomorrow
irl chaos demon
[Attached Image]
irl chaos demon
i’m going for, like, depressed lesbian poet who met a hot yoga instructor at a speakeasy who got her super into meditation and pottery, and now she’s starting a new life as a high-powered businesswoman selling her own line of hand-thrown fruit bowls
…
HRH Prince Dickhead
Bitch, you took me there.
alskdjfadslfjad
NORA YOU BROKE HIM
irl chaos demon
lmaoooooo
* * *
The invitation comes certified airmail straight from Buckingham Palace. Gilded edges, spindly calligraphy: THE CHAIRMAN AND COMMITTEE OF MANAGEMENT OF THE CHAMPIONSHIPS REQUEST THE PLEASURE OF THE COMPANY OF ALEXANDER CLAREMONT-DIAZ IN THE ROYAL BOX ON THE 6TH OF JULY, 2020.
Alex takes a picture and texts it to Henry.
1. tf is this? aren’t there poor people in your country?
2. i’ve already been in the royal box
Henry sends back, You are a delinquent and a plague, and then, Please come?
And here Alex is, spending his one day off from the campaign at Wimbledon, only to get his body next to Henry’s again.
“So, as I’ve warned you,” Henry says as they approach the doors to the Royal Box, “Philip will be here. And assorted other nobility with whom you may have to make conversation. People named Basil.”
“I think I’ve proven that I can handle royals.”
Henry looks doubtful. “You’re brave. I could use some of that.”
The sun is, for once, bright over London when they step outside, flooding the stands around them, which have already mostly filled with spectators. He notices David Beckham in a well-tailored suit—once again, how had he convinced himself he was straight?—before David Beckham turns away and Alex sees it was Bea he was talking to, her face bright when she spots them.
“Oi, Alex! Henry!” she chirps over the murmur of the Box. She’s a vision in a lime-green, drop-waist silk dress, a pair of huge, round Gucci sunglasses embellished with gold honeybees perched on her nose.
“You look gorgeous,” Alex says, accepting a kiss on his cheek.
“Why thank you, darling,” Bea says. She takes one of their arms in each of hers and whisks them off down the steps. “Your sister helped me pick the dress, actually. It’s McQueen. She’s a genius, did you know?”
“I’ve been made aware.”
“Here we are,” Bea says when they’ve reached the front row. “These are ours.”
Henry looks at the lush green cushions of the seats topped with thick and shiny WIMBLEDON 2020 programs, right at the front edge of the box.
“Front and center?” he says with a note of nervousness. “Really?”
“Yes, Henry, in case you have forgotten, you are a royal and this is the Royal Box.” She waves down to the photographers below, who are already snapping photos of them, before leaning into them and whispering, “Don’t worry, I don’t think they can detect the thick air of horn-town betwixt you two from the lawn.”
“Ha-ha, Bea,” Henry monotones, ears pink, and despite his apprehension, he takes his seat between Alex and Bea. He keeps his elbows carefully tucked into his sides and out of Alex’s space.
It’s halfway through the day when Philip and Martha arrive, Philip looking as generically handsome as ever. Alex wonders how such rich genetics conspired to make Bea and Henry both so interesting to look at, all mischievous smiles and swooping cheekbones, but punted so hard on Philip. He looks like a stock photo.
“Morning,” Philip says as he takes his reserved seat to the side of Bea. His eyes track over Alex twice, and Alex can sense skepticism as to why Alex was even allowed. Maybe it’s weird Alex is here. He doesn’t care. Martha’s looking at him weird too, but maybe she’s simply holding a grudge about her wedding cake.
“Afternoon, Pip,” Bea says politely. “Martha.”
Beside him, Henry’s spine stiffens.
“Henry,” Philip says. Henry’s hand is tense on the program in his lap. “Good to see you, mate. Been a bit busy, have you? Gap year and all that?”
There’s an implication under his tone. Where exactly have you been? What exactly have you been doing? A muscle flexes in Henry’s jaw.
“Yes,” Henry says. “Loads of work with Percy. It’s been mad.”
“Right, the Okonjo Foundation, isn’t it?” he says. “Shame he couldn’t make it today. Suppose we’ll have to make do with our American friend, then?”
At that, he tips a dry smile at Alex.
“Yep,” Alex says, too loud. He grins broadly.
“Though, I do suppose Percy would look a bit out of place in the Box, wouldn’t he?”
“Philip,” Bea says.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Bea,” Philip says dismissively. “I only mean he’s a peculiar sort, isn’t he? Those frocks he wears? A bit much for Wimbledon.”
Henry’s face is calm and genial, but one of his knees has shifted over to dig into Alex’s. “They’re called dashikis, Philip, and he wore one once.”
“Right,” Philip says. “You know I don’t judge. I just think, you know, remember when we were younger and you’d spend time with my mates from uni? Or Lady Agatha’s son, the one that’s always quail hunting? You could consider more mates of … similar standing.”
Henry’s mouth is a thin line, but he says nothing.
“We can’t all be best mates with the Count of Monpezat like you, Philip,” Bea mutters.
“In any event,” Philip presses on, ignoring her, “you’re unlikely to find a wife unless you’re running in the right circles, aren’t you?” He chuckles a little and returns to watching the match.