I Am Leo
My name is Leo Auguste (pronounced Aww-goose-tuh). I am fourteen years old and I live in Aspen, Colorado. I live in a condominium with my mother, Maria, near downtown. I am an only child. My mother is an elementary school teacher.
My father doesn’t live with us in Aspen. He lives in a small European country called Libizia, a small nation on the border of France and Spain (not Andorra. As we Libizians say: burn every Andorran). My father is an important person in the government there, and needs to live and work in Libizia full time. Every summer I fly out to visit him for a month.
Currently, I am a freshman at Aspen Park High School, the largest public high school in Aspen. I get straight A’s, always have, but I don’t feel like I’ve found my ‘place’ yet. I got cut from the football team, I can’t sing, and I was not elected to the freshman student council. If it wasn’t for my best friend Breighdon, a man in a similar position to me, I would be completely alone.
At Aspen Park, if you aren’t one of the cool kids, you are nobody. Maybe worse than nobody. At least if you’re a nobody, the cool kids might leave you alone. As it stands, Breighdon and I are regularly the targets of popular upperclassmen. On any given trip through the hallway, I might lose my books or find myself slammed into a locker. And for what? Existing? High school is a lot different than middle school, it seems.
My mom tries to help, but there’s not much she can do. Her advice is certainly useless: “Try using your words, diplomacy is more powerful than war.” You try asking Jed Root with your ‘words’ to please stop stuffing you into the trash can, see where that gets you. “Turn the other cheek.” Now both of my cheeks are sore.
All of the bullies’ torments are tolerable compared to the torments of my romantic life. Or should I say, my lack of a romantic life. Straight A’s may impress grandma, but they don’t impress the Stacey Lanes or the Kelsey Bakers of the world much. At least Stacey talks to me, enough to sneer and joke at me and Breighdon. Kelsey, my love, doesn’t know I’m a person. She’s far too obsessed with Jacob Turglio, probably the dumbest kid in the state of Colorado. And all because he can throw a ball well.
For now, I bide my time. Despite all of the troubles at school, I still like my classes. Especially English. Ms. Dubose is a great teacher (and not too bad looking, either). In fact, she was the one who suggested I take up a journal, or ‘letter-writing’ as she called it. Epistolary, I think, was another word she used. She said all the great men in history kept journals, from Jesus to Alexander the Great to Lincoln, and that I ought to follow their lead. This is an activity that Jacob Turglio, for example, is definitely not participating in. Something for me to stand out in.
October 23, 2024
Ms. Dubose informed me that the proper way to format an Epistolary work is to title it only with the date of the journal entry, and that titling them as chapters is for the brickheaded writer, like Jacob Turglio, the rat. Jacob is still dating Kelsey Baker, much to my chagrin, and it doesn’t look like they’re headed for a divorce any time soon. In fact, Breighdon said that Jacob was bragging in the locker room about how Kelsey showed him her boobs. Some boys might have felt jealous, but I only felt sad for Kelsey that she felt forced to do that.
My mom thinks that I should try out for the basketball team in about a month. I’m not so sure. I can still feel the burn of shame from some of the football boys when I pass them in the halls, as I will forever be labeled ‘cut’. The truly sad thing is that our football team is horrendous. We haven’t won a game yet. 0-4, and these oafs still walk around like they’re kings amongst peasants. I don’t think our basketball team will be much better, but I’ve always been more natural on the court than on the field. For now, I’ve taken to dribbling and shooting in our driveway. I probably won’t try out, in the end of it all, but I like having the possibility. Plus I enjoy the time outside alone.
Speaking of my mom, she has a new boyfriend. She hasn’t told me this exactly, but the signs are pretty obvious. First, she started wearing makeup again, something she hasn’t done in months. Second, I’ve had to get a babysitter twice in the last few weeks with my mom refusing to tell me where she was off to (sidenote: I am fourteen years old. I don’t need a fucking babysitter). Finally, and most telling, she’s been spacey as hell. All this adds up to a mom with a man. Not that I care. I just wish she would tell me straight out instead of pretending I’m this sensitive little kid.
She says that my father is coming to visit in the next couple of weeks, which is certainly odd. I will get out in front of your theories and say that she is NOT getting back together with my dad. It has been made abundantly clear to me that this is an impossibility on par with the heat death of the universe. For my father, it would mean banishment from Libizia. For my mother: a deep shame of bringing back a serial cheater. Still, the visit seems strange. In all my life in Aspen, my father has only been here twice: when I was born and when I was comatose for two weeks in 2018. Other than that, it’s always me and Mom going out to Libizia.
We’ve started a book called Catcher in the Rye in Ms. Dubose’s class. It’s supposed to be this really tough and difficult book, but I’m finding it pretty fun so far.
November 4th, 2024
Well that was certainly news.
Ya boi is a motherfucking prince. That’s right. Like King Arthur or T’Challa or that guy who sang Purple Rain. Except I’m the real deal.
Let me back up.
So my dad came to visit, only he’s with all these dudes in black cars and suits and the Libizian flag and stuff. I go for a ride with Dad in the back of one of the cars where he explains it all to me.
First, he tells me that Grandma died. Grandma Louise, Dad’s mom, was this ancient old witch who we never saw in Libizia. I wasn’t all that sad to hear that she died, to be quite honest. She didn’t speak English, only Libizian, and I thought that she hated us for our outsider status. Welp, in the most shocking twist of my life, Grandma Louise was the damn Queen of Libizia, and had been so for fifty years. Nobody ever told me.
I didn’t know what to say. Mom had never even let me have a goldfish before, so I had no clue what I was doing trying to process the death of a family member. Yet alone my own royal status!
“I’m….sorry Dad… she… the Queen?” I asked.
I didn’t know Queens were allowed to live in non-palaces. Grandma’s house was certainly huge, but it wasn’t a castle. She didn’t wear robes, she wore Louis Vittuon and YSL. Dad informed me that there was in fact a physical Crown of Libizia, but I never saw Grandma wear it. Nonetheless, she was a queen, a modern queen, and now she was dead.
Second thing Dad tells me on our drive is that he is the new King of Libizia.
A literal king.
I could hardly believe it. My thoughts, just seconds ago with the haggish memories of my grandmother, soared with the potential of knowing royalty. King Dad. Wait until Jacob Turglio hears about this. His dad was only a hedge fund manager.
King Dad explained to me that he, for traditional purposes, had to change his name. My father was now Laurent XII, or Laurent the 12th. I asked if my grandfather was Laurent the 11th. No, Dad told me, my grandfather was Delmont the 10th. He did wink and tell me I can still call him dad. Whew.
Finally, and most importantly, my dad told me of my role in all of this:
“Leo, my boy, this is a big day for you. You are no longer a mere American freshman, but instead a Prince, and heir to the throne of Libizia”.
Those words will sing like angels in my thoughts for the rest of eternity. I am royalty, motherfucker. My father is a king. My grandfather was a king. All the Laurents and Delmonts that ruled Libizia like the benevolent rulers they were had my blood. And I theirs.
I asked my father if I needed to pick my own name, too. I suggested Alexander, after Alexander the Great, or perhaps Genghis. He laughed and explained that only kings were given new titles, so I, for the time being, would remain. This wouldn’t be the only thing that remained, as Dad told me that it was important that I stay here in Aspen, in public school, and to keep going as if I was just a regular American high school student.
“It’s important for our line of succession,” he explained “that you maintain your status as a regular American schoolchild. For political purposes, a prince schooled in the American public school system, the son of a schoolteacher, is more important than you being back in Libizia at this time”.
I asked him if this meant Mom was a queen now, or perhaps a Duchess or something. This, I guess, was the best joke he ever heard. I never heard a real answer, but I take it Mom is not royalty like me and Dad.
After circling our neighborhood in a Libizian blockade for a few hours, Dad dropped me back at home and then departed for the airport. My mom tussled my hair when I walked in and called me ‘Little Prince’. I asked why she didn’t tell me about all this before. She said she didn’t think it was the right thing to do.
I can’t wait for school on Monday.
November 7th, 2024
Word got out at school that I am the Prince of Libizia.
I tried to play it cool at first, and denied the first couple of kids who came up to me. Kids who never had heard of me, by the way, like Trevor Stuckle, and Diego Torrance, and Jennifer Newlett. But when Kelsey Baker asked me if it was real, I had to tell her the truth. Soon after, I had to put out a clarifying instagram post that yes, my poor old dear granny had died and that yes, this did mean I was the new Prince of Libizia. My follower count tripled in an hour, and by the end of the day was at nearly 20,000.
I didn’t learn a thing all day. I’m not sure how the cool kids handle it. For the first time in our lives, me and Breighdon were somebodies, man. Notes got passed to us. Football players fist-bumped us. Girls smiled at us. Smiled at us. If I could take a girl’s smile and bottle it up, I wouldn’t need any other drink for the rest of my life. I was missing out, man.
At the end of Geometry, Charity Hunt even asked me out. Charity is a sophomore cheerleader, who up until that moment I swore was dating Hunter Lapka, our starting point guard. I had to turn her down, of course, as I still had my heart glued on Kelsey, but it was starting to hit me. If girls are trying to get with me over guys like Hunter Lapka, this whole Prince thing might be bigger than I thought.
Mom says that someone is coming to stay with us next week, someone from Libizia, to help teach me about the country and what it means to be a Prince. She says I’ll probably have to learn Libizian, too.
Life has been so hectic lately that I haven’t gotten to read much of Catcher in the Rye. Ms. Dubose told me that the greatest kings and queens in history were well-read, so it is important that I be this way, too, and to not slack off in my reading.
November 12th, 2024
The man from Libiza arrived a couple of days ago. His name is Armel, and he is quite the character. My mother hates him, I think, because he smokes cigarettes nonstop and refuses to eat her cooking. Me and Breighdon think he’s hilarious. My school hates him, too, but Armel came armed with some fancy document stamped by the United States Secretary of State, so there’s nothing they can do about him. He stands in the back of class and smokes his cigarettes out of the window. He also volunteered to notate my journal entries for me, if I’d like, so that I wouldn’t waste my time with writing, only thinking. I thought this was a great idea and I accepted. From here on out, Armel will be the one recording the physical journal entries, although I am certain no reader will even be able to tell the difference.
Armel explained to me last evening that I was the latest in a long line of historic kings and queens that date all the way back to the year 1258. At that time, the Legendary and Venerable Delmont the First and Most Holy Of His Lord’s Favour, or Delmont I, led a coalition of counties in northern Spain in a revolution for independence against the cruel Spanish crown. It was a bloody war, one the bloody Spaniards were waging with improper and immoral ways, and they were all but torturing their own former citizens. Heroically, Delmont I made a miraculous ploy with the supreme ruler of the land at that time: the Catholic Church. Delmont I fled to Rome and made a great and grand deal for all Libizians: Delmont would rule as king, alongside a principality of the Catholic Church and a newly established Bishop and diocese. Since then, the Libizian founder and ultimate King, as well as his healthy and strong line of descendants, ruled benevolently and peacefully.
Nowadays, even though Libizia is no larger than Rhode Island and contains less than 100,000 people, it remains an important nation in areas of geography, spirituality, and economics. Being situated on the border of Spain and France near the Atlantic Ocean, Libizia acts as a natural choke point between the two countries. Its capital city, Delmonia, is a beautiful port city that hosts the most impressive pre-1400 gothic architecture in all of Europe. The Libizian signature architectural feature is a robust gargoyle taking demonically after the national animal: the Wild Gecko, and is found on nearly every building.
Spiritually, Libizia has long been a powerful voice for Christ and the Roman Catholic Church. It is said that on Saint James the Greater’s journey across Europe, he rested and made holy a spot underneath a large tree. This spot under the large tree was eventually consecrated with a massive and beautiful cathedral, one which coincidentally lies just half a mile from Delmont I’s initial residence. Upon his death, a brave Libizian at heart Domingo Rodriges ventured to Israel to pay his respects and conduct a pilgrimage. There, brave Domingo retrieved the beautiful and holy member of Saint James and, with careful keeping, brought it back to that holy spot. Today, this is the Santa Jaime Catedral de Libizia Nacional, one of the holiest spots on earth. Bishop Julio Bolano de Leopoldo, an 89-year old clergyman, serves as the official co-Prince of Libizia, although compared to the powers of the King, it is really only in name.
Economically, Libizia has the unique position of acting as a banking hub for a number of foreign entities. Because of the relatively lax laws on the corruption of governmental stealing known as ‘taxes’, a lot of rich and powerful people choose to bank with the Bank de Libizia Nacional, the national bank. This powers much of our economy, Armel told me, though it only accounts for a small percentage of the country's actual workforce. The vast majority of Libizians act as farmers, ranchers, or service workers in the capital. Though Libizia maintains strong foreign relations with all of its immediate neighbors, it also prides itself on its ability to sustain itself in terms of food and defense. Once, during the Moorish invasion of the 1300s, Libizia, just a few decades into their dynasty, nearly starved to death as their supply lines to Spain and France had been plundered. The remaining Libizians, reflecting on their victory, headed then by the Holy Laurent I, vowed to never rely on the outside world for survival ever again.
The Libizians, myself among their leaders, I guess, had a long and rich history that Armel said we were only scratching the surface of. I wondered again why my parents would choose to keep all this from me. Even though I had a 98% in History class, I didn’t care much for the subject. I found a lot of it hard to relate to. Now, I couldn’t get enough, and begged Armel between cigarettes to tell me more, give me everything he could about my birthright. In due time, he coughed, in due time. You’ve got a lifetime to rule, he said. I wasn’t satisfied.
At school, Kelsey and Jacob broke up, I heard. All for the better, he was going to hurt her anyway.
November 23rd, 2024
Armel let me try one of his cigarettes when he was teaching me the basics of Libizian. I threw up for half an hour afterwards.
He taught me all about the Libizian language, which is completely unique and isolated from its neighboring dialects, but in grammar and structure only. For the most part (with one key exception), the vocabulary of the language is built entirely of either Spanish, French, or English vocabulary words, with more being assimilated every year. For example, the Libizian word for ‘water’, as you will find in the Official Diccionario Nacional, is ‘Water’. Look similar? Another example: The Libizian word for man is ‘hombre’, spelled and pronounced the exact same way as the Spanish translation for ‘man’.
The process of vocabulary acquisition has remained relatively simple and consistent in the near-800 year history of Libizia. If a Libizian encounters an item or idea that he cannot surmise in the words he knows, they look to Spanish, French, or English and adopt the word most closely resembling their intended Libizian meaning. It’s how words like “tortilla”, “deja vu”, and “entropy” can all find themselves neighbors in a terrestrial sentence.
Additionally, a unique wrinkle of the Libizian language is that there is no preferred proto-language of the Libizian vocabulary word, and that in fact any variation or proto-word is acceptable, and indeed encouraged. For example, I will translate the sentence “Delmont I is a great king” in a couple of different acceptable variations:
Delmont I is un buen rey
Delmont primero es un bon roi
Delmont le premiere et a good king
and so on. Mathematically speaking, the acceptable amount of variations on the previous sentence number in the thousands. Yet, as Libizians have found and know, it is the most innovative and comprehensive system of language in the entire civilized world. This development was born out of a people with a wide variety of linguistic influences that is highly malleable and adoptable.
Structurally speaking, the thing that really sets Libizian apart from any of its family-tongues is its uniquely designed and employed sentence mechanic that takes root from its actual, physical history of the people it is attached to. For the majority of Libizian speakers, the subject of the sentence is always transposed to ‘The King”. For example, a simple Libizian translation of the sentence:
“I would like a sandwich”
Would transpose into:
“The King would like a sandwich” (or any of the acceptable vocabularic delineations).
The sentence -subject rule is followed by all Libizians except for nobility and the ruling population, who are granted the use of varied and individualized subjects. For everyone else, the royal subject rule is in order. Now, while this can certainly lead to confusion in subject/object differentiation in conversation or in writing, it is in accordance with the valuation of principles in Libizian society, which of course values holy reverence to the King or Queen over day-to-day communication clarity. It may be hard to picture from a traditional Western-language standpoint, but it makes all the sense in the world from the Libizian perspective, as there is no clearer truth than the holiness of King Delmont and his holy line.
Finally, the last wrinkle of the Libizian language is its difference in physical writing. Following a similar ethos to the royal subject rule, there is a class-marker to employ if, again, you are not a member of nobility or the current ruling parties. It’s a relatively simple signifier, but again one that demonstrates that special reverence for our Most Almighty here on this earth. Example:
Layman: “
The King would like a sandwich”
Nobility: “I would like a sandwich”
This is a notation that has been used in Libizian for hundreds of years, and predates the more common interpretation of the ‘strike-through’, and simply signifies the social position of the writer, which remains extremely popular amongst the layman population. Take, for example, an excerpt from a famous national poem “Esplendido Moonlight” by visionary serf poet Ecletio Mendes, and consider the rich beauty of the Libizian language at its full power in verse:
El moonlight, como a bougie, guiding the King -
The King quiero voler et hear lo sing -
Si The King and The King were to baiser right there -
The King promises vous el mundo would entender
It’s a difficult process to acquire these language skills completely new to my understanding of communication, but one I am catching onto quickly (probably because of my noble Libizian blood). I will admit, a certain pride beams through me when attempting to translate English texts into my beloved Libizian tongue. What a rich exercise indeed.
Between Armel’s cigarettes and lessons on Libizian language, history, and social studies, I found myself without a lot of time for my actual classwork. No matter, Armel preached, ‘you’re a prince now. You can’t fail a prince”. I suppose he’s right. I’ve all but abandoned The Catcher in the Rye. Maybe it might read better in Libizian. I’ll have to enquire back home if there are any translated copies of Salinger’s work.
Basketball tryouts start next week. Libizia, I discovered recently, has a national team, but haven’t won a lot in recent years. Now wouldn’t that be something? The point-guard-playing-prince.
November 29th, 2024
Two huge events happened this past week: one at home and one in Libizia. Neither had anything to do with the other. First, back in Libizia, my father, now Laurent XII, was crowned in what historians are calling the largest gathering of Libizians in over a hundred years. “The Promised King” they’ve been calling him. I’ll admit, he does look promising, golden even, on the television. You could almost feel the radiating warmth on your skin from the screen based on my father’s reception.
Armel confirmed my suspicions of jubilation among the Libizians. He explained to me that my father was the most modern of all the regal figures in Libizian history, and the most progressive, too. As a youth he was a bit of a renegade, or a maverick perhaps, choosing to travel the world and get educated outside of the traditional noble university system. He absconded to the United States at age seventeen, enrolling in Harvard University, where he graduated Magna Cum Laude in foreign relations and where he also met, fell in love with, and ultimately impregnated my mother, culminating in yours truly. Armel further explained that this rogue, liberal nature of my father, combined with some comments he publicly made as an undergraduate, had galvanized the Libizian population with hopes of sweeping reforms.
Despite the overwhelming approval rating of the system as-is, and the overwhelming approval of the government and leadership, the buzzword that had infected the people’s thoughts was ‘unrest’. In reality, the people of Libizia could not be more at rest, what with their abbreviated hourly work week, their heightened standard living compared to the mean of the rest of the world, and their robust public education system. Consistently, Libizia ranks near the top of first-world countries in terms of civilian happiness and satisfaction. Despite these evident truths, the young King and his image of newness blinds the people into a temporary fervor.
Though the song of the hour is ‘change’, Armel explained that my father, even if he wanted to, was hamstrung legislatively by the co-principality of the Catholic Church. Each legal or policy change has to not only pass through the active monarch and their advising consiglieres, but then needs to be approved and ratified by the current bishop before ultimately needing the approval of the Papacy. As such, structural and fundamental changes in Libizia are rare, and a fundamental shift like the ones the Libizian people were calling for is all but an impossibility. Be this as it may, the people believe more in their king than in law and reason, and refuse to relent in their talks of revolution.
For now, the coronation represents a celebration of birth and possibility. My father, Armel said, was the perfect icon for this moment: young, handsome, empathetic, robust, and bursting with the energy of new ideas. It will all work itself out, Armel said, it always does. It may just be a matter of striking that happy balance between hope and impossibility, which is a tightrope we all walk in our everyday lives.
The other big (unrelated) event of the week, this one in Aspen, was basketball tryouts.
I made the team! Varsity even!
The only freshman on the varsity squad, in fact. It appears that all of my work and practice leading up to tryouts paid off, as I was told I was one of the first choices for the team. I believe that it is a testament to my preparation, because I didn’t even feel like I played all that well, at least not to my standards. My three-ball wasn’t falling, but I must’ve looked good enough on the form and everywhere else for it not to matter.
Practice seems pretty rigorous: five days a week, plus weightlifting afterwards. Although, Armel told me that he informed Coach Jenkins that I may need to miss the occasional practice in order to fulfill my National duties. However, Armel also told me that I can practice with the Libizian National team when I’m back home, so that my skills shouldn’t diminish just because I’m having dinner with Emmanuel Macron. But for now, full-court drills and squats until our first game.
December 8th, 2024
Tensions are ramping up back in Libizia. My father, ever the maverick, seems honestly determined to meet the Libizian people at their wishes and demands. Following the crowning ceremony, my father hosted an impromptu poetry reading session at the Monarchal Mansion, rife with layman poets and artists, where the social signifiers of Libizian language and culture were allegedly abolished. In a sign of solidarity, it seems, Laurent XII is looking wherever, appropriate or not, legal or not, to crumble the separating walls of the Libizian class system.
Armel maintains that this is all still in the name of performative peacemaking. My father knows well the legal impossibilities in trying to adopt even the most miniscule of changes. So, Armel surmises, all of this is merely a show of empathy, and employed to gain favor with the laymen Libizians. Change, as we know, is not truly on the horizon.
Remember that ogre Jacob Turglio we were talking about earlier? The meat-head who was dating Kelsey Baker? Well, the maniac, who was supposed to be a starting guard for the basketball team, lost his damn mind in practice. In the walkthrough, Jacob shoved me to the ground out of nowhere, then began screaming, to one in particular, all about how I supposedly ruined his relationship with Kelsey, how I supposedly was a ‘homewrecker’ and have had it out for him since day one.
I was flabbergasted, as well as literally floored at the moment, because I never intervened in anybody’s relationship or business, least of all meat-head Jacob Turglio. While it’s true that I have pined after Kelsey for quite some time, years even (and that this pining is no secret), I would never stoop so low as to actively disrupt or destroy a relationship. I tried to explain this to Jacob after getting up and dusting myself off, but this reason and diplomacy was met with a fierce sucker-punch to my jaw. The delusional, violent Jacob was promptly kicked off the team, suspended from school, and may even face jail time, depending on charges being filed.
The silver lining out of this insanity came in the heavenly form of the angel Kesley, who actually reached out to me and apologized for her ex’s behavior. It’s part of her being, her personality, her essence that prompted her to apologize and take blame for something she was in no way responsible for. My heart clearly makes the correct decisions. She’s taking me out to the movies this weekend to complete the apology.
Our first game is next week. I’m starting at point guard. The first freshman in fifteen years to start as a freshman for the Aspen High Armadillos.
December 14th, 2024
If you’ve turned on the news at any point in the last couple of days, you probably already know what I’m about to tell you. But as a son, the shock of the news has not quite worn off, even yet.
My father, King Laurent XII, has gone missing. Vanished. I can already tell you all that I know, which is the same information I told Interpol, the FBI, and the Libizian Investigatio Unit: I know nothing. My father hasn’t contacted me in person since being informed of our monarchal status, and I have no insights on where he might have absconded to, providing of course my father's absence is of his own design, and not missing via more foul realities.
The prevailing theory amongst the international intelligence community, at least what has been relayed to me and Armel, is that my father, feeling the pressure of a population whose demands he realistically could not meet, fled his kingly responsibilities for the time being in a fit of anxiety. The context of his departure would suggest a middle-of-the-night exit under the cloak of darkness, perhaps taking off in an armored car in the middle of the night. His royal passport has been confirmed missing, so the evidence lines up with an international emigration. In all likelihood, we are told, my father will pop up in a couple of days, probably at some chateau in Switzerland, stressed but ready to take on his kingly duties anew.
Despite a good deal of logic and material evidence pointing to a sort-of self-imagined vacation by Laurent XII, several conspiracy theories, some floated by prominent podcasters with listenerships numbering in the tens of millions, have dominated the news cycle. The most popular of these, despite being demonstrably false, is that my father has been kidnapped by the United Nations, and is being held hostage until he will confirm Libizia’s involvement in the war in Ukraine (Libizia, for posterity’s sake, is in line and accordance with their UN and NATO military alliances). Joe Rogan nodded and said that sounds about right to him when presented with these stories. Alternatively, it has been suggested that the king had been taken by none other than the government of the United States, who have taken the royal figure hostage in order to clone him, only this time with a personality more amenable to American foreign interests. Even more alternatively still is the suggestion that my father, spurred by a religious conversion, left the country like some sort of Von Trapp in order to become an ascetic monk in the highlands of Nepal.
To me, and the intelligence community at large, these conspiracy theories aren’t even theories; they are fairy tales. But fairy tales often have a larger splash than the reality they are disguising. For now, we must continue on with the prevailing assumption that Laurent XII will soon return to the throne, which means not much will change, barring unforeseen interruptions. For me, this means basketball and my Miss Baker, who, by the way, is now my official, steady girlfriend.
Oh what a blessing Kelsey has been during this tumultuous time. I don’t know if I would be able to soldier through all this political chaos if not for her comforting, beautiful face at the end of the ordeal. She even quit cheerleading, God bless her, to help ease my tumult. My mother was skeptical at first, what with having a girl over and staying overnight all the time, but since my princely ascendency she has relatively checked out. Besides, her boyfriend is literally always over, so I think perhaps Mom recognized her own hypocrisy. Kelsey stays over most nights.
On the basketball front, I can’t lie and say that my political life has affected my play on the court. My shot, which was as true as a Libizian arrow earlier in the season, now falls flat on nearly every jumper. Our first game, an away game at Lemko Falls, was the day after my father was announced missing, and despite my mental fortitude, this was affecting my game. It was obvious enough that Coach Jenkins could notice, and promptly pulled me a couple of minutes in. He made sure to tell me it was solely due to the extenuating circumstances of my father being unaccounted for. I always try to overcome my obstacles without letting on about my struggles, but this time I appreciated Coach’s oversight to see that this was truly disturbing my abilities. Next week will be much better, much more relaxed. We ended up losing 76-71, so I assume my presence, fully focused, would easily flip that result.
Although Catcher in the Rye has yet to be translated into my beloved Libizian tongue, I don’t have to worry about it anymore. Armel has talked with Ms. Dubose and the school, and he assured me that my studies in private with him more than count for any missing schoolwork. In other words, I am effectively exempt from the consequences of schoolwork.
December 20th, 2024
A culminating update: it appears unlikely that I will continue my education and adolescent life here in Aspen and more likely that I will abscond back home to my native Libizia. There have been, just in the last week, several situations that have arisen at school which shows us (my family and Armel) that my security and best interests may not be central to the priorities of Aspen High School. At least, it seems, not as central as protecting its reputation as a militant xenophobic dystopia, hellbent on disturbing the international relations between American and Libizia.
First, it appears that Ms. Dubose has been terminated from her position. Armel had heard she wasn’t happy with my status as royalty, and had vowed to make me do schoolwork I had simply no need for.
Second, and perhaps most pertinently, it appears that the once-proud Aspen basketball program has devolved into nothing more than a vehicle for geopolitical machinations. As Armel foretold, the long tendrils of international diplomacy had reached the level of youth-sports, and not even Coach Judkins was inscrutable enough to avoid dipping his toes into. I had thought, obviously wrong in retrospect, that my talents on the court would lead to success and favor from the coaches, or even, God forbid, a concept of a plan to assemble a competent team. Based on the ‘plan’ of our game against South Springs, my naivete was showing.
The ball tips and the game starts. We start on defense. My assignment, the point guard opposite me, was a kid by the name of Jalen Dedrick, and Jalen was, as a junior, already committed to play college basketball in Austin, Texas for UT. He was, without a doubt, the greatest high school player to set foot in Colorado in at least 20 years. I had, contrary to logic, no help in guarding him that day, “left out on an island” as they say. Normally, I would, and still do, relish a challenge in front of me, but this was no challenge. When Dedrick pulled the ball on a string right out of my reach and then rocketed to the rim for a thunderous dunk, I knew it could be a long night. Even seeing Dedrick with the ball was a challenge; staying in front of him was an impossibility.
Before I could catch my breath, the ball found itself in my hands, going the other way on offense. This lasted for about a second and a half before the flash of Dedrick had robbed me of the rock, stealing it and laying it in the hoop to raucous roars. Another inbound followed the same result identically. By the third time the future Longhorn had stripped me of the ball (and my shame), the roar of the crowd had largely shifted into laughter. I glanced at the scoreboard: 8-0. 12 seconds had passed. I could feel the redness of my face becoming its dominant hue. I looked at my coach. He shrugged.
Finally, on my fourth attempt, I was able to get the ball across halfcourt without it being taken. I looked over to my coach for the play call, who held up two fingers on his hand. I barked out the orders: “Two! Two!”. Normally, “Two” is the start of our Horns set, meaning both big men are meant to come up to the top of the key and each set a screen on either side of my defender, clearing up some space and allowing me to get downhill. However, this was proving to be no normal day, as all four of my teammates instead ran down to the baseline, essentially clearing the floor for me against Dedrick. Thinking perhaps they misheard me, I yelled out “Two!” again, but my teammates just smiled.
“Go! Go! What are you waiting for!?” screamed Coach from the sidelines. I had no idea what he was talking about. This isn’t ‘Two”, and there isn’t anywhere for me to go. I called timeout and walked back to the bench.
When I sat down, the beration began. “What the actual fuck are you doing wasting our timeouts? You’re supposed to be royalty, and you can’t even remember what the goddamn plays are”. I could feel myself shrinking into the seat. I can’t remember the plays? I remember every play I’ve ever run. “Two” I know for a FACT is our Horns set.
I said as much: “Two is Horns”. The coach smiled for a millisecond before launching into a tirade, the end of which I didn’t stick around to hear.
“Shows how much you’ve been at practice, your highness. Two is a clear-out into a Spain pick and roll. Now get your head out of your ass and run our plays the right way before this thing turns into a blowout. In fact, your lazy ass can take a seat on the bench. Maybe for once in your life you can actually participate and be a part of this team instead of treating us like some Libizian servants or whatever the hell…” was about all I could take. I can handle foul and abusive language, I can handle deliberately sabotaging my basketball game to make some larger point about classism, but I draw the line at racism and xenophobia to my Libizian people. I spat on the floor, just how Armel taught me, and I absquatulated from the Aspen High basketball program.
If only this was the sole transgression against me that day.
Following my exit from the game, in a fit of embarrassment and fury, I called the one person in my life who vowed to be there for me no matter what: Kelsey. Of course, my luck, she didn’t pick up, nor did she pick up the following seventeen times I attempted to call her. I knew she was home; she had specifically skipped our game this evening so she could catch up on Spanish homework. So, I decided, if her nose was too deep into Espanol to pick up, I would surprise her at home.
When Armel pulled up to her house, her car was parked in the driveway; not an unusual sight. As I opened my door and approached the house, however, I did see something unusual. Her car, a bright red Corolla, was running. Upon nearing the house, I could tell that it had been running for awhile, as the windows had steamed up some, and a small amount of music from the radio could be heard even from outside. Figuring Kelsey was acting like a bit of an airhead and forgot to take her keys out of the car, I did what any good boyfriend would do and shut the car off for her, so as she wouldn’t run out of gas tomorrow after she realized her mistake.
Of course, I never realized my own mistake. The car wasn’t idling unoccupied: there were people in it. Tragically, those people were Kelsey Baker, my supposed girlfriend, and Jacob Turglio, her supposed ex, and my supposed enemy. It took a five-second count for me to piece it all together, but once the realization hit, I could hardly stand. Kelsey was cheating on me. And not just with any ol’ schmuck, but my sworn mortal opposition. I retched at the epiphany, a little of which landed on Kelsey’s lap and Jacob’s hands.
“Oh my God, Leo what the fuck are you…” was all she could get out before the full bore my understanding of the events had hit my stomach. I was no longer in control of my body, as out came a mixture of projectile vomit, curse words, tears, and a couple of misplaced punches aimed at Jacob’s head. After a couple of seconds, the scuffle and sickness must have been loud enough to hear inside the house, as Jared, Kelsey’s father, emerged looking ready to rumble. I once again ended my time with a spit of disgust, hocking up a loogie mixed with throw-up, and walked back to Armel’s car like a true monarch.
On the way home, a few things were now glaringly obvious to me and Armel. First, the school and the basketball team had conspired against me in an effort to embarrass a foreign diplomat on American soil. Second, the school and Kelsey had conspired against me in an effort to embarrass a foreign diplomat in a very social and public manner: by cuckolding me with my enemy. Armel cursed himself for not seeing the signs of their treachery sooner, but I assured him that such malice was out of his scope. Who was evil enough, wicked enough, to enact these plots on a mere child? By the time we had arrived back home, a couple of decisions had been reached: I would no longer be spending time at Aspen High School, in fact I would no longer be spending time in America. It was time, by my own volition or not, to return to Libizia and help lead our glorious new renaissance.
December 29th, 2024
When I spoke to my father via satellite phone in the morning, around 10:00 A.M. Libizian Central Time, he was alive and well. Joking, in fact. Excited to see his heir return gloriously to his kingdom. A time of celebration.
By the time our plane had landed at the Royal Airway, my father’s head had already been pitted on a spike, and was at-the-time being paraded through the streets of the capitol like it was a championship trophy.
The rebels, it appeared, had buckled at the weight of diplomacy and political legislation, and instead opted to take the brute’s path. Instead of working to find a peaceful solution with my father, perhaps the most peaceful and amenable-to-serfdom king our nation had ever seen, the impatience of the rebels, led by the rancid and despicable Marquis Deloyette, had taken control and dominated the situation. The king who promised them reform was now dead. And a boy with a murdered father was now on the throne.
Surprisingly, Armel had to explicitly tell me that I was now the King of Libizia. Of course, I was far too caught up in reeling from the loss of my father to really let the news settle, but I will admit a small tinge of pride shocked my body upon hearing the news. Though I wasn’t the first ‘child’ king of Libizia, I was the first minor to hold the throne in over 120 years, the first since King Delmont XIV.
Though traditionally the coronation of a new king or queen in Libizia would be cause for jubilant and exaggerated celebration, the obvious political climate of the nation had more pressing matters. Armel said that I would be crowned in a private ceremony at the castle in the next coming days, and that I needed to remain hidden and protected at all costs. He guessed that the rebels wouldn’t go so far as to attempt to harm an actual child, but he also didn’t guess that the rebels would behead their king in the streets, so he urged me to remain careful and vigilant at all times.
If everything goes well, and according to plan, the National Army of Libizia should quash the small uprising in the next couple of days, at which point I, the new king, will be able to confidently return to public life and to lead Libizia into the promised land of prosperity and philosophy. It’s just a shame that my father can’t be here to see it happen.
January 2nd, 2025
The mob dragged me through the streets of Delmonia, the echoes of their chants loud enough to hear across the entire country. Chants, no, a song they are singing. Poorly, I might add, but a distinct song nonetheless. Its lyrics were hard to make out at first, but after recognizing a couple of Libizian words, I was able to make it out: a Libizian rendition of “Ca Ira”, the song of revolution worldwide.
“Ah ! It'll be fine, It'll be fine, It'll be fine
The people on this day repeat over and over,
Ah ! It'll be fine, It'll be fine, It'll be fine
In spite of the mutineers everything shall succeed.”
A familiar tune, but in the throats of my Libizians, I couldn’t help but feel perturbed, disturbed about the way they were singing it. Something wasn’t quite right with the sentences, the phrases sung. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but the whole rendition sounded alien, unfamiliar.
The crowd finally hoisted me and Armel to a shoddy, handmade wooden stage in the center of the town. Taking center-stage, the highlight of the whole nation, now, sat a pristinely taken care of guillotine, its sharpened edge glimmering gleefully in the midday sun. Next to the beautiful instrument stood its operator, the executioner, wearing a thick, black hood so as to obscure his identity. Why wouldn’t the man want his glory, I always wondered?
By the time we made it on stage, the clawing hands of the crowd had all but disrobed me and Armel, only a few torn shrouds of clothing remaining on my body, accessorized nicely with long, deep gashes from the nails of the citizens in meager attempts to maim me. When we were fully revealed on the platform, it seemed like every citizen of Libizia burst into loud, jovial, barbaric cheers. The voices belting out “Ca Ira” were now joined by thousands, and the song of freedom from tyranny rang like gunfire in our ears.
The sound of the singing was so loud, in fact, I could barely hear the words of Marquis Deloyette, a young, handsome rebel who had become the figurehead for treason in Libizia. He had climbed up on stage, somehow procured a microphone, and was screaming obscenities to the crowd as they sang as loud as their diaphragms would allow. All I could make out was something about Marie Antoinette and the Kings of today before I was rudely grabbed by the hooded man and marched to the blade.
“Liberty! Equalite! Fraternidad! Liberty! Equalite! Fraternidad!”. The chants, louder than a jet engine now, drowned out any possible preamble to the show that Deloyette was performing. My ears strained to listen, but the overwhelming buzz of the people and energy had a blurring, intoxicating effect on all visual and auditory stimuli. The colors, the faces of the crowd melded together into one solid buzz, drunkening the entire scene.
Suddenly, my neck was thrust violently into its cushioned slot. I wondered for a moment if this was the same blade that had met my father’s throat. If it was, the rebels had done quite a poor job in cleaning the apparatus and the surrounding splatter-area, as stains of crimson dotted the silver and wood around. No sooner than I could contemplate the machine’s past before Deloyette, now fully animated, had brought his face and his microphone down to my level.
Into the mic he said “Any last words, your highness?”. His sneer was so apparent you could see it from outer space. I knew any actual attempt at reconciliation or a plea for my life would be met with cruel jokes and laughter, so I responded the grown-up way Armel had taught me that Libizians respond to crudeness: I spat. My clump of saliva landed right onto Deloyette’s open-toed shoes.
I smiled.
The blade dropped.
“Armel, I’m scared, I can’t breathe, Armel..”