The Invitational Year

Helen Jones accepted the armload of mail from the maid with a distracted air as she power-walked down a long hallway in the white house. Her designer heels stabbed the carpet with each determined step, and her immaculate white business suit competed with her sparkling teeth to see which could be more blinding. A cell phone accessory blinked rapidly against her ear, nestled in the perfectly sculpted waves of blonde hair, indicating another incoming call. She began to flick through the mail as she continued her current conversation.

"That will cover the advertising but we haven't even touched on franchising fees—just one second, daddy, Richard is calling," Helen smoothly switched calls with a quick button press and her husband's voice came through her ear piece.

"Suck my dick, Petey—the Lakers are taking me to the bank! Did you see the heat Fisher was bringing in that last quarter?"

"Richard, this isn't Peter. You called your wife. Aren't you supposed to be entertaining King Abdullah II of Jordan right about now? Now's not the time to be calling your buddies to trash talk about baseball."

"Damn speed dial…and its basketball, Helen. NBA Finals? Ring a bell? And I am doing my job. King What's-his-Face had to go to the bathroom. The guy's been gone for forever—probably plugging up the toilet. Didja get the mail yet?"

"I'm glancing through it now. Nothing too pressing…wait…what?"

"Helen?" the President inquired as his wife went strangely silent. Deciding the King of Jordan wasn't going to return anytime soon, President Jones poked his head out of the Oval Office and glanced down the hallway to see his beautiful wife staring at their mail with a rather shocked expression.

"Oh no—what's Al done now?" Richard commented warily. Hearing her husband's voice both in person and on the phone caused Helen to wince and tug the wireless accessory off her ear.

"He's gotten…but surely this can't be…"

"Spit it out already, Helen. What is it?" Richard asked. Helen's eyes met her husband's impatient gaze and for the first time in a long, long time, Helen Jones was struck speechless.

"It's…it's…"

Richard met her half way and snatched the heavy packet from her hands, peering curiously at the sender.

"Jesus Christ—is this what I think it is?"

"It just can't be. They must be soliciting donations."

"Then it would be addressed to us—not to Al," Richard replied sensibly.

Just then, a sharply dressed member of the CIA came power walking down the hallway.

"Sir, there's been an incident with King Abdullah. It involves your son, the cat, a tablecloth, and an utterly embarrassing breach of social etiquette."

Richard and Helen met each others' gaze warily.

"I'll smooth it over—you deal with Alfred," Helen said. Richard pouted.

"You know I can't keep my temper when he pulls stupid crap like this, Helen. I'll talk to What's-his-Face and you handle Al."

"You don't even know his goddamned title! I've got PR, you take parenting!" Helen replied, forcefully pushing her armload of mail into Richard's chest.

"Damn it," Richard grunted in annoyance, as he stormed back into the Oval Office. Over his shoulder, he called out, "Send the kid in."

"Err…sir, he's already here," the CIA agent said with a slight cough. Emerging from behind the burly CIA agent, Alfred Jones didn't even meet his parents' sheepish gazes. He held a fat, fluffy cat in his arms, a nerf-gun, and wore nothing except a red table cloth and his superman boxers. He was fifteen, nearly sixteen, but he looked like a scrawny, half-starved twelve-year-old. His posture was defeated, his face was a pizza of acne and sunburn, and his blond, oily hair was forever slipping into his eyes. He was Alfred F. Jones—only son of the President of the United States, total dork, and loser of legendary repute.

Richard Jones took one look at his son and sent a half-silent prayer to God for patience.

"I didn't know he was in the bathroom—I was just chasing after Ellie. I didn't mean to hit him with my darts or—"

The prayer went unanswered. Richard pointed angrily towards the Oval Office. Alfred slouched, released a tormented sigh, and dragged his feet all the way into the office. Helen was satisfied that Alfred would be handled, so the First Lady took off at a brisk clip with the CIA officer to apologize to the traumatized dignitary.

Once inside his father's office, Alfred released Ellie and dropped into a chair with appalling posture. He was a sharp contrast to his father. Richard Jones was a towering six-foot-something former star quarterback, capable of charming just about anyone, perfectly tanned year round, and equipped with a bleached white smile and a full head of thick blond hair. He'd effortlessly ascended the political ladder until he'd been voted into the White House, where he had one of the highest presidential approval ratings in history. His wife, Helen Jones, was a former model turned concert pianist, who also just happened to be the heiress and future C.E.O. for one of the most popular hotel chains in America. Between the two of them, Alfred should have had looks, charm, brains and talent to spare, but something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

"Son, we don't live in our home alone now. This place is full of people and you can't just –"

"I know, Dad. I know better than anyone that we aren't home anymore."

"Alfred, don't try to pull the guilt card. I've been elected President of the goddamned United States…and you're upset because you can't play Pokemon cards with your strange little friends anymore. Jesus, son, they weren't even your friends! They regularly stole your money and used you to do their dirty work. Most kids would die for the chance to live in a house like this, but not you. All you care about is your video games and your comic books! You haven't pulled anything higher than a D since the fourth grade! What am I supposed to do with that, son? You tell me, because your mother and I are at the end of the rope here."

A rather elegant woman came striding into the office at a fast clip. Upon seeing the scene, she stopped and patted her hair back into place, tidying her clothes, which were already perfect.

"What's he done now?" the President asked, crumpling the invitation in his hand slightly. The head of housekeeping staff smiled politely at the President.

"Maria simply needs her tablecloth back. It was a gift from the Spanish ambassador."

"Say no more. Alfred. Cape off. Now."

Alfred untied the vivid red material from around his neck and handed it to the housekeeper embarrassedly, who looked mildly horrified to see the condition of the lace border and sneered unpleasantly at Alfred.

"I will excuse myself. I apologize for the interruption," the housekeeper said, leaving just as briskly as she had come.

Richard rubbed his hands over his face in a way that was both exhausted and exasperated. His collegiate football championship ring glittered dully on his hand, overpowering the shine of his wedding band. With a resigned air, he opened the thick packet from the prestigious World Academy and read in silence while Alfred waited and chewed nervously on his bottom lip. His father snorted in disbelief.

"Know what this is, Al?" he asked. Alfred glanced up briefly, but then his blue eyes sunk back to the carpet.

"No, sir."

"It's an invitation to World Academy…for you."

"You mean that stuffy boarding school where I got beat up my first week here?"

"You did not get beaten up, Son. The boys were just playing around, but you're so damned sensitive about everything," his father replied. Contrary to what his father claimed, Alfred definitely had gotten beat up. He'd snuck out of the White House in all the bustle of moving in, trying to find his way to the local comic book store, and bumped into a burly World Academy student. The only reason he and his buddies hadn't beaten Alfred to a total pulp was that a journalist showed up. Somehow, the boys names had managed to stay out of the article that ran front page, but Alfred's bloody lip and black eye had been all over the papers.

"That stuffy looking boarding school is the most prestigious school in the world, Alfred. I should be proud of this invitation, but I'm not proud. You didn't earn this invitation, Alfred. They've only sent this to you because of who I am," Richard said rather heartlessly as he rounded the desk. Alfred winced from the bitter truth.

"So I don't have to go?" Alfred asked hopefully. Looming over his scrawny son, the President slapped the invitation roughly against Alfred's chest.

"Oh, you're going, alright. Nobody has ever refused an invitation to World Academy, and our family isn't about to be the first, especially because everyone would know why we're refusing—that we're afraid to let you out in public. You'll go, and you're going to start fresh, Alfred. You're going to make good grades. You're going to play sports. You're going to make influential friends. I should have done this a long time ago, but starting next year, there will be no comic books, no video games, no dolls—"

"Action figures," Alfred grumbled under his breath, to no avail.

"And no more of this super hero nonsense!" his father finished.

The door to the Oval Office opened once more, and this time Helen entered. She took the invitation from Alfred's hands and scanned it, reaching her own conclusions.

"You won't be attending the campus here in Washington until your second year. Your first year of study would be in London. Maybe it's a good thing that you'll be out of the country—it will be harder for the media to get at you. Out of sight, out of mind as the saying goes," the First Lady said.

"You make a good point, Helen. We should have thought about an overseas boarding school for him months ago," the President said, beginning to warm up to the idea. Leaving his parents to talk excitedly about getting him out of their perfectly sculpted hair, Alfred slunk out of the room with his cat on his heels. Once safely out of ear-shot, he scooped the orange tabby up in his arms, and let a few tears fall into his only friend's fur.

"They're right, ya know. I'm not a hero…I'm just a loser. I've gotta try really hard at this new school, Ellie. I've gotta be someone different…someone they're proud to call their son."

His cat gave him a loving nuzzle, and he let her down gently. He entered his bedroom (literally covered with nerdy nick-knacks and posters) and sighed. At least in the privacy of his own bedroom, he could be himself. He'd be the son his parents wanted out in the world, but in his sanctuary, he could be whoever he wanted. After such a depressing morning, all he wanted was to be a level 72 knight in the online realm of Alishadu.

Prince Arthur, sixth in line to the British throne, skimmed through his invitation letter to World Academy with a bored air for the millionth time. His parents had been pleased, but they had been expecting the invitation for years. All royals attended World Academy. It was just the natural order of things. Besides, unlike some of his line, Arthur likely would have been invited even if he hadn't been a royal. He excelled in all subjects and never made less than perfect grades. He was extremely talented with both a tennis racquet and with a foil, his piano teacher often asked him for tips on how to play certain passages, and at the mere age of fifteen, a book of his short-stories had already been published.

There was very little Arthur couldn't do, with the sole exception of cooking, which didn't exactly matter since he was a prince and had people to cook for him. Still, Arthur was a perfectionist, and it irked him to do poorly at something, so cooking had become something of a hobby, even though he never managed to improve.

Arthur flipped another page in the history book he was reading on Roman influence in his country and wondered idly what his roommate would be like. As long as he wasn't paired up with Francis Bonnefoy, the young Marquis of Angoumois, he'd have no complaints.

Well, maybe he'd have a few. Arthur didn't exactly get along well with his peers. Though he kept his head down and stayed out of the media, Arthur had a very short fuse. He disliked people who were loud, messy, French, uncultured, good-at-cooking, French, tall, ignorant, overly-friendly, or French. As long as his roommate was none of those things, then he didn't foresee any problems. Plus, his first year would be spent studying at the London campus, so if his roommate was too unbearably obnoxious, he could always come home to escape him.

He closed his book. It was nearly time for him to depart for his new school, and he still had to pack his baggage. It wouldn't be a difficult task—his room was nearly devoid of anything that might have given a clue to Arthur's personality, perhaps with the exception of all the books.

A short hour later, Arthur had all his personal things neatly packed in three rolling suitcases. Only one of these suitcases contained his actual clothing. The other two were the books that he could not bear to be without for more than a week at a time.

The butler took his baggage and whisked it away downstairs. His mother gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek and reminded him to work hard. His father shook his hand. If the paparazzi hadn't been so thick on the perimeter of their estate, trying to snap pictures of him departing, it would have been an utterly quiet affair. Under the deluge of hot, summer rain, Prince Arthur was whisked away to World Academy and the future that awaited him there.

A/N: As promised, I'm going to start reposting these chapters and correcting errors as I go. I am altering content, though not to the point that major events in the plot change. All of this editing will hopefully lead up to a new chapter…though I'm still ironing out a lot of issues with that and I'm unsure how long revisions will take.