Drop the Egg (Part 1)

“This week,” Mrs. Wynchis said from behind her desk at the front of the science lab. “We’ll be doing something fun: an egg drop experiment.”

From the seat in front of me, the excitement of Nelle XI Yumin Rondar was palpable. She straightened, as if a shiver of anticipation had gone up her spine, attention directed forward with the intensity of a researcher who’d just discovered a new quantum particle.

For my part, I’d suddenly developed an acute case of wishing I would come down with a devastating cold that would keep me out of school for the rest of the week, possibly even the entire year.

“We’ll spend the rest of today’s class and the first half of Thursday building your containers, then do the drop the second half of that class. Pick someone to partner up with, then come get your materials.”

So that was it. My fate was sealed. I had until Thursday before an unavoidable trip to the school roof would give my secret away once and for all.

Nelle hopped off her stool, making her way to the front of the classroom as conversations between my classmates broke out around me and people began to pair up. I watched her pass between the tall science lab tables, her steps light and bouncy, pick up one of the slatted wood boxes, and make her way back.

She put the box on the high physics lab table, smiling brightly.

“We could never do this back home,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to try it!”

“Because of the gravity difference?”

She nodded, then began to rummage through the box.

“What are we going to do, though?”

“Well, what kind of materials do we have?”

“Not that.”

She gave me a meaningful look, raising her eyebrows as she pointed upwards. My stomach dropped at the reminder of the trip to the roof in the uncomfortably near future.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, lowering my voice. “I’ll just get through it.”

“Are you going to tell everyone?”

I’d asked myself the same question hundreds of times in the past. After all, being afraid of heights wasn’t something to be ashamed of. It wasn’t like the ignoble circumstances of how I’d developed the fear had made me pretend that I had food poisoning on that fourth grade trip up the space elevator. It also wasn’t like I was aware of the irony of being tall enough that I sometimes got a bit dizzy just from looking down at my feet. It wasn’t like reasons like that were the reason I still kept it a secret.

It also wasn’t that, after all these years of hiding it, making the choice to tell people seemed impossible.

And it was most definitely not what they called the “sunk cost fallacy.”

“Don’t worry,” Nelle said. I looked up at her and saw the one thing that could possibly terrify me more than having to go to the school roof.

I saw the face of a princess who had just had an idea.

You see, the thing about being raised as royalty, about having your whole life planned out for you, about being given the best education possible from a young age, is that while it makes you very intelligent, it has the side effect of making you very bad at thinking on your feet.

At least, that’s the way it was for the princess I knew.

That’s right. Despite her amazing grades and intuitive understanding of all things scientific, Nelle XI Yumin Rondar was absolutely terrible at improvising.

Actually, let me revise that statement.

In one sense, Nelle’s ability to come up with ideas on the fly was unparalleled. She, in fact, had zero problem inventing solutions on short notice. The problem was, absent the time to properly vet them before they came out of her mouth, there was an almost a 100% chance they were bad ideas. She had the kind of spur-of-the-moment, unfiltered creative intellect, for example, that might cause her to suggest someone who had very obviously just lost their balance due to a fit of vertigo was actually doing an impression of a certain character from a famous movie about a man raised in the jungle.

“We can just tell everyone you’re allergic to eggs.”

“Huh?”

I had a vision of a conveyor belt carrying a series of delightful egg-based dishes past me toward a gaping void: eggs and bacon, egg tarts, quiches, French toast. Even plain hard-boiled eggs took on a nostalgic sheen as I reached out futilely for them, the consequences of this single threatening idea of Nelle’s carrying them out of my reach forever.

“That won’t work,” I hissed under my breath.

“Why not?” she asked, looking far too pleased with herself. “It’s not an uncommon allergy.”

“That is not the problem. Think about it. If you go through with this, I’m never going to be able to have an omelet at school again.”

“Again? You eat sandwiches for lunch every day.”

“Maybe I’d like to eat one at school someday. Don’t take my future away from me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I have to go through with this. For the sake of your honor.”

“There’s nothing dishonorable about being afraid of heights!”

“So you’re just going to tell everyone about it, then?”

“…”

She had me over a barrel there. The phrase “sunk cost fallacy” again floated through my head.

“What about egg salad sandwiches?” I said, desperate to avoid adding a new, completely false character trait to my life.

We both knew I had never eaten an egg salad sandwich, but she had to at least admit the possibility was there. Nelle made a show of pondering my latest rebuttal, tapping a finger on her chin. For a moment, I had the distinct impression she was greatly enjoying herself in the midst of this little farce.

Actually, the way we’d just bantered our way through such an absurd suggestion had me thinking something else was going on here.

“Wait,” I said, just as Nelle opened her mouth to speak. “Have you been playing me this whole time?”

The brightness of the grin that appeared on her face almost blinded me.

“What gives you that idea?” she said, obviously delighted.

I groaned, tenting a hand over my eyes.

Of course.

Even for Nelle, the egg allergy idea was too ridiculous. And, what’s more, when I looked back on the conversation, I realized she had clearly thought of it beforehand. She’d been the one to initiate the whole thing. This was no off-the-cuff idea, invented in a moment of panic; this was a premeditated act of violence. The moment she’d asked me what we were going to do, I’d already fallen into the trap.

Nelle’s shoulders shook with concealed laughter. Watching her, a part of me wanted to free my outrage, but in the middle of the classroom, I had no choice but suck it up and accept my loss.

I sighed and stood up, moving toward her.

“A princess nev–” she began, but I was too quick. Before she could finish the word, I’d stepped as close as I dared and placed a single finger over her lips.

“Not a single word more from you, your highness,” I said, my voice as low as possible to avoid causing a scene.

Her eyes lifted to meet mine, and I became very aware of two facts. One, that her face had gone very red. Two, that her lips were against my finger.

Slowly, I pulled my hand away from Nelle’s mouth, bringing it to rest against my chest. Around us, the chatter of the class seemed to fade. I felt myself swallow, as if it were a different person’s throat making the motion, unable to look away from the spring-colored green of her eyes. Underneath my withdrawn hand, my heartbeat accelerated.

Let’s just say I hadn’t fully planned for the consequences of shushing her like that.

“Annin,” she said, very quietly. In my periphery, I saw her right arm, the one nearest the table, lift. But I couldn’t look away from her face.

I dipped my head slightly in response, not sure sound would come out if I tried to speak.

“Since you’re not allergic, can I offer you an egg in these trying times?”

My gaze dropped to see, in the palm of her right hand, a brown egg.

Nelle’s laughter rang out through the entire classroom, but all I could do was crouch with my hands on my knees and stare at the floor.

It was, I think, what they call a comprehensive defeat for Team Annin.