I’m sixteen and I’m living in a prison. It’s called Buckingham Palace. I’m Alfred, Prince of Wales.

My parents are dead. My grandma–the Queen–has lost her mind. My only friend is an alcoholic corgi named Wormwood. I’m being raised by bureaucrats. Who hate me.

The tabloids call me ROYAL BRAT. That’s for getting kicked out of Eton. For setting fire to the chapel. And stabbing the headmaster in the foot with a syringe.

I’m doing a runner. Someone’s got to help me!

Maybe those kids can. Yeah, them. In the Westminster School uniforms. The clever clogs, raising their hands, answering the teacher’s questions. The athlete, the genius, the girlboss, the babe. Each with a brilliant future. At Oxford. Or Cambridge.

Would they throw that away for my sake? Would they risk getting sacked from London’s top school to help a poor tosser like me? When guards are watching my every move, listening in on every conversation? Me, with a bloody GPS tracker in my hip?

I’m a hot mess. They’ve got it all together. I’m a prisoner. They can go anywhere. I’ll never escape–unless they take pity on me.

They better. I’m this close to striking the match that burns Buckingham Palace to the ground.