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“Take a look at your thumb. The top bends backwards or is straight. If the top is bent, you have a hitchhiker’s thumb , a recessive gene, and another genetically linked trait. If your parents both have them, you can catch a ride too.”
    With my first real smile, I said, “Thank you,” and then passed the microphone back to the principal. My pathetic speech was over. I slid into my hard plastic chair and blew out a breath. Not bad. Not good, but not bad.
    “We’ll make up the points in the trivia round,” Austin whispered.
    “Bite me.”
    The principal, wearing his own polite smile, one that strained the dent in his chin, said, “Thank you, Ms. McLaren. Next up we have Rhys Zukowski with a scientific demonstration on cloud formation and climate variance across—”
    Rhys scooted his chair back to get up.
    “One moment, Mr. Zukowski. There’s a question.” The principal pointed his cane toward the audience to give them the go-ahead.
    One of the reporters yelled out, in a carrying, accented Irish voice, “Ms. McLaren, are you a member of The Birthers ?”
    “Sorry?”
    Austin leaned forward and turned on our microphone.
    “Sorry?” I repeated, and the speakers amplified my ignorance throughout the auditorium.
    The reporter snapped my picture and said, “ Birthers . The group of people who say Prince Callum can’t be king because he was born in America.”
    My face heated at his challenge, but I was glad the question wasn’t about science. “I’m not familiar with that term. But, as I understand it, the only qualification for a royal throne is to be a blood descendant of the royal family.”
    “Exactly,’ the reporter said. “You’re saying that because Prince Callum has dark wavy hair—and his parents don’t— that he’s not their child? That he doesn’t have a right to the throne?”
    A few women in the audience gasped. Everyone else remained silent except the reporter, who clearly wanted my team to lose. “You’re saying, for the record, that Prince Callum may have been switched at the hospital during the hurricane? Like some type of mistake? Or, are you saying the rumors are true? That the Queen cheated and plans to put a cuckoo on the throne?”
    Audience chatter picked up at his rudeness.
    I hadn’t said any such thing. That guy was using my speech to stir up controversy. I blinked rapidly, but couldn’t seem to make a sound to defend my position. I just sat there. Did I even have a position? I didn’t know enough about genetics to form an intelligent response. And I hadn’t heard any royal rumors, though clearly I’d hit on an Irish scandal.
    The principal frowned at me in disapproval, as if I’d done this on purpose. “Ms. McLaren?”
    I’d rather drink some of Rhys’s chemicals and burn off my tongue than touch this topic anymore. I sat in silence while hundreds of eyes stared at me. Nausea churned in my stomach and lights blinked in front of my eyes. Crap, I was going to faint. Again. Or worse.
    Prince Callum rose and moved behind me. He leaned forward and clicked off my microphone with deft fingers. His hands went to the back of my chair, his knuckles grazing my back. He put his lips to my ear and whispered, “That’s not the way to get my attention.” His voice was deep, lyrical, enthralling, like melting chocolate.
    I tilted my chin and the back of my head met his hard chest. I found his blue-grey gaze. “I wasn’t trying to get your attention.” I inhaled, feeling better.
    “You chose to give a speech based on tabloid lies.” He smiled at the crowd and leaned over me to fake-adjust our microphone as if he were actually assisting us and not chastising me. “Will there be an alien invasion story as a follow-up?”
    “The only alien here is you. And you’re about to get your passport revoked.”
    He put his mouth back to my ear. “And you have that kind of power, do you?”
    Shiver. “You have no idea.” I reached for the switch. “I’ll set them