by Meg Cabot
This made me almost drop my fork. I was sure there had to be an emergency with Mia or the babies.
And it turned out there was. Just not one where anyone was dramatically carried off in an ambulance.
Dr. Khan, the royal obstetrician, came in and curtsied and said how sorry she was to interrupt our dinner, but that she had something of vital importance she needed to discuss … and the something turned out to be ME AND ROCKY!
“Your Highness,” she said to Dad, as he sat there with a wineglass in his hand (he’d offered some Genovian pinot noir to the obstetrician, but she said she still had rounds to make), “I feel I must tell you that it is in the best interest of your two new grandchildren to keep them as far as possible from all potential carriers of influenza A.”
Dad looked startled. “What? Of course! Wait … what is influenza A?”
“La Grippe,” said Dr. Khan.
“Good lord,” cried Grandmère, dropping her cheeseknife. “The babies have La Grippe?”
“Not at all,” said Dr. Khan. “But I understand that your chef has been exposed to it, and I’ve just been speaking to Princess Mia, who says a number of students and faculty at the Royal Genovian Academy have it. I would like to suggest limiting your children’s exposure to Princess Mia and the babies for the next few days.”
Dad looked from the doctor to Rocky and me. “You want me to put my own children out of the house?”
“I would not suggest it to just anyone, Your Highness,” the doctor said, smiling a little. “But I do believe you have the resources to find alternative accommodations for them. I think it would be the sensible thing to do. The virus is quite dangerous to infants, and Princess Mia would rest easier.”
“Pfuit!” Grandmère made her traditional noise of contempt and rolled her eyes at me. “Your sister has always been such a hypochondriac.”
But I didn’t think Mia was being a hypochondriac. If I had newborn twins, I wouldn’t want them being exposed to La Grippe, either.
“Maybe,” I said, “you should cancel school, Dad.”
Rocky gasped. “Yeah!”
This really would be great. Then none of us would have to go to Stockerdörfl—or stay in class and write an eight-hundred-word essay, either.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Dr. Khan said. “We haven’t quite reached national health emergency proportions. Just a few sensible precautions should take care of the problem—like keeping potential carriers of the virus away from newborns until the babies can build up their immune systems and the carriers can show that they’re symptom-free.”
Rocky began to cough. “I think I’ve got it, Dad. I think I’ve got La Grippe! I think you better send me to Stockerdörfl.”
I glared at him from across the table and mouthed the word faker. Rocky only smiled at me and fake-coughed some more.
Fortunately, Rocky’s mother knew he was faking, too.
“Stop it, Rock,” Helen Thermopolis said, then turned to take Dad’s hand. “It sounds like a good idea to me, Phillipe. I know it would make Mia feel better.”
That’s when I knew Rocky and I were in trouble. My heart began to beat a little fast.
Were they seriously suggesting we leave Genovia?
I know I had only lived there a few months, but in that time it had become home—the only place I’d ever really considered home in my life! And now they were going to make me leave it? (Only for a few days, I realized … but the thought was terrifying.)
“Do you really want to risk us spreading La Grippe to a foreign land?” I cried, realizing I probably sounded crazy, but not caring. “That sounds pretty undiplomatic to me! It could start a war.”
“Well, now,” Dad said, signaling the butler to refill his wineglass. “I kind of like the idea of getting you kids out of here for a few days—especially if this virus is as bad as people are saying it is. I don’t want either of you to catch it. What do you think, Mother?”
“I think it’s the best idea I’ve heard in ages,” Grandmère said, imperiously tapping her own wineglass so the butler would know she, too, would like a refill. “Especially if I go with the children. They need more chaperones for the trip, you know, Phillipe, so I already contacted the school and volunteered my services.”
I nearly choked on the sip of water I’d taken. “You did?”
“I most certainly did,” Grandmère said. “I considered it my duty as a Genovian citizen. Of course Madame Alain was elated and accepted my offer.”
“Well,” Dad said, turning back toward Dr. Khan. “Then it’s all settled. The children—and my mother—are going to Stockerdörfl.”
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Tuesday, November 24
9:35 P.M.
Royal Genovian Bedroom
Ugh. Uuuuuuuugggggghhhhhh!
I get what Nishi is saying. From the outside, my life must look pretty great. I know I should be concentrating on all the great things going on, not just in my life but in the world. This is the first time in Genovian history that a firstborn girl will have been given precedence over a younger brother in inheriting the throne! That is all they’re talking about on the news (besides La Grippe).
And of course I’m thrilled that my sister has given birth to two healthy babies, and that she herself is doing well, especially after all that worry about her blood pressure.
But how am I supposed to get those photos of Prince Khalil that Nishi wants without looking like a total fool????
You can’t go up to a boy and say, “Excuse me, but can I take a few pictures of you for my friend? Okay, great. So just take off your shirt and go stand in front of that sunset and smile. Thanks!”
Well, I suppose some girls could do that, but not me.
And especially not a boy like Prince Khalil, who has endured so much heartache, what with losing his country and then deciding not to talk to me ever again (at least, not the way we used to talk).
Not that if things had gone the way I would have wanted them to go—maybe, once upon a time—my dad would have even let me go out with Prince Khalil. Once over the summer, when Mia and I were watching one of those teen movies she loves so much, Dad walked in, took one look at the screen, and said that over his dead body would I ever be going out with a boy in middle school. He says it’s “inappropriate” for middle schoolers to date, and also ridiculous.
I asked him how old is appropriate for girls and boys to date, and he said, “College.”
Mia laughed and said, “Dad, stop teasing her.”
But I’m pretty sure Dad wasn’t teasing.
I think Dad’s worried because my sister went on her first date with Michael when she was fourteen—one year older than I am (or than I will be on Saturday)—and look what happened: She ended up marrying him!
Although Mia always points out that she and Michael both dated other people in between their first date and getting married, twelve years later. She says that the road to true love is filled with many unexpected twists, turns, and phonies who only want to marry you for your crown (Grandmère agrees with this).
But the truth is, I don’t actually want to date—much less marry—anyone. I just want someone to dance with at the ball on Saturday … someone who is not my dad.
Or Prince Gunther, who always steps on my toes, and is my cousin Luisa’s boyfriend.
Wednesday, November 25
8:10 A.M.
Royal Limousine to the Train Station
Francesca is so excited that I’m going somewhere with cold weather, she could hardly contain herself while packing.
“You can finally wear those boots we bought for you in Paris, Your Highness!” she cried. “And that adorable faux-fur zip-up vest!”
I’ve actually been to cold-weather places since finding out I’m a princess. My dad, Helen, Rocky, and I took a fishing trip to Iceland over the summer for Dad and Helen’s honeymoon. I’ve just never been skiing.
Francesca somehow managed to cram everything Snowball and I needed (b
ecause of course I’m bringing Snowball with me. I don’t trust anyone to take proper care of her while I’m gone—not with two newborn babies in the palace!) into only two suitcases, which I thought was pretty good … especially when the footmen came downstairs with Grandmère’s luggage. She had seventeen individual valises.
“Mother,” Dad said, looking down at Grandmère’s pile of Louis Vuitton suitcases. “You’re only going away for a couple of days. What on earth are you taking with you—your silver high tea set?”
“You know I must have my things about me, Phillipe,” Grandmère said, tugging on her mink-lined gloves. “I can’t stand to be without my things. Now, Amelia, are you certain you can do without us, especially at such a trying time?”
Mia was standing high above us at the top of the Grand Royal Staircase with her daughter in her arms. Michael was holding his son. Both babies were being quiet for once, but this was quite unusual. In the past twenty-four hours or so since they’d come home, unless they were sleeping or eating, one of them was always crying, which usually started the other one crying, and then they’d both be crying.
It didn’t matter where you went in the palace—which I used to think was quite large—you could still hear them, even if you put in the earplugs the Royal Genovian Guard use for target practice.
There isn’t anything wrong with them, either. They are both perfectly healthy.
It is the worst.
“It will be hard,” Michael said to Grandmère. “But we’ll try to get on without you, Clarisse … at least until the christening, and the bris, of course. But that won’t be until next week.”
“Oh, dear lord, the bris,” Grandmère murmured. “I’d forgotten.”
“What’s a bris?” Rocky asked loudly, but everyone shushed him for fear he’d wake the babies.
“You’re sure you want to do this, Clarisse?” Helen Thermopolis asked Grandmère worriedly as the footmen loaded our luggage into the back of the limo. “Because you don’t have to go, you know. We could get all of you a set of rooms at the Ritz, or the Four Seasons.…”
“Don’t have to go?” Grandmère tossed her head loftily. “I most certainly do. The national pride of Genovia rests upon my shoulders! I cannot allow the children’s school to be defeated by The Royal Academy in Switzerland! We must win victory for the righteous.”
I’ve never won victory for the righteous before. I’m not even completely sure what it means.
But I’m looking forward to finding out, I guess.
Wednesday, November 25
1:00 P.M.
Train to Stockerdörfl
I have to print really small because I don’t want anyone to see what I’m writing in here. I told them all that I’m doing sketches of the beautiful countryside as it whizzes past us.
Ha! As if!
We changed trains at Genoa to a high-speed line (so we could get to Stockerdörfl in five hours instead of fourteen) and you can’t see ANYTHING out the train windows—at least not for long enough to draw it—because we’re going so fast.
But I have to write down all the crazy stuff that is happening.
NEVER GO ON A SCHOOL TRIP WITH YOUR GRANDMOTHER (AND YOUR SNOBBY COUSIN).
It will not turn out well.
It started out fine. I was excited because I’ve never been on a train before. Everywhere we’ve gone since I’ve found out I’m a princess has been on a private plane or in a limo. Before, when I lived in New Jersey, I never went anywhere, except by car.
I’ve seen lots of trains before—people took trains from New Jersey to get into Manhattan, and in Genovia people take trains to get all over the rest of Europe.
I didn’t want to let on how excited I was to ride one—even more excited than Rocky, who loves everything with wheels, and even things with blades on them, as illustrated by his trying to hitch Snowball to a fake sleigh.
But I was SUPER EXCITED to ride on a train. Would it be, I kept wondering, like the train to Hogwarts, in Harry Potter?
But of course it wasn’t. It was one of those modern trains—that Rocky went even more bananas for—not one with a smokestack. They don’t use those anymore, because they cause too much pollution. I don’t know what I’d been thinking.
And there were only three platforms at the train station, because Genovia isn’t that big, and all the trains from there connect to other, bigger stations, where you can find the train going to where you want to go (such as Stockerdörfl).
But when I saw my entire class, practically, waiting for us on platform two, I got over my disappointment. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be so bad.
Wrong. Very wrong.
“What is she doing here?” Luisa snarled upon spying my grandmother.
Fortunately she didn’t say it loudly enough for Grandmère to overhear. If she had, I could only imagine what might have occurred. Possibly a third world war.
“My grandmother volunteered to chaperone,” I said, keeping a tight hold on Snowball’s leash. She was excited by all the new sights and smells at the train station. “And you should be thankful for it, Luisa, because if she hadn’t, we wouldn’t be able to—”
—take this trip, was what I was going to say, but I didn’t get the chance to finish. That’s because Victorine screamed out my name and began running toward me, throwing both her arms around my neck in a manner that caused my bodyguard, Serena, to reach for her stun gun.
That’s because Victorine looks very different when she’s not wearing her school uniform, and Serena didn’t recognize her. After my sister’s wedding, Victorine got super into the rock star Boris P, who played at the reception. So now when she’s outside of school, Victorine dresses in all black, with very heavy black eyeliner and mascara, because she is a Borette—a Boris P fan.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” Victorine cried. “We are going to have SO MUCH FUN! I’m so glad you’re coming!”
After I’d extracted myself from Victorine’s stranglehold, I said, “Um, I know—”
“What is going on here?” Grandmère demanded. “Why are you all out of uniform?”
Victorine spun around, saw my grandmother, then turned quite pale beneath her dark makeup. “Oh, good morning, Your Royal Highness,” she said with a curtsy. “Madame Alain told us it was all right to wear our normal clothes on the train.”
“Well, then I shall have a word with Madame Alain,” Grandmère declared. “How are we to intimidate the enemy if we don’t look like a united front? You there—” She yelled at Roger, the 12th Duke of Marborough, who was pointing at Rommel and laughing. “Do you find something amusing about my dog?”
Roger dropped his hand and stopped laughing. “No, ma’am—I mean, Your Highness.”
“I should hope not. Just as there is nothing amusing about your shirt. Who, might I ask, is Tupac?”
“Uh,” the duke said, looking down at his shirt, which featured a large portrait of the rap artist above his name and date of death. “He’s, um, a … a philosopher, Your Highness.”
“A philosopher. I see. Can you quote some of his writings?”
“Um…” The duke, who’d been helping Prince Khalil and some of the other members of the hockey team load equipment onto the train, looked startled. “What?”
“Don’t say what to me, young man. Since you admire Mr. Tupac’s philosophical writings so much that you feel compelled to wear the poor man’s face emblazoned across your chest, I am assuming you can quote his writings.”
The duke stared at my grandmother with a terrified expression. “Um…”
“If you’d like me to repeat the question, say ‘I beg your pardon’ or ‘Excuse me,’ but not ‘um.’”
“Um … I don’t think I…”
It was Prince Khalil who replied, “I can quote some of Tupac’s writings, Your Highness.”
Then he rapped, RIGHT ON THE TRAIN PLATFORM, the first few lyrics of a song by Tupac Shakur called “Dear Mama,” which was about being respectful and appreciative of his mother, the woman who raised
him and kept him from the penitentiary.
Everyone standing on the platform—me, Victorine, Nadia, Prince Gunther, Princess Komiko, Luisa, the Duke of Marborough, the Marquis of Tottingham, and the rest of the hockey team, and even some of the porters, and of course my bodyguard, Serena—all stared at him in admiration. The boy could sing!
“Dude,” Roger said, when Prince Khalil was finished. “That was sweet!”
Prince Khalil lightly slapped the duke’s raised hand. “No big thing,” he said modestly.
“Yes,” Grandmère agreed, after a moment’s silence (except for the conductor, yelling for us to Climb aboard! since the train would soon be departing). “That was sweet.” To the duke, she said, “Give him your shirt.”
Roger’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“You don’t deserve to wear that shirt. A true fan of Mr. Tupac would be able to quote him, as your friend did. So Prince Khalil deserves the shirt you are wearing, not you. Give it to him.”
Prince Khalil looked shocked. “Your Highness,” he said, “that’s all right. I don’t want the duke’s—”
“Never fear,” Grandmère said, holding out a hand to stop his protests. “The Duke of Marborough has plenty of other shirts, one presumes. He shan’t go naked.”
The duke wasn’t the only person who was astonished. I was shocked, too.
“Grandmère,” I said. “You can’t—”
“I most certainly can,” she said. “I am a chaperone. It’s my duty not only to protect you, but to keep you from behaving in a way that might embarrass yourselves, or the reputation of the Royal Genovian Academy.”
“But,” Luisa cried, coming to the defense of the duke, who was—it couldn’t be denied—the second most popular boy in our class, after Prince Khalil. If popularity was judged by how kind people were, Prince Gunther would be second most popular. But for unknown reasons, this is not how popularity worked at the RGA. “Madame Alain is a chaperone, too. And she wouldn’t want Roger to give up his shirt.”
“Well, Madame Alain isn’t here right now, is she?” Grandmère raised both her drawn-on eyebrows—a dangerous sign. “And I believe the right thing for the duke to do is stop pretending to be something he is not. That is neither impressive nor healthy. Hurry up now, young man. We haven’t got all day. We’ve a train to board.”