Royal Crush

by Meg Cabot

  Roger looked from my grandmother to Luisa, rolled his eyes, then pulled off his Tupac shirt and tossed it to Prince Khalil.

  “Here,” he said, not very graciously.

  “Uh.” Prince Khalil looked down at the shirt. “Thanks … I guess.”

  I was mortified. It was one thing to deliver messages from the Resistance across the Austrian border to the Allies in Switzerland. It was another to enforce a completely unnecessary (and made-up) dress code. Was Grandmère going to be like this the whole trip?

  Then Prince Khalil did something that completely distracted me from being mortified about my grandmother’s crazy behavior:

  He pulled off his own shirt so he could put on the duke’s. Suddenly he—like the duke—was shirtless on platform two of the Genovian train station!

  It was only for about four seconds or so.

  But if you think about it, four seconds is a pretty long time. Long enough for Prince Khalil to pull the duke’s shirt over his head, and the duke to lean over and pull a new shirt from his backpack, and put it on, as well.

  But it was also long enough for me to whip out my cell phone and take a really quick photo of a shirtless Prince Khalil for Nishi.

  I know it was wrong, and something only a creepy, stalkery paparazzo would do.

  But it wasn’t my fault! Nishi’s turned me into a creepy, stalkery paparazzo with her stupid bet (even though I’m the one who made the bet in the first place).

  And she’s the one who wanted a photo of Prince Khalil shirtless in the first place!

  Well, now she’s getting one. He just isn’t smiling in front of a sunset, the way she wanted. He’s changing his shirt on a train platform.

  Nishi is going to have to learn to live with disappointment.

  And to be fair, I am the school photographer for the trip. Taking photos is my job.

  “Princess Clarisse!” Madame Alain cried as she returned to the platform from the train station’s gift shop, where she’d gone to buy Genovian toffees for the trip. “What in heaven’s name is going on here?”

  “Nothing at all, Madame Alain,” Grandmère replied calmly. “Merely a wardrobe adjustment. The Duke of Marborough generously volunteered to give the shirt off his back to the Prince of Qalif. But then, who would expect otherwise from the Duke of Marborough, who is such a charming and intelligent young man? Come, Madame Alain. I think the conductor would like us to board now.”

  “Oh.” Madame Alain looked flustered. “Er … yes, Your Highness.”

  When we got on the train—the three first-class cars had been reserved by the Royal Genovian Academy for the fifty-seven students, ten chaperones, and fourteen bodyguards who’d be attending the school trip—I sat as far from Grandmère, Rommel, Madame Alain, and Rocky as I could possibly get, keeping Snowball on my lap. (Pets are allowed on European trains, within reason. For instance, you can’t keep your pony on your seat with you, but you can take a small dog.)

  After what had happened with the Duke of Marborough, I didn’t think anyone would want to sit near me. I clearly had a crazy grandmother.

  So you can imagine how surprised I was when Nadia and Princess Komiko plunked down beside me, followed by Victorine, and, finally, a slightly sullen Luisa.

  “Oh my gosh,” Victorine said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “That was fantastic. ‘A true fan of Mr. Tupac would be able to quote him.’ I love your grandmother.”

  I peeked up from behind the powder-puff of white fur on Snowball’s head. “You do?”

  “Of course!” Victorine whipped out her cell phone to check her dark eye makeup. “She’s completely right. I mean, no self-respecting fan of Boris P would wear one of his shirts and not know any of his songs. It’s like, be a poser, why don’t you?”

  I’m not the biggest fan of Boris P (even though he is a friend of my sister’s). I’m more into Beyoncé (and Taylor Swift and Katy Perry, of course).

  “Well, I thought your grandmother was rude, Olivia,” Luisa said. “Roger was shirtless in front of the entire train station!”

  “Yes, I noticed how bothered he was by that,” Nadia said sarcastically. “And how closely you were observing his muscles, Lady Luisa.”

  Luisa turned bright red. “I wasn’t!”

  “Actually,” said Princess Komiko, “you kind of were. I noticed it, too.”

  I hoped no one had noticed me taking a photo—or two—of Prince Khalil. But it didn’t seem as if anyone had.

  Luisa turned even redder. “I happen to have a boyfriend, you know.”

  “Then why aren’t you sitting with him?” asked Nadia.

  Luisa’s eyes widened as she looked around the train car. “I … I was going to, but I can’t seem to find him right now.…” She evidently hadn’t even thought about sitting next to Prince Gunther for the two-hour ride to Genoa, where we would change to the high-speed train to Stockerdörfl.

  “He’s sitting in the other car,” Nadia pointed out. “With the rest of the snowboarders. They’re strategizing about how they’re going to beat TRAIS.”

  “Well,” Luisa said, sinking back into her seat, “I knew that. I was letting him have some alone time with his team. It’s important for athletes to bond.”

  I don’t know about the other girls, but I didn’t believe her for a second. I think Nadia was right, and Luisa may have been cheating—with her eyes—on Prince Gunther with the Duke of Marborough.

  I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, though. Then someone might bring up how I’d been snapping photos of Prince Khalil.

  And like Nishi had said, we’re in the seventh grade: no one is getting married.

  So I changed the subject. I said, “You guys, let’s make a get-well card for Marguerite. I feel sad that she’s so sick and can’t be here.”

  “Okay,” they said, and whipped out their cell phones.

  “No,” I said. “A real get-well card. On paper.”

  I ripped a page from my notebook and folded it in half and drew a cartoon of all of us waving to Marguerite from the train. Since I didn’t have any magic markers to color it in, Luisa donated some lip gloss, Nadia some sparkle nail polish, and Victorine some purple eye shadow.

  The card looks quite beautiful, if I do say so myself—and it was a great way to change the subject from shirtless boys. We’re going to mail it when we get to Stockerdörfl.

  Riding on the train is actually a lot of fun. The scenery is beautiful—for a long time we were riding along the ocean, which was so blue, and we passed a number of castles.

  Even better, a man came around with a trolley full of food and drinks and asked, in a lovely British accent, “Savory or sweet?”

  Victorine translated: “Do you want a salty snack, or a sweet snack?”

  I said, “Both, please!”

  That’s how I want my life to be when I’m grown-up: savory but with plenty of sweet, too.

  Wednesday, November 25

  7:00 P.M.

  Eis Schloss Stockerdörfl, Austria

  We’re here! I can’t believe we finally made it.

  The 12th Duke of Marborough and the 17th Marquis of Tottingham put a smoke bomb down the toilet of the second first-class women’s lavatory, causing it to explode and leaving us only one women’s lavatory in our own car for the rest of the trip (and also causing Grandmère—as well as the train conductor—to want to throw the duke and the marquis off the train at the next stop).

  Fortunately (or unfortunately) Madame Alain wouldn’t let them. She said, “We can’t leave the boys stranded in the middle of Italy!”

  Finally she and the conductor compromised: The duke and the marquis could remain on the train, but only if they sat up in the first car by the driver’s compartment with Madame Alain and Grandmère.

  Grandmère said this was more of a punishment for her than the boys, but finally agreed.

  The boys looked very sad sitting up there—Grandmère wouldn’t let them play video games or text on their phones.

  But who
cares about them? Because now we’re in Stockerdörfl! Which I have to say is living up to everything Prince Gunther has ever said about it. It really is a winter wonderland—a tiny medieval village tucked among the towering, snowy Alps. I guess in olden times, Prince Gunther’s ancestors mined silver and copper from the mountains.

  “But when the precious metals ran out,” he told us proudly on the bus we took from the train to our hotel, “my great-great-great-grandfather Lapsburg von Stuben had the good idea to host a ski race for all the royals in Europe. And that is how Stockerdörfl’s reputation as the perfect place for ski vacations was born!”

  I can see why Prince Gunther is so fond of his little town. It is very charming—even to someone like me, who can’t ski.

  And the place we are staying is one of the fanciest hotels I’ve ever been in … and I’ve stayed at the Plaza Hotel in New York City! It is called Eis Schloss. Schloss means castle or manor house. Eis means ice. Eis Schloss means Ice Castle (I guess).

  Eis Schloss has:

  • Two massive swimming pools (one indoor, one outdoor, both heated)

  • Its own ski slopes (with lifts!)

  • Ice-skating, sledding, and tubing

  • Spa lounge and restaurant

  • Fitness gym and studios

  • Sauna with views of the mountains

  • Steam bath with direct access to plunge pool

  • Multiple restaurants and tea lounges

  • Dog run for pets

  I really think I’m going to like it here.

  The only problem with it is that we have to share it with the other schools that are coming here for the Winter Games. We saw one of them—The Royal Academy in Switzerland—as we were checking in.

  Now I understand why Grandmère wanted us to wear our uniforms on the train in order to intimidate them. The students from TRAIS looked much more professional in their red-and-white parkas and matching red-and-white snow pants than we did in our street clothes.

  Not only that, but they were all much taller—and more muscular—than we are. I don’t know what the Swiss put in their food, but whatever it is, it seems to build much larger athletes than we’re building in Genovia.

  I didn’t want to say anything to discourage our athletes, but judging on looks alone—and the way the TRAIS athletes lifted their noses at us in the lobby as they marched by—I’m pretty sure we’re going to get creamed.

  Oh well. At least our rooms—I’m sharing one with Nadia and Princess Komiko, since part of the Royal School Winter Games experience is learning how to get along with others—are nice. We even have our own coffeemaker (not that I drink coffee, but I’ve decided that I might start, since the coffeemaker comes with many fun differently flavored coffee packets, like Chocolate Mint and Toffee Mocha Dream).

  We have to change for dinner now, which we’re having in one of the Eis Schloss restaurants—the fondue one.

  That’s right: FONDUE.

  I’ve never had fondue before. And I’ve certainly never had fondue in the Alps before.

  I wanted to ask Prince Khalil if he’d ever had cheesecake dipped in chocolate fondue before (supposedly a delicacy).

  But when I called his name, he was too busy talking to the rest of the hockey team to pay any attention.

  It’s true he was sitting kind of far away and things on the bus were very loud and maybe (like Princess Komiko has assured me) he didn’t hear me calling his name.

  But I think it’s more possible that Prince Khalil is avoiding me now. Did he notice me taking a photo of him when he was shirtless on the train platform? If so, it’s only natural that he’d be disgusted and want to avoid me. He doesn’t know that it’s only because I lost a bet.

  This is why gambling is frowned upon and also illegal in many parts of the world.

  And even if he doesn’t know, the fact that my grandmother forced him to take the duke’s shirt (although he could always give it back when Grandmère isn’t looking. It’s not like he HAS to keep it. So long as the duke doesn’t wear it around Grandmère, it’s fine) is probably reason enough to make him want to stay away from me.

  Then again, what do I even care? Unlike Nishi, I’m not boy crazy. So if Prince Khalil doesn’t like me anymore, it doesn’t matter to me.

  Except that it does … it does matter! Because I really do like Prince Khalil (as a friend), and I want him to like me.

  I think that’s part of my problem: I want everyone to like me! It’s one of my worst qualities. I told my sister about it once, and she says she understands, because she feels the same way.

  “If I give a speech to one hundred people,” Mia said, “and ninety-nine of them say they loved the speech, but one person says he doesn’t, all I can focus on is the one person who hated it. That’s human nature, Olivia. We’re all that way. We want everyone to love us. But that’s impossible. We can’t make everyone happy all the time. And the fact is, if we are making everyone happy all the time, we’re probably not doing our jobs right. Because at some point, someone isn’t going to get what they want. Someone has to lose.”

  Oh well. I have more important things to worry about right now than whether or not Prince Khalil likes me …

  … such as the fact that Luisa and Victorine have the room right across the hall, and Victorine is banging on our door, making Snowball bark.

  What could be wrong now?

  Wednesday, November 25

  8:30 P.M.

  La Fondue Stockerdörfl, Austria

  DRAMA!

  Luisa and Prince Gunther have had another one of their fights!

  (Even though, according to the note Luisa gave me just yesterday, they “never fight” and are “totally and completely in love” in a way that I am too immature to understand.)

  I don’t know where they found the time to have a fight between our getting off the bus, checking into our hotel rooms, and getting ready for dinner.

  But that’s what Victorine was pounding on our door about.

  “Luisa’s in our room crying,” Victorine said, looking upset. “She says Prince Gunther has broken her heart.”

  “What?” Nadia could hardly contain her glee. She loves gossip, and also anything to do with drama. I think this is left over from her being an actress and working on the soap opera back in her home country. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Victorine said. “But I need your help. She can’t go down to dinner crying like this. People will think there’s something really wrong with her, and then they’ll stare at us and come over and ask questions like Is there anything we can do for you, little girl? But we can’t leave her alone, either, because she’s threatening to do something to herself.”

  “Like what?” Nadia asked, her eyes nearly bursting out of her head.

  “Like dye a purple streak in her hair.”

  Nadia looked disappointed. “Is that all?”

  “Really,” Princess Komiko said, “that’s not so bad.” She pointed at the purple streak in her own hair, which was a clip-on since she said her parents would kill her if she dyed her hair. “It might look good.”

  “I agree,” I said. “Why can’t we let her?”

  “Because she isn’t a Borette, like me,” Victorine declared. Many fans of the rock singer Boris P have multicolored streaks in their hair. “Or a royal back in her home country, like Princess Komiko. Luisa could never pull it off. She doesn’t have the confidence or the wardrobe. All of her clothes are designer.”

  Victorine was right. Luisa was probably only threatening to dye her hair to get attention, not because she really wanted a purple streak.

  “Whatever we do, let’s do it soon,” Victorine said. “I’m starving.”

  I admired Victorine for being both compassionate and practical. Also, I was starving, too. It had been a long time since our savory and sweet snacks on the train (although I’d had four of them).

  “Right,” I said. “Let’s go talk to her.”

  So we all piled into Victorine and Luisa�
�s room, which was exactly like ours, except that it had one empty bed, where Marguerite would have slept if she hadn’t come down with La Grippe.

  Luisa looked great for someone who claimed her heart was broken. She’d changed into the clothes she was going to wear for dinner—Claudio jeans and a shimmery off-the-shoulder sweater, as well as faux-fur-lined boots—and her hair and makeup were perfectly in place. She simply couldn’t seem to get up off the bed, across which she was sprawled, crying (although without any tears, I noticed, which was an impressive skill).

  “H-he doesn’t understand my needs,” she sobbed as we all clustered around her and patted her on the back. “I texted that I need us to spend more time together, but he texted back that he had to stay with his parents, but that he’d see me at dinner.”

  “Well,” I said, “Prince Gunther’s parents do live in Stockerdörfl. They’re hosting this whole event, and paying for a lot of it. So it sort of makes sense he’d be staying with them rather than here at the hotel.”

  “But how can they be more important to him than me?” Luisa raised her not-tearstained face to ask.

  This was a hard question to answer. Should a boy’s parents be more important to him than his girlfriend? I looked at Princess Komiko to see if she knew, but she only shrugged and fiddled around with the purple hooves of her unicorn backpack.

  Nadia coughed. “In the soap opera that I worked on, there was a teenage boy character who had to be very kind to his father—even though he was an evil man with a weather-controlling machine—because if he wasn’t kind to him, his father’s secret assassins would have killed his girlfriend. And his mother and sisters. So maybe that’s how it is with Prince Gunther’s father.”

  Luisa blinked. “Do you think that’s true?”

  “Oh, yes,” Nadia said, nodding. “Probably.”