by Meg Cabot
This isn’t unusual. Whenever Lilly is in town and Lars has a day off, the two of them go off somewhere. Nishi thinks they are having a love affair, but Nishi thinks that about everyone.
I think it is more likely that Lars is showing Lilly the lovely Genovian countryside.
• And the rest of the palace staff was running around, trying to get everything ready for my party.
Fortunately Chef Bernard had recovered from his bout of La Grippe in time for my birthday, and had left some breakfast for me (my favorite, chocolate croissants). I took the plate and headed out to the pool, where I found Grandmère sunbathing in her pajamas.
“Hi, Grandmère,” I said, sitting on a chaise longue beside her.
“Well, good morning, darling,” she said, lowering her sunglasses so she could get a proper look at me. “Happy birthday.”
“Thanks. Grandmère, why are you still dressed in your pajamas?”
“Oh, Dr. Khan was here and said that while I don’t have La Grippe, I do have a slight cold—no doubt from having spent so many hours in the company of that odious young duke, who does not seem like the healthiest fellow—and advised that I rest and drink plenty of fluids before your ball tonight. Genovian sunshine always does me good after I’ve been away, so I’m absorbing some. And these are lounging pajamas, Olivia, not sleeping pajamas. I’m lounging. My question to you is, why are you not wearing your pajamas? It’s your birthday. You could wear pajamas all day if you wanted to.”
“Thanks, but I don’t want to.”
“Suit yourself. But I think the benefits of lounging will grow on you as you get older.”
I put my plate of chocolate croissants aside so that Snowball couldn’t get at them and stretched out on the chaise longue.
“Maybe,” I said. “But the truth is, I’m a whole year older today, and I feel exactly the same as I did yesterday.”
Grandmère sighed. “Get used to it. Aside from a more frequent desire to lounge, I don’t feel a day older than I did when I was your age.”
This caused me to sit up and stare at her in surprise. “Really? You still feel thirteen? But you’ve done so much with your life!”
“Yes, I have,” Grandmère said, turning her face back toward the sun—though of course her skin was well shielded from its rays by an enormous floppy hat. “But that doesn’t mean I feel any differently. When I was thirteen, I was certain I knew everything in the world there was to know.”
“And?” I asked eagerly. “Did you?”
She laughed. Well, not so much laughed as cackled. “Oh, yes, my dear. Absolutely.”
I sighed with envy.
I’ve only been thirteen for less than twelve hours (four if you count the fact that I was born at eight in the morning) and I feel like I know less than I did when I was twelve, thanks to Prince Khalil’s letter.
Saturday, November 28
4:00 P.M.
Royal Genovian Bedroom
Olivia’s Thirteenth Birthday Gift List
(Don’t forget to write thank-you notes!):
Aunt Lilly gave me an official New York City Statue of Liberty pen (because I’m always writing in notebooks, she said) AND my very own giant Toblerone chocolate bar.
(Later, I overheard her brother, Michael, accusing her of having given me things she bought at a JFK airport gift shop on her way to Genovia. Lilly said, “So what? She likes them, doesn’t she?” which is true, so I don’t see what the problem is.)
Michael and Mia got me my first pair of skis, including a gift certificate for ski boots (you can’t buy ski boots for someone. They have to go to the store and try them on, to make sure they fit).
This is a very excellent present, considering I really like skiing. Although I’ve only done it once. Still, skiing is much more fun than salmon fishing in Iceland.
The twins got me a new iPod (because I dropped my last one in the waves at the beach), fully loaded with all my favorite singer-songwriters, as well as a box of hand-dipped Genovian truffles, with assorted flavors inside.
Rocky got me a gigantic purple bean-bag chair for my room, big enough to fit two adults, let alone kids.
I’m pretty sure he got me this because he likes coming into my room and hanging out, and this is what he’d like to sit in.
But that’s okay. It’s still cool.
Paolo got me the complete line of Principessa lip and nail colors (which is interesting because he designed it, so I know he got it for free) and said I was going to have to be extra careful now about my facial cleansing routine in order to avoid breakouts since I’m officially a teen. Thanks for the reminder!
Francesca got me a fancy alarm clock. I feel as if she is trying to say something with this gift—like that I’m old enough now not to need a wardrobe consultant to wake me. I hope this isn’t true. I enjoy having Francesca wake me up. It is nice to see her bright mauve lipstick first thing every morning.
Serena bought me giant bags of the sweet and savory snacks from the train, because she says if I like sweet and savory so much, I should have them every day.
Serena just gets me.
Dad and Helen got me a sterling silver retractable table tennis net. It looks like a pen and fits in your pocket, but when you take it out and push a button—voilà! It’s a standard-issue table tennis net that you can attach to just about any surface to turn that surface into a tennis table. All you need after that is a couple of paddles and a ball, and you’re playing.
Dad also included a platinum charm bracelet with charms of paddles, balls, a pony that looks like Chrissy, a miniature poodle that looks like Snowball, a tiara, a pen, an artist’s palette, and a diamond-encrusted outline of the country of Genovia, because Dad can’t do anything small.
But that’s why we love him.
Nishi got me the complete collection of my sister’s unauthorized biographies. “Don’t tell her!” Nishi said. “I’m sure she won’t want you to read them.”
I have hidden them under my bed. I probably won’t read them, since I know Mia wouldn’t want me to. But I might sneak a peek at some of the Michael stuff later. Nishi says it’s hilarious.
She still expects me to send a shirtless photo of Prince Khalil, smiling in front of a sunset, or I’ll forever be a “bet squelcher.” I have no idea how I’m supposed to capture this image.
I didn’t tell her about Prince Khalil’s letter. I don’t know why. It just feels too … private, in a way.
Maybe I really am growing up.
The weirdest present I got is the one from Prince Gunther’s parents, which they’d told me not to open until my birthday. It turns out not to be a key to Stockerdörfl:
It’s a beautiful gold-link chain with a jewel-encrusted heart pendant hanging from it.
“Oh, my,” Mia said when I opened the box at the table.
After I lounged around the pool for most of the day, we all got together for a late birthday lunch in the garden, since we knew when everyone started arriving for my ball, we probably wouldn’t be seeing much of each other.
Mia said she’d only be putting in a token appearance because of wanting to keep the babies away from any potential sources of La Grippe contagion. Grandmère said she was going to lock herself in her bedroom for the duration of the party. “I cannot face the Twelfth Duke of Marborough again so soon after having spent five hours on a train with him yesterday,” she said. “I fear I will do him physical harm.”
When Grandmère saw the necklace from Prince Gunther’s parents, she said, “Well. You do seem to have made quite an impression on that boy’s family. Are those diamonds?”
I looked more closely at the pendant. “Yes. I think so.”
“Good heavens.” Mia took the necklace from me. “I don’t know if it’s all right for you to accept such an expensive gift from someone who is not a family member, Olivia. What do you think, Dad?”
Dad looked confused. “It’s a necklace. The Lapsburg von Stubens like her. So what?”
Grandmère rolled her eye
s. “The father is always the last to see.”
Both Michael and my dad looked up at that. “See what?” they asked.
“That it’s a little like a bribe,” Mia said. “To date their son.”
“WHAT!” I nearly dropped the necklace into my birthday cake (we were having two. One just for family, and another that would be brought out at my birthday ball, for guests. Chef Bernard had worked overtime to make both, and had apparently been driving the kitchen staff crazy to get them finished). “No! No, it’s not! Prince Gunther doesn’t think of me in that way!”
Mia, Grandmère, and even Helen and Lilly and one of the footmen looked at me with sympathetic expressions on their faces, while Michael, Rocky, and Dad just looked shocked.
“I think we’ll put this away,” Dad said, taking the necklace from Mia and slipping it into his pocket, “until you’re a little older, Olivia.”
“What?” I cried. “Why? I swear, Prince Gunther doesn’t like me in that way!”
“You’ll still have to write a thank-you note for it,” Mia went on, gently rocking the babies.
“WHAT?” I said again. “What is happening?”
“Never mind, dear,” Grandmère said. “Someday you’ll understand. Until then, I have another necklace you can wear tonight. You can have it today as my birthday present to you.”
And after lunch, Grandmère did give it to me—I’m wearing it now: a diamond pendant shaped like a heart, on a platinum chain, a little like the one in the movie Titanic (which Mia and I also watched together this summer), only not as big, of course.
“There,” Grandmère said as she put it around my neck. “That looks beautiful—much better on you than it does on me at my age … though of course I think a woman can get away with wearing anything she wants at any age—except of course sleeveless leotards—so long as she wears it with confidence.”
I fingered the diamond heart. It wasn’t a pendant made of diamonds—it was a huge diamond cut into the shape of a heart.
“Thanks, Grandmère. Where did you get it?”
“Your grandfather gave it to me shortly before we were married, when there was a contretemps with a certain baron we both knew. It is better not to speak of it. Suffice it to say, your grandfather wanted to be assured of my affections, and he felt the quickest way to my heart was with a heart … a diamond one. Which is nonsense, of course. The quickest way to anyone’s heart is by getting to know what is in their heart. Now, go and prepare for your party. I have the feeling it’s going to be quite interesting.”
I do, too. But probably not for the same reasons as Grandmère.
Sunday, November 29
2:00 A.M.
Royal Genovian Bedroom
This went from being the worst birthday I ever had to the best to the worst … to the best … to the …
I don’t even know! Because it’s still happening!
The only way I’m going to figure it out is if I write it down. Because then maybe my head will stop buzzing and my fingers will stop shaking and my heart will stop pounding …
Or not.
But more than anything what I felt all day today was super nervous to see Prince Khalil.
Which is silly, because I’d never been nervous to see him before. Why now, just because he’d written me a letter saying he thought I was the coolest girl he’d ever met and wanted to get to know me better?
Well. I guess I know why. I could fool the people around me, but I couldn’t fool myself:
Because I liked him, too. And not as a friend, either. Why else had I gotten so upset when I’d learned that he’d sent me that letter, and I hadn’t seen it for a whole week, and had left him hanging with no reply?
If I didn’t like him—really like him—I wouldn’t have cared.
No, Luisa had been right all along—and that was another reason I was so mad at her:
I had a crush on Prince Khalil.
And finding out that he liked me back—maybe even had a crush on me, too—was the best birthday present I could have ever had.
If he still liked me.
There was only one way to find out—not including texting him to ask, which I had to agree with Grandmère seemed like a cheesy, nonprincessy thing to do. Ten-year-old girls slip boys notes—or texts—asking if he likes her.
Thirteen-year-old princesses ask in person.
So that’s what I was going to do.
I was so nervous, I thought I might actually throw up all the Toblerone and sweet and savory snacks I’d eaten all day.
Paolo was still screwing around with my hair when guests started arriving for the ball. But it was worth it, because when he was done, he and Francesca looked at me and said, “Bellissima!”
I know they weren’t lying to make me feel better. I did look beautiful, and it is not bragging to say that. Partly it was the way he’d done my hair—in curly tendrils on top of my head—and partly it was the dress—made by my cousin Sebastiano. It was purple (my favorite color), with crystals on top and a full length, floaty skirt on the bottom, with more crystals on the bottom.
I really did look bellissima.
When I walked out into the hallway where Dad was waiting, checking his watch and shouting at the door every two minutes (“Olivia, I know you don’t care, but I do actually want to walk you down the stairs while you are still thirteen!”), he agreed.
“Now THAT was worth waiting for,” he said.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “You look good, too.”
He did, too, with his shiny bald head and black tuxedo jacket with tails. He gave me his arm and led me proudly to the Grand Royal Staircase, where Helen, Mia, Michael, Lilly, Rocky, and even Grandmère (in a lavender evening gown, with Rommel wearing a matching feather boa) were all waiting.
“Oh, Olivia, you look beautiful,” Mia said, while Michael took about a million photos with his new computer watch.
I tried to get them to stop fussing, since I could see everyone in the Great Hall down below, looking up at me. I’m grateful to have a family (at last) that loves me.
But sometimes they still totally embarrass me.
“Turn to the left,” Lilly said, snapping a few of her own photos. “The portrait of that weird guy in the suit of armor is behind you.”
“Oh, yes,” Grandmère said, glancing at Lilly’s screen. “Prince Reginald. Such an unfortunate chin. Phillipe, do steer her a little to the left.”
“No,” I said, through gritted teeth. “It’s my party. We’re going now.”
I couldn’t tell if Prince Khalil was in that crowd below—there were too many young men wearing tuxedoes to tell them apart from the top of the staircase.
But as Dad led me down the Grand Royal Staircase, I said a quick little prayer that he’d shown up. Just because he’d RSVP’d didn’t mean anything. Lots of people RSVP these days—Chef Bernard is always complaining—and then don’t show up (or don’t RSVP, and do show up), leaving the kitchen with an uneven plate count.
Down Dad and I went, to where everyone was waiting.
“I love your dress,” gushed all the girls (well, most of them. Luisa made a point of saying, “Oh, is that another Sebastiano? It figures.”).
“Where’s the food?” asked all the boys (not Prince Khalil. I did not see him. Yet).
There was plenty of food. Chef Bernard need not have worried. He had totally outdone himself and made all my favorites (despite Grandmère’s objections that there was nothing “healthy” on the menu), including: cheeseburger sliders; multiple types of pizza; Genovian fruit, veggie, tofu (for the vegans), and cheese platters; roll-ups and spirals; chicken wings; cones of fries; nachos; popcorn with every imaginable topping; an ice-cream sundae bar; and of course, birthday cake and a chocolate fountain with everything from marshmallows to miniature cheesecakes to dip in it (I really hoped Prince Khalil noticed the last bit).
Soon people were gorging themselves and dancing by the pool and in the ballroom (we’d opened all the French doors so you could wander
in and out).
Dad and Helen’s surprise turned out to be none other than Boris P and his band. The place they’d disappeared to with Rocky in the morning was the Genovian airport, where they’d met Boris, his band, and his girlfriend, Tina Hakim Baba. They’d flown in on Boris P’s private plane.
And yes, I know he’s a worldwide superstar, and I should be very grateful and honored that he’s come to Genovia TWICE in the past year to play at the palace.
But he’s not MY favorite. I really should let people know that I’m not a Borette.
But whatever. Victorine (and Marguerite, who’d recovered enough from La Grippe to be officially noncontagious and attend the ball) and everyone else was over the MOON when they found out Boris P was the musical entertainment.
And Mia was excited to have her friend Tina Hakim Baba visiting. Tina was ecstatic to see the babies, who really are looking cuter and cuter every day, even if the public (and Grandmère) aren’t completely thrilled with their names (most people seem to like Elizabeth, but a national poll found that 68 percent think that “Prince Frank” isn’t very royal).
“Prince Francesco I could understand,” I overheard Grandmère saying. “Even Prince Francis would be passable. But Frank? Prince Frank? I’ve never heard a less royal name in all my life.”
Fortunately Rocky was busy at the chocolate fountain when Grandmère said this.
Anyway, I did not mean to look as if I weren’t enjoying myself at my own party. If I did, it wasn’t because of Grandmère’s complaining … and it definitely wasn’t because of Boris P.
It was because I finally spied Prince Khalil through the throng of people in the ballroom—I’d invited everyone who attends the Royal Genovian Academy, practically, except the kindergartners and first graders, because let’s face it, I did not want a bunch of babies at my party—and he did not come near me.
At all.
Who could blame him, really? If I had sent a letter like that to him, and HE had not responded in a week, I would not have come near him, either. I would probably not even have come to his party.