Royal Crown

by Meg Cabot

  “Exactly.” Nishi brushed her long hair from her eyes. “What do you think Chef Bernard has made for breakfast? Chocolate croissants, I hope.”

  “I should just text Prince Khalil,” I said, “and ask him, shouldn’t I? I mean, if he really said that thing about breaking up with me. Not that we’re going out. We’re just friends, really.”

  “No!” Nishi was on her feet. She snatched my phone away from me. “Don’t do that! Don’t dignify anything that cousin of yours says with a response. Why are you even talking to her? Torturing you is what she lives for.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m glad you’re finally starting to notice. But I should text him anyway just to say good morning.”

  “Do you normally text him just to say good morning?”

  “Well,” I said. “No.”

  “Then why would you start now? Let him text you.”

  This made no sense to me. “Why?”

  “Because it never hurts to let a boy wait.” Nishi put my cell phone down her pants.

  “Um, Nishi,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that was a sexist statement. Also, what you just did is completely unhygienic. May I have my phone back?”

  “Not right now. Too much screen time is bad for you. Let’s go eat breakfast.”

  I decided not to argue with her. Nishi’s been going out with Dylan longer than I’ve been going out with Prince Khalil, so she probably knows what she’s doing.

  Except the part where Dylan is a cheater and her parents hate him so much they took away her cell phone so she couldn’t talk to him. Maybe Nishi doesn’t know what she’s doing.

  Ugh.

  Wednesday, December 30

  Noon

  Royal Media Room

  We barely got two feet from my bedroom door before practically tripping over Prince Morgan. He was waiting in the hallway for us! Literally, he was sitting in the hall across from my bedroom door, playing video games on his phone.

  “Excuse me, Your Highness and Miss Desai,” Prince Morgan said very politely, climbing quickly to his feet. “I wanted to ask … uh … would you mind babysitting me again today?”

  He wasn’t alone, either. Guess who was with him?

  “I bwush?” Purple Iris held up her tiny baby brush. “I pay wif big kids? I bwush?”

  “NO!” I practically yelled, and tried to escape as quickly as possible by climbing onto the banister of the Grand Staircase (to slide down it, a technique Rocky and I have perfected over the months that we’ve lived here).

  Unfortunately, Nishi stopped me.

  “Hang on, Olivia,” she whispered. “What would your grandmother say if we ignored this amazing business opportunity?”

  “That we were doing the right thing,” I said. “It’s as important to protect your mental health as it is your physical health.” This is the excuse Grandmère often gives for why she has to leave the palace whenever Helen Thermopolis’s parents come to visit from Indiana.

  “No,” Nishi said. “I think we need to pursue this journey to its exciting and final conclusion.”

  “Where did you get that line?” I asked her. “The Bachelor?”

  “No,” she said. “Well, maybe.”

  “You only want to do it for the money,” I said, careful to whisper so that the prince wouldn’t overhear me. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

  “Well, of course, Olivia,” Nishi whispered back. “But also because it’s the right thing to do. And isn’t that what you’re always saying you want to do—the right thing?”

  It was true … I did always want to do the right thing. And it was also true that before he’d met us, Prince Morgan had rarely—if ever—interacted with kids his own age, only his phone and his parents and his tutors … not to mention whoever made his butterscotch sundaes. We’d introduced a whole new world to him! That had to have been a good thing.

  I glanced at the kid, who was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, staring at us eagerly.

  “I bwush,” Purple Iris said hopefully, holding up her brush. “I pay wif big kids?”

  “Okay,” I said to Prince Morgan and Purple Iris. “We’ll babysit you again today. Come on. We’re going down to the kitchens to see what’s for breakfast.”

  Prince Morgan’s face lit up.

  “Do you think Prince Gunther could come over again, too?” he asked. “I know we can’t play water polo, since it’s raining. But perhaps we could do something else? Anything else.”

  “Uh,” I said, exchanging an amused glance with Nishi. “Sure. We could invite Prince Gunther over again.”

  Prince Gunther would love it.

  “And maybe we could invite Prince Khalil, as well,” I said. “You liked him, didn’t you, Prince Mor—OW!”

  The “ow” was because Nishi had stepped on my foot, and given me a warning glance. “Prince Khalil can come over anytime he wants,” she said. “But he has to text first. That’s how these things work.”

  Wow. I didn’t know all these rules about dating. I thought anyone could text first. It’s no wonder Prince Khalil and I have never kissed.

  Now we’re all in the royal media room (well, all of us minus the babies and Prince Khalil—the babies because the nanny is back from her vacation today, and Prince Khalil because he still hasn’t texted), where we’re watching the unauthorized biopics of my sister, Mia’s, life (Nishi got them for me for Christmas, and is the one who insisted on watching them).

  The adults aren’t here, of course. For one thing, Mia doesn’t like the unauthorized movies based on her life (she says they are highly inaccurate), and for another, they’re all too busy strategizing about what to do if the decision from the Supreme Court goes the wrong way.

  I think Purple Iris is a little bored, but there are enough scenes in the movies with cats and dogs that she’s mostly behaving pretty well. I can sort of see what Mia means about the inaccuracies, because for some reason the filmmakers decided to include a lot of stuff about Fat Louie and Grandmère’s dog, Rommel.

  Only they didn’t cast animals that actually look like Fat Louie or Rommel. Possibly they couldn’t find a twenty-pound orange tabby cat that likes to eat socks, or a hairless miniature poodle.

  Midway through the last film, Grandmère came into the media room, curious about what we were doing.

  Then she saw what we were watching.

  “Oh,” she said. “My.”

  Grandmère has never been the biggest fan of the unauthorized biopics of Mia’s life, but since she likes the actress they cast to play her, she stuck around, commenting on the many inaccuracies in the writing, mainly her love life and Genovia’s location, which is erroneously stated as being situated between France and Spain. As every educated schoolchild knows, Genovia is between France and Italy.

  I kind of thought that I would have heard from Prince Khalil by now.

  I guess it’s not so weird that I haven’t, though. It’s not like we’ve ever texted each other every minute of the day. We live our own independent lives. We each have our own interests, after all. We’re not some crazy, mushy, married couple like Mia and Michael, who I sometimes see making out by the fountain at night, even though they have their own bedroom.

  The fact that Prince Khalil hasn’t called doesn’t in any way make what Luisa said true.

  Right?

  Right???

  Wednesday, December 30

  6:00 P.M.

  Royal Dining Room

  It’s six o’clock, and we still haven’t heard anything from the Genovian Supreme Court.

  I haven’t heard anything from Prince Khalil, either … at least according to Nishi, who is still holding my phone (though in her pocket, not her panties) to make sure I don’t call him.

  “It’s important not to appear needy,” she says.

  “I don’t think Princess Olivia could ever appear needy,” Prince Morgan says, coming to my defense. I’m really beginning to like this kid. He’s been growing on me more and more, especially since he let Purple Iris
brush his hair and “braid” it (which to her means put it in a butterfly clip). Prince Gunther let her do the same thing. They both look absolutely adorable.

  “I don’t know, Nishi,” I say. “I’m starting to think this whole not-letting-me-call-him thing is stupid, because playing games in relationships is childish. It’s like something my cousin Luisa would do.”

  “What would your cousin Luisa do?” Prince Gunther bounds up and asks. He has Purple Iris on his shoulders. She’s riding him like a pony. In fact, her nickname for him is “Pince Pony” (since she can’t say the word “prince”).

  “Nothing,” Nishi says quickly. “Just girl talk.”

  Prince Gunther frowns. “I hate that. Why does there have to be girl talk and boy talk? Why can’t all talk be for everyone?”

  I realize he has a point.

  “Yeah,” I say. “What about that? Why can’t all talk be for everyone?”

  “If all boys were as nice as Prince Gunther, that would be fine,” Nishi says. “But they aren’t.”

  Prince Gunther is so startled by this unexpected compliment that he stumbles, a bit like a pony that’s seen a snake (ponies are deathly afraid of snakes).

  Fortunately, Purple Iris, who is clinging to his hair, manages to hang on safely without falling off. “Whoa!” she cries. “Bad pony. Bad pony!”

  “You think I am nice?” Prince Gunther asks Nishi in an astonished voice once he’s recovered himself.

  “Well,” she says, blushing a little. “I mean … yes. Of course. A little.”

  “Only a little?” Prince Gunther asks teasingly.

  “Well,” Nishi says, lowering her eyelashes like one of her beloved Disney princesses. “Maybe more than a little…”

  I can’t believe this. Nishi is flirting with Prince Gunther … but she has a boyfriend back in New Jersey for whom she got her cell phone taken away! Nishi’s boyfriend, Dylan, is the whole reason we’re babysitting these little royals in the first place.

  Meanwhile, she still won’t give me back my phone.

  I was never sure her relationship with Dylan made her such an expert in the social sciences anyway, especially since he’s a cheater (on tests, anyway).

  But who even cares? Whether or not my friend-who-is-a-boy still likes me is hardly as important as who will one day rule the country in which I live.

  Guests have been arriving all day for tomorrow’s coronation, and may I say that it is a bit awkward that we still don’t know whether there’ll even be a ceremony for them to attend?

  But of course Mia keeps saying, “Everything is going to be fine, just fine!” and smiling and laughing.

  I know this is all a big act, however. Not only because as soon as the guests turn their backs as they’re led away to their rooms by the majordomo, Mia completely stops smiling, but also because Lilly told me a secret: when Mia is lying, her nostrils flare.

  I looked super close at Mia’s face, and it’s true: every time Mia says everything is going to be fine, her nostrils flare all over the place!

  My sister definitely doesn’t think everything is going to be fine … and I’m starting to agree. I could tell when Cousin René came to pick up Prince Morgan to take him out for dinner—we all agreed it probably wouldn’t be best for the Albertos to dine with us tonight. He had the biggest grin on his face. Things obviously went much better in court for Prince Morgan’s family than it did for mine!

  “Over my dead body will Prince Morgan be crowned ruler of Genovia!” Dad keeps saying.

  “Dad, honestly, I hung out with him all day today,” I say. “He’s a little spoiled, but not so bad.”

  “Not so bad?” Dad looks like he can hardly believe it. “Not so bad? Do you have any idea how much I’ve paid for all this, Olivia?”

  By “all this” he means everything tomorrow—including all the fireworks and the food at the post-coronation ball. It’s all being paid for out of our personal estate.

  “No Alberto is going to enjoy chrysanthemums or beef Wellington purchased with our money,” Dad says.

  Chrysanthemums are those type of fireworks that explode into great big, round balls of sparkly light. They look just like the flowers they’re named after. They’re basically the best fireworks, and they cost a lot.

  “Dad, remember your blood pressure,” Mia says.

  “And also what the royal physician said about eating too much salt,” says Helen.

  But it’s too late. Dad has already eaten around four bags of salt-and-vinegar chips (his favorite).

  I totally understand. Even though I don’t dislike Prince Morgan as much as I used to, I’ve eaten twenty-four Genovian macarons in assorted flavors. It’s hard not to eat when you’re—

  Wednesday, December 30

  10:00 P.M.

  Royal Bedroom

  I had to stop writing before because a royal courier walked in with a letter.

  EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT NOW!!!!!

  Not just because of the letter. I got a phone call, too!!!!!!

  But first, the letter:

  It had the wax seal of the Genovian Supreme Court on it. So I knew it could only be one thing … the ruling about whether Mia would be crowned tomorrow!

  I don’t know about anyone else, but I was practically holding my breath as I watched her break open the seal, then read what was written inside.

  “Well?” Dad asked anxiously. “What does it say?”

  A huge smile spread across Mia’s face. This time, her nostrils didn’t flare. “It says that the Renaldo family is the one and only true heir to the throne of Genovia.”

  Everyone in the room cheered—which of course woke the sleeping twins, who started to cry. But no one cared. Mia hugged Michael, who lifted her up and spun her around. Dad, seeing this, tried to do the same thing to Helen, but she cried for him not to, saying, “Your back! You’ll throw it out again, Phillipe.”

  But Dad didn’t care about his back any more than he cared about the crying babies. He swung Helen around anyway.

  Rocky whooped, gave me a high five, then a down low, and then a fist bump. Then he grabbed hands with me and Nishi and made a ring around Grandmère, pulling us around her, chanting, “We’re number one, we’re number one,” the way he does whenever his soccer team wins a game at school.

  I will admit, this was kind of fun.

  “Children, please,” Grandmère said. But I could tell from her smile that she was delighted. “You’re making me nauseous. And such flagrant displays of celebration are vulgar. Kindly remember that a good sport accepts both his wins and losses with grace.”

  “But Grandmère,” Rocky yelled, “we don’t have to move out of the palace!” which caused Grandmère’s smile to turn into a frown.

  “And what,” she said, “would have been so wrong with that? A great many people don’t live in palaces and are perfectly content. I believe you yourself spent most of your life living in a downtown New York City loft apartment. Were you unhappy then?”

  “No,” Rocky admitted, pretending that a bust of an ancient relative of ours was a basketball hoop and going for an imaginary jump shot. “But I didn’t have my own pool or billiards room.”

  “The mark of a truly royal person is one who can live happily without material things and still do good works for those less fortunate,” said Grandmère.

  Although I noticed Grandmère looked pretty relieved, probably because she doesn’t have to give up her chaise longue next to the pool, upon which she can be found most mornings, soaking up the Genovian sun.

  “I don’t understand,” Nishi said. “How could Prince Morgan’s family have lost the lawsuit? I thought his DNA was a ninety-nine-point-nine genetic match to Princess Rosagunde’s.”

  “It is, but that wasn’t the only parameter the court took into account while making their ruling,” Lilly said. She was looking over the letter that the court had sent over. “Royal succession has never been as simple or straightforward as inheritance based on blood.”

  “Absolute
ly,” Grandmère said with a nod. “How could the courts overlook the fact that Renaldos have been toiling for centuries to insure that Genovia is one of the best places on earth to live? That its roads and hospitals and schools are the finest, that its people are well fed and cared for, and that its hotels and restaurants are rated the highest in the world on TripAdvisor?”

  “Well, that,” Lilly said, “and the fact that Prince Morgan’s parents violated the law by breaking into the crypt of Princess Rosagunde and removing her DNA without state permission.”

  My jaw dropped when I heard this. “They did?”

  “Shocking but true,” Mia said, as she fussed over the babies to get them back to sleep. “I’m quite certain Cousin René defiling one of our most sacred and historic landmarks didn’t help his claim with the court that he would be the best ruler of Genovia.”

  I shook my head. I was glad we had won the lawsuit, but all I could think about was poor Prince Morgan.

  “Will Cousin René go to jail?” I asked.

  “Unlikely,” Lilly said. As a lawyer, she would know. “But he’ll probably have to pay a fine for desecrating a national monument—and a princess’s final resting place.”

  Before I had a chance to think about how truly awful it was that Prince Morgan’s dad had broken into a grave to steal a princess’s DNA in an attempt to make his son the ruler of Genovia, Nishi raced up to me and held out my phone.

  “It’s him,” she said breathlessly.

  It may sound stupid, but my heart skipped a beat when she held up my phone and the screen was flashing PRINCE KHALIL. Accept? Decline?

  He’d called. HE’D FINALLY CALLED.

  Of course I hit accept and then ran out the French doors into the garden so I could have some privacy, and also so that I could hear him, because the babies were crying again.

  “Hello?”

  “Olivia?” His voice sounded amazing, as nice and friendly as always, and not at all like he hated me. “Hi, it’s me. I just heard about the ruling. Congratulations!”