by Meg Cabot
But in my dad’s case, it’s true. Growing up all his life in a palace, he really doesn’t know. I think it’s another reason he probably found my mom—and Olivia’s mom—so appealing.
“Fine,” I said, feeling a little sorry for him. “Cheesy bread it is.”
I figured cheesy bread might actually do him some good (it turns out he hadn’t eaten solid food in days, maybe since before his arrest, he’d been freaking out so much over everything that’s been going on—and of course is freaking out even more now that I’d told him he actually needed to do something about Olivia), so this explained a lot about his current behavior, especially the mustache.
So I ordered some . . . which meant I also had to order some for the RGG and the paparazzi stationed outside.
But whatever. The more cheesy bread, the merrier.
Oh, God, I certainly hope this doesn’t become the legacy for which I, Princess Mia of Genovia, am remembered.
CHAPTER 43
9:55 p.m., Tuesday, May 5
Third-Floor Apartment
Consulate General of Genovia
Rate the Royals Rating: 7
Dad ate like one of those starving children you always hear about on the news who somehow get separated from the rest of their families and have to spend a few nights wandering around the woods alone, subsisting on nothing but acorns and snow, and then someone finds them running down the highway days later in nothing but a diaper and it always turns out they’re from Indiana and you go, “Uh-huh, I knew it.”
Then he dozed off on the couch while watching a home renovation show on HGTV. I wanted to avoid anything too stressful, such as the news or any Law & Order reruns that might remind him of his arrest, and of course the election and how horrible he looks without his mustache.
He chose a show where a couple is given a choice of either “loving” their newly renovated home, or “listing” it for sale and buying another. He couldn’t stay awake long enough to find out what decision they made (they listed it).
When I was sure he was really asleep, I put a blanket over him (given to me as a birthday present by the Queen of Denmark), which only acted as a magnet for Fat Louie to jump back on top of him and curl up on his chest . . . but even that extra twenty pounds didn’t wake him up. Maybe his crying jag (or the cheesy bread) had been cathartic.
I just texted a photo of the two of them (Dad and cat) to Michael, along with this message:
Hi, hope you’re having fun telling the doctors about your robot legs. You might want to make other plans for later tonight since I don’t know how interested you’re going to be in coming over for volcano time with THIS on my couch. XOXO
Michael texted back:
Why have you left me for a middle-aged band teacher? ;-)
I understand. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.
He signed off with an emoji of a melting snowman.
Poor Michael. Since getting engaged to me, he’s:
1. Had the fact that he was getting married announced to his parents over the radio.
2. Had the small, family-and-friends-only beach wedding we planned turned into a monster affair that will be internationally televised and at which there apparently won’t be mini grilled cheese sandwiches or a mashed potato or a build-your-own taco bar.
3. Lost his apartment to news vans and paparazzi and been forced to live out of a hotel.
4. Discovered his future father-in-law has a secret younger daughter.
As much as I adore Michael and think he’s the type who can weather any storm, I don’t know how much more he can take.
I don’t know how much more I can take either.
After I texted Michael, I texted his sister:
HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”>
What are you doing?
What am I always doing lately? Memorizing the black letter rules. Thanks for having your wedding a week before New York State holds its bar exam in July, by the way. That is not at all inconvenient for me, nor is it freaking me out in any way.
Sorry, it wasn’t my decision. So, has anyone told you the one about the princess who turns out to have a long-lost sister living in New Jersey?
I am coming over RIGHT NOW.
You can’t.
I sent her the photo I’d texted Michael.
Why is there a dentist from Scottsdale, Arizona, sleeping on your couch?
He shaved. He’s upset that I found out about that thing I mentioned, and is basically having a midlife crisis.
Give me the 411 about that thing you mentioned and I’ll LexisNexis her.
English, please.
God, you are such a princess. It’s the database we use to access legal and business documents online. I just need her name and city of birth.
A “dossier” on her was already prepared by the RGG.
And I’m sure Grandma’s dossier was very thorough. Now it’s time to let Big Lilly take charge.
Lilly, the RGG is a military organization that has been in existence since the 1200s.
Oh, yeah, and they’ve done a great job catching your stalker.
Fine. Olivia Grace Clarisse Mignonette Harrison, Cranbrook, NJ.
Delete this message.
Done. One moment please while I research. Here is some soothing music for while you wait. “A Million Stars” by Boris P.
Not funny.
Quiet please, processing.
You know Tina is still in love with him.
HA! She would be.
She doesn’t have a heart made of stone like you do.
THERMOPOLIS!! YOU WERE SERIOUS!!! YOU HAVE A $!$T5R!
Yes, I know, I just told you that.
Well, what are you going to do about it?
I don’t know.
GO GET HER, Liam Neeson in Taken style.
She’s only 12 and not in any known danger of being sold into sex slavery.
You need to get to know her and instruct her in the ways of the princess force.
That’s not a thing.
It is, actually, I’ve seen it in action. Also, she needs to be your flower girl at your wedding to my brother.
How do you even know what one of those is? I thought you hated weddings!
Only other people’s, not yours to my brother. Actually, she’s too old to be a flower girl.
Wait, how do you know how old flower girls are supposed to be?
Nothing. I don’t.
Lilly! Have you secretly been watching all those bride shows on the Learning Channel on Friday nights like the rest of us ?
No. Take me with you when you go to get her, though. I have a particular set of skills . . .
Are you drunk studying again?
. . . skills I have acquired over a very long career.
OK I’m going to bed now, I don’t have time for this.
Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you.
Lilly, this is serious.
I know. We’re seriously doing this tomorrow. I’ll clear my schedule.
Good night, Lilly.
;-)
Good night, POG.*
*Princess of Genovia. It’s been years and she still won’t stop calling me this. I’ve given up.
Even so, it’s nice to know that beneath that hard outer shell, she’s still got that sweet gooey middle. All the law school in the world can’t change that.
Three more things I’m grateful for:
1. My friends, who really are wonderful (even if they’re lunatics).
2. My dad (even though he can be a lunatic, too, at times).
3. Cheesy bread.
CHAPTER 44
9:05 a.m., Wednesday, May 6
Third-Floor Apartment
Consulate General of Genovia
Rate the Royals Rating: 7
Dad’s gone. He’s left Queen Margrethe’s blanket neatly folded on the end of the couch, along with a note. The note says:
Mia, thank you for the hospitality. Sorry abou
t my behavior last night. I don’t know what came over me. I feel much better today. Perhaps it was the cheesy bread.
In the light of day I feel that it is much better if we don’t pursue the subject we discussed last night. It is, after all, an election year, and that particular subject could hurt me in the polls. And as mentioned, I don’t know that I have the necessary qualifications for that particular position.
Then there’s always your wedding to think of. I don’t want such a happy occasion to be marred by foolishness from my past. So I think it’s best that, as soon as my legal entanglements are cleared up, I return to Genovia.
As for the other topic we discussed, on that I cannot budge. It’s the height of fiscal foolishness for you not to obtain a prenuptial agreement. You are the heiress to one of the largest fortunes in Europe, and it makes no sense for you to enter a marriage without some legal protection. Please reconsider.
Truthfully, Mia, I don’t think I’m the type to travel without following a map.
Sincerely,
Your father
Artur Christoff Phillipe Gérard Grimaldi Renaldo
Prince of Genovia
I can tell he means it, too, because he’s used all his names in the right order.
He’s also taken all the leftover cheesy bread with him.
Foolishness from my past? That’s how he’s chosen to refer to his own progeny?
Nice.
Well, if he thinks he’s going to intimidate me into backing down about Olivia—and the prenup—he’s wrong. I’m not giving up. I’m going to have a relationship with my little sister, and like Michael said about marrying me, it’s going to happen sooner rather than later.
Apparently not at this precise moment, however, because the deputy prime minister wants a conference call, and then after that—according to my itinerary, anyway—I have my first wedding-gown fitting.
Seriously. This is my life, as if things weren’t bad enough. Last night I dreamed that Bruce Willis took me to the ballet, and when, during intermission, he turned to ask me what I thought of the performance, I wasn’t wearing any clothes. I dreamed I went to the ballet naked with Bruce Willis.
In a way I almost wish RoyalRabbleRouser would try something—just a very minor assassination attempt (to get it over with so he could be arrested already; one that only slightly wounded me and of course didn’t hurt anyone else)—so I’d have to be hospitalized for a little while and not allowed any visitors. Then I could drink Sprite and watch the Food Network for a day or two and have total peace and quiet.
But I realize this is hardly a healthy fantasy.
Although certain reality stars seem to check themselves into the hospital quite a bit for “exhaustion.” An assassination attempt would be a legitimate excuse, at least.
CHAPTER 45
10:15 a.m., Wednesday, May 6
In the HELV on the way to Sebastiano’s
Rate the Royals Rating: 7
Just had the most disturbing conversation with Suzanne Dupris, the Genovian deputy prime minister (who said she’s been trying to reach Dad, but he won’t return her calls. Honestly! Is Dad so scared of women he can’t even return their business calls?).
Apparently they’ve run out of camp beds (and “sanitation stations,” which is the polite word for portable toilets) at the Port of Princess Clarisse for all the Qalifi refugees who’ve fled there.
Worse, several of the refugees’ TB tests have come back positive.
They’re being treated in the hospital, and are in good condition, but Cousin Ivan has lost no time using this as ammunition in his campaign. He is now declaring that Diversity = Disease.
Really! This is his new campaign slogan!
And some of our citizens seem to believe it, not understanding the basic facts that what actually causes disease is bacteria, or, put more plainly, overcrowding, poverty, lack of clean drinking water, and idiots like Cousin Ivan.
So Madame Dupris wants to discuss other “options” for dealing with the refugee crisis.
Meanwhile, Cousin Ivan has threatened to ask Parliament to raise Genovia’s “security threat level” to high, saying that the only reason the refugees want to come to Genovia at all is that they wish to attack us “with their germs.” He wants to ask Parliament to allow the Genovian Navy to use “aggressive military maneuvers to blow the incoming refugee boats out of the water.”
“Perhaps we should use the Genovian Navy’s aggressive military maneuvers to blow my cousin Ivan out of the water,” I said to Madame Dupris.
“I would love that,” she said with a sigh. “Perhaps they could also use it on the mega–cruise ships he wants to let in, too.”
If only.
I promised her I would find my dad, but that even if I couldn’t, I would get back to her with an answer by the end of the day (Genovian time). But that first—embarrassingly—I had to go try on wedding gowns.
“Ah,” she said. “Comme c’est romantique!”
Of course she’s never tried on wedding gowns with my grandmother in the room. There is nothing “romantique” about that.
CHAPTER 46
10:45 a.m., Wednesday, May 6
Dressing Room, Sebastiano’s Design Studio
Rate the Royals Rating: 7
Well, Tina got her wish. I did not get mine—of having Vera Wang as my wedding-gown designer—but I suppose I got the next best thing: my cousin Sebastiano. (No. This is not the next best thing. It is not even close. But Sebastiano is Genovian, and also family, and also free, so he is what I get.)
Tina’s here—along with Shameeka, Ling Su, Lana, Trisha, and my mom—to watch as I try on wedding gowns, and also to have their measurements taken for bridesmaid gowns, which Sebastiano will also be designing.
Apparently, this decision was unilaterally made by Grandmère. She had her assistant, Rolanda, send out invitations to all the women I mentioned on my list of potential bridesmaids, along with my mother. Only Perin did not accept, saying she could not attend, as she had to work—this was very smart of her. Lilly said she was going to be late (I shudder to think what that means).
When I walked in, I was shocked to see them all sitting on the slinky black leather couches Sebastiano has all over his studio, sipping mimosas.
“Surprise, bitch!” Lana said as my jaw dropped.
I was already having a bad day, but I wasn’t expecting things to go quite as badly as this.
“Wow,” I said, giving my mom a hug. “I’m so happy to see you guys . . . I guess. Are you drinking already?”
“Duh,” Lana said. “Didn’t you know you can’t try on wedding gowns sober?”
“I did not know that,” I said.
“It isn’t true,” Shameeka assured me.
“Don’t make her drink if she doesn’t want to, Lana,” my mom said in an icy tone. My mom has never been able to forget Lana’s mean-girl past.
“Yeah, I think I’ll pass,” I said, remembering that later I was going to have to make important decisions with Madame Dupris regarding the Qalifi refugees.
“Don’t be a twunt,” said Trisha, and handed me a champagne flute.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A twunt,” Trisha said cheerfully. “That’s a cross between a—”
“A lot of people don’t know the secret to a really good mimosa,” Lana interrupted. “It’s not just orange juice and champagne. You gotta put triple sec in there, too, to really bring out the flavor of the juice. I added vodka, too, for kick.”
She said this right after I’d taken a sip.
“Princessa!” Sebastiano hurried over to raise one of my hands and air-kiss it. “You are here at last! You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this day, all so that you can walk down the aisle in one of my gowns, like the princess bride you were born to be. I have so many designs for you to try. Almost ready, all of them, they just need for you to say sì and then I will put on the fin touch. So we try now, yes? What do you like best, the mer? Or the ball?”
“I don’t know, Seb,” I said to him. “To be honest, I don’t really care.”
“Don’t care?” Grandmère looked like she’d been hitting the mimosa (or screwdriver) bar pretty hard herself, especially since she’d brought Rommel along and he was running around loose, humping the legs of all the couches and anyone who’d stand still long enough to let him.
“Mia,” Tina said, sounding anxious. “You have to choose. It really matters.”
“Yeah.” Trisha looked appalled. “Don’t wear a sheath, like I did, that’s too tight. Then you can’t sit down, even in double Spanx. And trust me, it blows not to be able to sit down on your wedding day. Getting married is really tiring. There are so many people you have to snub by not smiling at them.”
Grandmère tipped her glass in Trisha’s direction in a silent little toast of approval.
“Mia will look great in whatever she wears,” Shameeka said generously. “It doesn’t matter.”