Royal Wedding: A Princess Diaries Novel (The Princess Diaries Book 11)

by Meg Cabot

  Because really, when your long-lost little sister is about to get beat up right in front of you on the playground, you have no choice but to come to her rescue. What else was I supposed to do? I don’t see how anyone can blame me.

  But of course with my possibly broken foot it was a bit hard to get out of the limo, especially given that my bodyguard is trained not only to keep me from being the victim of assassinations, but to keep me from preventing other people from being assassinated.

  “Princess,” Lars said, grabbing my arm as I dove for the closest door handle. “Really. You must allow me to—”

  “Lars, you already smashed the aunt against a wall. Let me take care of the niece.”

  “And end up with another broken foot?”

  “They’re children.”

  He pointed out that the girls on the popular television show Pretty Little Liars are children too, which revealed:

  • Lars watches Pretty Little Liars.

  • Human Rights Watch should probably be keeping an eye on public and private schools all over America because they seem to be breeding enough child murderers that several popular television shows have been based on the subject. There’s also one on Lifetime called Child Killers, not to mention MTV’s Teen Wolf and CW’s Vampire Diaries (although admittedly the latter two feature paranormal entities).

  Meanwhile, Tina was wailing, “There are parents everywhere. Why aren’t they doing anything to control their children?”

  It was true. All these moms in yoga pants and Tory Burch slides were chatting with one another while sipping lattes grandes, their gazes focused—I hate to admit—on the long black stretch limo with the tiny Genovian flags flying from it (why, oh, why didn’t I remove them when I first thought of it?), instead of what was happening beneath their noses.

  Now that I think back on it, only Lilly had the common sense to say, “Uh, Mia, do you really think you should go out there? If you do, someone’s going to snap a photo of it and post it to social media, and then the next thing you know, everyone in the whole world is going to know that—”

  But like a fool, I left the car without listening to the rest. Because by that time, the little blond girl had hold of my sister’s left braid, and there was no way I was going to stand for that kind of nonsense.

  I threw open my car door and came striding across the schoolyard, calling Olivia’s name. It took a minute for any of the children to notice me, because they were too busy chanting the words Fight, fight, fight.

  But one by one they all did, and when they did, they stopped what they were doing, including the blond girl, who released Olivia’s hair and stared at me, dumb-founded.

  It’s not every day, I suppose, that the Princess of Genovia gets out of a limo in front of your school.

  “Olivia?” I said, when I finally reached her.

  She stared up at me through the thick lenses of her glasses. It was pretty clear she, along with the little blond girl and most of the kids in the circle around them, knew who I was. I have to say, much as I complain about it, there are certain advantages sometimes to being royal.

  “Oh,” Olivia said in a very polite voice, releasing the front of the blond girl’s blouse and adjusting her now very messed up braid. “Hi. Yes, that’s me.”

  “Er,” I said.

  What do you say to your long lost sister upon meeting her for the first time?

  Suddenly I became aware of all the gazes—and cell phone camera lenses—that were suddenly upon us. It was only then that I realized Lilly was right: it had been a very bad idea for me to get out of the car. I should have sent Lilly to break up the fight. Or Tina. Tina knew much more about tween girls than any of us, and was also nearly a doctor, or had at least studied child psychology.

  “Hi,” I said, feeling a nervous sweat break out beneath my hairline, even though, for such a sunny day in May, it was not particularly warm. “I’m, uh, Mia Thermopolis.” I had never felt so uncomfortable saying my name in my entire life. “Your aunt Catherine said it would be all right for me to pick you up from school today.”

  The little girl eyed me dubiously through her glasses. I could see why she might find this entire scenario a little on the shady side.

  “Oh,” I said, suddenly remembering. “Here’s a note she signed, saying so.”

  I was glad Lilly had thought of this at the last minute, and asked Olivia’s aunt to sign it, as well. There are advantages to having a best friend who wants to be a lawyer, even one who wants to go into something as boring as contract law, though Lilly says contract law is not boring, but the backbone of all legal practice, the way mystery novels are the backbone of all literature. Murder breaks a contract with society, which only justice can set right again.

  “Would you like to come with me?” I asked as I handed Olivia the note.

  Olivia didn’t exactly jump at the chance to climb in the Princess of Genovia’s limo, even to get away from someone who was threatening to beat the crap out of her. Perhaps Olivia had not been in as dire circumstances as I’d thought. With dignified calm, she unfolded the note and read it carefully.

  There was complete silence from the kids all around us as she did this, although I could hear several of them breathing, including a few who tried to crowd close to read the note over Olivia’s shoulder (and mine—well, really my elbows, since the children were so short). I tried gently to shove them away, but they would not budge.

  Most children are lovely, but up close some of them are not at all tidy (I don’t mean my sister, of course).

  “Thank you,” Olivia said, gravely folding the note back up and tucking it into her backpack. “I’d like to go with you very much.”

  Scooooooooore!

  “Great!” I said, and snatched up her hand to turn around and walk back toward the limo before she could change her mind. By that time both Lars and Halim had caught up with me, and had squeezed through the crowd to flank us on either side, busily scanning the school yard for RoyalRabbleRouser or any other enemies of state who might have heard of my sudden arrival in Cranbrook and shown up to rid the world of me. “Let’s go.”

  I knew whatever I’d interrupted between her and the little blond girl had been mega-intense, but I wasn’t going to ask about it until we were safely inside the car and many miles away, if ever. The last thing I expected was the blond girl—who’d begun trailing after us, along with the rest of the kids—to do so.

  “Excuse me,” she said, in a high-pitched voice, “but is it true that you’re Olivia’s sister?”

  I was so shocked I nearly walked right into Lars, who was barking, “Make a hole!” at all the curious moms who’d gathered around to stare. How could this little girl possibly have found out such an intimate family secret? And so fast? Had Aunt Catherine been making calls, despite the nondisclosure agreement Lilly had made her sign? Is that what all those yoga-pant-wearing mothers were talking about with one another behind the lids of their lattes grandes? That I was related to one of their kids’ classmates?

  If so, I was completely canceling that check the minute we got into the car.

  “Uh,” I said, yanking on Olivia’s hand to quicken her pace. But of course I was the one who was slowing us down by all my limping. “Who are you, exactly?”

  “That’s Annabelle,” Olivia said with a world-weary sigh.

  “My father is her uncle’s lawyer,” Annabelle explained in a snotty tone, as if I were a moron for not knowing it. Apparently everyone in Cranbrook, New Jersey, knew that Annabelle’s father was Olivia’s uncle’s lawyer, and I should have, too. “He’s the highest-ranked personal-injury lawyer in Cranbrook. My father says Olivia is related to you. I didn’t believe it at first, of course, but now that you’re here . . .”

  Her voice trailed off suggestively.

  Now that I was there, whatever Annabelle had been told had been confirmed.

  And despite the confidentiality agreement Lilly had just had Olivia’s aunt sign, the news would soon be spread all over the lit
tle town of Cranbrook, New Jersey, and a short time after that, the world. Every cell-phone camera in the entire drop-off area of the school was trained on Olivia and me, including ones belonging to the bus drivers. Even the mean lady with the whistle had stopped blowing it and was now pointing her iPhone at us.

  That’s when I knew. I should have stayed in the car instead of performing a wonderfully selfless act of sisterly charity by saving Olivia myself. I should have done what my dad had been doing all these years, and “followed the map.”

  Why hadn’t I been a good little princess bride and gone to lunch with the crisis management team like it had said to on the itinerary? I was only creating a bigger crisis for them to clean up, and ruining my sister’s life. Nothing was ever going to be the same for her, just as nothing had ever been the same for me after that day my father had taken me to lunch at the Plaza Hotel and told me I was the heir to the throne of Genovia, and a short time later the news had become public and I’d been required to be followed by a security team everywhere I went.

  On the other hand, things haven’t exactly turned out that terribly for me either.

  Three things I’m grateful for:

  1. I get to do what I love—make the world a better place by drawing attention to causes that matter to me (well, on a good day. Today would not be an example of that).

  2. I have wonderful friends, who are always there to support and help me when I need them.

  3. I’m marrying the man I love.

  Oh, I’ve thought of a fourth one! I’ve already stopped my sister from getting punched in the face (I think. She hasn’t quite explained exactly what was going on there. I’m hoping we’ll get to that soon).

  Hopefully, I might be able to continue to make other things better for her, too.

  “I’m sorry, Annabelle,” I said to Olivia’s little nemesis in my most princessy tone. “But this is a private family matter. I’m afraid I don’t have time to chat today. Good-bye.”

  Then I squeezed my sister’s hand and tried to quicken our pace, though it was difficult, given my probably broken (but most likely only sprained) foot.

  I have to say, it was quite satisfying to see Annabelle’s stunned expression at my reply, but much more so to see Olivia’s triumphant one.

  But I didn’t get to enjoy it long, since Lars was soon tapping the Bluetooth headset he keeps in his ear at all times, and saying, “Er, Princess,” over the top of Olivia’s head so she couldn’t hear. “Police.”

  “Someone called the police?” My eye began twitching even more than usual. “But why? We haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Well,” Lars said as Halim hurried forward to open the passenger door for us. “That would be a matter of opinion. Inciting a riot. Making a public nuisance. The uncle might feel differently than his wife about us taking the girl, who has been a significant source of income for some time . . .”

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  Olivia must have overheard—or felt the compulsive tightening of my grip on her hand—since she looked up with concern and asked, “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is fine!” I practically yelled. “We just need to go now.” Then I began pulling her with renewed energy toward the limo, which must have been humiliating for her since she is, in fact, twelve and even Rocky objects to having his hand held, and he’s nine.

  “Back, please,” Lars was barking at everyone who was trying to crowd too close to us, attempting to snap selfies with themselves and either me or Olivia. “Please give the princess room. No, no photos, sorry—no selfies—”

  It was terrifying, and not just because I recently read online that the leading cause of lice transmission is selfies, from kids leaning their heads against other kids’ heads, providing a perfect highway of hair on which the lice can transport themselves.

  I imagined it was even more terrifying for poor Olivia, who isn’t used to it. Even the lady with the whistle lowered it long enough to lift her cell phone to say, in a nasal voice, “Can I have a photo with the two of you?”

  Lars flung out a rock-solid arm.

  “No,” he said, nearly knocking the phone from her hands.

  “Well!” the woman cried, offended. “See if I ever come to visit Genovia!”

  “No one wants you there,” Lars informed her (I thought this a bit harsh).

  Once we were all safely inside the limo, though, and Lars had pulled the door closed behind him, Olivia looked more thrilled than upset. She bounced around on the seats, looking out at the children who were plastering themselves against the tinted windows (we could see out, but they could not see in). It was a bit like something out of a boy-band documentary.

  François gunned the engine and tried to pull out, but a roar of protest erupted from the children (not unlike the sound I once heard several years ago while visiting Iceland, and a volcano there exploded). Olivia’s classmates still had their hands and faces pressed against all the windows, flattening themselves against the limo in an effort to keep us from leaving.

  “What are they doing?” I cried, horrified.

  Olivia shrugged. “Nothing. They’re just excited. Not many celebrities visit Cranbrook Middle School. Actually, you’re the first.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  If the enormity of what I’d just done had not sunk in before, it did then.

  Fortunately, we were able to escape without further incident by François applying a special horn Grandmère had had installed against the wishes and advice of everyone—it plays the first chords of the Genovian anthem at near-deafening decibels. It caused the children to unpeel themselves from the limo and scamper away in alarm.

  But Lord only knows what the police found in the school yard when they arrived after we’d gone (we heard the sirens, but in the distance, after we’d already made our escape to the exit ramp to the highway, thank God).

  “Olivia,” I said, after we’d had a chance to catch our breath. “I’m very, very sorry about this. I did not mean for you to find out this way that you’re—that we’re—”

  “It’s okay,” Olivia said. She didn’t look the least bit upset. Her gaze had been roving around the interior of the car, lighting up as it landed on the minibar, where there were full cans of soda on display as mixers for Grandmère’s alcohol, not to mention bags of chips and other assorted favorite snacks of my grandmother’s. “I already knew. Annabelle told me.”

  “Yes, I realize that. But that’s what I mean. It shouldn’t have happened that way. I’m very sorry about that.”

  “That’s okay,” Olivia said. “This is fun.”

  “Fun?” I glanced uneasily at my adult companions. What had been fun about any of what just happened? “Really?”

  “Yes,” Olivia said. “This is my first time in a limo. Do those go on?” She pointed at the fiber-optic lighting in the limousine’s ceiling, which Grandmère had had installed because she enjoyed being bathed in the most flattering colors at all times.

  “Yes,” I said. “Those do go on.”

  Like magic, we were all suddenly bathed in a rosy hue from both the sides and roof of the car.

  “Cool!” Olivia cried, smiling broadly, especially as François, who’d overheard us, had chosen the “twinkle” effect, so the rose color began to turn to purple, then to blue.

  When you ride in limos all the time, it’s hard to remember that to some people—especially a twelve-year-old—​it’s a new, exciting experience. That’s the great thing about being twelve.

  “So,” I said to Olivia, “I’m sure you must have a lot of questions—”

  “Yes, I do.” She looked at me very intently. “Is it really true?”

  “That we’re sisters? Yes, it’s really true. I’m so sorry you found out this way, but it’s very, very true—”

  “No, is it true what that paper you showed me said? That you have my aunt’s permission to take me to any destination of my choosing?”

  I threw Lilly a startled look. The truth was, I hadn’t
read the agreement Olivia’s aunt had signed.

  “Er, yes,” I said, when I saw that Lilly was nodding. “Yes, it’s really true. Why? Is there somewhere you’d like to go?”

  “Yes,” she said, her dark eyes sparkling. “To meet my dad.”

  I’m not sure what I’d expected her to say, but not that. I don’t know why, since it should have been obvious.

  Those four little words, however, momentarily robbed me of breath with their sweet simplicity.

  Of course. Of course she wanted to meet her dad. How could I have been so stupid? What else was a little girl who’d never known her father—never really had a parent at all—going to want?

  “Oh. Right,” I said, my heart rolling over in my chest. Up until that second, I hadn’t even thought about where we were going. Away, was all I’d said to François. Just take us away . . . away from that awful school and that terrible Annabelle and all those kids throwing themselves against the car and Aunt Catherine and Cranbrook.

  But clearly I needed to take her to meet her father, and right that second, before I did another thing.

  I wasn’t sure Dad was going to agree, but I didn’t care.

  “Of course. François? New York City, please.”

  He nodded. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Olivia looked a little nervous at this development. “Wait . . . my dad is in New York City?”

  “He is,” Lilly said, leaning forward to thrust her right hand toward Olivia. “Only sixty-four miles away, and you never even knew it, did you? Lilly Moscovitz, by the way, but you can call me Aunt Lilly. I’m your sister’s cool friend.”

  “Hey!” Tina protested.

  “Lilly’s teasing you,” I explained to Olivia as she politely shook Lilly’s hand. “All my friends are cool.”

  “Not true,” Lilly said as she continued to pump Olivia’s hand. “I’m the one you’re going to want to come to with all your questions about boys—”

  “No.” I reached out and disengaged their hands, laying Olivia’s back in her lap. “Do not go to her.”

  “Come to me,” Tina said firmly. “I’m your aunt Tina. I’m in medical school.”