by Meg Cabot
“Um,” I said. “I really don’t think that’s what they want.”
Grandmère looked incredulous. “Whyever not? Your father is paying for it, of course. And I have been very generous. They are each allowed to invite twenty-five guests.”
I looked down at the sheet of paper in front of her. There were way more than fifty slips of paper in front of her.
Grandmère must have noticed the direction of my gaze, since she went, “Well, I, of course, require at least three hundred.”
I stared at her. “Three hundred what?”
“Guests, of course.”
I could see that I was way out of my depth. I was going to have to call in for reinforcements if I hoped to get anywhere with her.
“Maybe,” I said, “I should just give Dad a call and run this by him. . . . “
“Good luck,” Grandmère said with a snort. “He went off with that Bellerieve woman, and I haven’t heard from him since. If he is not careful, he is going to end up in the same situation as your Algebra teacher over there.”
Except it’s totally unlikely Dad would be getting anybody pregnant, since the whole reason I was his heir, instead of some legitimately produced offspring, is that he is no longer fertile, due to the massive doses of chemotherapy that cured his testicular cancer. But I suppose Grandmère is still in denial about this, considering what a disappointing heir I’ve turned out to be.
It was at this point that a strange moaning noise came out from under Grandmère’s chair. We both looked down. Rommel, Grandmère’s miniature poodle, was cowering in fright at the sight of me.
I know I am hideous and all of that, but really, it’s ridiculous how scared that dog is of me. And I love animals!
But even St. Francis ofAssisi would have a hard time appreciating Rommel. I mean, first of all, he recently has developed a nervous disorder (if you ask me, it’s from living in such close proximity to my grandmother) that made all his fur fall out, so Grandmère dresses him up in little sweaters and coats so he won’t catch cold.
Today Rommel had on a mink bolero jacket. I am not even joking. It was dyed lavender to match the one slung across Grandmère’s shoulders. It is horrifying enough to see a person wearing fur, but it is a thousand times worse to see an animal wearing another animal’s fur.
“Rommel,” Grandmère yelled at the dog. “Stop that growling.”
Except that Rommel wasn’t growling. He was moaning. Moaning with fright. At the sight of me. ME!
How many times in one day must I be humiliated?
“Oh, you stupid dog.” Grandmère reached down and picked Rommel up, much to his unhappiness. You could tell her diamond brooches were poking him in the spine (there is no fat on him at all, and since he doesn’t have any fur, he is especially sensitive to pointy objects), but even though he wriggled to be free, she wouldn’t let go of him.
“Now, Amelia,” Grandmère said. “I need your mother and whatever-his-name-is to write their guests’ names and addresses down tonight so I can have the invitations messengered tomorrow. I know your mother is going to want to invite some of those more, ahem, free-spirited friends of hers, Mia, but I think it would be better if perhaps if they just stood outside with the reporters and tourists and waved as she climbed in and out of the limo. That way they’ll still have a feeling of belonging, but they won’t make anyone uncomfortable with their unattractive hairstyles and ill-fitting attire.”
“Grandmère,” I said. “I really think—“
“And what do you think about this dress?” Grandmère held up a picture of a Vera Wang wedding gown with a big poofy skirt that my mom wouldn’t be caught dead in.
Vigowent, “No, no, Your Highness. I really think this is more the thing.” Then he held up a photo of a slinky Armani number that my mom similarly wouldn’t be caught dead in.
“Uh, Grandmère,” I said. “This is all really nice of you, but my mom definitely doesn’t want a big wedding. Really. Definitely.”
“ Pfuit,” Grandmère said. Pfuit is French for “No,” duh. “She will when she sees the luscious hors d’œuvres they’ll be serving at the reception. Tell her about them,Vigo .”
Vigosaid with relish: “Truffle-filled mushroom caps, asparagus tips wrapped in salmon slivers, pea pods stuffed with goat cheese, endive with crumbles of blue cheese
inside each gently furled leaf. . . .”
I said, “Uh, Grandmère? No, she won’t. Believe me.”
Grandmère went, “Nonsense. Trust me, Mia, your mother is going to appreciate this someday.Vigo and I will make her wedding day an event she will never forget.”
I had no doubt about that.
I said, “Grandmère, Mom and Mr. G were really planning on something very casual and simple—“
But then Grandmère threw me one of those looks of hers—they are really very scary—and said, in this deadly serious voice, “For three years, while your grandfather was off having the time of his life fighting the Germans, I held those Nazis—not to mention Mussolini—at bay. They lobbed mortars at the palace doors. They tried to drive tanks across my moat. And yet I persevered, through sheer willpower alone. Are you telling me, Amelia, that I cannot convince one pregnant woman to see things my way?”
Well, I’m not saying my mom has anything in common with Mussolini or Nazis, but as far as putting up a resistance to Grandmère? I’d place my money on my mom over a fascist foreign dictator any day.
I could see that reasoning wasn’t going to be effective in this particular case. So I went along with it, listening to Vigo gush over the menu he had picked out, the music he had selected for the ceremony and later, for the reception—even admiring the portfolio of the photographer he had chosen.
It wasn’t until they actually showed me one of the invitations that I realized something.
“The wedding’s this Friday?” I squeaked.
“Yes,” Grandmère said.
“That’s Halloween!” The same day as my mom’s courthouse wedding. Also, incidentally, the same night as Shameeka’s party.
Grandmère looked bored. “What of it?”
“Well, it’s just . . .you know. Halloween.”
Vigolooked at my grandmother. “What is this Halloween?” he asked. Then I remembered they don’t go in for Halloween much in Genovia.
“A pagan holiday,” Grandmère replied, with a shudder. “Children dress up in costumes and demand candy from strangers. Horrible American tradition.”
“It’s in a week,” I pointed out.
Grandmère raised her drawn-on eyebrows. “And so?”
“Well, that’s so . . .you know. Soon. People—“ like me “—might have other plans already.”
“Not to be indelicate, Your Highness,”Vigo said. “But we do want to get the ceremony out of the way before your mother begins to . . .well, show.”
Great. So even the royal Genovian event organizer knows my mother is expecting. Why doesn’t Grandmère just rent the Goodyear blimp and broadcast it all over the tristate area?
Then Grandmère started telling me that, since we were on the topic of weddings and all, it might be a good opportunity for me to start learning what will be expected out of any future consorts I might have.
Wait a minute. “Future what?”
“Consorts,”Vigo said, excitedly. “The spouse of the reigning monarch. Prince Philip is Queen Elizabeth’s consort. Whomever you choose to marry, Your Highness, will be your consort.”
I blinked at him. “I thought you were the royal Genovian event organizer,” I said.
“Vigonot only serves as our event organizer, but also the royal protocol expert,” Grandmère explained.
“Protocol? I thought that was something to do with the army. . . .”
Grandmère rolled her eyes. “Protocol is the form of ceremony and etiquette observed by foreign dignitaries at state functions. In your case,Vigo can explain the expectations of your future consort. Just so there won’t be any unpleasant surprises later.”
Then Grandmère made me get out a piece of paper and write down exactly what Vigo said, so that, she informed me, in four years, when I am in college, and I take it into my head to enter into a romantic liaison with someone completely inappropriate, I will know why she is so mad.
College? Grandmère obviously does not know that I am being actively pursued by would-be consorts at this very moment.
Of course, I don’t even know Jo-C-rox’s real name, but hey, it’s something, at least.
Then I found out what, exactly, consorts have to do. And now I sort of doubt I’ll be French-kissing anyone soon. In fact, I can totally see why my mother didn’t want to marry my dad—that is, if he ever asked her.
I have glued the piece of paper here:
Expectations of any
Royal Consort of the Princess of Genovia
The consort will ask the princess’s permission before he leaves the room.
The consort will wait for the princess to finish speaking before speaking himself.
The consort will wait for the princess to lift her fork before lifting his own at mealtimes.
The consort will not sit until the princess has been seated.
The consort will rise the moment the princess rises.
The consort will not engage in any sort of risk-taking behavior, such as racing—either car or boat—mountain-climbing, sky-diving, et cetera—until such time as an heir has been provided.
The consort will give up his right, in the event of annulment or divorce, to custody of any children born during the marriage.
The consort will give up the citizenship of his native country in favor of citizenship of Genovia.
Okay. Seriously. What kind of dweeb am I going to end up with?
Actually, I’ll be lucky if I can get anybody to marry me at all. What schmuck would want to marry a girl he can’t interrupt? Or can’t walk out on during an argument? Or has to give up citizenship of his own country for?
I shudder to think of the total loser I will one day be forced to marry. I am already in mourning for the cool race car–driving, mountain-climbing, sky-diving guy I could have had, if it weren’t for this whole crummy princess thing.
TOP FIVE WORST THINGS ABOUT BEING A PRINCESS
1. Can’t marry Michael Moscovitz (he would never renounce his American citizenship in favor of Genovian).
2. Can’t go anywhere without a bodyguard (I like Lars, but come on: Even the Pope gets to pray by himself sometimes).
3. Must maintain neutral opinion on important topics such as the meat industry and smoking.
4. Princess lessons with Grandmère.
5. Still forced to learn Algebra even though there is no reason why I will ever have to use it in my future career as ruler of small European principality.
Monday, October 27, Later
I figured as soon as I got home, I would tell my mom that she and Mr. G need to elope, and right away. Grandmère had brought in a professional! I knew it would be a pain, what with Mom’s latest show opening being so soon and all, but it was either that, or a royal wedding the likes of which this city hasn’t seen since . . .
Well, ever.
But when I got home, my mom had her head in the toilet.
It turns out her morning sickness has begun, and isn’t at all exclusive. She’ll throw up just about any time, not just in the a.m.
She was so sick, I didn’t have the heart to make her feel worse by telling her what Grandmère had planned.
“Be sure to put a video in,” my mom kept calling from the bathroom. I didn’t know what she was talking about, but Mr. G did.
She meant to be sure to tape my interview. My interview with Beverly Bellerieve!
I had completely forgotten about it, in light of what had happened at Grandmère’s. But my mom hadn’t.
Since my mom was incapacitated, Mr. G and I settled in to watch my interview together—well, in between running into the bathroom to offer my mom seltzer and saltines.
I figured I would tell Mr. G about Grandmère and the wedding at the first commercial break—but I sort of forgot, in the unbelievable horror of what followed.
Beverly Bellerieve—undoubtedly in an effort to impress my father—actually did messenger over both a videotape and a written transcript of the interview. I will enclose parts of the written transcript here, so if I am ever asked to do another interview again, I can look at it and know exactly why I should never allow myself to appear on television ever again.
TWENTYFOUR/SEVENfor Monday 27 October
America’s Princess
B. Bellerieve int. w/M. Renaldo
Ext. Thompson Street, southofHouston(SoHo). World Trade in background.
Beverly Bellerieve (BB):
Imagine if you will, an ordinary teenage girl. Well, as ordinary as a teenage girl who lives inNew York City ’sGreenwich Village with her single mom, acclaimed painter Helen Thermopolis, can be.
Mia’s life was filled with the normal things most teenagers’ lives are full of—homework, friends, and the occasional F in Algebra . . .until one day, it all changed.
Int. penthouse suite, Plaza Hotel.
BB: Mia—may I call you Mia? Or would you prefer that I call you Your Highness? Or Amelia?
Mia Renaldo (MR):
Um, no, you can call me Mia.
BB: Mia. Tell us about that day. The day life as you know it changed completely.
MR: Well, um, what happened was, my dad and I were here at the Plaza, you know, and I was drinking tea, and I got the hiccups, and everyone was looking at me, and my dad was, you know, trying to tell me I was the heir to the throne of Genovia, the country where he lives, and I was like, Look, I gotta go to the bathroom, and so I did, and I waited there until my hiccups stopped and then I came back to my chair and he told me that I was a princess and I completely flipped out and I ran to the zoo and I sat and looked at the penguins for a while and I totally couldn’t believe it because in the seventh grade they made us do fact sheets on all the countries in Europe, but I totally missed the part about my dad being prince of it. And all I could think was that I was going to die if people in school found out, because I didn’t want to end up being a freak like my friend Tina, who has to go around school with a bodyguard. But that’s exactly what happened. I am a freak, a huge freak.
[This is the part where she tries to salvage the situation:]
BB: Oh, Mia, I can’t believe that’s true. I’m sure you’re quite popular.
MR: No, I’m not. I’m not popular at all. Only jocks are popular in my school. And cheerleaders. But I’m not popular. I mean, I don’t hang out with the popular people. I never get invited to parties, or anything. I mean, the cool parties, where there is beer and making out and stuff. I mean, I’m not a jock, or a cheerleader, or one of the smart kids—
BB: Oh, but aren’t you one of the smart kids, though? I understand one of your classes is called Gifted and Talented.
MR: Yes, but see, G and T is just like study hall. We don’t actually do anything in this class. Except goof around because the teacher is never there, she’s always in the teachers’ lounge across the hall so she has no idea what we’re doing. Which is goofing off.
[Obviously still thinking she can make something out of this interview:]
BB: But I don’t imagine you have much time for goofing off, do you, Mia? For instance, we are sitting here in the penthouse suite that belongs to your grandmother, the celebrated dowager princess of Genovia, who is, I understand, instructing you in royal decorum.
MR: Oh, yes. She’s giving me princess lessons after school. Well, after my Algebra review sessions, which are after school.
BB: Mia, didn’t you have some exciting news recently?
MR: Oh. Yes. Well, I’m pretty excited. I’ve always wanted to be a big sister. But they don’t really want to make a big deal out of it, you know. It’s just going to be a very small ceremony at City Hall—
There’s more. A lot more, actually. It’s too excruciating to go in
to. Basically, I just babbled like an idiot for about another ten minutes, while Beverly Bellerieve frantically attempted to steer me back toward something resembling the actual question she’d asked me.
But it was completely beyond even her impressive journalistic abilities. I was gone. A combination of nerves and, I’m afraid to say, codeine cough syrup, put me over the edge.
Ms. Bellerieve tried, though. I have to give her that.
The interview ended with this:
Ext. Thompson Street,SoHo.
BB: She’s not a jock, nor is she a cheerleader. What Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo is, ladies and gentlemen, defies the societal stereotypes that exist in today’s modern educational institutions. She’s a princess. An American princess.
Yet she faces the same problems and pressures that teenagers all over this country face every day . . .with a twist: One day, she’ll grow up to govern a nation.
And come spring, she’ll be a big sister. Yes, TwentyFour/Seven has discovered that Helen Thermopolis and Mia’s Algebra teacher, Frank Gianini—who are unmarried—are expecting their first child in May. When we come back, an exclusive interview with Mia’s father, the prince of Genovia . . .next on TwentyFour/Seven.
What it all boiled down to is that, basically, I’m moving to Genovia.
My mom, who finally came out toward the end of the tape, and Mr. G tried to convince me that it wasn’t that bad.
But it was. Oh, believe me, it was.
And I knew I was in for it the minute the phone started ringing, right after the segment aired.
“Oh God,” my mother said, suddenly remembering something. “Don’t pick it up! It’s my mother! Frank, I forgot to tell my mother about us!”
Actually, I was kind of hoping it was Grandma Thermopolis. Grandma Thermopolis was infinitely preferable, in my opinion, to who it actually turned out to be: Lilly.