Royal Wedding
What saddens me is when I ask young girls (and boys) at the center what they hope to be when they grow up (so lame, I know, and a sign that I’m getting old, because only adults ask young people this question. Why do we do it? Because we’re looking for ideas! I’m twenty-six and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, except of course that I want to help people and be brilliantly happy and with Michael Moscovitz, of course), all too often they answer, “When I grow up, I want to be famous, like you, Princess Mia!”
At first this made me very depressed. Famous? Being famous isn’t a job!
Then I realized that it is. Being famous is very hard work, but it’s also empowering, because you have influence over a large number of people and can do amazing things with that power.
And it doesn’t even matter anymore how you happen to come by that fame, singing or dancing or posting a sex tape on the Internet or finding out that you’re a princess. It’s what you do with your fame that matters.
So I began explaining to the children that they could become famous by doing something helpful in their community, such as being a doctor, teacher, police officer, engineer, or architect. That can be totally empowering, even if it doesn’t make them “famous” internationally.
Of course none of them has fallen for it . . . yet. I think I have to work on my delivery. It definitely isn’t going to help if my eyelid is twitching as I say it.
And I must say I appreciate the complimentary bottle of champagne and box of chocolate-covered strawberries that the concierge has just sent up, along with her congratulations and a note saying that if we like our room, we should be sure to post about it on our Instagram accounts.
“Well,” Michael just said as he came out of the shower in his fluffy white Regalton bathrobe, smelling of Kiehl’s beauty products, his dark hair sticking damply to the back of his neck (how I love when this happens). “I could get used to this. Did you see that there’s a television in the mirror in there? Inside the mirror. According to Inside Edition, the reason we’re getting married in such a rush is because you’re carrying my unborn twins. Congratulations. At least they’re not Prince Harry’s this time.”
“I liked Sleepy Palm Cay better, where there were no TVs,” I said, “especially not in the bathroom mirrors.”
“I never in a million years thought I’d hear you say such a thing.” Michael lay down on the bed beside me and lifted one of the chocolate-covered strawberries and dangled it over my mouth. “Open. We must keep you well nourished as you’re now eating for three.”
I thought about refusing, but who can refuse a delicious chocolate-covered strawberry? Besides, I hadn’t yet brushed my teeth. I’d been busy reading José’s dossier on Olivia (the news isn’t as bad as I thought. But it isn’t great either. Olivia doesn’t appear to be happy in her school, though she does make very good grades).
“Don’t eat any more of those,” I warned Michael, after I’d swallowed. “They’re blackmail berries. They only gave them to us in exchange for us posting photos of ourselves eating them on our social media network, with a hashtag mentioning the Regalton. But if we do that, it will look like I’m promoting a for-profit business, and you know it’s Renaldo royal family policy never to do that. We only promote nonprofits.”
“So?” Michael lifted another strawberry. “You know in the old days people simply used to accept gifts and enjoy them and not feel guilty about failing to photograph themselves doing it.”
Then he opened his robe to reveal that beneath it, he was wearing absolutely nothing. Then he put the chocolate-covered strawberry on a place I’m not going to write here, but it was quite naughty, even for a visitor to this planet from another galaxy, unaccustomed to our ways and his humanoid body.
All I have to say is, this princess bride thing definitely has its upside.
CHAPTER 29
10:02 a.m., Tuesday, May 5
In HELV on way to the Community Center
Rate the Royals Rating: 1
Michael let me sleep in and was up and gone before I ever even opened my eyes. He left me a text (whatever happened to romantic, handwritten notes left on pillows, along with a chocolate-covered strawberry? Oh, well, we ate them all, and texting is more expedient).
Good morning! There’s an E. coli outbreak in California due to bags of allegedly prewashed salad mix. 213 hospitalized. Also, the wife of the Crown Prince of Qalif is alive. She tweeted that she’s very angry about this new law her husband has issued that women in his country are not allowed to swim in public.
So we are no longer the lead story! I’m at work, call me when you get up (I thought you’d want to sleep in, as you seemed exhausted. I don’t know what could have tired you out ;-). Love you.
He included an emoji of a cartoon alien being blasted through its heart by a laser gun.
I really do need to talk to him about his emojis; he doesn’t seem to understand the purpose of them at all.
Anyway, I know exactly what it is I have to do.
I read in a magazine once that sleep helps reset the brain, so if you have an important decision to make you should put off making it until morning. As human beings, we make so many important decisions throughout the day (such as what to eat for lunch, whether or not to cross against the light, or whether to friend this person or that person) that by evening our decision-making brain cells are literally depleted.
But by morning they’re recharged and ready to go.
This must be why everything seems so clear to me this morning (well, except for the headache).
Obviously, I can’t allow myself to be pushed around like this. I plan to go to New Jersey to meet my sister.
I know this goes explicitly against her own mother’s (and grandmother’s) wishes, but like Lars said, no one is going to keep me from meeting my own sister—especially now that I know we have the same middle name (Mignonette—clearly Elizabeth Harrison did that on purpose. She must have meant us to meet one day).
Of course, Mignonette is also my grandmother’s middle name (and a sauce with which raw oysters are served). But this means nothing.
Olivia loves animals (like me) and also drawing and math (okay . . . unlike me. But everyone has their individual talents and we are all unique. Not like snowflakes, though, because they’ve actually discovered that there ARE snowflakes that are alike. So we all need to stop saying that thing about snowflakes being unique).
She also lives with her aunt and the “bohunk” uncle and his two older children from a previous marriage.
So I don’t want to make her life harder than it already is. Maybe she wants to move overseas.
• Note to self: Find out where overseas they are moving. Maybe it’s someplace nice, such as the South of France. Maybe they’ll be near Genovia!
But where she lives should be up to her. She should know she has a choice.
Although first I have to work on having a choice to give her.
CHAPTER 30
10:15 a.m., Tuesday, May 5
In HELV on the way to the Community Center
Rate the Royals Rating: 1
Just got off the phone with Michael. We had a very serious conversation about what we were going to do about our living situation, and also about my sister, Olivia. (After some initial silliness about whether I was or was not wearing underwear.)
Grandmère’s announcement of our wedding plans is forcing us to make decisions about things we hadn’t yet discussed in a lot of detail, such as where we’re going to live. Obviously Michael can’t move into the consulate, because the apartment there is too small and also hideous (the décor is circa 1987), and no one who doesn’t absolutely have to should be forced to live under Madame Alain’s sanctimonious gaze.
Of course Michael’s loft is wonderful but it’s in a nondoorman condo building, which means:
• There is no one to keep stalkers from being buzzed in.
• There is no desk for packages, etc., to be signed in/scanned by the Royal Genovian Guard.
• It doesn’t have proper walls between rooms (except for the bathrooms), which is fine for us but inappropriate if we’re going to be playing Fireman (or Space Alien) while also entertaining overnight house guests, such as a little sister (whom I hope to entertain one day). What if she were to hear us? It could permanently warp her developing little mind.
“Wait,” Michael said, when I mentioned this. “Are you thinking we’re going to adopt her, or something?”
“Of course not!” I said. “We’re going to be newlyweds. We can’t have a tween girl lounging around the house, doing tween-girl things like painting her nails and FaceTiming with her friends about her new teen heartthrob.”
“Is that really what you think tween girls do? Have you been watching 13 Going on 30 again?”
“No. I know what tween girls do. I was a tween once.”
“If I recall correctly, when you were a tween, you would walk around with a cat stuffed down your pants while my sister filmed you for her public-access TV show.”
“That is not correct.”
“From my observations, it is. I was there, remember? I don’t think you really have a solid grasp on normal tween behavior.”
“Please let’s move on. It’s not like Olivia can live with my dad. He’d be the worst person to raise a tween. He stays in a hotel room here in New York half the year, and the rest of the time he hangs around Genovia, pretending to govern it.”
“Yeah,” Michael said. “That’s true, but I thought the whole point was that her mom didn’t want her to know she’s Genovian royalty.”
“Right. But if my grandmother’s right, she’s going to find out eventually. So it’s better for me to be the one to tell her. I can do it gently and compassionately. And so it will be nice if we had a room for her to stay in,” I said. “So she feels welcome. If she wants to.”
“Okay,” Michael said, sounding skeptical. “You’ve decided you’re going to tell your long-lost sister that she’s Genovian royalty. That will probably go well. When are you going to do this?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t decided. But soon. Stop making it sound weird. It’s no weirder than the fact that we had to stay in a hotel last night because our places were swarming with paparazzi.”
“It’s a little weirder than that,” Michael said. “But that cop did advise me to get a new apartment. I suppose I can just buy one with a spare bedroom for your sister—”
“See?” I said. “That’s the spirit.”
How amazing is he? I can just buy a new place with a spare bedroom for your sister. I’m seriously the luckiest girl in the world.
• Note to self: Remember this for gratitude-journal entry.
(Wow, it’s sad that I have to make notes in my regular journal to remember to put things in my gratitude journal.)
“Why don’t I buy it with you?” I suggested. “Our first place together! Should it be uptown or downtown? Or what about a place looking out over Central Park? Too bad everyone is having embolisms about the safety of those carriage horses, I bet my sister has never had one of those—”
“Why don’t I have my real-estate broker look into where the market is strongest right now,” Michael interrupted, “and we can buy where we get the most square footage for our money?”
For someone who came up with such a romantic wedding proposal, Michael is certainly practical when it comes to money matters—and without necessarily needing to be. (Fortunately he laughed and said he’d find a way to get over the disappointment when I admitted to him that I did not, in fact, inherit $100 million in cash on my twenty-fifth birthday, as was reported by Rate the Royals.)
“Fine,” I said. “Maybe I should just put on our wedding invitations that in lieu of gifts people should send money to an escrow account for us to buy our first home.”
“Now, that’s a great idea.”
“Michael, I was kidding. We could tell people to donate money to the Community Center or Doctors Without Borders, though.”
“Okay. But look, don’t you think you should discuss this whole thing about your sister with your dad first?”
“No, I do not. All my dad’s done lately is screw things up. I’m not going to let him screw this up, too.”
All the magazines—and Star Trek movies starring Chris Pine as Kirk—say that in stressful situations where you don’t know what to do, you just have to follow your gut.
What they don’t say is how you’re supposed to know what your gut is telling you. Sometimes your gut gives conflicting advice. Often you don’t know which path is the right one because all the paths seem right, and in cases like that, your gut is no help at all.
Except that in this case, when Michael suggested I talk to my dad, I had a sudden and very strong signal from my gut. It said, No.
“Well,” Michael said, sounding dubious. “Okay, Mia, but I really think you should reconsider. Your dad’s going through a tough time right now.”
“I’m aware of that, Michael, and look how he’s reacting to it. He’s a mess. I left him a message yesterday, and he never called me back. Instead he got drunk.”
“Yeah, but—”
“If he wants to talk to me, he knows how to reach me. In the meantime, I’m going to figure out what to do about Olivia, and my own life. My dad has to take care of his own life, even though I have to say so far he’s messed it up pretty badly. One might even say royally.”
“Okay,” Michael said. “But maybe treat the Olivia thing carefully.”
“Thank you, Michael, but I do have a little experience in breaking news to people that they’re princesses, you know.”
CHAPTER 31
11:15 a.m., Tuesday, May 5
Frank Gianini Community Center
Rate the Royals Rating: 1
There were almost as many paps hanging around outside the center—the more intelligent ones who actually know me and figured I wouldn’t skip work for nearly a week—as there were outside Michael’s apartment building last night.
I felt it would be better to stop and chat with them for a few minutes this time—as well as give them a few photos (it’s always good to have photos taken outside the center because it reminds people about it and all the services it provides)—than to ignore them. Despite Dominique’s insistence, ignoring them hasn’t worked, and I didn’t want them pestering the kids, their parents, or my staff.
So I put on my sunglasses to cover my twitch—which sadly started going strong the moment I saw the paps—and stepped out onto the curb.
Unfortunately I didn’t notice that one of them was Brian Fitzpatrick until it was too late.
By then he was already holding a digital recorder up to my face and asking, “Princess, can you tell the readers of Rate the Royals dot-com how you feel about your engagement?”
What I wanted to say was, Go away, Brian.
But since that wouldn’t have sounded very royal, instead I said, “I’m over the moon about my engagement, Brian, and that’s why I want to enjoy it for as long as possible. No date for the wedding has actually been set.” (Ha! Sometimes being a world-class liar comes in handy.)
Then I showed Brian the ring and made a huge point of telling him that it was a lab-grown diamond and how proud I am that Michael is supporting the effort to create conflict-free diamonds.
Of course Brian had to be a joy-killer and ask, “But if everyone follows your example, Princess, and buys lab-grown diamonds, how will the poor diamond miners be able to support their families?”
“Well, hopefully governments that earn revenues from the diamond-mining industry will get the message that consumers want diamonds that have been mined in accordance with fair-trade principles and human-rights conditions, and those governments will work to invest productively in their natural resources.”
• Note to self: Bazinga!
Brian looked impressed as he checked to make sure his handheld device had recorded this, then asked if he could get a selfie with me for the site. I guess Pip
pa gave him one last time she was in town.
I know Lazarres-Reynolds would have wanted me to, since we’re in “crisis management” mode and sucking up to the media is an important part of that, but I just couldn’t bring myself to move my head close enough to Brian’s to pose for a selfie.
I said, “Oh, sorry, Brian, I haven’t got time, I must get into work, I’m running late. Maybe next time, bye-yeee!”
Then I left him standing on the curb.
I don’t even feel bad about it. Maybe this will teach him not to rate people (even royal people) like they’re appliances on a home-improvement retail website.
Three things I’m grateful for:
1. The aviator sunglasses Tina and I bought so we could look just like Connie Britton, aka Coach Taylor’s wife on Friday Night Lights, and which also hide my twitch.
2. Press-on nails, so Brian Fitzpatrick couldn’t see how badly I’ve bitten at my real nails.
3. Platform wedges, which caused me to tower over him.
CHAPTER 32
12:35 p.m., Tuesday, May 5
Frank Gianini Community Center
Rate the Royals Rating: 1
Am attempting to rocket through all my work here (not that I dislike my job, molding young minds and setting them on a path toward success is enormously satisfying, and also important) so I can get busy on my plan for Olivia, but I’m being hampered at every turn by this wedding business (which, of course, is also very important, but not as important as molding young minds or what I’m going to do about my newfound sister).
The kids are so sweet, though! They made me an enormous birthday card and signed their names to it and Ling Su hung it in my office. It takes up most of one wall.