“Well,” Olivia explained, when we got inside and I looked at her questioningly, “I want to remember this.”
I don’t think she quite realizes that this isn’t all going to vanish tomorrow. It’s going to go on and on, forever. Of course she wants to remember it . . .
. . . unlike me, who’d give anything to forget it. In fact, I’d be drinking right now to numb the pain (and my memory), except that my foot hurts too much to get up and go to the liquor cabinet, and I’m certainly not going to ask J.P. to get me a drink, even though he’s asked three times if he can “get me anything.”
Yes, you can, J.P. You can get away from me.
I haven’t had the nerve to tell Michael that J.P. is here (Michael texted to say he’s on his way. His HELV is stuck in all the traffic outside, and the RGG won’t allow him to get out and walk due to “safety” concerns).
J.P. has never been one of Michael’s favorite people. Michael even threatened to punch him once, but managed to restrain himself. I don’t know if he’ll have that kind of self-control now, seeing as how J.P. has grown a mustache (though not as nice as the one my dad used to have) and wears skinny jeans.
Shudder.
Of course there’s one part of all this I do want to remember, and that’s the look on Grandmère’s face when she first opened the door to her condo and saw her only other grandchild (besides me).
I could tell she was touched, though she was trying hard not to show it. Her mouth was squeezed into a tiny frown (some of the muscles in her face are permanently frozen from all the Botox she’s had shot into them, but she’s still able to move most of her mouth to varying degrees).
“So this is she?” Grandmère asked grammatically correctly, if not exactly warmly.
“This is she, Grandmère,” I said, poking Olivia in the back. I’d coached her in the car on what to do and say when she met her grandmother, and she pulled it off perfectly . . . almost.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Grandmoth—is that a miniature poodle?”
Olivia’s curtsy wasn’t very graceful to begin with, but she practically fell over herself when she saw the little white powder puff peeking around Grandmère’s still shapely ankle (Grandmère is inordinately proud of the fact that her legs haven’t gone).
“I love poodles!” Olivia cried. “They’re the most intelligent breed of dog. And they’re also very excellent swimmers.”
I hadn’t coached her to say that.
The tiny frown on Grandmère’s face curled ever so slightly into a smile.
“Yes,” she said, trying but failing to sound cold. It’s very difficult to speak coldly to a child expounding on the virtues of your favorite breed of dog. “Poodles are very intelligent, aren’t they?”
Then the two of them stood there going on about poodles. I’m not even kidding. It was like watching a couple of announcers at the Westminster Kennel Dog show, only one was a nine-hundred-year-old dowager princess from the Riviera, and the other was a twelve-year-old from New Jersey.
“My other granddaughter only likes cats,” Grandmère said, finally remembering I was standing there, and giving me the evil eye.
“I don’t only like cats,” I protested. “I’ve only ever had a cat. Grandmère, could we come in now? I hurt my foot earlier and it’s very uncomfortable and I’d really like to sit down—”
Grandmère opened the door to her condo to allow Olivia to enter, which she did, hurrying after the dog, who had evidently taken a liking to her since it turned around and began to romp alongside her, its tongue lolling out excitedly . . . not surprising, since its only other companions were my grandmother, who doesn’t do much romping, and of course Rommel, who only humps, not romps.
“Well?” I asked Grandmère as I hobbled past. “Does she pass muster?” Like I even needed to ask. The two of them were clearly madly in love.
“She has a certain gamine charm,” Grandmère said, pretending not to care. “Your hair was much worse at her age. It still is. I suppose you inherited it from your father. He’s lucky his all fell out. Perhaps yours will, too. Then you could simply start wearing wigs.”
“Thank you so much. Speaking of Dad, is he here?”
“Yes, he’s in the—”
She was cut off by a scream. Olivia’s scream, to be exact.
But not because the girl had injured herself on any of the admittedly odd collectibles Grandmère keeps around her New York apartment, such as a complete fifteenth-century suit of armor and a mounted narwhal tusk.
It turned out to be because she’d found Dad standing in the library and recognized him instantly (apparently she’d done a little research on Tina’s phone, since he’d never sent her any photos during the course of their written correspondence). Not a shy child, she’d shrieked and thrown herself into his arms. By the time Grandmère and I got there to see what was going on, they were hugging as if they never wanted to let each other go.
I don’t think it was just a trick of the non-energy-saving lightbulbs Grandmère insists on using that there was a glimmer of tears in all of our eyes.
Now Dad and Olivia and Grandmère are chatting in the library—they appear to have ordered everything on the evening room-service menu, since it’s spread in front of them on the coffee table—while J.P.’s uncle and Dad’s lawyers are in the study making calls to see what they can do to win full custody.
Oh, Lord, now someone’s pounding on the door. Who on earth would they even let up here? It can’t be Michael. The hotel staff let him right up, and all the agents on the RGG staff know him . . .
CHAPTER 56
7:20 p.m., Wednesday, May 6
The Plaza Hotel
Rate the Royals Rating: 1
OMG. It’s my mother.
And she is not happy.
CHAPTER 57
7:45 p.m., Wednesday, May 6
The Plaza Hotel
Rate the Royals Rating: 1
Grandmère’s staff didn’t recognize my mom because she never comes here, so that’s why they wouldn’t let her up at first.
I can’t really blame them, since she doesn’t look anything like her normal self (even herself in her ID photos). She’s still wearing her clothes from the studio—paint-spattered overalls and a man’s T-shirt—and she’d piled her hair on top of her head with a bungee cord.
I was the first one to reach the door, despite my limp, and the crazed look in her eye startled even me.
“Do you know this woman?” the Royal Genovian Guards who had her by the arms asked.
“Mia,” Mom said acidly. “Tell them you know me.”
“Of course I know her,” I said, shocked. “She’s my mother.”
Beside her, Rocky said, “Hi, Mia. Mom’s really mad.”
“Mom,” I said, opening the door wider to allow them both to come in, “what’s wrong?”
I should have known, of course.
“Oh, nothing,” she said. There were tears sparkling at the corners of her large dark eyes. “I just heard on the radio that you have a half sister, that’s all. God forbid I should have heard this news from your father himself. Or you. You went to New Jersey to look at bridesmaid dresses today, Mia? Really?”
Uh-oh. I guess National Public News does occasionally report things not necessarily of national or cultural importance.
“Mom,” I said, my eyelid beginning to throb uncontrollably. “Look. I can explain—”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Mom said. “You’re not the one I’m angry with. None of this is your fault. He’s the one I’m going to kill for leaving that poor child parentless in New Jersey.”
“She wasn’t parentless,” I said, even though of course I’d been thinking pretty much the same thing ever since I’d found out. “She has an aunt—”
“Mia,” Mom said, her mouth shrinking to the size of a dime, a sure sign she was about to blow. “You know what I mean.”
“Helen,” my dad said, suddenly appearing in the foyer. I guess he’d heard all the knocking and fina
lly come to investigate. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think I’m doing here?” Mom demanded, her eyes flashing wetly. “How could you, Phillipe? How could you?”
She shouted this with such explosive force that the door to the study flew open, and J.P. and his uncle, along with the Royal Genovian legal team, all stepped out into the foyer in alarm.
(Fortunately Grandmère and Olivia were too consumed by whatever they’re doing in the library—probably training the poodles to do circus tricks—that they didn’t seem to hear.)
My dad took it like a mensch. He held up a hand to stop the RGG agents from throwing my mother out on the spot and said, “No, no, gentlemen. I’ll handle this.”
Then he took her by the arm and steered her out onto the balcony, where I suppose he thinks none of us can hear the massive argument they’re currently having.
But of course we can.
(Well, probably not Grandmère, Olivia, and Rocky, who Dominique just shut up in the library as well.) But I can.
I know it’s probably wrong of me to record what they’re saying on my cell phone, but how else am I going to preserve it to play back for Tina later? She’s going to want to know every detail, and they’re talking too fast for me to write it all down.
Besides, I keep hearing my name mentioned. How can I not listen?
Mom: “Phillipe, what could you have been thinking? I don’t care what her mother said, of course you should have stayed in contact with her. She’s your child.”
Dad: “I did stay in touch with her. We write once a month. Helen, Mia told me about Rocky.”
Mom: “Rocky? What about Rocky?”
Dad: “That he’s having trouble in school.”
Mom: “What does that have to do with any of this? Phillipe, we’re talking about you, not me. Writing once a month is not the same as being there for a child physically and emotionally. You’re a grown man, how could you not know this?”
Dad: “I was thinking that since you’re coming to Genovia in July anyway for Mia’s wedding, perhaps you could take a tour of the school I’m thinking of sending Olivia to—”
Mom: “Sending Olivia to? I thought she lives with her aunt!”
Dad: “But I’m working right now to get legal guardianship, because of course her place is with me. And this school has an excellent program for gifted children, just like Olivia and Rocky.”
Mom: “Gifted? Rocky’s not gifted, Phillipe. He’s in trouble at school because of his obsession with farting, that’s all. Farting and dinosaurs. I just caught him building something in his room today out of cardboard boxes that he claims is a spaceship powered by his own farts.”
Dad: “Such a brilliant mind, just like his mother. You must be feeling overwhelmed raising such a clever child on your own.”
Mom: “No, I’m not, Phillipe, because I already raised a child on my own. Your daughter Mia, remember?”
Dad: “Yes, but you had summers off when she came to live with me.”
Mom: “She came to live with you and your mother. Who you still live with.”
Dad: “Yes, but not for long. Things are going to be different now. Did you know there are more than seventeen bedrooms in the summer palace?”
I’m the one who told him that!
Mom: “So what, Phillipe?”
Dad: “So I’m saying a person could be perfectly happy living there year-round.”
Mom: “Phillipe, you’re not making any sense.”
Dad: “The Genovian art scene needs someone like you, Helen, someone vital and real. Vulgar giclée prints of nude women riding dolphins into the sunset sell for tens of thousand of euros there. Won’t you at least consider—?”
Mom: “But, Phillipe, according to NPR, that little girl’s uncle says—”
Dad: “I swear all of that is going to be worked out, Helen. But first there’s something I need to tell you, and it isn’t only about Olivia. It’s something I came to realize today while I was standing in court in front of that judge. The truth is, Helen, I—”
“Princess?”
It’s Dominique. She’s blocking my view of my parents. I can dimly make them out through the gauzy white curtains over the panes in the French doors to the balcony.
“Yes?” I’m trying to see around her.
“Mr. Moscovitz is ’ere, but I’m sorry to say ’e’s in the ’allway, beating Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy—”
CHAPTER 58
2:05 a.m., Thursday, May 7
Third-Floor Apartment
Consulate General of Genovia
Rate the Royals Rating: 1
Any day that begins with trying on wedding dresses and ends with your fiancé beating up your ex-boyfriend is a good one, right?
Especially if, in between, you manage to introduce your long-lost little sister to her father, and no one ends up in jail.
Okay, well, maybe not. Maybe that’s why I can’t sleep.
Probably also because my foot is throbbing like crazy, no matter how many bags of frozen Chinese dumplings I keep on it.
And also Michael is still up, tap-tapping away at his keyboard in my bed (conspicuously shirtless).
He doesn’t think he did anything wrong, of course. His side of the story is:
“I walked into your grandmother’s condo, completely minding my own business, and the next thing I know, out into the hall comes your ex-boyfriend, and he doesn’t see me, but he’s on his cell phone, and he’s saying, ‘Oh, yeah, I can score you tickets to the royal wedding. I have a complete in. She’s still into me. So how many do you want?’ So I jumped him. What else was I supposed to do?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Deal with it diplomatically, like a prince.”
“Ah,” he said, raising one of those thick dark eyebrows. “But I’m not a prince yet. So it seemed more logical to kick his ass.”
“Oh, yes, Michael, what you did was very logical. Very unemotional, just like Mr. Spock from Star Trek. The two of you have so much in common. Now, thanks to you, our own crisis management firm is suing us, and I have no idea how things turned out with my mom and dad. She took Rocky and left right after the RGG broke up your little fight. And I also don’t know what’s going on with Olivia, since Grandmère kicked us out, too. She says you behaved like a hooligan, and I should give back your ring and marry that nice ex-boyfriend of Taylor Swift’s instead.”
“A hooligan!” Michael grinned. “No one’s ever called me a hooligan before. I like it. But you might want to notice something.” He held out his jaw. “Not a scratch on me. Dude didn’t even get close.”
“Wow,” I said sarcastically. “You’re more physically intimidating than a guy who wrote a screenplay and a dystopian YA novel. You must be very proud.”
“Hey,” he protested. “He tried to bite me!”
“How upsetting for you. Do you have any idea, Michael, how hard I had to work on Grandmère to convince her to like you? And you ruined it all in one night. We might as well cancel the wedding. She’s never going to approve.”
Michael closed his laptop and put it on the nightstand, then flipped back the comforter on my side of the bed. “Well, maybe now we can have the wedding we wanted. Why do you need her approval, anyway? Come over here and let’s discuss it.”
He grinned and patted the clean white sheet beside him.
“Seriously, Michael,” I said. “Are you suggesting what I think you are? After a day like today?”
“I thought I’m supposed to be the alien visitor to this planet. But it looks like you’re the one in need of gentle humanizing right now. So get over here.”
Well, I guess it’s worth a try.
CHAPTER 59
2:35 a.m., Thursday, May 7
Third-Floor Apartment
Consulate General of Genovia
Rate the Royals Rating: 1
I’m really feeling quite a bit better now. Even my foot hurts a bit less.
Wait . . . what was it I was worrying about again? I’m so
sleepy I forgot . . .
Oh, well.
Three things I’m grateful for:
1. Fat Louie (who is curled up beside me, purring).
2. Little sisters.
3. Michael. Michael. Michael.
CHAPTER 60
8:45 a.m., Thursday, May 7
Inside the HELV on the way
to the Doctor’s Office
Rate the Royals Rating: 1
When I got up and tried to walk this morning, I nearly fell down. The foot Olivia’s aunt slammed in the door is twice its normal size.
Michael took one look and said, “That’s it. We’re taking you to the doctor for an X-ray,” even though I protested that I felt fine, really.
(I was trying to sound brave. I don’t feel fine. I’m pretty sure my foot’s not broken because I already checked on iTriage and I can put my weight on it—the nearly-falling-down thing aside—and that means it’s probably only bruised. It’s definitely turned a hideous blue and green in some areas. And it’s so swollen my only shoes that fit are my UGGs, which is bad, because princesses can’t wear UGGs in public. It isn’t DONE. Except on ski slopes.)
So now we’re in the HELV on the way to Dr. Delgado’s office. I’d have made him come to the consulate, but we only have metal detectors, not X-ray technology.
In spite of my own pain—which isn’t really that bad, but then again, I’ve taken a Tylenol—I can’t help wondering how Olivia is doing. Dad texted that she spent last night at Grandmère’s. After the news broke about her true parentage, it was deemed too unsafe to take her back to Cranbrook.
That’s all he texted, though. Nothing about Mom, or whether or not she’s forgiven him.
And of course all Mom had to say about the situation (in a voice mail she left in response to all my voice mails, probably while I was in the shower) was:
“Mia, please, stop worrying about me. I’m fine. Just a little embarrassed at the scene I made in front of everyone last night. I suppose I just never realized before how . . . complex a man your father is, deep down inside. Anyway, I’ll call you later. Have a good day, sweetie.”