Royal Wedding

  Actually, Catherine did try to be gracious at first, inviting us in and serving coffee, which of course I didn’t actually drink, but no other refreshment was offered.

  But her husband acted like a sullen schoolboy, saying, “Really, it’s up to Olivia to decide where she wants to live, and I can tell you, she wants to stay here. She knows she’s better off moving to Qalif with down-to-earth people she knows than to Genovia with a bunch of royals she never met until a couple days ago.”

  Seriously? In what universe? I wanted to ask.

  I couldn’t tell if he was angling for more money or simply being obtuse (to quote a favorite phrase of Grandmère’s). It seemed pretty obvious to me that Olivia wanted to live with her father, especially after the heartrending way she’d cried Noooo! when she’d learned her aunt and uncle had arrived in New York to take her back to New Jersey.

  But I said, exercising some of my diplomacy skills, “Well, when Olivia gets home from school, we’ll see what she has to say. Until then, let’s sit and enjoy this delicious coffee and these lovely gluten-free cookies.” Note: They were not lovely. “Whatever her decision is, that’s what we’ll abide by.”

  Dad did not like my saying this one bit, I could tell, since he kept shifting on the white couch and looking at his Rolex.

  But what were we supposed to do? We’d arrived too early, and Olivia wasn’t home yet, and in any case, it was her decision, no matter what the courts said. I knew my dad would never want to make her unhappy, and he’d certainly do everything he could to keep any sort of legal battle with her aunt—and Rick O’Toole—out of court as well.

  I was making small talk with Catherine O’Toole about her wedding to Rick—they had a very large photo of their outdoor beach ceremony on the wall—when the front door opened and in walked my sister, the front of her white school uniform blouse covered in blood.

  I don’t think I’ve ever screamed so loud in my life.

  Then I jumped from the couch and ran over to Olivia, crying her name, trying to figure out where the blood was coming from.

  It’s strange how differently people react in times of crisis. Dad did the exact same thing I did, minus the screaming. Lars, who’d been slouched against a chair, sprang up as if he’d been electrified and began calling the units of the RGG I’d asked to be sent to protect my sister, demanding to know what had happened.

  But how did Olivia’s aunt and uncle react? The two of them didn’t even get up off the couch! Not until I spilled my coffee (when I jumped up).

  Only then did Aunt Catherine leap to her feet. And then it was only to clean her precious white carpet.

  “Olivia.” Dad was running his fingers up and down his younger daughter’s arms, looking for broken bones. “Where are you hurt? Where is the blood coming from? Who did this to you? Who did this to you?”

  “I’m okay,” Olivia said, through some cotton toweling she was holding to her face. “It’s only my nose.”

  “She’s fine,” we were assured by a red-haired girl who’d come into the house behind her. “Annabelle Jenkins just punched her in the face.”

  All I could say in response to this was “Thank God.”

  That may sound horrible, but what I meant was, Thank God it was only Annabelle Jenkins and her fist, and not RoyalRabbleRouser with a gun, or a knife, or acid. It could have been so, so much worse. I felt so relieved.

  But a split second later, I got angry. Not because I’d been wrong, but because my little sister had been punched in the face, and apparently some people—like the school, and her uncle Rick’s two kids, who’d come slinking inside along with her, and were standing around, smirking at me—had allowed it to happen.

  Obviously you can’t protect kids from everything—like I said earlier—but there should be some reasonable protections, especially if you’re paying for them, which P.S., I am.

  “Where was the Royal Genovian Guard?” I demanded, glaring at Lars, who was still on the phone. “I sent them to shadow her all day. Why didn’t they stop Annabelle?”

  “Annabelle’s dad said he would sue them,” Olivia said, through the cotton toweling. “And the entire Cranbrook school district, if they laid one finger on his daughter. They said they called to tell you, but you were in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. I didn’t know the meeting was here, about me.”

  Uncle Rick laughed from his place on the couch. “Ha ha. That Jenkins. You gotta admit, the guy’s good.”

  That’s when Dad lost it. I think he actually might have done some punching of his own if I hadn’t intervened and said, “Okay, that’s enough. I’m taking Olivia to a doctor right now.”

  “Oh, please, you don’t have to do that,” Catherine said, looking embarrassed. I couldn’t help noticing that throughout the whole thing between my dad and her husband—which had gotten a bit ugly—she hadn’t once stopped scrubbing at the coffee stain I’d left on her carpeting. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious, but our pediatrician is perfectly capable—”

  “You should notify your pediatrician that our doctor will be requesting Olivia’s records.” I took my sister’s hand. “Because I believe this incident has more than adequately proved that this isn’t a safe—or stable—environment for her to live in. If you disagree, you may have your lawyer contact ours. Come on, Olivia. Let’s go get your things.”

  I began tugging my sister toward the stairs so we could start packing up her stuff. I was really mad.

  But even though she was in obvious physical discomfort—something I understood; my foot wasn’t feeling too great either—she lingered a little, wanting to see what was going to happen next.

  What happened next was that our father stopped glaring at her uncle Rick and said, “Yes. Yes, of course, Mia, you’re right. Let’s go.”

  And he bent down to pick up Snowball—who’d become very fascinated by the coffee stain, as well—and followed us to the stairs.

  But of course the aunt couldn’t let it go.

  “But what about the promise I made to my sister?” she asked, coldly. “I promised her that I would raise her child to be as normal as possible—”

  “You and I both know, Catherine,” Dad said, in as crushing a tone as I’d ever heard him use, even in Parliament, “that what Elizabeth wanted most of all was for her child to be loved. And from what I’ve seen so far, that’s far from what’s happening here.”

  I saw Olivia’s aunt and uncle exchange a look. I might have been reading more into that look than was actually there, but I thought I saw guilt—guilt and maybe even a little shame—in their eyes.

  The next thing I knew, Olivia had been pulled from my grasp, and Catherine was kneeling down before her.

  “Olivia,” she said, in a tearful voice. “You know perfectly well that we love you. I know we didn’t exactly spoil you, but that’s because my sister wanted you to know what it’s like to live among the common people. She didn’t want you to grow up to be some snobby, rich princess who only cares about her looks and getting on the covers of magazines.”

  She had the nerve to narrow her eyes at me. What? I was the snobby rich princess she was talking about?

  “That’s not what you want, is it, Olivia?” Catherine asked. “To grow up to be some rich, snobby princess?”

  “No,” Olivia cried, looking horrified. “Of course not!”

  Catherine smiled. Her grip on Olivia’s arms loosened a little. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said. “You had me worried.”

  “I don’t want to live with you because all you cared about when I walked in was getting the stain out of your stupid carpet.” Olivia pointed at my dad and me. “They cared about what happened to me. That’s why I want to go live with them. Now, could someone please give me some ice? Because my nose really hurts.”

  If the twins turn out half as wonderful as Olivia, I’m going to feel like a complete success as a mother. Not, of course, that I’ve had anything to do with how Olivia’s turned out.

  As soon as we get the X-ray results to le
t us know for sure whether or not her nose is broken (if it is, we’re going to have a consult with a plastic surgeon), we can all go home.

  Which, in Olivia’s case, is going to be Manhattan, and from there—most likely tomorrow, via the royal jet—Genovia.

  No offense to my sister’s birthplace, but if I never see Cranbrook, New Jersey, again, I will be very, very happy.

  Oh, Michael’s texting:

 
  HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”>

  Why is TMZ posting photos of you in an ER in New Jersey? Is everything all right???

  LOL, everything is fine. Well, with me. O., on the other hand, got punched in the face by the school bully. She’s going to be OK though.

  Good. That scared me. I thought something was wrong with you. Or the babies.

  Everything is fine with me and the babies. Except I am starving and there is nothing to eat here.

  Come. Home.

  I am coming home. But first we’re taking my sister to her favorite restaurant as a special reward for being so brave.

  I’m afraid to ask.

  You should be. It’s Cheesecake Factory.

  When you get home I’m going to have a special reward waiting for YOU for being so brave.

  Oooh, is that a promise?

  Better than a promise. It’s a vow.

  CHAPTER 74

  2:05 p.m., Saturday, June 20

  Royal Bedroom

  Palais de Genovia

  Principalité de Genovia

  Reader, I married him.

  Ha! I’ve always wanted to write that!

  It’s so perfect, I wish I’d made it up. But I can’t take the credit: it’s from Jane Eyre, which I have to confess I’ve never read in its entirety (even though it’s one of my favorite books) because I’ve never been able to handle the depressing bits at the beginning where she’s stuck in the orphanage.

  And I’m certainly not going to read the depressing bits now. I’m under doctor’s orders to read only lovely, cheerful, nonstressful things, which even my mother—who is one of the people who forced me to come up here to “rest” between the ceremony and reception, though I told them I’m not tired—says is good advice.

  “I read J. R. R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings series when I was pregnant with you,” she admitted. “I’ve always wondered if that’s the reason you turned out the way you have.”

  I assumed she meant a natural-born leader, like Aragorn, and not an anxious troll-creature, like Gollum, who is always going around speaking in a lisp about his “precious.”

  I didn’t ask, because frankly, I don’t want to know. Too many people from my past have told me too many things I do not want to know lately. This is probably only to be expected when you get a large group of people from your past together all at the same time, but it’s still a little disheartening. The bachelorette party was bad enough—though it turned out exactly the way I wanted, just us girls at the pool here at the palace. No trips to Crazy Ivan’s!

  Except, of course, Lana had to show us Baby Iris’s beauty-pageant portfolio (literally. Lana engaged a professional photographer and had head shots taken of her baby).

  Then Lilly had to cause a scandal in the RGG by being seen on security cameras emerging from their barracks at 0600 (that is six o’clock in the morning) wearing only a secret smile and beach cover-up (and obviously nothing underneath it).

  She’s dying to tell us what (and who) she was doing in there, but every time she starts to, I put my fingers in my ears and go, “La, la, la, la, la.”

  I do not want to know (though of course I already do).

  My goal was to have as drama-free a wedding as I could.

  But this, I’ve discovered, is nearly impossible if you’re trying to put one together in a little over a month (Grandmère insisted we move up the date, just as I suspected she would, so I wouldn’t be “showing in front of the entire world”), especially one to which two thousand guests are invited, and that the entire world will be watching.

  This is partly why I haven’t had time to update this journal in so long: it’s no joke moving yourself—and your boyfriend—to a foreign country, planning a royal wedding, getting your little sister settled into her new school, and having morning sickness all at the same time.

  • Note to self: Remember to check if motion-sickness medication is safe for pregnant women. The doctor (and Tina) said it was, but double-check with iTriage. Now that I’ve finally stopped vomiting, I don’t want to start again on my honeymoon, just because we’re spending it on a yacht.

  Then of course there was “the incident.”

  I’m not sure I want to bring it up on such a joyous day, especially since it was really just a blip on my happiness radar. I wouldn’t even know anything about it myself if Michael hadn’t canceled his bachelor-party trip to Buenos Aires.

  “I don’t want to leave you alone,” he said when I asked him why, as casually as if he were saying, I’m going to go take a swim in the royal pool, which he does quite frequently. I often watch him from the balcony off our bedroom. It’s an amazing sight.

  “Michael, that makes no sense. I’m never alone. I live in a palace with my grandmother, a hundred employees—many of whom are trained in Krav Maga, the art of Israeli contact combat—and my mother, father, half brother, and half sister, who are staying here until their own palace is finished being renovated. I never get a minute to myself. Go and have fun eating dead animals with Boris and your little online friends.”

  So then he tried to say he didn’t “want a bachelor party,” and didn’t “feel like” going to Buenos Aires anyway, which I knew was a lie, because I often caught him looking up “Best Steak Restaurants in Argentina” online (the way other people catch their significant others looking at porn).

  So really I had no choice but to sic his sister on him. I had to know what was really going on. Truthfully, I asked Lilly to look into it more for Tina than for me, because I was beginning to suspect there was something even creepier going on with Boris than that he’d cheated on her with that single blogger. Maybe Michael had found out Boris was running an underage teen prostitute ring, or something, with the Borettes, and he wanted to steer as far away from him as possible (understandable).

  But Lilly soon had the real story, and this was far from it. It had nothing at all to do with Boris:

  Michael had discovered the true identity of RoyalRabbleRouser . . . and it was someone we knew! Someone from my past.

  Someone so unlikely, I’d never even considered him as a suspect.

  Lilly was still in New York, and I was here, in Genovia, so she had to call me. She didn’t even text. Or look at the time difference before dialing.

  “It’s J.P.,” she said, before even saying hello.

  “What? Who’s J.P.? What are you talking about? Did you know it’s one in the morning here? I was asleep.”

  “Sorry. But RoyalRabbleRouser is J.P. I just got off the phone with Michael, who confirmed it.”

  “Michael? Michael is downstairs in the billiard room, playing pool with Lars.”

  “Yeah, he is now. Before that, he was talking to me. And he said not to tell you, but when he punched J.P. that one time in your grandma’s apartment, he also stole his phone, because he wanted to see who else he’d been trying to sell tickets to your wedding to. And that’s when he saw all J.P.’s posts as RoyalRabbleRouser, your stalker.”

  I’d gasped. “Oh my God!”

  Looking back, it makes perfect sense. I don’t know why I didn’t see it right away. It’s just so unbelievable that someone I know would be so angry with me, and make so many hurtful remarks about me and my family.

  But who else would have so much reason to? Or perceived reason to, anyway, since ever since I met him, J.P.’s always wanted to use me, for one reason or another, and I was never willing to go along with any of them.

  Now all I can think about is how many hours he wasted sitting there in front of those various comput
ers, logged in as someone else, spewing hatred, when he could have spent them doing something positive for himself and the world. He had the talent—his book wasn’t my cup of tea, but a lot of people would have loved it. What twisted path was he following?

  The wrong one, obviously.

  “Why didn’t Michael tell me?” I asked Lilly.

  “Because the next day you found out you were pregnant with twins, dummy. He didn’t want to upset you. Anyway, he says there’s nothing to worry about, because it’s all taken care of.”

  “What does that mean, it’s all taken care of?” I’d demanded. “How is it all taken care of?”

  “Well, have you heard from RoyalRabbleRouser lately?”

  “No.” It was true, when I thought about it. There hadn’t been a single post or threat since that night I’d seen J.P. at Grandmère’s. But that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. “Oh my God, Lilly! What did Michael do to J.P.?”

  “Michael didn’t do anything to him. Don’t be stupid. He turned the phone in to the RGG.”

  “Oh, no,” I groaned.

  “Oh, right,” Lilly scoffed. “You think J.P. is locked up in a holding cell somewhere under the palace like the president did to Olivia Pope’s boyfriend on Scandal?”

  “No,” I said. “Grandmère’s new boyfriend used to work at Interpol. I bet that’s where they’ve got J.P.”

  “Well,” Lilly said, “good. Then I guess his douchey dystopian novel is never going to get published. And J.P. has learned a valuable lesson: don’t mess with the Princess of Genovia.”

  Obviously, none of this explained why Michael didn’t want to go to Argentina, so I had to confront him about it as soon as he returned to our bedroom.

  But he only expressed dismay about his sister’s betraying his confidence and said not to worry: Lars had told him that J.P. had “volunteered” to go work on a Russian icebreaker in order to “clear his head,” and wouldn’t be back to the United States for several months, possibly years.