From the Notebooks of a Middle School Princess (10 page)

Only then may you ask for the ketchup, which it turns out room service has to bring all the way from downstairs, so it takes a really long time if you live in the penthouse.

I don't know how I'm ever going to remember all this stuff, which is why it's good I have this notebook to write it all down in, especially considering that this morning when I woke up, I didn't even know where I was!

Then I looked down and saw Snowball curled up beside my head and Rommel stretched out by my feet and the sun shining through the fancy windows leading to a balcony looking out over Central Park
—
Central Park in
New York City
!
—
and I remembered everything that had happened yesterday and I was like:

“I'm at my dad's! With my grandma! And this is her dog, and this is her other dog that has no hair, and they want me to come live with them in Genovia, the country of which I am also a
princess
!”

And then I nearly fell over dead of a heart attack. But fortunately I was still in bed, so I didn't have very far to fall.

I could smell toast (real toast!), so I hurried up and brushed my teeth and got dressed and went out into the dining room, and there was Grandma reading the paper in her robe in front of a table with more food piled onto it than I'd ever seen, including:

• Piles and piles of warm golden waffles

• Gobs of fluffy whipped cream

• Bowls of glistening red strawberries

• Silver pitchers of real maple syrup

• Crystal goblets of orange juice

• Eggs and soldiers (which are soft-boiled eggs and strips of toast)

I'd never had this last thing before, but it turns out what you do is, you crack open the top of the shell of the soft-boiled egg, then dip a strip of the buttery toast into the warm, gooey egg yolk. It's the most delicious thing in the whole world (well, aside from the waffles).

And in the end it turned out not to even need ketchup.

Anyway, as I was eating the biggest, best breakfast I had ever had, with Snowball at my side, Grandma put down the paper and said, “Your father has a conference call with the Genovian Parliament, and your sister has a personal appointment. So I am taking you shopping.”

“Shopping? What about school?”

“School? Why are you worrying about school? You haven't decided you want to stay in
New Jersey
, have you?”

“Grandma,” I said. “New Jersey is my home state. I was born there. You have to stop saying it that way.”

“What way?”

“Like it's a dirty word.”

She shrugged and passed a bit of bacon to Rommel, who was crouched beside her chair. “Fine. If you love
New Jersey
so much that you want to live there for the rest of your life and never travel the world or have new experiences, far be it from me to stop you.”

“I didn't say that. I've decided I want to live in Genovia with you and Dad and Princess Mia. But
—
”

Grandma almost smiled, but not all the way. Her mouth doesn't really move all that much. Princess Mia told me this is because she's “had a lot of work done.”

“Well, if that's the case, why are you worrying about your old school? You'll be attending the Royal Genovian Academy from now on. But as we haven't enrolled you yet, they can hardly count you as absent.”

“Yes, but I'm still enrolled at my old school, and if I don't show up there today they'll mark it as an unexcused absence and I'll get a demerit.”

“A demerit?” she asked in astonishment. “Merely for enjoying a day of shopping with your grandmother?”

“Shopping isn't an excusable absence. An excusable absence is like when my friend Nishi's grandmother got sick with appendicitis and had to go to the hospital. Nishi was allowed to skip school to visit her, because that was an emergency. Shopping isn't an emergency.”

“It most certainly is,” Grandma said, looking offended. “We can't allow you to go about in
that
anymore.” She pointed at my school uniform. “The paparazzi will undoubtedly photograph you again today and then think we are cruelly mistreating you by providing you with only one outfit. How is that not an emergency?”

That's when she showed me the front page of the paper she was reading.

“That's ME!” I cried, dropping my toast (it was okay, though, because Rommel and Snowball snatched it up, even though it landed butter-side down on the floor).

“Yes,” she said. “It is. So is this.” She lifted up another newspaper from the pile beside her and showed me its front page as well.

SIXTH-GRADE SENSATION!

PINT-SIZED PRINCESS FROM NEW JERSEY

SECOND IN LINE TO GENOVIAN THRONE

Fortunately, this time I wasn't holding any food I could drop.

“Wow!” was all I could think of to say. I couldn't help wondering if Annabelle Jenkins had seen the paper. If so, I bet she was pretty upset about it. It had to be killing her that
I
was the one being called a sixth-grade sensation, and not her.

Not all the papers had such flattering headlines about me, though (I hoped Annabelle didn't see
those
). Some of the reporters were still writing mean things, like that my dad had purposefully kept me “hidden away in Cranbrook” all these years so his mom, the Genovian people, and the press wouldn't find out about me, because I was his “shameful secret.”

This was so not what had happened! Well, it was
—
I'd definitely been hidden away in Cranbrook, but not because I was anyone's “shameful secret.”

Grandma must have noticed me getting upset, since she said, “Part of the job of being a royal is receiving a great deal of attention from the press. Your face on the cover of any newspaper or magazine will help it to sell. But you can't expect everything written about you to be positive.”

“But some of it isn't even
true
!”

Grandma looked amused. “My dear, being half-American yourself, you must know that the American people's right to express their opinions is guaranteed by something called the First Amendment. Until those opinions are found to be proven factually incorrect, they can go on expressing them as long as they like.”

I did know this, but it still didn't seem fair. “Well, can we please prove their opinions factually incorrect?”

“Of course. In due time, we shall issue a statement. In the meantime, we need to take you shopping. When you look your best, you feel your best, and no one could possibly feel their best in
that
.” She pointed at my skirt.

“Fine, Grandma,” I said with a sigh. “But like I said, I'm pretty sure Dr. Bushy won't allow clothes shopping as an excused absence.”

“And what, pray tell, is a bushy?”

“He's not a what, Grandma, he's a who. He's the principal of my school. I'd like to prove my haters factually incorrect by leaving Cranbrook without any demerits, if that's okay with you.”

“It's Grandm
è
re, not Grandma, and don't be ridiculous. Princesses can't get demerits. But I will telephone this ‘Bushy' person if you're so worried, and explain the situation.”

Grandma, I mean Grandm
è
re, calling the CMS administrative office was probably one of the weirdest things I'd ever witnessed, and I'd witnessed a lot of weird things in the past twenty-four hours.

“Hello, is this Cranbrook Middle School?” Grandm
è
re asked after I dialed for her (because she isn't very good at using phones, even regular ones). “Oh yes, quite, very well, how do you do? This is the Dowager Princess Clarisse Renaldo of Genovia phoning on behalf of my granddaughter Princess Olivia Grace Clarisse Mignonette Harrison. I would like to speak to Dr. Bushy. I beg your pardon? He's in a meeting? Well, please inform him that my granddaughter will not be able to attend school today, as she is in dire need of a new wardrobe. Thank you.”

I'm pretty sure Mrs. Singh, the school administrative aide, probably thought that was a crank call, but Grandm
è
re hung up before she could ask.

Then Grandm
è
re went to “put on her face” (which is what she calls putting on her makeup) and get dressed.

Now we're here in this store, “assembling my wardrobe” with the help of Grandm
è
re's “personal stylist,” which is really just a fancy name for a lady who works in the store but is only in charge of one customer: my grandma, and now me.

Grandm
è
re's personal stylist, Brigitte, is super nice, especially since she allows dogs in her store (Grandm
è
re let me bring Snowball since she brought Rommel), but I don't know how anyone would think trying on clothes for
over four hours
is fun. Maybe someone interested in fashion like Annabelle Jenkins or Sara would, but not me.

Although Grandm
è
re says that fashion is important because it immediately communicates to others your sense of style (which I have not yet had a chance to cultivate, having been forced to wear a uniform to school for most of my life) and even helps boost your self-esteem.

But my self-esteem is not feeling so boosted right now since in the last two hours Brigitte has made me try on (and then Grandm
è
re has bought):

• Ten pairs of pants (all kinds, from jeans to what Brigitte calls “casual slacks”)

• Eleven skirts (“flared to fitted”)

• Thirty dresses (according to my grandma, “Princesses need quite a lot of dresses as they are always being called upon to attend formal occasions, be they polo matches, balls, or benefits to raise awareness of the shrinking ice shelves”)

• More shoes than I can count, from boots to loafers to dancing slippers to what Grandm
è
re calls “trainers” (which I later found out are sneakers. I don't know what she thinks I'm training for, other than being a princess)

• Underwear (twenty pairs, which fortunately Brigitte did NOT make me try on, though Grandm
è
re did go on for quite a long time about the importance of “breathability” and “all-cotton” until I wanted to die)

• Some things Grandm
è
re called “foundation garments,” but which I finally realized were bras! My new grandma made me try on bras! Right in front of her! Like I even have anything to put in them! Fortunately Brigitte realized this, and so really they were only what Nishi calls “sports bras,” and Brigitte called “training bras.” Still, I wanted to die again.

• Socks (twenty pairs)

• Layering Tees (ten)

• Sweaters (ten
—
it is always warm in Genovia, Grandm
è
re said, but apparently I am going to learn to ski)

• Long-sleeve blouses and shirts (twenty. And Grandm
è
re wouldn't even let me get shirts that said anything on them, such as
WHO FARTED
? in sparkles, which I thought would be hilarious, but she did not)