From the Notebooks of a Middle School Princess (9 page)

“And?” Grandma put her plate of ham onto the floor for the dogs to eat. “What did she say?”

“She hasn't had a chance to say anything yet, Mother. I think she's in shock. Where's Mia?”

“Where do you think? On the phone with that boyfriend of hers.”

“He's her fianc
é
now, Mother.”

I took a sip of the chocolate milk. It was ice-cold. When I'd swallowed, I said, “I think I
am
in shock. This is the best chocolate milk I've ever tasted.”

“Really?” Grandma looked very interested. She was preparing another plate, this one of roast beef. “Is it the drink, or your father? Don't you know he always wanted you to live with him? Your mother simply wouldn't allow it. Because of me, of course.”

“Mother,” Dad said in a warning tone.

“What?” Grandma asked with a shrug. “It's true. I'm a terrible influence. Amelia's mother feels the same way. But Olivia is old enough now that I doubt she'll be morally corrupted by my scandalous ways
—
”

“Mother!” Dad looked stern now. He reached out and took away the plate of roast beef his mother was feeding to her new puppy.

“You see?” Grandma said to me as Snowball swallowed the roast beef that was already in her mouth. “I'm incorrigible.”

“Well,” I said. “You sort of are. You shouldn't feed dogs human food, especially from the table. Everyone knows that. It's probably what's making Rommel's fur fall out.”

Grandma's eyes widened. They were blue, like my dad's. “Really? I don't think so. You know, I was walking a dog much like Rommel the day I met your grandfather. I was strolling down the Champs-
É
lys
é
es wearing a cunning little cocktail dress I'd been saving for just such an occasion, pink
—
silk, of course
—
with shoes I'd had dyed to match, and this
adorable
little hat I got in
—
”

“Mother,” Dad said more sternly than ever.

She broke out of her reverie. “Well,” she said. “The girl
asked
. I was only
—
”

“She didn't ask, actually. The thing is, Olivia,” Dad said, handing me a plate on which he'd set a plain bagel loaded with cream cheese and smoked salmon, a fat, juicy strawberry, and a sugar cookie, “we haven't exactly discussed any of this yet with your aunt Catherine. In fact, she doesn't know you're here, only that you're with Mia
—
”

Whoa! So I knew something Aunt Catherine didn't know!

Of course, it wouldn't be long before Aunt Catherine knew. All she'd have to do was look on the news
—
or the Internet
.
I'm sure once those reporters downstairs uploaded their photos of me, Aunt Catherine
—
and Uncle Rick and Sara and Justin
—
were going to be in for a shock.

“We didn't figure there was much point in telling her,” Dad went on, “unless we knew you'd actually be interested
—
”

“Genovia is the best place to live in the world,” Grandma interrupted, popping a petit four in her mouth. “For one thing, the yachting is divine. And, of course, the food is to die for. You haven't lived until you've had the choux a la cr
è
me at Alberto's
—
”

“It would be a really big change,” Dad went on, ignoring his mother. “It would mean coming to live in a palace, instead of a house
—
”

“But it's so much better to live in a palace,” Grandma pointed out. “You can give your trash to a servant instead of having to drag it yourself all the way to the end of a driveway.”

Dad stared at Grandma. “When have you ever had to take out your own trash, Mother?”

“And, of course, if you live with us, you'll have your own pony, Olivia,” Grandma went on. “I had the loveliest pony when I was your age. I called him Zip. He ate apples straight out of my hand. I'm deathly allergic to horse hair, of course, and wept buckets of tears every time he was near, but it was worth it. I loved him so.”

“You'd have to switch schools,” Dad said, speaking as if Grandma hadn't said anything. “But
—
”

“But the Royal Genovian Academy is right down the street from the palace,” Grandma interrupted. “It's a truly excellent school, with its own stables where you can learn to ride, and very rigorous entrance standards. They don't let in just
anyone
, like the public schools in America are forced to.”

“I don't know if I could get into a school with rigorous entrance standards,” I said awkwardly, because I didn't want them to be disappointed in me. “I mean, Aunt Catherine had me tested, and my intelligence is only average.”

Dad and Grandma exchanged glances.

“Did your aunt tell you that, Olivia?” Dad asked. “That you were average?”

“No,” I said. “My step-cousin Sara did. She overheard my aunt and her dad talking. But I know it's true. Because I'm not in any advanced placement classes. I mean, I get good enough grades, I guess. But I really have to study. The truth is, I'm … well, I'm completely average. There's nothing special about me. Nothing at all.”

I felt nervous admitting it, but I had to tell them, since they'd have found out eventually anyway.

“Except for drawing…” I added, remembering at the last minute. “I'm a very good drawer according to my teacher, Ms. Dakota, except that I need to work on my perspective. I was even admitted to an art school, with a scholarship. But Aunt Catherine said I was too young.”

Grandma brightened. “You obviously inherited that from me. I was always exquisite at drawing myself. And you know, the Royal Genovian Academy has an excellent art program. I shouldn't brag, but the great Picasso saw me drawing one day on the Rue de Rivoli in Paris
—
I remember I was wearing a pair of chinos that I got hand-tailored at a lovely little shop in Capri; I'll have to take you there when you're older, you haven't the figure for them now, of course
—
and the great master himself offered to
—
”

Dad cut her off. “No, he didn't, Mother.” To me, he said, “I don't think you're average, Olivia. I don't think there's anything average about you.”

“I've only just met you,” Grandma said, “and I don't think you're a bit average. No average person could make Rommel do
that
.” She pointed at the hairless poodle, who was curled up against my hip, sleeping soundly with my thigh as a pillow for his head. “Rommel hates everyone.”

“Including me,” Dad said.

“Including Phillipe,” Grandma agreed.

“Mia thinks you're special, too, Olivia,” Dad went on. “The fact is, we all think you're special, and we'd be very honored to have you come live with us, at least for part of the year. But we'd understand if you'd rather stay with your aunt.”

“Speak for yourself,” Grandma said, taking a sip of whatever it was she was drinking. “I'd never understand it. I think it would be an utter waste, and quite frankly a disaster.”

“Your grandmother has a tendency to exaggerate,” Dad said, “as you'll find out the more you get to know her.”

“I suppose we could come to New Jersey to visit you,” Grandma said. She didn't sound very enthusiastic about this last part. She said the words “New Jersey” like they were a disease she hoped not to catch. “But not Qalif. Rommel doesn't take well to hot weather.”

“Rommel doesn't take well to
any
weather,” Dad said, in a bitter voice.

To me he said, “Why don't you take some time to think it over? Want some more chocolate milk?”

I shook my head. I was still in so much shock, I didn't know what to think.

So instead of thinking, I picked up the bagel Dad had made for me and sank my teeth into it. It had been so long since I'd last had bread, I'd almost forgotten how good it tasted.

Then I remembered something, and after swallowing what was in my mouth, said, “Dad?”

He had just taken a big bite of his bagel. “Hmm?” he said.

“How did you know I like cream cheese and smoked salmon on my bagels?” I asked.

“Oh, that's easy,” Grandma said, while Dad struggled to chew before answering. “It's his favorite, too.”

I guess there's more you can inherit from your family than just eye color and a talent for drawing. You can also inherit thrones, and a liking for smoked salmon.

 

Wednesday, May 6
11:00 P.M.
The Plaza Hotel

It's way past my bedtime (which is nine thirty in Cranbrook), but I can't sleep. I'm too excited!

Plus, I'm sleeping in a strange place … the spare guest room in my grandmother's penthouse suite in New York City!

I've never slept in such a huge bed, under such an elegant canopy, between such comfortable sheets, in such nice pajamas (which my grandmother loaned to me. They're made out of silk and have the letter “G” on them … for Genovia. They're princess pajamas! Nishi would die of excitement).

But none of these things are why I've made the decision I have:

I'm moving to Genovia.

Don't get me wrong: It's definitely lovely to sleep in silk pajamas and a canopy bed (with an adorable fluffy white poodle puppy next to me).

It's great to think that I'm not only going to have my own pony someday, but also a chance to get to go to art school, and not even on a scholarship.

But to get a father, a grandmother, and a sister who
actually care about me
, on top of all that?

Sorry. No contest.

I don't want to make Aunt Catherine feel bad by moving in with Dad and Grandma and Mia (who turns out to be a hugger. She hugged me so hard before she left to go back to her own apartment tonight I thought she was going to break my ribs. In a good way!).

But I'm pretty sure Aunt Catherine will understand. She has her design business to worry about, and Uncle Rick and Sara and Justin, and the exciting new opportunities waiting for them all in Qalif. She'll probably be relieved when she finds out I'm not going with them!

I'm definitely going to miss Nishi, though. But Dad said I could have her come visit whenever I wanted!

I can't imagine how hard it's going to be, starting over at a whole new middle school where I don't know anyone, in a brand-new country, where they speak a whole different language (that I also happen to be a princess of).

But at least in Genovia there won't be the one thing from New Jersey I'll DEFINITELY never miss: Annabelle Jenkins.

This has truly been the greatest day of my life.

Maybe
that's
why I can't sleep! I never want it to end.

 

Thursday, May 7
11:24 A.M.
Bergdorf Goodman

Normally at this time I'd be in French Class at Cranbrook Middle School.

But instead I'm in a fancy department store getting fitted for a whole new wardrobe because Grandma says the eyes of the entire world are on me right now and it's my time to “shine” (this isn't at all scary).

(Yes, it is a little scary. We had to sneak out of the delivery doors of the hotel through the kitchen just to avoid the paparazzi, who are
still
waiting out front! It's insane.)

I've already learned more things about being a princess in just a few hours than I've learned the whole five years I've been taking French class.

Like that when you're a princess, you can't say “What?” when you don't understand something.

You're supposed to say, “I beg your pardon?” or “Excuse me?”

Also that it's rude when you're a princess to put ketchup on things before you've even tasted them. It's an insult to the chef's cooking. You have to taste it first,
then
decide if it is not “seasoned enough” to your particular liking.