Monday, October 27, After school

 

     I never thought I would say this, but I am worried about Grandmère.

     I am serious. I think she has officially lost it.

     I walked into her hotel suite for my princess lesson today—since I am scheduled to have my official introduction to the Genovian people sometime in December, and Grandmère wants to be sure I don’t insult any dignitaries or whatever during it—and guess what Grandmère was doing?

      Consulting with the royal Genovian event planner about my mother’s wedding.

     I am totally serious. Grandmère had the guy flown in. All the way from Genovia! There they sat at the dining table with this huge sheet of paper stretched in front of them, on which were drawn all these circles, and to which Grandmère was attaching these tiny slips of paper. She looked up when I came in and said, in French, “Oh, Amelia. Very nice. Come and sit down. We have much to discuss, you andVigo and I.”

     I think my eyes must have been bulging out of my head. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I was totally hoping what I was seeing was, you know . . .not what I was seeing.

     “Grandmère,” I said. “What are youdoing?”

     “Isn’t it obvious?” Grandmère looked at me with her drawn-on eyebrows raised higher than ever. “Planning a wedding, of course.”

     I swallowed. This was bad. WAY bad.

     “Um,” I said. “Whose wedding, Grandmère?”

     She looked at me very sarcastically. “Guess,” she said.

     I swallowed some more. “Uh, Grandmère?” I said. “Can I talk to you a minute? In private?”

     But Grandmère just waved her hand and said, “Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front ofVigo . He has been dying to meet you.Vigo , Her Royal Highness, the Princess Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Renaldo.”

     She left out the Thermopolis. She always does.

     Vigojumped up from the table and came rushing over to me. He was way shorter than me, about my mom’s age, and had on a gray suit. He seemed to share my grandmother’s penchant for purple, since he was wearing a lavender shirt in some kind of very shiny material, along with an equally shiny dark purple tie.

     “Your Highness,” he gushed. “The pleasure is all mine. So delightful finally to meet you.” To Grandmère, he said, “You’re right, madame, she has the Renaldo nose.”

     “I told you, did I not?” Grandmère sounded smug. “Uncanny.”

     “Positively.”Vigo made a little picture frame out of his index fingers and thumbs and squinted at me through it.

     “Pink,” he said, decidedly. “Absolutely pink. I do so love a pink maid of honor. But the other attendants will be in ivory, I think.So Diana. But then, Diana was always soright.”

     “It’s really nice to meet you,” I said toVigo . “But the thing is, I think my mom and Mr. Gianini were kind of planning on having a private ceremony down at—“

     “City Hall.” Grandmère rolled her eyes. It is very scary when she does this, because a long time ago, she had black eyeliner tattooed all around her eyelids so she wouldn’t have to waste valuable time putting on makeup when she could be, you know, terrorizing someone. “Yes, I heard all about it. It is ridiculous, of course. They will be married in the White and Gold Room at the Plaza, with a reception directly afterward in the Grand Ballroom, as befits the mother of the future regent of Genovia.”

     “Um,” I said. “I really don’t think that’s what they want.”

     Grandmère looked incredulous. “Whyever not? Your father is paying for it, of course. And I have been very generous. They are each allowed to invite twenty-five guests.”

     I looked down at the sheet of paper in front of her. There were way more than fifty slips of paper in front of her.

     Grandmère must have noticed the direction of my gaze, since she went, “Well, I, of course, require at least three hundred.”

     I stared at her. “Three hundred what?”

     “Guests, of course.”

     I could see that I was way out of my depth. I was going to have to call in for reinforcements if I hoped to get anywhere with her.

     “Maybe,” I said, “I should just give Dad a call and run this by him. . . . “

     “Good luck,” Grandmère said with a snort. “He went off with that Bellerieve woman, and I haven’t heard from him since. If he is not careful, he is going to end up in the same situation as your Algebra teacher over there.”

     Except it’s totally unlikely Dad would be getting anybody pregnant, since the whole reason I was his heir, instead of some legitimately produced offspring, is that he is no longer fertile, due to the massive doses of chemotherapy that cured his testicular cancer. But I suppose Grandmère is still in denial about this, considering what a disappointing heir I’ve turned out to be.

     It was at this point that a strange moaning noise came out from under Grandmère’s chair. We both looked down. Rommel, Grandmère’s miniature poodle, was cowering in fright at the sight of me.

     I know I am hideous and all of that, but really, it’s ridiculous how scared that dog is of me. And I love animals!

      But even St. Francis ofAssisi would have a hard time appreciating Rommel. I mean, first of all, he recently has developed a nervous disorder (if you ask me, it’s from living in such close proximity to my grandmother) that made all his fur fall out, so Grandmère dresses him up in little sweaters and coats so he won’t catch cold.

     Today Rommel had on a mink bolero jacket. I am not even joking. It was dyed lavender to match the one slung across Grandmère’s shoulders. It is horrifying enough to see a person wearing fur, but it is a thousand times worse to see an animal wearing another animal’s fur.

     “Rommel,” Grandmère yelled at the dog. “Stop that growling.”

     Except that Rommel wasn’t growling. He was moaning. Moaning with fright. At the sight of me. ME!

     How many times in one day must I be humiliated?

     “Oh, you stupid dog.” Grandmère reached down and picked Rommel up, much to his unhappiness. You could tell her diamond brooches were poking him in the spine (there is no fat on him at all, and since he doesn’t have any fur, he is especially sensitive to pointy objects), but even though he wriggled to be free, she wouldn’t let go of him.

     “Now, Amelia,” Grandmère said. “I need your mother and whatever-his-name-is to write their guests’ names and addresses down tonight so I can have the invitations messengered tomorrow. I know your mother is going to want to invite some of those more, ahem, free-spirited friends of hers, Mia, but I think it would be better if perhaps if they just stood outside with the reporters and tourists and waved as she climbed in and out of the limo. That way they’ll still have a feeling of belonging, but they won’t make anyone uncomfortable with their unattractive hairstyles and ill-fitting attire.”

     “Grandmère,” I said. “I really think—“

     “And what do you think about this dress?” Grandmère held up a picture of a Vera Wang wedding gown with a big poofy skirt that my mom wouldn’t be caught dead in.

     Vigowent, “No, no, Your Highness. I really think this is more the thing.” Then he held up a photo of a slinky Armani number that my mom similarly wouldn’t be caught dead in.

     “Uh, Grandmère,” I said. “This is all really nice of you, but my mom definitely doesn’t want a big wedding. Really. Definitely.”

     “Pfuit,”Grandmère said.Pfuit is French for “No,” duh. “She will when she sees the luscious hors d’œuvres they’ll be serving at the reception. Tell her about them,Vigo .”

     Vigosaid with relish: “Truffle-filled mushroom caps, asparagus tips wrapped in salmon slivers, pea pods stuffed with goat cheese, endive with crumbles of blue cheese

inside each gently furled leaf. . . .”

     I said, “Uh, Grandmère? No, she won’t. Believe me.”

     Grandmère went, “Nonsense. Trust me, Mia, your mother is going to appreciate this someday.Vigo and I will make her wedding day an event she will never forget.”

     I had no doubt about that.

     I said, “Grandmère, Mom and Mr. G were really planning on something very casual and simple—“

     But then Grandmère threw me one of those looks of hers—they are really very scary—and said, in this deadly serious voice, “For three years, while your grandfather was off having the time of his life fighting the Germans, I held those Nazis—not to mention Mussolini—at bay. They lobbed mortars at the palace doors. They tried to drive tanks across my moat. And yet I persevered, through sheer willpower alone. Are you telling me, Amelia, that I cannot convince one pregnant woman to see things my way?”

     Well, I’m not saying my mom has anything in common with Mussolini or Nazis, but as far as putting up a resistance to Grandmère? I’d place my money on my mom over a fascist foreign dictator any day.

     I could see that reasoning wasn’t going to be effective in this particular case. So I went along with it, listening to Vigo gush over the menu he had picked out, the music he had selected for the ceremony and later, for the reception—even admiring the portfolio of the photographer he had chosen.