It wasn’t until they actually showed me one of the invitations that I realized something.

     “The wedding’s this Friday?” I squeaked.

     “Yes,” Grandmère said.

     “That’s Halloween!” The same day as my mom’s courthouse wedding. Also, incidentally, the same night as Shameeka’s party.

     Grandmère looked bored. “What of it?”

     “Well, it’s just . . .you know. Halloween.”

     Vigolooked at my grandmother. “What is this Halloween?” he asked. Then I remembered they don’t go in for Halloween much in Genovia.

     “A pagan holiday,” Grandmère replied, with a shudder. “Children dress up in costumes and demand candy from strangers. Horrible American tradition.”

     “It’s in aweek,” I pointed out.

     Grandmère raised her drawn-on eyebrows. “And so?”

     “Well, that’s so . . .you know. Soon. People—“ like me “—might have other plans already.”

     “Not to be indelicate, Your Highness,”Vigo said. “But we do want to get the ceremony out of the way before your mother begins to . . .well,show.”

     Great. So even the royal Genovian event organizer knows my mother is expecting. Why doesn’t Grandmère just rent the Goodyear blimp and broadcast it all over the tristate area?

     Then Grandmère started telling me that, since we were on the topic of weddings and all, it might be a good opportunity for me to start learning what will be expected out of any future consorts I might have.

     Wait a minute. “Futurewhat?”

     “Consorts,”Vigo said, excitedly. “The spouse of the reigning monarch. Prince Philip is Queen Elizabeth’sconsort. Whomever you choose to marry, Your Highness, will beyour consort.”

     I blinked at him. “I thought you were the royal Genovian event organizer,” I said.

     “Vigonot only serves as our event organizer, but also the royal protocol expert,” Grandmère explained.

     “Protocol? I thought that was something to do with the army. . . .”

     Grandmère rolled her eyes. “Protocol is the form of ceremony and etiquette observed by foreign dignitaries at state functions. In your case,Vigo can explain the expectations of your future consort. Just so there won’t be any unpleasant surprises later.”

     Then Grandmère made me get out a piece of paper and write down exactly what Vigo said, so that, she informed me, in four years, when I am in college, and I take it into my head to enter into a romantic liaison with someone completely inappropriate, I will know why she is so mad.

     College? Grandmère obviously does not know that I am being actively pursued by would-be consorts at this very moment.

     Of course, I don’t even know Jo-C-rox’s real name, but hey, it’s something, at least.

     Then I found out what, exactly, consorts have to do. And now I sort of doubt I’ll be French-kissing anyone soon. In fact, I can totally see why my mother didn’t want to marry my dad—that is, if he ever asked her.

     I have glued the piece of paper here:

Expectations of any

Royal Consort of the Princess of Genovia

The consort will ask the princess’s permission before he leaves the room.

 

The consort will wait for the princess to finish speaking before speaking himself.

 

The consort will wait for the princess to lift her fork before lifting his own at mealtimes.

 

The consort will not sit until the princess has been seated.

 

The consort will rise the moment the princess rises.

 

The consort will not engage in any sort of risk-taking behavior, such as racing—either car or boat—mountain-climbing, sky-diving, et cetera—until such time as an heir has been provided.

 

The consort will give up his right, in the event of annulment or divorce, to custody of any children born during the marriage.

 

The consort will give up the citizenship of his native country in favor of citizenship of Genovia.

 

     Okay. Seriously. What kind of dweeb am I going to end up with?

     Actually, I’ll be lucky if I can get anybody to marry me at all. What schmuck would want to marry a girl he can’t interrupt? Or can’t walk out on during an argument? Or has to give up citizenship of his own country for?

     I shudder to think of the total loser I will one day be forced to marry. I am already in mourning for the cool race car–driving, mountain-climbing, sky-diving guy I could have had, if it weren’t for this whole crummy princess thing.

 

TOP FIVE WORST THINGS ABOUT BEING A PRINCESS

 

1. Can’t marry Michael Moscovitz (he would never renounce his American citizenship in favor of Genovian).

2. Can’t go anywhere without a bodyguard (I like Lars, but come on: Even the Pope gets to pray by himself sometimes).

3. Must maintain neutral opinion on important topics such as the meat industry and smoking.

4. Princess lessons with Grandmère.

5. Still forced to learn Algebra even though there is no reason why I will ever have to use it in my future career as ruler of small European principality.

 

Monday, October 27, Later

 

     I figured as soon as I got home, I would tell my mom that she and Mr. G need to elope, and right away. Grandmère had brought in a professional! I knew it would be a pain, what with Mom’s latest show opening being so soon and all, but it was either that, or a royal wedding the likes of which this city hasn’t seen since . . .

     Well, ever.

     But when I got home, my mom had her head in the toilet.

     It turns out her morning sickness has begun, and isn’t at all exclusive. She’ll throw up just about any time, not just in the a.m.

     She was so sick, I didn’t have the heart to make her feel worse by telling her what Grandmère had planned.

     “Be sure to put a video in,” my mom kept calling from the bathroom. I didn’t know what she was talking about, but Mr. G did.

     She meant to be sure to tape my interview. My interview with Beverly Bellerieve!

     I had completely forgotten about it, in light of what had happened at Grandmère’s. But my mom hadn’t.

     Since my mom was incapacitated, Mr. G and I settled in to watch my interview together—well, in between running into the bathroom to offer my mom seltzer and saltines.

     I figured I would tell Mr. G about Grandmère and the wedding at the first commercial break—but I sort of forgot, in the unbelievable horror of what followed.

     Beverly Bellerieve—undoubtedly in an effort to impress my father—actually did messenger over both a videotape and a written transcript of the interview. I will enclose parts of the written transcript here, so if I am ever asked to do another interview again, I can look at it and know exactly why I should never allow myself to appear on television ever again.

 

TWENTYFOUR/SEVENfor Monday 27 October

 

 

America’s Princess

B. Bellerieve int. w/M. Renaldo

 

Ext. Thompson Street, southofHouston(SoHo). World Trade in background.

     Beverly Bellerieve (BB):

     Imagine if you will, an ordinary teenage girl. Well, as ordinary as a teenage girl who lives inNew York City ’sGreenwich Village with her single mom, acclaimed painter Helen Thermopolis, can be.

     Mia’s life was filled with the normal things most teenagers’ lives are full of—homework, friends, and the occasional F in Algebra . . .until one day, it all changed.

Int. penthouse suite, Plaza Hotel.

     BB: Mia—may I call you Mia? Or would you prefer that I call you Your Highness? Or Amelia?

     Mia Renaldo (MR):

     Um, no, you can call me Mia.

     BB: Mia. Tell us about that day. The day life as you know it changed completely.

     MR: Well, um, what happened was, my dad and I were here at the Plaza, you know, and I was drinking tea, and I got the hiccups, and everyone was looking at me, and my dad was, you know, trying to tell me I was the heir to the throne of Genovia, the country where he lives, and I was like, Look, I gotta go to the bathroom, and so I did, and I waited there until my hiccups stopped and then I came back to my chair and he told me that I was a princess and I completely flipped out and I ran to the zoo and I sat and looked at the penguins for a while and I totally couldn’t believe it because in the seventh grade they made us do fact sheets on all the countries in Europe, but I totally missed the part about my dad being prince of it. And all I could think was that I was going to die if people in school found out, because I didn’t want to end up being a freak like my friend Tina, who has to go around school with a bodyguard. But that’s exactly what happened. I am a freak, a huge freak.