Last time I saw Grandmère, she was having this dinner party, and she served everybody foie gras except this one woman. She just had Marie, her cook, leave that lady’s plate bare for the foie gras course. And when I tried to give the lady my foie gras, because I thought maybe they had run out—and anyway, I don’t eat anything that once was alive—my grandmother was all, “Amelia!” She said it so loud, she scared me. She made me drop my slice of foie gras on the floor. Her horrible miniature poodle pried it up off the parquet before I could even move.
And then later, after everybody left, when I asked her why she wouldn’t give that lady any foie gras, Grandmère said it was because the lady had had a child out of wedlock.
Hello? Grandmère, may I point out that your own son had a child out of wedlock, namely me, Mia, your granddaughter?
But when I said that, Grandmère just yelled for her maid to bring her another drink. Oh, so I guess it’s okay to have a child out of wedlock if you’re a PRINCE. But if you’re just a regular person, no foie gras for you.
Oh, no! What if Grandmère comes to the loft? She’s never seen the loft before. I don’t think she’s ever been below Fifty-seventh Street. She’s going to hate it here in the Village, I’m telling you right now. People of the same sex kiss and hold hands in our neighborhood all the time. Grandmère has a fit when she sees people of the opposite sex holding hands. What’s she going to do during the Gay Pride Parade, when everybody is kissing and holding hands and shouting “We’re Here, We’re Queer, Get Over It?” Grandmère won’t get over it. She might have a heart attack. She doesn’t even like pierced ears, let alone pierced anything else.
Plus it’s against the law to smoke in restaurants here, and Grandmère smokes all the time, even in bed, which is why Grandpère had these weird disposable oxygen masks installed in every single room at Miragnac and had an underground tunnel dug that we could run through in case Grandmère fell asleep with a cigarette in her mouth and the chateau burst into flames.
Also, Grandmère hates cats. She thinks they jump on children while they’re sleeping on purpose to suck out their breath. What’s she going to say when she sees Fat Louie? He sleeps in bed with me every night. If he ever jumped on my face, he’d kill me instantly. He weighs twenty-five pounds and seven ounces, and that’s before he’s had his can of Fancy Feast in the morning.
And can you imagine what she’ll do when she sees my mom’s collection of wooden fertility goddesses?
Why did she have to come NOW? She’s going to ruin EVERYTHING. There’s no way I’m going to be able to keep this a secret from everyone with HER around.
Why?
Why??
WHY???
Thursday, October 9
I found out why.
She’s giving me princess lessons.
In too much shock to write. More later.
Friday, October 10
Princess lessons.
I am not kidding. I have to go straight from my Algebra review session every day to princess lessons at the Plaza with my grandmother.
Okay, so if there’s a God, how could this have happened?
I mean it. Like, people always talk about how God doesn’t ever give you more than you can handle, but I’m telling you right now, I cannot handle this. This is just too much! I cannot go to princess lessons every day after school. Not with Grandmère. I am seriously considering running away from home.
My dad says I have no choice. Last night, after I left Grandmère’s room at the Plaza, I went straight down to his. I banged on the door, and when he answered it I stalked straight in and told him I wasn’t doing it. No way. Nobody had told me anything about princess lessons.
And do you know what he said? He says I signed the compromise, so I am obligated to attend princess lessons as part of my duties as his heir.
I said then we are just going to have to revise the compromise, because there was nothing in there about me having to meet with Grandmère every day after school for any princess lessons.
But my dad wouldn’t even talk to me about it. He said he was late and could we please talk about it later. And then while I was standing there, going on about how unfair this all was, in walks this reporter from ABC. I guess she was there to interview him, but it was kind of funny, because I’ve seen her interview people before, and normally she doesn’t wear black sleeveless cocktail dresses when she’s interviewing the president or somebody like that.
I’m going to have to take a good look at that compromise tonight, because I don’t recall it saying anything about princess lessons.
Here is how my first “lesson” went, yesterday after school:
First the doorman won’t even let me in (big surprise). Then he sees Lars, who is like six foot seven and must weigh three hundred pounds. Plus, Lars has this bulge sticking out of his jacket, and I only just now figured out that it’s a gun and not the stump of an extraneous third arm, which is what originally I thought. I was too embarrassed to ask him about it, in case it dredged up painful memories for him of being teased as a child in Amsterdam, or wherever he is from. I mean, I know what it’s like to be a freak: It’s just better not to bring that kind of thing up.
But no, it’s a gun, and the doorman got all upset about it and called the concierge over. Thank God the concierge recognized Lars, who’s staying there, after all, in a room in Dad’s suite.
So then the concierge himself escorted me upstairs to the penthouse, which is where Grandmère is staying. Let me tell you about this penthouse: It is very fancy. I thought the ladies’ room at the Plaza was fancy? The ladies’ room is nothing compared to this penthouse.