The Princess Diaries (The Princess Diaries 1)

First of all, everything is pink. Pink walls, pink carpet, pink curtains, pink furniture. There are pink roses everywhere, and these portraits hanging on the walls that all feature pink-cheeked shepherdesses and stuff.

And just when I thought I was going to drown in pinkness, out came Grandmère, dressed completely in purple, from her silk turban all the way down to her mules with the rhinestone clips on the toes.

At least, I think they’re rhinestones.

Grandmère always wears purple. Lilly says people who wear purple a lot usually have borderline personality disorders, because they have delusions of grandeur. Traditionally, purple has always stood for the aristocracy, since for hundreds of years peasants weren’t allowed to dye their clothes with indigo, and therefore couldn’t make violet.

Of course, Lilly doesn’t know my grandmother IS a member of t

he aristocracy. So while Grandmère is definitely delusional, it’s not because she THINKS she’s an aristocrat; she really IS one.

So Grandmère comes in off the terrace, where she was standing, and the first thing she says to me is, “What’s that writing on your shoe?”

But I didn’t need to worry about getting caught cheating, because Grandmère started in right away about everything else that was wrong with me.

“Why are you wearing tennis shoes with a skirt? Are those tights supposed to be clean? Why can’t you stand up straight? What’s wrong with your hair? Have you been biting your nails again, Amelia? I thought we agreed you were going to give up that nasty habit. My God, can’t you stop growing? Is it your goal to be as tall as your father?”

Only it sounded even worse, because it was all in French.

And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, she goes, in her creaky old cigaretty voice, “Haven’t you a kiss for your grandmère, then?”

So I go up to her and bend down (my grandmother is like a foot shorter than me) and kiss her on the cheek (which is very soft because she rubs Vaseline on her face every night before she goes to bed), and then when I start to pull away she grabs me and goes, “Pfui! Have you forgotten everything I taught you?” and makes me kiss her on the other cheek, too, because in Europe (and SoHo), that’s how you say hello to people.

Anyway, I bent down and kissed Grandmère on the other cheek, and as I did so I noticed Rommel peeking out from behind her. Rommel is Grandmère’s fifteen-year-old miniature poodle. He is the same shape and size as an iguana, only not as smart. He shakes all the time and has to wear a fleece jacket. Today his jacket was the same purple as Grandmère’s dress. Rommel won’t let anyone touch him except for Grandmère, and even then he rolls his eyes around as if he were being tortured while she’s petting him.

If Noah had ever met Rommel, he might have changed his mind about letting two of all of God’s creatures on the ark.

“Now,” Grandmère said when she felt we’d been affectionate enough, “let’s see if I have this right: Your father tells you that you are the princess of Genovia and you burst into tears. Why is this?”

All of a sudden, I got very tired. I had to sit down on one of the pink foofy chairs before I fell down.

“Oh, Grandmère,” I said in English. “I don’t want to be a princess. I just want to be me, Mia.”

Grandmère said, “Don’t converse in English with me. It’s vulgar. Speak French when you speak to me. Sit up straight in that chair. Do not drape your legs over the arm. And you are not Mia. You are Amelia. In fact, you are Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Renaldo.”

I said, “You forgot Thermopolis,” and Grandmère gave me the evil eye. She is very good at this.

“No,” she said. “I did not forget Thermopolis.”

Then Grandmère sat down in the foofy chair next to mine and said, “Are you telling me you have no wish to assume your rightful place upon the throne?”

Boy, was I tired. “Grandmère, you know as well as I do that I’m not princess material, okay? So why are we even wasting our time?”

Grandmère looked at me out of her twin tattoos of eyeliner. I could tell she wanted to kill me but probably couldn’t figure out how to do it without getting blood on the pink carpet.

“You are the heir to the crown of Genovia,” she said in this totally serious voice. “And you will take my son’s place on the throne when he dies. This is how it is. There is no other way.”

Oh, boy.

So I kind of went, “Yeah, whatever, Grandmère. Look, I got a lot of homework. Is this princess thing going to take long?”

Grandmère just looked at me. “It will take,” she said, “as long as it takes. I am not afraid to sacrifice my time—or even myself—for the good of my country.”

Whoa. This was getting way patriotic. “Um,” I said. “Okay.”

So then I stared at Grandmère for a while, and she stared back at me, and Rommel laid down on the carpet between our chairs, only he did it really slow, like his legs were too delicate to support all two pounds of him, and then Grandmère broke the silence by saying, “We will begin tomorrow. You will come here directly after school.”

“Um, Grandmère. I can’t come here directly after school. I’m flunking Algebra. I have to go to a review session every day after school.”