I mean it. I swear I didn’t remember a thing about Vigo and the asparagus tips, not until I walked into Grandmère’s suite tonight for my princess lesson, and there were all these people scurrying around, doing things like barking into the phone: “No, that’s four thousand long-stemmed pink roses, not four hundred,” and calligraphy-ing place cards.
I found Grandmère sitting in the midst of all this activity, sampling truffles with Rommel—stylishly dressed in a chinchilla cape, dyed mauve—in her lap.
I’m not kidding. Truffles.
“No,” Grandmère said, putting a gooey half-eaten chocolate ball back into the box Vigo was holding out to her. “Not that one, I think. Cherries are so vulgar.”
“Grandmère.” I couldn’t believe this. I was practically hyperventilating, the way Grandmère had when she’d found out my mom was pregnant. “What are you doing? Who are all these people?”
“Ah, Mia,” Grandmère said, looking pleased to see me. Even though, judging from the remains in the box Vigo was holding, she’d been eating a lot of stuff with nougat in it, none of it got onto her teeth. This is one of the many royal tricks Grandmère had yet to teach me. “Lovely. Sit down and help me decide which of these truffles we should put in the gift box the wedding guests are getting as party favors.”
“Wedding guests?” I sank onto the chair Vigo had pulled up for me, and dropped my backpack. “Grandmère, I told you. My mom is never going to go along with this. She wouldn’t want something like this.”
Grandmère just shook her head and said, “Pregnant women are never the most rational creatures.”
I pointed out that, judging from my research into the matter, while it was true that hormonal imbalances often cause pregnant women discomfort, I saw no reason to suppose that these imbalances in any way invalidated my mother’s feelings on the matter—especially since I knew that they’d have been exactly the same if she weren’t pregnant. My mom is not a royal wedding type of gal. I mean, she gets together with her girlfriends for margarita-poker night once a month.
“She,” Vigo pointed out, “is the mother of the future reigning monarch of Genovia, Your Highness. As such, it is vital that she be extended every privilege and courtesy the palace can offer.”
“Then how about offering her the privilege of planning her wedding for herself?” I said.
Grandmère had a good laugh at that one. She practically choked on the swig of Sidecar she was taking after each bite of truffle in order to cleanse her palate.
“Amelia,” she said, when she was through coughing—something Rommel had found extremely alarming, if the way he rolled his eyes back up into his head was any indication. “Your mother will be eternally grateful to us for all the work we are doing on her behalf. You’ll see.”
I realized it was no good arguing with them. I knew what I was going to have to do.
And I would do it right after my lesson, which was how to write a royal thank-you note. You would not believe all the wedding presents and baby stuff that people have started sending my mother, care of the Genovian royal family at the Plaza Hotel. Seriously. It is unreal. The place is jam-packed with electric woks, waffle irons, tablecloths, baby shoes, baby hats, baby clothes, baby diapers, baby toys, baby swings, baby changing tables, baby you-name-it. I had no idea so much stuff was necessary for raising a baby. But I have a pretty good idea my mom isn’t going to want any of it. She’s not really into pastels.
I marched up to the door to my father’s hotel suite, and banged on it.
He wasn’t there! And when I asked the concierge down in the lobby if she knew where my dad had gone, she said she wasn’t sure.
One thing she was quite certain of, however, was that Beverly Bellerieve had been with my dad when he’d left.
Well, I’m glad my dad’s found a new friend, I guess, but hello? Is he not aware of the impending disaster growing under his own royal nose?
Tuesday, October 28, 10 p.m., The loft
Well, it happened. The impending disaster is now officially a real disaster.
Because Grandmère has gotten completely out of hand. I didn’t even realize how badly, either, until I got home tonight from my lesson and saw this family sitting at our dining-room table.
That’s right. An entire family. Well, a mom and a dad and a kid, anyway.
I am not kidding. At first I thought they were tourists that had maybe taken a wrong turn—our neighborhood is very touristy. Like maybe they thought they were going to Washington Square Park, but ended up following a Chinese food delivery guy to our loft instead.
But then the woman who was wearing pink jogging pants—a clear indication that she was from out of town—looked at me and said, “Oh, my Lord! Are you telling me that you actually wear your hair like that in real life? I was sure it was just that way for TV.”
My jaw dropped. I went, “Grandmother Thermopolis?”
“Grandmother Thermopolis?” The woman squinted at me. “I guess all this royal stuff really has gone to your head. Don’t you remember me, honey? I’m Mamaw.”
Mamaw! My gr
andmother from my mother’s side!
And there, sitting beside her—roughly half her size and wearing a baseball cap—was my mother’s father, Papaw! The hulking boy in a flannel shirt and overalls I didn’t recognize, but that hardly mattered. What were my mother’s estranged parents, who had never left Versailles, Indiana, before in their lives, doing in our downtown Village loft?