Princess in the Spotlight (The Princess Diaries 2)

The evening wasn’t a total bust.

Quite a few people seemed to have a very good time. Hank, for one. He actually showed up just in time for dinner—he’d always been good at that—looking totally gorgeous in an Armani tux.

Mamaw and Papaw were delighted to see him. Mrs. Gianini, Mr. Gianini’s mom, took quite a shine to him, too. It must have been his clean-cut good manners. He hadn’t forgotten any of Lilly’s elocution lessons, and only mentioned his affection for ‘muddin’ on the weekends once. And later, when the dancing started, he asked Grandmère for the second waltz—Dad got the first—forever cementing him in her mind as the ideal royal consort for me.

Thank God first-cousin marriages were made illegal in Genovia in 1907.

But the happiest people I talked to all evening weren’t actually at the party. No, at around ten o’clock, Lars handed me his cell phone, and when I said, “Hello?” wondering who it could be, my mom’s voice, sounding very far away and crackly, went, “Mia?”

I didn’t want to say the word ‘Mom’ too loudly, since I knew Grandmère was hovering nearby. And I don’t think it likely that Grandmère is going to forgive my parents anytime soon for the fast one they pulled. I ducked behind a pillar and whispered, “Hey, Mom! Mr. Gianini make an honest woman out of you yet?”

Well, he had. The deed was done (a little late, if you ask me, but hey, at least the kid won’t be born harboring the stigma of illegitimacy like I’ve had to all my life). It was only like six o’clock where they were, and they were on a beach somewhere sipping (virgin) piña coladas. I made my mom promise not to have any more, because you can’t trust the ice at those places.

“Parasites can exist in ice, Mom,” I informed her. “There are these worms that live in the glaciers in Antarctica, you know. We studied them in Bio. They’ve been around for thousands of years. So even if the water’s frozen, you can still get sick from it. You definitely only want to get ice made from bottled water. Here, why don’t you put Mr. Gianini on the phone, and I’ll tell him exactly what he has to do—”

My mom interrupted me.

“Mia,” she said. “How are—” She cleared her throat. “How’s my mother taking it?”

“Mamaw?” I looked in Mamaw’s direction. The truth was, Mamaw was having the time of her life. She was thoroughly enjoying her gig as mother of the bride. So far, she’d gotten to dance with Prince Albert, who was there representing the royal family of Monaco, and Prince Andrew, who didn’t seem to be missing Fergie one bit, if you asked me.

“Um,” I said. “Mamaw’s . . . really mad at you.”

It was a lie, of course, but it was a lie I knew would make my mother happy. One of her favorite t

hings to do is make her parents mad.

“Really, Mia?” she asked, breathlessly.

“Uh-huh,” I said, watching as Papaw twirled Mamaw around practically into the champagne fountain. “They’ll probably never speak to you again.”

“Oh,” Mom said happily. “Isn’t that too bad?”

Sometimes my natural ability to lie actually comes in handy.

But unfortunately, right then our connection broke up. Well, at least Mom had heard my warning about the ice worms before we lost contact.

As for me, well, I can’t say I had the time of my life—I mean, the only person even close to my age was Hank, and he was way too busy dancing with Gisele to talk to me.

Thankfully, around eleven, my dad was like, “Uh, Mia, isn’t it Halloween?”

I said, “Yeah, Dad.”

“Don’t you have someplace you’d rather be?”

You know, I hadn’t forgotten the whole Rocky Horror thing, but I figured Grandmère needed me. Sometimes family things are more important than friend things—even romance things.

But as soon as I heard that, I was like, “Um, yes.”

The movie started at midnight down at the Village Cinema—about fifty blocks away. If I hurried, I could make it. Well, Lars and I could make it.

There was only one problem. We had no costumes: On Halloween, they don’t let you into the theater if you come in street clothes.

“What do you mean, you don’t have a costume?” Martha Stewart had overheard our conversation.

I held out the skirt of my dress. “Well,” I said, dubiously. “I guess I could pass for Glinda the Good Witch. Only I don’t have a wand. No crown, either.”

I don’t know if Martha had too many champagne cocktails, or if she’s just like this, but next thing I knew, she was whipping me up a wand from a bunch of crystal drink stirrers that she tied together with some ivy from the centerpiece. Then she fashioned this big crown for me out of some menus and a glue gun she had in her purse.