Princess on the Brink (The Princess Diaries 8)

“Well, look at that,” Dad said. “So there are. Do you think you can stand to live here until your condo at the Plaza is completed?”

Grandmère rallied herself. “I suppose it will be tolerable,” she said. “Though hardly what I’m used to.”

“Of course not,” Dad said. “But sometimes in life we must suffer. Mia. How are you?”

I jumped away from the window, which I’d been looking out of. We were on the thirty-second floor, and I have to say that the view, while beautiful, wasn’t doing much for the vomity feeling I was kind of pushing down.

I didn’t just feel like throwing up, either. There was fluttering going on in my stomach. It was like there was one of those hummingbirds, that sometimes hover around outside my window back in Genovia, trapped inside my abdomen.

I’m sure this was just nervous anticipation of the ecstasy I am bound to experience tonight in Michael’s arms.

“I’m fine,” I said to my dad. Too fast, though, since he gave me a strange look.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “You look…pale.”

“I’m good,” I said. “Just, um, ready for today’s princess lesson!”

My dad gave me an even STRANGER look at that. I have NEVER been ready for a princess lesson. EVER.

“Oh, Amelia,” Grandmère groaned, from her couch. “I haven’t the tim

e or patience today. Jeanne and I have so much unpacking to do.” Which translates from Grandmère speak to My maid, Jeanne, has to unpack while I, the dowager princess, boss her around. “I need to get settled before I can think of more things to teach you. This constant moving about has been VERY unsettling. Not just for me, but for Rommel, as well.”

We all looked at Rommel, who had curled into a ball at the end of the couch and was snoring fitfully, while he dreamed of being far, far away from Grandmère.

“Well, Mother,” Dad said. “Now that you have Mr. Greer looking after you, I feel as if I can leave you for a bit—”

Grandmère just snorted. “Which lucky Victoria’s Secret lingerie model is it tonight, Phillipe?” she wanted to know. Then, before he could even answer, she went on to say, “Amelia, all of this rushing around town has wreaked havoc on my pores. I’m going to have a facial. Princess lessons are canceled for the day.”

“Um,” I said. “Okay, Grandmère.” It was really hard to hide my relief. I have a LOT of shaving to do.

Hmmm, I wonder if she knows this, and that’s WHY she’s letting me go home early?

But no, that’s not possible. Not even GRANDMÈRE could actually WANT me to have premarital sex.

I mean. Could she? Why else would she have—

No. Not even Grandmère could be that calculating.

Thursday, September 9, the Moscovitzes’ apartment, 7 p.m.

Okay, so I’m here. I’m shaved and exfoliated and conditioned and the sponges are secured in my backpack and I think I’m ready.

I mean, aside from the throwing-up feeling, which still hasn’t gone away.

Everything is crazy here. Michael is packing to leave, and his mother seems to think they don’t actually have things like shampoo and toilet paper in Japan. She keeps slipping that kind of stuff into his suitcase. She and Maya, the Moscovitzes’ housekeeper, went to Sam’s Club in New Jersey and bought a year’s supply of stuff like family-size containers of Tums for him to take with him.

He’s like, “Mom, I’m sure they have Tums in Japan. Or something similar. I do not need a family-size container of them. Or this giant vat of Listerine mouthwash.”

But Dr. Moscovitz doesn’t care, she just keeps putting them back in his suitcase every time Michael takes them out.

It’s kind of sad. I mean, I know how Dr. Moscovitz feels. She just wants to have SOME feeling of control in a world that is rapidly spinning into chaos. And apparently making sure her son has enough antacid to last him until the next millennium helps Michael’s mother feel more in control.

I wish I could tell her she has nothing to worry about, since Michael won’t be going to Japan after all. But I can’t really let HER in on my plan before I let MICHAEL in on it.

Anyway, I already told him we’re going to be sneaking out. He doesn’t like it—he’s always afraid of getting on my dad’s bad side, which I can understand might be a concern to anyone, seeing as how my dad has command of an elite security task force—but I can tell he’s intrigued. He was like, “Okay. Let me just find my jacket. I know it’s in my room…somewhere.”

Little does he know he’s not going to need his jacket.