Royal Wedding (The Princess Diaries 11)

(Fortunately Grandmère and Olivia were too consumed by whatever they’re doing in the library—probably training the poodles to do circus tricks—that they didn’t seem to hear.)

My dad took it like a mensch. He held up a hand to stop the RGG agents from throwing my mother out on the spot and said, “No, no, gentlemen. I’ll handle this.”

Then he took her by the arm and steered her out onto the balcony, where I suppose he thinks none of us can hear the massive argument they’re currently having.

But of course we can.

(Well, probably not Grandmère, Olivia, and Rocky, who Dominique just shut up in the library as well.) But I can.

I know it’s probably wrong of me to record what they’re saying on my cell phone, but how else am I going to preserve it to play back for Tina later? She’s going to want to know every detail, and they’re talking too fast for me to write it all down.

Besides, I keep hearing my name mentioned. How can I not listen?

Mom: “Phillipe, what could you have been thinking? I don’t care what her mother said, of course you should have stayed in contact with her. She’s your child.”

Dad: “I did stay in touch with her. We write once a month. Helen, Mia told me about Rocky.”

Mom: “Rocky? What about Rocky?”

Dad: “That he’s having trouble in school.”

Mom: “What does that have to do with any of this? Phillipe, we’re talking about you, not me. Writing once a month is not the same as being there for a child physically and emotionally. You’re a grown man, how could you not know this?”

Dad: “I was thinking that since you’re coming to Genovia in July anyway for Mia’s wedding, perhaps you could take a tour of the school I’m thinking of sending Olivia to—”

Mom: “Sending Olivia to? I thought she lives with her aunt!”

Dad: “But I’m working right now to get legal guardianship, because of course her place is with me. And this school has an excellent program for gifted children, just like Olivia and Rocky.”

Mom: “Gifted? Rocky’s not gifted, Phillipe. He’s in trouble at school because of his obsession with farting, that’s all. Farting and dinosaurs. I just caught him building something in his room today out of cardboard boxes that he claims is a spaceship powered by his own farts.”

Dad: “Such a brilliant mind, just like his mother. You must be feeling overwhelmed raising such a clever child on your own.”

Mom: “No, I’m not, Phillipe, because I already raised a child on my own. Your daughter Mia, remember?”

Dad: “Yes, but you had summers off when she came to live with me.”

Mom: “She came to live with you and your mother. Who you still live with.”

Dad: “Yes, but not for long. Things are going to be different now. Did you know there are more than seventeen bedrooms in the summer palace?”

I’m the one who told him that!

Mom: “So what, Phillipe?”

Dad: “So I’m saying a person could be perfectly happy living there year-round.”

Mom: “Phillipe, you’re not making any sense.”

Dad: “The Genovian art scene needs someone like you, Helen, someone vital and real. Vulgar giclée prints of nude women riding dolphins into the sunset sell for tens of thousand of euros there. Won’t you at least consider—?”

Mom: “But, Phillipe, according to NPR, that little girl’s uncle says—”

Dad: “I swear all of that is going to be worked out, Helen. But first there’s something I need to tell you, and it isn’t only about Olivia. It’s something I came to realize today while I was standing in court in front of that judge. The truth is, Helen, I—”

“Princess?”

It’s Dominique. She’s blocking my view of my parents. I can dimly make them out through the gauzy white curtains over the panes in the French doors to the balcony.