Princess in Love (The Princess Diaries 3)

I was sitting here, feeling all depressed, when all of a sudden this big furry sleeve appeared out my window, and then a foot in a high-heeled shoe, and then a big blonde head, and next thing I knew, Grandmère was sitting there, blinking at me from the depths of her full-length chinchilla.

“Amelia,” she said, in her most no-nonsense tone. “What are you doing out here? It’s snowing. Come back inside.”

I was shocked. Shocked that Grandmère would even consider coming out onto the fire escape (it’s an indelicate thing for a princess to mention, but there is actually a lot of bird poop out here), but also that she would dare to speak to me, after what she did.

But she addressed that issue right away.

“I understand that you are upset with me,” she said. “And you have a right to be. But I want you to know that what I did, I did for you.”

“Oh, right!” Even though I swore I was never going to speak to her again, I couldn’t help myself. “Grandmère, how can you possibly say that? You completely humiliated me!”

“I didn’t mean to,” Grandmère said. “I meant to show you that you are just as pretty as those girls in the magazines you are always wishing you look like. It’s important that you know that you are not this hideous creature that you apparently think you are.”

“Grandmère,” I said. “That’s nice of you and all—I guess—but you shouldn’t have done it that way.”

“What other way could I do it?” Grandmère demanded. “You will not pose for any of the magazines that have offered to send photographers. Not for Vogue, or Harper’s Bazaar. Don’t you understand that what Sebastiano said about your bone structure is really true? You really are quite beautiful, Amelia. If only you’d just have a little more confidence in yourself, show off once in a while. Think how quickly that boy you like would leave the housefly girl for you!”

“Fruit fly,” I said. “And Grandmère, I told you, Michael likes her because she’s really smart. They have a lot of stuff in common, like computers. It has nothing to do with how she looks.”

“Oh, Mia,” Grandmère said. “Don’t be naive.”

Poor Grandmère. It really wasn’t fair to blame her, because she comes from such a different world. In Grandmère’s world, women are valued for being great beauties—or, if they aren’t great beauties, they are revered for dressing impeccably. What they do, like for a living, isn’t important, because most of them don’t do anything. Oh, maybe they do some charity work, or whatever, but that’s it.

Grandmère doesn’t understand, of course, that today being a great beauty doesn’t count for much. Oh, it matters in Hollywood, of course, and on the runways in Milan. But nowadays, people understand that perfect looks are the result of DNA, something the person has nothing to do with. It’s not like it’s any great accomplishment, being beautiful. That’s just genetics.

No, what matters today is what you do with the brain behind those perfect blue eyes, or brown eyes, or green, or whatever. In Grandmère’s day, a girl like Judith, who could clone fruit flies, would be viewed as a piteous freak, unless she managed to clone fruit flies and look stunning in Dior.

And even in this remarkably enlightened age, girls like Judith still don’t get as much attention as girls like Lana—which isn’t fair, since cloning fruit flies is probably way more important than having totally perfect hair.

The really pathetic people are the ones like me: I can’t clone fruit flies, and I’ve got bad hair.

But that’s okay. I’m used to it by now.

Grandmère’s the one who still needs convincing that I am an absolutely hopeless case.

“Look,” I said to Grandmère. “I told you. Michael is not the type of guy who is going to be impressed because I’m in a Sunday Times supplement in a strapless ballgown. That’s why I like him. If he were the kind of guy who was impressed by stuff like that, I wouldn’t want anything to do with him.”

Grandmère didn’t look very convinced.

“Well,” she said. “Perhaps you and I must agree to disagree. In any case, Amelia, I came over to apologize. I never meant to distress you. I meant only to show you what you can do, if you’d only try.” She spread her gloved hands apart. “And look how well I succeeded. Why, you planned and executed an entire press conference, all on your own!”

I couldn’t help smiling a little at that one. “Yes,” I said. “I did.”

“And,” Grandmère said, “I understand that you passed Algebra.”

I grinned wider. “Yes. I did.”

“Now,” Grandmère said, “there is only one thing left for you to do.”

I nodded. “I know. I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and I think it might be best if I extended my stay in Genovia. Like maybe I could just live there from now on. What do you think about that?”

Grandmère’s expression, I could see in the light coming from my room, was one of disbelief.

“Live in . . . live in Genovia?” For once, I’d caught her off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“You know,” I said. “They have schools there. I could just finish ninth grade there. And then maybe I could go to one of those Swiss boarding schools you’re always going on about.”

Grandmère just stared at me. “You’d hate it.”