Princess in Pink (The Princess Diaries 5)

“Both of them are going to be fine,” the nurse said. “Come with me, and I’ll take you to her.”

Then the nurse took us into the ER—the actual ER of St. Vincent’s Hospital, where everybody in Greenwich Village who gets shot or has a kidney stone goes!!!!!!!!!! I saw tons of sick people in there. There was a guy who had all sorts of tubes sticking out of him, and another guy who was throwing up in a basin. There was an NYU student “sleeping one off,” and an old lady who’d had heart palpitations and a supermodel who’d fallen off her stilettos and a construction worker who had a gash in his hand and a bike messenger who had been hit by a taxi.

Anyway, before I got a good look at all the patients— patients like the ones I might have someday, if I ever pull up my Algebra grade and get into medical school—the nurse tugged a curtain back, and there was my mom, awake and looking pretty peeved.

When I noticed the needle in her arm, I saw why she was so peeved. She was hooked up to an IV!!!!!!!!!!!!

“OH, MY GOD!!!” I yelled at the nurse. Even though you aren’t supposed to yell in the ER, because there are sick people there. “If she’s so okay, why does she have THAT???”

“It’s just to get some fluids into her,” the nurse said. “Your mom is going to be fine. Tell them you’re going to be fine, Mrs. Thermopolis.”

“It’s Ms.,” my mom snarled.

And I knew then that she was going to be just fine.

I threw myself on her and gave her the biggest hug I could, what with the IV and the fact that Mr. G was hugging her, too.

“I’m all right, I’m all right,” my mom said, patting us both on our heads. “Let’s not make a bigger deal out of this than has been made already.”

“But it IS a big deal,” I said, feeling tears trickle down my face. Because it is very upsetting, getting a phone call in the middle of French class from Captain Pete Logan, telling you that your mother is being taken to the hospital.

“No, it’s not,” my mom said. “I’m fine. The baby’s fine. And once they get the rest of this Ringer’s lactate into me, I get to go home.” She shot the nurse a look. “RIGHT?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the nurse said, and closed the curtain so that the four of us—my mom, Mr. G, me, and my bodyguard— could have some privacy.

“You have to be more careful, Mom,” I said. “You can’t let yourself get worn out like this.”

“I’m not worn out,” my mom said. “It’s that damned roast-pork-and-noodle soup I had for lunch—”

“From Number One Noodle Son?” I cried, horrified. “Mom, you didn’t! There’s, like, one million grams of sodium in that! No wonder you passed out! The MSG alone—”

“I have an idea, Your Highness,” Lars said, speaking in a low voice in my ear. “Why don’t you and I go across the street and see if we can get your mother a smoothie?”

Lars always keeps such a level head in a crisis. That is no doubt on account of his intense training with the Israeli army. He is a distinguished expert marksman with his Glock, and pretty good with a flamethrower, too. Or so he once confided in me.

“That’s a good idea,” I said. “Mom, Lars and I will be right back. We’re going to get you a nice, healthy smoothie.”

“Thanks,” my mom said weakly, but for some reason she was looking more at Lars than at me. No doubt because her eyes were still out of focus from the whole fainting thing.

Except that when we returned with the smoothie, the nurse wouldn’t let us back in to see my mom. She said there was only one visitor per hour per patient in the ER, and that she’d only made an exception before because we’d all looked so worried and she’d wanted us to see for ourselves that Mom was okay, and I’m the princess of Genovia, and all.

She did take the smoothie Lars and I had bought, and promised to g

ive it to my mom.

So now Lars and I are sitting in the hard orange plastic chairs in the waiting room. We’ll be here until my mom gets released. I already called Grandmère and canceled my princess lesson for the day. I must say, Grandmère wasn’t very alarmed, once she heard my mom was going to be all right. From the tone of her voice, you would think relatives of hers faint in the Grand Union every day. My dad’s reaction to the news was much more gratifying. He got ALL worked up and wanted to fly in the royal physician all the way from Genovia to make sure the baby’s heartbeat was regular and that the pregnancy wasn’t putting undue stress on my mom’s admittedly worn-out thirty-six-year-old system—

OH, MY GOD!!!!!!!!!! You’ll never guess who just walked into the ER. My OWN royal consort, HRH Michael Moscovitz Renaldo-to-be.

More later.

Tuesday, May 6, the loft

Michael is SO sweet!!!!!!!!! As soon as school let out he rushed over to the hospital to make sure my mom was all right. He found out what happened from my dad. Can you IMAGINE???? He was so worried when he heard from Tina that I had gone rushing out of French that he called MY DAD when he couldn’t get an answer at the loft.

How many boys would willingly call their girlfriends’ dads? Hmmm? None that I know of. Especially if their girlfriend’s dad happened to be a crowned PRINCE, like my dad. Most boys would be too scared to call their girlfriend’s dad in a situation like that.

But not my boyfriend.