Royal Wedding (The Princess Diaries 11)

This is what I set out to do this morning—what I set out to do every morning, leave the world a better place than I found it, and that’s how I should choose to think of what just happened. Olivia’s life is going to be better now, much, much better. How could it not be? She has Coke and me in it now (and soon her father and grandmother, whenever they get around to returning my messages . . . )

OK, who do I think I’m fooling? I’ve ruined her life. Dominique just called me back because I texted her what happened (Hey, Dominique, it’s me! So, not sure if you heard, but my dad has another kid and I may have inadvertently exposed her existence to the media . . . call me!) and all I could hear on the other end of the phone was screaming.

Anyway, Tina is the one who spotted Olivia first.

“There she is!” she cried, jabbing her finger against the tinted glass window of the limo.

I saw Olivia standing in the center of a group of uniformed kids by the school’s flagpole.

She looked so . . . little.

I knew she was going to be because in the dossier, it listed her height and weight, and of course there were photos (the RGG is nothing if not precise).

But photos are very different from real life. In real life, Olivia Grace is all adorable knock-knees and bony elbows and shiny braces and bright blue glasses and curly hair done up in braids.

Was I ever that tiny? I must have been, but it never felt like it. I always felt enormous, too big for my body, and so awkward and ungainly (much too much so for anyone, particularly a member of the opposite sex, to admire).

From the first moment I saw her, I wanted to snatch her up and drive back to New York and throw her in front of my dad and say, “This! This is what you are so afraid of and have been running from for the past twelve years. This tiny little girl in pigtails. You, sir, are a royal jackass.”

But I refrained, obviously. At least at that particular moment.

“Aw,” Tina said. “She’s so sweet.”

This, at least, co

nfirmed that I wasn’t the only one who found her to be completely adorable.

“Look, she’s wearing high-tops with her school uniform, just like you used to wear combat boots!” Tina went on. “Oh, wait . . . is she in trouble?”

It was true. As we sat there watching, a little blond girl (who looked not unlike a mini–Lana Weinberger circa thirteen years ago) marched up to my sister, put her hands on her hips, and said something. We couldn’t hear what it was, because the bullet-proof windows were rolled up, and there was so much noise all around us, what with the shouting of excited children getting out of school for the day, and the whistle of the very angry volunteer parent who did not want us parked where we were parked (even though the engine was running) and all of the school bus engines and the cars of all the other parents.

But I could tell by the expression of the blond girl—and my sister’s face—that it was something rude. I recognized the way Olivia looked, hurt and crestfallen and a little afraid. It was the way I’d always looked (I imagine—I couldn’t have seen myself) when confronted by Lana Weinberger, back in the days before she’d mellowed with age.

Suddenly a group of kids gathered around the two girls, blocking them from our view.

“What in the wide world of [REDACTED]?” mused Lilly.

“I believe,” Lars said, “what we are observing is what is known in America as a throw down.”

It was true! Through a gap in the circle the children had formed around my sister and her frenemy, I could see that the blond girl looked like she was about to rip Olivia’s hair out.

However much they’re paying teachers these days, it is not enough. Middle-schoolers are animals. (I don’t mean my sister, of course. She is a sweet perfect angel. Well, almost.)

Lars reached instinctively for his ankle holster.

“Lars, no!” I cried. “They are children, not Genovian ex-pats protesting the use of GMOs in their orange juice. I will handle this.”

Because really, when your long-lost little sister is about to get beat up right in front of you on the playground, you have no choice but to come to her rescue. What else was I supposed to do? I don’t see how anyone can blame me.

But of course with my possibly broken foot it was a bit hard to get out of the limo, especially given that my bodyguard is trained not only to keep me from being the victim of assassinations, but to keep me from preventing other people from being assassinated.

“Princess,” Lars said, grabbing my arm as I dove for the closest door handle. “Really. You must allow me to—”

“Lars, you already smashed the aunt against a wall. Let me take care of the niece.”

“And end up with another broken foot?”

“They’re children.”