“Positively.”Vigo made a little picture frame out of his index fingers and thumbs and squinted at me through it.

     “Pink,” he said, decidedly. “Absolutely pink. I do so love a pink maid of honor. But the other attendants will be in ivory, I think.So Diana. But then, Diana was always soright.”

     “It’s really nice to meet you,” I said toVigo . “But the thing is, I think my mom and Mr. Gianini were kind of planning on having a private ceremony down at—“

     “City Hall.” Grandmère rolled her eyes. It is very scary when she does this, because a long time ago, she had black eyeliner tattooed all around her eyelids so she wouldn’t have to waste valuable time putting on makeup when she could be, you know, terrorizing someone. “Yes, I heard all about it. It is ridiculous, of course. They will be married in the White and Gold Room at the Plaza, with a reception directly afterward in the Grand Ballroom, as befits the mother of the future regent of Genovia.”

     “Um,” I said. “I really don’t think that’s what they want.”

     Grandmère looked incredulous. “Whyever not? Your father is paying for it, of course. And I have been very generous. They are each allowed to invite twenty-five guests.”

     I looked down at the sheet of paper in front of her. There were way more than fifty slips of paper in front of her.

     Grandmère must have noticed the direction of my gaze, since she went, “Well, I, of course, require at least three hundred.”

     I stared at her. “Three hundred what?”

     “Guests, of course.”

     I could see that I was way out of my depth. I was going to have to call in for reinforcements if I hoped to get anywhere with her.

     “Maybe,” I said, “I should just give Dad a call and run this by him. . . . “

     “Good luck,” Grandmère said with a snort. “He went off with that Bellerieve woman, and I haven’t heard from him since. If he is not careful, he is going to end up in the same situation as your Algebra teacher over there.”

     Except it’s totally unlikely Dad would be getting anybody pregnant, since the whole reason I was his heir, instead of some legitimately produced offspring, is that he is no longer fertile, due to the massive doses of chemotherapy that cured his testicular cancer. But I suppose Grandmère is still in denial about this, considering what a disappointing heir I’ve turned out to be.

     It was at this point that a strange moaning noise came out from under Grandmère’s chair. We both looked down. Rommel, Grandmère’s miniature poodle, was cowering in fright at the sight of me.

     I know I am hideous and all of that, but really, it’s ridiculous how scared that dog is of me. And I love animals!

      But even St. Francis ofAssisi would have a hard time appreciating Rommel. I mean, first of all, he recently has developed a nervous disorder (if you ask me, it’s from living in such close proximity to my grandmother) that made all his fur fall out, so Grandmère dresses him up in little sweaters and coats so he won’t catch cold.

     Today Rommel had on a mink bolero jacket. I am not even joking. It was dyed lavender to match the one slung across Grandmère’s shoulders. It is horrifying enough to see a person wearing fur, but it is a thousand times worse to see an animal wearing another animal’s fur.

     “Rommel,” Grandmère yelled at the dog. “Stop that growling.”

     Except that Rommel wasn’t growling. He was moaning. Moaning with fright. At the sight of me. ME!

     How many times in one day must I be humiliated?

     “Oh, you stupid dog.” Grandmère reached down and picked Rommel up, much to his unhappiness. You could tell her diamond brooches were poking him in the spine (there is no fat on him at all, and since he doesn’t have any fur, he is especially sensitive to pointy objects), but even though he wriggled to be free, she wouldn’t let go of him.

     “Now, Amelia,” Grandmère said. “I need your mother and whatever-his-name-is to write their guests’ names and addresses down tonight so I can have the invitations messengered tomorrow. I know your mother is going to want to invite some of those more, ahem, free-spirited friends of hers, Mia, but I think it would be better if perhaps if they just stood outside with the reporters and tourists and waved as she climbed in and out of the limo. That way they’ll still have a feeling of belonging, but they won’t make anyone uncomfortable with their unattractive hairstyles and ill-fitting attire.”

     “Grandmère,” I said. “I really think—“

     “And what do you think about this dress?” Grandmère held up a picture of a Vera Wang wedding gown with a big poofy skirt that my mom wouldn’t be caught dead in.

     Vigowent, “No, no, Your Highness. I really think this is more the thing.” Then he held up a photo of a slinky Armani number that my mom similarly wouldn’t be caught dead in.

     “Uh, Grandmère,” I said. “This is all really nice of you, but my mom definitely doesn’t want a big wedding. Really. Definitely.”

     “Pfuit,”Grandmère said.Pfuit is French for “No,” duh. “She will when she sees the luscious hors d’œuvres they’ll be serving at the reception. Tell her about them,Vigo .”

     Vigosaid with relish: “Truffle-filled mushroom caps, asparagus tips wrapped in salmon slivers, pea pods stuffed with goat cheese, endive with crumbles of blue cheese

inside each gently furled leaf. . . .”

     I said, “Uh, Grandmère? No, she won’t. Believe me.”

     Grandmère went, “Nonsense. Trust me, Mia, your mother is going to appreciate this someday.Vigo and I will make her wedding day an event she will never forget.”

     I had no doubt about that.

     I said, “Grandmère, Mom and Mr. G were really planning on something very casual and simple—“

     But then Grandmère threw me one of those looks of hers—they are really very scary—and said, in this deadly serious voice, “For three years, while your grandfather was off having the time of his life fighting the Germans, I held those Nazis—not to mention Mussolini—at bay. They lobbed mortars at the palace doors. They tried to drive tanks across my moat. And yet I persevered, through sheer willpower alone. Are you telling me, Amelia, that I cannot convince one pregnant woman to see things my way?”

     Well, I’m not saying my mom has anything in common with Mussolini or Nazis, but as far as putting up a resistance to Grandmère? I’d place my money on my mom over a fascist foreign dictator any day.

     I could see that reasoning wasn’t going to be effective in this particular case. So I went along with it, listening to Vigo gush over the menu he had picked out, the music he had selected for the ceremony and later, for the reception—even admiring the portfolio of the photographer he had chosen.

     It wasn’t until they actually showed me one of the invitations that I realized something.

     “The wedding’s this Friday?” I squeaked.

     “Yes,” Grandmère said.

     “That’s Halloween!” The same day as my mom’s courthouse wedding. Also, incidentally, the same night as Shameeka’s party.

     Grandmère looked bored. “What of it?”

     “Well, it’s just . . .you know. Halloween.”

     Vigolooked at my grandmother. “What is this Halloween?” he asked. Then I remembered they don’t go in for Halloween much in Genovia.

     “A pagan holiday,” Grandmère replied, with a shudder. “Children dress up in costumes and demand candy from strangers. Horrible American tradition.”

     “It’s in aweek,” I pointed out.

     Grandmère raised her drawn-on eyebrows. “And so?”

     “Well, that’s so . . .you know. Soon. People—“ like me “—might have other plans already.”

     “Not to be indelicate, Your Highness,”Vigo said. “But we do want to get the ceremony out of the way before your mother begins to . . .well,show.”

     Great. So even the royal Genovian event organizer knows my mother is expecting. Why doesn’t Grandmère just rent the Goodyear blimp and broadcast it all over the tristate area?

     Then Grandmère started telling me that, since we were on the topic of weddings and all, it might be a good opportunity for me to start learning what will be expected out of any future consorts I might have.

     Wait a minute. “Futurewhat?”

     “Consorts,”Vigo said, excitedly. “The spouse of the reigning monarch. Prince Philip is Queen Elizabeth’sconsort. Whomever you choose to marry, Your Highness, will beyour consort.”

     I blinked at him. “I thought you were the royal Genovian event organizer,” I said.

     “Vigonot only serves as our event organizer, but also the royal protocol expert,” Grandmère explained.

     “Protocol? I thought that was something to do with the army. . . .”

     Grandmère rolled her eyes. “Protocol is the form of ceremony and etiquette observed by foreign dignitaries at state functions. In your case,Vigo can explain the expectations of your future consort. Just so there won’t be any unpleasant surprises later.”

     Then Grandmère made me get out a piece of paper and write down exactly what Vigo said, so that, she informed me, in four years, when I am in college, and I take it into my head to enter into a romantic liaison with someone completely inappropriate, I will know why she is so mad.

     College? Grandmère obviously does not know that I am being actively pursued by would-be consorts at this very moment.

     Of course, I don’t even know Jo-C-rox’s real name, but hey, it’s something, at least.

     Then I found out what, exactly, consorts have to do. And now I sort of doubt I’ll be French-kissing anyone soon. In fact, I can totally see why my mother didn’t want to marry my dad—that is, if he ever asked her.

     I have glued the piece of paper here:

Expectations of any

Royal Consort of the Princess of Genovia

The consort will ask the princess’s permission before he leaves the room.

 

The consort will wait for the princess to finish speaking before speaking himself.

 

The consort will wait for the princess to lift her fork before lifting his own at mealtimes.

 

The consort will not sit until the princess has been seated.

 

The consort will rise the moment the princess rises.

 

The consort will not engage in any sort of risk-taking behavior, such as racing—either car or boat—mountain-climbing, sky-diving, et cetera—until such time as an heir has been provided.

 

The consort will give up his right, in the event of annulment or divorce, to custody of any children born during the marriage.

 

The consort will give up the citizenship of his native country in favor of citizenship of Genovia.

 

     Okay. Seriously. What kind of dweeb am I going to end up with?

     Actually, I’ll be lucky if I can get anybody to marry me at all. What schmuck would want to marry a girl he can’t interrupt? Or can’t walk out on during an argument? Or has to give up citizenship of his own country for?

     I shudder to think of the total loser I will one day be forced to marry. I am already in mourning for the cool race car–driving, mountain-climbing, sky-diving guy I could have had, if it weren’t for this whole crummy princess thing.

 

TOP FIVE WORST THINGS ABOUT BEING A PRINCESS

 

1. Can’t marry Michael Moscovitz (he would never renounce his American citizenship in favor of Genovian).

2. Can’t go anywhere without a bodyguard (I like Lars, but come on: Even the Pope gets to pray by himself sometimes).