"I DID," I said.

"In any case," Grandmère said. "It was too late to change all the plans I made for your party, so Lewis has arranged for another young person to take your place."

"Another young person?" I gaped at her. "Like who? A Mia Thermopolis look-alike?"

"Certainly not," Grandmère said with a soft snort. "Instead of your sweet sixteen, we'll be cele- brating the sweet sixteen of someone else—a young man named Andy Milonakis."

My jaw dropped. "You're taking ANDY MILONAKIS to GENOVIA?"

"There's no need to shout, Amelia. And yes, I am. Lewis is very pleased with the way things have turned out. I'll be taking this boy and ten of his friends—I thought one hundred was a bit excessive, considering he's not even a family member—to Genovia, to do all the things you and your friends could have done for YOUR birthday, if you weren't so selfish and stubborn. They're calling it Andy's Super Royal Sweet Sixteen. Lewis promises that it's going to reach millions of viewers. The glories of Genovia will soon be known to that hard-to-reach eighteen-to-thirty-nine-year-old male demographic."

For once, the mean little elf in me was silent. It didn't, for instance, goad me into suggesting that the eighteen-to-thirty-nine-year-old males who enjoy Andy Milonakis's show probably still live at home with their parents and can't afford a trip to Genovia.

It didn't prompt me to mention that the ten friends Andy would be bringing with him to Genovia were probably going to include—at least judging from his TV show—his dog, Woobie, the guy who owns the cherry ice stand on the corner, and Rivka, the rooster-headed chicken lady, this old woman Andy forces to wear a hat with two chicken legs sticking out of it.

It also didn't urge me to tell Grandmère that Andy Milonakis probably turned sixteen ten years ago, and was just using her to get publicity for his show, the same way she was using him to get public- ity for Genovia.

Instead, I said, meaning it, "Grandmère. This is the best birthday present you've ever given me."

To which Grandmère replied with a slight snort, and a sip of her Sidecar.

But I could tell she was pleased.

Saturday, May 1, 10 a.m. the loft

Well. That's it. I'm sixteen. At last. I can now legally have sex in most European countries, including Genovia, and just about every state in America.

Except the one I actually live in.

Oh, yeah, and I can apply for a learner's permit to drive. Which I guess would be a big deal, if I didn't have to go everywhere in a limo, anyway.

Mr. G made real homemade waffles for break- fast, and then he and Mom and Rocky all sat around the table and watched me open my presents from them, which included, from Mom, a vintage Run

Katie Run T-shirt; from Mr. G, an iTunes gift certificate for 50 song downloads (yes!); and from Rocky, a big pile of Mead wide-ruled composition notebooks with black marbled covers, for future journal entries and novel-writing attempts.

Even Fat Louie got me something—a Fiesta Giles action figure to replace the one I sold on eBay to get Michael an original 1977 Star Wars poster last Christmas.

Oh, well.

Mom apologized on Dad's behalf for his not having called or gotten me anything, but said he hadn't forgotten-—he's just been super busy with Parliament.

I said Dad already got me a present—he yelled at Grandmère and got me out of having to be on My Super Royal Sweet Sixteen.

That is a gift for the ages.

Then Michael called and asked if I wanted to have the romantic birthday dinner I'd suggested we have in the first place. I said yes, and went to begin beautifying myself. Because even though our dinner isn't for eight hours, it never hurts to get a head start on the beautifying. Especially if you need a lot of beautifying, the way I do.

I've received birthday e-mails from around the world! Not just from my friends (although I've heard from all of them, too—well, all except for Lilly, but that's no surprise: She's probably still sulking over her big chance at appearing on MTV being blown), but from other royals such as Prince William and some of my Grimaldi cousins, including the one no one even knew I had, another illegitimate royal just like me, only this one courtesy of Prince Albert of Monaco.

But best of all was the CUTEST e-card from Princess Aiko of Japan, my favorite royal of all time (besides my dad, of course), of a chihuahua wearing a tiara.

Just had a lovely afternoon of made-for-TV- movie viewing . . . which is the best way to spend any birthday, if you ask me. Saw a Kellie Martin double feature, Her Last Chance, in which Kellie plays a teen drug addict falsely accused of her boyfriend's murder, and Her Hidden Truth, in which Kellie plays even tell the driver where to go.

But Hans started heading uptown, anyway, like they'd already agreed on their destination.

"Michael," I said, starting to get suspicious.

Actually, I'd already been a little suspicious some- thing might be going on when Mom and Mr. G, right before Michael arrived, had announced they were taking Rocky to see the latest Winnie the Pooh movie over at the Loews Cineplex. I mean, the kid is barely one. And they were taking him to the movies? At night?

But I wasn't thinking about that when the limo started heading uptown without Michael saying any- thing.

"Where are we going?" I asked him.

But he just grinned and took my hand.

It was when the limo hit Midtown that I started getting even more suspicious. Michael can't afford to take me out to eat anywhere in Midtown.

Anywhere I'd want to go, anyway.

And then when the limo pulled up alongside RockefellerCenter, I REALLY started freaking out.

Where could we possibly be going in or around RockefellerCenter? The rink was closed on account of it being too warm now for ice-skating.

Except. . .

Except that as we pulled up to it, I saw that it wasn't. Closed, I mean.

Instead, the skating rink was closed in—with a giant white tent, like the kind people rent for weddings.

Seriously. The rink at RockefellerCenter was covered in a giant white tent. People were standing all around it, taking pictures and pointing, like the tent had just magically mushroomed there overnight.

You couldn't tell what was going on underneath the tent. But you could see there were lights on in there. I thought maybe there was a fashion show, or a special episode of The Apprentice being filmed there, or something.

Except that the limo pulled over right next to the stairs that head down to the rink. And Michael got out of the car, then held the door open for me to follow.

"Michael," I said. "What is going on?"

"Come and see," he said, still grinning.

And he took my hand and led me out of the limo and down the steps to the rink, and the entrance to the big white tent . . .

. . . where a member of the Royal Genovian Secret Service bowed and lifted the flap for us to enter—

—into a winter wonderland! Seriously! Even though it was the first of May, the ice across the rink was hard and smooth! The air inside the tent was chilly—it was being cooled down by about a hundred portable air conditioners! There were snowmakers in every corner sending flurries of white snowflakes into the air . . . snowflakes that were glistening in the hair of this huge group of people standing out on the ice, who all shouted, at the same time, "Happy

Sweet Sixteen, Mia!"

I couldn't believe it! A surprise birthday ice- skating party! There was my mom, and Mr. G, and Rocky, and Lilly, and J. P., and Tina, and Boris, and Shameeka, and the guy Shameeka has been dating this year, and Ling Su, and Perin, and the Drs. Moscovitz, and my neighbor Ronnie, and even, of all people, my DAD!!!

I never suspected that they were planning some- thing . . . something other than Grandmère's horrible My Super Royal Sweet Sixteen thing.

And I certainly never would have expected an ice- skating party on my birthday, seeing as how it's just slightly too warm out for skating!

But trust Michael to find a way to give me EXACTLY what I wanted.

Well, pretty much, anyway.

After I'd screamed at everyone for keeping such a big secret from me, I found out that none of them had actually known about it, except for Michael, who'd come up with the idea and arranged the whole thing, and my mom and Mr. G, who'd been in charge of making sure I was in the dark about it. And my dad, who'd paid for it ... as well as for twenty stationary bikes, which he was donating in my name to AEHS, so we could have spin classes instead of vol- leyball from time to time. . . .

It's not enough to create a personal workout and health program targeted to every student's own specific health needs. But it was a definite start!

Principal Gupta is going to die when they're delivered on Monday.

Everyone had a good laugh over my indignation at Grandmère's plan. "Like I was ever going to let her do any such thing," was what my dad had to say about it (he said he'd tried to invite Grandmère to the skating party, but that she'd declined the invitation. I didn't tell him that was because she's busy taking Andy Milonakis to Genovia. I figured he'll find that out on his own, soon enough).

Even Lilly was like, "You didn't REALLY think I was in on her scheme to put you on MTV, did you?" Um, yeah. I really did. But I didn't tell her that.

Finding out that she really hadn't been was a totally awesome birthday present—but one that made me feel totally terrible when, while we were all chowing down on cake and lacing up our skates, Lilly came over to me and whispered, looking super weird, "I did it. I told him."

At first I didn't think I'd heard her right, because they had the sound system turned up so loud, with Rihanna's "Pon De Replay" blaring. Then I noticed her expression, which was a mixture of dismay and total embarrassment. And I realized what she'd said.

My God. She'd drunk the fat. LILLY DRANK THE FAT!!!!

Even Ross didn't drink the fat when Rachel asked him to. He was GOING to, but at the last minute, she stopped him. . . .

Only I hadn't gotten a chance to stop Lilly from drinking the fat. Because I had never in a million years thought she'd go ahead and do it. I mean, we're best friends, and all.

But that she'd actually gone ahead and DRUNK THE FAT??? I couldn't believe it.

"You TOLD him?" I practically shrieked.

"Shhhh!" Lilly pinched me. A birthday pinch to grow an inch, I guess. "Not so loud! Yes, I told him. That's what you wanted, wasn't it? That's what you said I had to do so you could trust me again. So I did it."

And then I felt the mean little elf that had sprung alive inside me the day before die a quick, ignominious death. What had I been thinking? Why had I asked Lilly to do something so stupid—and humiliating? Telling J. P. she loved him wasn't going to keep her from cheating on him with some other random guy, as she'd done to Boris, or keep her from mortifying me at this, or any other future event. I can't believe I'd asked her to do something so stupid . . . so practically guaranteed to make him run from her like a startled fawn.

But even more, I couldn't believe she'd actually done it.

Glancing over to where J. P.—who was turning out not to be the world's best skater—was being coaxed by Lars to let go of the rink wall, I asked,

"What did he say? When you told him, I mean?"

"Thank you," Lilly said softly.

"You're welcome," I said. "I knew if you were just honest with him about your feelings, it would all work out." I'd actually known no such thing, but it seemed like the right thing to say. "But what did he say?"

"That's just it," Lilly said, still not looking very happy. "He said Thank you."

I blinked at her. "Wait . . . you told J. P. you love him, and all he said back was Thank you?"

Lilly nodded. She still looked . . . funny. Like she didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

And honestly, I didn't know which she should do either.

"Not exactly an explosion of passion, huh?" Lilly said.

"Not exactly," I said. What could J. P. be thinking? Who says Thank you to someone who says they love you? Especially to someone whose tongue has been in your mouth?

Then, because the whole thing was my fault, really, I said, "But it could be, you know, that he didn't know how to reply. I mean, on account of him not being used to having a girlfriend. Or any sort of human interaction, aside from his parents."

Lilly brightened a little. "You think?"

"Totally," I said. And, since Michael had skated up to us at that very moment, I went, "Hey, Michael.