Royal Crush

by Meg Cabot

  But that’s royal life, I guess.

  It wasn’t until Paolo was putting the last drop of Moroccan oil on my hair that I thought to ask, “Oh, what are they? The babies, I mean? Two girls, right?”

  That’s when I found out the news that caused the bottom to drop out of my world, and the second reason I feel so terrible:

  “Oh, Principessa,” Paolo said. “Your sister, she has had one of each! A little girl and a little boy! It is a joyous day, no?”

  Uh, no. Joyous for everyone else, maybe.

  But not for me.

  Tuesday, November 24

  11:05 A.M.

  Royal Genovian Academy World Languages

  Wow. Wow.

  I know Grandmère would want me to think of something more descriptive to say than “Wow” about the two newest members of my family.

  But “Wow” is all I can come up with at the moment.

  On Call the Midwife, when women have babies, they come out looking all adorably cute and smiley (if a bit slimy).

  But when I peeked over the side of the blankets Mia and Michael were holding, I didn’t see anything cute. All I saw was a tiny, red-faced, screaming little monster.

  I know. I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to say this. Especially about a member of the royal family … especially not my family.

  And I never would say it out loud. I would only write it here, which is what journals are for: expressing your innermost thoughts and feelings.

  But believe me, I wasn’t the only one who thought this.

  “Oh … my.”

  Grandmère had to take her diamond-framed eyeglasses out of the pocket of her mink sports vest to give her first great-grandchildren a second look before she could even bring herself to speak.

  “Aren’t they just beautiful?” Mia cooed from her hospital bed, cradling her daughter.

  “Er, yes,” Grandmère said, having to raise her voice to be heard over the screaming of the newest heirs to the throne. “I suppose beautiful is one word that could be used to describe them.…”

  “The most beautiful babies in the world,” Michael agreed, staring, googly-eyed, down at his angrily shrieking son.

  I guess when you’re a parent—if you’re a good one—you love your kids no matter what. You love them so much, you don’t even notice when they look (in Rocky’s words) “like sunburned praying mantises.”

  (Fortunately he only said this in the car on our way to school, not in the hospital room with Mia and her mom and Dad and Michael and the nurses and the royal photographer all standing there.)

  “And what have you decided to name these, er, beautiful creatures?” Grandmère screamed over all the crying.

  “Oh, we haven’t decided yet,” Mia said, gazing adoringly down into her baby’s roaring little face.

  “You … haven’t … decided … yet?” Grandmère repeated.

  “No,” Mia said. “They have such amazing little personalities, don’t they, Michael?”

  “Yes,” Michael said. “They do.”

  When she smiled over the blue bundle that Michael was holding, I could have sworn that the little face in that bundle stopped howling for a minute and smiled back—even though I know from my extensive reading about babies (in preparation for when I might have to babysit my niece and nephew, even though of course they’ll have a full-time nanny) that newborns don’t smile—at least on purpose—for a few weeks after birth.

  “None of the names we picked out for them fit,” Mia went on. “We’re going to need to spend more time with them before we decide which names do. Aren’t we?” she asked the shrieking baby in her arms. “Aren’t we, my little precious one?”

  I guess the baby said yes, because that’s what Mia and Michael have decided to do.

  In the hospital room, Rocky and Grandmère and I all said we thought this was a really great idea.

  But later, in the limo on the way back to school, Rocky grumbled, “I think the names I suggested—Princess Ninja Quest and Prince Star Fighter—were perfect. I don’t know why Mia and Michael didn’t like them.”

  Grandmère said she didn’t know why Mia and Michael didn’t like the names she suggested, either.

  “What is so wrong with Clarisse?” she asked. “Or Phillipe? So simple. So elegant. Why can’t they name the babies Clarisse and Phillipe and be done with it?”

  “I know, Grandmère,” I said, patting her on the shoulder, because I could tell she was upset. “I’m sure they’ll use your suggestions as middle names, at least.”

  “Middle names!” Grandmère sniffed. “I’m tired of having my perfectly good first name always used as a middle name!”

  Meanwhile, Rocky was concerned about something else. “What about the babies’ heads, Grand-mère? Will they stay that pointy forever?”

  You could tell from his voice that he thought it might be cool if they did.

  “Don’t be absurd. They should begin to look more normal in a few days. Although, come to think of it, Phillipe took considerably longer. But he was a particularly hideous baby—and huge. Ten pounds. Your grandfather gave me this sapphire ring when he was born to thank me. Isn’t it lovely?”

  Rocky and I agreed that the ring was lovely. “And big, too.”

  “Of course it’s big,” Grandmère said. “One carat for every pound your father weighed at birth. Although, truthfully, thanks to the advent of laughing gas, I didn’t feel a thing. When I had your father, the nurse strapped the mask onto me, handed me a copy of Vogue, and ten minutes later, out popped the new heir to the throne of Genovia.”

  Honestly, I’ve heard more about childbirth today than I’ve ever cared to. I’m happy I’m an aunt because that means I’ll get to experience babies without having to have one myself, which is fine by me for now.

  “Still, it’s extraordinary how many attractive people there are in the world who started out life as repulsively ugly babies,” Grandmère went on. “In my experience, the more beautiful the child, the uglier the adult he or she grows up to be—not necessarily on the outside, of course. More often on the inside.”

  This is an interesting theory. I’m pretty sure it applies to my cousin Lady Luisa Ferrari, who is the most beautiful girl in my whole school (in her own opinion, anyway).

  But she’s also one of the most annoying people I’ve ever met (though I’ve been trying to teach her not to be).

  Take right now, for instance. She sits behind me in World Languages and won’t stop bombarding me with notes.

  Your birthday ball this weekend better not be canceled because of those dumb babies! My grandmother got me a genuine red floor-length ball gown by Claudio, and Prince Gunther will be wearing a matching red tie and cummerbund. So I don’t want them to go to waste!

  And what are the twins’ names? I know you know!

  Lady Luisa Ferrari

  This just bounced into my lap. (Since we’re not allowed to use our cell phones during class, Luisa didn’t want to risk detention by texting me. Passing notes was far less risky.)

  I turned in my seat to glare at her. Luisa glared right back, then mouthed, Tell me!

  Everyone in school—everyone in the whole world, practically—knows that the royal twins have been born and what sexes they are.

  It hasn’t yet been officially announced that Michael and Mia have no idea what to call them. Rocky and I have been sworn to secrecy.

  I turned Luisa’s note over and began writing on the back of it:

  Yes, of course we’re still having the ball—why wouldn’t we?

  For my thirteenth birthday, my family is throwing me a gigantic ball. This is apparently what happens when you’re a princess and you turn thirteen.

  Personally, I would rather have had a pool party. But Grandmère said princesses don’t have pool parties (except for less formal occasions).

  So a ball is what I’m getting. Everyone in my whole school, practically, is invited, including Prince Khalil.

  He RSVP’d yes, but I’m almost 100 percent
sure he isn’t going to ask me to dance. Which is fine. It really is. I swear.

  I continued writing:

  But even if my ball did get canceled, I don’t see why you and Prince Gunther wouldn’t be able to wear your Claudio creations somewhere else—unless you two break up due to one of your fights or something.

  And no, I won’t tell you the twins’ names. You’ll have to wait until the official announcement, like everyone else.

  Princess Olivia

  Then I tossed the note back to her, after first making sure that Monsieur Chaudhary (he is subbing for Madame Chi, who is out sick today with La Grippe) wasn’t looking.

  Luisa caught the note, read it, turned very red in the face, and then scribbled furiously on a new slip of paper,

  Of course we could wear our Claudios somewhere else. We just don’t happen to have any more balls on our schedule at the moment.

  And what do you mean, “one of our fights”? Prince Gunther and I never fight!!! We are totally and completely in love in a way that you are too immature to understand.

  And get over yourself, Your Royal Highness. I’m FAMILY. And that means I should find out the names of the royal babies early (they’re my RELATIVES).

  You never want to have fun: Stop being such a stick-in-the-mud, or I’m going to start calling you by a new nickname—STICK!

  Lady Luisa Ferrari

  I pressed my lips together. Stick? Was she kidding? That was even worse than the nickname she used to call me, Kee-yow (because I once mispronounced the word ciao. How was I supposed to know it was pronounced chow and not kee-yow?).

  Of all my cousins—and when you’re royal, people will come up with the slightest excuse to go on those ancestry Web sites to prove that they’re related to you, so I have hundreds, if not thousands—Lady Luisa Ferrari is the worst.

  She is also the snobbiest, the biggest liar, and the most dramatic. She’s calling me immature? Talk about immature! She and Prince Gunther fight all the time!

  They break up about twice a week, usually for the dumbest reasons imaginable, like because Prince Gunther didn’t text Luisa back within five seconds of her texting him, or because Prince Gunther did something Luisa considers “immature” (something she calls me all the time, too).

  But I happen to know (because Grandmère told me) that everyone grows and matures at their own rate.

  And no one should be made to feel inferior for not maturing at the same rate as their peers, the way Luisa tries to make me (and Prince Gunther) feel!

  So sometimes when Luisa complains to me about Prince Gunther’s immature behavior, I just laugh (to myself. It is rude to mock another person’s behavior, no matter how heinous. A true royal is merely inwardly amused by it, according to my grandmother).

  I know it’s not very royal of me to find the fact that my cousin and Prince Gunther break up all the time amusing, but I can’t help it. Maybe Luisa is right, and I am immature.

  But I’m definitely not a stick-in-the-mud! I like to have fun. I had more fun than anyone over the summer, learning to take my pony, Chrissy, over jumps, playing floating table tennis with my stepbrother, Rocky, or Michael or my dad or my new stepmom, Helen Thermopolis, or even Prince Khalil (the few times he came over before his country imploded), and watching teen movies with my sister, Mia.

  I was writing back:

  Yes, you are family, Luisa, which means you should be more understanding, and also that you shouldn’t call me stupid names such as Stick—

  when the voice of Madame Alain herself came on over the school intercom.

  “Excuse me, Your Royal Majesties, Highnesses, Graces, lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” she said. “I have a special announcement to make. First, I would like to say congratulations to our own Princess Olivia and the rest of the royal family on the historic birth of the new heirs to the throne of Genovia.”

  Everyone in class turned toward me and began to applaud—which is ridiculous, because I hadn’t done anything.

  But one of the rules of being royal is that you’re supposed to accept compliments graciously—Grandmère says it’s rude to say “Oh, please, stop,” or “Me? No, you’re the one with the great hair” or whatever.

  So I stood up, murmured “Thank you” in the native languages of my various classmates (something else I’d practiced all summer), and sat down again, aware that Prince Khalil was one of the people applauding the loudest and smiling the most at me.

  Well, I guess that made sense. I had taken Grandmère’s advice (even though Dad had called it melodramatic nonsense) and made a special effort to be kind to him … if you could call telling someone in the class cloakroom while hanging up your coat that you’re pretty sure you saw a Karpathos frog in the Royal Genovian Gardens the night before being kind.

  “A Karpathos frog?” Prince Khalil’s dark eyebrows had flown up. “Are you sure? Because those are native to a tiny island in Greece. And they’re critically endangered. It would be extremely unlikely to find one here in Genovia.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” I’d said.

  I was sure, too. I had seen a frog in the gardens last night.

  It just probably wasn’t a Karpathos frog.

  But it had been worth it to lie, since some of the sadness had left Prince Khalil’s eyes. He’d even smiled a little.

  Mia says it’s all right to lie if the lie makes someone feel better.

  Unfortunately our discussion of the Karpathos frog I may or may not have seen in the Royal Genovian Gardens didn’t last very long since my cousin Luisa chose that moment to come bursting into the cloakroom, demanding to know if we’d seen a solid-gold Chanel cell phone case she’d dropped earlier that morning. That kind of thing tends to put a damper on any conversation.

  Meanwhile, Madame Alain’s announcements buzzed on and on.

  “Secondly, I regret to inform you that while we did receive enough permission slips this morning to keep from canceling our trip to the Royal School Winter Games this year, we do not have enough chaperones.”

  There was a gasp from some of the people in class when she said this. Well, from one person, really: Prince Gunther.

  “The only way we’ll be able to approve this trip is for those of you who’ve signed up to please ask your parents, legal guardians, and other relatives over the age of eighteen to consider chaperoning. I understand that many of them might be suffering from La Grippe at the moment, but if they are healthy enough—and noncontagious—we would certainly appreciate it. All expenses for the trip will, of course, be paid by the Royal Genovian Academy athletic association, and as Stockerdörfl truly is a winter wonderland this time of year, there is no doubt that they will enjoy it.”

  I heard snickering and turned my head to see where it was coming from. Some of the boys—specifically the 12th Duke of Marborough and the 17th Marquis of Tottingham—were repeating “Stocker-dörfl” and “winter wonderland” and laughing.

  The words did sound kind of funny if you said them out loud.

  Prince Gunther, seated a couple of desks away, did not find them that way, however. He’d begun beaming with pride the moment the name of his hometown—Stockerdörfl—was mentioned, but now he was frowning at the snickering boys.

  “It’s not funny, guys,” he whispered. “Stockerdörfl really is beautiful this time of year. And you know that the Winter Games are very important. We’ve got to go. We have to win! We’ve got to beat TRAIS!”

  The boys who’d been laughing at the word “Stockerdörfl” now laughed at Prince Gunther. “Oh, do vee? Do vee haf to vin ze Vinter Games?”

  Because Prince Gunther is from Austria and English is his second language, he has a bit of an accent. His w’s sound like v’s and his v’s sound like f’s. Also, because his parents travel a lot, he’s a boarding student at the RGA, and the school has become his second home. He loves it almost as much as he loves his native Stockerdörfl.

  But that’s no reason to make fun of him.

  “How wery important are they, Your Highne
ss?” the 12th Duke of Marborough taunted him.

  Prince Khalil looked up from the book he was reading on the care and keeping of leopard geckos and said, “Cut it out, Marby.”

  The Duke of Marborough did cut it out. Because Prince Khalil is the most popular boy in our class, and when he says something, everyone listens and does what he says without even questioning it—even the teachers. He has one of those personalities.

  Or it could be the haunting look of loss in his eyes.

  “Sorry, Leel,” Roger—that’s the 12th Duke of Marborough’s real name—said, using Prince Khalil’s nickname—his name is pronounced Kuh-LEEL. Most of the boys call him Leel for short, which I guess is better than Kuh. It is certainly better than Stick.

  “Yeah, sorry,” Tots, the Marquis of Tottingham, said, and Prince Khalil nodded to him and went back to his book. Even Monsieur Chaudhary, who’d been about to shout at all of them, relaxed back into his seat.

  The situation was handled.

  “If I do not receive the name of at least one more volunteer chaperone by six o’clock this evening,” Madame Alain continued, “the athletes from this school will not be attending the Winter Games tomorrow for the first time in their one-hundred-and-fifty-year existence, which will be a sad disappointment for all of you. And that is because if this school does not have a delegation on the train to Stockerdörfl tomorrow, you will all be spending the day writing an eight-hundred-word essay entitled ‘The True Meaning of School Spirit, and How I Failed Myself—and My Classmates.’”

  There was a good deal of moaning in the language lab at this—but none of it from me.

  Because I would much rather write an eight-hundred-word essay on my lack of school spirit than go to some ski resort in the Alps and miss seeing my brand-new niece and nephew come home from the hospital (especially since that’s when their heads are going to stop being pointy, and they are going to start being cute, according to my research).

  Although now that I think about it, maybe this does sort of make me sound like a stick-in-the-mud.