by Meg Cabot
“Okay,” Olivia said faintly. “But I’m only twelve.”
Hoping to distract her—and myself, since I’d been feeling a little teary-eyed since she’d asked about meeting her father—I asked Olivia, “Would you like a soda?” It was the only thing I could think of to say. Who wouldn’t be thirsty after an ordeal like the one we’d just gone through in the parking lot?
“Yes, please,” Olivia said, looking bewildered by her exchange with my friends . . . and no wonder, since they’re psychotic. “So we’re going to New York City right now?”
“Yes,” I said as I was pouring her soda. “That’s not a problem, is it?”
She shook her head, her braids flying.
“I guess not. Dad always said we would meet someday, but not until I was much older.”
I nearly spilled the soda. “He did? When did he say that?”
“In his letters,” she informed me matter-of-factly. “We’ve been writing letters to each other for a long time.”
I couldn’t believe it. My dad, who’d been so freaked out the night before about being Olivia’s sole parent, had been in communication with her this entire time? Well, written communication, but communication just the same. He’d led me to think horrible things about him—that he’d allowed this child to live in total ignorance of his existence—that weren’t even true!
“He gives me all kinds of advice,” Olivia prattled on, accepting the soda I passed her. She certainly isn’t shy, which is definitely a positive if you’re going to be thrust into the international spotlight. “Like he said it was good to keep a diary. He told me it really helps to write down your feelings when you get overwhelmed.”
“Gee, I wonder where he got that idea,” I murmured.
“What do you mean?” she asked curiously.
I hadn’t meant for her to overhear me.
“Oh, nothing. My mom told me to do the same thing—write down my feelings in a diary when I thought I was getting overwhelmed—when I was about your age.”
“Really? Your mom is still alive?”
“Yes. She lives in New York City, too.”
“With our dad?”
My heart, which had been on the verge of melting all afternoon, turned liquid, especially when I glanced at her face and saw that her expression had suddenly become guarded. I had no idea what Dad had told her in his letters, but obviously nothing about me, and clearly very little about himself.
“No, Olivia,” I said. “Our dad and my mom split up a long time ago—right after I was born. Dad is single. He doesn’t live with anyone.”
“Except his mother,” Lilly added darkly.
Olivia didn’t seem to hear her, however. She said, staring out the window at the trees whizzing by along I-95, “It makes sense that he doesn’t live with anyone. Probably the death of my mother, who was very beautiful, still haunts him to this day. That’s most likely why he never wanted to see me before, because I look so much like her, and the sight of me would be too painful a reminder of his lost love.”
I was so astonished by this, I didn’t know how to reply. I don’t think I’d ever seen Lilly clap a hand over her mouth so quickly to keep herself from bursting into laughter.
“Oh!” Tina whispered. “The sweet thing. The sweet little thing!”
Olivia looked away from the window and back toward us, completely oblivious to the fact that she’d sent one of us into near-hysterical gales of laughter and the other into near-tears. I was torn between both.
Olivia’s expression was stormy. “I understand now why Aunt Catherine said I’m not allowed to go there.”
“Go where?” I asked. “To meet your father? Your aunt and I talked about that, Olivia, and we decided that it was okay.” Well, not in so many words, but whatever.
“No, go to New York,” she said. She took a big swallow of soda. It was clear she liked the stuff. We had so much in common already. “My aunt always said New York is too dirty and dangerous for kids. But I can see now that she probably never wanted me to go there because I might run into my dad, and then I’d find out I’m really a princess, and seeing me would probably cause him emotional damage.”
I thought it best to avoid this last topic—especially since it sent Lilly into peals of laughter that she didn’t even bother to hide—and instead asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up (which was both ridiculous and pathetic, because obviously now she’s going to be a princess, and I’ve told myself a million times to stop asking kids what they want to be when they grow up and here I was doing it to my own sister).
But Olivia was all too happy to show me, flipping through her “diary”—actually a notebook—where she’d sketched many cats, horses, and—for unknown reasons—kangaroos.
“I want to be a wildlife illustrator,” she said, explaining that this was one of the reasons she’d always wanted to go to New York City. “They’re the artists who draw all the animals on the plaques outside the exhibits at the zoos and on websites and in books and stuff. It’s a dying industry, thanks to photography, but I’m pretty sure I can make it because I’ve always gotten really good grades in art. My teacher says I’ve just got to keep practicing.”
“Well,” I said, impressed. I mean, really, how many other twelve-year-old girls want to be wildlife illustrators? My little sister is obviously superior. “I think it’s about time you got to go to New York City, then, because we need more wildlife illustrators in this world.”
“We really do,” Tina burst out excitedly.
“Definitely,” Lilly agreed. “You can meet your grandmother, too. I know she’s going to be very excited to meet you, and hear all about wildlife illustration.”
I shot her a warning look, but it was too late. Olivia was already asking what kind of cooking our grandmother enjoys. “My best friend Nishi’s grandmother makes authentic Indian samosas and chicken tikka masala every Sunday night.”
Lilly choked on the cocktail she’d prepared for herself. “Yeah, Mia,” she said. “Tell your sister about the home-cooked meals your grandma loves to make on Sunday night. What’s her favorite ingredient again? Bourbon?”
“No,” I said, more to Lilly than to Olivia. “Our grandmother doesn’t cook. But she has many other talents. She’s very . . .”
How to describe Grandmère? For once, words failed me. And that’s saying a lot, because besides filling pages and pages of diaries like this one, I got A’s on every essay test I took in college, and occasionally they were described by my professors as examples of “exemplary work.” Well, okay, once.
“Your grandmother is very knowledgeable,” Tina said, finally.
Well, that’s certainly true.
“That sounds good,” Olivia said, pulling a sheet of paper from her backpack, which seemed to be filled with endless amounts of them. “Because we’ve been doing genealogy in my biology class, and I had to leave all these spaces blank on my work sheet because I didn’t know the answers. I was going to write to Dad to ask, but I knew by the time I heard back, the work sheet would be overdue. Maybe my grandmother could help me fill them out?”
I looked down at the work sheet. “Who Am I?” it read across the top in bold lettering.
Lots of people go through life not having the slightest idea what names to put in the blanks on their “Who Am I?” work sheets, and they aren’t bothered in the least by it. What does it even matter, anyway? You can get your blood tested now and find out what you have the genetic tendency for.
But it seemed terrible that my own sister shouldn’t know.
“And the truth is,” Olivia was going on, prattling with perfect ease, like she’d known me her entire life, “I sort of would like to know a few things for my own personal interest, like if diabetes runs in my family, and heart disease. Aunt Catherine never would tell me anything about my dad, just that he was too busy to take care of me because his work was so important. I understand that now, he has to run a whole country. But maybe”—Olivia had dug a pen from her backpack, along wi
th the work sheet—“you know some of these answers? It’s due tomorrow, and it’s worth twenty-five percent of my total grade.”
“Oh, God,” I heard Tina whisper. I think about the aunt saying “Dad was too busy” to take care of Olivia, which caused my heart to break a little as well.
Lilly, however, only shook her head and said, “Yep. She’s your sister all right, Thermopolis,” probably as a result of Olivia’s concern about the possible diseases she might have inherited from the Renaldo side of the family, which I frowned at her for, both because Olivia’s worries are well founded (who isn’t worried about diabetes?) and also because I am not that much of a hypochondriac.
• Note to self: Remember to look up later on iTriage what could be causing my boobs to hurt so much. They’ve been killing me for days. Could it be a side effect of all the magnesium?
“Well, fortunately I’m here to help you now,” I said to Olivia. “Shall we get started?”
“Yes!” Olivia smiled so broadly that I only just noticed the bright turquoise bands she has on her back teeth. “That would be great!”
So that’s the homework we’re doing. Filling in all the missing information on her “Who Am I?” work sheet as François drives us back to New York so that Olivia can meet her father (and grandmother), and maybe even go to the Central Park Zoo to see some of the wildlife illustrations there, if there’s time.
• Note to self: Are there even illustrations on the plaques there? I’ve spent a lot of time at the zoo, but I’ve never noticed—because I was always too busy feeling traumatized from finding out I was a princess (or dealing with various other crises)—the signage.
I’m letting Olivia eat all the junk food she wants out of the minibar, and not just because she said, “Aunt Catherine doesn’t let me have sugar.”
(Tina disapproves, since “sugar really isn’t that good for children, or anyone,” but as Lilly put it, “How often do you find out you’re a princess? The kid ought to celebrate while she can, since I imagine her entire world is about to fall apart very, very soon.”)
This, like the rest of the day—this whole week, actually—is probably going to be a disaster.
But oh, well.
What else is new?
CHAPTER 53
4:35 p.m., Wednesday, May 6
Limo back to New York City
Rate the Royals Rating: 7
Michael just phoned. It hasn’t taken long at all for the [REDACTED] to hit the fan.
Well, I sort of suspected that already, since Dominique stopped screaming long enough when she phoned earlier to say:
“I will take care of everything. Do not speak to anyone. Do not stop the car to eat, or even to go to the toilettes. Do not answer your telephone unless eet eez someone you know.”
“Uh . . .” I’d said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, you have done quite enough,” Dominique said crisply, and hung up.
Publicists are a lot like cats: super lovable until you cross them. Then the claws come out.
Michael’s the one who let me know what was going on:
“Are you aware that someone posted a photo of you with a child they’re calling ‘Princess Mia’s illegitimate sister’ on social media a little while ago, and the post has been picked up by just about every news outlet in the western hemisphere?”
“Ugh,” I said. I couldn’t show too much emotion about it with Olivia sitting there beside me. We’d finished her “Who Am I?” work sheet and had begun her math homework (or rather, Olivia has begun it, with Lilly and Tina giving her occasional help when she asks. I have no idea how to multiply and divide fractions. Why do they even make children learn this when there are calculators? Although some of them—like Olivia, apparently—want to do it).
“Oh, well,” I went on. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”
“Mia, I just had two agents from the RGG show up in my office,” Michael said. “They say I’ve been assigned extra security due to anonymous threats from people who don’t approve of interracial relationships that result in illegitimate princesses.”
“Well, that is just ridiculous.”
I glanced over at Lars but saw that, like any highly trained bodyguard, he was already in contact with the office, murmuring swiftly in French about the danger public.
“Mia, I know it’s ridiculous, that’s not why I’m calling. I’m worried about you. Where are you?”
“Michael, I’m fine, I’m still in the car. I’m so, so sorry about all this—”
“Don’t be sorry. Obviously it isn’t your fault. But where are you going?”
“Home.” I tried to keep my tone breezy so as not to alarm anyone else in the car. “Olivia wants to meet her father.” Olivia looked up at the sound of her name and smiled at me. I smiled back. Breezy. Everything was breezy.
“Her father?” Michael echoed. “Do you even know where your father is right now?”
“No, as a matter of fact I don’t. I’ve been trying to reach him all day, but he won’t pick up my calls or return my messages—”
“Of course not, cell phones are prohibited in the courthouse. Everyone knows that. Haven’t you ever served on jury duty?”
“No,” I said, a little defensively. “Remember? I wanted to but they waived my summons because they were afraid it would be too much of a media circus if I showed up—wait, he’s in court?”
“Yes, you didn’t know? I just saw a clip of him on New York One, headed up the courthouse steps with his lawyers. His case was finally called today. He wore his ceremonial dress uniform, including his sword. They confiscated it, of course.”
Obviously I didn’t know. No one ever tells me anything.
I signaled to Lilly to check her phone. She did so, casually keeping the screen from Olivia’s view. Olivia had informed us that her aunt Catherine said she isn’t “allowed to have a phone,” though her stepcousins, Justin and Sara, each have one, as well as a tablet and laptop.
(The list of items Olivia is not allowed, besides sugar, cell phones, and trips to New York City, is long and somewhat curious, and makes me question her aunt’s parenting skills somewhat, although I realize, not having children, I have no right to judge. The list includes:
No pierced ears.
No bedtime any later than 9:30 p.m., “even on weekends.”
No books above a sixth-grade reading level, which is problematic since Olivia “is reading at an eighth-grade level,” or so she proudly informed us.
No pets of any kind, as “Uncle Rick is allergic.”
No shoes inside the house.
No friends over, as “they might bother Uncle Rick.”
No going online, except for homework.
No video games—too violent.
No gluten—although neither Olivia nor anyone else in the O’Toole household has been diagnosed with celiac disease or a gluten intolerance.
No television shows that haven’t been rated okay for kids eleven or under.
No Boris P. “Too sexy.”)
Tina was so profoundly upset by this list (especially the part about no adult books and Boris being considered “too sexy”) that she handed Olivia her phone, which was encrusted with pink crystals, and of course loaded with Boris P. videos.
“Here,” Tina said. “You can have this until you get your own.”
Olivia was delightedly shocked, and cried, “Thank you, Aunt Tina!”
I was shocked, too, but probably not for the same reason as my sister.
“Tina,” I hissed. “You don’t have to give her your phone. We’ll get her one. Besides, what are you going to use?”
Tina pulled another phone from her enormous Tiffany-blue tote. “Don’t worry about it. That’s my game and music phone. This is my real phone.” This one was Bedazzled in zebra-stripe crystals.
Lilly turned her own phone toward me. She’s trying hard not to swear in my little sister’s presence, so all she said was, “Zoinks.”
The main
page to TMZ (now no longer one of the nation’s leading gossip sites, but its leading breaking-news site) had split its screen so that one half showed a photo of my dad outside the Manhattan courthouse, and the other a photo of me taken outside Cranbrook Middle School, surrounded by Olivia’s classmates.
“Prince Meets the Judge,” screamed my dad’s half.
“Princess Meets Her Sister?” screamed mine.
My heart dropped.
“Mia? Are you still there?” Michael asked in my ear.
“Of course I’m still here,” I said.
“Have you and your father ever considered coordinating your efforts?” he asked. “Because if you teamed up, you might possibly be able to take over the world.”
A little harsh, but not totally off base. “Point taken. In my own defense, though, I never meant in a million years for any of this to happen—”
“Of course you didn’t,” he said, his tone softening. “You never do. So, what’s she like?”
I glanced at Olivia, who was still bent over her fractions, the tip of her tongue sticking out slightly from between her teeth.
“Amazing,” I said warmly.
“Good. Why don’t I try to make a few phone calls and see if I can reach your dad? There’s a guy who plays World of Warcraft who works in the IT department at the courthouse. I think I can get your message delivered.”
“Oh my God, could you? That would be great—”
My heart got the rosy glow in it that it always did when Michael did or said something particularly wonderful—or even when he simply walked into the room. He really is the most spectacular man on earth.
Then I remembered something.
“Oh, but if you do reach his lawyers and they ask you about signing a prenup,” I added in a whisper, “just ignore them. I told them we weren’t doing that.”
“I will do no such thing,” he said, sounding offended. “A prenup makes good fiscal sense.”
“Michael!”
“What? It’s a good idea for both of us to protect our personal assets.”
“Oh, God.” I dropped my head into one of my hands. “Your mother was right.”
