Notebooks of a Middle-School Princess Bridesmaid-in-Training

by Meg Cabot

  ‘Princesses don’t text at tea!’ she yelled, startling me so badly that I dropped my phone into a nearby potted hydrangea. Fortunately when I managed to fish it out, I found that the screen wasn’t even cracked – well, any more than it already was from when I dropped it a few days before by the pool. So that was all right.

  Then Rommel, Grandmère’s hairless poodle, started barking, and Grandmère had to divert him with a ham sandwich, even though I’ve told her a bunch of times that this is why all Rommel’s fur has fallen out: Dogs aren’t supposed to eat people food.

  This caused enough of a distraction from the argument she and Mia were having for me to ask, ‘Is it true I have to go to school on Monday?’

  ‘School?’ Grandmère raised her painted-on eyebrows very dramatically. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Who said anything about school? We’re much too busy with your sister’s wedding right now to worry about something like school.’

  ‘Grandmère,’ Mia said severely. ‘School is important. Lack of education limits opportunities and prospects, especially for women . . . even princesses.’

  ‘Is that why Nishi just texted me this?’ I asked, showing them my phone (once I’d brushed the dirt from the screen).

  < NishiGirl

  There was just a headline on RateTheRoyals.com: Her Royal Highness Olivia Grace of Genovia will join her regal classmates on Monday for her first day at the Royal Genovian Academy.

  ‘Pfuit!’ Grandmère exclaimed after she read the text. Pfuit is the noise she makes when she’s truly disgusted. ‘This is what passes for news in America? Whatever is the matter with journalists there? Have they nothing to do but focus on us royals? Are there no celebrity couples divorcing at the moment?’

  ‘Grandmère, please,’ Mia said sternly.

  ‘But how can this even be happening?’ I asked. ‘How can reporters know about this if I don’t? It isn’t true, is it? No one mentioned anything to me about starting school on Monday.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Mia said, looking a little ill. According to Nishi – who spends a lot of time online – this is normal when you’re pregnant with twins and suffering from hormones. Only I hope I never get them as bad as Mia, since her hormones cause her to have to run to the royal powder room a lot. ‘I’m afraid it is true, Olivia. With everything going on with the wedding, it completely slipped my mind.’

  ‘What slipped your mind?’ I could feel myself beginning to panic.

  ‘We got a letter here at the palace last month from Madame Alain, the head of the Royal Genovian Academy. The letter said that if you aren’t in class by Monday morning, you’ll be considered truant and dropped from the school’s enrolment . . . permanently.’

  WHAT????

  ‘How dare that woman?’ Grandmère cried. ‘She doesn’t have the authority. Doesn’t she know who we are?’

  ‘Yes, of course she does, Grandmère,’ Mia said. ‘And Madame Alain is right. She says we’re setting a bad example for the rest of the populace by keeping Olivia out of school – unless we’re homeschooling her, which of course we aren’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Grandmère looked angry. ‘Olivia’s learning valuable life lessons by spending her time with me.’

  ‘It’s true!’ I said. ‘Haven’t I been doing a good job at my princess training?’ I gasped, remembering last night’s dinner. ‘Is this because of the water glass?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Mia said. ‘You’ve been doing very well, Olivia. But life lessons aren’t the same as academics, and Dad and Grandmère and I simply don’t have time – or the knowledge – to teach you everything you need to know in order to become a well-rounded Genovian citizen.’

  Grandmère snorted delicately. ‘Speak for yourself, Amelia.’

  Mia gave her a pained look. ‘Certainly we can teach you deportment and diplomacy. But I meant things like maths, literature and science. And while I know the timing isn’t ideal, it probably isn’t the worst thing in the world for you to go to school on Monday. Things here at the palace are getting a little . . . well, hectic, with all of the guests and television crews and reporters arriving.’

  Now I felt a little sick. And it wasn’t from eating too many tea cakes, either (although I’d eaten quite a few).

  ‘Hectic?’ I echoed. ‘I think you mean fun!’

  Suddenly there was a loud TWANG! followed by a THUNK.

  This was because Grandmère had fired off the bow and arrow she’d stolen from Mia’s half-brother, Rocky.

  ‘Drat,’ Grandmère said, lowering the bow. ‘Missed again.’

  ‘Grandmère, please.’ Mia dropped her head into her hands. ‘Please stop shooting arrows at the drones.’

  One thing no one tells you about being royal (besides the fact that a mean lady is going to force you to go to royal school) is that the paparazzi will basically stop at nothing to try to get a picture of you, even fly drones with cameras over the palace walls. They’re always doing this, despite the fact that it’s against the law.

  It’s kind of fun to hit the drones with sticks (or towels, if you happen to be by the pool).

  But Grandmère likes to shoot at them with Rocky’s bow and arrow. She says she enjoys the exercise, and that it’s important to maintain her hand-eye coordination.

  ‘I’ve told you,’ Mia said to Grandmère. ‘The Royal Genovian Guard will take care of the drones. We can’t have you shooting at them yourself. You’re going to hurt someone . . . like my friends, if they ever get back from shopping.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t shooting at a drone,’ Grandmère said matter-of-factly. ‘I was shooting at another one of those hideous creatures.’

  Mia lifted her head sharply. ‘Grandmère! No!’

  ‘Well, what else am I to do, Amelia? They’re simply ravaging my hibiscus, and I want the garden to look beautiful for your wedding.’

  I love animals very much – I want to be a wildlife illustrator some day (if I can do it in between my important work of being a princess).

  But iguanas – which Grandmère calls ‘those hideous creatures’ – are not that cute. There’s a kind-of-cute one that hangs out near the orange tree beneath my bedroom window and is bright green. Since he’s just a baby and iguanas don’t eat citrus, I don’t mind him. I’ve even named him Carlos.

  But the grown-up ones that roam around the Royal Genovian Gardens are bigger than Snowball! And they have long claws, and spikes coming out of their backs, and sometimes they poop right next to the pool or even in it, which is not only disgusting but unhealthy and rude.

  Still, I don’t think Grandmère should be shooting at them, especially with real arrows instead of the rubber-tipped ones Rocky was using to shoot at the busts in the Hall of Portraits (which is how he got his bow taken away from him by his mother in the first place).

  Fortunately for the iguanas – especially Carlos – Grandmère has pretty terrible aim.

  So this particular arrow went sailing harmlessly into the blue-and-white-striped cushion of one of the pool loungers, instead of into the iguana.

  But not before it almost hit one of the footmen in the leg.

  ‘I do beg your pardon, André,’ Grandmère said to the footman as he returned her arrow.

  ‘I quite understand, Your Highness,’ André said with a bow. ‘I find the iguanas a nuisance as well.’

  ‘It isn’t the iguanas’ fault.’ I felt I should remind them. ‘Dad says they aren’t even from around here. Someone must have let a caged pair go, and somehow they ended up here in the Royal Genovian Gardens, where they had babies, and then the babies had babies, and now there are hundreds of iguanas everywhere, having even more babies.’

  ‘Yes!’ Grandmère cried. ‘And eating all of my hibiscus!’

  ‘They’re herbivores, Grandmère,’ Mia said. ‘Flowers are all that iguanas eat. And if Genovia can make room for all of the refugees, certainly we can make room for a few iguanas.’

  ‘The refugees don’t go to the bathroom in my pool, Amelia,’ Grandmère said. ‘And we can�
��t have lizards dropping down from the trees on top of people’s heads during your wedding reception. Everyone will think they’ve stepped into Jurassic World.’

  ‘But you can’t go around shooting at them with a bow and arrow, either,’ Mia said. ‘Someone is going to get seriously injured. Is that what you want, Grandmère?’

  ‘It depends on who it is that I’ve injured.’ Grandmère looked thoughtful.

  ‘I have an idea,’ I said, before Mia could get even more upset. ‘Why don’t I stay here and help Grandmère with the iguanas? That’s a much better idea than my going to royal school. I’ve learned so much more from being around both of you than I ever could in school, anyway. See, I can prove it . . . I’ve been writing down everything you’ve taught me.’

  I opened my notebook and read aloud so that they’d know I’d been paying attention:

  Royals never chew gum in public because that makes them look like a cow chewing cud.

  Royals do not allow their poodle puppies to dig (or bury things they’ve dragged from the kitchen) in the exotic flower beds of the Royal Genovian Gardens, especially considering how few there are left, thanks to the iguanas.

  Royals do not drop things from the top of the Grand Royal Staircase on the fourth floor all the way down to the grand entranceway in the Great Hall as ‘an experiment’ to see whether they will bounce, as the grand entranceway is made of very expensive Carrara marble.

  Royals do not put seven lumps of sugar into their tea. Three is more than adequate.

  Royals never spit food back on to their plates because they don’t like it. They swallow what’s in their mouths, then lay down their forks and sit quietly. When asked why they aren’t eating, instead of saying they dislike the food (since this is an insult to the chef), they should say that they are ‘leaving room for the next course’, which they’ve heard is going to be even more delicious. If they dislike that course as well, they should repeat the advice above until the end of the meal, at which point they should politely thank their host and go home to eat a sandwich.

  Royals do not slide down the Hall of Portraits in their socks during public touring hours.

  Royals send thank-you notes promptly, and in their own handwriting.

  Royals may apply lip gloss at the table, and even sparkle lip balm, but a royal may not ‘fix her braids’ at the table, even a braid that is ‘bothering her’. She must instead retire to the bathroom to do so.

  Royals act confident at all times, even when they least feel it.

  Mia smiled at me kindly. ‘That’s very nice, Olivia. And I understand that you feel insecure about starting a new school. But I’m confident that you’ll love it at the RGA – and learn much more there than you could staying here. In addition to all the regular academic courses, they have art and fencing and self-defence and drama classes – even horseback-riding lessons. It’s not just dance and deportment any more, like it used to be.’

  ‘Ah,’ Grandmère said, a faraway look in her eye, ‘dance and deportment. How well I remember my days at the RGA! My waltzing partner was Prince Wilhelm of Prussia. Such a good-looking boy – unfortunate about his lack of coordination, though. It took months before the feeling came back in my toes.’

  Mia frowned at Grandmère. ‘That isn’t going to happen to Olivia. The RGA is different now. It offers state-of-the-art education for modern young royals. So, Olivia, for a variety of reasons – but mostly because I’ll feel much, much more comfortable about your safety this week if I know you’re there – I’m afraid you’re going to have to add one more thing to your list: Royals go to school, because they understand that education is the key to success in life.’

  I couldn’t believe it, but I didn’t want to seem uncooperative. After all, she’s the bride, and I’m only a junior bridesmaid. Junior bridesmaids are too old to be flower girls, but not old enough yet to be full-fledged bridesmaids . . . though really the only thing bridesmaids can do that junior bridesmaids can’t is drive.

  ‘And,’ my sister added, ‘it’s only for a week. School gets out for the year on Friday.’

  That’s when I said, ‘All right.’ It seemed the gracious thing to do, especially since what bridesmaids are really supposed to do is emotionally support the bride, even if what the bride wants is completely and totally dumb.

  I think Mia must have noticed that’s what I was thinking, since she said, ‘I promise it won’t be so bad, Olivia. And you won’t be alone. Rocky will be going to the RGA, too. Madame Alain sent a letter about him, as well.’

  If this was supposed to make me feel better, it didn’t.

  Technically, Rocky and I have a lot in common, so you’d think we’d get along great.

  Princess Mia is his big sister, too.

  He just had to move to Genovia.

  His dad died, just like my mom died (well, not in the exact same way, but we’re both half-orphans).

  His mom, Helen Thermopolis, and my dad are getting married some day (after the foundation gets fixed).

  But we have a lot more not in common:

  He’s not in line for the throne, so he never has to go to high tea or state dinners.

  He’s nine, and sometimes he really acts like it, if you know what I mean.

  He loves the iguanas and spends hours every day trying to think up ways to catch them (but so far never has, because iguanas can be very quick when they want to be).

  All he ever talks about is dinosaurs, farting and space travel. In that order.

  Even worse, he’s going to be the ring bearer in Mia’s wedding. The ring bearer, unlike a junior bridesmaid, has only one job to do, and that’s walk down the aisle carrying the wedding rings.

  All I can say to that is, if those rings actually make it all the way down the aisle and on to Princess Mia’s and Michael’s fingers, it will be a miracle.

  Whose idea was it to slide down the Hall of Portraits in our socks? Rocky’s.

  Whose idea was it to do the ‘experiment’ and drop all those things from the fourth floor? Rocky’s.

  But did Rocky get in trouble for doing those things? No, because I was there, too, and I took the blame.

  I know I should have been the mature one who said, ‘No. Stop. Let’s not do these things. They’re disrespectful and wrong.’

  But doing them was a tiny bit fun (and also Grandmère loves Rocky almost as much as she loves me, and she thinks his ‘boyish high jinks’ are hilarious).

  Still, finding out that Rocky’s going to the same school as me? Not making anything better, since it means I’m probably only going to get in more trouble.

  Then, though I didn’t think it could be possible, things got even worse!

  ‘Oh, and your cousin Luisa,’ Mia added cheerfully. ‘She goes to the RGA, as well, Olivia. You met her at the bridesmaid gown fitting last month, remember?’

  Remember? How could I forget? Especially since my cousin – three or four times removed – Lady Luisa Ferrari is my same age but looks, talks and acts like she’s in high school, practically.

  I suppose that’s because Lady Luisa is from the Italian side of the family. Italians are very sophisticated. Instead of saying hello or goodbye, they say ciao.

  Of course I only found out that ciao is pronounced ‘chow’, and not ‘kee-yow’, like it’s spelled in books, after I said it wrong in front of Luisa.

  I don’t think it was very polite of Luisa to laugh so hard at my mistake. You’re supposed to try to make newcomers to your country feel welcome, not make fun of them, even when they say or do dumb things because they’re not familiar with your language or culture. That’s one of the many things I’ve learned during my princess lessons (but actually I already knew it, because I’m not rude enough to laugh at other people’s mistakes, unlike some people I could mention).

  ‘You two looked as if you were getting along really well at the fitting, from the way you were laughing,’ Mia went on.

  ‘Ha,’ I said faintly. ‘Sure, yeah, we were.’

  How coul
d Mia not have seen that Luisa was the only one laughing? And that she was laughing at me?

  And that after Luisa got done laughing at me for mispronouncing ciao (which wasn’t my fault), all she’d done the whole rest of the dress fitting was talk non-stop about another one of our distant cousins, Khalil, who is going to be a groomsman.

  Groomsmen are like bridesmaids, only boys. During the wedding, Michael is going to be crowned Mia’s prince consort, so he needs to have as many groomsmen as she has bridesmaids, so it looks as grand as possible. But apparently Michael doesn’t have that many male relatives, so Mia is letting him borrow some of ours.

  Of course, Khalil is the prince of some country I have never heard of. I think it doesn’t even exist any more, due to one of the wars that’s causing all the refugees to flee to safety here in Genovia. That’s why he’s a boarding-school student at the RGA, and why his parents now live in Paris, France.

  I swear, I went from having practically no family to having more cousins (all three and four times removed, so it’s like we’re not even really related, but still) than I can count!

  And all of them are royalty of some kind.

  ‘Prince Khalil is the cutest boy in the RGA.’ Luisa had gone on and on. ‘He is also the tallest, with the thickest, curliest brown hair you’ve ever seen. So we will make the best pair when we dance at the ball after the royal wedding.’

  ‘Oh, Prince Khalil,’ another one of my cousins, Marguerite, had said knowingly. (Marguerite preferred to be called Meg, but Grandmère says nicknames aren’t allowed when you’re royalty.) She pronounced it Kuh-leel, with the emphasis on the leel. ‘He’s cute.’

  ‘But he wants to be a herpetologist,’ said another cousin, Victorine. ‘That’s not cute.’

  ‘Ugh, yes!’ Luisa replied, shuddering. ‘But I will soon cure him of that.’

  I don’t know what a herpetologist is, but I agree it doesn’t sound very cute. Still, the fact that Luisa wants to cure him of it makes me feel a bit sorry for Prince Khalil.