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Biology: ???
God, just because a boy might like me, I completely lose my head. I disgust myself.
Thursday Night
Grandmère says: “Well, of course the boy likes you. What wouldn’t he like? You are turning out very well, thanks to Paolo’s handiwork and my tutelage.”
Geez, Grandmère, thanks. Like it would be impossible for any guy to like me for me, and not because all of a sudden I’m a princess with a $200 haircut.
I think I sort of hate her.
I mean it. I know it’s wrong to hate people, but I really do sort of hate my grandmother. At least, I strongly dislike her. I mean, besides the fact that she’s totally vain and thinks only about herself, she’s also kind of mean to people.
Like tonight, for instance:
Grandmère decided that for my lesson today we would go to dinner somewhere outside of the hotel so she could teach me how to deal with the press. Only there wasn’t a whole lot of press around when we went outside, just some kid reporter from Tiger Beat, or something. I guess all the real reporters had gone home to get their dinner. (Plus it’s no fun for the press to stalk you when you’re ready for them. It’s only when you least expect them that they come around. This is how they get their kicks, at least as far as I can figure out.)
Anyway, I was pretty happy about this, because who needs the press around, yelling questions and setting off flashbulbs in your face? Believe me, as it is, I see big purple splotches everywhere I go.
But then as I was getting into the car Hans had brought around, Grandmère said, “Wait one moment,” and went back inside. I thought maybe she’d forgotten her tiara or something, but she came back out a minute later looking no different than before.
But then, when we pulled up in front of the restaurant, which was the Four Seasons, there were all these reporters there! At first I thought somebody important had to be inside, like Shaquille O’Neal or Madonna, but then they all started taking pictures of me and yelling “Princess Amelia, how does it feel to grow up in a single-parent household, then find out your mom’s ex has three hundred million dollars?” and “Princess, what kind of running shoes do you wear?”
I totally forgot my whole fear of confrontation thing. I was mad. I turned to Grandmère in the car, and I said, “How did they know we were coming here?”
Grandmère just dug around in her purse for her cigarettes. “Now, what did I do with that lighter?” she asked.
“You called them, didn’t you?” I was so mad, I could hardly even see straight. “You called and told them we were coming here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Grandmère said. “I had no time to call all these people.”
“You didn’t have to. You’d just have to call one, and they’d all follow. Grandmère, why?”
Grandmère lit her cigarette. I hate when she smokes in the car. “This is an important part of being a royal, Amelia,” she said between puffs. “You must learn to handle the press. Why are you taking on so?”
“You’re the one who told all that stuff to Carol Fernandez.” I said it totally calm.
“Of course I did,” Grandmère said, with a kind of So, what? shrug.
“Grandma,” I yelled. “How could you?”
She looked totally taken aback. She said, “Don’t call me Grandma.”
“Seriously,” I yelled. “Dad thinks Mr. Gianini did it! He and Mom had this totally big fight about it. She said it was you, but he wouldn’t believe her!”
Grandmère blew cigarette smoke out of her nostrils. “Phillipe,” she said, “always was incredibly naïve.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m telling him. I’m telling him the truth.”
Grandmère just waved a hand, as if to say Whatever.
“Seriously,” I said. “I’m telling him. He’s going to be really mad at you, Grandmère.”
“He won’t. You needed the practice, darling. That piece in the Post was only the beginning. Soon you’ll be on the cover of Vogue, and then—”
“Grandmère!” I yelled. “I DO NOT WANT TO BE ON THE COVER OF VOGUE! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND? I JUST WANT TO PASS THE NINTH GRADE!”
Grandmère looked a little startled. “Well, all right, darling, all right. You needn’t shout.”
