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I stared at her blankly. “Neckline for what?”
Grandmère gave me the evil eye. She does this quite frequently. That’s why my father, even though he has the neighboring hotel suite, never stops by during my princess lessons.
“Sebastiano,” my grandmother said. “You will please leave the princess and me for a moment.”
And Sebastiano—who was wearing a new pair of leather pants, these in a tangerine color (the new gray, he told me; and white, you might be surprised to know, is the new black)—bowed and left the room, followed by the slinky ladies who’d been taking my measurements.
“Now,” Grandmère said imperiously. “Something is clearly troubling you, Amelia. What is it?”
“It’s nothing,” I said, turning all red. I knew I was turning all red because: a) I could feel it, and b) I could see my reflection in the three full-length mirrors in front of me.
“It is not nothing.” Grandmère took in a healthy drag from her Gitanes, even though I have asked her repeatedly not to smoke in my presence, as breathing secondhand smoke can cause just as much lung damage as actually smoking. “What is it? Trouble at home? Your mother and the math teacher fighting already, I suppose. Well, I never expected that marriage to last. Your mother is much too flighty.”
I have to admit, I kind of snapped when she said that. Grandmère is always putting my mother down, even though Mom has raised me pretty much single-handedly and I certainly haven’t gotten pregn
ant or shot anyone yet.
“For your information,” I said, “my mom and Mr. Gianini are blissfully happy together. I wasn’t thinking about them at all.”
“What is it, then?” Grandmère asked in a bored voice.
“Nothing,” I practically yelled. “I just—well, I was thinking about the fact that I have to break up with my boyfriend tonight, that’s all. Not that it’s any of your business.”
Instead of taking offense at my tone, which any self-respecting grandparent would have found insolent, Grandmère only took a sip of her drink and suddenly looked way interested.
“Oh?” she said, in a totally different tone of voice—the same tone of voice she uses when someone mentions a stock tip she thinks might be useful for her portfolio. “What boyfriend is this?”
God, what did I ever do to be cursed with such a grandmother? Seriously. Lilly and Michael’s grandma remembers the names of all their friends, makes them rugelach all the time, and always worries that they’re not getting enough to eat, even though their parents, the Drs. Moscovitz, are wholly reliable at bringing home groceries, or at least ordering out.
Me? I get the grandma with the hairless poodle and the nine-carat diamond rings whose greatest joy in life is to torture me.
And why is that, anyway? I mean, why does Grandmère love to torture me so much? I’ve never done anything to her. Nothing except be her only grandchild, anyway. And it isn’t exactly like I go around advertising how I feel about her. You know, I’ve never actually told her I think she’s a mean old lady who contributes to the destruction of the environment by wearing fur coats and smoking filterless French cigarettes.
“Grandmère,” I said, trying to remain calm. “I have only one boyfriend. His name is Kenny.” I’ve only told you about fifty thousand times, I added, in my head.
“I thought this Kenny person was your Biology partner,” Grandmère said, after taking a sip of her sidecar, her favorite drink.
“He is,” I said, a little surprised that she’d managed to remember something like that. “He’s also my boyfriend. Only last night he went completely schizo on me, and told me he loves me.”
Grandmère patted Rommel, who was sitting in her lap looking miserable (his habitual expression), on the head.
“And what is so wrong,” Grandmère wanted to know, “about a boy who says he loves you?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Only I’m not in love with him, see? So it wouldn’t be fair of me to, you know, lead him on.”
Grandmère raised her painted-on eyebrows. “I don’t see why not.”
How had I ever gotten into this conversation? “Because, Grandmère. People just don’t go around doing things like that. Not nowadays.”
“Is that so? Well, my observations of people are to the contrary. Except, of course, if one happens to be in love with someone else. Then shedding an unwanted suitor might be considered wise, so that one can make oneself available to the man one truly desires.” She eyed me. “Is there someone like that in your life, Amelia? Someone—ahem—special?”
“No.” I lied, automatically.
Grandmère snorted. “You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not.” I lied again.
“Indeed you are. I oughtn’t tell you this, but I suppose as it is a bad habit for a future monarch, you ought to be made aware of it, so that in the future, you can try to prevent it: When you lie, Amelia, your nostrils flare.”
