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French: l’examen pratique
Biology: practice test
Thursday, December 11, 9 p.m.
Grandmère is seriously out of control. Tonight she started quizzing me on the names and responsibilities of all of my dad’s cabinet ministers. Not only do I have to know exactly what they do, but also their marital status and the names and ages of their kids, if any. These are the kids I am supposedly going to have to hang out with while celebrating Christmas at the palace. I am figuring they will probably hate me as much, if not more, than Mr. Gianini’s niece and nephew hated me at Thanksgiving.
All of my holidays from now on are apparently going to be spent in the company of kids who hate me.
You know, I would just like to say that it is totally not my fault I am a princess. They have no right to hate me so much. I have done everything I could to maintain a normal life in spite of my royal status. I have totally turned down opportunities to be on the covers of CosmoGirl, Teen People, Seventeen, YM, and Girl’s Life. I have refused invitations to go on TRL and introduce the number-one video in the country, and when the mayor asked if I wanted to be the one to press the button that drops the ball in Times Square on New Year’s Eve, I said no (aside from the fact I am going to be in Genovia for New Year’s, I oppose the mayor’s mosquito spraying campaign, as runoff from the pesticides used to kill the mosquitos that may be carrying the West Nile virus has infected the local horseshoe crab population. A compound in the blood of horseshoe crabs, which nest all along the eastern seaboard, is used to test the purity of every drug and vaccine administered in the U.S. The crabs are routinely gathered, drained of a third of their blood, then re-released into the sea . . . a sea which is now killing them as well as many other arthropods, such as lobsters, thanks to the amount of pesticide in it).
Anyway, I am just saying, all the kids who hate me should just chill, because I have never once sought the spotlight I have been thrust into. I’ve never even called my own press conference.
But I digress.
So Sebastiano was there, drinking aperitifs and listening as I rattled off name after name (Grandmère has made flashcards out of the pictures of the cabinet ministers—kind of like those bubble gum cards you can get of the Backstreet Boys, only the cabinet ministers don’t wear as much leather). I was kind of thinking maybe I was wrong about Sebastiano’s commitment to fashion, and that maybe Sebastiano was there to try and pick up some pointers for after he’s thrust me into the path of an oncoming limo or whatever.
But when Grandmère paused to take a phone call from her old friend General Pinochet, Sebastiano started asking me all these questions about clothes, in particular what clothes my friends and I like to wear. What were my feelings, he wanted to know, on velvet stretch pants? Spandex tube tops? Sequins?
I told him all of that sounded, you know, okay for Halloween or Jersey City, but that generally in my day-to-day life I prefer cotton. He looked saddened by this, so I told him that I really felt orange was going to be the next pink, and that perked him right up, and he wrote a bunch of stuff down in this notebook he carries around. Kind of like I do, now that I think about it.
When Grandmère got off the phone, I informed her—quite diplomatically, I might add—that, considering how much progress we’d made in the past three months, I felt more than prepared for my impending introduction to the people of Genovia, and that I did not feel it would be necessary to have lessons next week, as I have FIVE finals to prepare for.
But Grandmère got totally huffy about it! She was all, “Where did you get the idea that your academic education is more important than your royal training? Your father, I suppose. With him, it’s always education, education, education. He doesn’t realize that education is nowhere near as important as deportment.”
“Grandmère,” I said. “I need an education if I’m going to run Genovia properly.” Especially if I’m going to convert the palace into a giant animal shelter—something I’m not going to be able to do until Grandmère is dead, so I see no point in mentioning it to her now . . . or ever, for that matter.
Grandmère said some swear words in French, which wasn’t very dowager-princessy of her, if you ask me. Thankfully right then my dad walked in, looking for his Genovian Air Force medal, since he had a state dinner to go to over at the embassy. I told him about my finals and how I really needed time off from princess stuff to study, and he was all, “Yes, of course.”
When Grandmère protested, he just went, “For God’s sake, if she hasn’t got it by now, she never will.”
Grandmère pressed her lips together and didn’t say anything more after that. Sebastiano used the opportunity to ask me about my feelings on rayon. I told him I didn’t have any.
For once, I was telling the truth.
Friday, December 12, Homeroom
HERE’S WHAT I HAVE TO DO:
Stop thinking about Michael, especially when I should be studying.
Stop telling Grandmère anything about my personal life.
Start acting more: A. Mature
B. Responsible
C. Regal
Stop biting my fingernails.
Write down everything Mom and Mr. G need to know about how to take care of Fat Louie while I’m gone.
CHRISTMAS/HANNUKAH PRESENTS!
Stop watching Baywatch when I should be studying.
Stop playing Pod-Racer when I should be studying.
