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Somewhere between the two of them—Grandmère and Lilly—must lie the truth to maintaining a successful relationship with a man. Somehow I have got to get the hang of this, because I will tell you one thing: if I ever get a message from Michael like the one Tina just got from Dave, I will fully be taking a swan dive off the Tappan Zee. And I highly doubt any cute coast guard captain is going to come along and fish me out—at least, not in one piece. The Tappan Zee Bridge is way higher than the Pont des Vierges.
And of course you know what this means—this whole thing with Tina and Dave, I mean. It means that I can’t cancel my date with Michael. No way, nohow. I don’t care if Monaco starts lobbing SCUD missiles at the Genovian House of Parliament: I am not going to that black-and-white ball. Grandmère and the Contessa Trevanni are just going to have to learn how to live with disappointment.
Because when it comes to our men, we Renaldo women don’t mess around. We play for keeps.
HOMEWORK
Algebra: probs at beginning of Ch. 11, PLUS… ??? Don’t know, thanks to Grandmère
English: update journal (How I Spent My Winter Brea
k—500 words), PLUS… ??? Don’t know, thanks to Grandmère
Bio: read Chapter 13, PLUS… ??? Don’t know, thanks to Grandmère
Health and Safety: Chapter 1, You and Your Environment, PLUS… ??? Don’t know, thanks to Grandmère
G & T: figure out secret talent
French: Chapitre Dix, PLUS… Don’t know, due to skipping!!!!
World Civ: Chapter 13: Brave New World; bring in current event illustrating how technology can cost society
Wednesday, January 21, limo on the way home from Grandmère’s
While I might never actually figure out what my own talent is—if I even have one—Grandmère’s is only too painfully obvious. Clarisse Renaldo has a total gift for completely destroying my life. It is abundantly clear to me now that this has been her goal all along. The simple fact of the matter is, Grandmère can’t stand Michael. Not, of course, because he’s ever done anything to her. Never done anything to her except make her granddaughter superbly, sublimely happy. She’s never even met him.
No, Grandmère doesn’t like Michael because Michael is not royal.
How do I know this? Well, it became pretty obvious when I walked into her suite for my princess lesson today, and who should just be coming in from his racquetball game at the New York Athletic Club, swinging his racquet and looking all Andre Agassi-ish? Oh, only Prince René.
“What are YOU doing here?” I demanded in a manner that Grandmère later reproved me for (she said my question was unladylike in its accusatory tone, as if I suspected René of something underhanded, which, of course, I did. I practically had to beat him over the head back in Genovia to get my scepter back).
“Enjoying your beautiful city,” was how René replied. And then he excused himself to go shower, because, as he put it, he was a bit ripe from the court.
“Really, Amelia,” Grandmère said, disapprovingly. “Is that any way to greet your cousin?”
“Why isn’t he back in school?” I wanted to know.
“For your information,” Grandmère said, “he happens to be on a break.”
“Still?” This sounds pretty suspicious to me. I mean, what kind of business college—even a French one—has a Christmas break that goes practically into February?
“Schools like René’s,” was Grandmère’s explanation for this, “traditionally have a longer winter holiday than American ones, so that their pupils can make full use of the ski season.”
“I didn’t see any skis on him,” I pointed out craftily.
“Pfuit!” was all Grandmère had to say about it, however. “René has had enough of the slopes this year. Besides, he adores Manhattan.”
Well, I guess I could see that. I mean, New York is the greatest city in the world, after all. Why, just the other day, a construction worker down on Forty-second Street found a twenty-pound rat! That’s a rat that’s only five pounds lighter than my cat! You won’t be finding any twenty-pound rats in Paris or Hong Kong, that’s for sure.
So, anyway, we were going along, doing the princess-lesson thing—you know, Grandmère was instructing me about all the personages I was going to meet at this black-and-white ball, including this year’s crop of debutantes, the daughters of socialites and other so-called American royalty, who were “coming out” to Society with a capital S, and looking for husbands (even though what they should be looking for, if you ask me, is a good undergraduate program, and maybe a part-time job teaching illiterate homeless people to read. But that’s just me.) when all of a sudden, it occurred to me, the solution to my problem:
Why couldn’t Michael be my escort to the Contessa Trevanni’s black-and-white ball?
Okay, granted, it was no Star Wars . And yeah, he’d have to get his hands on a tux and all. But at least we would be together. At least I could still give him his birthday present in a forum that was outside of the cinder block walls of Albert Einstein High. At least I wouldn’t have to cancel on him altogether. At least the state of diplomatic affairs between Genovia and Monaco would remain at DefCon Five.
But how, I wondered, was I ever going to get Grandmère to go along with it? I mean, she hadn’t said anything about the Contessa letting me bring a date.
