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CHAPTER 14
10:00 a.m., Friday, May 1
Lobby, Consulate General of Genovia
Rate the Royals Rating: 5
Sitting downstairs, waiting for Michael to pick me up for the wireless meditation/yoga retreat, or whatever it is.
Everyone who comes in (quite a lot of people for a Friday morning in May, but they were probably put off coming yesterday by th
e crowd of orange-throwing protesters) is giving me the side-eye.
I suppose they weren’t expecting to see Princess Mia Thermopolis writing in her diary in the lobby of the consulate of Genovia when they popped by to get a visa or certificate of nationality. Most of them look quite pleased . . .
I wish I could say the same for the consulate staff. From the moment I set foot down here, I was immediately:
• chastised by Madame Alain, the ambassador’s secretary, for entering the consulate staff kitchen (to steal tea bags, but she doesn’t know that), and
• told to remove the four gold iPhones and dozens of other birthday cards and packages that arrived for me via the consulate’s address.
This was only slightly embarrassing since the Royal Genovian Guard opens all my packages/mail thanks to RoyalRabbleRouser, who pledged to “destroy my world.”
One of the packages sent to me today turned out to be a world destroyer, all right, but it was from my boyfriend’s sister (and soon-to-be ex–best friend), not my stalker. It consisted of a waterproof vibrator shaped like a dolphin with a note that said:
I’m FLIPPING out over your birthday!
XOXO Lilly
When Lars handed it to me just now (back in its wrapping paper, though not very nicely; apparently they’re out of Scotch tape in the security office, so he used blue medical tape from the first-aid kit), he didn’t even bother to wipe the smirk off his face.
“From Miss Moscovitz, Your Highness,” he said gravely, “with her best birthday wishes.”
The thing is, she knows that Lars opens everything sent to me. So this was her way of birthday-pranking me and also titillating my bodyguard.
Happy birthday to me again.
He must have seen my expression since he asked, “What?” over his shoulder as he walked back to the security office (he has to pack, too, since he’s coming with me wherever Michael is taking me). “I think it’s a highly thoughtful, creative gift. Much more original than a gold iPhone, which you can’t even keep.”*
*I’m not allowed to have Apple products—aside from my laptop—let alone post anything to the “Cloud” due to how easily they’re hacked/traced, which is why all the iPhones I’ve received today will have to be returned for store credit. But it’s all right, since the products we buy instead will be donated to Mr. Gianini’s after-school vocational program.
But see, this kind of thing could have happened no matter where I was living (the part where the Royal Genovian Guard has to go through all my mail). Even if I moved back in with Mom and Rocky (which I’ll never do because what if the death threats turn out to be serious after all? I wouldn’t want to put their lives at risk. Also, I love my mom and my half brother, but I don’t want to move back in with them. Rocky sailed through his toddler years to turn into what’s charitably called “a challenge,” and not because his dad passed away either. He was “challenging” before that happened).
Mom doesn’t even have a doorman (neither does Michael. His loft is in a condo building). RoyalRabbleRouser could get himself buzzed right into Mom’s building, walk up to the door of her loft, knock, and then shove a pie in her face . . . or worse. Sandra Bullock found her gun-owning stalker inside her bathroom after she stepped out of her shower, and Queen Elizabeth once woke to find hers sitting on the edge of her bed in Buckingham Palace, wanting to chat (he got in through an open window—twice—after shimmying up a drainpipe).
• Note to self: Dominique says it’s best not to dwell on these things, or let them decide for you how to live your life, but that’s easier said than done, especially when you’re the one getting the threats about how much better off the world would be “without you in it.”
Oh, God. Madame Alain just walked over and said, “Your Highness, do you think you could write in your diary somewhere else? You are distracting the staff.”
“I’m so very sorry, Madame Alain,” I said. “And don’t worry, I’m going to be picked up any minute, and then I’ll be out of your hair all weekend.”
Is it my imagination, or does she look relieved?
“Oh, I see. All right, then.”
I know it’s wrong since she’s a civil servant and has devoted her whole life (practically) to promoting economic development and tourism in Genovia, but I would like to have a serious talk with the ambassador about transferring Madame Alain to a different office where I wouldn’t have to see her as much. I think she’d be sublime as the headmistress of the Genovian Royal Academy.
