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“No,” he said, nearly knocking the phone from her hands.
“Well!” the woman cried, offended. “See if I ever come to visit Genovia!”
“No one wants you there,” Lars informed her (I thought this a bit harsh).
Once we were all safely inside the limo, though, and Lars had pulled the door closed behind him, Olivia looked more thrilled than upset. She bounced around on the seats, looking out at the children who were plastering themselves against the tinted windows (we could see out, but they could not see in). It was a bit like something out of a boy-band documentary.
François gunned the engine and tried to pull out, but a roar of protest erupted from the children (not unlike the sound I once heard several years ago while visiting Iceland, and a volcano there exploded). Olivia’s classmates still had their hands and faces pressed against all the windows, flattening themselves against the limo in an effort to keep us from leaving.
“What are they doing?” I cried, horrified.
Olivia shrugged. “Nothing. They’re just excited. Not many celebrities visit Cranbrook Middle School. Actually, you’re the first.”
“Oh. I see.”
If the enormity of what I’d just done had not sunk in before, it did then.
Fortunately, we were able to escape without further incident by François applying a special horn Grandmère had had installed against the wishes and advice of everyone—it plays the first chords of the Genovian anthem at near-deafening decibels. It caused the children to unpeel themselves from the limo and scamper away in alarm.
But Lord only knows what the police found in the school yard when they arrived after we’d gone (we heard the sirens, but in the distance, after we’d already made our escape to the exit ramp to the highway, thank God).
“Olivia,” I said, after we’d had a chance to catch our breath. “I’m very, very sorry about this. I did not mean for you to find out this way that you’re—that we’re—”
“It’s okay,” Olivia said. She didn’t look the least bit upset. Her gaze had been roving around the interior of the car, lighting up as it landed on the minibar, where there were full cans of soda on display as mixers for Grandmère’s alcohol, not to mention bags of chips and other assorted favorite snacks of my grandmother’s. “I already knew. Annabelle told me.”
“Yes, I realize that. But that’s what I mean. It shouldn’t have happened that way. I’m very sorry about that.”
“That’s okay,” Olivia said. “This is fun.”
“Fun?” I glanced uneasily at my adult companions. What had been fun about any of what just happened? “Really?”
“Yes,” Olivia said. “This is my first time in a limo. Do those go on?” She pointed at the fiber-optic lighting in the limousine’s ceiling, which Grandmère had had installed because she enjoyed being bathed in the most flattering colors at all times.
“Yes,” I said. “Those do go on.”
Like magic, we were all suddenly bathed in a rosy hue from both the sides and roof of the car.
“Cool!” Olivia cried, smiling broadly, especially as François, who’d overheard us, had chosen the “twinkle” effect, so the rose color began to turn to purple, then to blue.
When you ride in limos all the time, it’s hard to remember that to some people—especially a twelve-year-old—?it’s a new, exciting experience. That’s the great thing about being twelve.
“So,” I said to Olivia, “I’m sure you must have a lot of questions—”
“Yes, I do.” She looked at me very intently. “Is it really true?”
“That we’re sisters? Yes, it’s really true. I’m so sorry you found out this way, but it’s very, very true—”
“No, is it true what that paper you showed me said? That you have my aunt’s permission to take me to any destination of my choosing?”
I threw Lilly a startled look. The truth was, I hadn’t read the agreement Olivia’s aunt had signed.
“Er, yes,” I said, when I saw that Lilly was nodding. “Yes, it’s really true. Why? Is there somewhere you’d like to go?”
“Yes,” she said, her dark ey
es sparkling. “To meet my dad.”
I’m not sure what I’d expected her to say, but not that. I don’t know why, since it should have been obvious.
