Royal Wedding (24 page)

Although certain reality stars seem to check themselves into the hospital quite a bit for “exhaustion.” An assassination attempt would be a legitimate excuse, at least.

CHAPTER 45

10:15 a.m., Wednesday, May 6

In the HELV on the way to Sebastiano's

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7

Just had the most disturbing conversation with Suzanne Dupris, the Genovian deputy prime minister (who said she's been trying to reach Dad, but he won't return her calls. Honestly! Is Dad so scared of women he can't even return their
business
calls?).

Apparently they've run out of camp beds (and “sanitation stations,” which is the polite word for portable toilets) at the Port of Princess Clarisse for all the Qalifi refugees who've fled there.

Worse, several of the refugees' TB tests have come back positive.

They're being treated in the hospital, and are in good condition, but Cousin Ivan has lost no time using this as ammunition in his campaign. He is now declaring that
Diversity = Disease
.

Really! This is his new campaign slogan!

And some of our citizens seem to believe it, not understanding the basic facts that what
actually
causes disease is bacteria, or, put more plainly, overcrowding, poverty, lack of clean drinking water, and idiots like Cousin Ivan.

So Madame Dupris wants to discuss other “options” for dealing with the refugee crisis.

Meanwhile, Cousin Ivan has threatened to ask Parliament to raise Genovia's “security threat level” to
high
, saying that the only reason the refugees want to come to Genovia at all is that they wish to attack us “with their germs.” He wants to ask Parliament to allow the Genovian Navy to use “aggressive military maneuvers to blow the incoming refugee boats out of the water.”

“Perhaps we should use the Genovian Navy's aggressive military maneuvers to blow my cousin Ivan out of the water,” I said to Madame Dupris.

“I would love that,” she said with a sigh. “Perhaps they could also use it on the mega–cruise ships he wants to let in, too.”

If only.

I promised her I would find my dad, but that even if I couldn't, I would get back to her with an answer by the end of the day (Genovian time). But that first—embarrassingly—I had to go try on wedding gowns.

“Ah,” she said.
“Comme c'est romantique!”

Of course she's never tried on wedding gowns with my grandmother in the room. There is nothing
“romantique”
about that.

CHAPTER 46

10:45 a.m., Wednesday, May 6

Dressing Room, Sebastiano's Design Studio

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7

Well, Tina got her wish. I did not get mine—of having Vera Wang as my wedding-gown designer—but I suppose I got the next best thing: my cousin Sebastiano. (No. This is not the next best thing. It is not even close. But Sebastiano is Genovian, and also family, and also free, so he is what I get.)

Tina's here—along with Shameeka, Ling Su, Lana, Trisha, and my mom—to watch as I try on wedding gowns, and also to have their measurements taken for bridesmaid gowns, which Sebastiano will also be designing.

Apparently, this decision was unilaterally made by Grandmère. She had her assistant, Rolanda, send out invitations to all the women I mentioned on my list of potential bridesmaids, along with my mother. Only Perin did not accept, saying she could not attend, as she had to work—this was very smart of her. Lilly said she was going to be late (I shudder to think what that means).

When I walked in, I was shocked to see them all sitting on the slinky black leather couches Sebastiano has all over his studio, sipping mimosas.

“Surprise, bitch!” Lana said as my jaw dropped.

I was already having a bad day, but I wasn't expecting things to go quite as badly as
this.

“Wow,” I said, giving my mom a hug. “I'm so happy to see you guys . . . I guess. Are you drinking already?”

“Duh,” Lana said. “Didn't you know you can't try on wedding gowns sober?”

“I did not know that,” I said.

“It isn't true,” Shameeka assured me.

“Don't make her drink if she doesn't want to, Lana,” my mom said in an icy tone. My mom has never been able to forget Lana's mean-girl past.

“Yeah, I think I'll pass,” I said, remembering that later I was going to have to make important decisions with Madame Dupris regarding the Qalifi refugees.

“Don't be a twunt,” said Trisha, and handed me a champagne flute.

“I beg your pardon?”

“A twunt,” Trisha said cheerfully. “That's a cross between a—”

“A lot of people don't know the secret to a really good mimosa,” Lana interrupted. “It's not just orange juice and champagne. You gotta put triple sec in there, too, to really bring out the flavor of the juice. I added vodka, too, for kick.”

She said this right after I'd taken a sip.

“Princessa!” Sebastiano hurried over to raise one of my hands and air-kiss it. “You are here at last! You don't know how long I've been waiting for this day, all so that you can walk down the aisle in one of my gowns, like the princess bride you were born to be. I have so many designs for you to try. Almost ready, all of them, they just need for you to say
sì
and then I will put on the fin touch. So we try now, yes? What do you like best, the mer? Or the ball?”

Sebastiano's grasp of English has always been tenuous, even though he's had studios in both New York and Europe for some time. He prefers to say only the first syllable of multisyllabic words, so that
mermaid
(as in, mermaid skirts) becomes
mer
or
ball gown
becomes
ball
.

“I don't know, Seb,” I said to him. “To be honest, I don't really care.”

“Don't
care
?” Grandmère looked like she'd been hitting the mimosa (or screwdriver) bar pretty hard herself, especially since she'd brought Rommel along and he was running around loose, humping the legs of all the couches and anyone who'd stand still long enough to let him.

“Mia,” Tina said, sounding anxious. “You have to choose. It really matters.”

“Yeah.” Trisha looked appalled. “Don't wear a sheath, like I did, that's too tight. Then you can't sit down, even in double Spanx. And trust me, it blows not to be able to sit down on your wedding day. Getting married is really tiring. There are so many people you have to snub by not smiling at them.”

Grandmère tipped her glass in Trisha's direction in a silent little toast of approval.

“Mia will look great in whatever she wears,” Shameeka said generously. “It doesn't matter.”

“But since she's a princess, wouldn't a princess ball gown be most appropriate?” Tina asked.

“But that's what everyone's
expecting,
” Ling Su said worriedly.

“Sebastiano, what do you think looks best?” Shameeka asked. “I'm thinking modified A-line.”

I had no idea what anyone was talking about, and I had, upon occasion, watched those bridal shows on TLC on Friday night, on the rare occasions I hadn't had a function to attend and Michael hadn't been over to demand that we change the channel.

“Of course, of course,” Sebastiano said, steering me toward the dressing room. “I have it all.
You
sit here, princessa.” He stuck me on this little couch in a room far away from everyone. “I bring you dresses. My assistant CoCo will help you change.”

Then he ran out, and ever since CoCo has been coming back here at regular intervals with gigantic garment bags containing half-finished one-of-a-kind Sebastiano creations which she's been helping me try on, and in which I then parade out into the studio to model for Sebastiano, my mother, Grandmère, Rolanda, Dominique, Tina, and the rest of the girls to comment on.

Truthfully, they're lovely dresses. And everyone seems to like all of them. I have the most supportive friends and family (and bodyguard) in the whole world (except for Grandmère, who said the mermaid gown made me look “like that woman who likes to show her backside, what is her name? Oh, yes, the Kardashian”).

But none of them have made me catch my breath and cry, like women do on that one show when they know they've “found the gown.”

Maybe that only happens on TV? A lot of stuff, I've noticed, gets manipulated by writers when it's shown on television—even so-called reality television—and makes us think we're supposed to think and act and look certain ways, when the true reality is totally the opposite. Often there's no “right way” to look or think or act, but because we've been so conditioned by the media to think so, we actually mistrust our own better judgment.

Like Sebastiano, who just took me aside and asked worriedly if “Every all right?” He left out the word
thing
.

“Yes, I think everything's all right,” I said to him. “I'm sorry, Sebastiano, all your gowns are beautiful. I just can't pick one.”

“You need focus!” Sebastiano urged me. “Wedding day is most imp day of your whole life!”

Oh, God! The minute he said that, I wanted to throw up. It wasn't the screwdriver or that I don't want to marry Michael, or that I'm having second thoughts. Not at all.

It's the wedding itself that's causing me anxiety. How can I plan a wedding right now with all the other crazy things going on in my life, like my dad thinking he's got to “follow the map,” or the fact that I have a little sister I haven't met yet, or hundreds if not thousands of refugees possibly about to be hit by streams of water from Genovian naval ships?

Maybe this wedding thing is happening a little too fast.

Or maybe there is no “one” perfect gown. Maybe I'm not the only liar: maybe we've all been lied to our entire lives, not by the government as J.P. insists in his stupid book, but by the
$51 billion wedding industry
! Why doesn't someone write a book about
that
? . . .

“Princessa? Are you all right?”

Sebastiano has begun to sweat profusely, since he's run through all of the one-of-a-kind bridal gowns in his collection, including the ones he made with me in mind. “Princessa, I can't start from scratch. I have noth I'll be able to fin in time! I'm go to be ruin!”

I've told him it's okay. “It's just a dress.”

This was the wrong thing to say, apparently, since it made him catch his breath and go back into the studio, looking as if he were about to cry.

Dammit. What is wrong with me? Why couldn't I lie when I needed to?

And it's
not
just a dress. A bridal gown is never just a dress! It's a symbol of hope, a source of inspiration, a thing of beauty in a world where there's so much sadness and despair! What is wrong with me?

And where is Lilly?
I know her studying for the bar is way more important than my choosing a stupid wedding dress, but I sort of wish she was here right now, even if it was only to tell me to—

CHAPTER 47

11:57 a.m., Wednesday, May 6

Limo in line at the Holland Tunnel

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Lilly came barging into the dressing room just as I was giving up all hope of finding the “one,” or of maintaining my sanity.

“Look,” she said, shoving a stack of papers into my face.

“Where have you been?” I practically shrieked. “I can't decide which is The One! It's really upsetting Sebastiano.”

“What is the one?” she asked. “Do you mean Keanu Reeves from
The Matrix
? And who cares about Sebastiano? He only wants you to pick a dress so he can get his name on all the fashion websites. You're the bride, not him. Tell him to suck your [REDACTED].”

“No, not Keanu Reeves. The One is what Tina keeps calling my wedding gown. And do you have to swear so much? I'm choosing a dress to marry your brother in, show a little class.”

“What's wrong with the one you have on? You look pretty [REDACTED] hot.”

I looked down at myself. “I don't know. It's a ball gown. Ling Su says everyone will be expecting me to wear a ball gown, because I'm royal, and everything.”

I'd been staring at myself in dismay in the mirror for ten minutes, afraid to go out of the dressing room since I knew Lana and Trisha were going tell me I was being boring (and also that there was a chance Grandmère might have heard about Cousin Ivan's threat to raise the security level, since that will adversely affect tourism, and I'd have to hear about it).

Lana and Trisha wanted me to go with something backless or at least so sheer it basically looked like Princess Leia's gold bikini from
Return of the Jedi,
only in white, which I knew Michael would like, but I definitely did not have the confidence to wear on international television.

Boring as it might be, I like having a bodice no one can see through (the one I had on happened to be embroidered with diamonds—or as Sebastiano called them, “real dimes”), and a tulle skirt so wide, it would take up the entire aisle of the throne room. Talk about raising the threat level.

“Of course it's a ball gown,” Lilly said. “As you just reminded me, you're a princess, stupid. Why wouldn't you wear a princess ball gown? Here.”

She scooped up a layer of the tulle and created what Sebastiano (who'd come back to stand beside me, his tears temporarily stifled), clapping his hands, declared a “pickup.”

“Okay,” Lilly said. “If that's what you want to call them. Do one on either side. Like Cinderella's ball gown in the cartoon. Do a couple of those thingies, out of the crystals you have on the bodice. That might make it less grotesque, and I won't want to throw up as much.”