Royal Wedding (28 page)

Only I can't think of anything more subtle right now.

Tina noticed my limping before we got in the car and made me take my shoe off and is examining my foot and making me press my toes against her hand. She says nothing seems broken but I'm probably going to have a very bad bruise and I should see my own physician.

He'd probably only tell me to journal about it, though, and I'm already doing that.

Oh, God—the bell just rang, and children have begun pouring out of the school.

There she is.

CHAPTER 52

3:50 p.m., Wednesday, May 6

Limo back to New York City

Rate the Royals Rating:
7

Well, I've just ruined my sister's life, forever and completely.

Obviously that was not my goal in coming to Cranbrook, New Jersey. My goal in coming to Cranbrook was to improve my sister's life.

But instead I've inexorably wrecked it.

I don't know why after all this time I continue to listen to anything Lilly says. Obviously I should have consulted with our family lawyers or Dominique or
someone
other than my lunatic best friend before coming out here and causing catastrophic and irreparable damage to the life of a little girl, a life that (probably) wasn't so bad and that now she'll never get back, thanks to me, even though she doesn't seem to be aware of it. She is sitting in the limo beside me, happily doing homework that she thinks she's going to turn in tomorrow.

Ha! By tomorrow news of the fact that she's Prince Phillipe of Genovia's illegitimate love child will be on the front page of every newspaper in the world (I'm surprised it is not already the top trending topic on Twitter).

There is no possible way Olivia will be able to go back to Cranbrook Middle School tomorrow, or ever.

•  
Note to self
: I am not qualified to have children. Cancel wedding and secede right to inherit throne? Or just have my tubes tied?

On the other hand . . . Olivia
does
appear to be enjoying herself. It turns out I needn't have worried about learning everything I could about a popular starlet since Olivia is much more interested in
me
. . . and riding in a limo and drinking soda with actual sugar in it.

Maybe I haven't
completely
ruined her life. Maybe I've only
changed
her life. For the better!

This is what I set out to do this morning—what I set out to do
every
morning, leave the world a better place than I found it, and that's how I should choose to think of what just happened. Olivia's life is going to be better now, much, much better. How could it not be? She has Coke and me in it now (and soon her father and grandmother, whenever they get around to returning my messages . . . )

OK, who do I think I'm fooling? I've ruined her life. Dominique just called me back because I texted her what happened (
Hey, Dominique, it's me! So, not sure if you heard, but my dad has another kid and I may have inadvertently exposed her existence to the media . . . call me!
) and all I could hear on the other end of the phone was screaming.

Anyway, Tina is the one who spotted Olivia first.

“There she is!” she cried, jabbing her finger against the tinted glass window of the limo.

I saw Olivia standing in the center of a group of uniformed kids by the school's flagpole.

She looked so . . .
little.

I knew she was going to be because in the dossier, it listed her height and weight, and of course there were photos (the RGG is nothing if not precise).

But photos are very different from real life. In real life, Olivia Grace is all adorable knock-knees and bony elbows and shiny braces and bright blue glasses and curly hair done up in braids.

Was I ever that tiny? I must have been, but it never felt like it. I always felt enormous, too big for my body, and so awkward and ungainly (much too much so for anyone, particularly a member of the opposite sex, to admire).

From the first moment I saw her, I wanted to snatch her up and drive back to New York and throw her in front of my dad and say, “This! This is what you are so afraid of and have been running from for the past twelve years.
This
tiny little girl in pigtails. You, sir, are a royal jackass.”

But I refrained, obviously. At least at that particular moment.

“Aw,” Tina said. “She's so sweet.”

This, at least, confirmed that I wasn't the only one who found her to be completely adorable.

“Look, she's wearing high-tops with her school uniform, just like you used to wear combat boots!” Tina went on. “Oh, wait . . . is she in trouble?”

It was true. As we sat there watching, a little blond girl (who looked not unlike a mini–Lana Weinberger circa thirteen years ago) marched up to my sister, put her hands on her hips, and said something. We couldn't hear what it was, because the bullet-proof windows were rolled up, and there was so much noise all around us, what with the shouting of excited children getting out of school for the day, and the whistle of the very angry volunteer parent who did not want us parked where we were parked (even though the engine was running) and all of the school bus engines and the cars of all the other parents.

But I could tell by the expression of the blond girl—and my sister's face—that it was something rude. I recognized the way Olivia looked, hurt and crestfallen and a little afraid. It was the way I'd always looked (I imagine—I couldn't have seen myself) when confronted by Lana Weinberger, back in the days before she'd mellowed with age.

Suddenly a group of kids gathered around the two girls, blocking them from our view.

“What in the wide world of [REDACTED]?” mused Lilly.

“I believe,” Lars said, “what we are observing is what is known in America as a
throw down
.”

It was true! Through a gap in the circle the children had formed around my sister and her frenemy, I could see that the blond girl looked like she was about to rip Olivia's hair out.

However much they're paying teachers these days, it is not enough. Middle-schoolers are
animals
. (I don't mean my sister, of course. She is a sweet perfect angel. Well, almost.)

Lars reached instinctively for his ankle holster.

“Lars, no!” I cried. “They are
children
, not Genovian ex-pats protesting the use of GMOs in their orange juice. I will handle this.”

Because really, when your long-lost little sister is about to get beat up right in front of you on the playground, you have no choice but to come to her rescue. What else was I supposed to do? I don't see how anyone can blame me.

But of course with my possibly broken foot it was a bit hard to get out of the limo, especially given that my bodyguard is trained not only to keep me from being the victim of assassinations, but to keep me from preventing other people from being assassinated.

“Princess,” Lars said, grabbing my arm as I dove for the closest door handle. “Really. You must allow me to—”

“Lars, you already smashed the aunt against a wall. Let me take care of the niece.”

“And end up with another broken foot?”

“They're
children
.”

He pointed out that the girls on the popular television show
Pretty Little Liars
are children too, which revealed:

•  Lars watches
Pretty Little Liars
.

•  Human Rights Watch should probably be keeping an eye on public and private schools all over America because they seem to be breeding enough child murderers that several popular television shows have been based on the subject. There's also one on Lifetime called
Child Killers
, not to mention MTV's
Teen Wolf
and CW's
Vampire Diaries
(although admittedly the latter two feature paranormal entities).

Meanwhile, Tina was wailing, “There are parents everywhere. Why aren't they doing anything to control their children?”

It was true. All these moms in yoga pants and Tory Burch slides were chatting with one another while sipping lattes grandes, their gazes focused—I hate to admit—on the long black stretch limo with the tiny Genovian flags flying from it (why, oh, why didn't I remove them when I first thought of it?), instead of what was happening beneath their noses.

Now that I think back on it, only Lilly had the common sense to say, “Uh, Mia, do you really think you should go out there? If you do, someone's going to snap a photo of it and post it to social media, and then the next thing you know, everyone in the whole world is going to know that—”

But like a fool, I left the car without listening to the rest. Because by that time, the little blond girl had hold of my sister's left braid, and there was
no way
I was going to stand for that kind of nonsense.

I threw open my car door and came striding across the schoolyard, calling Olivia's name. It took a minute for any of the children to notice me, because they were too busy chanting the words
Fight, fight, fight.

But one by one they all did, and when they did, they stopped what they were doing, including the blond girl, who released Olivia's hair and stared at me, dumb-founded.

It's not every day, I suppose, that the Princess of Genovia gets out of a limo in front of your school.

“Olivia?” I said, when I finally reached her.

She stared up at me through the thick lenses of her glasses. It was pretty clear she, along with the little blond girl and most of the kids in the circle around them, knew who I was. I have to say, much as I complain about it, there are certain advantages sometimes to being royal.

“Oh,” Olivia said in a very polite voice, releasing the front of the blond girl's blouse and adjusting her now very messed up braid. “Hi. Yes, that's me.”

“Er,” I said.

What do you say to your long lost sister upon meeting her for the first time?

Suddenly I became aware of all the gazes—and cell phone camera lenses—that were suddenly upon us. It was only then that I realized Lilly was right: it had been a very bad idea for me to get out of the car. I should have sent Lilly to break up the fight. Or Tina. Tina knew much more about tween girls than any of us, and was also nearly a doctor, or had at least studied child psychology.

“Hi,” I said, feeling a nervous sweat break out beneath my hairline, even though, for such a sunny day in May, it was not particularly warm. “I'm, uh, Mia Thermopolis.” I had never felt so uncomfortable saying my name in my entire life. “Your aunt Catherine said it would be all right for me to pick you up from school today.”

The little girl eyed me dubiously through her glasses. I could see why she might find this entire scenario a little on the shady side.

“Oh,” I said, suddenly remembering. “Here's a note she signed, saying so.”

I was glad Lilly had thought of this at the last minute, and asked Olivia's aunt to sign it, as well. There are advantages to having a best friend who wants to be a lawyer, even one who wants to go into something as boring as contract law, though Lilly says contract law is
not
boring, but the backbone of all legal practice, the way mystery novels are the backbone of all literature. Murder breaks a contract with society, which only justice can set right again.

“Would you like to come with me?” I asked as I handed Olivia the note.

Olivia didn't exactly jump at the chance to climb in the Princess of Genovia's limo, even to get away from someone who was threatening to beat the crap out of her. Perhaps Olivia had not been in as dire circumstances as I'd thought. With dignified calm, she unfolded the note and read it carefully.

There was complete silence from the kids all around us as she did this, although I could hear several of them breathing, including a few who tried to crowd close to read the note over Olivia's shoulder (and mine—well, really my elbows, since the children were so short). I tried gently to shove them away, but they would not budge.

Most children are lovely, but up close some of them are not at all tidy (I don't mean my sister, of course).

“Thank you,” Olivia said, gravely folding the note back up and tucking it into her backpack. “I'd like to go with you very much.”

Scooooooooore!

“Great!” I said, and snatched up her hand to turn around and walk back toward the limo before she could change her mind. By that time both Lars and Halim had caught up with me, and had squeezed through the crowd to flank us on either side, busily scanning the school yard for RoyalRabbleRouser or any other enemies of state who might have heard of my sudden arrival in Cranbrook and shown up to rid the world of me. “Let's go.”

I knew whatever I'd interrupted between her and the little blond girl had been mega-intense, but I wasn't going to ask about it until we were safely inside the car and many miles away, if ever. The last thing I expected was the blond girl—who'd begun trailing after us, along with the rest of the kids—to do so.

“Excuse me,” she said, in a high-pitched voice, “but is it true that you're Olivia's sister?”

I was so shocked I nearly walked right into Lars, who was barking, “Make a hole!” at all the curious moms who'd gathered around to stare. How could this little girl possibly have found out such an intimate family secret? And so fast? Had Aunt Catherine been making calls, despite the nondisclosure agreement Lilly had made her sign? Is that what all those yoga-pant-wearing mothers were talking about with one another behind the lids of their lattes grandes? That I was related to one of their kids' classmates?

If so, I was completely canceling that check the minute we got into the car.

“Uh,” I said, yanking on Olivia's hand to quicken her pace. But of course
I
was the one who was slowing us down by all my limping. “Who are you, exactly?”