Royal Crown Read online

  I highly doubt that Prince Khalil got me perfume, a dress by Claudio, or a diamond heart pendant in Paris. For one thing, Prince Khalil knows me pretty well, and knows I’m not interested in any of those things. And for another, Prince Khalil’s family was lucky to escape from his country just before it was plunged into civil war, which means they have hardly any money, even though they’re royal. He certainly isn’t going to spend what little money he has on a silly present for me …

  … Although he did give me an amazing birthday present, a piece of very old, very beautiful artwork from his country.

  But I donated that to the Royal Genovian Museum for safekeeping, and also because it was something that needed to be shared with the entire world.

  I didn’t mention any of this to Nishi or Luisa, though. I’m fine with letting them go on thinking that Prince Khalil got me something superexpensive in Paris.

  It’s better than them feeling sorry for me because I’m some hasn’t-had-her-period-yet weirdo who has to carry her sister’s ratty old train at the coronation (if there even is one), and who still hasn’t been kissed by her friend-who-is-a-boy.

  “I guess we’ll have to wait and see,” I said.

  I felt a little better after that. At least until Luisa asked, “What if it’s a kiss?”

  “What if what is a kiss?” I asked, confused.

  “The surprise. What if what he’s bringing you from Paris is a kiss?”

  Nishi gasped. “Oh! That would be the most romantic gift of all!”

  “Um,” I said. “No it wouldn’t.”

  “Why not?” Nishi asked.

  “Because,” I said firmly. “It just wouldn’t.”

  I couldn’t say why I felt this would be the case. I just did. I really, really, really hoped Luisa was wrong.

  But I had to admit another part of me—a teeny-tiny part—hoped she wasn’t.

  You see why I’ve had to stay up so late writing this. I’m really confused. Too many things are happening.

  I thought I’d feel better after having written all this down. And I guess I do, a little. Enough to go to sleep, at least.

  I hope I still feel better about it tomorrow.

  Tuesday, December 29

  9:30 A.M.

  Royal Genovian Bedroom

  By the time my dog, Snowball, licked me awake this morning (as she does every morning, because she pretends not to have been fed and wants to see if I’ll give her a second breakfast, which I usually do), Nishi was already awake and working on her plan to earn money by babysitting the royal twins (and whatever other kids she could find around the palace).

  “Look, Olivia,” she said, showing me a sign she’d drawn up. “Isn’t it professional? We can make copies from the printer in your dad’s office after breakfast.”

  * * *

  ROYAL BABYSITTERS AVAILABLE

  Do you want the best for your baby?

  Then why not hire a ROYAL?

  Many months of experience!

  Available 24 hours a day!

  We have access to limos, so

  we can transport your baby anywhere if an emergency arises

  (but there won’t be an emergency when you hire a ROYAL).

  We speak multiple languages!

  We have bodyguards!

  We have all the best toys, a pony, and a pool!

  We are imaginative and playful!

  WE HAVE

  GREAT MANNERS AND

  COMMUNICATION SKILLS

  AND

  WE WILL TEACH THEM TO YOUR BABY!

  References available

  -10 euros per hour-

  Contact HRH Princess Olivia via Royal Genovian Press Office

  * * *

  I had to admit the sign was very professional-looking. Still, one thing about it bothered me.

  “Ten euros an hour?” I’m not sure what the exact exchange rate is right now, but a euro is more than an American dollar. “That seems like a lot.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Nishi said. “If you keep doing things for free—like babysitting your sister’s kids, or carrying her stinky robe—you’re just going to keep being taken advantage of. That’s what Dylan says, anyway.”

  The more I heard about Dylan, the less I liked him.

  “But those are chores,” I said. “Household chores that all kids do. Well, except maybe the robe thing. But even so, do you charge your parents ten dollars an hour for the chores you do around the house?”

  “Well, no,” Nishi admitted. “But my family’s not Genovian royalty. Plus, they’d kill me if I even suggested it.”

  “See?” I said. “There you go. I guess Dylan doesn’t know everything, does he?”

  Nishi bit her lip, looking down at her sign. I wondered if I’d gone too far and made Nishi mad at me for criticizing her boyfriend. If anyone criticized Khalil to my face, I’d be mad.

  But then, Prince Khalil would never cheat on a test, or suggest that I demand ten euros an hour to babysit my baby niece and nephew.

  Not that Prince Khalil is perfect. He’s not. I’m willing to admit that sometimes he talks a little too much about subjects that don’t interest me, such as snakes. Snakes are interesting, but not that interesting. Sometimes, in fact, Prince Khalil goes on for so long about snakes that I start wishing we could talk about something else. Anything else.

  But I would never say this to his face.

  And I’m sure I can be a little boring about my favorite subject, which is wildlife illustration, and the fact that hand-drawn wildlife illustration is a sadly dying art thanks to computers. Almost everyone draws with computers now.

  But I guess Nishi wasn’t mad, since she said, “Let’s show the sign to your grandmother and see what she says. I bet she’ll think we should go for it! You know how she is about princess warriors and empowering yourself and all that.”

  I was so relieved that Nishi wasn’t mad that I said, “Okay, sure. Why not? We can try.”

  I’m sure Grandmère is going to disapprove of Nishi’s sign and say it’s not proper for young royals to go around asking for money for duties they should perform for free out of loyalty to the crown.

  But whatever. It can’t hurt to try.

  “What’s going on?” Luisa asked, drowsily lifting her head from her pillow.

  “Oh, nothing,” I said. “Nishi is going to start a royal babysitting service so she can earn enough money to buy a cell phone since her parents took hers away in punishment for kissing her boyfriend, Dylan, who they don’t like.”

  “A royal babysitting service? That’s not a bad idea.” Luisa pushed her comforter back. “I could always use a little extra cash.”

  I was shocked. I’d expected Luisa to laugh at the whole idea. She hates work. At school when we do charitable events, Luisa only signs up because it’s mandatory.

  And then if you have the bad luck to be assigned to a shift at the same time as her, such as at a bake sale or whatever, she doesn’t do anything except sit there and text or watch makeup tutorials on her phone the entire time.

  Grandmère says this is another sign of Luisa’s lack of character.

  “Claudio is coming out with his new line of spring bags, and I don’t think my parents or my grandmother understand how much I need all of them,” Luisa went on, finger combing her long hair to get rid of her bed head, which of course she only thought she had, because Luisa wakes up looking perfect. “I might as well get used to becoming an independent woman and buying my own.”

  Oh. So that explains it.

  This was one of the most sensible things I’d ever heard Luisa say (even if it was about her favorite fashion designer’s handbags. Not that I’m judging. Everyone is entitled to their own hobbies).

  Was my good influence finally rubbing off on her, the way Grandmère said it might someday?

  I can hardly believe it. It’s quite a turnaround from last night. Maybe I misjudged her. Maybe Luisa really did have PMS, or something, and now she’s feeling better.

>   I feel kind of bad for suspecting her of faking her period to make me feel insecure.

  Tuesday, December 29

  10:15 A.M.

  Royal Dining Room

  We showed Nishi’s sign to Grandmère …

  And she loved it! She loved it so much that she snatched it out of Nishi’s hands and showed it right away to Mia and Michael … and they said YES!

  I was a little surprised by the whole thing, to be honest. Especially when all Mia said was, “Providing you won’t take the babies off palace grounds.”

  I guess I can understand why she’d be willing—even eager—for us to babysit. In addition to everything she was supposed to be doing today to get ready for the coronation—like go to her final gown fitting and check that the bomb squad has swept for explosives beneath all the manhole covers—she now has to go to an emergency meeting at the Genovian courts to deal with Cousin René and his cease and desist. She looked a little stressed.

  “No, Your Highness,” Nishi said. “Of course. We would never—”

  “We’ll stay right here,” Luisa said firmly. “Well, not here at the breakfast table, but here at the palace.”

  “It says you have experience.” Michael held up our flyer while also balancing Baby Princess Elizabeth against one shoulder and Baby Prince Frank against the other. “What experience is that?”

  “Well, I have little brothers and sisters, Your Highness,” Nishi said. “And I’ve babysat for kids in my neighborhood back in New Jersey. Not quite as young as your kids, but—”

  “Obviously I’ve babysat for little Rocky,” Luisa said sweetly. “We hang out so often together.”

  “Hey!” Rocky objected, lowering a forkful of Belgian waffles. “I’m not a baby! And you’ve never once taken care of me.”

  “Of course I have,” Luisa said, still using her fakest voice. “Remember that time we were in the royal pool together, Rocky dear, and you swam into the deep end, and I warned you not to?”

  “That never happened,” Rocky scoffed. “I’m an excellent swimmer.”

  “Now, now,” said Mia’s friend Lana. Like Michael’s sister, Lilly, Lana is visiting from New York City for the holidays, and also to see the coronation. She is very tall and stylish. “Let’s not ruin such a beautiful morning with silly arguments. I’m more excited than I can say about this babysitting service of yours, Olivia. When does it start? Because little Purple Iris here has just been itching for some playtime with you. You’re one of what she likes to call ‘the big kids.’ Purple Iris loves playing with big kids, don’t you, Iris?”

  “Paytime!” shouted Lana’s daughter, Purple Iris, from her high chair. “Paytime wif de big kids!”

  Oh no. I’d forgotten about Purple Iris, whom Lana (or Mrs. Rockefeller, as Mia had told me she’s supposed to be called, except that whenever I call her that, Mrs. Rockefeller always laughs and says, “Oh please, sweetie, call me Lana”) had named after Beyoncé’s daughter Blue Ivy.

  But as far as I can tell, Blue Ivy and Purple Iris don’t have anything at all in common, except that they both have superrich parents. Purple Iris is white and blond and the bossiest baby I’ve ever met, even though she’s only sixteen months old. She’s already been in three beauty pageants and won first place in all of them, according to her mother.

  And boy, does Purple Iris know it!

  “I bwush,” Purple Iris said, stretching a pudgy little hand holding a baby brush out toward me. “I bwush big kid’s hair?”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Rockefeller cried. “Isn’t that cute? She wants to brush your hair, Olivia.”

  “Um,” I said. “Oh yes. So cute. No thank you, Purple Iris. I already brushed my hair this morning.”

  Purple Iris frowned and banged her brush against the tray of her high chair. “I bwush!” she cried again, this time more loudly.

  “She really likes to brush people’s hair,” Mrs. Rockefeller said, unstrapping Purple Iris from the chair and setting her on the parquet floor. Purple Iris is very advanced for her age, and can already use full sentences … sort of.

  “It’s the craziest thing. Her first word was ‘brush.’ She’s just obsessed with hair.” Mrs. Rockefeller swished around her long blond hair. “I have no idea how she got this way.”

  “Don’t you?” Lilly asked sweetly.

  “I bwush,” Purple Iris yelled, ignoring her mother’s hair and pointing at mine. “I bwush big kid’s hair!”

  I smiled at Purple Iris. I could tell the kid was on the brink of having a full-on baby tantrum if I didn’t let her brush my hair.

  But my hair isn’t like hers or her mom’s. Theirs is fine and thin and probably benefitted from being brushed a hundred times a day.

  My hair is curly and thick, and if you brush it even a little, it explodes from my head in a big soft cloud. Which isn’t a bad look, depending on my outfit and the occasion.

  But considering the fact that I’d already carefully braided my hair this morning in anticipation of being around young children, who might try to pull or stick gum in it, loose was not how I wanted to wear it today.

  “Olivia, is this something you really want to do?” whispered my stepmother, Helen, with understandable concern, tilting her head in Purple Iris’s direction.

  “Um,” I said, hesitating because even though I definitely did want to help out with the twins, and also help Nishi make some money (even though I didn’t approve of Dylan), I definitely did not want to get my hair brushed all day by a baby beautician.

  “Of course she’s sure,” Grandmère declared before I could figure out how to reply. “What could go wrong? Especially since I’m going to be around the entire time. I’m the girls’ business manager.”

  “I’m sorry.” Mia looked up from her cell phone. She was apparently receiving an important text, probably from the prime minister. “Their what?”

  “Business manager,” Grandmère said. She’d picked up the flyer, and now she pointed at it. “In addition to supervising, I’ll be handling the scheduling, coordinating, arrangement of transportation, and solicitation of payment for these royal babysitters … for a percentage, of course.”

  “Wait,” Nishi said. “A percentage? How much of a percentage?”

  “Ten percent should be adequate.”

  “Ten percent?” Nishi’s voice cracked. “But that’s not fair!” Then she added, with a glance at Grandmère, “Begging your pardon, Your Highness.”

  “You are pardoned,” Grandmère said. “I’m a businesswoman. I don’t take things personally.”

  This seemed like kind of an exaggeration. Once the Royal Genovian Yacht Club had to cancel Grandmère’s lunch reservation because there was a fire in the kitchen and they’d had to close for the day, and Grandmère wrote a three-page, single-spaced letter of complaint to the local newspaper, which printed it in full.

  “You guys.” Nishi leaned in to whisper to Luisa and me. “I don’t know about this.”

  “Yeah,” I said, glancing over at Purple Iris, who was now waving her brush at Snowball, my dog, and yelling, “I bwush! I bwush!” while Snowball slunk away backward, looking terrified. “Maybe we should start a lemonade stand or something instead.”

  “I don’t know,” Luisa said with a shrug. “All the top models and online personalities have managers.”

  “Yes,” I said. “But not babysitters.”

  “Royal babysitters, however,” Grandmère said, having overheard us—I knew she had hearing like a bat—“have managers, I’m quite sure. And you’ll especially need my services when the rest of our guests—visiting royals and foreign dignitaries from all around the world—begin arriving for your sister’s coronation. They’re all going to want you to look after their children, too.”

  My eyes widened. I’d forgotten about this. There could be more babies like Purple Iris. “But won’t they bring their own nannies?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Grandmère said. “But obviously they’ll prefer to hire you. Who wouldn’t want a royal babysitter car
ing for their children instead of a commoner?”

  “I know I would,” Mrs. Rockefeller said. “I want my baby to learn great manners and communication skills, like it says on your flyer. Not that she doesn’t have them already.” She looked adoringly at Purple Iris, who was now trying to brush Grandmère’s poodle, Rommel, even though Rommel didn’t have any fur due to an allergic reaction to air. “Aw, that’s right, baby,” Mrs. Rockefeller said. “Bwush the widdle doggie. Bwush it. Bwush it!”

  “Good heavens,” Grandmère said, and glared at Nishi. “Don’t just stand there. Go and do your job before that child brushes my dog to death.”

  Nishi’s eyes had lit up at the mention of all the other royals who’d be showing up with their babies. “Smartphone!” she whispered excitedly as she rushed over to grab Purple Iris. “I’m going to buy myself my own brand-new smartphone and call Dylan every chance I get!”

  I guess she wasn’t really thinking ahead about the fact that the whole coronation could be canceled if things went wrong with Mia’s meeting with the Genovian judges, and then there’d be no visiting children of royal dignitaries for us to babysit at all.

  “Okay,” Michael said. “So I guess that’s settled.” He passed Baby Princess Elizabeth to Luisa, along with the spit-up cloth. That’s a white cloth that you wear on your shoulder when you hold a newborn baby so that when she spits up, it won’t get all over your clothes. Luisa held it like it might be radioactive. “Olivia’s taken care of them before, so she knows their schedule and where everything is … like the bottles Mia will make sure to have available throughout the day. Right, Mia?”

  “Right.” Mia looked up from her phone. A lot of people were calling her, probably over the Cousin René thing. “Sorry. I’ll have some for you every two hours. You just let me know where you are. And Olivia, don’t forget, you have your dress fitting today, too.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, taking the baby and the spit-up cloth from Luisa, since she looked like she was about to faint.