Royal Crush Page 5

  “Yep,” Victorine said. “Marguerite is in charge of photography. I’m in charge of layout because I’m so fashion conscious.” Victorine pointed to her combat boots. “As you can probably tell.”

  “You are obviously very skilled with a camera, Princess Olivia,” Prince Gunther went on, “because you took those very cute photos of your sweet little niece and nephew.”

  “Ew,” Luisa said. “You actually thought those photos she took were good?”

  “I thought they were,” Prince Khalil said. I’d shown them to him when he’d asked what everyone was talking about.

  “Thanks,” I said, and smiled at him.

  He actually smiled back. “You’re welcome.”

  It was working! My campaign to be kind to him was working!

  What was it about Prince Khalil’s smile—and his darkly lashed eyes—that gave me such a weird feeling inside, almost like I’d just raced Rocky up the Grand Royal Staircase?

  I don’t know, but I had to admit, I kind of liked it.

  “And you will love Stockerdörfl,” Prince Gunther gushed. “It is not warm like Genovia this time of year, but the snow is deep and beautiful, and everyone sits by the warm fire feeling so jolly, drinking hot apple cider, and singing our native songs.”

  “Yeah, Olivia,” Luisa said, smirking at me. “Don’t you want to sit around the warm fire, drinking hot apple cider and feeling so jolly? What is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I just—”

  “I’m going,” Prince Khalil said. “I’m competing on the RGA hockey team.”

  This caused my eyes to widen. “YOU play hockey?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Hockey is my favorite sport.”

  I guess I could see how Prince Khalil, who was so fond of reptiles, would like hockey as well. Both hockey and catching iguanas require cages and having good aim.

  “I’m going, too,” Nadia chimed in. “I’m competing in the singles figure skating.”

  Luisa gave her the evil eye. “So am I. I didn’t even know they had ice-skating rinks in your country.”

  “Of course we do.” Nadia evil-eyed her right back. “At least, we did.”

  Princess Komiko said, to no one in particular, “I’m competing in the ski jumping.”

  Victorine looked at her in surprise. “You are?”

  “Yes,” Princess Komiko said. “Why?”

  “No reason,” Victorine said, but I knew the reason why: Princess Komiko is so shy, it’s hard to imagine her doing something as daring as flying down a hill on a pair of skis, then jumping off it.

  But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that everyone has hidden strengths (and weaknesses). It’s finding out these things about the people you know that makes life so interesting.

  “So perhaps if you won’t compete, you would take over as official school photographer?” Prince Gunther asked me, ignoring the other girls. “Also, my parents will be hosting a very nice dinner in my home on Thursday night for all the students and parents from the RGA. It would be such an honor if you were there. Please say you will come.”

  Well, this was awkward. How could I say no when Prince Gunther was being so nice?

  “It’s so sweet of you to ask,” I said. “But my family really needs me at home.”

  Fortunately Luisa was there—as always—to help me out (not).

  “Now you’re just being selfish, Olivia. If you don’t come, we won’t have enough chaperones, and Madame Alain is going to cancel the whole trip, and we’re all going to have to stay here and write essays.”

  “How will that be my fault?” I demanded. “I don’t come with a chaperone.”

  “Yes, you do,” Victorine pointed out. “Everywhere you go, you bring a bodyguard.”

  “Princess Olivia’s bodyguard will be busy bodyguarding her,” Prince Khalil said. “She won’t have time to chaperone anyone else.”

  I was so relieved that he’d pointed this out—so I didn’t have to—I wanted to hug him, or at least thank him very politely.

  “Why don’t you ask your stepmother, Olivia?” Victorine cried. “Helen Thermopolis is so cool!”

  Princess Komiko gasped. “Yes! Princess Helen! Ask her, Olivia, please.”

  My stepmother, Helen Thermopolis—or Princess Helen Thermopolis as she is officially known now that she and my dad had gotten quietly married over the summer—had visited the RGA several times to speak about contemporary women artists, since she is one.

  During her talks at school, Helen had discussed the things she feels passionately about, including:

  • Art

  • Gender equality

  • Following one’s dreams, and

  • The importance of parents not overscheduling children, and also giving them ample time away from screens. Helen believes the only way people (both young and old) can discover what they’re truly good at is if they have time to be bored.

  “When we are bored,” Helen said, “we naturally gravitate toward the things that interest us the most. These are generally the things at which we turn out to be the most talented, whether it’s cooking, gardening, gymnastics, computer engineering, physics, auto mechanics, woodworking, parkour, or whatever.”

  In Helen’s case, it was painting. In my sister’s case, it was writing and political activism. In Prince Khalil’s case, it was herpetology (and apparently hockey). In Rocky’s case, it’s been inventing things, such as rocket ships. In mine, it’s wildlife illustration, horseback riding, and floating table tennis.

  “Well,” I said hesitantly. “I guess I could ask her…”

  “Great!” Victorine said. “It’s all settled then! Olivia is going to ask her stepmom to be our chaperone, then come with us to Stockerdörfl. This is going to be fantastic!”

  Victorine, Prince Gunther, Nadia, Princess Komiko, and even a grudgingly accepting Luisa all fist-bumped one another (Luisa probably because Helen also believes in letting kids do pretty much whatever they want, so long as it’s not dangerous or illegal).

  Only Prince Khalil seemed to sense that I wasn’t quite as enthusiastic as everyone else seemed.

  “I’m sorry,” he leaned over to say in a low voice, so the others wouldn’t hear. “I know you said yesterday that you didn’t want to go to Stockerdörfl. I didn’t mean to make things more complicated for you.”

  He looked worried … worried for me!

  I couldn’t believe it. I’m not the one whose country has been taken over by a despotic megalomaniac.

  “No,” I said. “It’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”

  I didn’t want to burden him with my problems, considering the fact that his problems are so much more serious than mine. Instead I tried to smile bravely, because that’s what princesses are supposed to do. My royal relatives have had to deal with much worse stuff than cousins who keep insisting they are immature sticks-in-the-mud. There’s a painting in the hall of portraits of one of my ancestresses, Princess Mathilde the Brave, who once drove invading marauders away from the palace by ordering that boiling oil be poured down on them from the parapets.

  My problems (such as not being able to ski, or having to ask my stepmother to chaperone a school trip the same week her daughter’s twins were born) seem quite silly compared to that.

  But evidently my smile wasn’t brave enough to convince Prince Khalil, since he asked, still looking concerned, “Would you like me to get you some cheesecake? The bell hasn’t rung yet.” He smiled—not bravely, but very, very kindly. “And cheesecake generally makes everything better.”

  For some reason, his concern—or maybe his smile—made my pulse speed up a little. Had I ever told him that the Cheesecake Factory used to be my favorite restaurant (until I moved to Genovia, where there are even better restaurants than the Cheesecake Factory)? How had he known how much I love cheesecake? Or does everyone love cheesecake?

  (Actually this isn’t true. Nishi hates cheesecake. Should I tell Nishi that Prince Khalil likes cheesecake and that maybe bec
ause of this, the two of them wouldn’t make that good of a couple? Or would that be mean of me?)

  And how nice of him to offer to get me some! I had never seen Prince Gunther offer to get Luisa cheesecake.…

  But then again, I’d never seen Luisa eat cheesecake, as she is always on a diet.

  “Um,” I said, “yes. I would love some cheesecake. But I can get it myself—”

  But before I could assure Prince Khalil that I was perfectly capable of getting my own cheesecake from the dessert cart (which is something Helen Thermopolis and my sister would have wanted me to do), he was already up and getting it for me, and Luisa was staring daggers at me from across the table.

  What? I mouthed at her. After all, it wasn’t my fault Prince Khalil wanted to get me cheesecake. Luisa’s boyfriend was perfectly capable of getting her cheesecake if he wanted to.

  Not that Prince Khalil is my boyfriend.

  Luisa said, “Nice going, Stick.” But she didn’t say it in a mean way. There was a tiny smile on her lip-glossed face.

  I don’t know what she meant by that.

  And it didn’t matter, anyway, because just then the bells started to ring. Not only the bell to signify that lunch was over, but all the bells in the entire city, to celebrate the births of my new niece and nephew.

  So I never ended up getting my cheesecake from Prince Khalil anyway.

  Tuesday, November 24

  5:15 P.M.

  Royal Genovian Gardens

  When I got home I found Rocky outside by the pool. He gets out of school a half hour earlier than I do because he’s in the lower form, and Genovians believe younger children need less time in school than older children.

  (Which makes no sense. Younger children have more to learn than older children, but whatever.)

  He was sitting on one of the silver serving trays from the sets they use for high tea. He’d poured crushed ice from the kitchens all over the grass, put the tray on the ice, and was holding the end of Snowball’s leash while yelling “Mush!” at her.

  But Snowball was only sitting there in front of him and the tray, not moving, wagging her tail and yawning in the hot afternoon sun.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded.

  “I’m trying to train your dog to be a sled dog,” Rocky replied. “But as you can see, she’s useless.”

  “Snowball is not useless,” I informed him, snatching the leash from him. “She’s just not a sled dog. She is not a service dog of any kind. Snowball, are you all right?”

  Snowball jumped around and licked me in the face while I inspected her for injuries.

  “She’s fine,” Rocky said. “She liked it. And poodles are too service dogs. In olden times they used to help during hunts and stuff. They dove into the water and fetched dead ducks.”

  “Well, that isn’t quite the same as pulling sleds, is it?”

  “I guess not. But I need to enter into some kind of sport at the Royal School Winter Games if I’m going to get out of school this week,” Rocky said. “I don’t want to sit around and write some dumb essay. And sled dog racing seems like the most exciting.”

  “Well, you’re not using MY dog for it.” I hugged Snowball, who continued to wag her tail and lick me, seemingly unharmed. “She’s never even seen snow! How is she going to know how to pull a sled?”

  “That,” Rocky said tiredly, “is what I was trying to teach her when you came along—”

  “Shhh!” Grandmère rose up from one of the chaise longues, where she’d apparently been sitting in a caftan and a large sun hat, enjoying a cocktail. “What are you two fussing about? Don’t you know there are babies in the palace?”

  “Oh, sorry, Grandmère,” I said, instantly feeling guilty. “We were just, uh—”

  “I need a sport if I’m going to the Royal School Winter Games tomorrow,” Rocky announced, in what was, for him, a whisper, but for anyone else would have been a normal speaking voice. “Olivia won’t let me use Snowball as a sled dog. Can I borrow Rommel?”

  “Not only CAN you not, you MAY not,” Grandmère said. “Rommel was not bred to pull sleds. He is a companion animal of much empathy and refinement.”

  I didn’t want to point out to Grandmère that even as she said this, Rommel was sitting behind her in the grass, licking his own butt.

  “And what do you mean, the Royal School Winter Games are tomorrow?” Grandmère asked. “They can’t possibly be. They don’t hold the Royal School Winter Games until November—” Her voice trailed off and she got a faraway look in her eye. “Good heavens.”

  “Yes,” I said. “But don’t worry, Grandmère. The Royal Genovian Academy isn’t going.”

  “What?” Grandmère and Rocky both cried at the same time.

  “They’re not,” I said. “Because of La Grippe, we don’t have enough chaperones. So Madame Alain is canceling our participation in the Games.”

  “That is an outrage!” cried Grandmère, gesturing so dramatically that she spilled half her cocktail. Snowball and Rommel hurried to lick it up, but it got absorbed too quickly into the hot terrazzo. “The Royal Genovian Academy always participates in the Winter Games!”

  “Well,” I said, “I suppose so, but Rocky and I couldn’t go anyway. We have the babies to think of.”

  “The babies?” Grandmère sipped what was left of her cocktail. “The babies? The babies will be able to get along quite well without you. The babies won’t even be able to recognize you for months—years if they’ve inherited their grandfather’s vision. But what possible point is there in holding the Royal School Winter Games without a representative of the Royal House of Renaldo present, much less the Royal Genovian Academy? Why, this is an outrage! Do you know that I won the cross-country ski competition every year I attended?”

  I was surprised. “No, Grandmère, I didn’t.”

  “Yes! Eight years in a row! Not only did I win, but I broke what was then a local record—in the women’s biathlon, no less.”

  I realized maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. “Grandmère, doesn’t the biathlon involve skiing cross country and then shooting rifles at a target?”

  “It most certainly does.”

  This explained a lot. Grandmère loves shooting at things, most particularly the iguanas that took over her beloved rose garden last spring. This was why Prince Khalil had had to come over and remove them—the iguanas, not the roses—in a safe and humane manner. Fortunately (or not so fortunately, for the footmen) Grandmère’s aim had gotten pretty bad over the years.

  “I have never heard of anything as preposterous as not attending the Games. And for such an absurd reason … not enough chaperones—and all because they are suffering from something as trifling as a little cold. Why, we attended the Games during the war!”

  Whenever Grandmère mentions “the war,” she means World War II, when Nazis invaded Genovia and took over not only its government and seaport (advantageously tucked between France and Italy) but its lucrative fruit and olive oil industry, and even the palace.

  “Not, of course, that we allowed this to bother us,” Grandmère went on. “Genovia was the jewel in the crown of the Führer’s empire, but we carried on working against him beneath his very nose. When the Royal School Winter Games came along, we used them as an opportunity to deliver messages over the Austrian border to the Allies. We beat them. By sheer determination alone—yes, we beat them all, by God!”

  “Did you shoot any Nazis?” Rocky asked, looking excited.

  “Did I shoot any Nazis,” Grandmère murmured. “I did far worse to them than shoot them, young man.”

  Rocky began to jump up and down excitedly. “Like what? Tell me, tell me!”

  Above us, a pair of French doors opened, and a second later, Mia stepped out onto one of the balconies overlooking the palace pool.

  “Excuse me,” she said politely. “But could the three of you possibly take your conversation—whatever it’s about—somewhere else?”

  Rocky shaded his eyes with his h
and and blinked up at Mia. “But Mia, Grandmère was about to tell us about the Nazis!”

  Mia did not look very approving. “Oh, was she? Well, Michael and I finally got both babies to sleep at the same time, and now we’d like to try to get some sleep ourselves, so perhaps you’d like to talk about the Nazis somewhere else? The billiard room, perhaps? Or the library?”

  I gasped. “Oh, Mia! I’m sorry we were being too loud.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Rocky said. “Those little babies really need their sleep if their heads are ever going to look normal.”

  “What?” Mia asked, looking confused.

  “Nothing,” Grandmère said, taking Rocky by the shoulder and steering him away from the balcony. “Never mind. The babies are beautiful. So sorry to have woken them, Amelia. Get back to your nap.”

  Mia smiled, then thanked us and went back inside. Rocky immediately tugged on the draping sleeve of Grandmère’s caftan. “You’re going to tell us more about the Nazis, aren’t you, Grandmère?”

  “I’ll do better than that,” Grandmère said. “I’ll call your school right now and personally give them a piece of my mind. I never heard of anything more disgraceful than Genovia not taking part in the Royal School Winter Games!”

  So … great.

  I’m the only one who doesn’t want to go to Stockerdörfl tomorrow, but my grandmother is the person fighting hardest to make sure my school goes.

  Fantastic.

  Tuesday, November 24

  8:30 P.M.

  Royal Genovian Bedroom

  The worst thing ever has just happened. I mean literally the WORST.

  We were having a “light supper” because Chef Bernard has come down with La Grippe—so instead of the usual six courses, we were only having five: an appetizer, entrée, salad, cheese course, then dessert … no soup, which of course made Grandmère complain like crazy. “What is a meal,” she kept asking, “without soup?”—when the royal obstetrician asked for an audience.