“Do you know what you are looking at here, Amelia?” Grandmère is asking me.

“If you’re trying to hypnotize me into not biting my nails anymore, Grandmère,” I said, “it won’t work. Dr. Moscovitz already tried.”

Grandmère ignored that.

“What you are looking at here, Amelia, is a priceless artifact of Genovian history. It belonged to your namesake, St. Amelie, the beloved patron saint of Genovia.”

“Um, sorry, Grandmère,” I said. “But I was named after Amelia Earhart, the brave aviatrix.”

Grandmère snorted. “You most certainly were not,” she said. “You were named after St. Amelie, and no one else.”

“Um, excuse me, Grandmère,” I said. “But my mom very definitely told me—”

“I don’t care what that mother of yours told you,” Grandmère said. “You were named after the patron saint of Genovia, pure and simple. St. Amelie was born in the year 1070, a simple peasant girl whose greatest love was tending to her family’s flock of Genovian goats. As she tended her father’s herd, she often sang traditional Genovian folk songs to herself, in a voice that was rumored to be one of the loveliest, most melodic of all time, much nicer than that horrible Christina Aguilera person you seem to like so much.”

Um, hello. How does Grandmère even know this? Was she alive in the year 1070? Besides, Christina has, like, a seven-octave range. Or something like that.

“One fine day when Amelie was fourteen years old,” Grandmère went on, “she was guarding the herd near the Italian/Genovian border, when she happened to spy, billeted in a copse, an Italian count and the army of hired mercenaries he’d brought with him from his nearby castle. Fleet of foot as the goats she so loved, Amelie stole near enough to the miscreants to discover their dire purpose in her beloved land. The count planned to wait until nightfall, then seize control of the Genovian palace and its populace, and add them to his own already sizeable holdings.

“A quick-thinking girl, Amelie hurried back to her flock. The sun was already low in its zenith, and Amelie knew she would not be able to return to her village and inform the villagers of the count’s dastardly plan until it was far too late, and he would already be on the move. And so instead, she began to sing one of her plaintive folk tunes, pretending to be oblivious of the scores of hardened soldiers just a few hillocks over….

“It was then that a miracle occurred,” Grandmère went on. “One by one, the loathsome mercenaries dropped off, lulled to sleep by Amelie’s lilting voice. And when finally the count, too, sunk into the deepest of slumbers, Amelie scurried back to his side, and—taking the little axe she kept with her for cutting away the brambles that often clung to the coats of her beloved goats—she whacked off the head of the Italian count, and held it high for his suddenly wakeful army to see.

“‘Let this be a warning to anyone who dares to dream of defiling my beloved Genovia,’ Amelie cried, waving the count’s lifeless skull.

“And with that, the mercenaries—terrified that this small, seemingly defenseless girl was an example of the kind of fighters they would encounter if they set foot on Genovian soil—gathered their things and rode quickly back whence they came. And Amelie, returning to her family with the count’s head as proof of her astonishing tale, was quickly hailed the country’s savior, and lived long and well in her native land for the rest of her days.”

Then Grandmère reached out and undid a latch on the pendant, causing the thing to spring open and reveal what was nestled inside….

“And this,” she said, all dramatically, “is all that remains of St. Amelie today.”

I looked at the thing inside the locket.

“Um,” I said.

“It’s all right, Amelia,” Grandmère said, encouragingly. “You may touch it. It’s a right reserved only for the Renaldo royal family. You may as well take advantage of it.”

I reached out and touched whatever was inside the locket. It looked—and felt—like a rock.

“Um,” I said again. “Thanks, Grandmère. But I don’t know how my touching some saint’s rock is supposed to make me feel better.”

“That is no rock, Amelia,” Grandmère said, scornfully. “That’s St. Amelie’s petrified heart!”

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THIS is what Grandmère busted in here to show me? THIS is how she tries to cheer me up? By having me pick up some dead saint’s petrified HEART????

WHY CAN’T I HAVE A NORMAL GRANDMA WHO TAKES ME TO SERENDIPITY FOR FROZEN HOT CHOCOLATE WHEN I’M DOWN, instead of making me fondle petrified body parts??????

And, okay, I GET it. I GET that I’m named after a woman who performed an incredible act of bravery and saved her country. I GET what Grandmère was trying to do: instill some of St. Amelie’s chutzpah into me in time for my big debate against Lana tomorrow.

But I’m afraid her plan totally backfired, because the truth is, except for a fondness for goats, Amelie and I have NOTHING in common. I mean, sure, Rocky stops crying when I sing to him. But it’s not like anybody’s rushing out to make me a saint.

Also, I highly doubt St. Amelie’s boyfriend was all “I’m not going to wait around forever.” Not if she still had that axe on her.

It’s all just so depressing. I mean, even my own grandmother thinks I can’t beat Lana Weinberger without divine intervention. That is just so nice.