“She DID?” I couldn’t help it. I jumped up out of my seat and hurried over to the watercooler to look at the little portrait. “She looks like she’s MY age!”
“She was,” Grandmère said in a tired voice. “Amelia, would you please sit down? We don’t have time for this. The gala is in less than a week, we need to come up with a speech for you now—”
“Oh my God, this is so sad.” I guess one of the symptoms of being depressed is that you basically just cry all the time. Because I was fully welling up. Princess Amelie Virginie was so pretty, like Madonna, back before she went macrobiotic and got all into the Kabbalah and weight lifting and still had chubby cheeks and stuff. She looked a little bit like Lilly, in a way. If Lilly were a brunette. And wore a crown and a blue velvet choker. “What was she, like, sixteen?”
“Indeed.” Monsieur Christophe had come to stand beside me. “It was a terrible time to be alive. The plague was decimating not just the countryside, but the royal court as well. She lost both her parents and all of her brothers to it. That’s how she inherited the throne. She only ruled for, like Her Highness said, twelve days before succumbing to the Black Death herself. But during that time, she made some decisions—controversial at that time—that ultimately saved many Genovians, if not the entire coastal populace…including closing the Port of Genovia to all incoming and outgoing ship traffic, and shutting the palace gates against all visitors…even the physicians who might have been able to save her. She didn’t want to risk the disease spreading further to her people.”
“Oh my God,” I said, laying a hand on my chest and trying not to sob. “That is so sad! Where are her writings?”
Monsieur Christophe blinked up at me (because in my platform Mary Janes, I was, like, six feet two, and he was just a little guy—like Grandmère said, a nutcracker). “I beg your pardon, Your Highness?”
“Her writings,” I said. “Princess Amelie Virginie’s. I’d like to see them.”
“For God’s sake, Amelia,” Grandmère burst out, looking as if she could really use a Sidecar and a cigarette, and not the tea and finger sandwiches (without mayo) to which she’d been relegated by her doctor. “She doesn’t have any writings! She was dealing with a plague! She didn’t have time to write anything! She was too busy having the bodies of her maids burned in the palace courtyard.”
“Actually,” Monsieur Christophe said thoughtfully, “she kept a journal—”
“DO NOT GET THE JOURNAL,” Grandmère said, leaping up. As she did so, she dislodged Rommel, who went plunging to the floor, where he skittered around, trying to find his balance, before retiring gloomily to a far corner of the room. “WE DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR THIS!”
“Get the journal,” I said to Monsieur Christophe. “I want to read it.”
“Actually,” the archivist said. “We have a translation of it. Since it was written in seventeenth-century French, and it was, of course, so short—only twelve days—we started on a translation, only to discover they did not turn out to be twelve particularly, er, important days of Genovian history. Just from a glance at the first few pages, one can see that the princess does seem to write quite a bit about missing her cat—”
That’s when I knew I HAD to read it.
“I want to see the translation,” I said, just as Grandmère cried, “Amelia, SIT DOWN!”
Monsieur Christophe hesitated, clearly not knowing what to do. On the one hand, I’m closer in line to the throne than Grandmère is. On the other hand, she’s louder and way scarier.
“You know what?” I whispered to Monsieur Christophe. “I’ll call you later.”
Only I didn’t. As soon as I got out of there and into the safety of my limo, I called Dad and told him what I wanted.
If he thought it was strange, he didn’t say anything about it. Although I guess my taking an interest in anything that doesn’t involve my bed must seem like an improvement to him.
Anyway, when I got home, there was a package waiting for me. Dad had had Monsieur Christophe messenger over not just the translation of Princess Amelie Virginie’s journal but her portrait as well.
Which I’ve leaned against the wall at the end of my bed where my TV used to be. She perfectly covers up the ugly cable outlet, and I can see her from any angle when I’m in bed.
Which I’m in right now.
Because they can take away my television.
And they can throw away my Hello Kitty pajamas.
And they can make me go to school and to therapy.
But they can’t keep me out of my own bed!
(Although I have to say my own problems pale in comparison to poor Princess Amelie Virginie’s. I mean, at least I don’t have the PLAGUE.)
Sunday, September 19, 11 p.m., the loft
I just realized it’s been exactly a week since I got that phone call from Michael letting me know it’s all over between us. I mean, except as friends.
I really don’t know what to say about that. A part of me still wants to crawl into bed and just cry forever, of course, even though you would think by now I’d be all cried out (although whenever I think about how I’ll never feel his arms around me again, the tears come welling right back up).
But then I think about how many people have it worse than me. Princess Amelie Virginie, for instance. I mean, first her parents caught the plague and died. Which wasn’t SO bad because she wasn’t very close with them anyway, since they sent her away to a convent to be educated when she was four, and it was so far away that she hardly ever saw anyone in her family again after that.