<Dowager Princess Clarisse of Genovia “El Diablo”

HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”>

Grandmère, why are all the gossip sites reporting that Michael proposed to me this past weekend? How would they even know about that? And why is Rate the Royals saying we’re getting married this summer? Call me back ASAP because I’d really like to clear up this matter.

Who is this? Why are there words on my phone?

It’s called a text message, Grandmère, stop pretending like you don’t know what it is, I showed you how to text last year when TMZ hacked your phone and found out about you and James Franco. So I KNOW you know how to do it. And it’s the only way I appear to be able to communicate with you right now since you won’t pick up your phone.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. Clearly my mobile is broken. Please make an appointment with my assistant, Rolanda, if you wish to speak with me.

I will not make an appointment with Rolanda. I am on my way to see you (even though we’re stuck in traffic right now). So you had better have an explanation ready. Why would you do something so horrible as announce my engagement to the press before we had a chance to tell Michael’s parents in person?

Oh, it’s you. Amelia, something terrible has happened. Please come see me at once.

Something terrible is ABOUT to happen. To you.

Amelia, I am speaking of something of national urgency. I dare not write it here. We could be being spied upon, you know.

Let me get this straight. You sent out a press release that I’m getting married to distract everyone from some OTHER story that you’re afraid is about to break? Who are you now, President Snow from “The Hunger Games”?

Amelia, don’t be flippant.

Sometimes I think Rommel may not be the only one in the family with dementia.

CHAPTER 24

5:20 p.m., Monday, May 4

Grandmère’s Condo, The Plaza Hotel

Rate the Royals Rating: 1

Well, that was . . . I don’t even have words to describe what that was.

But I have to write it all down because it’s the only way I’m ever going to make sense of it, let alone figure out what I’m going to do about it.

It started normally enough—normally enough for my family, anyway—when I walked in and Grandmère didn’t want to talk about it (of course).

All she wanted to do was order us “tea” from room service. She said she couldn’t bear the thought of telling me the “heinous news” on an empty stomach, and of course she’d sent away her assistant, Rolanda, because what we needed to discuss was “so private.”

Except not so private that certain other people don’t know all about it. Only of course I didn’t find that out until later.

“So let’s be honest, Grandmère,” I said, sitting down on one of her overstuffed pink satin-covered Louis Quatorze armchairs (her new decorator has told her that “everything old is new again,” which is another way of saying, “I need a hundred-thousand-dollar commission, so let’s redecorate”).

“There is no heinous news, am I right? You’re simply upset that I caught you using my marriage proposal as a propaganda tool to boost Dad’s image since he got arrested. Or is it that I’m marrying Michael, and not the heir to some wealthy European family? Well, I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to get used to the idea of the next prince consort of Genovia being a Jewish computer genius who looks incredibly good in board shorts.”

“Don’t be a fool, Amelia,” Grandmère said. She was trying to keep Rommel from humping an incredibly ugly antique milking bench for which I happened to know she’d paid sixteen thousand euros. “Why would I want you to marry anyone other than Michael? He saved our lives that summer he fixed the hi-fi at the palace and I was able to cast my vote for my darling Rudolpho on Genovia Can Dance.”

I rolled my eyes. “You mean when he fixed the Wi-Fi.”

“Whatever it’s called. Now get up and help me with this dog.”

I thought she meant Rommel, so I got up to help her place him back in his basket (eighteenth-century French egg-gathering, one thousand euros). But she said, “Not that dog! He’s fine. The other one. Get the other one!”

Yes, Grandmère now owns another dog (although this isn’t the national emergency. I wish).

And while it is very adorable—for now, anyway, the dog still has all its hair—really, people who can’t take proper care of their current pet shouldn’t go out and buy a second one.

“Why?” I demanded, lifting the tiny white powder puff I found digging for a stray cocktail onion under the $40,000 white satin-covered couch. “Why did you get another dog?”

“She’s top of the line,” Grandmère said. “The breeder assured me that any puppies she has with Rommel will be of the highest quality, intelligence, and beauty. And you’re the one who said I needed to solve Rommel’s little . . . problem.”

I was horrified. “By getting him fixed, not by buying him a wife! And look, he’s not even interested in her.” Rommel was humping his thousand-euro French egg-gathering basket.

“Oh, that’s because she isn’t in heat yet,” Grandmère said matter-of-factly.

“But he’ll hump my leg, regardless of whether or not I’m in the mood. Grandmère, this is worse than The Bride of Frankenstein, because instead of building Rommel a girlfriend out of corpses, which he’d have been fine with since he can’t tell inanimate objects from animated ones, you actually went out and bought him a living girlfriend.”