Weirdly, Madame Alain greeted me even more warmly than Fat Louie. At first I didn’t understand why, since I’ve never been her favorite person, or even seen her smile.

Then I saw that she was packing all the things in her office into boxes. She’s being transferred back to Genovia.

I completely forgot that I suggested she might be happier elsewhere. Apparently someone agreed with me.

Fortunately she couldn’t be more pleased. She’s always hated her job here (and me) and now she’ll never have to see the consulate (or me) again.

I wonder where she’ll be working. But actually I don’t care so long as it’s well away from me.

CHAPTER 38

2:55 p.m., Tuesday, May 5

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

Rate the Royals Rating: 1

Since we didn’t bring our laptops to the Exumas, I haven’t checked my e-mail in ages.

Well, I just did, and guess what?

J.P. sent me his dystopian YA novel, Love in the Time of Shadows.

I have sent it straight to Tina.

I read the synopsis, and I’ve decided I’m not in a place right now where I want to know more about J.P.’s vision of the future, especially since in it:

1.   One percent of the population owns all the wealth and property while being catered to by the impoverished 99 percent who have no chance of attaining any of that wealth and property (except through armed rebellion or a randomized lottery system).

2.   The police are militarized.

3.   Everyone has skin cancer/radiation poisoning because the ozone layer is being destroyed by humankind’s disrespect of the environment.

4.   The media is highly biased and censored.

5.   All anyone does is watch reality television to escape their problems.

6.   Everyone is overweight (except of course the lithe heroine and her two love interests) because healthy food options are so expensive/unavailable.

J.P.’s vision of the future seems eerily similar to the world we live in NOW!

Why would I want to read this book in what little free time I actually have, considering the fact that it doesn’t seem to offer any realistic solutions to the problems it presents its characters, is very depressing, and is also written by my ex-boyfriend?

That’s why I’ve sent it to Tina. Maybe she will find something to like about it. Or at least find it a nice distraction from her ex-boyfriend.

CHAPTER 39

3:35 p.m., Tuesday, May 5

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

Rate the Royals Rating: 1

Just spent a half hour on the phone arguing with Dominique over my itinerary. She says it’s “too late” to change anything on it, and “after all, Princesse, you do want to get married this summer, non? Well, then, we must get started, and that’s going to require traveling to Genovia. I’m sure your little brother won’t mind your missing ’is birthday.”

Uh, she is evidently not very well acquainted with many nine-soon-to-be-ten-year-old boys. I love Rocky very much, but he is challenging. Most of our conversations revolve around farts (his favorite subject) and dinosaurs (his second favorite subject).

“How much did the dinosaurs fart when the giant asteroid that destroyed their habitat struck the earth?” is one of Rocky’s favorite questions.

He guesses quite a lot, but I usually say probably not so much because they were so frightened.

Mom worries Rocky might be held back because of his obsession with flatulence, but Michael says it’s quite normal for nine-year-old boys.

For his birthday, Rocky wants a dinosaur-themed cake, preferably one with “a giant asteroid splatting in the middle.” When my mother questioned Rocky as to whether or not this request was serious, he farted in response, and was sent to his room to “think about what he’d done.”

I think it might be quite nice to have a female sibling to talk to. Not that girls don’t enjoy discussing flatulence and dinosaurs as well, but Olivia Grace looks adorable.

I could take her to the American Girl store and have tea. That is, if she likes dolls. The problem is, she’s twelve. Twelve is too old for dolls, isn’t it?

I didn’t want to admit it in front of Michael, but I have no idea what twelve-year-old girls like to do these days. The ones I meet at the center are all pretty focused on their homework, their families, fingernail polish (obviously, I’m out), video games involving helping puppies find homes and reality stars pick out what to wear, and several boy bands and skimpily clad female singers I’ve never heard of who are popular, but they don’t seem to me to be as talented as either Adele, Taylor, or of course my sweet, sad Britney.

•   Note to self: Ask Tina what her younger siblings enjoy, and why.

I have no memory of what I liked at age twelve. I’m spending this afternoon combing through my old journals, looking for a hint as to the existence of Elizabeth Harrison, but so far I haven’t found a trace, and unfortunately I only started keeping my diaries at the age of fourteen.

Of course, the thing about diaries is that they’re always about you, not other people. It’s even worse if they’re the diary of an adolescent. It’s dreadful rereading them, because they seem so . . . egomaniacal. How could one person drone on so much about herself? Was I blind? The only thing I ever wrote about was:

1.   My grades.

2.   My boobs (or lack thereof).

3.   Grandmère.