My dad says I have no choice. Last night, after I left Grandm่re’s room at the Plaza, I went straight down to his. I banged on the door, and when he answered it I stalked straight in and told him I wasn’t doing it. No way. Nobody had told me anything about princess lessons.

And do you know what he said? He says I signed the compromise, so I am obligated to attend princess lessons as part of my duties as his heir.

I said then we are just going to have to revise the compromise, because there was nothing in there about me having to meet with Grandm่re every day after school for any princess lessons.

But my dad wouldn’t even talk to me about it. He said he was late and could we please talk about it later. And then while I was standing there, going on about how unfair this all was, in walks this reporter from ABC. I guess she was there to interview him, but it was kind of funny, because I’ve seen her interview people before, and normally she doesn’t wear black sleeveless cocktail dresses when she’s interviewing the president or somebody like that.

I’m going to have to take a good look at that compromise tonight, because I don’t recall it saying anything about princess lessons.

Here is how my first “lesson” went, yesterday after school:

First the doorman won’t even let me in (big surprise). Then he sees Lars, who is like six foot seven and must weigh three hundred pounds. Plus, Lars has this bulge sticking out of his jacket, and I only just now figured out that it’s a gun and not the stump of an extraneous third arm, which is what originally I thought. I was too embarrassed to ask him about it, in case it dredged up painful memories for him of being teased as a child in Amsterdam, or wherever he is from. I mean, I know what it’s like to be a freak: It’s just better not to bring that kind of thing up.

But no, it’s a gun, and the doorman got all upset about it and called the concierge over. Thank God the concierge recognized Lars, who’s staying there, after all, in a room in Dad’s suite.

So then the concierge himself escorted me upstairs to the penthouse, which is where Grandm่re is staying. Let me tell you about this penthouse: It is very fancy. I thought the ladies’ room at the Plaza was fancy? The ladies’ room is nothing compared to this penthouse.

First of all, everything is pink. Pink walls, pink carpet, pink curtains, pink furniture. There are pink roses everywhere, and these portraits hanging on the walls that all feature pink-cheeked shepherdesses and stuff.

And just when I thought I was going to drown in pinkness, out came Grandm่re, dressed completely in purple, from her silk turban all the way down to her mules with the rhinestone clips on the toes.

At least, I think they’re rhinestones.

Grandm่re always wears purple. Lilly says people who wear purple a lot usually have borderline personality disorders, because they have delusions of grandeur. Traditionally, purple has always stood for the aristocracy, since for hundreds of years peasants weren’t allowed to dye their clothes with indigo, and therefore couldn’t make violet.

Of course, Lilly doesn’t know my grandmother IS a member of the aristocracy. So while Grandm่re is definitely delusional, it’s not because she THINKS she’s an aristocrat; she really IS one.

So Grandm่re comes in off the terrace, where she was standing, and the first thing she says to me is, “What’s that writing on your shoe?”

But I didn’t need to worry about getting caught cheating, because Grandm่re started in right away about everything else that was wrong with me.

“Why are you wearing tennis shoes with a skirt? Are those tights supposed to be clean? Why can’t you stand up straight? What’s wrong with your hair? Have you been biting your nails again, Amelia? I thought we agreed you were going to give up that nasty habit. My God, can’t you stop growing? Is it your goal to be as tall as your father?”

Only it sounded even worse, because it was all in French.

And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, she goes, in her creaky old cigaretty voice, “Haven’t you a kiss for your grandm่re, then?”

So I go up to her and bend down (my grandmother is like a foot shorter than me) and kiss her on the cheek (which is very soft because she rubs Vaseline on her face every night before she goes to bed), and then when I start to pull away she grabs me and goes, “Pfui! Have you forgotten everything I taught you?” and makes me kiss her on the other cheek, too, because in Europe (and SoHo), that’s how you say hello to people.

Anyway, I bent down and kissed Grandm่re on the other cheek, and as I did so I noticed Rommel peeking out from behind her. Rommel is Grandm่re’s fifteen-year-old miniature poodle. He is the same shape and size as an iguana, only not as smart. He shakes all the time and has to wear a fleece jacket. Today his jacket was the same purple as Grandm่re’s dress. Rommel won’t let anyone touch him except for Grandm่re, and even then he rolls his eyes around as if he were being tortured while she’s petting him.

If Noah had ever met Rommel, he might have changed his mind about letting two of all of God’s creatures on the ark.

“Now,” Grandm่re said when she felt we’d been affectionate enough, “let’s see if I have this right: Your father tells you that you are the princess of Genovia and you burst into tears. Why is this?”

All of a sudden, I got very tired. I had to sit down on one of the pink foofy chairs before I fell down.

“Oh, Grandm่re,” I said in English. “I don’t want to be a princess. I just want to be me, Mia.”