Royal Wedding

“Well, be that as it may, parenting isn’t easy for anyone. It’s the hardest job in the world, but I think you’d be good at it. You’ve always done pretty well with me.”

“Your mother did all the heavy lifting with you. I think I could make things much, much worse for that little girl.”

“Worse than not being there at all?” I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t see how.”

I shouldn’t have said it. I should have said something else—pulled out one of my many platitudes, or lies—or simply shut my mouth and said nothing at all.

But I didn’t, and the result was that tears filled my father’s eyes.

It’s pretty horrible to watch your dad cry. I’m not going to say it’s the worst thing in the world, because there are definitely worse things, like that time I went to Africa to oversee the installation of some water wells. Seeing a man driving a hollowed-out Sealy box spring on wheels pulled by a donkey down the highway, his family sitting inside it (because that was the only form of transportation they could afford), was definitely worse than watching my dad cry.

But awkwardly patting my dad’s shoulder and telling him things were going to be okay when, to be honest, I wasn’t sure they were going to be (just like with Africa, even after installing the wells) was up there on my list of worst things ever.

Finally, I got up and grabbed my phone to check out the menus the RGG had provided me from all the restaurants in the area that had been approved to deliver to us.

“I’m going to order some dinner now,” I said. “Is there anything you particularly feel like eating?”

I think this surprised Dad so much that he forgot about crying, which was partly my intention. “I . . . I don’t know,” he said, looking shocked. Food? Who can think about food at a time like this? Uh, Mia Thermopolis can.

“Well, you have to eat something. Hunger and dehydration can lead to impaired decision making, and also mood swings.” At least according to iTriage, and also Ling Su, who always makes sure the kids at the center have plenty of healthy snacks to eat while doing their homework. It’s led to a lot less crying-while-doing-algebra. “Marie Rose left a lot of stuff in the fridge, but I really don’t think I could handle black truffle mac and cheese right now. What about you?”

“Well . . .” He blinked a few times. “Maybe I could eat a little something. It’s been a while since I’ve had anything other than nuts at the bar at the hotel, and there’s something I’ve always wanted to try . . . but no, I couldn’t. It’s silly.”

“What, Dad? Just tell me.”

“Well, I keep seeing advertisements on the television for something they call cheesy bread. I’ve always wondered what it tastes like.”

He sounded wistful, like King Arthur in the musical Camelot when he and Guinevere wonder what the simple folk do. People always laugh at that part of the show, because it’s so ridiculous that royal people don’t know what “simple folk” do.

But in my dad’s case, it’s true. Growing up all his life in a palace, he really doesn’t know. I think it’s another reason he probably found my mom—and Olivia’s mom—so appealing.

“Fine,” I said, feeling a little sorry for him. “Cheesy bread it is.”

I figured cheesy bread might actually do him some good (it turns out he hadn’t eaten solid food in days, maybe since before his arrest, he’d been freaking out so much over everything that’s been going on—and of course is freaking out even more now that I’d told him he actually needed to do something about Olivia), so this explained a lot about his current behavior, especially the mustache.

So I ordered some . . . which meant I also had to order some for the RGG and the paparazzi stationed outside.

But whatever. The more cheesy bread, the merrier.

Oh, God, I certainly hope this doesn’t become the legacy for which I, Princess Mia of Genovia, am remembered.

CHAPTER 43

9:55 p.m., Tuesday, May 5

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

Rate the Royals Rating: 7

Dad ate like one of those starving children you always hear about on the news who somehow get separated from the rest of their families and have to spend a few nights wandering around the woods alone, subsisting on nothing but acorns and snow, and then someone finds them running down the highway days later in nothing but a diaper and it always turns out they’re from Indiana and you go, “Uh-huh, I knew it.”

Then he dozed off on the couch while watching a home renovation show on HGTV. I wanted to avoid anything too stressful, such as the news or any Law & Order reruns that might remind him of his arrest, and of course the election and how horrible he looks without his mustache.

He chose a show where a couple is given a choice of either “loving” their newly renovated home, or “listing” it for sale and buying another. He couldn’t stay awake long enough to find out what decision they made (they listed it).

When I was sure he was really asleep, I put a blanket over him (given to me as a birthday present by the Queen of Denmark), which only acted as a magnet for Fat Louie to jump back on top of him and curl up on his chest . . . but even that extra twenty pounds didn’t wake him up. Maybe his crying jag (or the cheesy bread) had been cathartic.

I just texted a photo of the two of them (Dad and cat) to Michael, along with this message:

Hi, hope you’re having fun telling the doctors about your robot legs. You might want to make other plans for later tonight since I don’t know how interested you’re going to be in coming over for volcano time with THIS on my couch. XOXO