And despite the confidentiality agreement Lilly had just had Olivia’s aunt sign, the news would soon be spread all over the little town of Cranbrook, New Jersey, and a short time after that, the world. Every cell-phone camera in the entire drop-off area of the school was trained on Olivia and me, including ones belonging to the bus drivers. Even the mean lady with the whistle had stopped blowing it and was now pointing her iPhone at us.

That’s when I knew. I should have stayed in the car instead of performing a wonderfully selfless act of sisterly charity by saving Olivia myself. I should have done what my dad had been doing all these years, and “followed the map.”

Why hadn’t I been a good little princess bride and gone to lunch with the crisis management team like it had said to on the itinerary? I was only creating a bigger crisis for them to clean up, and ruining my sister’s life. Nothing was ever going to be the same for her, just as nothing had ever been the same for me after that day my father had taken me to lunch at the Plaza Hotel and told me I was the heir to the throne of Genovia, and a short time later the news had become public and I’d been required to be followed by a security team everywhere I went.

On the other hand, things haven’t exactly turned out that terribly for me either.

Three things I’m grateful for:

1.   I get to do what I love—make the world a better place by drawing attention to causes that matter to me (well, on a good day. Today would not be an example of that).

2.   I have wonderful friends, who are always there to support and help me when I need them.

3.   I’m marrying the man I love.

Oh, I’ve thought of a fourth one! I’ve already stopped my sister from getting punched in the face (I think. She hasn’t quite explained exactly what was going on there. I’m hoping we’ll get to that soon).

Hopefully, I might be able to continue to make other things better for her, too.

“I’m sorry, Annabelle,” I said to Olivia’s little nemesis in my most princessy tone. “But this is a private family matter. I’m afraid I don’t have time to chat today. Good-bye.”

Then I squeezed my sister’s hand and tried to quicken our pace, though it was difficult, given my probably broken (but most likely only sprained) foot.

I have to say, it was quite satisfying to see Annabelle’s stunned expression at my reply, but much more so to see Olivia’s triumphant one.

But I didn’t get to enjoy it long, since Lars was soon tapping the Bluetooth headset he keeps in his ear at all times, and saying, “Er, Princess,” over the top of Olivia’s head so she couldn’t hear. “Police.”

“Someone called the police?” My eye began twitching even more than usual. “But why? We haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Well,” Lars said as Halim hurried forward to open the passenger door for us. “That would be a matter of opinion. Inciting a riot. Making a public nuisance. The uncle might feel differently than his wife about us taking the girl, who has been a significant source of income for some time . . .”

I hadn’t thought of that.

Olivia must have overheard—or felt the compulsive tightening of my grip on her hand—since she looked up with concern and asked, “Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine!” I practically yelled. “We just need to go now.” Then I began pulling her with renewed energy toward the limo, which must have been humiliating for her since she is, in fact, twelve and even Rocky objects to having his hand held, and he’s nine.

“Back, please,” Lars was barking at everyone who was trying to crowd too close to us, attempting to snap selfies with themselves and either me or Olivia. “Please give the princess room. No, no photos, sorry—no selfies—”

It was terrifying, and not just because I recently read online that the leading cause of lice transmission is selfies, from kids leaning their heads against other kids’ heads, providing a perfect highway of hair on which the lice can transport themselves.

I imagined it was even more terrifying for poor Olivia, who isn’t used to it. Even the lady with the whistle lowered it long enough to lift her cell phone to say, in a nasal voice, “Can I have a photo with the two of you?”

Lars flung out a rock-solid arm.

“No,” he said, nearly knocking the phone from her hands.

“Well!” the woman cried, offended. “See if I ever come to visit Genovia!”

“No one wants you there,” Lars informed her (I thought this a bit harsh).

Once we were all safely inside the limo, though, and Lars had pulled the door closed behind him, Olivia looked more thrilled than upset. She bounced around on the seats, looking out at the children who were plastering themselves against the tinted windows (we could see out, but they could not see in). It was a bit like something out of a boy-band documentary.

François gunned the engine and tried to pull out, but a roar of protest erupted from the children (not unlike the sound I once heard several years ago while visiting Iceland, and a volcano there exploded). Olivia’s classmates still had their hands and faces pressed against all the windows, flattening themselves against the limo in an effort to keep us from leaving.

“What are they doing?” I cried, horrified.

Olivia shrugged. “Nothing. They’re just excited. Not many celebrities visit Cranbrook Middle School. Actually, you’re the first.”

“Oh. I see.”