Royal Wedding

“Mom,” I said, opening the door wider to allow them both to come in, “what’s wrong?”

I should have known, of course.

“Oh, nothing,” she said. There were tears sparkling at the corners of her large dark eyes. “I just heard on the radio that you have a half sister, that’s all. God forbid I should have heard this news from your father himself. Or you. You went to New Jersey to look at bridesmaid dresses today, Mia? Really?”

Uh-oh. I guess National Public News does occasionally report things not necessarily of national or cultural importance.

“Mom,” I said, my eyelid beginning to throb uncontrollably. “Look. I can explain—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Mom said. “You’re not the one I’m angry with. None of this is your fault. He’s the one I’m going to kill for leaving that poor child parentless in New Jersey.”

“She wasn’t parentless,” I said, even though of course I’d been thinking pretty much the same thing ever since I’d found out. “She has an aunt—”

“Mia,” Mom said, her mouth shrinking to the size of a dime, a sure sign she was about to blow. “You know what I mean.”

“Helen,” my dad said, suddenly appearing in the foyer. I guess he’d heard all the knocking and finally come to investigate. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing here?” Mom demanded, her eyes flashing wetly. “How could you, Phillipe? How could you?”

She shouted this with such explosive force that the door to the study flew open, and J.P. and his uncle, along with the Royal Genovian legal team, all stepped out into the foyer in alarm.

(Fortunately Grandmère and Olivia were too consumed by whatever they’re doing in the library—probably training the poodles to do circus tricks—that they didn’t seem to hear.)

My dad took it like a mensch. He held up a hand to stop the RGG agents from throwing my mother out on the spot and said, “No, no, gentlemen. I’ll handle this.”

Then he took her by the arm and steered her out onto the balcony, where I suppose he thinks none of us can hear the massive argument they’re currently having.

But of course we can.

(Well, probably not Grandmère, Olivia, and Rocky, who Dominique just shut up in the library as well.) But I can.

I know it’s probably wrong of me to record what they’re saying on my cell phone, but how else am I going to preserve it to play back for Tina later? She’s going to want to know every detail, and they’re talking too fast for me to write it all down.

Besides, I keep hearing my name mentioned. How can I not listen?

Mom: “Phillipe, what could you have been thinking? I don’t care what her mother said, of course you should have stayed in contact with her. She’s your child.”

Dad: “I did stay in touch with her. We write once a month. Helen, Mia told me about Rocky.”

Mom: “Rocky? What about Rocky?”

Dad: “That he’s having trouble in school.”

Mom: “What does that have to do with any of this? Phillipe, we’re talking about you, not me. Writing once a month is not the same as being there for a child physically and emotionally. You’re a grown man, how could you not know this?”

Dad: “I was thinking that since you’re coming to Genovia in July anyway for Mia’s wedding, perhaps you could take a tour of the school I’m thinking of sending Olivia to—”

Mom: “Sending Olivia to? I thought she lives with her aunt!”

Dad: “But I’m working right now to get legal guardianship, because of course her place is with me. And this school has an excellent program for gifted children, just like Olivia and Rocky.”

Mom: “Gifted? Rocky’s not gifted, Phillipe. He’s in trouble at school because of his obsession with farting, that’s all. Farting and dinosaurs. I just caught him building something in his room today out of cardboard boxes that he claims is a spaceship powered by his own farts.”

Dad: “Such a brilliant mind, just like his mother. You must be feeling overwhelmed raising such a clever child on your own.”

Mom: “No, I’m not, Phillipe, because I already raised a child on my own. Your daughter Mia, remember?”

Dad: “Yes, but you had summers off when she came to live with me.”

Mom: “She came to live with you and your mother. Who you still live with.”

Dad: “Yes, but not for long. Things are going to be different now. Did you know there are more than seventeen bedrooms in the summer palace?”

I’m the one who told him that!

Mom: “So what, Phillipe?”

Dad: “So I’m saying a person could be perfectly happy living there year-round.”

Mom: “Phillipe, you’re not making any sense.”

Dad: “The Genovian art scene needs someone like you, Helen, someone vital and real. Vulgar giclée prints of nude women riding dolphins into the sunset sell for tens of thousand of euros there. Won’t you at least consider—?”

Mom: “But, Phillipe, according to NPR, that little girl’s uncle says—”

Dad: “I swear all of that is going to be worked out, Helen. But first there’s something I need to tell you, and it isn’t only about Olivia. It’s something I came to realize today while I was standing in court in front of that judge. The truth is, Helen, I—”