Royal Wedding

He’s very proud of himself.

Himself? Why? What did HE have to do with it? I mean besides the obvious?

I have to tell you later when we can talk in person. Right now I’m in the car with my dad. We’re going to pick up Olivia.

Oh, Mia!!! But what about your GOWN?????

Yes, exactly. Priorities.

You know what I mean. What are you going to do????

Work around it. Have you talked to Lana lately?

No. Why would I have talked to Lana?

Stop it, T.! I know you guys are planning a “surprise” bachelorette party for me at Crazy Ivan’s in Genovia.

Oh, no! How did you find out?

Lana already asked me about it. Then Boris spilled the beans about it to Michael. Which means you’ve been talking to Lana AND Boris.

Well . . . we wanted to do something special for you both!

I don’t need anything special. I already have you guys! And there’s no point in throwing me a crazy bachelorette party when I can’t even drink. And it would be more fun to do something all together. Maybe we should go with the boys to Buenos Aires to eat steaks.

But it won’t be a bachelor party if WE go!

None of them are really bachelors, though, are they? At least Michael isn’t, he’s going to be the father of twins.

TWINS??????

Oops, Tina, I’ve got to go, we’re at the O’Tooles’. Later!

WAIT! TWINS?????

CHAPTER 73

5:45 p.m., Friday, May 8

Waiting Room, Cranbrook Memorial Hospital

Well, that certainly did not go the way I was expecting it to.

Although the people here in the waiting room at the Cranbrook Memorial Hospital are being very pleasant, which is more than I can say for Olivia’s aunt and uncle.

Actually, Catherine did try to be gracious at first, inviting us in and serving coffee, which of course I didn’t actually drink, but no other refreshment was offered.

But her husband acted like a sullen schoolboy, saying, “Really, it’s up to Olivia to decide where she wants to live, and I can tell you, she wants to stay here. She knows she’s better off moving to Qalif with down-to-earth people she knows than to Genovia with a bunch of royals she never met until a couple days ago.”

Seriously? In what universe? I wanted to ask.

I couldn’t tell if he was angling for more money or simply being obtuse (to quote a favorite phrase of Grandmère’s). It seemed pretty obvious to me that Olivia wanted to live with her father, especially after the heartrending way she’d cried Noooo! when she’d learned her aunt and uncle had arrived in New York to take her back to New Jersey.

But I said, exercising some of my diplomacy skills, “Well, when Olivia gets home from school, we’ll see what she has to say. Until then, let’s sit and enjoy this delicious coffee and these lovely gluten-free cookies.” Note: They were not lovely. “Whatever her decision is, that’s what we’ll abide by.”

Dad did not like my saying this one bit, I could tell, since he kept shifting on the white couch and looking at his Rolex.

But what were we supposed to do? We’d arrived too early, and Olivia wasn’t home yet, and in any case, it was her decision, no matter what the courts said. I knew my dad would never want to make her unhappy, and he’d certainly do everything he could to keep any sort of legal battle with her aunt—and Rick O’Toole—out of court as well.

I was making small talk with Catherine O’Toole about her wedding to Rick—they had a very large photo of their outdoor beach ceremony on the wall—when the front door opened and in walked my sister, the front of her white school uniform blouse covered in blood.

I don’t think I’ve ever screamed so loud in my life.

Then I jumped from the couch and ran over to Olivia, crying her name, trying to figure out where the blood was coming from.

It’s strange how differently people react in times of crisis. Dad did the exact same thing I did, minus the screaming. Lars, who’d been slouched against a chair, sprang up as if he’d been electrified and began calling the units of the RGG I’d asked to be sent to protect my sister, demanding to know what had happened.

But how did Olivia’s aunt and uncle react? The two of them didn’t even get up off the couch! Not until I spilled my coffee (when I jumped up).

Only then did Aunt Catherine leap to her feet. And then it was only to clean her precious white carpet.

“Olivia.” Dad was running his fingers up and down his younger daughter’s arms, looking for broken bones. “Where are you hurt? Where is the blood coming from? Who did this to you? Who did this to you?”

“I’m okay,” Olivia said, through some cotton toweling she was holding to her face. “It’s only my nose.”

“She’s fine,” we were assured by a red-haired girl who’d come into the house behind her. “Annabelle Jenkins just punched her in the face.”

All I could say in response to this was “Thank God.”

That may sound horrible, but what I meant was, Thank God it was only Annabelle Jenkins and her fist, and not RoyalRabbleRouser with a gun, or a knife, or acid. It could have been so, so much worse. I felt so relieved.

But a split second later, I got angry. Not because I’d been wrong, but because my little sister had been punched in the face, and apparently some people—like the school, and her uncle Rick’s two kids, who’d come slinking inside along with her, and were standing around, smirking at me—had allowed it to happen.