“Dad.” I blinked at him. “Michael didn’t break up with me. At least if that’s what you meant by that speech you just gave me.”
“He didn’t?” Dad stopped looking so pleased. “Oh. Well, whatdid he do then?”
“He—well, remember when you flew back to Genovia with me and we watchedThe Lord of the Rings during the flight?”
“Yes.” Dad raised his eyebrows. “Are you telling me Michael’s come into possession of the One Ring?”
“No,” I said. I couldn’t believe he was trying to make a joke out of it. “But he’s trying to prove himself to the elf king, like Aragorn.”
“Who’s the elf king?” Dad wanted to know, like he genuinely didn’t know.
“Dad. YOU’RE the elf king.”
“Really?” Dad adjusted his tie, looking pleased again. Then he stopped. “Wait…my ears aren’t pointy. Are they?”
“I meant FIGURATIVELY, Dad,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Michael feels like he has to prove himself in order to be with your daughter. Just like Aragorn felt he had to prove himself to win the elf king’s approval to be with Arwen.”
“Well,” Dad said. “I don’t see what’s wrong with that. Only how exactly does he plan on doing it? Winning my approval, I mean? Because, I’m sorry, but leading an army of the dead to defeat the Orcs isn’t really going to cut the mustard with me.”
“Michael isn’t leading an army of the dead anywhere. He’s invented a robotic surgical arm that will allow surgeons to do heart surgery without opening up the chest,” I said.
That wiped the smirk clean off Dad’s face.
“Really?” he asked in a totally different tone. “Michael did that?”
“Well, he has a prototype for it,” I explained. “And some Japanese company is flying him out there so he can help them to build a working model. Or something. The thing is, it’s going to take a YEAR! Michael is going to be in Tsukuba for a YEAR! Or more!”
“A year,” Dad repeated. “Or more. Well. That’s a very long time.”
“Yes, it’s a very long time,” I said dramatically. “And while he’s thousands of miles away, inventing cool stuff, I’m going to be stuck in stupid Intro to Creative Writing and eleventh-grade Chem, which I’m already flunking, not to mention Precalc, which, once again, I don’t even know why I have to learn, since we’ve got all those accountants….”
“Now, now,” Dad said. “Everyone has to learn calculus in order to be a well-rounded individual.”
“You know what would make me a well-rounded individual, and you a celebrated philanthropist and possibly even be namedTime magazine’s Person of the Year?” I asked. “Well, I’ll tell you: if you founded your own robotics lab right here in New York City that Michael could build his robotic arm thingie in!”
My dad got a good laugh out of that one.
Which was nice. Except that I wasn’t joking.
“I’m serious, Dad,” I said. “I mean, why not? It’s not like you don’t have the money.”
“Mia,” my dad said, sobering. “I don’t know anything about robotics labs.”
“But Michael does,” I said. “He could tell you what he’d need. And then you could just, you know. Pay for it. And you’d totally get credit when Michael successfully completes his robotic arm thingie. They’d put you onLarry King , I’ll bet. Who cares aboutVogue …think of how much Genovia would be in the pressthen. It would do WONDERS for tourism. Which you must admit has been on the wane since the dollar tanked.”
“Mia,” Dad said, shaking his head. “It’s out of the question. I’m very pleased for Michael—I always thought he had potential. But I am not going to spend millions of dollars building some robotics laboratory so you can fritter away eleventh grade necking with your boyfriend instead of passing Precalculus.”
I glared at him. “Nobody calls it necking anymore, Dad.”
Well, I had to say SOMETHING. Also…fritter?
“Excuse me.” Grandmère stomped over until she stood in the middle of the room and could glare at both of us at the same time. “I’m so sorry to interrupt your very important discussion of THAT BOY. But I’m wondering if the two of you have noticed something about this room. Something that is very obviously MISSING.”
Dad and I looked around. Grandmère’s 1,530-square-foot penthouse suite came complete with two bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms—each of which contained a marble soaking tub with separate stall shower—two 12-inch flat-screen televisions (and those were just the TVs in thebathrooms ), exclusive Frédéric Fekkai and Côté Bastide bath amenities, Floris shaving kit and Frette candles, living room, dining room with seating for eight, separate pantry, library of books, DVD player, stereo, in-room selection of compact discs and DVDs, multiline cordless telephone with voice mail and data line capabilities, high-speed Internet access, and a floor-model telescope so she could look out at the stars or across the park into Woody Allen’s apartment.
There was nothing Grandmère’s suite didn’t have. NOTHING.
“AN ASHTRAY!” Grandmère shouted. “THIS IS A NONSMOKING SUITE!!!”
Dad looked up at the ceiling. Then he sighed. Then he said, “Mia. If Michael, as you say, is intent on proving himself worthy of you to me, then he wouldn’t want my help anyway. I’m sorry you’re going to have to be separated from him for a year, but I think buckling down and concentrating exclusively on your studies might not be such a bad thing. Mother.” He looked at Grandmère. “You are impossible. But I will get you a suite at another hotel. Let me make a few phone calls,” he said and walked into the dining room to do so.
Grandmère, looking very self-satisfied, opened her purse, plucked out the key card to her suite, and placed it on the coffee table in front of me.
“Well,” she said. “What a shame. Looks like I’ll be moving. Again.”
“Grandmère,” I said. She was making me SO MAD. “Do you know there are people who are still living in TENTS and FEMA TRAILERS because of all the hurricanes and tsunamis and earthquakes there’ve been in various parts of the world? And you’re complaining that you can’t SMOKE in your room? There is nothing wrong with this suite. It’s totally beautiful. It’s every bit as nice as your suite back at the Plaza. You’re just being ridiculous, because you don’t like change.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Grandmère said with a sigh, as she sat down in one of the brocade-covered armchairs across from the couch I was sitting on. “But I believe my folly might be to your advantage.”
“Oh?” I was barely listening to her. I couldn’t believe how quickly my dad had shot down my Build Your Own Lab idea. I really thought it had been a good one. I mean, I know I only came up with it on the spur of the moment. But it seemed like something he might go for. He’s always building hospital wings over in Genovia, and then naming them after himself. I think the Prince Phillipe Renaldo Surgical Robotic Systems Lab has a nice ring to it.
“The suite is paid for through the end of the week,” Grandmère said, leaning over to tap on the key card she’d left on the table. “I won’t be staying here, of course. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t feel free to use it, if you like.”
“What am I going to do with a suite at the Ritz, Grandmère?” I demanded. “It might have escaped your notice, because you’re so preoccupied with your own quote suffering unquote. But I am hardly going to be hosting any slumber parties this week. I am in a full-on life crisis.”
Grandmère’s gaze hardened on me. “Sometimes,” she said, “I cannot believe that you and I are related by blood.”
“Welcome to my world,” I said.
“Well, the rooms are yours,” Grandmère said, sliding the key card closer to me. “To do with whatever it is you wish. Personally, if I still lived with my parents, and my paramour was leaving on a yearlong quest to prove himself to MY father, I’d use the rooms to stage a very private and very romantic good-bye. But that’s just me. I’ve always been a very passionate woman, very in touch with my emotions. I’ve often noticed that I—”