What was WRONG with me? That wasn't ME talking. It was the mean little elf inside my mouth, making it move and say things I didn't actually mean.
Maybe this is what happens when you turn six- teen. A mean little elf moves inside your body and starts controlling your words and actions. Funny how they've never mentioned anything about THAT on My Super Sweet Sixteen. Or on Dr. Phil.
"This is just like when Henry II asked his knights to kill the Archbishop of Canterbury," Lilly said in a small voice.
"Or when Rachel asked Ross to drink the glass of leftover fat in order to prove his love on Friends," I said. Because I wasn't talking about murdering]. P., for crying out loud.
But was Lilly going to drink the fat?
That was the question she seemed to be strug- gling with as she murmured, "I have to go to the office to get something photocopied," and wandered from the G and T room in a sort of daze.
"Mia," Boris—who had just been headed into the supply closet to practice his latest piece when Lilly and I had started fighting, and so of course he'd stopped to watch (though he'd pretended to be lis- tening to his iPod)—said. "What are you doing?"
Even though Boris is already sixteen, he appar- ently hasn't met his mean little elf. Maybe boys don't get them when they turn sixteen.
Still, I can't say I appreciated his tone. I mean, he knows from firsthand experience how difficult Lilly can be to deal with sometimes.
Really, Lilly should be grateful he hasn't said any- thing to J. P. about the details surrounding their breakup. I don't think even the Beast would have appreciated hearing about how Belle played Seven Minutes in Heaven with a guy who wasn't her boyfriend right in front of said boyfriend.
I'm just saying.
Friday, April 30,
The Plaza I entered Grandmère's suite super carefully, looking around for any cameramen or purple-haired girls who might be lurking in the shadows.
But Grandmère seemed to be the only one in there.
Well, Grandmère and Rommel, who I discreetly checked for mics. But he appeared not to have any secret bugs tucked into his purple velour sweat suit. That I could find, anyway.
"Oh, for God's sake, Amelia," Grandmère said, apparently realizing what I was doing. "They're gone. You made your position on the subject per- fectly clear yesterday. There isn't going to be any television show. At least, not one featuring you."
"What do you mean?" I asked, throwing down my backpack and making myself comfy on the couch.
Grandmère raised an eyebrow at me. "Amelia," she said. "Feet."
I took my feet off her coffee table. I guess the mean elf inside me is also kind of a slob. "What do you mean, at least not one featuring me?" I asked.
"Well," Grandmère said. "You didn't want to go. Although you didn't have to have your mother tele- phone your father, you know, Amelia. You could simply have TOLD me you didn't want to appear on My Super Royal Sweet Sixteen."
"I DID," I said.
"In any case," Grandmère said. "It was too late to change all the plans I made for your party, so Lewis has arranged for another young person to take your place."
"Another young person?" I gaped at her. "Like who? A Mia Thermopolis look-alike?"
"Certainly not," Grandmère said with a soft snort. "Instead of your sweet sixteen, we'll be cele- brating the sweet sixteen of someone else—a young man named Andy Milonakis."
My jaw dropped. "You're taking ANDY MILONAKIS to GENOVIA?"
"There's no need to shout, Amelia. And yes, I am. Lewis is very pleased with the way things have turned out. I'll be taking this boy and ten of his friends—I thought one hundred was a bit excessive, considering he's not even a family member—to Genovia, to do all the things you and your friends could have done for YOUR birthday, if you weren't so selfish and stubborn. They're calling it Andy's Super Royal Sweet Sixteen. Lewis promises that it's going to reach millions of viewers. The glories of Genovia will soon be known to that hard-to-reach eighteen-to-thirty-nine-year-old male demographic."
For once, the mean little elf in me was silent. It didn't, for instance, goad me into suggesting that the eighteen-to-thirty-nine-year-old males who enjoy Andy Milonakis's show probably still live at home with their parents and can't afford a trip to Genovia.
It didn't prompt me to mention that the ten friends Andy would be bringing with him to Genovia were probably going to include—at least judging from his TV show—his dog, Woobie, the guy who owns the cherry ice stand on the corner, and Rivka, the rooster-headed chicken lady, this old woman Andy forces to wear a hat with two chicken legs sticking out of it.
It also didn't urge me to tell Grandmère that Andy Milonakis probably turned sixteen ten years ago, and was just using her to get publicity for his show, the same way she was using him to get public- ity for Genovia.
Instead, I said, meaning it, "Grandmère. This is the best birthday present you've ever given me."
To which Grandmère replied with a slight snort, and a sip of her Sidecar.
But I could tell she was pleased.
Saturday, May 1, 10 a.m. the loft
Well. That's it. I'm sixteen. At last. I can now legally have sex in most European countries, including Genovia, and just about every state in America.
Except the one I actually live in.
Oh, yeah, and I can apply for a learner's permit to drive. Which I guess would be a big deal, if I didn't have to go everywhere in a limo, anyway.
Mr. G made real homemade waffles for break- fast, and then he and Mom and Rocky all sat around the table and watched me open my presents from them, which included, from Mom, a vintage Run
Katie Run T-shirt; from Mr. G, an iTunes gift certificate for 50 song downloads (yes!); and from Rocky, a big pile of Mead wide-ruled composition notebooks with black marbled covers, for future journal entries and novel-writing attempts.
Even Fat Louie got me something—a Fiesta Giles action figure to replace the one I sold on eBay to get Michael an original 1977 Star Wars poster last Christmas.
Oh, well.
Mom apologized on Dad's behalf for his not having called or gotten me anything, but said he hadn't forgotten-—he's just been super busy with Parliament.
I said Dad already got me a present—he yelled at Grandmère and got me out of having to be on My Super Royal Sweet Sixteen.
That is a gift for the ages.
Then Michael called and asked if I wanted to have the romantic birthday dinner I'd suggested we have in the first place. I said yes, and went to begin beautifying myself. Because even though our dinner isn't for eight hours, it never hurts to get a head start on the beautifying. Especially if you need a lot of beautifying, the way I do.
I've received birthday e-mails from around the world! Not just from my friends (although I've heard from all of them, too—well, all except for Lilly, but that's no surprise: She's probably still sulking over her big chance at appearing on MTV being blown), but from other royals such as Prince William and some of my Grimaldi cousins, including the one no one even knew I had, another illegitimate royal just like me, only this one courtesy of Prince Albert of Monaco.
But best of all was the CUTEST e-card from Princess Aiko of Japan, my favorite royal of all time (besides my dad, of course), of a chihuahua wearing a tiara.
Just had a lovely afternoon of made-for-TV- movie viewing . . . which is the best way to spend any birthday, if you ask me. Saw a Kellie Martin double feature, Her Last Chance, in which Kellie plays a teen drug addict falsely accused of her boyfriend's murder, and Her Hidden Truth, in which Kellie plays even tell the driver where to go.
But Hans started heading uptown, anyway, like they'd already agreed on their destination.
"Michael," I said, starting to get suspicious.
Actually, I'd already been a little suspicious some- thing might be going on when Mom and Mr. G, right before Michael arrived, had announced they were taking Rocky to see the latest Winnie the Pooh movie over at the Loews Cineplex. I mean, the kid is barely one. And they were taking him to the movies? At night?