Part 13 (1/2)

What a surprise they had had, when they'd opened up the paper and saw the Princess of Genovia hawking this hot new fas.h.i.+on designer's spring collection.

What a surprise I had, when the Drs. Moscovitz congratulated me on my new modeling career, and I was all, ”What are you talking about?”

So, while Lilly and Boris looked on with curiosity, Dr. Moscovitz opened her paper and showed me: And there it was, in all of its four-color-layout glory.

I'm not going to lie and say I looked bad. I looked okay. What they had done was, they had taken all the photos Sebastiano's a.s.sistant had snapped of me trying to decide which dress to wear to my introduction to the people of Genovia and laid them all out on this purple background. I'm not smiling in the pictures, or anything. I'm just looking at myself in the mirror, clearly going, in my head, Ew, could I look more like a walking toothpick?

But of course, if you didn't know me, and didn't know WHY I was trying on all these dresses, I'd seem like some freak who cares WAY too much about how she looks in a party dress.

Which is exactly the kind of person I've always wanted to be portrayed as.

NOT!!!!!!!.

I have to admit, I am a little hurt. I'd thought, when he'd asked me all those questions about Michael, Sebastiano and I had kind of made a connection. But I guess not. Not if he could do something like this.

My dad has already called the Times and demanded that they remove the supplement from all the papers that haven't been delivered yet. He has called the concierge of the Plaza and insisted on Sebastiano being listed as persona non grata, which means the cousin to the prince of Genovia won't be allowed to set foot on hotel property.

I thought this was a little harsh, but not as harsh as what my dad wanted to do, which was call the NYPD and press charges against Sebastiano for using the likeness of a minor without the consent of her parents. Thank G.o.d Grandmere talked him out of that. She said there'd be enough publicity about this without the added humiliation of a royal arrest.

My dad is still so mad he can't sit still. He is pacing back and forth across the suite. Rommel is watching him very nervously from Grandmere's lap, his head moving back and forth, back and forth, his eyes following my dad as if he were watching the US Open or something.

I bet if Sebastiano were here, my dad would smash up a lot more than just his cell phone.

Sat.u.r.day, December 13, 5 p.m., the loft

Well.

All I can say is, Grandmere's really done it this time.

I'm serious. I don't think my dad is ever going to speak to her again.

And I know I never will.

And okay, she's an old lady and she didn't know that what she was doing was wrong, and I should really be more understanding.

But for her to do this-for her not to even take into consideration my feelings-I frankly don't think I will ever be able to forgive her.

What happened was, Sebastiano called right before I was getting ready to leave the hotel. He was completely perplexed about why my dad is so mad at him. He tried to come upstairs to see us, he said, but Plaza security stopped him.

When my dad, who'd answered the phone, told Sebastiano that the reason Plaza security stopped him was because he'd been PNG'd, and then explained why, Sebastiano was even more upset. He kept going, ”But I had your permis.h.!.+ I had your permish, Phillipe!”

”My permission to use my daughter's image to promote your tawdry rags?” My father was disgusted. ”You most certainly did not!”

But Sebastiano kept insisting he had.

And little by little, it came out that he had had permission, in a way. Only not from me. And not my dad, either. Guess who, it appears, gave it to him?

Grandmere went, all indignantly, ”I only did it, Phillipe, because Amelia, as you know, suffers from a terrible self-image, and needed a boost.”

But my dad was so enraged, he wouldn't even listen to her. He just thundered, ”And so to repair her self-image, you went behind her back and gave permission for her photo to be used in an advertis.e.m.e.nt for women's clothing?”

Grandmere didn't have much to say after that. She just stood there, going ”Uhn . . . uhn . . . uhn . . .” like someone in a horror movie who'd been pinned to a wall with a machete but wasn't quite dead yet (I always close my eyes during parts like this, so I know exactly what it sounds like).

It became clear that even if Grandmere had had a reasonable excuse for her behavior, my father wasn't going to listen to it-or let me listen to it, either. He stalked over to me, grabbed my arm, and marched me right out of the suite.

I thought we were going to have a bonding moment, like fathers and daughters always do on TV, where he'd tell me that Grandmere was a very sick woman and that he was going to send her somewhere where she could take a nice, long rest, but instead all he said was, ”Go home.”

Then he handed me over to Lars-after slamming the door to Grandmere's suite VERY loudly behind him, before storming off in the direction of his own suite.

Jeez.

It just goes to show, even a royal family can be dysfunctional.

Couldn't you just see us on Ricki Lake?

Ricki: Clarisse, tell us: Why did you allow Sebastiano to put your granddaughter's photos in that Times advertising supplement?

Grandmere: That's Your Royal Highness to you, Ms. Lake. I did it to boost her self-esteem.

I just know that when I get to school on Monday, everybody is going to be all, ”Oh, look, here comes Mia, that big FAKE, with her vegetarianism and her animal-rights activism and her looks-aren't-important-it's-what's-on-the-inside-that-matters-ism. But I guess it's all right to pose for fas.h.i.+on photo shoots, isn't it, Mia?”

As if it wasn't enough to be suspended. Now I am going to be sneered at by my peers, too.

I'm home now, trying to pretend none of it ever happened. This is difficult, of course, because when I walked back into the loft, I saw that my mom had already pulled the supplement out of our paper and drawn little devil horns coming out of my head in every picture, then stuck the whole thing onto the refrigerator.

While I appreciate this bit of whimsy, it does not make the fact that I will have to show my face-now plastered all over advertising supplements throughout the tristate area-in school on Monday any easier.

Surprisingly, there is one good thing that's come out of all of this: I know for sure I look best in the white taffeta number with the blue sash. My dad says over his dead body am I going to wear it, or any other Sebastiano creation, again. But there isn't another designer in Genovia who could do as good a job, let alone finish the dress in time. So it looks like the dress by Sebastiano, which got delivered to the loft this morning, is it.

Which is one thing off my mind, anyway.