Royal Wedding - Meg Cabot Page 0,38
had been Mr. G.’s favorite. “Absolutely. You can wear whatever you want, Mom.”
“Mia,” she said, laughing. “Of course I can’t. Your wedding is going to be broadcast all over the world. I may be a crazy painter, but I don’t want to look like one on your special day. I think I can stand wearing one of those stuffy mother-of-the-bride dresses for an afternoon,” she added, bravely. “It was the idea of wearing one of them—with panty hose—every day for the rest of my life that I was never able to stand.”
Which pretty much confirms both Tina’s and the Drs. Moscovitz’s theory.
“That’s very sweet of you, Mom,” I said. “But the whole idea was that Michael and I didn’t want you to have to wear one of those dresses, with or without panty hose. We wanted to have a small, informal wedding, no more than fifty people, no commemorative stamps of Michael—”
My mom laughed some more.
“Oh, okay,” she said. “Well, best of luck with that. Actually, I quite like the idea of a stamp of Michael.”
“I know, right? That’s what I said!”
I love Mom, but I worry about her. One of the things my stalker likes to harp on in his anonymous letters and e-mails to me (and rants on Rate the Royals message boards) is how women like my mom, who raise children on their own, are evil. His posts go on and on about how women like her (and me) are destroying the fabric of society by being too independent (because we have our own bank accounts, jobs, etc.), and how I should try to make Genovia more like the despotic nation of Qalif, instead of advocating for equal social, political, and economic rights for women.
If only I could find out who he is so I could have him imprisoned and/or publically humiliated, or at least tell his own mother on him.
• Note to self: Remind press office to stop letting me read those letters. I would prefer only to read the nice letters I get from little girls who draw me pictures of themselves with their cats.
It’s too bad that Mom and Dad were never able to work things out.
But Mom really isn’t the panty-hose-wearing type, and unfortunately those are required for most official royal duties, especially when descending private-plane staircases in high winds while wearing dresses. Trust me, I’ve had this happen enough times in front of photographers to know.
UGH.
Of course neither my grandmother nor my father is answering their phones.
So now I am resorting to texting, which is bad because, considering all the messages I’m getting, my battery is completely dying.
Grandmère, why are all the gossip sites reporting that Michael proposed to me this past weekend? How would they even know about that? And why is Rate the Royals saying we’re getting married this summer? Call me back ASAP because I’d really like to clear up this matter.
Who is this? Why are there words on my phone?
It’s called a text message, Grandmère, stop pretending like you don’t know what it is, I showed you how to text last year when TMZ hacked your phone and found out about you and James Franco. So I KNOW you know how to do it. And it’s the only way I appear to be able to communicate with you right now since you won’t pick up your phone.
I don’t know what you’re talking about. Clearly my mobile is broken. Please make an appointment with my assistant, Rolanda, if you wish to speak with me.
I will not make an appointment with Rolanda. I am on my way to see you (even though we’re stuck in traffic right now). So you had better have an explanation ready. Why would you do something so horrible as announce my engagement to the press before we had a chance to tell Michael’s parents in person?
Oh, it’s you. Amelia, something terrible has happened. Please come see me at once.
Something terrible is ABOUT to happen. To you.
Amelia, I am speaking of something of national urgency. I dare not write it here. We could be being spied upon, you know.
Let me get this straight. You sent out a press release that I’m getting married to distract everyone from some OTHER story that you’re afraid is about to break? Who are you now, President Snow from “The Hunger Games”?
Amelia, don’t be flippant.
Sometimes I think Rommel may not be the only one in the family with dementia.
CHAPTER 24
5:20 p.m., Monday,