“It’s going to be spectacular,” Lewis said, pulling up a chair so he could peer at me more closely through the lenses of his red-framed glasses—which kind of resembled plastic scissor handles, I noticed. “It’ll be the most fantastic episode of My Super Sweet Sixteen ever. We’re even changing the name of the series just for your episode…we’re calling it My Super ROYAL Sweet Sixteen. Your party, Princess, is going to make every other party ever featured on this show look like a five-year-old’s birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese.”

“And,” Grandmère said—up close, I could see that she had really layered on the pancake makeup for the benefit of the camera—“it will attract millions of eager tourists to Genovia, once they’ve seen all that our little country has to offer by way of exclusive, high-end shopping, world-class entertainment, seaside recreation opportunities, fine dining, luxury accommodations, and old-world hospitality.”

I looked from Grandmère to Lewis and then back again, my mouth still open.

Then I jumped up and ran for the door.

Thursday, April 29, the loft

Well, who wouldn’t have run? This has got to be, hands down, the most disturbing thing she’s ever done. Seriously. I mean, MTV? My Super ROYAL Sweet Sixteen? Has she lost her mind?

She called Mom to complain, of course. About me. She says I’m being selfish and ungrateful. She says all I ever think about is myself, and that this is a tremendous opportunity for Genovia to finally get some good press after all the negative news stories about it lately, considering the snail thing and almost getting thrown out of the EU, and all. She says if I really cared about the country over which I will someday rule, I would accept her generous gift and agree to be filmed doing so.

And I DO really care about Genovia. I DO.

BUT I DO NOT WANT A SWEET SIXTEEN BIRTHDAY PARTY!!!!!

And I particularly do not want one that is going to be BROADCAST AROUND THE COUNTRY ON MTV!!!!!!!

Why is that so hard for people to understand????

At least Mom’s on my side. When she heard what Grandmère (and MTV) had planned, her lips got all small, the way they do when she’s really, really mad. Then she said, “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll take care of it.”

Then she went to make some phone calls.

To my dad in Genovia, I hope. Or possibly an insane asylum, so that Grandmère can be locked up at last for her own—and my—protection.

But I suppose that’s a little too much to ask.

Why can’t I have a NORMAL grandma? One who’d make me a cake for my birthday, instead of hosting a transcontinental royal slumber party for me, and allow a cable network to FILM it?

WHY?

Friday, April 30, lunch

I was regaling everyone at lunch about Grandmère’s crazy scheme—I had purposefully not told anyone about it, including Lilly, just so I could tell everyone about it at the same time, because ever since J. P. started sitting with us at lunch, there’s sort of been this contest between us girls to see who can make him laugh the hardest, because, well, J. P. seems like he could use a laugh, being a bottled-up volcano of passion, and all.