“I’m quite positive it’s that odious Lord Crenshaw,” Grandmère said, as I handed her her drink. “He’s been quite persistent in asking to escort me to the charity ball the contessa is hosting for the American Heart Association on Valentine’s Day. Now, Dr. Steve. About Amelia—”

“I don’t want to know!” I yelled. Because, seriously, who wants to know their future? Not that I believe in astrology, but, you know, SOME of it is accurate. I mean, like the part about how Capricorns and Tauruses get along so well. Because how else can you explain why Michael Moscovitz, who is the most intelligent and gorgeous senior in the whole school (well, unless you’re blind, like everyone who thinks JOSH RICHTER is the most intelligent and gorgeous senior in the whole school), would be going out with a lowly, flat-chested freshman like me? It would be like if Josh Hartnett suddenly started dating Little Debbie, of snack cake fame.

Mmmm, Little Debbies.

But Dr. Steve had already pulled out my chart, and was saying things like, “Her Royal Highness, the princess Mia, is gifted with uncanny insight and takes great pleasure in nature and all living things—”

“Ah!” I cried, trying to get away, only to trip over Rommel, who was cowering in his fur-lined basket by Grandmère’s magazine rack. “No! Don’t tell me!”

“She is tremendously persistent, particularly with her affections—”

“Don’t say another word!” I was trying to untangle myself from Rommel, but it was hard because he kept darting from one side of his basket to the other. It’s a very big basket.

“And that’s why her longest-lasting partnership will be with a generous, caring Leo—”

Suddenly, I froze.

“A LEO?” I screamed from the floor. “That’s not possible! Michael is a Capricorn!”

“Well, obviously, Amelia,” Grandmère said, all primly, taking a sip of her Sidecar, “Michael isn’t who you’re meant to end up with. What else, Dr. Steve?”

But I stopped listening after that. Because I knew then that Dr. Steve was a charlatan. Oh, he may not dress in monk’s robes or have a beard or collect the hair of virgins, but he’s no more a mystic oracle than Rasputin ever was.

Because any astrologer who can’t interpret from my star chart that Michael Moscovitz and I are meant to be together forever is a hack.

Or possibly, receiving a kickback from my grandmother, who can’t stand Michael because he’s not a royal or, even worse, super rich, and so therefore, in her eyes, not a worthy consort for her granddaughter.

I did thank Dr. Steve politely for letting me know I’m destined to do great things when I take over the throne of Genovia, just to be polite. But the truth is, any palm reader off the street could have predicted that. I mean, what with my plan to convert the palace into a giant animal shelter, and all.

Jeesh.

I wonder how much money Grandmère has given this fraud. Maybe I should call my dad. I mean, the last thing we need right now is a coup attempt by a populace alienated by Grandmère’s profligate spending. Dad’s still having a hard enough time calming parliament down about the parking meter controversy I inadvertently started over winter break.