Sunday, November 29
2:00 A.M.
Royal Genovian Bedroom

This went from being the worst birthday I ever had to the best to the worst … to the best … to the …

I don’t even know! Because it’s still happening!

The only way I’m going to figure it out is if I write it down. Because then maybe my head will stop buzzing and my fingers will stop shaking and my heart will stop pounding …

Or not.

But more than anything what I felt all day today was super nervous to see Prince Khalil.

Which is silly, because I’d never been nervous to see him before. Why now, just because he’d written me a letter saying he thought I was the coolest girl he’d ever met and wanted to get to know me better?

Well. I guess I know why. I could fool the people around me, but I couldn’t fool myself:

Because I liked him, too. And not as a friend, either. Why else had I gotten so upset when I’d learned that he’d sent me that letter, and I hadn’t seen it for a whole week, and had left him hanging with no reply?

If I didn’t like him—really like him—I wouldn’t have cared.

No, Luisa had been right all along—and that was another reason I was so mad at her:

I had a crush on Prince Khalil.

And finding out that he liked me back—maybe even had a crush on me, too—was the best birthday present I could have ever had.

If he still liked me.

There was only one way to find out—not including texting him to ask, which I had to agree with Grandmère seemed like a cheesy, nonprincessy thing to do. Ten-year-old girls slip boys notes—or texts—asking if he likes her.

Thirteen-year-old princesses ask in person.

So that’s what I was going to do.

I was so nervous, I thought I might actually throw up all the Toblerone and sweet and savory snacks I’d eaten all day.

Paolo was still screwing around with my hair when guests started arriving for the ball. But it was worth it, because when he was done, he and Francesca looked at me and said, “Bellissima!”

I know they weren’t lying to make me feel better. I did look beautiful, and it is not bragging to say that. Partly it was the way he’d done my hair—in curly tendrils on top of my head—and partly it was the dress—made by my cousin Sebastiano. It was purple (my favorite color), with crystals on top and a full length, floaty skirt on the bottom, with more crystals on the bottom.

I really did look bellissima.

When I walked out into the hallway where Dad was waiting, checking his watch and shouting at the door every two minutes (“Olivia, I know you don’t care, but I do actually want to walk you down the stairs while you are still thirteen!”), he agreed.

“Now THAT was worth waiting for,” he said.

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “You look good, too.”

He did, too, with his shiny bald head and black tuxedo jacket with tails. He gave me his arm and led me proudly to the Grand Royal Staircase, where Helen, Mia, Michael, Lilly, Rocky, and even Grandmère (in a lavender evening gown, with Rommel wearing a matching feather boa) were all waiting.

“Oh, Olivia, you look beautiful,” Mia said, while Michael took about a million photos with his new computer watch.

I tried to get them to stop fussing, since I could see everyone in the Great Hall down below, looking up at me. I’m grateful to have a family (at last) that loves me.

But sometimes they still totally embarrass me.

“Turn to the left,” Lilly said, snapping a few of her own photos. “The portrait of that weird guy in the suit of armor is behind you.”

“Oh, yes,” Grandmère said, glancing at Lilly’s screen. “Prince Reginald. Such an unfortunate chin. Phillipe, do steer her a little to the left.”

“No,” I said, through gritted teeth. “It’s my party. We’re going now.”

I couldn’t tell if Prince Khalil was in that crowd below—there were too many young men wearing tuxedoes to tell them apart from the top of the staircase.

But as Dad led me down the Grand Royal Staircase, I said a quick little prayer that he’d shown up. Just because he’d RSVP’d didn’t mean anything. Lots of people RSVP these days—Chef Bernard is always complaining—and then don’t show up (or don’t RSVP, and do show up), leaving the kitchen with an uneven plate count.

Down Dad and I went, to where everyone was waiting.

“I love your dress,” gushed all the girls (well, most of them. Luisa made a point of saying, “Oh, is that another Sebastiano? It figures.”).

“Where’s the food?” asked all the boys (not Prince Khalil. I did not see him. Yet).

There was plenty of food. Chef Bernard need not have worried. He had totally outdone himself and made all my favorites (despite Grandmère’s objections that there was nothing “healthy” on the menu), including: cheeseburger sliders; multiple types of pizza; Genovian fruit, veggie, tofu (for the vegans), and cheese platters; roll-ups and spirals; chicken wings; cones of fries; nachos; popcorn with every imaginable topping; an ice-cream sundae bar; and of course, birthday cake and a chocolate fountain with everything from marshmallows to miniature cheesecakes to dip in it (I really hoped Prince Khalil noticed the last bit).

Soon people were gorging themselves and dancing by the pool and in the ballroom (we’d opened all the French doors so you could wander in and out).

Dad and Helen’s surprise turned out to be none other than Boris P and his band. The place they’d disappeared to with Rocky in the morning was the Genovian airport, where they’d met Boris, his band, and his girlfriend, Tina Hakim Baba. They’d flown in on Boris P’s private plane.

And yes, I know he’s a worldwide superstar, and I should be very grateful and honored that he’s come to Genovia TWICE in the past year to play at the palace.

But he’s not MY favorite. I really should let people know that I’m not a Borette.

But whatever. Victorine (and Marguerite, who’d recovered enough from La Grippe to be officially noncontagious and attend the ball) and everyone else was over the MOON when they found out Boris P was the musical entertainment.

And Mia was excited to have her friend Tina Hakim Baba visiting. Tina was ecstatic to see the babies, who really are looking cuter and cuter every day, even if the public (and Grandmère) aren’t completely thrilled with their names (most people seem to like Elizabeth, but a national poll found that 68 percent think that “Prince Frank” isn’t very royal).

“Prince Francesco I could understand,” I overheard Grandmère saying. “Even Prince Francis would be passable. But Frank? Prince Frank? I’ve never heard a less royal name in all my life.”

Fortunately Rocky was busy at the chocolate fountain when Grandmère said this.

Anyway, I did not mean to look as if I weren’t enjoying myself at my own party. If I did, it wasn’t because of Grandmère’s complaining … and it definitely wasn’t because of Boris P.

It was because I finally spied Prince Khalil through the throng of people in the ballroom—I’d invited everyone who attends the Royal Genovian Academy, practically, except the kindergartners and first graders, because let’s face it, I did not want a bunch of babies at my party—and he did not come near me.

At all.

Who could blame him, really? If I had sent a letter like that to him, and HE had not responded in a week, I would not have come near him, either. I would probably not even have come to his party.

So it was generous of him even to have shown up. Why shouldn’t he have hung out with Tots and the duke and those guys over by the pool table in the billiard room?

I probably would have done the same thing.

So maybe I was momentarily looking a little down at one point, and that is why Prince Gunther approached me and yelled (you had to yell because Boris P was playing his new hit single “The Love in Your Eyes,” so loudly), “Princess Olivia. Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine,” I said (yelled). “How are you?”

“I am not so fine,” Prince Gunther said. “As you know, Lady Luisa and I broke up.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Yes.” Prince Gunther pointed at his red cummerbund. “I still wear Claudio, though. She can kill my heart, but she cannot kill my love for fashion.”

“Oh,” I said. I could sense that Prince Gunther had something he really wanted to say to me, but it was so loud in the ballroom, where Boris P and his band were playing, that I could barely hear a thing other than their music.

“Gunther,” I said, even though a part of me really didn’t want to. “Do you want to—”

“Dance? Yes, very much! We make good dance partners, remember?”

“No. I meant go somewhere less noisy.”

“Yes! This I want to do, too.”

So we stepped out into the royal gardens, which wasn’t much quieter than inside, because of course there were speakers to amplify the music. But at least there was slightly less noise.

I found a nice spot near the pool—close to where Grandmère and I had been in the morning—and sat down, though I first had to kick a few purple and white balloons out of the way.

“This is perfect,” Prince Gunther said, looking around admiringly at the garlands of flowers the palace staff had spent all afternoon stringing up. “Very romantic!”

“Uh,” I said. “Well, I guess you could call it that.… Look, Gunther, about my cousin. I don’t think you should feel too badly about her. I don’t know if you two were meant to—”

“Oh,” he said, looking at my throat. “You are not wearing my necklace.”

I put my hand to my chest. Oops. “Oh. No. I’m not.”

He frowned. “You did not like it?”

“No, Prince Gunther, I do like it. Very much. I’m writing to thank your parents, in fact, because it was such a thoughtful, generous gift. But my dad thought it was maybe a little too generous, and I should wait to wear it when I’m older.”

“Too generous?” Prince Gunther looked confused. There was an almost full moon, so I could see him pretty well, especially with the bright blue glow from the pool and all the party globes the palace staff had hung from the palm trees. “How can a gift be too generous?”

“Well,” I said.

This was starting to feel uncomfortable, and I regretted my decision to leave the ballroom. There weren’t as many people outside, and the ones who were there were the older high school students at the RGA, many of whom were clustered in exactly the things Madame Alain most despised—friend groups—and were paying no attention whatsoever to me and Prince Gunther.

“You see,” I began, trying to explain to Prince Gunther what I meant, which was difficult, since I didn’t even know what I meant, or why exactly my dad had taken the necklace away, “it’s a heart necklace, made of gold and diamonds—”

“So is the one you are wearing,” he said. “Only that one is silver.”

“Platinum,” I said. “Not that it matters. But this one was a gift from my grandmother, not a boy to whom I’m not related—”

“But we could be related.”

I stared at him. “No, Prince Gunther,” I said. “We could not. The Lapsburg von Stubens and the Renaldos are not related in any way, that I know of…”

“No,” he said, taking my hand. “I mean if we get married.”

Oh no! A million alarm bells went off in my head. No, no, no, no! This could not be happening. Not on my birthday. Not on any day. This was never supposed to happen.

Then again, how could I have been so stupid not to have seen it? Prince Gunther had already told me once before that he liked me.

But that had been so long ago! Sixth grade, a million years ago.

Of course, sixth grade was not a million years ago. It only felt that way. It was technically only six months ago.

But that was long enough.

“No, Prince Gunther,” I said, gently withdrawing my hand from his. “That is not going to happen.”

“It could,” he said eagerly. “Once we’ve graduated from college, of course. I plan to study computer engineering. I would like to design my own video games.”

“That’s great,” I said. “But that’s a long time from now. And you’re only just getting out of a long-term relationship. So I think you need to take some time to play the field before you decide who to date next, let alone marry.”

I had no idea what I was talking about, but this was the kind of stuff I heard Mia’s friends talking about all the time, so I thought it sounded good.

It seemed to sound good to Prince Gunther, too, since he said, “Hmmm. Well, maybe that is true.”

“I know it is,” I said. “You said yourself that Lady Luisa broke your heart. It takes time for that kind of wound to heal, and the only way for that to happen is for you to really get to know yourself. Who is Prince Gunther Lapsburg von Stuben?”

Prince Gunther looked toward the stars. “That is something I often ask myself.”

“I’m sure you do. But it’s a question only you can answer. And when you do, maybe you’ll want to give that heart necklace to some other girl.”

Prince Gunther glanced away from the stars and back at me. “Oh, Princess Olivia,” he said. “That will never happen.”

“Okay,” I said. “Well, I think you’re wrong. But I’ll hold on to it for you in the meantime, even though I really don’t think I’m the right girl for it … or for you.”

He sighed. “I thought this might happen. But thank you for being so kind about it, Princess Olivia.” He gave a sigh, then stood up to go. “You will always be the princess of my heart.”

Then he winked, put his hands into his pockets, and shuffled away, whistling a little tune. As I sat staring after him, I saw Nadia and Princess Komiko bounce toward him, eager—as always—to cheer him up. They dragged him into the ballroom, and began to dance to Boris P’s other new hit, “You Light Me Up.”

I looked down at the spot where he’d been sitting. Oh my goodness! Had that really just happened?

I got my answer more quickly than expected. It turned out there’d been a witness: my cousin Luisa. She’d been spying on me.

“Ha! I heard all that. And you were so worried about my breaking Prince Gunther’s heart.”

Luisa came strolling up, a plastic cup of fruit punch in her hand. (I know it’s tacky to use plastic cups, but since the babies were born, Michael won’t allow the use of glass receptacles by the pool, since someone might break them and then the babies could cut their tiny feet when they learn how to walk.)

“Luisa,” I said grumpily, “go away.”

“But I guess I didn’t break Prince Gunther’s heart, did I?” Luisa asked. “Not if he was so willing to give it to you a day later!”

“You’re wrong,” I said, glaring at her. She was wearing a red Claudio evening gown, just as she’d said she would in her note to me, so many days ago. “You really hurt his feelings.”

“Oh, right.” She narrowed her eyes on me. “He’s soooo sad. So sad he just asked you to marry him!”

I felt myself blush. “That was just Gunther. You know how he—”

“Ha!” She took a sip of punch. “Don’t worry about it. Do you think I’m jealous? I’m not. I’m glad, actually. He deserves someone nice. Nicer than me, anyway.”

I sighed. “You are nice, Luisa. Or you could be, if you’d just try.”

“But being mean is so fun.” She wiggled her eyebrows at me. “I know you know that. And if you weren’t such a stick-in-the-mud, you could have fun being mean along with me.”

“No,” I said. “Do you know what all of this is about, Luisa?” I waved my arms to indicate the pool, the gardens, the party, the palace. “I mean being royal, and having good manners. What it’s really, really all about?”

“Uh … letting people walk all over you?”

“No. It’s about putting yourself in the other person’s shoes and trying to think how you’d want to be treated if you were in their place, and then treating them that way. It’s called empathy. You should look it up sometime.”

“I know what empathy means,” Luisa said acidly. “That’s why I let Prince Gunther break up with me.”

I rolled my eyes at this. “Oh, come on, Luisa. You did not let Prince Gunther break up with you. He dumped you fair and square when he finally saw you with the duke.”

“I let him see me with the duke,” Luisa said, pointing at me. “Because you told me what I was doing to him was unfair. Despite what you may think, Stick, I did care about Prince Gunther’s feelings, and I realized I didn’t want him to get hurt any more than I’d already hurt him. So I let him go, just like you asked me to.”

I pointed back at her. “No,” I said. “That’s not what I—”

“Oh, maybe I didn’t do it the way you would have done it, but I do have empathy—and manners—see?” She dropped her arm. “So now, if you’ll excuse me, Your Very Royal Highness, I have to go. The duke is waiting for me. We’re going to try to unplug Boris P’s amplifiers and make everyone stop dancing and freak out. Happy birthday!”

“Thanks,” I called to her as she walked away, though I didn’t actually feel very grateful to her. I felt like giving her a swift kick in the pants (or the back of her ball gown).

But one thing you can’t change, unlike your hair or your shoes, is other people. Only they can do that.

Sadly, they almost never do.

But there’s always hope.

“Princess Olivia?”

What now? I thought. What could possibly go wrong next?

So I turned around …

… and there was Prince Khalil.

My heart did a flip in my chest. I swear, it was like when one of the figure skaters at the Royal School Winter Games flipped over backward on the ice. Only it happened right inside of my chest.

I have no idea if it landed right side up again. I could have an upside-down heart now, for all I know. It would explain a lot.

I could barely breathe, Prince Khalil looked so nice standing there in the steam coming off the pool (because it was kind of cold outside, but the water in the pool is heated), with his white shirt collar open at the neck and his black tie untied and his dark eyes so bright and shiny.

“Oh,” I managed to say. Don’t ask me how. “Hi. I didn’t see you there.”

Most brilliant thing in the world to say. Hi. I didn’t see you there. Obviously.

“Yes,” he said, coming closer. “Well, you’ve been very busy all night. Everyone’s wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”

I looked at a star directly above his head and wished very hard that he had not overheard my conversations with either Prince Gunther or Lady Luisa.

“Yes,” I said. “Well, that’s what happens at birthday parties. Listen, Prince Khalil. I just wanted to say that I got your—”

“Here,” he interrupted, and thrust something into my fingers. “This is for you.”

I looked down. In my hand was a small, somewhat tattered velvet box.

“Oh,” I said, surprised and embarrassed at the same time. “Prince Khalil … you didn’t have to get me a gift. It said on the invitation—”

“‘The gift of your presence is present enough,’” he said with a laugh. “I know. But I saw this, and I thought you’d like it. Open it.”

Completely embarrassed now—but at least I know WHY I’m always embarrassed when I’m around him (because I really, really like him)—I sat back down on the chaise longue and opened the velvet box.

Inside was the smallest little painting I’ve ever seen, on very old parchment paper, of some animals sitting around a lake. It was so exquisitely and brilliantly painted, each color looked like it had been mixed with crushed jewels before it had been spread onto the tiny canvas.

“Oooh,” I exclaimed, afraid to touch it—or even breathe—because it was so small and beautiful, like the twins had become, now that they’d gotten over the trauma of being born.

“Do you know what it is?” Prince Khalil asked, sitting down beside me. In fact, he nudged me over, so that I’d make room for him, not exactly something a boy who was madly in love with someone would do …

… unless of course he felt so comfortable with the girl, and he was so excited about the subject they were discussing, he didn’t realize he’d done it.

“No,” I said, looking only at him, not the painting.

“It’s called a Persian miniature,” he said. “It’s from my country. Very few of them exist anymore, at least outside of museums, because of my uncle.” His face clouded over as he referred to the man who was systematically destroying his beloved homeland. “He doesn’t like art, so he’s demolishing every piece he finds.”

I couldn’t help letting out a little gasp. How could anyone want to purposely destroy something so beautiful?

“This is one we managed to get out before he discovered it,” Prince Khalil went on. “It was painted many centuries ago. When I saw it, I thought of you, because the animals look like the ones you draw.”

“Prince Khalil,” I said, my heart not flipping over anymore. Now it had swollen to five times—maybe ten times—the size of the country of Genovia. “Thank you so much for thinking of me. But I can’t keep this.” It killed me to return it to him, but I thought of what Mia had said about Prince Gunther’s gift, and I knew I had to. “It’s far too valuable. I could never—”

“Oh, no,” he interrupted, looking alarmed as I tried to thrust the tiny painting back into his hands. “You must keep it. You’re the only person I know who’ll appreciate it, and who’ll take proper care of it. Because you’re the only one who knows its true worth.”

“Yes,” I said. “Of course I do. But—”

He gently pushed the picture back into my hands. “This is a piece of my country’s history—maybe the only piece left, if my uncle has his way. You’ll take good care of it, the way you take good care of all the things you love. You understand about family. You understand about not hurting things, even things other people consider pests, like iguanas.”

“Well,” I said reluctantly. “Yes. But this—”

Everything he’d pointed out was true, of course. But it was such an enormous responsibility, I didn’t know what to say. I held the tiny painting to my heart—carefully, so as not to crush it.

“Prince Khalil,” I said, “thank you for entrusting this to me. I love it, and of course I’ll make sure it’s well cared for. Maybe … maybe I could put it in the museum here in the palace. We have lots of precious things there that other countries have entrusted into our care. And that way, other people can see and appreciate it, too, and there’ll always be a piece of your country’s history alive somewhere.”

His dark eyes glittered in the moonlight. “Yes,” he said. “I think that would be all right.” Then he smiled. “I think that would be excellent, actually.”

“Good,” I said. Then, before I could stop myself, I added, “And about your letter. I want you to know that I only got it last night. It was lost in all the confusion when my sister’s babies were born, with all the other letters that arrived earlier in the week, so I only just got a chance to read it—”

The light in his ink-dark eyes disappeared, and his eyebrows darted upward.

“Oh,” he said. “So that’s what happened! I wondered. When you never mentioned it, I thought … well, I thought maybe, since I always see you hanging around Prince Gunther…”

His voice trailed off, but I knew exactly what he meant.

I flung a hand to my face, mortified. “Oh, no! I mean, I do like Prince Gunther, but only as a friend. Not that I don’t like you as a friend, too, but…”

Oh, this was terrible. I was only making things worse.

I put my hand on his.

“What I meant to say was, the answer is yes—if it’s not too late. Yes, I would like to go have ice cream with you, or coffee, sometime.” I said it all in a rush, so I would be sure to get it out correctly. “Well, I’d prefer ice cream, but anything would be great. Anytime. Right now, if you want.”

He looked happier than I had ever seen him … happier than when the RGA had won the Royal School Winter Games, even.

“Great,” Prince Khalil said, squeezing my hand in his. “Let’s go!”

He pulled me up from the chaise longue.

“What?” I said with a disbelieving laugh. “Really?”

“Why not?” he asked. “You said anytime. Unless…” Then he looked around, and his smile faded. “Oh, right. It’s your birthday party. You probably want to stay.”

“No.” I shook my head. “I don’t! Do you want to know a secret?”

“Of course!”

“I hate Boris P.”

His smile lit up the entire pool area. “I do, too!”

So we left. I left my own birthday party!

It’s crazy, but it’s true. It wasn’t even hard. I asked my dad if it was okay, and at first he said, “No, absolutely not.”

But Helen overheard and said, “Phillipe, remember how you told me to let you know when you were being stubborn and unreasonable?”

So Dad agreed to give us the bulletproof limo (only if we took Serena, too, and got the Royal Genovian Guard to do a precheck on the closest ice-cream shop, which of course was open late. It’s Genovia on a Saturday night!).

So we rode down there—after I gave the painting to the chief of the Royal Genovian Guard for safekeeping; I knew he would make sure it stayed safe while I was gone—and ordered two cones. I got mint chocolate chip, and Prince Khalil got pralines and cream.

Then we sat on the seawall and looked out across the ocean, and talked about Persian miniatures, and Prince Khalil’s home country, and Genovia, and New Jersey, and Prince Gunther, and Princess Sophie Eugenie (with whom he was not texting during the train ride home. He was texting back and forth with his mother, who loves to text, and loves heart emojis even more), and my pet iguana, Carlos, and wildlife illustration, and how much we hate Boris P’s music.

And before I knew it, it was midnight, and Serena said she needed to get me back, and we dropped Prince Khalil off at the apartment building where he lives with his mom and dad.…

But not before I got a selfie of us sitting on the seawall in the moonlight, eating our ice-cream cones, our shoulders touching and our feet dangling above the waves. I told him I needed to send it to my friend Nishi.

“I lost a bet,” I explained.

“Okay,” he said, giving me a bewildered smile.

And now I’m starting to think that I was 100 percent wrong this morning when I told Grandmère that being thirteen feels exactly the same as being twelve.

Thirteen is completely different—and so much better—than being twelve.

Uh-oh. Nishi just got the photo I sent her, and is texting me back:

But you know what? I’m not going to. Because some things are meant to be private.