Monday, November 23
5:45 P.M.
Royal Genovian Bedroom

I know I should be concentrating on more important things—for instance, tonight we’re having a banquet in honor of volunteer trainers of Hearing Dogs for Deaf People, and I’m giving each of the volunteers the Bronze Medal of Appreciation for Genovian Generosity.

But all I can think about is how Prince Khalil said I’m the opposite of a dork, and that I’d see. See what? I haven’t seen anything yet, except that he avoided me the whole rest of the day (no big change from any other day).

I guess I must have been really distracted by this since at high tea with Grandmère in the Royal Genovian Gardens, she said, “Olivia, I can’t imagine what’s wrong with you today, but this is the third time I’ve had to ask you to pass the clotted cream. Please pay attention. If I were a dignitary visiting from a foreign land, you could have caused an international incident by ignoring me so rudely.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Grandmère,” I said, and passed the clotted cream. “I’m just having a hard time concentrating, I guess.”

“Ah,” Grandmère said. “Well, yes, we’re all feeling a little down about the fact that, once again, your sister cannot join us at the tea table. But fortunately we have your father here for once, so let us bask in the radiance of his manly presence.”

“Mother,” Dad said, turning the page of the newspaper he was reading, “please. All I said was that I’d join you for an espresso.”

“Which is not, nor has it ever been, tea, but we will take what we can get. Shall we ask Olivia why it is that she’s so out of sorts, or would you prefer to read about the stock market, Phillipe?”

Dad lowered the newspaper. “What is bothering you, Olivia?”

“It’s just,” I said, “that Prince Khalil used to like me, but then he went away for the summer, and ever since he came back, he’s seemed really down, and today he said he thinks I’m the opposite of a dork, and that I’d see. But he didn’t say what the opposite of a dork is, or what it is I’m going to see. And anyway, I thought being a dork was a good thing. Mia’s always said so.”

“Good heavens,” Grandmère said, adding jam to the cream on her scone. “Phillipe, are you listening to this?”

“Yes.” Dad had stuck his face back into the newspaper. “I think you should ignore him, Olivia. Ignore all boys.”

“Phillipe, you aren’t even paying attention. The child is speaking of Prince Khalil of Qalif. Prince Khalil of the Zayed Faisals of Qalif.” Grandmère poked her butter knife at Dad’s newspaper.

Dad lowered the newspaper. “Olivia,” he said, “I not only want you to ignore that particular boy, I want you to stay away from him. Period.”

“What?” I dropped the piece of cake I’d been about to eat. Snowball, my puppy, found it beneath my chair and gobbled it up. “But Dad, what are you talking about? Prince Khalil and I are friends.” At least, we used to be. “Remember, he used to come over all the time this summer—”

“Yes, honestly, Phillipe.” Grandmère poured herself some more tea. “It isn’t the boy’s fault that his uncle has turned into a megalomaniac who is purposely trying to destroy his own country.”

“What?” I cried again.

“That’s where your Prince Khalil went this summer when he seemed to disappear,” Grandmère explained. “Back to his own country with his parents, who were doubtless trying to talk sense into the boy’s uncle, the supreme leader of Qalif. But the man wouldn’t listen, preferring to plunge his kingdom into civil war than save his own people. So poor Khalil and his parents had no choice but to smuggle out whatever of their meager belongings they could salvage, and return here. Now your sweet Khalil is a prince without a country.”

“Mother,” Dad said, “you’re making the boy sound like the hero of a romance novel.”

“I’m not making him sound like anything,” Grandmère declared. “I’m only stating the facts as they are written—some of them in that very newspaper you are holding, Phillipe.”

She pointed at it, and I couldn’t help noticing one of the headlines between Dad’s fingers:

CIVIL WAR IN QALIF

“Oh no,” I cried, dropping another piece of cake. This time I didn’t notice what happened to it, whether Snowball ate it or what.

Dad saw what I was looking at, then quickly tucked the paper away so I couldn’t see the headline anymore.

“Don’t worry about Prince Khalil, Olivia,” Dad said. “He and his parents are quite safe here in Genovia. Your sister and I are seeing to that. There’s no need for you to involve yourself in his difficulties.”

“How can she not involve herself in the boy’s difficulties?” Grandmère asked. “She is his friend. And then you tell her—quite cruelly, I might add—to stay away from him.”

“Mother,” Dad said with a sigh. “Of course I didn’t mean for her to stay away from him completely as if he were some sort of leper. I only meant—”

“What did you mean, Phillipe? Because it sounded to me like you meant stay away from him completely. Whereas if I were the one giving Olivia advice, I might say it would be a good idea for her to be a little extra kind to him during this horrible time—even if he might seem a little … odd, as he was today.”

“Extra kind?” I wrinkled my nose. “Like how?” Luisa was extra kind to Prince Gunther in school—holding his hand between classes, texting him heart emojis, and stuff like that—but those were the sorts of things I definitely did not want to do with Prince Khalil, or he might get the idea that I was in love with him, or something.

“Well, by paying special attention to him,” Grandmère said. “People who have experienced profound loss, as your Prince Khalil has, can be known to suffer from low self-esteem. It’s likely that because he’s lost everything, he feels that he is not worthy of you anymore … especially considering what a beautiful flower you are blossoming into—”

“Mother! Please.” Dad threw down his newspaper and stood up. “This is precisely what I was talking about. Stop filling her head with such melodramatic nonsense.”

“I recall a certain prince who did a good deal of pining after a beautiful woman he thought he wasn’t worthy enough to have,” Grandmère said with a sniff. “No one accused him of being melodramatic.”

Dad rolled his eyes and stomped back into the palace, saying he had work to do … which was funny, since he’s officially retired.

But I don’t care what he thinks. I’m going to take Grandmère’s advice and try to do something nice for Prince Khalil. That’s what royals do best—perform random acts of kindness for others less fortunate than themselves.