Royal Genovian Academy
Things have gotten worse. Much, much worse!
Now I not only have to learn a stupid song (I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t call one of the oldest, most traditional songs of the country over which I could someday rule stupid, but it is), but I also have to dance with a stupid PRINCE!
I don’t mean to make it sound like I’m prejudiced against princes, because I’m not. I know some princes who are very nice. My dad is a prince, and he’s great (when he’s not yelling about how long it’s going to take to fix the foundation over at the summer palace or how much this wedding is costing).
Michael isn’t a prince yet, but I think he’s going to make a fine one when he’s crowned (at the wedding), even if he’s going to be only a prince consort.
Consorts are the spouse of the ruler of the country and aren’t actually in line to inherit the throne. Consorts don’t have to come to high tea, or help make decisions of state, or even wear their crowns. They just have to look good in photos and say things like “Everything is going to be all right” to the ruler.
But the prince I got assigned to dance with today? He’s a real prince, and he is totally not nice! He’s barely even okay!
And I know we’re not supposed to judge other people, at least not until we’ve walked a mile in their shoes.
But Prince Gunther is the WORST!!!!
I know why he was the only person left in class without a dance partner, and that’s because he’s a boarding student who:
• Wears shower shoes to school with kneesocks and shorts
• Picks his nose, then flicks what he finds in there at Monsieur Montclair when he isn’t looking, and then laughs
• Makes fart noises out of his mouth every chance he gets
• Likes to show off his “guns,” which are what he calls his arm muscles
• Has green hair—not because he dyed it green, which would be cool, but because it turned green from all the swimming he does in the school pool
• Brags that he’s such a good swimmer, he’s going to be in the next Olympics
But I don’t see how this is possible. Surely his native land of Austria wouldn’t want a green-haired booger flinger representing the country in the Olympics, even if he is a prince.
Because of all the swimming, Gunther really does have huge shoulders and biceps. So when I have to take his arm in the part of the dance where “the Genovian gentleman promenades his Genovian lady” down the center, Prince Gunther flexes his biceps under my fingers.
This is not only gross, it practically cuts off my circulation, because Prince Gunther squeezes my hand so tightly against his side.
I want to complain about this to Mademoiselle Justine, the dance instructor, but I’m not sure if Prince Gunther is doing it on purpose to show off or if this is just how boys’ arms work. I’m not very experienced with boys other than Rocky, and he’s only nine, so how would I know?
The last time it happened, I got so grossed out that I ran away from Prince Gunther and joined the girls on their side of the room. After each rehearsal, the boys and girls split off to opposite sides of the room. I don’t know why. We just do.
“Kee-yow, Olivia,” Luisa said when she saw my face. “What’s wrong?”
I didn’t even get mad at her this time for saying ‘kee-yow,’ because I was so freaked out by what had just happened. At a moment like that, even the companionship of someone like Luisa was welcome.
“Every time we promenade,” I whispered, “Prince Gunther flexes like this.” I showed her.
“Ewwwwwwww!” Luisa cried. “He is so disgusting!”
Of course all the other girls overheard and then gathered around, wanting to know what we were talking about. Even the shy girl—the only other princess in class besides me, Komiko, who never speaks to anyone at all, as far as I can tell.
I should have known that Luisa can’t keep a secret. Now every single girl in our entire class refers to Prince Gunther as “the Flexer,” which I feel bad about. I’m the princess of Genovia. I’m supposed to be setting a good example, not spreading gossip about other people.
“Maybe he’s not doing it on purpose,” I said.
“No, he is definitely doing it on purpose,” Luisa said. She considers herself an expert on boys. “He isn’t like Prince Khalil. Prince Khalil would never do something like that. He is a perfect gentleman … except, of course, that he will not stop reading about snakes.”
She said this last part while gritting her teeth and staring across the room. It’s true! In between dance rehearsals, Prince Khalil heads to his desk to pick up his book about snakes and then reads it.
I haven’t seen him speak to Luisa once—except to apologize for stepping on her toes, because of course Prince Khalil is Luisa’s dance partner—which must be frustrating for her, since he’s her boyfriend-to-be.
“Ah well,” Luisa said, tossing back some of her long hair. “He wouldn’t dare bring that book to the wedding.”
“Of course not,” Marguerite said sympathetically, and patted her on the shoulder. “Although he could download it to his cell phone.”
Luisa looked dismayed. “He wouldn’t!”
“You never know,” Victorine said. “The Flexer would do something like that. He sits next to me, and all day long he draws mean pictures of Madame Alain, giving her a very big…” She pointed to her butt. “You know what.”
I was shocked. The rest of the girls giggled, even Komiko, who is so shy she hardly ever even smiles.
“Maybe he’s just a bad drawer,” I suggested. “I like to draw, too, but sometimes it’s hard to get everything to look right. Maybe the Flexer isn’t very good at drawing, so it just looks like he’s sketching Madame Alain with a very big … you know what.”
“Kee-yow, Olivia,” Luisa said with a smirk. “You are so immature! Of course he is drawing her that way on purpose. All the boys in this class are so babyish. Well, except for my Prince Khalil. He is perfect.”
I’ve only been here a few hours and I’m already getting very tired of hearing about how perfect Prince Khalil is.
“But if that’s true about Prince Gunther doing those mean drawings,” I said, “we should tell someone. That’s not very royal behavior … or even very nice.”
“But a royal never tattles.” Princess Komiko actually said something!
I had to think about that one. “Actually, I think it’s probably more royal to tattle in some cases than it is not to tattle. Like in cases where someone might be hurt. And it’s wrong to make fun of your teachers. That could hurt their feelings.”
Luisa blinked her wide blue eyes. “But if we tattle on Prince Gunther and he gets kicked out of school, then you won’t have a dance partner for the performance, Olivia!”
“I’m okay with that,” I said. “I can make the sacrifice. I have a lot to do on Friday anyway.”
“No, Luisa’s right,” Marguerite said. “We need you, Your Highness. You and your adorable baby brother.”
“Well.” Luisa sniffed. “I don’t know if we need her … and if you mean Rocky, Marguerite, he’s not even really her brother. He’s Princess Mia’s half brother, and from her mother’s side, not her father’s. Technically he shouldn’t even be going to this school.”
“Hey,” I said angrily. “He belongs here just as much as anyone else!”
Luisa narrowed her eyes. “No, he does not. The Royal Genovian Academy is a training school for royals, which Rocky is not.”
I couldn’t believe how snobby she was being. “He lives in a palace with a royal family!”
Victorine and Marguerite looked impressed by my argument.
“It’s true, Luisa,” said Victorine. “He does.”
“Oh, right. Of course.” Luisa laughed. “I was only joking. Don’t be so sensitive, Princess Olivia.”
Grandmère told me that it’s rude for a royal to say something mean, then tell the other person they’re “sensitive” for getting offended. At least, I’m pretty sure she did.
But before I could tell Luisa this, Mademoiselle Justine, the dancing instructor, clapped her hands and made us return to our places. “Ladies, ladies! Less talking, more dancing, please.”
Not five seconds later, Gunther was squeezing my fingers to death again. Not that it even mattered, since I couldn’t get any of the steps right. I’m definitely the worst dancer in the whole class. I think Mademoiselle Justine wanted to cry.
“Please,” she said to me. “Please go home after school today and practice, Your Highness. Your footwork, your arms … all of it. Just all of it…”
“I will,” I promised.
But all I want to do when I get home is cry. Preferably in a bubble bath.
