“I never said a word about the election!” she declared, in her most imperious voice. “But I did think, Amelia, if you were to go to this event at Columbia tomorrow—”
“Grandmère!” I sprang up from the couch. “You’re horrible! Do you really think the people of Genovia would be more likely to vote for Dad because he managed to buy them a CardioArm, as opposed to René, who’s only managed to promise them an Applebee’s?”
Grandmère looked at me blankly.
“Well,” she said. “Yes. Which would you rather have? Easy access to heart surgery, or a bloomin’ onion?”
“That’s Outback,” I informed her acidly. “And the point of a democracy is that no one’s vote can be bought!”
“Oh, Amelia,” Grandmère said with a snort. “Don’t be naïve. Everyone can be bought. And anyway, how would you feel if I told you at my recent visit to the royal physician, he told me my heart condition has gotten more serious, and that I might need bypass surgery?”
I hesitated. She looked totally sincere.
“D-do you?” I stammered.
“Well,” Grandmère said. “Not yet. But he did tell me I have to cut back to three Sidecars a week!”
I should have known.
“Grandmère,” I said. “Leave. Now.”
Grandmère frowned at me.
“You know, Amelia,” she said. “If your father loses this election, it will kill him. I know he’ll still be prince of Genovia and all of that, but he won’t rule it, and that, young lady, will be no one’s fault but your own.”
I groaned in frustration and said, “GET OUT!”
Which she did, muttering very darkly to Lars and to the receptionist, both of whom had watched our entire exchange with a great deal of amusement.
But honestly, I don’t see what’s so funny about it.
I guess to Grandmère, using an ex-boyfriend to jump to the head of the waiting list (as if Michael would even consider such a thing) to get a million-dollar piece of medical equipment is just a normal day’s work.
But though we may share the same gene pool, I am nothing like my grandmother.
NOTHING.
Friday, April 28, the limo home from
Dr. Knutz’s office
Dr. K, as usual, was less than sympathetic to my problems. He seems to feel I’ve brought them all down upon myself.
Why can’t I have a nice, normal therapist, who asks me, “And how do you feel about that?” and hands me anti-anxiety medication, like everyone else I go to school with?
Oh, no. I have to have the one therapist in all of Manhattan who doesn’t believe in psychopharmaceuticals. And who thinks every crummy thing that happens to me (lately, anyway) is my own fault for not being emotionally honest with myself.
“How is my boyfriend not asking me to our senior prom my fault for not being honest with my emotions?” I asked him at one point.
“When he asks you,” Dr. Knutz said, countering my question with another question, in classic psychotherapist style, “are you going to say yes?”
“Well,” I said, feeling uncomfortable. (Yes! I am honest enough with myself to admit I felt uncomfortable at that question!) “I really don’t want to go to the prom.”
“I think you’ve answered your own question,” he said, a self-satisfied gleam shining behind the lenses of his glasses.
What is that even supposed to mean? How does that help me?
I’ll tell you: It doesn’t.
And you know what else? I’m just going to say it:
Therapy doesn’t help me anymore.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. There was a time when it did, when Dr. K’s long rambling stories about the many horses he’d owned really helped me through my depression and what was going on with my dad and Genovia and the rumors about him and our family having known about Princess Amelie’s declaration all along—not to mention getting me through the SATs and the college application process and losing Michael and Lilly and all of that.
Maybe since I’m not depressed anymore and the pressure’s off (somewhat) and he’s a child psychologist and I’m not really a kid anymore—or won’t be after Monday—I’m just ready to cut the cord now. Which is why our last therapy session is next week.
Anyway.
I tried to ask him what I should do about choosing a college, and the thing Grandmère had brought up, about getting Michael to sell one of his CardioArms to Genovia in time for Dad’s election, and if I should just tell people the truth about Ransom My Heart.
Instead of offering constructive advice, Dr. K started telling me this long story about a mare he’d once had named Sugar, this thoroughbred he’d bought from a dealer who everyone said was such a great horse, and he knew was a great horse, too.
On paper.
Even though on paper Sugar was this fantastic horse, Dr. Knutz could just never find his place in the saddle with her, and their rides were totally uncomfortable, and eventually he had to sell her, because it wasn’t fair to Sugar, as he’d started avoiding her, and riding all his other horses instead.
Seriously. What does this story have to do with me?
Plus, I’m so sick of horse stories I could scream.
And I still don’t know where I’m going to go to college, what I’m going to do about J.P. (or Michael), or how I’m going to stop lying to everyone.
Maybe I should just tell people I want to be a romance writer? I mean, I know everyone laughs at romance writers (until they actually read a romance). But what do I care? Everyone laughs at princesses, too. I’m pretty much used to it by now.