Parents. Seriously. First they get on my case because I won’t get out of bed or do anything. Then I do what they want, and get out of bed and socialize, and they get mad about THAT too.
You can’t win.
While Mom was off ratting me out to Dad (and whatever, okay, I did spend a lot, way more than Lana. But except for ball gowns and the occasional pair of overalls, I haven’t bought clothes in, like, three years, so they need to get over it), I started stuffing my old, nonfitting clothes into trash bags to take to Goodwill, and hanging up my new, totally stylish clothes, plus packing for going to Tina’s tonight.
Which I was kind of surprised to find I was looking forward to doing. Lana and Trisha had invited me to some party they were going to at an Upper West Side apartment, given by a senior whose parents were working on their chi at a spa for the weekend. But I told them I already had other plans.
“Launching a new yacht, or something?” Lana asked all sarcastically.
Only by now I knew not to take every little thing she said so literally and straight to heart. Most of the time when she makes her little barbs, she’s just trying to be funny. Even if the only person her remark is funny to is herself. In fact, Lana’s a lot like Lilly in that way.
“No, just hanging out with Tina Hakim Baba,” I said, and left it at that. And neither of them seemed offended that I was blowing off the “party of the semester” to be with a non–It Crowd member.
I was just stuffing my toothbrush into my overnight case when my mom walked in and held out the phone to me.
“Your father wants to speak to you,” she said, looking smug, and then turned around and walked out.
Seriously. I love my mom and all. But she can’t have it both ways. She can’t raise me to be a socially conscious rebel and then get worried when the weight of my depression about the world oppresses me to the point that I can no longer get out of bed, send me to therapy, then freak out when I follow that therapist’s advice. She just can’t.
And, okay, Dr. K didn’t actually TELL me to spend that much on underwear. But whatever.
“I’m not taking any of it back,” I say to my dad.
“I’m not asking you to,” he said.
“Do you know how much I spent?” I asked suspiciously.
“I do. The credit card company already called me. They thought the card had been stolen and some teenage girl was on a spending spree. Since you’ve never spent that much before.”
“Oh,” I said. “Then what did you want to talk to me about?”
“Nothing. I just have to make it seem like I’m yelling at you. You know how your mother is. She’s from the Midwest. She can’t help it. If it costs more than twenty dollars, she breaks out in hives. She’s always been that way.”
“Oh,” I said. Then I added, “But, Dad. It’s not fair!”
“What’s not fair?” he wanted to know.
“Nothing,” I said, lowering my voice. “I’m just pretending like you’re yelling at me.”
“Oh,” he said, sounding impressed. “Good job. Oh, no.”
“Oh, no, what?”
“Your grandmother just walked in.” Dad sounded tense. “She wants to talk to you.”
“About how much I spent?” I was surprised. To Grandmère, the amount I paid today at Bendel’s equals only a small fraction of what she spends every week on hair and beauty treatments alone.
“Uh, not exactly,” Dad said.
And the next thing I knew, Grandmère was breathing into the phone.
“Amelia,” she snapped. “What is this your father tells me about our princess lessons being canceled for the foreseeable future because you have some kind of personal crisis you need to work out?”
“Mother,” I heard Dad yelping in the background. “That is not what I said!”
I knew exactly what was going on. Dad had been trying to get me out of princess lessons with Grandmère without telling Grandmère WHY I needed to miss princess lessons—in other words, without telling her I’m in therapy. With a cowboy psychologist.
“Quiet, Phillipe,” Grandmère snapped. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” To me, she said, “Amelia, this isn’t like you. Falling apart because of That Boy? Have I taught you NOTHING? A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle! And whatnot. Pull yourself together!”
“Grandmère,” I said wearily. “It’s not—It’s not JUST because of Michael, okay? Things are kind of stressful for me right now. You know I missed a bunch of school this week, I have tons of work to make up, so if it’s okay, I’d really like to take a raincheck on princess lessons until—”
“WHAT ABOUT DOMINA REI?” Grandmère shrieked.
“What about it?” I asked.
“We have to start working on your speech!”
“Grandmère, about that, I just don’t know if I—”
“You are giving this speech, Amelia,” Grandmère barked, “and that’s final. I already told them you would. And I already BRAGGED about it to the Contessa! Now, tomorrow afternoon, you are meeting me at the Genovian Embassy, and together, we shall pore over the royal archives for some kind of material that will hopefully inspire your speech. Is that understood?”
“But, Grandmère—”
“Tomorrow. The embassy. Two o’clock.”