“Well, if that’s what Dad’s up to, it’s a really bad strategy,” I spluttered. “My mom’s so not the type to care about trophies, unless it’s a Pulitzer, or maybe a Nobel.”
“I know, right? Your mom would never drop everything and come rushing to be at your dad’s bedside after half his face was burned off in a tragic race-car accident, because she’d be like, ‘He deserved it for being involved in such a dangerous sport in the first place.’ ”
“It’s true,” I said, then added, “Although that would have made an excellent scene in a movie that I would have paid full price to see in theaters, not even waited to watch at home on pay-per-view or HBO.”
“Oh my God, me, too.”
No wonder I can’t sleep.
Except that if this turns out to be true, Dad pretty much brought it on himself. Well, at least the part where he’s allegedly still in love with my mother, after more than twenty-six years (that’s how long ago he impregnated her while they were both college students back in the eighties, when drinking too much and being “in the moment” was an acceptable excuse for not using birth control, although not really, if you ask me. Well, twenty-five years and nine months ago. My birthday is tomorrow).
“Of course I don’t blame your dad for thinking such a crazy stunt might work,” Tina went on. “Your mother rushed to be at your stepfather’s side after he had that heart attack while taking the M14 crosstown bus to band practice last year.”
“Right,” I said. “But Mr. G. and my mom were married. And also, not knowing you have heart disease because you keep putting off going to the doctor is completely different from purposely pursuing high-risk sports.”
At least Mr. G. had plenty of life insurance and a surprisingly healthy 401(k), so he left my mom and my half brother, Rocky, financially secure (and Mom’s paintings are still selling really well, considering the market for contemporary realism).
Of course, now that I think about it, Tina—and apparently the media—aren’t the only ones with this crazy theory about my dad. Michael’s parents kind of brought it up when I was last at their house (for Passover dinner).
This was before the arrest, of course. But somehow the conversation turned toward Dad and how weird he’s been acting lately and one of the Drs. Moscovitz—I can’t remember which—said my dad’ll never be happy because he desperately wants to be with my mother, but she’s never been the kind of woman who—like Grandmère—is attracted to men in positions of power.
“So are you saying my dad wants to marry his mother?” I’d asked in horror.
“Well,” Dr. Moscovitz had replied, “according to Freud, deep down, all men want to marry their mothers, and all women, their fathers.”
I knew there was a reason I don’t like Freud. Michael is nothing like my dad, and I really can’t see how I resemble his mother. She looks like a brunette Dr. Ruth Westheimer, only slightly shorter and with more moles on her face.
Oh, well.
Tina and I hung up after promising each other we weren’t going to think about the men in our lives who were bothering us—in her case, her ex, and in mine, my current boyfriend and my father—anymore.
But that’s pretty much all I’ve done since.
I must have gotten a little sleep, though, because I did have a dream earlier that I was asked by Kate, Duchess of Cambridge, to have lunch, so she could give me tips on how to handle the stress of being a modern-day princess (something I am obviously still not handling well, even after a decade of practice).
But when Kate greeted me at the door, she told me she had no time to talk to me about princess stuff, because she had a date with Bruce Willis. So she left me alone in Buckingham Palace with Prince George!
So I baked a cake for him, then helped him eat it.
Three things for which I feel grateful:
1. Tina Hakim Baba.
2. My noble ancestresses.
3. Cake.
CHAPTER 5
9:15 a.m., Thursday, April 30
Third-Floor Apartment
Consulate General of Genovia
New York City
I can’t believe this.
I looked out the window this morning because the paps seemed a bit louder than usual. I expected to see them playing some kind of drinking game (per usual) but instead I saw protesters!
Not many, but enough. They’re holding signs protesting my dad (and me, too).
I called Dominique right away and she said (in her adorable French accent), “I know, I know, your ’ighness. Don’t worry, we are on it.”
(Dominique has a hard time pronouncing the letter H, which is silent in French, so asking her things like the name of “that boy wizard” is one of my favorite pastimes whenever I happen to be stuck in traffic with her. “You mean ’airy Pottair, Princess?” she always asks, excitedly. “’airy Pottair, ’oo went to ’ogwarts?” Juvenile, but always entertaining.)
“On it?” I asked. “How are you ‘on it’?”
“Oh, we ’ave a few ideas . . .”
“Like what? Should we hold a press conference? Do you want me to issue a public statement? What?”
“No, no, nothing like that. It’s better that we just ignore them for now.”
“That’s what you said about the paparazzi, but they haven’t gone away in two weeks.”
“I know, but don’t worry. It’s only a ploy by your father’s opponent to get media attention.”