I feel like walking
the world
Like walking the world
You can hear she's a beautiful
girl
She's a beautiful girl
She fills up every corner like
she's born in black and white
Makes you feel warmer when you're
trying to remember
What you heard
She likes to leave you
hanging on her word
—KT Tunstall, Suddenly I See
Wednesday, September 9, limo on the way home from the Plaza
Unfortunately, Grandmère didn't cancel princess lessons today. Instead, she told me this morning to bring something nice to wear and be prepared to have my makeup done. Like I would ever be ready for someone to paint my face with animal-tested chemicals that make me break out if I don't wash it off before I go to bed.
Anyway, I went into her new renovated penthouse and saw all these women rushing around with headsets and stilettos. It was a wonder they didn't trip, as I would have done.
"Grandmère, what's going on?" I sighed as I dropped down onto one of the couches across from her.
Grandmère gave me an evil glare, which I ignored. "Don't talk in that vulgar slang, Amelia. And sit up. We have company."
To my mom, company means a friend or two. Maybe even at least five people.
Grandmère's version of the word "company" meant about twenty people.
One of the women clattered over in her heels and said, "We're ready for the princess, now."
"Ready for what?" I asked cautiously.
"Why, for your interview, of course," the woman said, making it seem like I was supposed to have known about this.
I gaped at Grandmère. "What? You signed me up for some interview that I knew nothing about?"
"Honestly, Amelia. It's just one tiny little interview. It is not like your life is at stake here," Grandmère said in a puff of smoke from her one cigarette a day. "You had better become accustomed to it if you're going to rule Genovia one day."
"But Grandmère, I have the right to remain silent. I don't have to answer one question if I don't want to," I told her triumphantly.
Grandmère put her cigarette into the ashtray. "Amelia, I am not arresting you, and neither are these fine young women here. This is an interview with Seventeen magazine about your life thus far. Now stop acting so garce."
One of the women gasped. The others looked at her, confused, and she whispered something to them.
"Fine," I said. "But don't expect to me to answer everything they ask."
I was so nervous that I don't remember what the questions were or how I answered them. I think I told them a little too much information. I don't think they wanted to know about Ronnie, for instance. I remember that one thing.
But I can tell Grandmère was pleased with the interview, judging by the way that she smiled as the women left.
I just hope I haven't made an idiot of myself.
Again.
Wait.
What does garce mean?!