Royal Wedding by Meg Cabot Page B

apparently they’re out of Scotch tape in the security office, so he used blue medical tape from the first-aid kit), he didn’t even bother to wipe the smirk off his face.
    â€œFrom Miss Moscovitz, Your Highness,” he said gravely, “with her best birthday wishes.”
    The thing is, she knows that Lars opens everything sent to me. So this was her way of birthday-pranking me and also titillating my bodyguard.
    Happy birthday to me again.
    He must have seen my expression since he asked, “What?” over his shoulder as he walked back to the security office (he has to pack, too, since he’s coming with me wherever Michael is taking me). “I think it’s a highly thoughtful, creative gift. Much more original than a gold iPhone, which you can’t even keep.”*
    *I’m not allowed to have Apple products—aside from my laptop—let alone post anything to the “Cloud” due to how easily they’re hacked/traced, which is why all the iPhones I’ve received today will have to be returned for store credit. But it’s all right, since the products we buy instead will be donated to Mr. Gianini’s after-school vocational program.
    But see, this kind of thing could have happened no matter where I was living (the part where the Royal Genovian Guard has to go through all my mail). Even if I moved back in with Mom and Rocky (which I’ll never do because what if the death threats turn out to be serious after all? I wouldn’t want to put their lives at risk. Also, I love my mom and my half brother, but I don’t want to move back in with them. Rocky sailed through his toddler years to turn into what’s charitably called “a challenge,” and not because his dad passed away either. He was “challenging” before that happened).
    Mom doesn’t even have a doorman (neither does Michael. His loft is in a condo building). RoyalRabbleRouser could get himself buzzed right into Mom’s building, walk up to the door of her loft, knock, and then shove a pie in her face . . . or worse. Sandra Bullock found her gun-owning stalker inside her bathroom after she stepped out of her shower, and Queen Elizabeth once woke to find hers sitting on the edge of her bed in Buckingham Palace, wanting to chat (he got in through an open window—twice—after shimmying up a drainpipe).
    â€¢Â Â Â  Note to self: Dominique says it’s best not to dwell on these things, or let them decide for you how to live your life, but that’s easier said than done, especially when you’re the one getting the threats about how much better off the world would be “without you in it.”
    Oh, God. Madame Alain just walked over and said, “Your Highness, do you think you could write in your diary somewhere else? You are distracting the staff.”
    â€œI’m so very sorry, Madame Alain,” I said. “And don’t worry, I’m going to be picked up any minute, and then I’ll be out of your hair all weekend.”
    Is it my imagination, or does she look relieved?
    â€œOh, I see. All right, then.”
    I know it’s wrong since she’s a civil servant and has devoted her whole life (practically) to promoting economic development and tourism in Genovia, but I would like to have a serious talk with the ambassador about transferring Madame Alain to a different office where I wouldn’t have to see her as much. I think she’d be sublime as the headmistress of the Genovian Royal Academy.
    â€¢Â Â Â  Note to self: See if this can be arranged.
    I tried to get Marie Rose to tell me where Michael is taking me, but she only giggled and said, “I can’t, Princesse. I promised. But I’ll make sure to feed Fat Louie while you’re away.”
    Fat Louie! I almost forgot about him. I hope he’ll be all right. He’s getting on in years, which is why it’s easier to forget about him than it