The Royal Treatment Read Free

did. She is a liar, just like her jailbird father, and you, Desi, are the daughter of my dreams! Buy as much ice cream as you want. But she didn’t, because my mom attends Camp Every Story Has Two Sides, which is great in a Disney Channel movie but not so helpful when I needed a listening ear.
    “Desi—”
    “Anyway,” I said. “Whatever. I don’t even care.”
    “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Celeste.” Mom finally did smooth my hair down, but her hand felt heavy on my head. “Are you really okay with me being her consultant for Miss Teen Dream?”
    Was I okay with Celeste’s two-month-long pageant training happening at my house with my mom while the girl ate my vanilla wafers? Gee, why wouldn’t I be? I only had to witness their annoying girlie bonding for a few more weeks until the pageant started in October, but I was close to my limit. Last Tuesday, I’d come home to them giggling over a bowl of cookie dough.
    “What? That?” I asked. “Of course. I mean, you know I think pageants are—”
    “The demise of society. Yes. Which is why I didn’t ask if you wanted to participate. Should I have asked you?”
    “Seriously, I am so busy lately, a pageant would…” I tried hard not to laugh, because I knew my mom was being sincere. A pageant? Smearing Vaseline on my teeth and wearing a strapless bra and solving world peace? “It’s not my thing. And I’m fine with your emcee and consultation jobs—you have the personality and you’re great with fashion.”
    “But…”
    “But I don’t feel the same about Celeste.” I pushed our cart over to the checkout. “I just don’t. I don’t, like, hate her or anything, but it still isn’t easy seeing you two have your girlie fests every day.”
    “Girlie fests?”
    “Makeovers. Dress shopping. Coaching Celeste’s interview answers.”
    “But you said you don’t like pageants.”
    “I don’t! But I still like you.” I unloaded my ice cream onto the checkout counter “Look, why are we even talking about this? I’m fine with us. And Celeste isn’t a big deal—I’m just stressed about the play. I need to get home and read over the second act.”
    “I’m sorry.” Mom touched my arm. “Why don’t I help you practice tonight?”
    “Really? It’s Shakespeare. Pretty boring—”
    “I love Shakespeare and I love you.” She kissed my forehead. Yep. In public. “We’ll even have our own girlie fest. Why don’t you pick out a magazine to go with your ice cream? Oh! And I’ll paint your nails. Get some hair dye…Have you ever thought about highlights? Your brown has some beautiful gold undertones we could play up.”
    “Let’s start with ice cream and magazines,” I said. “And that cookies and cream is all mine…” My voice trailed off when I noticed the magazines in the checkout aisle.
    Well, one particular magazine. Staring back at me from a glossy tabloid was…was…him.
    Prince Karl of Fenmar.
    And he was laughing with Elsa.
    “Holy royals.” I yanked the magazine off the shelf and flipped to the article, nearly ripping out the pages in my frenzy. The picture was on page 39, after the newest interview with celebutante Floressa Chase.
    Karl looked adorably stiff as he leaned against a speckled brown horse. Elsa had her arms folded across her chest, one toe pointed in the muddy grass. The sky was gray, the colors dull; but Karl and Elsa smiled at each other as if they lived on a rainbow. No one else was around them, so it seemed they’d stolen this moment alone and a paparazzo had captured it.
    “Honey, you look like…like you saw a picture of yourself in there.”
    Laughing together. Together. The two of them were spotted at a polo match, laughing together like old friends.
    I ran my finger down the lines of print.
    Did longtime friends Prince Karl and Princess Elsa spark a romantic relationship in Metzahg earlier this summer? Princess Elsa could not be reached for comment, but Prince Karl’s publicist stated that