From the Notebooks of a Middle School Princess by Meg Cabot

Author:Meg Cabot [Cabot, Meg]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781250066039
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

“You’d have to switch schools,” Dad said, speaking as if Grandma hadn’t said anything. “But—”

“But the Royal Genovian Academy is right down the street from the palace,” Grandma interrupted. “It’s a truly excellent school, with its own stables where you can learn to ride, and very rigorous entrance standards. They don’t let in just anyone, like the public schools in America are forced to.”

“I don’t know if I could get into a school with rigorous entrance standards,” I said awkwardly, because I didn’t want them to be disappointed in me. “I mean, Aunt Catherine had me tested, and my intelligence is only average.”

Dad and Grandma exchanged glances.

“Did your aunt tell you that, Olivia?” Dad asked. “That you were average?”

“No,” I said. “My step-cousin Sara did. She overheard my aunt and her dad talking. But I know it’s true. Because I’m not in any advanced placement classes. I mean, I get good enough grades, I guess. But I really have to study. The truth is, I’m … well, I’m completely average. There’s nothing special about me. Nothing at all.”

I felt nervous admitting it, but I had to tell them, since they’d have found out eventually anyway.

“Except for drawing…” I added, remembering at the last minute. “I’m a very good drawer according to my teacher, Ms. Dakota, except that I need to work on my perspective. I was even admitted to an art school, with a scholarship. But Aunt Catherine said I was too young.”

Grandma brightened. “You obviously inherited that from me. I was always exquisite at drawing myself. And you know, the Royal Genovian Academy has an excellent art program. I shouldn’t brag, but the great Picasso saw me drawing one day on the Rue de Rivoli in Paris—I remember I was wearing a pair of chinos that I got hand-tailored at a lovely little shop in Capri; I’ll have to take you there when you’re older, you haven’t the figure for them now, of course—and the great master himself offered to—”

Dad cut her off. “No, he didn’t, Mother.” To me, he said, “I don’t think you’re average, Olivia. I don’t think there’s anything average about you.”

“I’ve only just met you,” Grandma said, “and I don’t think you’re a bit average. No average person could make Rommel do that.” She pointed at the hairless poodle, who was curled up against my hip, sleeping soundly with my thigh as a pillow for his head. “Rommel hates everyone.”

“Including me,” Dad said.

“Including Phillipe,” Grandma agreed.

“Mia thinks you’re special, too, Olivia,” Dad went on. “The fact is, we all think you’re special, and we’d be very honored to have you come live with us, at least for part of the year. But we’d understand if you’d rather stay with your aunt.”

“Speak for yourself,” Grandma said, taking a sip of whatever it was she was drinking. “I’d never understand it. I think it would be an utter waste, and quite frankly a disaster.”

“Your grandmother has a tendency to exaggerate,” Dad said, “as you’ll find out the more you get to know her.

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