Free Forever Princess by Meg Cabot Page B

inappropriate of you to show up at therapy to talk to me about this. I realize we’ve had joint therapy sessions in the past, but those were scheduled beforehand. You can’t just show up at therapy and expect me to—”
    â€œOh, that.” Grandmère made a little waving motion inthe air, the sapphire cocktail ring the Shah of Iran had given her sparkling as she did so. “Please. Vigo has straightened out the difficulties with the invitation list. And don’t worry, your mother is safe. Though I wouldn’t say the same for her parents. I hope they’ll enjoy the view of the party from the steering deck. No, no, I’m here about That Boy .”
    I couldn’t figure out what she was talking about at first. “J.P.?” She never calls J.P. That Boy . Grandmère loves J.P. I mean seriously loves him. When the two of them get together, they talk about old Broadway shows I’ve never even heard of until I practically have to drag J.P. away. Grandmère is more than a little convinced she could have had a great career on the stage if she hadn’t chosen to marry my grandfather and been the princess of a small European country instead of a huge Broadway star à la that girl who stars in Legally Blonde , the musical. Only, of course, in Grandmère’s mind, she’s better than her.
    â€œNot John Paul,” Grandmère said, looking shocked at the very idea. “The other one. And this…thing he’s invented.”
    Michael? Grandmère had invited herself to my therapy session to talk to me about Michael ?
    Also, great. Thanks, Vigo. Had he set her BlackBerry to receive Google alerts about me, too?
    â€œAre you serious?” I swear at this point I had no idea what she was up to. I really hadn’t put two and two together. I still thought she was worried about the party. “You want to invite Michael, now, too? Well, sorry, Grandmère, but no. Just because he’s a famous millionaireinventor now doesn’t mean I want him at my party. If you invite him, I swear I’ll—”
    â€œNo. Amelia.” Grandmère reached out and grabbed my hand. It wasn’t one of her usual grasping, needy grabs, where she tries to force me to give her sciatica a massage. It was as if she was taking my hand to…well, to hold it.
    I was so surprised, I actually sank down onto the leather couch and looked at her, like, What? What’s going on?
    â€œThe arm,” Grandmère said. Like a normal person, and not like she was telling me not to lift my pinky up when I drank my tea, or anything. “The robot arm he’s made.”
    I blinked at her. “What?”
    â€œWe need one,” she said. “For the hospital. You have to get us one.”
    I blinked even harder. I’ve suspected Grandmère might be losing her mind for…well, the entire time I’ve known her, actually.
    But now it was clear she’d gone completely around the bend.
    â€œGrandmère.” I discreetly felt for her pulse. “Have you been taking your heart medication?”
    â€œNot a donation,” Grandmère hastened to explain, sounding more like her usual self. “Tell him we’ll pay. But, Amelia, you do know if we had something like that in our hospital in Genovia, we’d…well, it would improve the state of care we’re able to give our own citizens to such an incredible degree. They wouldn’t have to go to Paris or Switzerland for heart surgery. Surely you see what a—”
    I ripped my hand out from hers. Suddenly I saw that she wasn’t crazy at all. Or suffering from a stroke or heartattack. Her pulse had been strong and steady.
    â€œOh my God!” I cried. “Grandmère!”
    â€œWhat?” Grandmère looked bewildered by my outburst. “What is the matter? I’m asking you to ask Michael for one of his machines. Not donate it. I said we’d pay—”
    â€œBut