Maggie Malone Gets the Royal Treatment by Jenna McCarthy

to your backside,” Amelia says, looking horrified.
    â€œWhat? How could that have—“ I crane my neck around to have a look. I feel dizzy when I see it: a blob of…it looks like peanut butter …the size of Texas smeared across my butt. And it just so happens I am deathly allergic to peanut butter.
    â€œOh my goodness, Amelia, I can’t…” I gasp, grabbing her arm to keep myself from falling. “I can’t…breathe . And why is the room spinning like that? Who turned off the lights? I’m going to die! I’m going to die !!!”
    â€œPrincess Wilhelmina, get hold of yourself,” she says sternly, gripping my shoulders. “As disastrous as this is, I am fairly certain that a bit of molasses is not going to kill you.”
    â€œMolasses?” I ask. “What is? But how? I didn’t—”
    Just then Princess Penelope bursts into the abbey.
    â€œOh, Mimi, I heard what happened,” she says. “How terribly awful of me to leave my scone on the limousine seat like that. Is there anything I can do? I am so, so very sorry.” The funny thing is, she doesn’t look—or sound—one tiny bit sorry.
    â€œWhat’s done is done,” Amelia says. “It’s a good thing the Crown Cape lives here at Winfordshire Abbey.”
    â€œShe gets to wear the Crown Cape ?” Penelope spits, her face turning practically purple. “All day long? Surely you don’t mean in the actual wedding ?”
    â€œHave you another idea, Penelope?” Amelia asks, pointing at my backside.
    â€œBut the Crown Cape belongs to Her Majesty the Queen!” Penelope cries. “If Mimi wears it, everyone will think she’s the queen’s favorite.”
    â€œSo be it,” Amelia says, turning from Penelope and fastening the cape’s jeweled clasp at my neck.
    Penelope squares her shoulders and looks me dead in the eye. You’ll be sorry , she mouths before marching off to join the rest of the bridal party.
    Is this royally happening?
    â€œTry not to sit in anything else sticky,” Amelia scolds as she steers me to the altar where the wedding party is lining up for pictures. “There’s no backup Crown Cape, you know.”
    Half of England is standing in near-perfect rows across the altar of Winfordshire Abbey. Amelia leads me to one side and I fall into line, toward the back.
    â€œLovely, brilliant,” says the photographer. “But Princess Wilhelmina? Kindly move to the front row, center. Yes, right there in Princess Clementine’s spot. We mustn’t let that Crown Cape get lost in these photographs. That’s it. Now a bit to the left. Ah, jolly good! A few close-ups of you now for the media, Princess Wilhelmina.”
    Something tells me Princess Penelope is going to make me pay for this , I think, taking a deep breath and plastering a smile across my face.

Chapter 13

    When I Sort of Save the Day
    After ten kajillion pictures—and as many evil glares from Penelope—it’s finally time for the actual Royal Wedding. The moment I’ve been waiting for! Sure, I’m a little nervous—but really, how badly could I mess this up?
    Even though it’s the size of a mall, Winfordshire Abbey is packed like a can of sardines with women in crazy hats with feathers and wings and gigantic bows and men who look like they just stepped out of The Nutcracker. This Wincastle place sure has a weird sense of style.
    All of us big-fat-baby-dresses are in the back, being paired up with our escorts. An orchestra starts playing this creepy, sleepy music as Amelia shuffles us into position. She fluffs the Crown Cape so that it drapes perfectly around my shoulders, with the bottom pooling softly at my feet.
    Suddenly the organ plays three sharp notes, and every person in the abbey stands. You could hear a pin drop in this place. A side door opens and in walks Clementine’s uncle, Prince Alexander,