by Meg Cabot
But he’s not Michael Moscovitz.
I looked up at Kenny after he’d made that comment about having any interesting mail lately, and I tried to smile. I really did.
I said, “Oh, Kenny. Are you Jo-C-rox?”
Kenny grinned.
“Yes,” Kenny said. “Didn’t you figure it out?”
No. Because I am a complete idiot.
“Uh-huh,” I said, forcing another smile. “Finally.”
“Good.” Kenny looked pleased. “Because you really do remind me of Josie, you know. Of Josie and the Pussycats, I mean. See, she’s lead singer in a rock group, and she solves mysteries on the side. She’s cool. Like you.”
Oh, my God. Kenny. My Bio partner, Kenny. Six-foot-tall, totally gawky Kenny, who always gives me the answers in Bio. I’d forgotten he’s like this huge Japanese anime fan. Of course he watches the Cartoon Network. He’s practically addicted to it. Batman is like his favorite thing of all time.
Oh, someone shoot me. Someone please shoot me.
I smiled. I’m afraid my smile was very weak.
But Kenny didn’t care.
“And you know, in later episodes,” Kenny said, encouraged by my smile, “Josie and the Pussycats go up into space. So she’s also a pioneer into space exploration.”
Oh, God, make this be a bad dream. Please make this be a bad dream, and let me wake up and have it not be true!
All I could do was thank my lucky stars that I hadn’t said anything to Michael. Could you imagine if I’d gone up to him and said what I’d planned to? He’d have thought I’d forgotten to take my medication, or something.
“Anyway,” Kenny said. “You want to go out sometime, Mia? With me, I mean?”
Oh, God. I hate that. I really hate that. You know, when people go “Do you want to go out with me sometime?” instead of “Do you want to go out with me next Tuesday?” Because that way you can make up an excuse. Because then you can always go, “Oh, no, on Tuesday I have this thing.”
But you can’t go, “No, I don’t want to go out with you EVER.”
Because that would be too mean.
And I can’t be mean to Kenny. I like Kenny. I really do. He’s very funny and sweet and everything.
But do I want his tongue in my mouth?
Not so much.
What could I say? “No, Kenny? No, Kenny, I don’t want to go out with you ever, because I happen to be in love with my best friend’s brother?”
You can’t say that.
Well, maybe some girls can.
But not me.
“Sure, Kenny,” I said.
After all, how bad could a date with Kenny be? What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. That’s what Grandmère says, anyway.
After that, I had no choice but to let Kenny put his arm around me—the only one he had, the other being tightly secured beneath his costume to give him the appearance of having been severely injured in a land mine explosion.
But we were all jammed in so closely at that table that Kenny’s arm, as it went around my shoulders, jostled Michael, and he looked over at us. . . .
And then he looked over at Lars, really fast. Almost like he—I don’t know . . .
Saw what was going on, and wanted Lars to put a stop to it?
No. No, of course not. It couldn’t be that.
But it is true that when Lars, who was busy pouring sugar into like his fifth cup of coffee that night, didn’t look up, Michael stood and said, “Well, I’m beat. What do you say we call it a night?”
Everyone looked at him like he was crazy. I mean, some people were still finishing their food and all. Lilly even went, “What’s with you, Michael? Gotta catch up on your beauty sleep?”
But Michael totally took out his wallet and started counting out how much he owed.
So then I stood up really fast and said, “I’m tired, too. Lars, could you call the car?”
Lars, delighted finally to be leaving, whipped out his cell phone and started dialing. Kenny, beside me, started saying stuff like, “It’s a shame you have to go so early,” and “So, Mia, can I call you?”
This last question caused Lilly to look from me to Kenny and then back again. Then she looked at Michael. Then she stood up, too.
“Come on, Al,” she said, giving Boris a tap on the head. “Let’s blow this juke joint.”
Only of course Boris didn’t understand. “What is a juke joint?” he asked. “And why are we blowing it?”
Everyone started digging around for money to pay the bill . . . which was when I remembered that I didn’t have any. Money, I mean. I didn’t even have a purse to put money in. That was the one part of my wedding ensemble Grandmère had forgotten.
I elbowed Lars and whispered, “Have you got any cash? I’m a little low at the moment.”
Lars nodded and reached for his wallet. That’s when Kenny, who noticed this, went, “Oh, no, Mia. Your pancakes are on me.”
This, of course, completely freaked me out. I didn’t want Kenny to pay for my pancakes. Or Lars’s five cups of coffee, either.
“Oh, no,” I said. “That isn’t necessary.”
Which didn’t have at all the desired effect, since Kenny said, all stiffly, “I insist,” and started throwing dollar bills down on the table.
Remembering I’m supposed to be gracious, being a princess and all, I said, “Well, thank you very much, Kenny.”
Which was when Lars handed Michael a twenty and said, “For the movie tickets.”
Only then Michael wouldn’t take my money—okay, it was Lars’s money, but my dad totally would have paid him back—either. He looked totally embarrassed, and went, “Oh, no. My treat,” even after I strenuously insisted.
So then I had to say, “Well, thank you very much, Michael,” when all I really wanted to say was, “Get me out of here!”
Because with two different guys paying for me, it was like I’d been out on a date with both of them at once!
Which, I guess, in a way, I had.
You would think I would be very excited about this. I mean, considering I’d never really been out even with one guy before, let alone two at the same time.
Except that it was totally and completely not fun. Because, for one thing, I didn’t actually want to be going out with one of them at all.
And for another, he was the one who’d actually confessed to liking me . . . even if it had been anonymous.
The whole thing was excruciating, and all I wanted to do was go home and get in bed and pull the covers up over my head and pretend it hadn’t happened.
Only I couldn’t even do that because, what with my mom and Mr. G being in Cancun, I had to stay up at the Plaza with Grandmère and my dad until they got back.
But just when I thought things had sunk to an all-time low, as everyone was piling into the limo (well, a few people asked for rides home, and how could I say no? It wasn’t like we didn’t have the room) Michael, who ended up standing beside me, waiting for his turn to get into the car, said, “What I meant to say before, Mia, was that you look . . . you look really . . .”
I blinked up at him in the pink-and-blue light from the neon Round the Clock sign in the window behind us. It’s amazing, but even bathed in pink-and-blue neon, with fake intestines hanging out of his shirt, Michael still looked totally—
“You look really nice in that dress,” he said, all in a rush.
I smiled up at him, feeling just like Cinderella all of a sudden. . . . You know, at the end of the Disney movie, when Prince Charming finally finds her and puts the slipper on her foot and her rags change back into the ball gown and all the mice come out and start singing?
That’s how I felt, just for a second.
Then this voice right beside us said, “Are you guys coming, or what?” and we looked over and there was Kenny sticking his head and his one unsevered arm out of the sun roof of the limo.
“Um,” I said, feeling totally and utterly embarrassed. “Yes.”
And I got into the l
imo like nothing had happened.
And actually, if you think about it, nothing really had.
Except that the whole way back to the Plaza, this little voice inside my brain was going, “Michael said I looked nice. Michael said I looked nice. Michael said I looked nice.”
And you know what? Maybe Michael didn’t write those notes. And maybe he doesn’t think I’m the Josiest girl in school.
But he thought I looked nice in my pink dress. And that’s all that matters to me.
And now I am sitting in Grandmère’s suite at the hotel, surrounded by piles of wedding and baby presents, with Rommel trembling down at the other end of the couch in a pink cashmere sweater. I am supposed to be writing thank-you notes, but of course I am writing in my journal instead.
No one seems to have noticed, though, I guess because Mamaw and Papaw are here. They stopped by to say good-bye on their way to the airport before they fly back to Indiana. Right now, my two grandmothers are making lists of baby names and talking about who to invite to the christening (oh, no. Not again.) while my dad and Papaw are talking about crop rotation, as this is an important topic to both Indiana farmers and Genovian olive growers. Even though, of course, Papaw owns a hardware store and Dad is a prince. But whatever. At least they’re talking.
Hank is here, too, to say good-bye and to try to convince his grandparents they are not doing the wrong thing, leaving him here in New York—though to tell the truth, he isn’t doing such a good job of it, since he hasn’t once gotten off his cell phone since he arrived. Most of these calls seem to be from last night’s bridesmaids.
And I’m thinking that, all in all, things aren’t so bad. I mean, I am getting a baby brother or sister and have also acquired not just a stepfather who is exceptionally good at Algebra, but a foozball table as well.
And my dad proved that there is at least one person on this planet who is not afraid of Grandmère . . . and even Grandmère seems a bit more mellow than usual, in spite of never having made it to Baden-Baden.
Though she still isn’t talking to my dad, except when she absolutely has to.
And yes, it is true that later today I have to meet Kenny back at the Village Cinema for a Japanese anime marathon, since I said I would, and all.
But after that I am going down to Lilly’s, and we are going to work on next week’s show, which is about repressed memories. We are going to try to hypnotize each other and see if we can remember any of our past lives. Lilly is convinced, for instance, that in one of her past lives she was Elizabeth I.
You know what? I, for one, believe her.
Anyway, after that, I am spending the night at Lilly’s, and we are going to rent Dirty Dancing and Rocky Horror-ize it. We plan to yell things in response to the actors’ lines and throw things at the screen.
And there is a very good chance that tomorrow morning, Michael will come to the Moscovitzes’ breakfast table wearing pajama bottoms and a robe, and forget to tie the robe like he did once before.
Which would actually make for a very profound moment, if you ask me.
A very profound moment.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Barb Cabot, Debra Martin Chase, Bill Contardi, Sarah Davies, Laura Langlie, Abby McAden, Alison Donalty, and the usual suspects: Beth Ader, Jennifer Brown, Dave Walton, and especially, Benjamin Egnatz.
About the Author
Meg Cabot has lived in Indiana, California, and France, and has worked as an assistant dorm manager at a large urban university, an illustrator, and a writer of historical romance novels (under a different name). She is still waiting for her real parents, the king and queen, to come and restore her to her rightful throne. She currently resides in New York City with her husband and a one-eyed cat named Henrietta.
Visit Meg’s website at: www.megcabot.com
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Books by
MEG CABOT
THE PRINCESS DIARIES
THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME II:
PRINCESS IN THE SPOTLIGHT
Credits
Cover photographs © 2001 by Timothy Hampson
Cover design by Alison Donalty
Cover © 2001 by HarperCollins Publishers, Inc
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
PRINCESS IN THE SPOTLIGHT. Copyright © 2001 by Meggin Cabot. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub © Edition SEPTEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780061971969
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