Princess in Love

by Meg Cabot

  That’s because I ran into Michael at the salad bar. I was creating my usual chickpea-and-pinto-bean pyramid when I saw him headed for the burger grill (despite my best efforts, both Moscovitzes remain stubbornly carnivorous).

  Seriously, all I did was say “Fine” when he asked how I was doing. You know, on account of how last time he saw me, I was bleeding out of the mouth (what a nice picture that must have been. I am so glad that I have been able to maintain an appearance of dignity and beauty at all times in front of the man I love).

  Anyway, then I asked him, just to be polite, you know, how his dentist appointment went. What happened next was not my fault.

  Which was that Michael started telling me about how he’d had to have this cavity filled, and that his lips were still numb from the novocaine. Seeing as how I have experienced a certain amount of sensation-deadening, what with my gouged tongue, I could relate to this, so I just sort of, you know, looked at Michael’s lips while he was talking, which I have never really done before. I mean, I have looked at other parts of Michael’s body (particularly when he comes into the kitchen in the morning with no shirt on, like he does every time I have a sleepover at Lilly’s). But I’ve never really looked at his lips. You know. Up close.

  Michael actually has very nice lips. Not thin lips, like mine. I don’t know if you should say this about a boy’s lips, but Michael’s lips look like if you kissed them, they’d be very soft.

  It was while I was noticing this about Michael’s lips that the very bad thing happened: I was looking at them, you know, and wondering if they’d be soft to kiss, and as I looked, I sort of actually pictured us kissing, you know, in my head. And right then I got this very warm feeling—the one they talk about in all of Tina’s romance novels—and RIGHT THEN was when Kenny went by on his way to get his usual lunch: Coke and an ice-cream sandwich.

  I know Kenny can’t read my mind—if he could, he totally would have broken up with me by now—but maybe he caught some hint as to what I was thinking, and that’s why he didn’t say Hi back, when Michael and I said “Hi” to him.

  Well, that and the whole part where I said, “Um, okay,” after he said he loved me.

  Kenny must have known something was up, if my face was anywhere near as red-hot as it felt. Maybe that’s why he didn’t say Hi back. Because I was looking so guilty. I’d certainly felt guilty. I mean, there I was, looking at another guy’s lips and wondering what it would be like to kiss them, and my boyfriend goes walking by.

  I am so going to bad-girl hell when I die.

  You know what I wish? I wish everyone could read my mind. Because then Kenny would never have asked me out. He’d have known I don’t think of him that way. And Lilly wouldn’t make fun of me for not letting Kenny kiss me. She would know the reason I don’t is that I’m in love with someone else.

  The bad part is, she’d know who that someone else is.

  And that someone probably won’t even speak to me again, because it’s totally uncool for a senior to go out with a freshman. Especially one who can’t go anywhere without a bodyguard.

  Besides, I’m almost positive he’s going out with Judith Gershner, because after he came back from the grill, he went and sat down next to her.

  So that settles that.

  I wish I were leaving for Genovia tomorrow instead of in two weeks.

  Monday, December 8, French

  In spite of that disastrous incident at lunch, I had a pretty good time in Gifted and Talented. In fact, it was almost like old times again. I mean, before we all started going out with each other and everyone became so obsessed with the inner workings of my mouth, and all that.

  Mrs. Hill spent the whole class period in the teachers’ lounge across the hall, yelling at American Express on the phone, leaving us free to do what we usually do during her class . . . whatever we wanted. For instance, those of us who, like Lilly’s boyfriend Boris, wanted to work on our individual projects (Boris’s is learning to play some new sonata on his violin), which is what Gifted and Talented class is supposedly for, did so.

  Those of us, however, like Lilly and me, who did not want to work on our individual projects (mine is studying for Algebra; Lilly’s is working on her cable access TV show) did not.

  This was especially satisfying, because Lilly had completely forgotten about the whole kissing thing between Kenny and me. The reason for this is that now she’s mad at Mrs. Spears, her honors English teacher, who shot down her term paper proposal.

  It really was unfair of Mrs. Spears to turn it down, because it was actually very well thought out, and quite creative. I made a copy of it:

  How to Survive High School

  by Lilly Moscovitz

  Having spent the past two months locked in that institution of secondary education commonly referred to as high school, I feel that I am a qualified authority on the subject. From pep rallies to morning announcements, I have observed high-school life and all of its complexities. Sometime in the next four years, I will be granted my freedom from this festering hellhole, and then I will publish my carefully compiled High School Survival Guide.

  Little did my peers and teachers know that as they went about their daily routines, I was recording their activities for study by future generations. With my handy guide, every ninth grader’s sojourn in high school can be a little more fruitful. Students of the future will learn that the way to settle their differences with their peers is not through violence, but through the sale of a really scathing screenplay—featuring characters based on those very individuals who tormented them all those years—to a major Hollywood movie studio. That, not a Molotov cocktail, is the path to true glory.

  Here, for your reading pleasure, are a few examples of the topics I will explore in How to Survive High School, by Lilly Moscovitz:

  1. High-School Romance, or How I Cannot Open My Locker Because Two Oversexed Adolescents are Leaning Up Against It, Making Out

  2. Cafeteria Food: Can Corndogs Legally Be Listed as a Meat Product?

  3. How to Communicate with the Subhumans Who Populate the Hallways

  4. Guidance Counselors: Who Do They Think They’re Kidding?

  5. Get Ahead by Forging: The Art of the Hall Pass

  Does that sound good, or what? Now look what Mrs. Spears had to say about it:

  Lilly—Sorry as I am to hear that your experience thus far at AEHS has not been a positive one, I am afraid I am going to have to make it worse by asking you to find another topic for your term paper. A for creativity, as usual, however.

  —Mrs. Spears

  Can you believe that? Talk about unfair! Lilly’s been censored! By rights, her proposal ought to have brought the school’s administration to its knees. Lilly says she is appalled by the fact that, considering how much our tuition costs, this is the kind of support we can expect from our teachers. Then I reminded her that that isn’t true of Mr. Gianini, who really goes beyond the call of duty by staying after school every day to conduct help sessions for people like me, who aren’t doing so well in Algebra.

  Lilly says Mr. Gianini probably only started pulling that staying-after-school thing so that he could ingratiate himself to my mother, and now he can’t stop, because then she’ll realize it was all just a setup and divorce him.

  I don’t believe that, however. I think Mr. G would have stayed after school to help me whether he was dating my mom or not. He’s that kind of guy.

  Anyway, the upshot of it all is that now Lilly has launched another one of her famous campaigns. This is actually a good thing, as it will keep her mind off me and where I am putting (or not putting) my lips. Here’s how it started:

  Lilly: The real problem with this school isn’t the teachers. It’s the apathy of the student body. For instance, let’s say we wanted to stage a walkout.

  Me: A walkout?

  Lilly: You know. We all get up and walk out of the school at the same time.

  Me: Just because Mrs. Spears turned down your term paper proposal?

 
; Lilly: No, Mia. Because she’s trying to usurp our individuality by forcing us to bend to corporate feudalism. Again.

  Me: Oh. And how is she doing that?

  Lilly: By censoring us when we are at our most fertile, creatively speaking.

  Boris: (leaning out of the supply closet, where Lilly made him go when he started practicing his latest sonata) Fertile? Did someone say fertile?

  Lilly: Get back in the closet, Boris. Michael, can you send a mass e-mail tonight to the entire student body, declaring a walkout tomorrow at eleven?

  Michael: (working on the booth he and Judith Gershner and the rest of the Computer Club are going to have up at the Winter Carnival) I can, but I won’t.

  Lilly: WHY NOT?

  Michael: Because it was your turn to empty the dishwasher last night, but you weren’t home, so I had to do it.

  Lilly: But I TOLD Mom I had to go down to the studio to edit the last few finishing touches on this week’s show!

  Lilly’s TV program, Lilly Tells It Like It Is, is now one of the highest-ranked shows on Manhattan cable. Of course, it’s public access, so it’s not like she’s making any money off it, but a bunch of the major networks picked up this interview she did of me one night when I was half asleep and played it. I thought it was stupid, but I guess a lot of other people thought it was good, because now Lilly gets tons of viewer mail, whereas before the only mail she got was from her stalker, Norman.

  Michael: Look, if you’re having time-management issues, don’t take it out on me. Just don’t expect me to meekly do your bidding, especially when you already owe me one.

  Me: Lilly, no offense, but I don’t think this week’s a good time for a walkout, anyway. I mean, after all, it’s almost finals.

  Lilly: SO???

  Me: So some of us really need to stay in class. I can’t afford to miss any review sessions. My grades are bad enough as it is.

  Michael: Really? I thought you were doing better in Algebra.

  Me: If you call a D plus better.

  Michael: Aw, come on. You have to be making better than a D plus. Your mom is married to your Algebra teacher!

  Me: So? That doesn’t mean anything. You know Mr. G doesn’t play favorites.

  Michael: I would think he’d cut his own stepdaughter a little slack, is all.

  Lilly: WOULD YOU TWO PLEASE PAY ATTENTION TO THE SITUATION AT HAND, WHICH IS THE FACT THAT THIS SCHOOL IS IN VITAL NEED OF SERIOUS REFORM?

  Fortunately at that moment the bell rang, so no walkout tomorrow as far as I know. Which is a good thing, because I really need the extra study time.

  You know, it’s funny about Mrs. Spears not liking Lilly’s term paper proposal, because she was very enthusiastic about my proposal, A Case Against Christmas Trees: Why We Must Curtail the Pagan Ritual of Chopping Down Pine Trees Every December if We Are Going to Repair the Ozone Layer.

  And my IQ isn’t anywhere near as high as Lilly’s.

  Monday, December 8, Bio

  Kenny just passed me the following note:

  Mia–I hope what I said to you last night didn’t make you feel uncomfortable. I just wanted you to know how I feel.

  Sincerely,

  Kenny

  Oh, God. Now what am I supposed to do? He’s sitting here next to me, waiting for an answer. In fact, that’s what he thinks I’m writing right now. An answer.

  What do I say?

  Maybe this is my perfect opportunity to break up with him. I’m sorry, Kenny, but I don’t feel the same way—let’s just be friends. Is that what I should say?

  It’s just that I don’t want to hurt his feelings, you know? And he is my Bio partner. I mean, whatever happens, I am going to have to sit next to him for the next two weeks. And I would much rather have a Bio partner who likes me than one who hates me.

  And what about the dance? I mean, if I break up with him, who am I going to go to the Nondenominational Winter Dance with? I know it is horrible to think things like this, but this is the first dance in the history of my life to which I already have a date.

  Well, I mean, if he’d ever get around to asking me.

  And how about that final, huh? Our Bio final, I mean. No way am I going to be able to pass without Kenny’s notes. NO WAY.

  But what else can I do? I mean, considering what happened today at the salad bar.

  This is it. Good-bye, date for the Nondenominational Winter Dance. Hello, Friday-night television.

  Dear Kenny,

  It isn’t that I don’t think of you as a very dear friend. It’s just that—

  Monday, December 8, 3 p.m., Mr. Gianini’s Algebra review

  Okay, so the bell rang before I had time to finish my note.

  That doesn’t mean I’m not going to tell Kenny exactly how I feel. I totally am. Tonight, as a matter of fact. I don’t care if it’s cruel to do something like that over the phone. I just can’t take it anymore.

  HOMEWORK

  Algebra: review questions at the end of Chapters 1–3

  English: term paper

  World Civ: review questions at the end of Chapters 1–4

  G & T: none

  French: review questions at the end of Chapters 1–3

  Biology: review questions at the end of Chapters 1–5

  Tuesday, December 9, Homeroom

  All right. So I didn’t break up with him.

  I totally meant to.

  And it wasn’t even because I didn’t have the heart to do it over the phone, either.

  It was something Grandmère, of all people, said.

  Not that I feel right about it. Not breaking up with him, I mean. It’s just that after Algebra review, I had to go to the showroom where Sebastiano is flogging his latest creations, so that he could have his flunkies take my measurements for my dress. Grandmère was going on about how from now on, I should really only wear clothes by Genovian designers, to show my patriotism, or whatever. Which is going to be hard, because, uh, there’s only one Genovian clothing designer that I know of, and that’s Sebastiano. And let’s just say he doesn’t make very much out of denim.

  But whatever. I so had more important things to worry about than my spring wardrobe.

  Which I guess Grandmère must have caught on to, because midway through Sebastiano’s description of the beading he was going to have sewn onto my gown’s bodice, Grandmère shouted, “Amelia, what is the matter with you?”

  I must have jumped about a foot in the air. “What?”

  “Sebastiano asked if you prefer a sweetheart or square-cut neckline.”

  I stared at her blankly. “Neckline for what?”

  Grandmère gave me the evil eye. She does this quite frequently. That’s why my father, even though he has the neighboring hotel suite, never stops by during my princess lessons.

  “Sebastiano,” my grandmother said. “You will please leave the princess and me for a moment.”

  And Sebastiano—who was wearing a new pair of leather pants, these in a tangerine color (the new gray, he told me; and white, you might be surprised to know, is the new black)—bowed and left the room, followed by the slinky ladies who’d been taking my measurements.

  “Now,” Grandmère said imperiously. “Something is clearly troubling you, Amelia. What is it?”

  “It’s nothing,” I said, turning all red. I knew I was turning all red because: a) I could feel it, and b) I could see my reflection in the three full-length mirrors in front of me.

  “It is not nothing.” Grandmère took in a healthy drag from her Gitanes, even though I have asked her repeatedly not to smoke in my presence, as breathing secondhand smoke can cause just as much lung damage as actually smoking. “What is it? Trouble at home? Your mother and the math teacher fighting already, I suppose. Well, I never expected that marriage to last. Your mother is much too flighty.”

  I have to admit, I kind of snapped when she said that. Grandmère is always putting my mother down, even though Mom has raised me pretty much single-handedly and I certainly haven’t gotten pregn
ant or shot anyone yet.

  “For your information,” I said, “my mom and Mr. Gianini are blissfully happy together. I wasn’t thinking about them at all.”

  “What is it, then?” Grandmère asked in a bored voice.

  “Nothing,” I practically yelled. “I just—well, I was thinking about the fact that I have to break up with my boyfriend tonight, that’s all. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  Instead of taking offense at my tone, which any self-respecting grandparent would have found insolent, Grandmère only took a sip of her drink and suddenly looked way interested.

  “Oh?” she said, in a totally different tone of voice—the same tone of voice she uses when someone mentions a stock tip she thinks might be useful for her portfolio. “What boyfriend is this?”

  God, what did I ever do to be cursed with such a grandmother? Seriously. Lilly and Michael’s grandma remembers the names of all their friends, makes them rugelach all the time, and always worries that they’re not getting enough to eat, even though their parents, the Drs. Moscovitz, are wholly reliable at bringing home groceries, or at least ordering out.

  Me? I get the grandma with the hairless poodle and the nine-carat diamond rings whose greatest joy in life is to torture me.

  And why is that, anyway? I mean, why does Grandmère love to torture me so much? I’ve never done anything to her. Nothing except be her only grandchild, anyway. And it isn’t exactly like I go around advertising how I feel about her. You know, I’ve never actually told her I think she’s a mean old lady who contributes to the destruction of the environment by wearing fur coats and smoking filterless French cigarettes.