by Meg Cabot
Well, not really, because, of course, I don't live in Utah, and I would never kill myself over a boy, even Michael. But you
know what I mean.
Except that I can't just go up and ask Michael what the deal is between us, because right now he is busy with Boris, going
over band stuff. Michael's band is comprised (so far) of Michael (bass); Boris (electric violin); that tall guy Paul from the Computer Club (keyboards); this guy from the AEHS marching band called Trevor (guitar); and Felix, this scary-looking twelfth-grader with a goatee that's bushier than Mr Gianini's (drums). They still don't have a name for the band, or a place to practise. But they seem to think that Mr Kreblutz, the chief custodian, will let them into the band practice rooms on weekends
if they can get him tickets to the Westminster Kennel Show next month. Mr Kreblutz is a huge bichon frise fan.
The fact that Michael can concentrate on all this band stuff while our relationship is falling apart is just further proof that he is
a true musician, completely dedicated to his art. I, being the talentless freak that I am, can, of course, think of nothing but my heartbreak. Michael's ability to remain focused in spite of any personal pain he might be suffering is evidence of his genius.
Either that or he never cared that much about me in the first place.
I prefer to believe the former.
Oh, that I had some kind of outlet, such as music, into which to pour the suffering I am currently feeling! But alas, I'm no
artist. I just have to sit here in silent pain, while around me more-gifted souls express their innermost angst through song,
dance and filmography.
Well, OK, just through filmography since there are no singers or dancers in fifth period G and T. Though if you ask me, there should be. Instead we just have Lilly, putting together what she is calling her quintessential episode of Lilly Tells It Like It Is,
a show that will explore the seamy underbelly of that American institution known as Starbucks. It is Lilly's contention that Starbucks, through the introduction of the Starbucks card, with which caffeine addicts can now pay for their fix electronically,
is actually a secret branch of the Central Intelligence Agency that is tracing the movements of America's intelligentsia - writers, editors and other known liberal agitators - through their coffee consumption.
Whatever. I don't even like coffee.
This can't be how it ends, can it? My love affair with Michael, I mean. Not with a bang, but with hardly even a whimper,
like Rommel when you accidentally step on his tail?
This so isn't how Mr. Rochester would have done it. Broken up with Jane, I mean. If he'd decided to break up with her.
Which he never did because he loved her too much, even when she ran away from him and went to go live with another
guy. Well, OK, and his sisters, and he turned out to be her cousin, but, whatever.
No, even then Mr Rochester reached out psychically and touched Jane's mind with his. Because though their bodies
might be parted, their souls were forever entwined by a love that was stronger than—
Aw, crud. The bell.
Homework:
Algebra: Who cares?
English: Everything sucks.
Biology: I hate life.
Health and Safety: Mr. Wheeton is in love, too. I should warn him to get out now, while he still can.
G & T: I shouldn't even be in this class.
French: Why does this language even exist? Everyone there speaks English anyway.
World Civ.: What does it matter? We're all just going to die.
Once our boyfriends dump us, anyway.
Friday, January 22, 6 p.m.
Grandmere's Suite at the Plaza
Grandmere made me come here straight after school so that Paolo could start getting us ready for the ball. I didn't know
Paolo makes housecalls, but apparently he does. Only for royalty, he assured me, and Britney.
I explained to him about how I am growing out my hair on account of boys liking long hair better than short hair, and Paolo made some tut-tutting noises, but he slapped some curlers into it to try to get rid of the triangular shape, and I guess it
worked, because my hair looks pretty good. All of me looks pretty good. On the outside, anyway.
Too bad inside, I'm completely busted.
I am trying not to show it, though. You know, because I want Grandmere to think I am having a good time. I mean, I am
only doing this for her. Because she is an old lady and my grandmother and she fought the Nazis and all of that, for which someone has to give her some credit.
I just hope someday she appreciates it. My supreme sacrifice, I mean. But I doubt she ever will. Seventy-something-year-old ladies - particularly dowager princesses -never seem to remember what it was like to be fourteen and in love.
Well, I guess it is time to go. Grandmere has on this slinky black number with gutter all over it. She looks like Diana Ross.
Only with no eyebrows.
She says I look like a snowdrop. Hmmm, just what I always wanted, to look like a snowdrop.
Maybe that's my secret talent. I have the amazing ability to resemble a snowdrop.
My parents must be so proud.
Friday, January 22, 8 p.m.
Bathroom at the Contessa Trevanni's Fifth-Avenue Mansion
Yep. In the bathroom once again, where I always seem to end up at dances. Why is that?
The contessa's bathroom is a little bit overdone. It is nice and everything, but I don't know if I'd have chosen flaming wall-sconces as part of my bathroom decor. I mean, even at the palace, we don't have any flaming wall-sconces. Although
it looks very romantic and Ivanhoe-y and all, it is actually a pretty serious fire hazard, besides being probably a health risk, considering the carcinogens they must be giving off.
But, whatever. That isn't even the, real question — why would anyone have flaming wall-sconces in the bathroom? The real question, of course, is this: if I am supposedly descended from all these strong women - you know, Rosagunde, who strangled that warlord with her braid, and Agnes, who jumped off that bridge, not to mention Grandmere, who allegedly kept the Nazis from trashing Genovia by having Hitler over for tea — why is it that I am such a pushover?
I mean, seriously. I totally fell for Grandmere's whole riff about wanting to show up Elena Trevanni with her pretty and accomplished — yeah, at looking like a snowdrop — granddaughter. I actually felt sorry for her. I had empathy for Grandmere, not realizing then - as I do now - that Grandmere is completely devoid of human emotion, and that the whole
thing was just a charade to trick me into coming so she could parade me around as PRINCE RENE'S NEW GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
To his credit, Rene seems to have known nothing about it.
He looked as surprised as I was when Grandmere presented me to her supposed arch-rival, who, thanks to the skill of
Lana's plastic surgeon dad, looks about thirty years younger than Grandmere, though they are supposedly the same age.
But I think the contessa maybe went a little far with the surgery thing - it is so hard to know when to say 'when', I mean, look
at poor Michael Jackson - because she really does, just like Grandmere said, resemble an anteater. Like her eyes are sort of far apart on account of the skin around them being stretched so tight, which makes her nose look extra long and skinny.
When Grandmere introduced me - 'Contessa, may I present to you my granddaughter, Princess Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Renaldo' (she always leaves out the Thermopolis) - I thought everything was going to be all right. Well, not everything, of course, since directly after the ball, I knew I was going to go over to my best friend's house and get dumped by her brother. But you know, everything at the ball.
But then Grandmere added, 'And of course you know Amelia's beau, Prince Pierre Rene Grimaldi Alberto.'
Beau? BEAU??? Rene and I exchanged
quick glances. It was only then that I noticed that, standing right behind us in the reception line was none other than Lana Weinberger, her dad, and her mom. RIGHT THERE BEHIND US.
And Lana's mom, I saw, had allowed Lana to wear black instead of white to the black-and-white ball, even though I had been told, on no uncertain terms, that it was unseemly for a girl of my tender years to wear black. And Lana is the same age as me.
Lana, of course, totally overheard Grandmere's remark about me and Rene, and she got this look on her face . . .
Well, let's just say I'm surprised she didn't pull out her mobile then and there and call everyone she knew to tell them that
Mia Thermopolis was two-timing her best friend's brother.
So while I was standing there getting totally red in the face, and probably not resembling a snowdrop any more as much as
a candy cane, the contessa looked down her foot-long nose at me and went, 'So that rascal Rene has finally been snatched
up, and by your granddaughter, Clarisse. How satisfying that must be for you.'
Then Grandmere said, 'Isn't it, though, Elena?' And then to Rene and me she went, 'Come along, children,' and we followed her, Rene looking amused. But me? I was seething.
'I can't believe you did that,' I cried, as soon as we were out of the contessa's earshot.
'Did what, Amelia?' Grandmere asked, nodding to some guy in traditional African garb - a member of the Bengazi royal
family, no doubt.
'Told that woman that Rene and I are going out,' I said, 'when we most certainly are not. Grandmere, how many times do
I have to tell you, I'm going out with Michael Moscovitz!' At least I was until tonight, anyway.
'Rene,' Grandmere said, sweetly. She can be very sweet when she wants to be. 'Be an angel and see if you can find us
some champagne, would you?'
Rene, still looking cynically amused - the way I imagined Mr Rochester must have looked a lot of the time before he went
blind and got his hand chopped off - moved off in search of libation.
'Really, Amelia,' Grandmere said, when he was gone. 'Must you be so rude to poor Rene? I am only trying to make your cousin feel welcome and at home.'
'There is a difference,' I said, 'between making my cousin feel welcome and wanted, and trying to pass him off as my boyfriend!'
'Well, what's so wrong with Rene, anyway?' Grandmere wanted to know. All around us, elegant people in tuxedos and
evening gowns were heading to the dance floor, where a full orchestra was playing that song Audrey Hepburn sang in that movie about Tiffany's. Everyone was dressed in either black or white or both. The contessa's ballroom bore a significant resemblance to the penguin enclosure at the Central Park Zoo, where I had once sobbed my eyes out after discovering the truth about my heritage.
'He's extremely charming,' Grandmere went on, 'and quite cosmopolitan. Not to mention devilishly handsome. How can you possibly prefer a high school boy to a prince?'
'Because, Grandmere,' I said, 'I love him.'
'Love,' Grandmere said, looking towards the big glass ceiling overhead. 'Pfuit'
'Yes, Grandmere,' I said. 'I do. The way you loved Grandpere - and don't try to deny it, because I know you did. Now
you've got to stop harbouring a secret desire to make Prince Rene your grandson-in-law, because it is not going to happen.'
Grandmere looked blandly innocent. 'I don't know what you can mean,' she said, with a sniff.
'Cut it out, Grandmere. You want me to marry Prince Rene, for no other reason than that he is a royal. Well, it isn't going to happen. Even if Michael and I were to break up . . .' which was going to happen sooner than she thought '... I wouldn't get together with Rene. He's not my type. He smokes. And he likes to gamble. And he has no sympathy whatsoever for the
plight of the giant sea turtle.'
Grandmere finally began to look as if she might believe me. Tine,' she said, without much grace. 'I will stop calling Rene
your beau. But you must dance with him. At least once.'
'Grandmere.' The last thing in the world I felt like was dancing. 'Please. Not tonight. You don't know—'
'Amelia,' Grandmere said, in a different tone of voice from the one she'd used thus far. 'One dance. That is all I am asking
for. I believe you owe it to me.'
'I owe it to you?' I couldn't help bursting out laughing at that one. 'How so?'
'Oh, only because of a little something,' Grandmere said, all innocently, 'that was recently found to be missing from the
palace museum.'
All of my Renaldo fighting spirit went right out the contessa's French doors to her backyard patio when I heard this. I felt
as if someone had punched me in my snowdrop stomach. Had Grandmere really said what I thought she'd said???
Swallowing hard, I went, 'Wh-what?'
'Yes.' Grandmere looked at me meaningfully. 'A priceless object - one out of a group of several, almost identical items that
was given to me by my very dear friend, Mr. Richard Nixon, the deceased former American president - has been found to
be missing. I realize the person who took it thought it would never be missed, because it wasn't the only such item, and they
all did look much alike. Still, it held great sentimental value for me. Dick was such a dear, sweet friend to Genovia while he
was in office, for all his later troubles. But you wouldn't happen to know anything about any of this, would you, Amelia?'
She had me! She had me, and she knew it. I don't know how she knew - undoubtedly through the black arts, in which I suspect Grandmere of being highly well-versed -but clearly, she knew. I was dead. I was so, so dead. I don't know if,
being a member of the royal family, and all, I was above the law back in Genovia, but I for one did not want to find out.
I should, I realize now, merely have dissembled. I should have been all, 'Priceless object? What priceless object?'
But I couldn't, on account of my nostrils. Instead, I went, in this squeaky, high-pitched voice I barely recognized as my own, 'You know what, Grandmere? I'll be happy to dance with Rene. No problem!'
Grandmere looked extremely satisfied. She said, 'Yes, I thought you would feel that way.' Then her drawn-on eyebrows
went up. 'Oh, look, here comes Prince Rene with our drinks. Sweet of him, don't you think?'
Anyway, that's how it happened that I was forced to dance with Prince Rene - who is a good dancer, but, whatever,
he's no Michael. I mean, he's never even seen Buffy the Vampire Slayer and he thinks Bill Gates is a pretty swell guy.
While we were dancing, though, this incredible thing happened. Rene went, 'Who is this blonde girl who keeps staring at us? Do you know her?'
I looked over to see who he was talking about, and sure enough, Lana was dancing nearby with some old guy who must
have been a friend of her father's. She looked extremely pained, like the old guy was talking to her about his investment portfolio or something, and, I have to admit, the looks she was throwing in my direction were pretty envious.
Well, I guess, to a girl like Lana, I was in an enviable position. I looked like a snowdrop, and I was dancing with the handsomest guy in the room. Too bad I was in love with somebody else.
So then, I don't know what came over me, but I actually sort of started feeling sorry for Lana. I mean, she's so shallow.
She can't see past how somebody looks. She never bothers to stop and try to see the person they might be inside.
I don't know, maybe being the daughter of a plastic surgeon makes her insecure, or something. But it's like, if you don't
look or dress a certain way, Lana won't even give you the time of day.
And yeah, I knew that on Monday she was going to be going around school, telling everybody she could get to listen about how she saw me with another guy. But by that time Michael and I would be broken up anyway. So what did it matter?
/> So for the second time in two days, I did something because I felt sorry for someone whom I'd formerly considered pretty much an enemy. I looked up at Rene and said, 'Yeah, I know her. Her name is Lana. She goes to my school. When this