Princess on the Brink

by Meg Cabot

  Yes. I have a boyfriend who builds robots. It’s SO COOL!!!!!

  When Lilly and I got back to the table, it was really hard for me even to look at Boris’s face—although it’s actually semi-attractive now that he no longer wears a bionater and started seeing a dermatologist and got Lasik eye surgery and all of that.

  Still. All I can see when I look at him now is Lilly’s hand down his pants. Right there with his sweater.

  “Oh my God, Mia,” Ling Su cried as I sat down. “What happened to your hair?”

  This is really not the kind of thing you want to hear when you’ve just gotten your hair cut.

  “Astor Place Hairstylists,” I said. “Why? You don’t like it?”

  “Oh, no, I like it,” Ling Su said quickly. But I totally saw her exchange looks with Perin, whom, I might add, has even shorter hair than I do. And mine’s pretty short.

  “I think Mia looks great,” J.P. said. He was sitting down at the other end of the table, across from Lilly. He wasn’t looking too bad himself, actually. His tousled blond hair had been streaked even blonder in places by the sun—his parents have a place on Martha’s Vineyard, which is where he’d spent the bulk of his summer, brushing up on his windsurfing skills.

  And it had totally paid off. I mean, if a killer tan and pretty well-defined arm muscles count for anything.

  Not that I was looking. Because I already have a boyfriend with his own killer arm muscles.

  And okay, Michael probably didn’t get tan this summer, because he was too busy with his summer school robot project.

  But he’s still hotter than J.P.

  Who, besides, is Lilly’s boyfriend.

  Or something.

  “Very gaminesque,” J.P. said, nodding at my head.

  “I know what that means,” Tina said excitedly. “Like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday!”

  “I was thinking more Keira Knightley in Domino,” J.P. said. “But that works, too.”

  It’s nice to have such supportive friends.

  Well, SOME supportive friends, anyway. I can’t believe Lilly won’t tell me if she and J.P. Did It. If they did, you can’t tell by looking at them. You’d think if they’d given each other their Precious Gift, there’d at least be some footsies under the table.

  But the only thing I saw them do that was at all intimate was J.P. giving Lilly a bite of his Yodel. And I’ve given her bites of my Yodel.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m about to give her my Precious Gift.

  Tuesday, September 7, Gifted and Talented

  Okay, it really isn’t fair that, besides the whole being-putin-Intro-to-Creative-Writing-and-not-Intermediate-Creative-Writing-thing, I should also have such a sucky afternoon schedule. Look at this. Just LOOK:

  Period 1

  Homeroom

  Period 2

  Intro to Creative Writing

  Period 3

  English

  Period 4

  French

  Lunch

  Period 5

  G and T

  Period 6

  PE

  Period 7

  Chemistry

  Period 8

  Precalculus

  Physical education, then CHEMISTRY, then PRECALCULUS??? Is it too much to ask that I have ONE FUN CLASS in the afternoon? ONE THING TO LOOK FORWARD TO???

  But no. It has to be SUCKZONE from 1:25 p.m. on.

  Seriously. That is just wrong.

  And who do they think they’re kidding, putting me in advanced algebra? ME?

  Whatever. Considering how bad my practice PSAT math score was, maybe I can talk Dad out of making me go to princess lessons this year, and have mandatory tutoring instead.

  AND MICHAEL COULD BE MY TUTOR!!!!

  Hey, it could happen. He tutored me all through Algebra and Geometry. And I passed both of those. Why shouldn’t Dad also hire him to be my tutor for Precalculus?

  And maybe he could tutor me in Chemistry, too. Because I heard that class is no joke.

  Oh, great. Lilly wants to talk about the student election. She says she’s going to nominate me at Assembly today.

  Seriously. I just don’t know. I mean, she’s got our platform all set up and everything. All I have to do is run.

  But I barely had a minute to myself last year! And if I really want to be a novelist—or a screenwriter, or even a SHORT STORY writer, or whatever—I HAVE to have some time to myself in order to ACTUALLY WRITE SOMETHING. I mean, besides my journal and Battlestar Galactica fan fics.

  And then there’s Michael. I barely got to see him last year, we were both so busy with school. On top of which I also had princess stuff to do, not to mention a new baby brother. Something’s got to give this year.

  And I’m thinking it’s going to be student government.

  Why can’t LILLY run for president? I mean, I know she thinks everybody hates her, but that’s just not true. I’m sure they’ve all forgotten about how she tried to convince the trustees to make the day an extra period longer so we could squeeze in a mandatory Latin class.

  How am I going to break it to her that I don’t want to run, though? Especially when she’s already gotten seventy-five Vote for Mia T-shirts printed up, and is looking into leasing the school roof to cell tower distributors and using the extra income to provide free laptops to the school’s scholarship students?

  Man. Being responsible blows.

  Tuesday, September 7, Chemistry

  Wow. Kenny Showalter is in this class. Is it impossible for me to take a science class in this school and NOT have Kenny Showalter be in it?

  Apparently so.

  Somehow he got even TALLER over the summer. He’s as tall as Lars now.

  Unfortunately for him, however, I think he still weighs less than I do.

  He just sat down next to me. I wonder if he’ll want to be lab partners again. This wouldn’t be the worst thing, since if he hadn’t been lab partners with me last year in Earth Science, I’d have flunked. Or at least gotten much worse than a C.

  Hey! J.P. just walked in. J.P. is in this class, too!

  Thank God. At least there’s ONE normal person I can ask what’s going on. I mean, Kenny is great and all, but, you know. There’s always that TENSION between us, because of his dumping me for thinking I was in love with Boris Pelkowski. God, that was so long ago! You’d think we’d both be over that by now, but it’s still there, this little bit of tension between us when he’s doing my homework for me.

  I just waved for J.P. to sit on my other side, which he very nicely did. God, he is so great. I’m SO glad Lilly is going out with him. I have to admit, I didn’t have much faith in her taste in guys for a while there, what with Jangbu and Franco and all. But she’s really redeemed herself with—

  Whoa. Kenny just passed me a note.

  Mia—I didn’t know you were taking Chemistry this year. Want to be lab partners again? Why break with tradition?

  WHY WOULD KENNY WANT TO BE LAB PARTNERS WITH ME???? I mean, except that I have better handwriting than he does, I can see no possible advantage for him in being lab partners with me. It’s true, he doesn’t know how bad my math practice PSAT score was.

  But he KNOWS I suck in science. I can only bring our group effort down!

  Oh, wait. Now J.P. just passed me a note.

  Hey, Mia. I didn’t know you had Chem with Hipskin this semester. He’s supposed to be good. Want to be lab partners? I suppose that’s what Showalter just asked you in that note he flipped over to you. Ditch him, he’ll just hold you back with his constant protestations of l’amour. I’m the one you want.

  Which is funny, but—oh, dear. What do I do? I WANT to be lab partners with J.P., because I really like J.P. He is very amusing and, besides which, gets straight As—except for in Honors English last year, since he ALSO had Ms. Martinez (only for a different class period than mine) and she gave him a B same as me because—we decided—she just didn’t like our writing style.

  But Kenny asked first. And Kenny and I
are ALWAYS partners. He’s right, we can’t break with tradition.

  WHY DO THESE THINGS ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME????

  Wait, I can figure this out. I mean, I haven’t had TWO YEARS of instruction in diplomacy for nothing.

  I know…let’s all THREE be lab partners. Okay?—Mia

  To which Kenny replied:

  Cool! I like your new haircut, by the way. You look just like Anakin Skywalker from The Phantom Menace. You know, the one where he pod races?

  Great. I look like a nine-year-old boy.

  J.P. just wrote:

  Skillfully done, grasshopper. I see your sensei has taught you well.

  Sensei! That’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone refer to my grandmother as THAT.

  Would she be offended if she knew?

  Are you kidding? I can totally see her in one of those karate uniforms, with a big stick, telling me that “some lessons can’t be taught. They must be lived to be understood.”

  À la Terence Stamp in Elektra. Nice. Only it’s called a gi.

  What is?

  A karate uniform. Don’t you know the ways of the fighting arts?

  Sorry. But I know how to pour a formal tea.

  Well, obviously you’re set for life then.

  Hee. It’s fun talking to J.P. It’s like talking to a girl, only better, because he’s a guy. But there’s no sexual tension because I know he likes Lilly.

  This might actually turn out not to be so bad. I mean, except for the whole Chemistry part.

  —Matter—

  —Pure substances—

  —Mixtures—

  Elements

  Compounds

  Homogeneous

  Heterogeneous

  Pure substance—constant composition

  Element—composed of single atom

  Compound—2 or more elements in a specific ratio

  Mixture—combinations of pure substances

  Only six hours until I get to see Michael. Please, God, don’t let me die of boredom before then.

  Tuesday, September 7, Precalculus

  Differentiation—finding the derivative

  Derivative = slope

  Derivative also rate

  Integration

  Infinite series

  Divergent series

  Convergent series

  Wait.

  Okay.

  What?

  They have GOT to be kidding.

  Only five hours until I see Michael.

  Tuesday, September 7, Assembly

  Okay, well, THAT was lame. Only one person was nominated for student council president:

  Me.

  I am apparently running unopposed.

  Principal Gupta is way disappointed in us. You can tell.

  I guess I am, too. I mean, I knew our school was apathetic, and all. Look how everyone rushed out and bought Diddy’s new album when they KNOW he is withholding information about Biggie Smalls’s murder from the Los Angeles police.

  But this is ridiculous.

  Lilly practically cried. I guess it’s not really a victory if there’s no one to beat. I tried to tell her it was because we did such a great job last year, people figured there was no point in running against us, because we would just win anyway.

  But then Lilly pointed out that everyone was just text messaging one another about what they’re doing after school during the entire Assembly, not even paying attention, so it was likely they didn’t even know WHAT was going on. They probably thought it was just another convocation on daring to keep off drugs.

  HOMEWORK

  Homeroom: n/a

  Intro to Creative Writing: Describe a scene out your window

  English: Franny and Zooey

  French: Finish décrire un soir amusant avec les amis

  G & T: Prepare a summary for Mrs. Hill of what you hope to accomplish in G&T this semester

  PE: Wash gym shorts

  Chemistry: Ask Kenny/J.P.

  Precalculus: Seriously. This class HAS to be a joke.

  ME, A PRINCESS???? YEAH, RIGHT.

  A Screenplay by Mia Thermopolis

  (first draft)

  Scene 13

  INT/DAY—The Palm Court at the Plaza Hotel in New York City. Close-up of MIA’s face as she tries to digest what her father, PRINCE PHILLIPE, has just told her.

  MIA

  (fighting tears, and hiccups)

  I am NOT moving to Genovia.

  PRINCE PHILLIPE

  (using his now-let’s-be-reasonable voice)

  But, Mia. I thought you understood—

  MIA

  All I understand is that you lied to me my whole life.

  Why should I come live with you?

  MIA leaps up from the table, tipping over her chair, then rushes from the restaurant, nearly knocking over the snobby doorman on her way out.

  Tuesday, September 7, W Hotel

  So they’re converting the Plaza into condominiums and luxury time-shares. And Grandmère’s already bought the penthouse.

  But they’re still renovating it. And Grandmère can’t live there with all the dust because of her sinuses. Not to mention the banging, which starts promptly at 7:30 a.m.

  So she’s taken up residence at the W Hotel.

  And she doesn’t seem to be liking it very much.

  “This,” Grandmère was saying, as I walked into her suite—which, can I just say, is pretty freaking nice? I mean, it’s not exactly her style (it’s more modern than frou-frou—stripes and leather as opposed to floral and lace), but it’s got views all up and down the island of Manhattan, and a lot of shiny wood—“is completely unacceptable.”

  She was saying this to a guy in a suit with a little gold nametag that said Robert on it.

  Robert looked like he wanted to kill himself.

  I sympathized. I know what Grandmère’s like when she’s on a tear.

  And this one appeared to be a doozy.

  “Daisies?” Grandmère’s voice had dipped to icy registers. “Does your staff really believe daisies are the appropriate flower with which to adorn the rooms of the dowager princess of Genovia?”

  “I’m so sorry, madam,” Robert said. I saw him flick a glance over at me, all sprawled out across the kick-ass white couch in front of the flat-panel TV that—yes—appears as if from nowhere when you push a button, just like Joey always wanted on Friends.

  You could tell Robert was totally looking for a hand with the Big G.

  But there was no way I was letting myself get sucked into this one. I bent over my screenplay, scribbling away very busily. J.P. says when I finish it, he knows a producer who would be very interested in seeing it. Very interested! That practically means it’s sold.

  “We put Gerbera daisies in all our rooms,” Robert went on, seeing he was getting no help from me. “No one has ever complained about them before.”

  Grandmère looked at him as if he had just said that no one had ever pulled out a knife and committed hari-kari right in front of him before either.

  “Have you ever had a PRINCESS stay in this hotel before?” she demanded.

  “Actually, the princess of Thailand was here just last week before settling into her dorm room at NYU,” Robert began.

  I winced. Wrong answer, Robert! Too bad. Thanks for playing.

  “THAILAND?” Grandmère just glared at him. “Have you any idea HOW MANY PRINCESSES OF THAILAND THERE ARE?”

  Robert looked panicky. He knew he’d messed up. He just didn’t know how. Poor guy. “Um…no?”

  “Dozens. You could even say hundreds. Do you know how many dowager princesses of Genovia there are, young man?”

  “Um.” Robert looked like he wanted to jump out the window. I didn’t blame him, really. “One?”

  “One. That is correct,” Grandmère said. “Don’t you think that if the ONE DOWAGER PRINCESS OF GENOVIA demands roses in her room—pink and white roses, NOT orange Gerbera daisies, which might be the trendy flower of the moment, but ROSES never go out of styl
e—you ought to SUPPLY THEM FOR HER? Especially considering the fact that her dog happens to be allergic to grassland plants?”

  Everyone’s gaze went to Rommel, who, far from looking as if he were suffering from any sort of allergic reaction to anything, was snoring away in his gilt-framed dog bed, twitching a little as he dreamed of whatever it is dogs dream about—in Rommel’s case, no doubt, of running away from his owner.

  “As if,” Grandmère added, “it isn’t bad enough you have actual grass GROWING in your lobby.”

  Ouch. I’d noticed that as I’d come in. It’s a bit modern, having grass growing in your lobby. I mean, for Grandmère’s taste, anyway. She prefers mints in little crystal bowls.

  “I understand, madam,” Robert said, actually giving a little bow. “I’ll—I’ll have pink and white roses sent for immediately. I can’t apologize enough for the oversight—”

  “No,” Grandmère said, raising one drawn-on eyebrow. “You cannot. Good-bye.”

  Robert, gulping, turned and hurried from the room. Grandmère waited until he was gone before collapsing into one of the black-leather-and-chrome chairs across from my couch.

  But, of course, those aren’t the kind of chairs you can actually collapse into all that easily. Because the leather is kind of slippery.

  “Amelia!” Grandmère cried, as she slithered around on the seat. “This is unconscionable!”