Princess on the Brink

by Meg Cabot

  “Lilly,” I said. “I totally think you could win, without my help. I mean, for one thing, think about it—you’d be running unopposed.”

  “You know I wouldn’t get fifty percent of the vote,” Lilly said through gritted teeth. “Why can’t you just run and step down, like you were SUPPOSED to do last year?”

  “Because my boyfriend is leaving this country for a whole year in THREE DAYS,” I practically yelled, causing Mrs. Hill to glance up from her Isabella Bird catalog. I lowered my voice. “And I want to spend as much time as I can with him until then. Which means I DON’T want to be spending my evenings writing speeches and making Mia for President signs.”

  “I’ll write the speeches,” Lilly said, her teeth still gritted. “And I’ll make the signs. You just do what you were supposed to last year, and step down like you said you were going to.”

  “Oh, God, whatever,” I said, just to get her off my back. “FINE.”

  “FINE,” Lilly said back.

  And then it occurred to me that I was letting a golden opportunity slip through my fingers, and I added, “ON ONE CONDITION.”

  And Lilly was like, “What?”

  “You have to tell me if you and J.P. Did It over the summer.”

  Lilly just glared at me for a while. Then, finally, like it was this supreme sacrifice, she said, “All right. I’ll tell you. AFTER the election.”

  Which was fine with me. So long as I get to find out.

  I don’t know why it’s so interesting to me. But, I mean, if my best friend has had sex, I think I should be allowed to hear about it. In detail. Especially considering the fact that I’m not going to be able even to SMELL my boyfriend for the coming year, and will have to live vicariously through Lilly’s romance.

  Although she once told me she doesn’t go around smelling J.P.’s neck and thinks it’s very weird that I smell Michael’s all the time.

  More than likely Lilly’s vomeronasal organ—her auxiliary olfactory sense organ—regressed during gestation like most humans’ do. Mine obviously didn’t.

  Which is just another example of what a biological sport I am.

  Mrs. Hill just asked me what I plan on doing in class this year. So I was forced to tell her about my practice PSAT math score.

  Now she’s got me doing practice problems from the Official SAT Study Guide.

  I think that this, coupled with the rest of the events in the past twenty-four hours of my life, pretty much proves that God does not exist.

  Or that if He does, He is supremely indifferent to my suffering.

  Jill bought five apples at the grocery store. She paid with a five-dollar bill and received three quarters in change. Jill realized she’d received too much change, and gave back one of the quarters. How much did the apples cost?

  WHATEVER. That is what debit cards are for. Okay, let’s move on.

  What is the least positive integer divisible by the numbers 2, 3, 4, and 5?

  Oh, right. Like I know. Okay, next:

  The weight of the cookies in a box of 100 cookies is 8 ounces. What is the weight, in ounces, of three cookies?

  WHY DO I NEED TO KNOW THIS IF ALL I’M GOING TO BE DOING SOMEDAY IS RUNNING A COUNTRY AND WILL HAVE MY OWN ROYAL ACCOUNTANTS? WHY WHY WHY???? IT ISN’T FAIR!!!!!!!!!!

  Wednesday, September 8, Chemistry

  Mia—Is it true? Michael is going to Tsukuba for a year to work on a robotic device that could put an end to open-heart surgery?

  Oh, God. Here we go. Tina insists Kenny is still in love with me—even after all this time—but I’ve always told her she is confusing her Harlequin romance novels with real life again.

  But maybe I was being unnecessarily harsh. Maybe she’s RIGHT. Because why else would he be so interested in my current dating status????

  Yes, Kenny. It’s true. Although we are not breaking up!!!

  That is SO COOL. Do you think he’d consider hiring me—you know, when he gets back—as, like, an intern or something? Because I’ve always been fascinated by robotics, and have actually been tinkering with a design for an orbital rotor for a robotic scalpel. Do you think he could use me? I assume he’ll be hiring his friends.

  Oh. So, it’s not me he wants after all…well, that’s a relief.

  Kenny, you KNOW about this robotic surgery stuff?

  Um, of course. And it isn’t “stuff,” Mia, it’s really the new frontier in robotic science. Robotic surgical systems are already being installed in hospitals around the globe. The ultimate goal of the robotic field is to design a system that will do exactly what Michael’s prototype does. If he can build a model that actually operates as it’s supposed to in a surgical setting…well, let’s just say there won’t have been as ground-shaking a development in science since Lucy the cloned sheep. Michael will be hailed as a genius…no, more than just a genius. Perhaps even a MEDICAL SAVIOR.

  Oh. Well. Thanks for clarifying that for me. I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you to Michael.

  Sweet. Thanks!

  Mia—You okay? You hardly touched your falafel at lunch.

  God, J.P. is so sweet! I can’t believe he noticed!

  I’m fine. I guess.

  I don’t imagine Boris pontificating on orchestral dalliances he has seen helped very much.

  Yeah, not so much. It’s just…what’s a medical savior going to want to have to do with ME? I mean, I’m just a PRINCESS. Anybody can be a princess. All you have to do is have the right parents. It’s no harder than being born Paris Hilton, for God’s sake.

  At least you remember to put on underwear in the morning, I’m assuming.

  Is that supposed to be helping?

  Sorry. I thought the situation called for a little levity. Bad miscalculation on my part. Mia, you’re wonderful in and of yourself. You know that. You’re a lot more than just a princess. In fact, I would say that’s the tiniest part of you, not what DEFINES you.

  But I haven’t DONE anything. I mean, not anything great that people are going to remember me by. Except be a princess, which, as I mentioned, isn’t something I actively DID, I just got born that way.

  You’re only sixteen. Cut yourself some slack.

  But Michael’s only nineteen and he may be saving thousands of people’s lives, like, next year. If I’m going to do something great someday, I need to get started NOW.

  I thought you were going to write a screenplay of your life and Lilly was going to direct it.

  Yeah, but what have I done in my LIFE that will make the screenplay meaningful? Like, I haven’t saved hundreds of Jews from annihilation by the Nazi scourge, or gone blind and yet gone on to write beautiful music.

  I think holding yourself to the standards set by Oskar Schindler and Stevie Wonder is a bit unrealistic.

  But don’t you see? MICHAEL is setting that kind of standard.

  But Michael loves you, just the way you are! So what are you worried about? You can be a great person just for being a good friend or a terrific writer or humorous to be around, you know.

  I guess. It’s just that he’s probably going to be meeting a lot of brilliant, beautiful girls in Japan, and how do I know he’s not going to fall for one of THEM?

  He’s probably met lots of brilliant, beautiful girls at Columbia, and he hasn’t fallen for any of them, has he?

  Well, no. But that’s just because, even though they’re all brilliant, they all look like Judith Gershner.

  Who’s Judith Gershner?

  She’s this girl who used to go here who could clone fruit flies and who I thought Michael liked and—You know what? Never mind. You’re right. I’m being ridiculous.

  I didn’t say you were being ridiculous. I said you were being too hard on yourself. You’re a great person, and if in the unlikely event Michael were ever to imply otherwise, I will happily kick his ass for you.

  Ha. Thanks. But that’s what I have Lars for.

  Mia: Not to be a jerk, but if you want to pass this class, you’d better stop passing notes with J.P. and pay a
ttention. I know I’m your lab partner, but I’m not taking up the slack if you start to fall behind.

  Okay, Kenny. Sorry. You’re right.

  BUSTED!!!!

  Shut up, you’re making me laugh!!!!!!!!! I’m paying attention now.

  Archimedes’ Principle: volume of a solid is equal to the volume of water it displaces.

  Densities of typical solids and liquids in g/ml

  Substance

  Density

  Gasoline

  0.68

  Ice

  0.92

  Water

  1.00

  Salt

  2.16

  Iron

  7.86

  Lead

  11.38

  Mercury

  13.55

  Gold

  19.3

  I realize Chemistry is important, you know, in our daily lives and everything. But seriously. What possible use is knowing the density of gasoline going to be in my future capacity as ruler of Genovia?

  Wednesday, September 8, Precalc

  Composite function = combination of 2 functions f (g (x)) does NOT = g (f (x))

  A relation is any collection of points on the x-y coordinate system

  Constant function = horizontal line

  Horizontal line has 0 slope

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  This.

  Is.

  So.

  Boring.

  HOMEWORK

  Homeroom: n/a

  Intro to Creative Writing: Describe a person who you know

  English: Franny and Zooey

  French: Continue décrire un soir amusant avec les amis

  G & T: n/a

  PE: n/a

  Chemistry: Whatever, Kenny will tell me Precalculus:??????

  Wednesday, September 8, the limo on the way home from the Ritz-Carlton

  When I walked into Grandmère’s suite at the Ritz today (the W was apparently so unsatisfactory, she only stayed one night), I was totally shocked to find my father there.

  I’d forgotten he was coming into town for the UN’s General Assembly.

  And he’d apparently forgotten that it’s never a good idea to drop by to see Grandmère before cocktail hour (she’s been told by her physician that she can’t have any more three-Sidecar luncheons if she doesn’t want her angina acting up) because she is more than a little cranky.

  “Look at this!” she was saying, as she shook a pillow in my dad’s face. “Mere seven-hundred-threadcount sheets! It’s scandalous! No wonder Rommel has a rash!”

  “Rommel always has a rash,” my dad said tiredly. Then he noticed I’d come in, and he said, “Hi, honey. Long time no—What happened to your hair?”

  I didn’t even bother getting offended. Having your boyfriend announce he’s moving to Japan has a way of causing you to get your priorities straight.

  “I got it cut,” I said. “I don’t care if you don’t like it. I don’t have to mess with it anymore, and that’s all that matters. To me, anyway.”

  “Oh,” Dad said. “It’s, uh. Cute. What’s the matter?”

  “What? Nothing.”

  “Something’s the matter, Mia. I can tell.”

  “It’s really nothing,” I assured him. Just the knowledge that all my parents have to do is look at my face and know something is wrong made me realize how very much I must actually be hurting by this Michael thing. Because I’m TRYING to hide it. I really am. For Michael’s sake. Because I know I should be excited and happy for him.

  And I AM excited and happy for him.

  Except for the part where I’m weeping. On the inside.

  “Are you listening to me, Phillipe?” Grandmère was demanding. “You know Rommel requires eight-hundred-threadcount sheets at the very least.”

  Dad sighed. “I’ll have some thousand-count sheets sent over from Bergdorf’s, all right? Mia, I know something’s wrong. What’s your mother done now? Got arrested at another one of her war protests? I’ve told her to stop chaining herself to things.”

  “It’s not Mom,” I said, throwing myself onto a brocade-covered chaise lounge. “She hasn’t chained herself to anything in years.”

  “Well, she’s a very…unpredictable woman,” my dad said. Which is his way of saying, as nicely as possible, that Mom is flighty and irresponsible about a lot of things. But not her kids. “But you’re right, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. It’s nothing to do with Frank, is it? The two of them are getting along all right? It’s very stressful having a new baby in the house. Or so I hear.”

  I rolled my eyes. My dad always wants the scoop on what’s going on with Mom and Mr. Gianini. Which is sort of hilarious, because there’s never actually anything going on with them. Unless you mean their fights over what to watch at breakfast, CNN (Mr. G) or MTV (Mom). Mom can’t stand politics first thing in the morning. She prefers Panic! At the Disco.

  “It isn’t just the sheets, Phillipe,” Grandmère was going on. “Do you realize the televisions in the rooms of this hotel are only twenty-seven inches wide?”

  “You say there’s nothing on American television but filth and violence,” my dad said, staring at his mother in astonishment.

  “Well, yes,” Grandmère said. “There is. Except for Judge Judy.”

  “It’s just…everything,” I said, ignoring Grandmère. Because Dad was now ignoring her, too. “It’s only two days into the semester, and it’s already my worst one ever. Ms. Martinez stuck me in Intro to Creative Writing. Intro stands for INTRODUCTION. I don’t need to be introduced to creative writing. I eat, sleep, and breathe creative writing. And don’t even get me started on Chemistry and Precalculus. But the worst is…well, it’s Michael.”

  Dad didn’t look surprised to hear this. In fact, he looked pleased.

  “Well, now, Mia, I hate to tell you this but…I suspected this might be coming. Michael’s in college now, and you’re still in high school, and you have to spend a lot of time on your royal duties and in Genovia, and you can’t expect a young man in his prime to simply wait around for you. It’s natural that Michael might find a young lady closer to his own age who actually has the time to spend doing the kinds of things college-age kids do—things that are simply not appropriate for a high-school aged princess to take part in.”

  “Dad.” I blinked at him. “Michael didn’t break up with me. At least if that’s what you meant by that speech you just gave me.”

  “He didn’t?” Dad stopped looking so pleased. “Oh. Well, what did he do then?”

  “He—well, remember when you flew back to Genovia with me and we watched The Lord of the Rings during the flight?”

  “Yes.” Dad raised his eyebrows. “Are you telling me Michael’s come into possession of the One Ring?”

  “No,” I said. I couldn’t believe he was trying to make a joke out of it. “But he’s trying to prove himself to the elf king, like Aragorn.”

  “Who’s the elf king?” Dad wanted to know, like he genuinely didn’t know.

  “Dad. YOU’RE the elf king.”

  “Really?” Dad adjusted his tie, looking pleased again. Then he stopped. “Wait…my ears aren’t pointy. Are they?”

  “I meant FIGURATIVELY, Dad,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Michael feels like he has to prove himself in order to be with your daughter. Just like Aragorn felt he had to prove himself to win the elf king’s approval to be with Arwen.”

  “Well,” Dad said. “I don’t see what’s wrong with that. Only how exactly does he plan on doing it? Winning my approval, I mean? Because, I’m sorry, but leading an army of the dead to defeat the Orcs isn’t really going to cut the mustard with me.”

  “Michael isn’t leading an army of the dead anywhere. He’s invented a robotic surgical arm that will allow surgeons to do heart surgery without opening up the chest,” I said.

  That wiped the smirk clean off Dad’s face.

  “Really?” he asked in a totally different tone. “Michael did that?”

/>   “Well, he has a prototype for it,” I explained. “And some Japanese company is flying him out there so he can help them to build a working model. Or something. The thing is, it’s going to take a YEAR! Michael is going to be in Tsukuba for a YEAR! Or more!”

  “A year,” Dad repeated. “Or more. Well. That’s a very long time.”

  “Yes, it’s a very long time,” I said dramatically. “And while he’s thousands of miles away, inventing cool stuff, I’m going to be stuck in stupid Intro to Creative Writing and eleventh-grade Chem, which I’m already flunking, not to mention Precalc, which, once again, I don’t even know why I have to learn, since we’ve got all those accountants….”

  “Now, now,” Dad said. “Everyone has to learn calculus in order to be a well-rounded individual.”

  “You know what would make me a well-rounded individual, and you a celebrated philanthropist and possibly even be named Time magazine’s Person of the Year?” I asked. “Well, I’ll tell you: if you founded your own robotics lab right here in New York City that Michael could build his robotic arm thingie in!”

  My dad got a good laugh out of that one.

  Which was nice. Except that I wasn’t joking.

  “I’m serious, Dad,” I said. “I mean, why not? It’s not like you don’t have the money.”

  “Mia,” my dad said, sobering. “I don’t know anything about robotics labs.”