Princess on the Brink

by Meg Cabot

  “But Michael does,” I said. “He could tell you what he’d need. And then you could just, you know. Pay for it. And you’d totally get credit when Michael successfully completes his robotic arm thingie. They’d put you on Larry King, I’ll bet. Who cares about Vogue…think of how much Genovia would be in the press then. It would do WONDERS for tourism. Which you must admit has been on the wane since the dollar tanked.”

  “Mia,” Dad said, shaking his head. “It’s out of the question. I’m very pleased for Michael—I always thought he had potential. But I am not going to spend millions of dollars building some robotics laboratory so you can fritter away eleventh grade necking with your boyfriend instead of passing Precalculus.”

  I glared at him. “Nobody calls it necking anymore, Dad.”

  Well, I had to say SOMETHING. Also…fritter?

  “Excuse me.” Grandmère stomped over until she stood in the middle of the room and could glare at both of us at the same time. “I’m so sorry to interrupt your very important discussion of THAT BOY. But I’m wondering if the two of you have noticed something about this room. Something that is very obviously MISSING.”

  Dad and I looked around. Grandmère’s 1,530-square-foot penthouse suite came complete with two bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms—each of which contained a marble soaking tub with separate stall shower—two 12-inch flat-screen televisions (and those were just the TVs in the bathrooms), exclusive Frédéric Fekkai and Côté Bastide bath amenities, Floris shaving kit and Frette candles, living room, dining room with seating for eight, separate pantry, library of books, DVD player, stereo, in-room selection of compact discs and DVDs, multiline cordless telephone with voice mail and data line capabilities, high-speed Internet access, and a floor-model telescope so she could look out at the stars or across the park into Woody Allen’s apartment.

  There was nothing Grandmère’s suite didn’t have. NOTHING.

  “AN ASHTRAY!” Grandmère shouted. “THIS IS A NONSMOKING SUITE!!!”

  Dad looked up at the ceiling. Then he sighed. Then he said, “Mia. If Michael, as you say, is intent on proving himself worthy of you to me, then he wouldn’t want my help anyway. I’m sorry you’re going to have to be separated from him for a year, but I think buckling down and concentrating exclusively on your studies might not be such a bad thing. Mother.” He looked at Grandmère. “You are impossible. But I will get you a suite at another hotel. Let me make a few phone calls,” he said and walked into the dining room to do so.

  Grandmère, looking very self-satisfied, opened her purse, plucked out the key card to her suite, and placed it on the coffee table in front of me.

  “Well,” she said. “What a shame. Looks like I’ll be moving. Again.”

  “Grandmère,” I said. She was making me SO MAD. “Do you know there are people who are still living in TENTS and FEMA TRAILERS because of all the hurricanes and tsunamis and earthquakes there’ve been in various parts of the world? And you’re complaining that you can’t SMOKE in your room? There is nothing wrong with this suite. It’s totally beautiful. It’s every bit as nice as your suite back at the Plaza. You’re just being ridiculous, because you don’t like change.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Grandmère said with a sigh, as she sat down in one of the brocade-covered armchairs across from the couch I was sitting on. “But I believe my folly might be to your advantage.”

  “Oh?” I was barely listening to her. I couldn’t believe how quickly my dad had shot down my Build Your Own Lab idea. I really thought it had been a good one. I mean, I know I only came up with it on the spur of the moment. But it seemed like something he might go for. He’s always building hospital wings over in Genovia, and then naming them after himself. I think the Prince Phillipe Renaldo Surgical Robotic Systems Lab has a nice ring to it.

  “The suite is paid for through the end of the week,” Grandmère said, leaning over to tap on the key card she’d left on the table. “I won’t be staying here, of course. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t feel free to use it, if you like.”

  “What am I going to do with a suite at the Ritz, Grandmère?” I demanded. “It might have escaped your notice, because you’re so preoccupied with your own quote suffering unquote. But I am hardly going to be hosting any slumber parties this week. I am in a full-on life crisis.”

  Grandmère’s gaze hardened on me. “Sometimes,” she said, “I cannot believe that you and I are related by blood.”

  “Welcome to my world,” I said.

  “Well, the rooms are yours,” Grandmère said, sliding the key card closer to me. “To do with whatever it is you wish. Personally, if I still lived with my parents, and my paramour was leaving on a yearlong quest to prove himself to MY father, I’d use the rooms to stage a very private and very romantic good-bye. But that’s just me. I’ve always been a very passionate woman, very in touch with my emotions. I’ve often noticed that I—”

  Blah, blah, blah. Grandmère’s voice went on and on. And on. Dad came back into the room and told her he’d gotten her a suite at the Four Seasons, so then she rang for her maid and made her start packing for the third time this week alone.

  And that was my princess lesson for the day.

  Good thing I’m not paying for them, because the quality has really started going downhill.

  I think I’m hallucinating from being dehydrated, or something. I have all the symptoms:

  Extreme thirst

  Dry mouth with no saliva

  Dry eyes; no tears

  Decreased urination, or urinating 3 or fewer times in 24 hours

  Arms and legs that may feel cool to the touch

  Feeling very tired, restless, or irritable

  Light-headedness that is relieved by lying down

  Of course, I generally experience all of these symptoms after spending any amount of time with Grandmère.

  Still, I’m drinking all the bottled water in the limo, just to be on the safe side.

  Wednesday, September 8, the loft

  Michael wants to do a whole bunch of New Yorky things before he leaves on Friday. Tonight we’re eating at his favorite burger place, Corner Bistro, in the West Village. He swears they make the best hamburgers in the city—outside of Johnny Rockets.

  Except that Michael won’t go to Johnny Rockets because he doesn’t believe in food chains, as he says they are contributing to the homogenization of America, and that as chain stores force out locally owned restaurants and businesses, communities will lose everything that once made them unique, and America will become just one big strip mall, with every single community consisting of nothing but Wal-Marts, McDonald’s, a Jiffy Lube, and an Applebee’s. Instead of being a melting pot, America will be mayonnaise.

  Still, I happen to know Michael’s not above sneaking out for a St. Louis and a black-and-white from time to time.

  Of course, being a vegetarian, I can’t actually join him in his quest for One Last Perfect Burger before leaving for the Far East. I’ll just have a salad. And some fries.

  Mom is cool with me going out on a school night because she knows it’s Michael’s last week being in the same hemisphere as me. Mr. G tried to say something about my Precalc homework—I guess he and Ms. Hong must talk in the teachers’ lounge, or whatever—but Mom just gave him A Look, and he shut up. I’m lucky I have such cool parents.

  Well, except for Dad. I can’t believe he said no to my brilliant Build Your Own Robotics Lab idea. It’s his loss, I guess. I’m not going to tell Michael about it. I mean, that I actually asked. I’m not sure, even if my dad HAD agreed to build his own robotics lab, that Michael would have wanted to work there, on account of the whole Wanting-to-Get-Away-from-Me-on-Account-of-the-No-Sex thing.

  And I’m DEFINITELY not telling him about the hotel key Grandmère gave me. If Michael found out I had a hotel suite all to myself, he’d totally want to—

  OH.

  MY.

  GOD.

  Wednesday, September 8, Corner Bistro


  I have to write fast. Michael just went up to the counter for more napkins. I don’t know where our waitress disappeared to. This place is a zoo. Someone must have spilled the beans about the burgers in some guidebook. A Big Apple double-decker tour bus just pulled up and puked about a hundred tourists into the restaurant.

  Anyway, right as Michael arrived to pick me up, it hit me. What Grandmère was REALLY doing, giving me that key: Use the rooms to stage a very private and very romantic good-bye? Grandmère HAD to be implying what I think she was implying.

  Grandmère has given me her suite at the Ritz for

  SEX!!!!

  Seriously! Grandmère’s giving me her suite at the Ritz so I can use it to “say good-bye” to Michael. In the kind of privacy we could never find anywhere else, what with neither of us having our own place.

  In other words, my grandmother has given me her own version of the Precious Gift: THE most precious gift any teenager could ask for:

  MY GRANDMOTHER HAS GIVEN ME MY OWN SEX PLACE!!!!!

  I know it seems unbelievable. But it’s true. There’s no other explanation for it. Grandmère wants me to have sex with my boyfriend the night before he leaves for Japan.

  Only why would my own grandmother be encouraging me to give away my Precious Gift when I am still just a teen? Grandmothers are supposed to be old-fashioned and want their grandchildren to wait until marriage before consummating their relationships. Grandmothers don’t believe in trying the pants on before you buy them. Grandmothers all say the same thing: “He isn’t going to buy the cow if he can get the milk for free.” Grandmothers are supposed to want what’s best for their offspring’s offspring.

  And could Grandmère really think having good-bye sex with my boyfriend in her abandoned suite at the Ritz is what’s BEST for me?

  Unless…

  OH MY GOD. This just hit me: What if Grandmère is trying to help me keep Michael from going to Japan????

  Seriously. Because what guy, given the choice between sex and no sex, would choose no sex? I mean, Michael is basically moving to Japan because of the whole no-sex thing.

  Well, aside from the whole saving-thousands-of-livesand-making-millions-and-proving-his-worth-to-my-familyand-Us-Weekly thing.

  But if he knew he had a chance at sex, wouldn’t he…stay?

  I know. It’s CRAZY.

  So crazy, in fact, it just might work.

  No. NO!!!! I can’t believe I wrote that!!!! It’s wrong!!!! I mean, to use sex as a means to manipulate someone. It goes against my feminist principles. God, what could Grandmère be THINKING?

  Except, of course, Grandmère doesn’t HAVE any feminist principles. Well, I mean, she does, she just doesn’t think of them that way.

  And then, of course, there’s the whole Waiting Until Prom Night thing. I mean, I promised Tina. We PROMISED each other we’d hold on to our Precious Gifts until prom night.

  But that was before. Before Michael decided he had to go on this crazy robot arm quest.

  Surely Tina would understand—

  Wait. Am I really considering this? No! No, it’s wrong! It’s horrible! I could never do something like that! I would be robbing the world of Michael’s robotic arm thingie! I can’t do something like that. I’m a PRINCESS, for crying out loud.

  But what if—just what if—Michael and I had sex in Grandmère’s abandoned suite at the Ritz, and he liked it so much, he decided not to go after all? Wouldn’t that be WORTH compromising my feminist principles? Wouldn’t it, actually, be MORE feminist, because by keeping Michael around, I will be able to smell his neck, and therefore release serotonin into my brain on a regular basis, making me a calmer and more well-rounded individual, and a better student leader and role model to young girls everywhere?

  AHHHHHH Michael’s back with the napkins. More later.

  Wednesday, September 8, 11 p.m., the loft

  Well. That was very nice. We had a lovely dinner, followed by cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery (yes, the one from “Lazy Sunday” on Saturday Night Live).

  Then we made out all emotionally for half an hour in the vestibule of my apartment building, while Lars pretended to be putting money in the parking meter, even though the limo has diplomatic plates and we never get ticketed.

  I really don’t think it’s the extremely high levels of serotonin batting around in my brain right now due to smelling Michael’s neck for so long (not to mention oxytocin, a hormone that rushes to the brain in moments of intense sexual pleasure, and which is why in Health and Safety they advised us not to have sex with anyone we hadn’t known for a while, due to the fact that oxytocin can cloud your judgment and make you feel like you’re in love with someone, when in fact it’s really just the oxytocin and you really have nothing in common at all, or even actually like each other. Which actually explains why Grandpère married Grandmère).

  No. I really think this is it. I am ready. Ready to give away my Precious Gift. Ready for the Big S.

  Which is why I said to Michael, as he was getting ready to leave, “Don’t make any plans for tomorrow night. I have a surprise for you.”

  And Michael was all, “Really? What is it?”

  But I said, “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”

  And Michael just smiled and said, “Okay,” and kissed me again and said good night.

  And left.

  Oh, he’s going to be surprised, all right.

  And I know that technically Michael and I making love is illegal, since at sixteen I am still one year away from the age of consent in the state of New York.

  I also realize that deciding to make love to my boyfriend two years before I actually planned to just because I don’t want him to move to Japan and I think there is a very strong possibility that he won’t go if he knows he has access to free sex whenever he wants is manipulative and anti-feminist.

  But I DON’T CARE.

  I CAN’T let him move to Japan. I just CAN’T. I am very sorry for all the open-heart surgery patients who may suffer because of this very selfish decision on my part.

  But sometimes, a girl has to do what a girl has to do just to stay sane in a topsy-turvy world where one minute, you’re eating cold sesame noodles, and the next minute, your boyfriend is leaving for Japan.

  That’s just how it’s going to have to be.

  Oh my God. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Should I do this? SHOULD I DO THIS????

  As usual, asking questions of my journal is no help whatsoever. I don’t even know why I bother.

  ME, A PRINCESS???? YEAH, RIGHT.

  A Screenplay by Mia Thermopolis

  (first draft)

  Scene 16

  INT/DAY—The penthouse suite at the Plaza Hotel. A scary-looking old woman with tattooed eyeliner (DOWAGER PRINCESS CLARISSE) is glaring at MIA, who cowers across from her in a chair. A hairless toy poodle (ROMMEL) shivers nearby.

  DOWAGER PRINCESS CLARISSE

  Now, let’s see if I’ve got this straight. Your father tells you that you are the princess of Genovia, and you burst into tears. Why is this?

  MIA

  I don’t want to be a princess. I just want to be me, Mia.

  DOWAGER PRINCESS CLARISSE

  Sit up straight in that chair. Do not drape your legs over the arm. And you are not Mia. You are Amelia. Are you telling me you have no desire to assume your rightful place upon the throne?

  MIA

  Grandmère, you know as well as I do that I’m not princess material. So why are we even wasting our time?

  DOWAGER PRINCESS CLARISSE

  You are the heir to the crown of Genovia. And you will take my son’s place on the throne when he dies. This is how it is. There is no other way.

  MIA

  Yeah, whatever, Grandmère. Look, I got a lot of homework. Is this princess thing going to take long?

  Thursday, September 9, Homeroom

  I’m going to do it. I mean, Do It. Tonight. I was up all night thinking about it, and I know now—this is the on
ly way.

  I know it’s selfish. I know I will be keeping a shining beacon of hope from all of the many heart patients Michael could be helping with his invention.

  But that is just too bad for them. Plenty of people have had open-heart surgery and were just fine. Look at David Letterman. And Bill Clinton. People are just going to have to suck it up. Maybe if they ate less meat, they wouldn’t NEED open-heart surgery. Did anyone think of that?

  Oh, God. Did I really just write that? I can’t believe I just wrote that. WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME? I’m becoming one of those militant vegetarians, the ones who think the Heifer Project, an organization that gives cows and goats to poor widows so they will have an income from selling the milk, and be able to buy food for their children, is bad because it enslaves animals.

  I don’t know what’s happening to me. It’s like I’ve gone mental. I even checked to make sure I still had my condoms left over from when we were forced to go buy them during Health and Safety as part of our Safer Sex project. Of course, I made my selections on the basis of color. I mean, there were just SO MANY to choose from. I knew I should have gone to Duane Reade and not Condomania. I have strawberry and piña colada in my backpack right now (I didn’t realize the ones I bought were FLAVORED until I checked their expiration dates this morning. Thank heaven they’re still good).

  I am willing to sacrifice my virginity for the sake of keeping my love in the same hemisphere as me.

  But I just realized, that during the course of this, I may actually have to Touch It.

  For the first time, however, this prospect is not making me say, or even think, the word Ew.

  I must be maturing.

  Thursday, September 9, Intro to Creative Writing

  Describe a person you know: