Forever Princess

by Meg Cabot

  You know, it fits me a lot better than my old one. It doesn’t feel like it’s going to slip off at all.

  After that everyone walked over and said such kind things to me, like, “Thanks for inviting me,” and “You look so pretty!” and “The spring rolls are delicious!”

  And Angelina Jolie came up and gave me my formal invitation to join the Domina Rei, which I accepted on the spot (Grandmère told me I had to, but I wanted to, of course, because it’s a kick-ass organization).

  Grandmère spotted us talking and, of course, figured out immediately what was going on, so she came rushing over like Rocky when he hears a box of cookies being opened.

  And so Angelina gave her her invitation, and all of Grandmère’s dreams came true.

  I wish I could say she went away then, but she spent the rest of the evening, as best I could tell, following Angelina around, thanking her every chance she got. It was embarrassing.

  But then, it was Grandmère. What else is new?

  And then I went around and did the princess thing, personally going up to everyone and thanking them for coming, and it wasn’t even that awkward because, whatever, after nearly four years of this I’m pretty much used to it, and I’m not even thrown anymore by the bizarre things people sometimes say, which are probably just non sequiturs I’ve taken out of context, like when Mr. Hipskin’s wife said, “You look like a mermaid!”

  I’m sure she just meant because my dress is so shiny and not because she’s psychic (but only partly) and got mermaids and unicorns mixed up and knows I’m the only virgin left in the graduating senior class of Albert Einstein High, besides my boyfriend, of course.

  And Lana and Trisha and Shameeka and Tina and Ling Su and Perin and my mom and I had a blast rocking down to “Express Yourself” (“Come on, girls!”), and then Lana and Trisha made a beeline for the Princes William and Harry (of course), and J.P. and I slow danced to “Crazy for You,” and my dad and I rumbaed to “La Isla Bonita.” And even though Lilly was filming everything, which technically wasn’t allowed, I told the security force just to let her, rather than make a big deal of it. She was at least asking people beforehand if it was all right, so that part was okay—but that was all she appeared to be up to.

  God only knows what she’s going to do with the film later. Probably make some kind of documentary about the exorbitant spending habits of the filthy rich—Real Princesses of New York City—and run scenes from my party side by side with scenes of people from the slums of Haiti, eating cookies made of dirt.

  (Note to self: Make a huge donation to hunger organization. One in three children of the world die of hunger every day. Seriously. And Grandmère was having a fit over the SAUCE we were supposed to dip the spring rolls in.)

  But Lilly lowered the camera when she came up to me—Kenneth in tow, and Michael following not far behind—and said, “Hey, Mia. This is a pretty great party.”

  I totally almost choked on the piece of shrimp cocktail I was eating. Because I hadn’t been able to eat a thing all night, I’d been so busy dancing and greeting people, and Tina had just come up to me that minute with a little plate of food, going, “Mia, you’ve got to take a minute to eat something, or you’re going to pass out….”

  “Oh,” I said, with my mouth full (a total Grandmère nono). “Thank you.”

  I’ll admit, I was speaking to Lilly.

  But my gaze had flicked right over her and was totally fixated on Michael, in his tux, behind Kenny (I mean, Kenneth). Michael just looked so…incredible, standing there with the glow of the lights of lower Manhattan behind his head, and the little bit of condensation that was in the air having settled over his broad shoulders and making the black material on them look a bit sparkly in all the twinkly party lights.

  I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I know he broke up with me. I know Dr. Knutz and I worked that all out in therapy already. I know I have a boyfriend, a perfectly good boyfriend who loves me, and at that moment was over at the bar getting me a refill on my sparkling water.

  I know all that.

  Knowing all that and still looking at Michael and seeing him smile at me and thinking he’s the handsomest guy in the world (even though, as Lana would be quick to point out, he’s not—Christian Bale is) isn’t even the problem.

  What happened next is.

  Which was, Michael said, “Nice party hat you’ve got there, Thermopolis,” meaning Princess Amelie Virginie’s tiara.

  “Oh,” I said, reaching up to touch it. Because I still couldn’t quite believe it—that my dad had found it, or even that he’d actually shown up to give it to me. “Thanks. I’m going to kill him for doing this. He can’t afford to take this much time out from the campaign. René is leading in the polls.”

  “That guy?” Michael looked shocked. “He was always kind of a tool. How can people like him more than your dad?”

  “Everyone loves a bloomin’ onion,” Boris, who was standing near Tina, said.

  “Applebee’s doesn’t have bloomin’ onions,” I growled at him. “That’s Outback!”

  “I don’t get why your dad wants to be prime minister so bad, anyway,” Kenneth said. “He’s always going to be prince, right? Wouldn’t he just want to sit back and relax and let some other guy do the political thing, so he can just do the fun prince stuff, like hanging out on yachts like this with…well, Ms. Martinez, it looks like?”

  I looked over to where Kenneth was pointing.

  And okay, yeah, my dad was slow dancing to “Live to Tell” with Ms. Martinez. The two of them looked really…snug.

  But I’m eighteen now.

  So, no, in fact, vomit did not rise up into my mouth.

  I very maturely and very wisely turned back to the conversation at hand and said, “Actually, Kenneth, yes, my dad could very easily choose not to run for prime minister and simply be happy with his title and his normal royal duties. But he prefers to take a more active role in the shape of the future of his country, and that’s why he wants to be prime minister. And that’s why I sort of wish he hadn’t wasted his time coming here.” And now that I just saw what I saw, why I REALLY wish he hadn’t come.

  Oh, well. Ms. Martinez did read my novel and let it count as my senior project.

  I think she read it. Some of it, anyway.

  But that’s not what happened that freaked me out so much either.

  Lilly said, in my dad’s defense, “It’s nice that he came. You only turn eighteen once. And he’s not going to get to see you much after he’s elected and you head off to college.”

  “He will if Mia goes to the University of Genovia,” Boris said, “like she’s planning.”

  Which is when Michael’s head whipped around and he looked at me with his eyes wide and he went, “University of Genovia? Why are you going there?” Because, of course, he knows what a crummy school it is.

  I could feel myself blush. Michael and I, in our e-mail conversations with each other, hadn’t discussed the fact that I’d gotten into every school I’d applied to, much less the fact that I’d lied about this to all my friends at school.

  “Because she didn’t get in anywhere else,” Boris helpfully answered for me. “Her math SAT score was too low.”

  This caused Tina to elbow him, deeply enough to make him say “Oof.”

  It was at this moment that J.P. came back with my sparkling water. The reason it had taken him so long was because he’d stopped along the way to have a pretty in-depth conversation with Sean Penn—which he must have been pretty stoked about, Sean Penn being his hero, and all.

  “I find it really hard to believe you got rejected everywhere you applied, Mia,” Michael was saying, not noticing who was approaching. “There are a lot of schools that don’t even count SAT scores anymore. Some great ones, actually, like Sarah Lawrence, which has a really strong writing program. I can’t imagine you didn’t apply there. Is it possible maybe you’re exaggerating about—”

  “Oh, J.P.!” I cried, cutting M
ichael off. “Thanks! I’m so thirsty!”

  I snatched the water out of his hand and gulped it down. J.P. was standing there, just staring at Michael, looking a little perplexed.

  “Mike,” J.P. said. He still seemed dazed from his conversation with his artistic hero. “Hey. So. You’re back.”

  “Michael’s been back for a while,” Boris said. “His robotic surgical arm is a huge financial success. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it. Hospitals everywhere are vying for them, but they cost over a million dollars each and there’s a waiting list—ow.”

  Tina elbowed him again. This time I think she must have nearly broken one of Boris’s ribs, because he almost doubled over.

  “Wow,” J.P. said, with a smile. He didn’t look at all disturbed by Boris’s news. In fact, he had his hands in the pockets of his tuxedo pants, like he was James Bond, or someone. He’d probably gotten Sean Penn’s phone number and was fondling it. “That’s great.”

  “J.P. wrote a play,” Tina squeaked. Apparently because she was unable to stand the tension and was trying to change the subject.

  Everyone just looked at her. I thought Lilly was going to bust a piercing, her eyebrows were so furrowed as she tried to hold in what was apparently a huge horse laugh.

  “Wow,” Michael said. “That’s great.”

  I honestly didn’t know if he was being serious or if he was making fun of J.P., basically repeating the same thing he’d just said, or what. All I knew was, I had to get the heck out of there, or the tension was going to kill me. And who wants to stroke out on their eighteenth birthday?

  “Well,” I said, handing Tina my plate. “Princess duty calls. I have to go mingle. See you guys later—”

  But before I could get even one step away, J.P. grabbed hold of one of my hands and pulled me back and said, “Actually, Mia, if it’s all right with you, I have sort of an announcement I’d like to make, and I can’t think of a better time than right now. Will you go with me up to the microphone? Madonna’s about to take a break.”

  That was when I started feeling sick to my stomach. Because what sort of announcement could J.P. be going to make? In front of the Clintons? And Madonna and her band? And my dad?

  Oh, and Michael.

  But before I could say anything, J.P. started gently tugging—okay, dragging—me up to the stage they’d set up over the yacht’s built-in pool.

  And the next thing I knew, Madonna was moving graciously out of the way and J.P. had hold of the microphone and was asking for everyone’s attention—and getting it. Three hundred faces were turning our way as my heart thumped inside my chest.

  It’s true I’ve given speeches in front of way more people than that. But that was different. Then I’d been the one in charge of the microphone. This time, someone else was.

  And I had no idea what he was about to say.

  But I had sort of an idea.

  And I wanted to die.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” J.P. began, his deep voice booming out across the ship’s deck…and, for all I knew, the entire South Street Seaport. The paparazzi, down below, could probably hear him. “I’m so proud to be here tonight to celebrate this special occasion with such an extraordinary young woman…a young woman who means so much to all of us…to her country, to her friends, to her family…But the truth is, Princess Mia means more to me, perhaps, than she does to any of you—”

  Oh, God. No. Not here. Not now! I mean, it was totally sweet of J.P. to be expressing how much he cared about me in this way, in front of everyone—God knew Michael had never had the guts to do such a thing.

  But then, I don’t think Michael had ever felt that he’d needed to.

  “…And that’s why I want to take the opportunity to show her just how much she means to me by asking her here, in front of all her friends and loved ones—”

  It was when I saw him reach a hand into one of the pockets of his tuxedo pants that I really started to think that I might need actual CPR in a minute.

  And sure enough, from his pocket J.P. pulled a black velvet box…a much smaller one than Princess Amelie’s tiara had fit in.

  The one J.P. was holding was ring-sized.

  As soon as everyone in the crowd saw the box—and then J.P. sink down to one knee—they went totally bananas. People started cheering and clapping so loudly, I could hardly hear what J.P. said next…and I was standing right next to him. I’m sure no one else heard him, even though he was speaking into a microphone.

  “Mia,” J.P. went on, looking up into my eyes with a confident smile on his face, as he opened the box to reveal an extremely large pear-shaped diamond on a platinum band, “will you…”

  The screaming and cheering from the crowd got even louder. Everything went all swoopy in front of my eyes. The Manhattan skyline before us, the party lights on the boat, the faces before us, J.P.’s face below me.

  I really did think for a second that I was going to pass out. Tina was right: I should have eaten more.

  But one thing my vision was still steady enough to take in with perfect clarity:

  And that was Michael Moscovitz. Leaving.

  Yes, leaving the party. The boat. Whatever. The point was, he was exiting. One minute, I saw his face, perfectly expressionless, but there, down below me.

  And the next, I was looking at the back of his head. I saw his broad shoulders, and then his back as he made his way toward the gangplank.

  He was going.

  Without even waiting to see what I’d say in response to J.P.’s question.

  Or even what, exactly, that question was. Which, it turned out, wasn’t at all what everyone seemed to think it was.

  “…go to the prom with me?” J.P. finished, his smile still wide and full of trust in me.

  But I could barely drag my gaze to look in his direction. Because I couldn’t stop staring after Michael.

  It’s just that…I don’t know. Looking out into the crowd like that, after my vision had gone all kind of wonky from surprise, and seeing Michael turn his back and just walk away, like he couldn’t have cared less what happened….

  It was like something went cold inside me. Something I didn’t even realize was still living inside me.

  Which, it turned out, was this little tiny ember of hope.

  Hope that maybe, somehow, someday Michael and I might get back together.

  I know! I’m a fool. An idiot! After all this time, why would I keep on hoping? Especially when I have such a fantastic boyfriend, who, by the way, was still kneeling in front of me, holding a RING! (Which excuse me, but what’s up with that? Who gives a girl a RING as he’s asking her to the prom? Well, except for Boris. But excuse me, he’s BORIS.)

  But obviously I was the only one harboring that little sliver of hope. Michael didn’t even care enough to stay and watch what I said in response to my longtime boyfriend’s proposal of prom-promise. (I guess that’s what it was. Wasn’t it?)

  So. That was that.

  It’s kind of funny, because I thought Michael broke my heart a long time ago. But he just sort of broke it all over again by walking out like that.

  It’s amazing how boys can do that.

  Fortunately, even though I couldn’t see very well because of the tears that filled up my eyes by Michael leaving like that, and my heart had just been smashed to pieces (again), I could still think clearly. Sort of.

  The only thing I could think to do was give J.P. the speech that Grandmère had made me rehearse nine million times for just such an occasion—though I’d never actually believed such an occasion would ever arise:

  “Oh, insert name of proposer here, I’m just so overwhelmed by the intensity of your emotions, I hardly know what to say. You’ve truly swept me off my feet, and I do believe my head is swimming—”

  No lie, in this case.

  “I’m so young and inexperienced, you see, and you’re such a man of the world…I just wasn’t expecting this.”

  Absolutely no lie, again in this case. Who prop
oses in high school—even if it is just a promise ring, or whatever? Oh, wait, that’s right. Boris.

  Hold on, where’s my dad? Oh, there he is. Oh, my God, I’ve never seen his face that color. I think his head is literally going to explode, he looks so mad. He must think, like everyone else, that J.P. just proposed. He didn’t hear that all J.P. did was ask me to the prom. He saw the ring, saw J.P. kneel, and just assumed…oh, this is awful! Why did J.P. have to get me a ring? Is that what Michael thought? That J.P. was asking me to marry him?

  I want to die now.

  “I think I need to go have a bit of a lie-down in my boudoir—alone—and let my maid apply some lavender oil to my temples while I think this over. I’m just so flattered and thrilled. But, no, don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

  The truth is Grandmère’s speech just seemed the tiniest bit…outdated.

  And also it didn’t really seem to apply considering the fact that J.P. and I have been going out for almost two years. So it’s not like his prom-ring proposal was completely out of left field.

  Come on! I don’t even know where I want to go to college next year. How am I supposed to know who I want to be with for the foreseeable future?

  But I have a pretty good clue: Not someone who hasn’t even glanced at my book yet, even though he’s had it more than forty-eight hours.

  I’m just saying.

  The thing is, I’d never say that in front of everyone on the whole boat, and humiliate J.P.! I love him. I do. I just…

  Why, oh, why did he have to kneel down like that in front of everyone? And with a ring?

  So instead of Grandmère’s speech—and totally aware that there was this growing silence as I just stood there, idiotically saying nothing at all, I said, feeling my cheeks getting hotter and hotter, “Well, we’ll see!”

  Well, we’ll see? WELL, WE’LL SEE?

  A totally hot, totally perfect, totally wonderful guy who, by the way, loves me, and is willing to wait for me for all eternity, asks me to go to the prom with him, and also offers me what looks, at least according to the size chart Grandmère made me memorize in my head, like a three-carat diamond ring, and I say, Well, we’ll see?