Forever Princess

by Meg Cabot

  But he kept stopping every thirty seconds or so to talk about his movie deal.

  I’m not even joking.

  Like about how “Sean” had asked him to write the screenplay. (I guess a screenplay isn’t the same as writing a play. J.P. has to rewrite the whole thing from scratch now, in a different computer program.)

  And how J.P. is seriously considering moving out “to the Coast” so he can be there for the filming.

  He’s even debating putting school off for a year so he can work on the movie. Because you can go to school any time.

  But you can only be one of the hottest young screenwriters in Hollywood once.

  Anyway, he asked me to come with him. Out to Hollywood.

  This completely killed the mood. The making out mood, I mean.

  I guess some girls would love it if their boyfriend, who’d written a play about them that was soon to become a major motion picture directed by Sean Penn, asked them to defer college for a year and move out to Hollywood with them.

  But I, being the ultimate loser that I am, just blurted out, “Why would I do that?” before I could really stop myself. Mostly because I didn’t really have my mind in the conversation. I was thinking about…well, not Hollywood film deals.

  Also because I’m a horrible person, for the most part.

  “Well, because you love me,” J.P. was forced to remind me. We were lying on my bed, with Fat Louie glaring balefully at us from the windowsill. Fat Louie hates it when anyone but me lies on my bed. “And you want to support me.”

  I flushed, feeling guilty for my outburst.

  “No,” I said. “I mean, what would I do out in Hollywood?”

  “Write,” J.P. said. “Maybe not romance novels, because frankly, I think you’re capable of much more important work—”

  “You haven’t even read my book,” I reminded him, feeling hurt. We’d still never gotten to have our Stephen and Tabitha King editorial talk. And important work? Romance novels are important! To the people who like to read them, anyway.

  “I know,” J.P. said, laughing. But not in a mean way. “And I’m going to, I swear, I’ve just been so swamped with the play and then finals and everything. You know how it is. And I’m sure it’s the best romance novel there is. I’m just saying, I think you could write something much weightier if you really put your mind to it. Something that could change the world.”

  Weightier? What is he talking about? And haven’t I done enough for the world? I mean, I made Genovia a democracy. Well, not me personally, but I helped. And if you write something that cheers someone up when they’re feeling down, doesn’t that change the world?

  And let me tell you something: I have seen A Prince Among Men now, and it is not going to change the world OR cheer anybody up. I don’t mean to sound like I’ve got sour grapes, but it’s the truth. It doesn’t even make you think except to make you think that the guy who wrote it must think pretty highly of himself.

  Sorry. I didn’t mean that. That was uncalled for.

  Anyway, I was like, “J.P., I don’t know. Moving to Hollywood with you isn’t something my mom or my dad is going to approve of. They both expect me to go to college.”

  “Right,” J.P. said. “But taking a year off might not be such a bad idea. It’s not like you got in anywhere that great anyway.”

  Ouch. See, that would have been a great opportunity for me to say, “Actually, J.P., I was kind of exaggerating when I said I didn’t get in anywhere….”

  Only, of course, I didn’t. Instead, I just suggested we go into the living room and watch True Life: I’m Hooked on OxyContin, because I didn’t want to get in an argument.

  Anyway, after watching True Life, I learned something. Not just that I am never going to do drugs (obviously). But that writing is my drug. It’s the only thing I ever do that I really like.

  I mean, besides kiss Michael. But I can’t do that anymore, obviously.

  Thursday, May 4, 8 p.m., ladies’ room, Carnegie Hall

  OH MY GOD!

  I thought this concert was going to be really boring, but I was wrong.

  Oh, not the music. That’s totally boring. I’ve heard it a million times coming out of the G&T supply closet (although I’ll admit, it’s kind of different to hear it coming from the center of the Carnegie Hall stage, especially seeing all these fancy people turned out in their best clothes, clutching CDs with Boris—BORIS—on the cover, all saying his name in excited voices. I mean, it’s just Boris Pelkowski. But these people seem to think he’s some kind of celebrity. Which, hello, HIGHlarious).

  But the fact that everyone I know from AEHS is here, including both Moscovitz siblings—that’s exciting. I wasn’t expecting that.

  And I know it’s wrong to be excited to see my ex-boyfriend when I’m out on a date with my current boyfriend.

  However, that is not my fault. It’s MHC.

  Our seats are rows and rows apart so there’s no chance of my being overpowered by eau de Michael. Unless somehow we bump into him later. Which I highly doubt is going to happen.

  Anyway, Michael’s alone. He didn’t come with a date! Which may be because Micromini Midori is in Genovia.

  Except that I can’t help wondering if he came solo because I said in my e-mail to him that I’d be coming.

  But then I remembered what Boris said—about how the two of them are going to be living together this year. So I guess that’s why he’s here, actually. To support his friend.

  Stupid me, getting my hopes up. AGAIN.

  Anyway. I guess I should be getting back to my seat. I didn’t want to be rude and write while I was supposed to be looking like I was paying attention, but—

  WAIT.

  Oh, God.

  I recognize those shoes.

  Thursday, May 4, 8:30 p.m., ladies’ room, Carnegie Hall

  I was right: They were her shoes.

  I totally confronted her when she came out of her stall.

  Well, confronted isn’t the right word. I asked her about the commercial she made for my dad. Why she did it, I mean.

  At first she tried to get out of it by saying it had been a birthday gift for me.

  And it’s true, she had said, back in the Atom office when I turned in my story about Michael, that there was something she’d been going to give me for my birthday. And she’d said to give it to me, she’d need to come to my party. She just hadn’t said she was going to give it to me at my party. I’d assumed that part.

  But…why now? Why a present this year? And such a great present?

  At first she looked really annoyed that I wouldn’t just let it go. Like she couldn’t believe she’d walked into the bathroom and there I was.

  I guess it probably does seem like every single time she goes for a pee, there I am.

  Well, it’s basically true. It’s like I have some kind of Lilly Moscovitz bladder radar.

  And this time Kenneth wasn’t around to ask weird questions about whether or not I was still going out with J.P., and keep her from answering. For a second I thought she wouldn’t anyway.

  But then she seemed to make a decision within herself. She sort of sighed and, looking a bit annoyed, went, “Fine. If you must know, Mia…my brother said I had to be nice to you.”

  I just stared at her. It took a few seconds for her words to register. “Your brother said?…”

  “That I had to be nice to you,” Lilly finished for me, sounding exasperated, as if I should have been aware of this. “He found out about the website, okay?”

  I moved from staring to blinking. I was making progress. “Ihatemiathermopolis.com?”

  “Right,” Lilly said. She did look a little ashamed of herself, actually. “He was really mad. I’ll admit…it was pretty childish.”

  Michael found out about ihatemiathermopolis.com? You mean…he hadn’t known? I thought everyone in the whole world had known about that stupid website.

  And he’d told Lilly she had to be nice to me?

  “But.” I was hav
ing trouble processing so much information at once. It was like I was a desert that was finally getting rain…only there was too much of it, and I couldn’t soak it all in. Soon I’d be experiencing mud slides. And flash floods. “But…why were you so mad at me in the first place? I’ll admit, I acted like a total jerk to your brother. But I regretted it, and I tried to get back together with him. He’s the one who said no. So why were you so mad about it?” This was the part I could never figure out. “Was it…was it just because of J.P.?”

  Lilly’s face darkened. “You don’t know?” she asked, sounding incredulous. “You honestly don’t know?”

  I was definitely experiencing sensory overload. “No.” I shook my head. She hadn’t actually answered the question. “What am I supposed to know?”

  “I have never,” Lilly said flatly, “met anyone so dense as you in my life, Mia.”

  “What?” I still have no idea what she was talking about. I know I’m dense. I do! I’m a geek. She didn’t have to rub it in. She could have helped me a little. “Dense about what?”

  But at that point an old lady came into the bathroom, and I guess Lilly decided she’d said enough. She just shook her head, and walked out.

  Which just leaves me here to wonder, as I have a million times before: What is it I’m supposed to know? What is it that Lilly thinks I’m so dense about?

  It’s true I started dating J.P. right after the two of them broke up. But she was already not speaking to me by the time that happened. So that can’t be it.

  Why can’t Lilly just tell me what it was I was so dense about? She’s the genius, not me. I hate it when geniuses expect the rest of us to be as smart as they are. It’s not fair. I’m of average intelligence, and I always have been. I’m creative, and stuff, but I’m romance-novel-writing creative! I don’t perform well on IQ tests, and certainly not SATs (obviously).

  And I’ve NEVER been able to figure out Lilly.

  And I can’t figure out her brother, either. For instance, why does Michael care whether she starts being nice to me or not?

  Oh, great. I hear clapping! I’d better get back to my seat….

  Friday, May 5, midnight, the loft

  I was wrong about being able to stay away from my MHC match.

  Everyone went up onto the stage after Boris’s fantastically successful concert (standing ovations all around) to congratulate him.

  That’s how I found myself standing next to J.P., talking to Tina and Boris, when Michael and Lilly came up to congratulate Boris as well.

  Which wasn’t a bit awkward.

  Considering Lilly was Boris’s ex (remember when he dropped the globe on his head over her?) and J.P. was Lilly’s, and Michael was mine. Oh, and Kenny’s my ex, too!

  Ah, good times.

  Not.

  Fortunately Michael didn’t try to hug me. Or say anything like, “Oh, hey, Mia, see you at lunch tomorrow.” It was kind of like he knew this wasn’t something I’d discussed with my boyfriend.

  Although he was perfectly cordial, and didn’t storm off like he did the night of my birthday. (Why did he do that? It can’t be because of what Tina said, because he couldn’t stand to see me with J.P. Because he seemed just fine seeing me with J.P. tonight.)

  Lilly, on the other hand, stonily ignored J.P.—although she cracked a little bit of a smile at me.

  Tina, meanwhile, was so nervous about the whole thing (which was weird, because she was the only person there who didn’t have an ex present) that she began talking in a very high-pitched voice about the senior project committee—who were looking a little haggard, possibly from their night out with Sean Penn—and I had to take her by the arm and start steering her away, gently murmuring, “It’s going to be okay. Shhhh. It’s all over now. Boris passed with flying colors….”

  “But,” Tina said, flinging a glance over her shoulder. “Why are Michael and Lilly here? Why?”

  “Michael’s friends with Boris. Remember? They’re living together next year until Boris gets his single through the waiting list.”

  “I need a vacation,” Tina whimpered. “I really need a vacation.”

  “You’re getting one,” I said. “Tomorrow’s Senior Skip Day.”

  “Are you really going to sleep with J.P.?” Tina wanted to know. “Are you really, Mia? Really?”

  “Tina,” I whispered. “Could you say it a little louder? I don’t think all of Carnegie Hall heard you.”

  “I just don’t think you’re doing it for the right reasons,” Tina said. “Don’t do it because you think you have to, or because you don’t want to be the last girl in our class who is still a virgin, or because you don’t want to be the only girl in your college who hasn’t slept with someone. Do it because you want to, because you feel a burning passion to. When I look at the two of you together, I just don’t think…Mia, I don’t think you want to. I don’t feel like there’s any passion. You write about passion in your book, but I don’t think you actually feel it. Not for J.P.”

  “Okay,” I said, patting her on the arm. “I’m going to go now. Tell Boris he did a lovely job. Bye, now.”

  I got Lars and J.P., told everyone else we were leaving, stayed far enough away from Michael that I couldn’t smell him, then left, dropping J.P. off at his place on our way home.

  I tried really hard to feel passion as I kissed him good night.

  I think I even did. I definitely felt something.

  It might have been the staple from the dry cleaner the Reynolds-Abernathy family uses on the back of J.P.’s shirt collar though. I think it was scratching my finger as I tried to cling to him passionately.

  Friday, May 5, 9 a.m., the loft

  I don’t believe it.

  Mom just poked her head in here and went, “Mia. Wake up.”

  And I was like, “MOM. I’m not going to school. It’s Senior Skip Day. I don’t care if it’s not an officially sanctioned school holiday. I’m a senior. I’m skipping. Which means I don’t HAVE TO GET UP.”

  And she went, “It’s not that. There’s someone on the house line, asking for Daphne Delacroix.”

  I thought she was joking. I really did.

  But she swore she was serious.

  So I crawled out of bed and took the phone she was holding and put it to my ear and was like, “Hello?”

  “Is this Daphne?” asked a way too cheerful woman’s voice.

  “Um,” I said. “Sort of.” I really hadn’t woken up enough to be able to deal with the situation.

  “Your real name isn’t Daphne Delacroix, is it?” asked the voice, laughing a little.

  “Not exactly,” I said, stealing a glance at the caller ID on the handset. It said Avon Books.

  Avon Books was the name on the spines of half of the historical romances I’d read while doing research for my own. It’s a huge publisher of romance novels.

  “Well, this is Claire French,” the cheerful voice said. “And I’ve just finished reading your book, Ransom My Heart, and I’m calling to offer you a publishing contract.”

  I swear I did not think I could have heard her right. It sounded like she said she was calling to offer me a publishing contract.

  But that could not possibly be what she had said. Because people don’t call and offer me book deals. Especially first thing in the morning. Ever.

  “What?” I said intelligently.

  “I’m calling to offer you a publishing contract,” she said. “We’d like to offer you a book deal. But we’ll need to know your real name. What is your real name, if you don’t mind telling me?”

  “Um,” I said. “Mia Thermopolis.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, hi, Mia.” She then went on to say some things about money, and contracts, and due dates, and some other things I didn’t understand because I was in too much of a daze.

  “Um,” I finally said. “Can I have your number? I think I’m going to have to call you back.”

  “Sure!” she said. And gave me her extension. “I look forward to hearing fro
m you.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”

  Then I hung up.

  I lay back in my bed and looked at Fat Louie, who was staring at me, happily purring from my pillows.

  Then I screamed as loud as I could, freaking out Mom, Rocky, and, of course, Fat Louie, who darted off the bed (all the pigeons on my fire escape took off, too).

  I cannot believe it:

  I got an offer on my book.

  And okay…it’s not for a ton of money. If I were an actual person who had to make a living doing this, I would not be able to survive—at least in New York City—for more than a couple of months on what they offered. If you really want to be a writer, clearly, you have to write and do some other job, too, in order to pay your rent, etc. At least when you’re first starting out.

  But since I’m going to be donating the money to Greenpeace anyway…who cares?

  Someone wants to buy my book!!!!!

  Friday, May 5, 11 a.m., the loft

  I feel like I’m floating….

  Seriously, I’m so happy! This has been the best day of my life. At least so far.

  I really mean that. Nothing is going to ruin it. NOTHING. And NO ONE.

  I won’t let them.

  The first thing I did, after I told Mom and Mr. G about my book deal, was call Tina. I was all, “Tina—Guess what? I got an offer on my book.”

  And she was like, “WHAT???? OH MY GOD, MIA, THAT IS FANTASTIC!!!!”

  So then we shrieked for, like, seriously, ten minutes. After that I hung up and called J.P. Probably I should have called him first, since he’s my boyfriend. But I’ve known Tina longer.

  The thing is, even though J.P. was happy for me, and all, he wasn’t…well. He had some words of warning. Just because he loves me so much, though.

  “You shouldn’t accept a first offer, Mia,” he said.

  “Why not?” I asked. “You did, from Sean Penn.”

  “But that’s different,” he said. “Sean’s an award-winning director. You don’t even know who this editor is.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “I just looked her up on the Internet. She’s published tons of books. She’s totally legit, and so is her publishing house. It’s huge. They publish all the romances. Well, a lot of them.”