Princess in the Spotlight pd-2

by Meg Cabot

  So, considering that Beverly Bellerieve turns out to be so nice and all, you’d think I wouldn’t be so nervous.

  And truthfully, I’m not so sure it’s just the interview that’s making me feel like I’m going to hurl. It’s actually something my dad said to me, when I came in. It was the first time I’d seen him since the time he spent at the loft while I was sick. Anyway, he asked me how I was feeling and all, and I lied and said fine, and then he said, “Mia, is your Algebra teacher—“

  And I was all, “Is my Algebra teacher what?” thinking he was going to ask me if Mr. Gianini was teaching me about parallel numbers.

  But that is so totally NOT what he asked me. Instead, he asked me, “Is your Algebra teacher living in the loft?”

  Well, I was so shocked, I didn’t know what to say. Because of course Mr. Gianini isn’t living there. Not really.

  But he will be. And probably pretty shortly, too.

  So I just went, “Um, no.”

  And my dad looked relieved! He actually looked relieved!

  So how is he going to look when he finds out the truth?

  It is very hard to concentrate on the fact that I am about to be interviewed by this world-renowned television news journalist, when all I can think about is how my poor dad is going to feel when he finds out my mother is marrying my Algebra teacher and also having his baby. Not that I think my dad still loves my mom, or anything. It’s just that, as Lilly once pointed out, his chronic bed-hopping is a clear indication that he has some serious intimacy issues.

  And with Grandmère as a mother, you can see why that might be.

  I think he really would like to have what my mom has with Mr. Gianini. Who knows how he is going to take the news about their impending marriage, when my mom finally works up the guts to tell him? He might completely freak out. He might even want me to come live with him in Genovia, to comfort him in his grief!

  And of course I will have to say yes, because he is my dad and I love him, and all.

  Except that I really don’t want to live in Genovia. I mean, I would miss Lilly and Tina Hakim Baba and all my other friends. And what about Jo-C-rox? How would I ever find out who he is? And what about Fat Louie? Would I get to keep him, or what? He is very well behaved (except when it comes to ingesting socks, and that whole thing with the sparkly objects) and if there was a rodent problem in the castle, he would totally solve it. But what if they don’t let cats in the palace? I mean, he hasn’t had his claws removed, so if there’s any sort of valuable furniture or tapestries or whatever, you can pretty much kiss them good-bye. . . .

  Mr. G and my mom are already talking about where his stuff is going to go when he moves into the loft. And Mr. G has some really cool-sounding stuff. Like a foozball table, a drum set (who knew Mr. Gianini was musical? ), a pinball machine, AND a 36-inch flat-screen TV.

  I am not even kidding. He is way cooler than I ever thought.

  If I move to Genovia, I will totally miss out on having my own foozball table.

  But if I don’t move to Genovia, who will comfort my poor dad in his chronic loneliness?

  Oops, the cosmetic technician is back with the blue eyeshadow.

  I swear I am going to heave. Good thing I was too nervous to eat anything all day.

  Saturday, October 25, 7 p.m., on the way to Lilly’s house

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, OH, GOD.

  I screwed up. I REALLY screwed up.

  I don’t know what happened. I honestly don’t. Everything was going along fine. I mean, that Beverly Bellerieve, she’s so . . . nice. I was really, really nervous, and she did her very best to try to calm me down.

  Still, I think I did some major babbling.

  Think??? I KNOW I did.

  I didn’t mean for it to happen. I really didn’t. I don’t even know how it slipped out. I was just so nervous and hyper, and there were those lights and that microphone and everything. I felt like . . .I don’t know. Like I was back in Principal Gupta’s office, living through that whole codeine cough-syrup thing again.

  So when Beverly Bellerieve said, “Mia, didn’t you have some exciting news recently?” I totally freaked out. Part of me was like, How did she know? And another part of me was like, Millions of people are going to see this. Act happy.

  So I went, “Oh. Yes. Well, I’m pretty excited. I’ve always wanted to be a big sister. But they don’t really want to make a big deal out of it, you know. It’s just going to be a very small ceremony at City Hall, with me as their witness—“

  That’s when my dad dropped the glass of Perrier he’d been drinking. Then Grandmère started hyperventilating and had to breathe into a paper bag.

  And I sat there going, Oh, my God. Oh, my God, what have I done?

  Of course it turned out that Beverly Bellerieve hadn’t been referring to my mother’s pregnancy at all. Of course not. How could she have known about it?

  What she’d actually been referring to, of course, was my F in Algebra being raised to a D.

  I tried to get up and go to my dad to comfort him, since I could see he’d sunk into a chair and had his head in his hands. But I was all tangled up in my microphone wires. It had taken about half an hour for the sound guys to get the wires right, and I didn’t want to mess them up or anything, but I could see that my dad’s shoulders were shaking, and I was sure he was crying, just like he always does at the end of Free Willy, though he tries to pretend it’s just allergies.

  Beverly, seeing this, made a slashing motion with her hand to the camera guys, and very nicely helped me get untangled.

  But when I finally got to my dad, I saw he wasn’t crying. . . . But he certainly didn’t look too good. He didn’t sound very good, either, when he croaked for someone to bring him a whiskey.

  After three or four gulps, though, he got a little of his color back. Which is more than I can say for Grandmère. I don’t think she will ever recover. Last time I saw her, she was downing a Sidecar that someone had dropped some Alka-Seltzer tablets into.

  I don’t even want to think about what my mom is going to say when she finds out what I’ve done. I mean, even though my dad said not to worry, that he’ll explain to Mom what happened, I don’t know. He had kind of a weird look on his face. I hope he doesn’t plan on popping Mr. G one in the piehole.

  Me and my big mouth. My HUGE, GROTESQUE, DISPROPORTIONATELY MASSIVE mouth.

  There’s no telling what else I said, once the interview got underway again. I was so completely freaked out by that first thing, I can’t remember a single other thing Beverly Bellerieve might have asked me.

  My dad has assured me that he’s not the least bit jealous of Mr. Gianini, that he is very happy for my mother, and that he thinks she and Mr. G make a great couple. I think he means it. He seemed pretty unfazed, after the initial shock. Once the interview was over, I noticed that he and Beverly Bellerieve were yukking it up quite a bit.

  All I can say is, thank goodness I am going straight from the hotel to Lilly’s. She is having us all over to film next week’s episode of her show. I think I’ll see if I can spend the night. Maybe this way, by the time my mom sees me tomorrow, she’ll have had time to process the whole thing, and will have forgiven me.

  I hope.

  Sunday, October 26, 2 a.m., Lilly’s bedroom

  Okay, I just have one question: Why does it always have to go from bad to worse for me?

  I mean, apparently it is not enough that

  1. I was born lacking any sort of mammary growth gland

  2. My feet are as long as a normal person’s thigh

  3. I’m the sole heir to the throne of a European principality

  4. My grade point average is still slipping in spite of everything

  5. I have a secret admirer who will not declare himself

  6. My mother is pregnant with my Algebra teacher’s baby, and

  7. All ofAmerica is going to know it after Monday night’s broadcast of my exclusive interview on Twenty-Four/Seven
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  No, in addition to all of that, I happen to be the only one of my friends who still has yet to be French-kissed.

  Seriously. For next week’s show, Lilly insisted on shooting what she calls a Scorsesian confessional, in which she hopes to illustrate the degenerate lows to which today’s youth have sunk. So she made us all confess to the camera our worst sins, and it turns out Shameeka, Tina Hakim Baba, Ling Su, and Lilly have ALL had boys’ tongues in their mouths. All of them.

  Except for me.

  Okay, I’m not so surprised about Shameeka. Ever since she grew breasts over the summer, boys have been buzzing around her like she was the newest version of Tomb Raider, or something. And Ling Su and that Clifford guy she has been seeing are way into each other.

  But Tina? I mean, she has a bodyguard, just like me. When has she ever been alone long enough with a boy for him to French her?

  And Lilly? Excuse me, but Lilly, MY BEST FRIEND? Who I thought tells me everything (even though I don’t necessarily always return the favor)? She has known the touch of a boy’s tongue upon her own, and she never thought to tell me until NOW?

  Boris Pelkowski is apparently a much smoother operator than you would suspect, considering that whole sweater thing.

  I am sorry, but that is just sick. Sick, sick, sick, sick. I would rather die a dried-up, never-been-kissed old maid than be French-kissed by Boris Pelkowski. I mean, he always has FOOD in his retainer. And not just any food, either, but usually weird, multicolored foods like Gummi Bears and Jelly Bellies.

  Lilly says he takes his retainer out when they kiss, though.

  God, I am such a reject. The only boy who has ever kissed me did it just so he could get his picture in the paper.

  Yeah, there was some tongue action, but believe me, I kept my lips way closed.

  And since I have never been French-kissed, and had nothing good to confess on the show, Lilly decided to punish me by giving me a Dare. She didn’t even ask me if I would prefer a Truth.

  Lilly dared me I wouldn’t drop an eggplant onto the sidewalk from her sixteenth-story bedroom window.

  I said I most certainly would, even though of course, I totally didn’t want to. I mean, how stupid. Somebody could seriously get hurt. I am all for illustrating the degenerate lows to whichAmerica ’s teens have sunk, but I wouldn’t want anybody to get their head bashed in.

  But what could I do? It was a Dare. I had to go along with it. I mean, it’s bad enough I’ve never been Frenched. I don’t want to be branded a wimp, too.

  And I couldn’t exactly stand there and go, well, all right, I may never have been French-kissed by a boy, but I have been the recipient of a love letter that was written by one. A boy, I mean.

  Because what if Michael is Jo-C-rox? I mean, I know he probably isn’t, but . . .well, what if he is? I don’t want Lilly to know—any more than I want her to know about my interview with Beverly Bellerieve, or the fact that my mom and Mr. G are getting married. I am trying very hard to be a normal girl, and frankly, none of the aforementioned can be even remotely construed as normal.

  I guess the knowledge that somewhere in the world there is a boy who likes me gave me a sense of empowerment—something I certainly could have used during my interview with Beverly Bellerieve, but whatever. I may not be able to form a coherent sentence when there is a television camera aimed in my direction, but I am at least capable, I decided, of throwing an eggplant out the window.

  Lilly was shocked. I had never accepted a Dare like that before.

  I can’t really explain why I did it. Maybe I was just trying to live up to my new reputation as a very Josie-ish type of girl.

  Or maybe I was more scared of what Lilly would try to make me do if I said no. Once she made me run up and down the hallway naked. Not the hallway in the Moscovitzes’ apartment, either. The hallway outside of it.

  Whatever my reasons, I soon found myself sneaking past the Drs. Moscovitz—who were lounging around in sweatpants in the living room, with stacks of important medical journals all around their chairs—though Lilly’s father was reading a copy of Sports Illustrated and Lilly’s mom was reading Cosmo —and creeping into the kitchen.

  “Hello, Mia,” Lilly’s father called from behind his magazine. “How are you doing?”

  “Um,” I said, nervously. “Fine.”

  “And how is your mother?” Lilly’s mother asked.

  “She’s fine,” I said.

  “Is she still seeing your Algebra teacher in a social capacity?”

  “Um, yes, Dr. Moscovitz,” I said. More than you know.

  “And are you still amenable to the relationship?” Lilly’s father wanted to know.

  “Um,” I said. “Yes, Dr. Moscovitz.” I didn’t think it would be appropriate to mention the whole thing about how my mom is having Mr. G’s baby. I mean, I was supposed to be on a Dare, after all. You aren’t supposed to stop for psychoanalysis when you are on a Dare.

  “Well, tell her hello from me,” Lilly’s mother said. “We can’t wait until her next show. It’s at the Mary Boone Gallery, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. The Moscovitzes are big fans of my mother’s work. One of her best paintings, Woman Enjoying a Quick Snack at Starbucks, is hanging in their dining room.

  “We’ll be there,” Lilly’s father said.

  Then he and his wife turned back to their magazines, so I hurried into the kitchen.

  I found an eggplant in the vegetable crisper. I hid it under my shirt so the Drs. Moscovitz wouldn’t see me sneaking back into their daughter’s room holding a giant ovoid fruit, something sure to cause unwanted questions. While I carried it, I thought, This is how my mother is going to look in a few months. It wasn’t a very comforting thought. I don’t think my mother is going to dress any more conservatively while pregnant than she did not pregnant.

  Which is to say, not very.

  Then, while Lilly narrated gravely into the microphone about how Mia Thermopolis was about to strike a blow for good girls everywhere, and Shameeka filmed, I opened the window, made sure no innocent bystanders were below, and then. . . .

  “Bomb’s away,” I said, like in the movies.

  It was kind of cool seeing this huge purple eggplant—it was the size of a football—tumbling over and over in the air as it fell. There are enough streetlamps onFifth Avenue , where the Moscovitzes live, for us to see it as it plummeted downward, even though it was night. Down and down the eggplant went, past the windows of all the psychoanalysts and investment bankers (the only people who can afford apartments in Lilly’s building) until suddenly—

  SPLAT!

  The eggplant hit the sidewalk.

  Only it didn’t just hit the sidewalk. It exploded on the sidewalk, sending bits of eggplant flying everywhere—mostly all over an M1 city bus that was driving by at the time, but quite a lot all over a Jaguar that had been idling nearby.

  While I was leaning out the window, admiring the splatter pattern the eggplant’s pulp had made all over the street and sidewalk, the driver-side door of the Jaguar opened up, and a man got out from behind the wheel, just as the doorman to Lilly’s building stepped out from beneath the awning over the front doors, and looked up—

  Suddenly, someone threw an arm around my waist and yanked me backward, right off my feet.

  “Get down!” Michael hissed, pulling me down to the parquet.

  We all ducked. Well, Lilly, Michael, Shameeka, Ling Su, and Tina ducked. I was already on the floor.

  Where had Michael come from? I hadn’t even known he was home—and I’d asked, believe me, on account of the whole running-down-the-hallway-naked thing. Just in case, and all.

  But Lilly had said he was at a lecture on quasars over atColumbia and wouldn’t be home for hours.

  “Are you guys stupid, or what?” Michael wanted to know. “Don’t you know, besides the fact that it’s a good way to kill someone, it’s also against the law to drop things out a window inNew York City ?”

  “Oh, Michael,�
� Lilly said, disgustedly. “Grow up. It was just a common garden vegetable.”

  “I’m serious.” Michael looked mad. “If anyone saw Mia do that just now, she could be arrested.”

  “No, she couldn’t,” Lilly said. “She’s a minor.”

  “She could still go to juvenile court. You’d better not be planning on airing that footage on your show,” Michael said.

  Oh, my God, Michael was defending my honor! Or at least trying to make sure I didn’t end up in juvenile court. It was just so sweet. So . . .well, Jo-C-rox of him.

  Lilly went, “I most certainly am.”

  “Well, you’d better edit out the parts that show Mia’s face.”

  Lilly stuck her chin out. “No way.”

  “Lilly, everybody knows who Mia is. If you air that segment, it will be all over the news that the princess of Genovia was caught on tape dropping projectiles out the window of her friend’s high-rise apartment. Get a clue, will you?”

  Michael had let go of my waist, I noticed, with regret.

  “Lilly, Michael’s right,” Tina Hakim Baba said. “We better edit that part out. Mia doesn’t need any more publicity than she has already.”

  And Tina didn’t even know about the TwentyFour/Seven thing.

  Lilly got up and stomped back toward the window. She started to lean out—checking, I guess, to see whether the doorman and the owner of the Jaguar were still there—

  but Michael jerked her back.

  “Rule Number One,” he said. “If you insist on dropping something out the window, never, ever check to see if anybody is standing down there, looking up. They will see you look out and figure out what apartment you are in. Then you will be blamed for dropping whatever it was. Because no one but the guilty party would be looking out the window under such circumstances.”

  “Wow, Michael,” Shameeka said admiringly. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

  Not only that. He sounded like Dirty Harry.