by Meg Cabot
sees when he looks up at his ceiling at night (he has put glow-in-the-dark stars up there, in the form of the spiral galaxy Andromeda) and This is how Michael's sheets smell (springtime fresh, thanks to the detergent Maya uses) and This is
what the view of Michael's desk looks like from his bed.
Except that looking over at his desk, I just noticed something. It's one of my cards! The one with the strawberry on it!
It isn't exactly on display, or anything. It's just sitting on his desk. But hey, that's a far cry from being crumpled at the bottom
of his backpack. It shows that the cards mean something to him, that he hasn't just buried them under all the other junk on his desk - the DOS manuals and anti-Microsoft literature ... or worse, thrown them away. This is somewhat heartening.
Uh-oh. I just heard the front door open. Michael??? Or the Drs. Moscovitz???? I better get out of here. Michael doesn't
have all those 'Enter At Your Own Risk' signs on the door for nothing.
Saturday, December 12, 3 p.m., Grandmere's
How, you might ask, did I go from the Moscovitzes' apartment to my grandmother's suite at the Plaza in the space of a mere half hour?
Well, I'll tell you.
Disaster has struck, in the form of Sebastiano.
I always suspected, of course, that Sebastiano was not the sweet-tempered innocent he pretended to be. But now it looks
like the only murder Sebastiano needs to worry about is his own. Because if my dad ever gets his hands on him, Sebastiano
is one dead fashion designer.
Looking at it objectively, I think I can safely say I'd prefer to have been murdered. I mean, I'd be dead and all, which would
be sad - especially since I still haven't written down those instructions for caring for Fat Louie while I'm gone — but at least I wouldn't have to show up for school on Monday. But now, not only do I have to show up for school on Monday, but I have
to show up for school on Monday knowing that every single one of my fellow classmates is going to have seen the supplement that arrived in the Sunday Times: the supplement featuring about twenty photos of ME standing in front of a triple mirror in dresses by Sebastiano, with the words Fashion Fit for a Princess emblazoned all over the place.
Oh, yes. I'm not kidding. Fashion Fit for a Princess. I can't really blame him, I guess. Sebastiano, I mean. I suppose the opportunity was too much for him to resist. He is, after all, a businessman, and having a princess model your clothes . . . well, you can't buy exposure like that.
Because you know all the other papers are going to pick up on the story. You know, Princess of Genovia Makes Modelling Debut. That kind of thing.
So with just one little photo spread, Sebastiano is going to get virtually worldwide coverage of his new clothing line. A clothing line that it looks like I have endorsed. Grandmere doesn't understand why my dad and I are so upset. Well, I think she gets why my dad is upset. You know, the whole 'my daughter is being used' thing. She just doesn't get why I'm so unhappy.
'You look perfectly beautiful,' she keeps saying. Yeah. Like that helps.
Grandmere thinks I am overreacting. But hello, have I ever aspired to tread in Claudia Schiffer's footsteps? I don't think so. Fashion is so not what I'm about. What about the environment? What about the rights of animals? What about the HORSESHOE CRABS??????
People are not going to believe I didn't pose for those photos. People are going to think I am a sellout. People are going to think I am a stuck-up model snob.
I would so rather that they think I am a juvenile delinquent, I can't tell you.
Little did I know when I heard the front door to the Moscovitzes' apartment opening, and I hustled out of Michael's room, that I was about to be greeted by the disastrous news. It was only Lilly's parents, after all, coming home from the gym where they'd met with their personal trainers. Afterwards, they'd stopped to have latte and read the Sunday paper, large sections of which arrive, for reasons no one understands, on Saturday, if you have a subscription. What a surprise they had when they opened
up the paper and saw the Princess of Genovia hawking this hot new fashion designer's spring collection.
What a surprise I had when the Drs Moscovitz congratulated me on my new modelling career, and I was all, 'What are you talking about?'
So, while Lilly and Boris looked on curiously, Dr. Moscovitz opened her paper and showed me:
And there it was, in all of its four-colour-layout glory.
I'm not going to lie and say I looked bad. I looked OK. What they had done was, they had taken all the photos Sebastiano's assistant had snapped of me trying to decide which dress to wear to my introduction to the people of Genovia, and laid them all out on this purple background. I'm not smiling in the pictures or anything. I'm just looking at myself in the mirror, clearly going, in my head, Ew, could I look more like a walking toothpick?
But of course, if you didn't know me and didn't know WHY I was trying on all these dresses, I'd seem like some freak who cares WAY too much about how she looks in a party dress.
Which is exactly the kind of person I've always wanted to be portrayed as.
NOT!!!!!!!
I can't figure out what Sebastiano was thinking. I mean, I have to admit, I am a little hurt. I'd thought, when he'd asked me all those questions about Michael, that he and I had kind of made a connection. But I guess not. Not if he could do something like this.
My dad has already called the Times and demanded that they remove the supplement from all the papers that haven't been delivered yet. He has called the concierge of the Plaza and insisted on Sebastiano being listed as persona non grata, which means the cousin to the Prince of Genovia won't be allowed to set foot on hotel property.
I thought this was a little harsh, but not as harsh as what my dad wanted to do, which was call the NYPD and press charges against Sebastiano for using the likeness of a minor without the authority of her parents. Thank God Grandmere talked him
out of that. She said there'd be enough publicity about this without the added humiliation of a royal arrest.
My dad is still so mad he can't sit still. He is pacing back and forth across the suite. Rommel is watching him very nervously from Grandmere's lap, his head moving back and forth, back and forth, as his eyes follow my dad, as if he were watching the US Open.
I bet if Sebastiano were here, my dad would smash up a lot more than just his mobile phone.
Saturday, December 12, 5 p.m., the Loft
Well.
All I can say is, Grandmere's really done it this time.
I'm serious. I don't think my dad is ever going to speak to her again.
And I know I never will.
OK, she's an old lady and she didn't know what she was doing was wrong, and I should really be more understanding.
But for her to do this — for her not even to take into consideration my feelings - I frankly don't think I will ever be able to forgive her.
What happened was, Sebastiano called right before I was getting ready to leave the hotel. He was completely perplexed
about why my dad is so mad at him. He tried to come upstairs to see us, he said, but Plaza security stopped him.
When my dad, who'd answered the phone, told Sebastiano that the reason Plaza security stopped him was because he'd
been PNG'd, and then explained why, Sebastiano was even more upset. He kept going, 'But I had your permish! I had your permish, Philippe!'
'My permission to use my daughter's image to promote your awful rags?' My father was disgusted. 'You most certainly did not!'
But Sebastiano kept insisting he had.
And little by little, it came out that he had had permission, in a way. Only not from me. And not my dad, either. Guess who, it appears, gave it to him?
Grandmere went, all indignantly, 'I only did it, Philippe, because Amelia, as you know, suffers from a terrible self-image and needed a boost.'
But my dad was so enraged he wouldn't even l
isten to her.
He just thundered, 'And so to repair her self-image you went behind her back and gave permission for her photos to be used
in an advertisement for women's clothing?'
Grandmere didn't have much to say after that. She just stood there going, 'Uhn . . . uhn . . . uhn . . .' like someone in a horror movie who'd been pinned to a wall with a machete but wasn't quite dead yet (I always close my eyes during parts like this, so
I know exactly what it sounds like). It became clear that even if Grandmere had had a reasonable excuse for her behaviour,
my father wasn't going to listen to it - or let me listen to it, either. He stalked over to me, grabbed my arm and marched me
right out of the suite. I thought we were going to have a bonding moment like fathers and daughters always do on TV, where he'd tell me that Grandmere was a very sick woman and that he was going to send her somewhere where she could take a
nice long rest, but instead all he said was, 'Go home.'
Then he handed me over to Lars - after slamming the door to Grandmere's suite VERY loudly behind him - and stormed off
in the direction of his own suite.
Jeez.
It just goes to show that even a royal family can be dysfunctional.
Couldn't you just see us on Ricki Lake?
Ricki: Clarisse, tell us: why did you allow Sebastiano to put your granddaughter's photos in that Times advertising supplement?
Grandmere: I did it to boost her self-esteem. And how dare you call me by my first name? That's Your Royal
Highness to you, Ms Lake.
I just know that when I get to school on Monday, everybody is going to be all, 'Oh, look, here comes Mia, that big FAKE, with her vegetarianism and her animal-rights activism and her looks-aren't-important-it's-what's-on-the-inside-that-matters-ism. But I guess it's all right to pose for fashion photo shoots, isn't it, Mia?'
As if it wasn't enough I had to be suspended. Now I am going to be sneered at by my peers too.
I'm home now, trying to pretend none of it ever happened. This is difficult, of course, because when I walked back into the
loft I saw that my mom had already pulled the supplement out of our paper and drawn little devil horns coming out of my
head in every picture, then stuck the whole thing on to the refrigerator.
While I appreciate this bit of whimsy, it does not make the fact that I will have to show my face - now plastered all over advertising supplements throughout the tri-state area - in school on Monday any easier.
Surprisingly, there is one good thing that's come out of all of this: I know for sure I look best in the white taffeta number with
the blue sash. My dad says over his dead body am I going to wear it, or any other Sebastiano creation. But there isn't another designer in Genovia who could do as good a job — let alone finish the dress in time. So it looks like it's going to be the dress by Sebastiano, which got delivered to the loft this morning.
Which is one thing off my mind, anyway.
I guess.
Saturday, December 12, 8 p.m., the Loft
I have already gotten seventeen e-mails, six phone calls and one visitor (Lilly) about the fashion thing. Lilly says it's not as bad as I think and that most people throw the supplements away without even looking at them.
But if that's true, I said, why are all these people calling and e-mailing me?
She tried to make out like it was all members of the Students Against the Corporatization of Albert Einstein High School,
calling to show their solidarity with my suspension, but I think we both know better:
It's all people who want to know what I was thinking, selling out like that.
How am I ever going to explain that I had nothing to do with it - that I didn't even know about it? Nobody is going to believe that. I mean, the proof is right there: I'm wearing the proof. There's photographic evidence of it.
My reputation is going down the drain, even as I sit here. Tomorrow morning, millions of subscribers to the New York Times are going to open their papers and be like, 'Oh, look, Princess Mia. Sold out already. Wonder how much she got paid? You wouldn't think she'd need the money, what with being royal and all.'
Finally I had to ask Lilly to please go home, because I'd developed such a headache. She tried to cure it with some shiatsu, which her parents frequently employ on their patients, but it didn't work. All that ended up happening was that I think she burst a blood vessel or something between my thumb and index finger, since it really hurts.
Now I am determined to start studying, even though it's Saturday night and everyone else my age is out having fun.
But haven't you heard? Princesses never get to have any fun.
Here is what I have to do:
• Algebra: review chapters 1-10
• English: term paper, 10 pages, double spaced, utilize appropriate margins; also, review chapters 1-7
• World Civ.: review chapters 1—12
• G & T: none
• French: revue chapitres Un—Neuf
• Biology: review chapters 1-12
• Write out instructions on how to care for Fat Louie.
• Christmas/Hanukkah shopping:
Mom - Bon Jovi maternity T
Dad - Book on anger management
Mr. G — Swiss Army knife
Lilly — blank videotapes
Tina Hakim Baba - copy of Emanuelle
Kenny - combination TV/VCR (I don't think this is too extravagant. And no, it's not guilt, either. He really wants one)
Grandmere - NOTHING!!!!!!
• Paint fingernails (maybe presence of foul-tasting polish will prevent biting them off)
• Break up with Kenny.
• Organize sock drawer.
I am going to start with the sock drawer because that is clearly the most important. You can't really concentrate on anything if your socks aren't right.
Then I will move on to Algebra because that is my worst subject, and also my first test. I am going to pass it if it is the last thing I do. NOTHING is going to distract me. Not this thing with Grandmere, not the fact that four of those seventeen e-mails are from Michael, not the fact that two are from Kenny, not the fact that I am leaving for Europe at the end of next week, not the fact that my mother and Mr. Gianini are in the next room watching Die Hard, my favourite Christmas movie, NOTHING.
I WILL PASS ALGEBRA THIS SEMESTER, and NOTHING IS GOING TO DISTRACT ME FROM STUDYING FOR THE FINAL!!!!!!!!!!!
Saturday, December 12, 9 p.m., the Loft
I just had to go out and see the part where Bruce Willis throws the explosives down the elevator shaft, but now I am back
to work.
Saturday, December 12, 9:30 p.m., the Loft
I was really curious about what Michael could possibly want, so I read his e-mails -just his. One was about the supplement (Lilly had told him, and he wanted to know if I was thinking of abdicating, ha ha) and the other three were jokes that I
suppose were meant to make me feel better. They weren't very funny but I laughed anyway.
I bet Judith Gershner doesn't laugh at Michael's jokes. She's too busy cloning things.
Saturday, December 12,10 p.m., the Loft
How to Care for Fat Louie While I am Away:
a.m.
In the morning, please fill Fat Louie's bowl with dry food. Even if there is already food in the bowl, he likes to have some
fresh served on top so he can feel like he is having breakfast like the rest of us.
In my bathroom is a blue plastic cup sitting by the bathtub. Please fill that every morning with water from the bathroom sink. You must use water from the bathroom sink because water from the kitchen sink isn't cold enough. And you have to put it
in the blue cup because that is the cup Fat Louie is used to drinking out of while I am brushing my teeth.
He has a bowl in the hallway outside my room. Rinse that out and fill it with water from the water f
ilter pitcher in the refrigerator. It must be water from the water filter pitcher because even though New York tap is said to be contaminant-free, it is good for Louie to get at least some water that is definitely pure. Cats need to drink a lot of water to flush out their systems and prevent kidney and urinary tract infections, so always leave lots of water out, and not just by his food bowls but other places as well.