by Meg Cabot
Grandmère so needs to get a life.
Tonight was the Farewell Ball—you know, to celebrate the end of my first official trip to Genovia in my capacity as heir to the throne.
Anyway, Grandmère’s been going on about this ball for weeks, like this is going to be my big chance to redeem myself for the whole parking-meter thing. Not to mention the Prince William factor. In fact, between that and the whole not-thinking-Michael-suitable- consort-material, she’s been laying it on so thick, I fully blame her for my zit—even though it’s gone now, thanks to the miracle of modern dermatology. But still. Between the pressures Grandmère has been putting on me, plus the anxiety of knowing that my boyfriend might at this very moment be taking surfing lessons from some zit-free Kate Bosworth type, it is a wonder my complexion does not resemble that guy’s they kept locked in the basement in that movie The Goonies .
Whatever. So Grandmère makes this big deal out of my hair (growing out and so becoming triangularshaped again, but who cares, boys are supposed to like girls with long hair better than girls with short hair—I read that in French Cosmo ) and she makes this big deal out of my fingernails (okay, so in spite of the whole New Year’s resolution thing I still keep biting them. So sue me. The man is keeping me down.) and she makes this big deal out of what I am going to say to Prince William.
Then, after all this, we get to the stupid ball, and I walk up to Wills (who I will admit—though my heart still belongs to Michael—was looking quite studly in his tux) and I’m all set to go, “It’s very nice to meet you,” but it was like at the last second I forgot who I was talking to, because he turned those blue, blue eyes on me, like a pair of klieg lights, and I totally froze up, exactly the way I did that time Josh Richter smiled at me in Bigelow’s Drugstore. Seriously, like, I couldn’t remember where I was or what I was doing there, I was just looking into those blue eyes and going, inside my head, Oh, my God, they’re the color of the sea outside the window of my Royal Genovian bedchamber .
Then Prince William was going, “It’s very nice to meet you,” and shaking my hand, and I just kept on staring at him, even though I do not even like him in that way. I AM IN LOVE WITH MY BOYFRIEND.
But I guess that is the thing with the guy, he has that whole charisma thing going, kind of like Bill Clinton (only I never met him; I just read about it).
Anyway, that was it. That was the extent of my interaction with Prince William of England! He turned around after that to answer someone’s question about Thoroughbred horse racing, and I was like, “Oh, look, baked mushroom caps,” to cover my excruciating mortification and went chasing after the footman who was passing them around. That’s all, the end.
Needless to say, I did not get his e-mail address. Tina is just going to have to learn to live with disappointment.
Oh, but my evening did not end there. Not at all. No, little did I know there was much, much more to come, in the form of Grandmère shoving me at Prince René all night, so that the two of us could dance in front of this Newsweek reporter who is in Genovia to do a story on our country’s transition to the Euro. She SWORE that was the only reason: for the photo op.
But then while we were dancing—which, by the way, I am horrible at… dancing, I mean. I can box step if I look down the whole time and count inside my head, but that is about it, aside from slow dancing, but guess what? They so don’t slow dance in Genovia… at least, not in the palace—I saw Grandmère totally going around, pointing us out to people, and it was so obvious what she was saying, you didn’t even have to be a lip reader to know she was going, “Aren’t they just the loveliest couple?”
EW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
So then when the dance was over, just in case Grandmère was getting any ideas, I went up to her and I was all, “Grandmère, I am willing to cool it with the calling-Michael stuff, but that does not mean I am going to start going out with Prince René,” who, by the way, asked me if I wanted to step outside onto the terrazzo and have a smoke.
I of course told him I do not smoke and that he shouldn’t either as tobacco is responsible for half a million deaths a year in the United States alone, but he only laughed at me, all James Spader from Pretty in Pink-ishly.
So then I told him not to get any big ideas, that I already have a boyfriend and that maybe he didn’t see the movie of my life, but I fully know how to handle guys who are only after me for my crown jewels.
So then René said I was adorable and I said, “Oh, for God’s sake, cut the Enrique Iglesias act,” and then my dad came up and asked me if I had seen the prime minister of Greece and I said, “Dad, I think Grandmère is trying to fix me up with René,” and then my dad got all tight-lipped and took Grandmère aside and had “A Word” with her while Prince René slunk off to go make out with one of the Hilton sisters.
Afterward Grandmère came up and told me not to be so ridiculous, that she merely wanted Prince René and I to dance together because it was a nice photo op for Newsweek and that maybe if they ran a story on us, it would attract more tourists.
To which I replied that in light of our crumbling infrastructure, more tourists is exactly what this country doesn’t need.
I suppose if my palace had been bought out from under me by some shoe designer, I would be pretty desperate, too, but I wouldn’t hit on a girl who has the weight of an entire populace on her shoulders—and already has a boyfriend, besides.
On the bright side, if Newsweek does run the photo, maybe Michael will get all jealous of René the way Mr. Rochester did of that St. John guy, and he’ll boss me around some more!!!
Two days, eight hours, and ten minutes until I see Michael again.
I CAN’T WAIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Monday, January 19, 3 p.m. Genovian time,
Royal Genovian Jet, 35,000 feet in the air
I cannot believe that
A. my dad is staying in Genovia in order to resolve the parking crisis rather than coming back to New York with me.
B. he actually believed Grandmère when she said due to my poor performance in Genovia that my princess lessons need to continue.
C. she (not to mention Rommel) is coming back to New York with me.
IT IS NOT FAIR. I held up my part of the agreement. I went to every single princess lesson Grandmère gave last fall. I passed Algebra. I gave my stupid address to the Genovian people.
Grandmère says that in spite of what I might think, I still have a lot to learn about governance. Except that she is so wrong. I know she is only coming back to New York with me so she can go on torturing me. It is kind of like her hobby now. In fact, for all I know, it might even be her gift, her God-given talent.
At least she is lucky enough to have one. But it is still so not fair.
And yes, before I left, my dad slipped me a hundred Euros and told me if I didn’t make a fuss about Grandmère, he’d make it up to me someday.
But there is nothing he can do to makethis up to me. Nothing.
He says she is just a harmless old lady and that I should try to enjoy her while I can because someday she won’t be with us anymore. I just looked at him like he was crazy. Even he couldn’t keep a straight face. He went, “Okay, I’ll donatetwo hundred bucks a day to Greenpeace if you keep her out of my hair.”
Which is funny, because of course my dad hasn’t got any. Hair, I mean.
That is double the amount he was already donating in my name to my favorite organization. I sincerely hope Greenpeace appreciates the supreme sacrifice I am making for its sake.
So Grandmère is coming back to New York with me, and dragging a cowering Rommel along with her. Just when his fur had started to grow back, too. Poor thing.
I told my dad I’d put up with the whole princess-lesson thing again this semester, but that he’d better get one thing straight with Grandmère beforehand, and that is this: I have a serious boyfriend now. Grandmère had better not try to sabotage this, or think she can be trying to fix me up with any more Prince Renés.
I don’t care how many crown titles the guy has, my heart belongs to Mr. Michael Moscovitz, Esquire.
My dad said he’d see what he could do. But I don’t know how much he was actually paying attention, since Miss Czech Republic was hanging around, twirling her sash kind of impatiently.
Anyway, a little while ago I told Grandmère myself that she better watch it where Michael is concerned.
“I don’t want to hear anything more about how I’m too young to be in love,” I said, over the lunch (poached salmon for Grandmère, three-bean salad for me) served by the royal Genovian flight attendants. “I am old enough to know my own heart, and that means I am old enough to give that heart away if I choose to.”
Grandmère said something about how then I should get ready for some heartburn, but I ignored her. Just because her romantic life since Grandpa died has been less than satisfactory is no reason for her to be so cynical about mine. I mean, that is just what she gets for going out with media moguls and dictators and stuff.
Michael and I, on the other hand, are going to have a great love, just like Jane and Mr. Rochester. Or Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt.
Or at least we will, if we ever actually get to go out on a date.
One day, fourteen hours until I see him again.
Monday, January 19,
Martin Luther King Day, the loft, at last
I am so happy I feel like I could burst, just like that eggplant I once dropped out of Lilly’s sixteenth-floor bedroom window.
I’m home!!!!!!! I’m finally home!!!!!!
I cannot tell you how good it felt to look out the window of the airplane and see the bright lights of Manhattan below me. It brought tears to my eyes, knowing I was once again in the air space over my beloved city. Below me, I knew, cab drivers were running down little old ladies (unfortunately not Grandmère), deli owners were shortchanging their customers, investment bankers were not cleaning up after their dogs, and people all over town were having their dreams of becoming singers, actors, musicians, novelists, or dancers completely crushed by soulless producers, directors, agents, editors, and choreographers.
Yes, I was back in my beautiful New York. I was back home at last.
I especially knew it when I stepped off the plane, and there was Lars waiting for me, ready to take over bodyguarding duty from François, the guy who had looked after me in Genovia and who had taught me all the French swear words. Lars looked especially menacing on account of being all darkly tanned from his month off. He had spent his winter break with Tina Hakim Baba’s bodyguard, Wahim, snorkeling and hunting wild boar in Belize. He gave me a piece of ivory tusk as a memento of his trip, even though of course I don’t approve of killing animals recreationally, even wild boars, who really can’t help being so ugly and mean.
Then, after a delay of sixty-five minutes, thanks to a pileup on the Belt Parkway, I was home.
It was so good to see my mom!!!!! Her belly is starting to show now. I didn’t want to say anything, because even though my mom says she does not believe in the Western standard of idealized beauty and that there is nothing wrong with a woman who is bigger than a size eight, I’m pretty sure though that if I had said anything like, “Mom, you’re huge,” even in a complimentary fashion, she would start to cry. After all, she still has quite a few months left to go.
So instead I just went, “That baby has to be a boy. Or if it’s not, it’s a girl who is going to be as tall as me.”
“Oh, I hope so,” my mom said, as she brushed tears of joy from her face—or maybe she was crying because Fat Louie was biting her ankles so hard in his effort to get near me. “I could use another you for when you aren’t around. I missed you so much! There was no one to berate me for ordering roast pork and wonton soup from Number One Noodle Son.”
“I tried,” Mr. Gianini assured me.
Mr. G looks great, too. He is growing a goatee. I pretended I liked it.
Then I bent down and picked up Fat Louie, who was yowling to get my attention, and gave him a great big hug. I may be wrong, but I think he lost weight while I was away. I do not want to accuse anyone of purposefully starving him, but I noticed his dry food bowl was not completely full. In fact, it was perilously close to being only half full. I always keep Fat Louie’s bowl filled to the brim, because you never know when there might be a sudden plague, killing everyone in Manhattan but cats. Fat Louie can’t pour out his own food, having no thumbs, so he needs a little extra just in case we all die and there is no one around to open the bag for him.
But the loft looks so great!!!!!!!! Mr. Gianini did a lot to it while I was gone. He got rid of the Christmas tree—the first time in the history of the Thermopolis household that the Christmas tree was out of the loft by Easter—and had the place wired for DSL. So now you can e-mail or go on the Internet anytime you want, without tying up the phone.
It is like a Christmas miracle.
And that’s not all. Mr. G also fully redid the darkroom, leftover from when my mom was going through her Ansel Adams stage. He pulled the boards off the windows and got rid of all the noxious chemicals that have been sitting around since forever because my mom and I were too afraid to touch them. Now the darkroom is going to be the baby’s room! It is so sunny and nice in there. Or at least it was , until my mom started painting the walls (in egg tempera, of course, so as not to jeopardize the welfare of her unborn child!) with scenes of important historical significance, such as the trial of Winona Ryder and the engagement of J.Lo and Ben Affleck, so that, she says, the baby will have an understanding of all the problems facing our nation (Mr. G assured me privately that he is going to have the whole thing painted over as soon as my mom gets admitted to the maternity ward. She will never know the difference once the endorphins kick in. All I can say is thank God Mom picked a man with so much common sense with whom to reproduce this time around).
But the best thing of all was what was waiting for me on the answering machine. My mom played it for me proudly almost the minute I walked through the door.
IT WAS A MESSAGE FROM MICHAEL!!!! MY FIRST RECORDED MESSAGE FROM MICHAEL SINCE I BECAME HIS GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!!!!!!!
Which of course means it worked. The my-not calling-him thing, I mean.
The message goes like this:
“Uh, hi, Mia? Yeah, it’s Michael. I was just wondering if you could, uh, call me when you get this message. ’Cause I haven’t heard from you in a while. And I just want to know if you’re, uh, okay. And make sure you got home all right. And that there’s nothing wrong. Okay. That’s all. Well. Bye. This is Michael, by the way. Or maybe I said that. I can’t remember. Hi, Mrs. Thermopolis. Hi, Mr. G. Okay. Well. Call me, Mia. Bye.”
I took the tape out of the message machine and am keeping it in the drawer of my nightstand along with
A. some grains of rice from the bag Michael and I sat on at the Cultural Diversity Dance, in memory of the first time we ever slow danced together;
B. a dried-out piece of toast from the Rocky Horror Show, which is where Michael and I went on our first date, though it wasn’t really a date because Kenny came, too; and
C. a cut-out snowflake from the Nondenominational Winter Dance, in memory of the first time Michael and I kissed.
It was the best Christmas present I could ever have gotten, that message. Even better than DSL.
So then I came into my room and unpacked and played the message over about fifty times on my tape player, and my mom kept coming in to give me more hugs and asking me if I wanted to listen to her new Liz Phair CD and wanting to show me her stretch marks. Then about the thirtieth time she came in, I was playing Michael’s message again, and she was all, “Haven’t you called him back yet, honey?” and I went, “No,” and she went, “Well, why not?” and I went, “Because I am trying to be like Jane Eyre.”
And then my mom got all squinty-eyed like she does whenever they are debating funding for the arts on C-SPAN.
“Jane Eyre?” she echoed. “You mean the book?”
“Exact
ly,” I said, tugging the little Napoleonic diamond napkin holders that the prime minister of France had given me for Christmas out from beneath Fat Louie, who had laid down inside my suitcase, I guess in the mistaken belief that I was packing, not unpacking, and he wanted to try to stop me from going away again. “See, Jane didn’t chase Mr. Rochester, she let him chase her. And so Tina and I, we’ve both taken solemn vows that we are going to be just like Jane.”
Unlike Grandmère, my mom didn’t look happy to hear this.
“But Jane Eyre was so mean to poor Mr. Rochester!” she cried.
I didn’t mention that this was what I had thought, too… at first.
“Mom,” I said, very firmly. “What about the whole keeping Bertha locked up in the attic thing?”
“Because she was a lunatic,” my mom pointed out. “It wasn’t like they had psychotropic drugs back then. Keeping Bertha locked in the attic was kinder, really, than sending her to a mental hospital, considering what they were like during that era, with people chained to the walls. Really, Mia. I swear I don’t know where you get half your ideas. Jane Eyre? Who told you about Jane Eyre?”
“Um,” I said, stalling because I knew my mom wasn’t going to like the answer. “Grandmère.”
My mom’s lips got so thin, they completely disappeared.
“I should have known,” she said. “Well, Mia, I think it is commendable that you and your friends have decided not to chase boys. However, if a boy leaves a nice message on the answering machine like Michael did, it could hardly be construed as chasing for you to do the polite thing and return his call.”
I thought about this. My mom was probably right. I mean, it isn’t as if Michael has a crazy wife in the attic. The Fifth Avenue apartment where the Moscovitzes live doesn’t even have an attic, so far as I know.
“Okay,” I said, setting down the clothes I’d been putting away. “I guess I could return his call.” My heart was swelling at the very idea. In a minute—less than a minute, if I could get my mom out of my room fast enough—I’d be talking to Michael! And there wouldn’t be that weird swooshing sound there always is when you call from across the ocean. Because there would be no ocean separating us! Just Washington Square Park. And I wouldn’t have to worry about him wishing I were Kate Bosworth instead of Mia Thermopolis, because there are no Kate Bosworth types in Manhattan… or at least if there are, they have to keep their clothes on, at least in winter.