by Meg Cabot
“Oh,” my mom said.
“Look,” I said. “This is serious. You’ve got to get me out of this stupid ball!”
But all my mom said was that she’d talk to my dad about it. I knew what that meant, of course. No way was I getting out of this ball. My dad has never in his life forsaken duty for love. He is full-on Princess Margaret that way.
So now I’ve been sitting here (trying to do my Algebra homework, as usual, because I am neither gifted nor talented), knowing that at some point or another I am going to have to tell Michael our date is canceled. Only how? How am I going to do it? And what if he’s so mad, he never asks me out again?
Worse, what if he asks some other girl to see Star Wars with him? I mean, some girl who knows all the lines you’re supposed to shout at the screen during the movie. Like when Ben Kenobi goes, “Obi-Wan. Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time,” you’re supposed to shout, “How long?” and then Ben goes, “A very long time.”
There must be a million girls besides me who know about this. Michael could ask any one of them instead of me and have a perfectly wonderful time. Without me.
Lilly is bugging me to find out what’s wrong. She keeps passing me notes, because they are fumigating the teachers’ lounge, so Mrs. Hill is in here today, pretending to grade papers from her fourth-period computer class. But really she is ordering things from a Garnet Hill catalog. I saw it beneath her gradebook.
Is your dad super sick? Lilly’s latest note reads. Are you going to have to fly back to Genovia?
No , I write back.
Is it the cancer? Lilly wants to know. Did he have a recurrence?
No , I write back.
Well, what is it, then? Lilly’s handwriting is getting spiky, a sure sign she is becoming impatient with me. Why won’t you tell me?
Because , I want to scrawl back, in big capital letters. The truth will lead to the imminent demise of my romantic relationship with your brother, and I couldn’t bear that! Don’t you see I can’t live without him?
But I can’t write that, because I’m not ready to give up yet. I mean, am I not a princess of the royal house of Renaldo? Do princesses of the royal house of Renaldo just give up, just like that, when something they hold as dearly as I hold Michael is at stake?
No, they do not. Look at my ancestresses, Agnes and Rosagunde. Agnes jumped off a bridge in order to get what she wanted (not be a nun). And Rosagunde strangled a guy with her own hair (in order to not have to sleep with him). Was I, Mia Thermopolis, going to let a little thing like the Contessa Trevanni’s black-and-white ball get in the way of my having my first date with the man I love?
No, I was not.
Perhaps this, then, is my talent. The indomitability that I inherited from the Renaldo princesses before me.
Struck by this realization, I wrote a hasty note to Lilly:
Is my talent that I, like my ancestresses before me, am indomitable?
I waited breathlessly for her response. Although it was not clear to me what I was going to do if she replied in the positive. Because what kind of talent is being indomitable? I mean, you can’t get paid for it, the way you can if your talent is playing the violin or songwriting or producing cable access television programs.
Still, it would be good to know I’d figured out my talent on my own. You know, as far as climbing the Jungian tree to self-actualization went.
But Lilly’s response was way disappointing:
No, your talent is not that you’re indomitable, dinkus. God, U R so dense sometimes. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR DAD?????
Sighing, I realized I had no choice but to write back, Nothing. Grandmère just wanted to take me to Chanel, so she made up the thing about my dad being sick.
God , Lilly wrote back. No wonder you’re looking like you ate a sock again. Your grandmother sucks.
I could not agree more. If only Lilly knew the full extent of how much.
Wednesday, January 21, sixth period, third-floor stairwell
Emergency meeting of the followers of the Jane Eyre technique of boyfriend-handling. We are of course in peril of discovery at any moment, as we are skipping French in order to gather here in the stairwell leading to the roof (the door to which is locked, of course: Lilly says in the movie of my life, the kids got to go on the roof of their school all the time. Just another example of how art most certainly does not imitate life), so that we can lend succor to one of our sisters in suffering.
That’s right. It turns out that I am not the only one for whom the semester is off to an inauspicious beginning. Not only did Tina sprain her ankle on the ski slopes of Aspen—no, she also got a text message from Dave Farouq El-Abar during fifth period over her new cell phone. It said, U NEVER CALLED BACK. AM TAKING JASMINE TO RANGER GAME. HAVE A NICE LIFE.
I have never in my life seen anything so insensitive as that message. I swear, my blood went cold as I read it.
“Sexist pig,” Lilly said when she saw it. “Don’t even worry about it, Tina. You’ll find somebody better.”
“I d-don’t want someone b-better.” Tina sobbed. “I only want D-Dave!”
It breaks my heart to see her in such pain—not just emotional pain, either: it was no joke trying to get up to the third-floor stairwell on her crutches. I have promised faithfully to sit with her while she works through her anguish (Lilly is taking her through Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s five stages of break-up grief: Denial—I can’t believe he would do this to me; Anger— Jasmine is probably a cow who Frenches on the first date; Bargaining—maybe if I tell him I’ll call him faithfully every night, he’ll take me back; Depression—I’ll never love another man again; Acceptance—well, I guess he was kind of selfish). Of course being here with Tina, instead of in French class, means I am risking possible suspension, which is the penalty for skipping class here at Albert Einstein.
But what is more important, my disciplinary record, or my friend?
Besides, Lars is keeping a lookout at the bottom of the stairs. If Mr. Kreblutz, the head custodian, comes along, Lars is going to whistle the Genovian anthem, and we’ll flatten ourselves against the wall by the old gym mats (which are quite smelly, by the way, and undoubtedly a fire hazard).
Although I am deeply saddened for her, I can’t help feeling that Tina’s situation has taught me a valuable lesson: that the Jane Eyre technique of boyfriend-handling is not necessarily the most reliable method by which to hang on to your boyfriend.
Except that, according to Grandmère, who did manage to hang on to a husband for forty years, the quickest way to turn a guy off is to chase after him.
And certainly Lilly, who has the longest-running relationship of any of us, does not chase after Boris. Really, if anything, he is the one doing the chasing. But that is probably because Lilly is too busy with her various lawsuits and projects to pay much more than perfunctory attention to him.
Somewhere between the two of them—Grandmère and Lilly—must lie the truth to maintaining a successful relationship with a man. Somehow I have got to get the hang of this, because I will tell you one thing: if I ever get a message from Michael like the one Tina just got from Dave, I will fully be taking a swan dive off the Tappan Zee. And I highly doubt any cute coast guard captain is going to come along and fish me out—at least, not in one piece. The Tappan Zee Bridge is way higher than the Pont des Vierges.
And of course you know what this means—this whole thing with Tina and Dave, I mean. It means that I can’t cancel my date with Michael. No way, nohow. I don’t care if Monaco starts lobbing SCUD missiles at the Genovian House of Parliament: I am not going to that black-and-white ball. Grandmère and the Contessa Trevanni are just going to have to learn how to live with disappointment.
Because when it comes to our men, we Renaldo women don’t mess around. We play for keeps.
HOMEWORK
Algebra: probs at beginning of Ch. 11, PLUS… ??? Don’t know, thanks to Grandmère
English: update journal (How I Spent My Winter Brea
k—500 words), PLUS… ??? Don’t know, thanks to Grandmère
Bio: read Chapter 13, PLUS… ??? Don’t know, thanks to Grandmère
Health and Safety: Chapter 1, You and Your Environment, PLUS… ??? Don’t know, thanks to Grandmère
G & T: figure out secret talent
French: Chapitre Dix, PLUS… Don’t know, due to skipping!!!!
World Civ: Chapter 13: Brave New World; bring in current event illustrating how technology can cost society
Wednesday, January 21, limo on the way home from Grandmère’s
While I might never actually figure out what my own talent is—if I even have one—Grandmère’s is only too painfully obvious. Clarisse Renaldo has a total gift for completely destroying my life. It is abundantly clear to me now that this has been her goal all along. The simple fact of the matter is, Grandmère can’t stand Michael. Not, of course, because he’s ever done anything to her. Never done anything to her except make her granddaughter superbly, sublimely happy. She’s never even met him.
No, Grandmère doesn’t like Michael because Michael is not royal.
How do I know this? Well, it became pretty obvious when I walked into her suite for my princess lesson today, and who should just be coming in from his racquetball game at the New York Athletic Club, swinging his racquet and looking all Andre Agassi-ish? Oh, only Prince René.
“What are YOU doing here?” I demanded in a manner that Grandmère later reproved me for (she said my question was unladylike in its accusatory tone, as if I suspected René of something underhanded, which, of course, I did. I practically had to beat him over the head back in Genovia to get my scepter back).
“Enjoying your beautiful city,” was how René replied. And then he excused himself to go shower, because, as he put it, he was a bit ripe from the court.
“Really, Amelia,” Grandmère said, disapprovingly. “Is that any way to greet your cousin?”
“Why isn’t he back in school?” I wanted to know.
“For your information,” Grandmère said, “he happens to be on a break.”
“Still?” This sounds pretty suspicious to me. I mean, what kind of business college—even a French one—has a Christmas break that goes practically into February?
“Schools like René’s,” was Grandmère’s explanation for this, “traditionally have a longer winter holiday than American ones, so that their pupils can make full use of the ski season.”
“I didn’t see any skis on him,” I pointed out craftily.
“Pfuit!” was all Grandmère had to say about it, however. “René has had enough of the slopes this year. Besides, he adores Manhattan.”
Well, I guess I could see that. I mean, New York is the greatest city in the world, after all. Why, just the other day, a construction worker down on Forty-second Street found a twenty-pound rat! That’s a rat that’s only five pounds lighter than my cat! You won’t be finding any twenty-pound rats in Paris or Hong Kong, that’s for sure.
So, anyway, we were going along, doing the princess-lesson thing—you know, Grandmère was instructing me about all the personages I was going to meet at this black-and-white ball, including this year’s crop of debutantes, the daughters of socialites and other so-called American royalty, who were “coming out” to Society with a capital S, and looking for husbands (even though what they should be looking for, if you ask me, is a good undergraduate program, and maybe a part-time job teaching illiterate homeless people to read. But that’s just me.) when all of a sudden, it occurred to me, the solution to my problem:
Why couldn’t Michael be my escort to the Contessa Trevanni’s black-and-white ball?
Okay, granted, it was no Star Wars . And yeah, he’d have to get his hands on a tux and all. But at least we would be together. At least I could still give him his birthday present in a forum that was outside of the cinder block walls of Albert Einstein High. At least I wouldn’t have to cancel on him altogether. At least the state of diplomatic affairs between Genovia and Monaco would remain at DefCon Five.
But how, I wondered, was I ever going to get Grandmère to go along with it? I mean, she hadn’t said anything about the Contessa letting me bring a date.
Still, what about all those debutantes? Weren’t they bringing dates? Wasn’t that what West Point Military Academy was for ? Providing dates to debutante balls? And if those girls could bring dates, and they weren’t even princesses, why couldn’t I?
How I was going to get Grandmère to let me bring Michael to the black-and-white ball, after all of our long discussions about how you mustn’t let the object of your affection even know that you like him, was going to be a major obstacle. I decided I would have to exercise some of the diplomatic tact Grandmère had taken so much trouble to teach me.
“And please, whatever else you do, Amelia,” Grandmère was saying, as she sat there running a hairpick through Rommel’s sparse fur, as the royal Genovian vet had instructed, “do not stare too long at the Contessa’s face-lift. I know it will be difficult—it looks as if the surgeon botched it horribly. But actually, it’s exactly the way Elena wanted it to look. Apparently she has always fancied resembling a walleyed bass—”
“Listen, about this dance, Grandmère,” I started in, all subtly. “Do you think the Contessa would mind if I, you know… brought someone?”
Grandmère looked at me confusedly over Rommel’s pink, trembling body. “What do you mean? Amelia, I highly doubt your mother would have a very nice time at the Contessa Trevanni’s black-and-white ball. For one thing, there won’t be any other hippy radicals there—”
“Not my mom,” I said, realizing that perhaps I had been a littletoo subtle. “I was thinking more, you know. Of an escort.”
“But you already have an escort.” Grandmère adjusted Rommel’s diamond-flake-encrusted collar.
“I do?” I did not recall asking anyone to scrounge up a West Pointer for me.
“Of course you do,” Grandmère said, still not, I noticed, meeting my gaze. “Prince René has very generously offered to serve as your escort to the ball. Now, where were we? Oh, yes. About the Contessa’s taste in clothes. I think you’ve learned enough by now to know that you aren’t to comment—at least to her face—on what any of your hostesses happen to be wearing. But I think it necessary to warn you that the Contessa has a tendency to wear clothes that are somewhat young on her, and that reveal—”
“René is going to be my escort?” I stood up, nearly knocking Grandmère’s Sidecar over as I did so. “René is taking me to the black-and-white ball?”
“Well, yes,” Grandmère said, looking blandly innocent—a little too blandly innocent, if you asked me. “He is, after all, a guest in this city—in this country, as a matter of fact. I would think that you, Amelia, would be only too happy to make him feel welcome and wanted—”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “What is going on here?” I demanded. “Grandmère, are you trying to fix up René and me?”
“Certainly not,” Grandmère said, looking genuinely appalled by the suggestion. But then, I’d been fooled by Grandmère’s expressions before. Especially the one she puts on when she wants you to think that she is just a helpless old lady. “Your imagination most definitely comes from your mother’s side of the family. Your father was never as fanciful as you are, Amelia, for which I can only thank God. He’d have driven me to an early grave, I’m convinced of it, if he’d been half as capricious as you tend to be, young lady.”
“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” I asked, feeling a little sheepish over my outburst. After all, the idea that Grandmère might, even though I was only fourteen, be trying to fix me up with some prince that she wanted me to marry was a little outlandish. I mean, even for Grandmère. “You made us dance together—”
“For a magazine pictorial.” Grandmère sniffed.
“—and then your not liking Michael—”
“I never said I didn’t like him. From what I know of him, I think he is a perfectly charming boy. I
just want you to be realistic about the fact that you, Amelia, are not like other girls. You are a princess, and have the good of your country to think of.”
“—and then René showing up like this, and you’re announcing he’s taking me to the black-and-white ball—”
“Is it wrong of me to want to see the poor boy have a nice time while he is here? He has suffered so many hardships, losing his ancestral home, not to mention his own kingdom—”
“Grandmère,” I said. “René wasn’t even alive when they kicked his family out—”
“All the more reason,” Grandmère said, “you should be sensitive to his plight.”
Great. What am I supposed to do now? About Michael, I mean? I can’t bring both himand Prince René to the ball. I mean, I look weird enough, with my half-grown-out hair and my androgyny (although judging by Grandmère’s description of her, the Contessa might look even weirder than I do) without hauling two dates and a bodyguard around with me.
I wish I were Princess Leia instead of me, Princess Mia. I’d so rather take on the Death Star than a black-and-white ball.
Wednesday, January 21, the loft
Well, my mom getting hold of my dad about the Contessa’s ball was a washout. Apparently the whole parking-meter debate has gotten way out of control. The minister of tourism is conducting a filibuster of his own, in response to the one from the minister of finance, and there can’t be a vote until he stops talking and sits down. So far he’s been talking for twelve hours, forty-eight minutes. I don’t know why my dad doesn’t just have him arrested and put in the dungeon.
I am really starting to be afraid that I am not going to be able to get out of this ball thingie.
“You better let Michael know,” my mom just poked her head in to say, helpfully. “That you won’t be able to make it Friday. Hey, are you writing in your journal again? Aren’t you supposed to be doing your homework?”
Trying to change the subject from my homework (hello, I am totally doing it, I am just taking a break right now), I went, “Mom, I am not saying anything to Michael until we’ve heard from Dad. Because there’s no point in my running the risk of Michael breaking up with me if Dad’s just going to turn around and say I don’t have to go to the stupid ball.”