Princess Mia

by Meg Cabot

  But there’s just too much drama in my life right now for a simple hand and foot massage (and nail color application) to cure.

  Oh. Dr. Knutz is ready to see me now.

  I don’t think anyone, even Dr. Knutz, could EVER be ready for me and the disaster that is my life.

  Friday, September 24, limo on the way to the Four Seasons

  So I poured my heart out to Dr. Knutz, the cowboy therapist, and here is what he said:

  “But Genovia already has a prime minister.”

  I just looked at him. “No, it doesn’t,” I said.

  “Yes, it does,” Dr. Knutz said. “I watched the movies of your life, like you told me to. And I distinctly remember—”

  “The movies of my life got that part WRONG,” I said. “Among the many, many other parts they got wrong. They claimed artistic license, or something. They said they had to raise the stakes. As if the stakes in my REAL life aren’t high enough.”

  So then Dr. Knutz said, “Oh. I see.” He thought about it for a minute. Then he said, “You know, all of this reminds me of a horse I have, back at the ranch….”

  I nearly flung myself out of my chair at him.

  “DO NOT TELL ME ABOUT DUSTY AGAIN!” I yelled. “I ALREADY KNOW ABOUT DUSTY!”

  “This isn’t about Dusty,” Dr. Knutz said, looking startled. “It’s about Pancho.”

  “How many horses do you have, anyway?” I demanded.

  “Oh, a few dozen,” Dr. Knutz said. “But that’s not important. What’s important is, Pancho is a bit of a pushover. Anybody who takes him out of his stall and saddles him up, Pancho falls in love with. He’ll rub his head against them, just like a cat, and follow them around…even if they don’t treat him particularly nicely. Pancho is desperate for affection, wants everybody to like him—”

  “Okay,” I interrupted. “I get it. Pancho has self-esteem issues. I do, too. But what does this have to do with the fact that my father is trying to keep Princess Amelie’s Bill of Rights from the Genovian people?”

  “Nothing,” Dr. Knutz said. “It has to do with the fact that you’re not trying to do anything to stop him.”

  I stared at him some more. “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Well, that’s for you to figure out,” Dr. Knutz said.

  Okay. That got me mad.

  “You said the first day I sat in here,” I yelled, “that the only way I was going to get out from the bottom of the dark hole of depression I’ve fallen into was to ask for help. Well, I’m asking you for help…and now you tell me I have to figure it out myself? How much are you getting paid an hour for this, anyway?”

  Dr. Knutz regarded me calmly from behind his notepad.

  “Listen to what you’ve just told me,” he said. “The boy you love told you he just wants to be friends, and you did nothing. Your best friend humiliated you in front of the entire school, and you did nothing. Your father tells you he isn’t honoring the wishes of your dead ancestor, and you do nothing. I told you the first time we met, no one can help you unless you help yourself. Nothing’s ever going to change for you if you don’t do something every day that—”

  “—scares me,” I said. “I KNOW. But how? What am I supposed to do about all this?”

  “It isn’t about what you’re supposed to do, Mia,” Dr. Knutz said, sounding a little frustrated. “What do you want to do?”

  I still didn’t get it. I was like, “I want…I want…I want to do the right thing!”

  “That’s what I’m telling you,” Dr. Knutz said. “If you want to do the right thing, don’t be like Pancho. Do what Princess Amelie would do!”

  WHAT WAS HE TALKING ABOUT???

  But before I had a chance to figure it out, he went, “Oh, look at that. Our time is up. But this has been a very interesting session. Next week, I’d like to see you with your father again. I have a feeling you two will have some issues that need discussing. And bring along this grandmother of yours,” Dr. Knutz added. “I saw a photo of her on Google. She seems an intriguing woman.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “What are you saying? How can I do what Princess Amelie did? Princess Amelie failed. Her bill never got passed. No one ever KNEW about it. No one but me.”

  “Bye for now,” Dr. Knutz said.

  And shooed me away.

  I just don’t get it. My dad is paying this guy to help me with my problems. But all he’s doing is passing the buck, saying I have to solve my own problems.

  But isn’t that what he’s getting paid for doing???

  And how in God’s name am I supposed to do anything about the Princess Amelie situation? I made my case to Dad, and he totally blew me off. What more can I do?

  The worst part of it is, Dr. Knutz got my blood work back from Dr. Fung’s office. The results? Normal. I’m totally normal, in every regard. Better than normal. Like Rocky, I’m in the freaking 99th percentile for my age group, or something. I was hoping at the very least that the fact that I’d started eating meat again would have raised my cholesterol to the point that it could be blamed for my hideous depression.

  But my cholesterol is fine. Everything is fine. I’m healthy as a freaking horse.

  Ouch. Why did I have to use the word “horse”?

  Oh, God. We’re here. I can’t BELIEVE I have to do this stupid Domina Rei thing tonight.

  All I can say is, if I get Grandmère into this club, or whatever it is, she better get off my back about my hair.

  Pancho? He seriously told me a story about a horse named PANCHO?

  Friday, September 24, 9 p.m., ladies’ room, The Waldorf-Astoria

  She hates the nail polish.

  She’s acting like my wearing it is going to totally ruin her chances of being asked to join this crazy club. She’s more upset about my nail polish than she is about the fact that our family, for centuries now, has essentially been living a lie. It was the first thing I brought up when I got to her suite.

  “Grandmère,” I said. “You can’t agree with Dad that ignoring Princess Amelie Virginie’s dying wish is the right thing to do. Can you?”

  And she’d rolled her eyes and gone, “Not that again! Your father PROMISED me you’d have forgotten all about that by now.”

  Yeah. I noticed that by how he hadn’t returned a single one of my phone calls all day. He was giving me the silent treatment, the same as Lilly.

  Well, the same as Lilly until she’d exploded this afternoon, that is.

  “But, honestly, Amelia,” Grandmère had gone on. “You can’t expect us to completely alter our lives because of the whim of some four-hundred-year-old dead princess, can you?”

  “Amelie didn’t craft her Bill of Rights on a whim, Grandmère. And our lives wouldn’t be altered,” I’d insisted. “We’d still go on just like before. Only we wouldn’t actually be RULING. We’d be letting the PEOPLE rule—or at least CHOOSE who they WANT to rule. Which could very well be Dad, you know—”

  “But supposing it ISN’T?” Grandmère had demanded. “Where would we LIVE?”

  “Grandmère,” I’d said. “We’ll go on living in the palace as always—”

  “No, we wouldn’t,” Grandmère had said. “The palace would become the residence of the prime minister—whoever that would end up being. Do you really think I could stand to see some POLITICIAN living in my beautiful palace? He’ll probably have the whole place carpeted. In BEIGE.”

  Seriously. I’d wanted to wring her neck. “Grandmère. The prime minister would live—well, I don’t know. But someplace else. We’d still be the royal family and still live in the palace and continue doing all the duties we normally do—EXCEPT RULING.”

  All she’d had to say to that was, “Well, your father won’t hear of THAT. So you might as well drop it. Really, Amelia, RED nails? Are you trying to give me a stroke?”

  Which, all right: I’ll admit this evening seems very important to her. You should have seen how she preened when the Contessa came up to me during the cocktail hour and was like, �
�Princess Amelia? My goodness! How you’ve grown since I last saw you!”

  “Yes,” Grandmère said acidly, glancing at Bella Trevanni’s ginormous stomach. Or, should I say, Princess René’s ginormous stomach. “As has your granddaughter.”

  “Due any day now,” the Contessa cooed.

  “Did you hear?” Bella asked us. “It’s a girl!” We both congratulated her. She really does look happy—even glowing, the way they always say pregnant women do.

  And it totally serves my cousin René right, the fact that he’s having a girl, when he himself was always such a flirt. When his kid starts dating, he’s finally going to find out how all the fathers of the girls he went out with must have felt.

  But the Contessa’s not the only person Grandmère’s hoping to impress. The crème de la crème of New York society is here—well, the women. No men are allowed at Domina Rei functions, except their annual ball, which this isn’t. I just saw Gloria Vanderbilt putting on her lip gloss over by a potted palm.

  And I’m pretty sure that Madeleine Albright is adjusting her pantyhose in the stall next to mine.

  And look: I get it. I really do get why Grandmère is so anxious to be one of these women. They’re all super powerful—and charming, too. Lana’s mom, Mrs. Weinberger, was way nice to me when we first came in—she didn’t seem at all like a lady who would sell her daughter’s pony without letting her say good-bye—shaking my hand and telling me what an excellent role model I am to young girls everywhere. She said she wished her own daughter had as good a head on her shoulders as I do.

  This caused Lana, who was standing next to her mom, to snicker into her tulle stole.

  But I realized there were no hard feelings when a second later Lana took me by the arm and said, “Check it out. They have a chocolate fountain over at the buffet. Only it’s low-cal, because it’s made with Splenda,” then added, when she’d dragged me out of earshot of her mom and Grandmère, “Also, they’ve got the hottest busboys you’ve ever seen.”

  Anyway. I’m supposed to give my talk any minute now. Grandmère made me go over it with her in the limo. I kept telling her it’s way too boring to impress anyone, let alone inspire them. But she keeps insisting drainage is what the women of Domina Rei want to hear about.

  Yeah. Because I’m so sure Beverly Bellerieve—of the prime-time news show TwentyFour/Seven—wants to hear all about Genovia’s sewage issues. I saw her out in the lobby just now, and she smiled at me all big and said, “Well, hello there! Don’t you look grown-up!” I guess remembering that time my freshman year we did that interview and—

  Oh my God.

  OH MY GOD.

  No. That is NOT what he meant when he told me—in no way did he mean…

  No. Just…

  But wait a minute. He said not to be like Pancho. He said to do what Princess Amelie would do.

  She meant for Genovia to be a democracy.

  Only no one knew that.

  But that’s not true. SOMEone does know.

  I know.

  And right now, at this very moment, I am in the unique position of being able to let a couple thousand businesswomen know as well.

  Including Beverly Bellerieve, who has the biggest mouth in broadcast journalism.

  No. Just no. That would be wrong. That would—that would—

  My dad would KILL me.

  But…that would definitely not be like Pancho of me.

  But how can I? How can I do that to my dad? To Grandmère?

  Well, who cares about Grandmère? How can I do that to my dad?

  Oh, no. I hear Grandmère—she’s coming to get me. It’s time—

  No! I’m not ready! I don’t know what to do! Someone needs to tell me what to do!

  Oh, God.

  I think someone already did.

  It’s just that it’s someone who’s been dead for four hundred years.

  PRINCESS DROPS BOMB OF DIFFERENT KIND

  For immediate release

  Princess Mia of Genovia—most recently in the news after a brush with nitrostarch in her Albert Einstein High School chemistry lab sent her and two others (including the princess’s rumored royal-consort-of-the-moment, John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy IV) to the Lenox Hill Hospital emergency room with minor injuries—has dropped an explosive of her own: that a newly discovered four-hundred-year-old document reveals that the principality of Genovia is a constitutional, not absolute, monarchy.

  The difference is a significant one. In an absolute monarchy, the viceroy—in Genovia’s case, Princess Mia’s father, Prince Artur Christoff Phillipe Gerard Grimaldi Renaldo—possesses the divine right to rule over his people and land. In a constitutional monarchy, the ceremonial role of a royal heir (such as the Queen of England) is acknowledged, but all actual governmental decisions are made by elected head of state, usually in conjunction with a parliamentary body.

  Princess Mia made this startling revelation at a gala to benefit African orphans given by Domina Rei, the exclusive women’s organization known for its charitable good works and high-profile membership (including Oprah Winfrey and Hillary Rodham Clinton).

  Princess Mia, in an address to the New York chapter, read a roughly translated selection from the diary of a princess of whom she is a royal descendant, describing the young woman’s battle with the plague and an autocratic uncle, and her drawing up and signing of a Bill of Rights guaranteeing the people of Genovia the freedom to elect their next leader.

  Unfortunately the document was lost to the ages in the chaos following the Black Death’s deadly journey up and down the Mediterranean coast—lost until now, that is.

  Princess Mia’s description of her delight in being able to bring democracy to the people of Genovia is said to have brought tears to the eyes of many members of the audience. And her reference to a famous quote by Eleanor Roosevelt—herself a member of Domina Rei—brought the princess’s audience to their feet in a standing ovation.

  “Do one thing every day that frightens you,” Princess Mia advised her audience. “And never think that you can’t make a difference. Even if you’re only sixteen, and everyone is telling you that you’re just a silly teenage girl—don’t let them push you away. Remember one other thing Eleanor Roosevelt said: ‘No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.’ You are capable of great things—never let anyone try to tell you that just because you’ve only been a princess for twelve days, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “It was completely inspiring,” commented Beverly Bellerieve, star of the news journal television show TwentyFour/Seven, who has announced plans to devote an entire segment of her show to the small country’s transition from monarchy to democracy. “And the way the Dowager Princess Clarisse, Mia’s grandmother, reacted—with open, nearly hysterical weeping—left not a dry eye in the house. It was truly a night to remember…and definitely the best speech we’ve ever had at a gala that I can remember.”

  Neither the dowager princess nor her granddaughter was available for comment, after being whisked away immediately following the event in a limo to destinations unknown.

  Calls to the Genovian Palace press office and Prince Phillipe were still unanswered at press time.

  Friday, September 24, 11 p.m., limo on the way home from The Waldorf-Astoria

  You know what? I don’t care.

  I really don’t. I did the right thing. I know I did.

  And Dad can yell all he wants—and go on saying that I’ve ruined all of our lives.

  And Grandmère can swoon on that couch and call for all the Sidecars she wants.

  I don’t regret it.

  And I never will.

  You should have HEARD how quiet that audience got when I started telling them about Amelie Virginie! It was quieter in that banquet room than it was in the school cafeteria today, when Lilly ripped me a new one in front of everyone.

  And there were about twelve hundred more people in the room tonight than there were this afternoon!

  And every single o
ne of them was gazing up at me, totally enraptured by the story of Princess Amelie. I think I saw TEARS in Rosie O’Donnell’s eyes—TEARS!—when I got to the part about Uncle Francesco burning the books in the palace library.

  And when I got to the part about Amelie discovering her first pustule—I TOTALLY heard a sob from Nancy Pelosi’s direction.

  But then when I was describing how it’s about time that the world recognize that sixteen-year-old girls are capable of so much more than wearing some navel-bearing outfit on the cover of Rolling Stone, or passing out from partying too much in front of some nightclub…that we should be recognized instead for taking a stand and coming to the aid of a people in need…

  Well. That’s when I got the standing ovation.

  I was basking in the glow of everyone’s congratulations—and Lana’s mother’s reiteration that I’m welcome to apply for membership in Domina Rei just as soon as I’ve turned eighteen—when Lars tugged on my sleeve (I guess Domina Rei does let men into their events if they’re bodyguards) and said my grandmother was already passed out in the limo.

  And that my father wanted to see me at once.

  But whatever. Grandmère was totally just overcome with the emotion of finally being asked to join a club that has been snubbing her for the past fifty years, or whatever. Because I totally saw Sophia Loren go up to her and issue an invitation to join. Grandmère practically fell over herself in her eagerness to say she’d think about it.

  Which is princess for, “I’ll call you in the morning and say yes but I can’t say it now or I’ll look too eager.”

  Dad yelled at me for like half an hour about how much I’ve let the family down and what a nightmare this is going to be with parliament because it looks like our family has been hiding it all along and how now he’s going to have to run for prime minister if he wants to continue any of the initiatives he’s had planned and who even knows if he’ll win if some of these other losers run and how the Genovian people are never going to be able to adjust to being a democracy and how now there’ll be voter fraud and how I’ll still have royal duties anyway only now I’ll probably have to get a job someday because my allowance will be cut in half and he hopes I’m happy knowing I’ve basically just single-handedly destroyed a dynasty and how am I aware that I’ll be going down in history as the disgrace of the Renaldo family, until finally I was just like, “Dad? You know what? You need to take it up with Dr. Knutz. And you will, as a matter of fact, next Friday, when you and Grandmère accompany me to my appointment.”