Princess Diaries Series: Princess In Love Part 11

I wish they'd put the door back on the supply closet. It is extremely hard to concentrate with Boris sc.r.a.ping away on his violin in there. Lilly says this is just another tactic by the trustees to weaken our resistance, so we will remain the mindless drones they are trying to make us, but I think it's just on account of that time we all forgot to let him out, and he was stuck in there until the night custodian heard his anguished pleas to be released.

Which is Lilly's fault, if you think about it. I mean, she's his girlfriend. She should really take better care of him.

HOMEWORK.

Algebra: practice test English: term paper World Civ: practice test G & T: none French: l'examen pratique Biology: practice test

Thursday, December 11, 9 p.m.

Grandmere is seriously out of control. Tonight she started quizzing me on the names and responsibilities of all of my dad's cabinet ministers. Not only do I have to know exactly what they do, but also their marital status and the names and ages of their kids, if any. These are the kids I am supposedly going to have to hang out with while celebrating Christmas at the palace. I am figuring they will probably hate me as much, if not more, than Mr. Gianini's niece and nephew hated me at Thanksgiving.

All of my holidays from now on are apparently going to be spent in the company of kids who hate me.

You know, I would just like to say that it is totally not my fault I am a princess. They have no right to hate me so much. I have done everything I could to maintain a normal life in spite of my royal status. I have totally turned down opportunities to be on the covers of CosmoGirl, Teen People, Seventeen, YM, and Girl's Life. I have refused invitations to go on TRL and introduce the number-one video in the country, and when the mayor asked if I wanted to be the one to press the b.u.t.ton that drops the ball in Times Square on New Year's Eve, I said no (aside from the fact I am going to be in Genovia for New Year's, I oppose the mayor's mosquito spraying campaign, as runoff from the pesticides used to kill the mosquitos that may be carrying the West Nile virus has infected the local horseshoe crab population. A compound in the blood of horseshoe crabs, which nest all along the eastern seaboard, is used to test the purity of every drug and vaccine administered in the U.S. The crabs are routinely gathered, drained of a third of their blood, then re-released into the sea . . . a sea which is now killing them as well as many other arthropods, such as lobsters, thanks to the amount of pesticide in it).

Anyway, I am just saying, all the kids who hate me should just chill, because I have never once sought the spotlight I have been thrust into. I've never even called my own press conference.

But I digress.

So Sebastiano was there, drinking aperitifs and listening as I rattled off name after name (Grandmere has made flashcards out of the pictures of the cabinet ministers-kind of like those bubble gum cards you can get of the Backstreet Boys, only the cabinet ministers don't wear as much leather). I was kind of thinking maybe I was wrong about Sebastiano's commitment to fashion, and that maybe Sebastiano was there to try and pick up some pointers for after he's thrust me into the path of an oncoming limo or whatever.

But when Grandmere paused to take a phone call from her old friend General Pinochet, Sebastiano started asking me all these questions about clothes, in particular what clothes my friends and I like to wear. What were my feelings, he wanted to know, on velvet stretch pants? Spandex tube tops? Sequins?

I told him all of that sounded, you know, okay for Halloween or Jersey City, but that generally in my day-to-day life I prefer cotton. He looked saddened by this, so I told him that I really felt orange was going to be the next pink, and that perked him right up, and he wrote a bunch of stuff down in this notebook he carries around. Kind of like I do, now that I think about it.

When Grandmere got off the phone, I informed her-quite diplomatically, I might add-that, considering how much progress we'd made in the past three months, I felt more than prepared for my impending introduction to the people of Genovia, and that I did not feel it would be necessary to have lessons next week, as I have FIVE finals to prepare for.

But Grandmere got totally huffy about it! She was all, "Where did you get the idea that your academic education is more important than your royal training? Your father, I suppose. With him, it's always education, education, education. He doesn't realize that education is nowhere near as important as deportment."

"Grandmere," I said. "I need an education if I'm going to run Genovia properly." Especially if I'm going to convert the palace into a giant animal shelter-something I'm not going to be able to do until Grandmere is dead, so I see no point in mentioning it to her now . . . or ever, for that matter.

Grandmere said some swear words in French, which wasn't very dowager-princessy of her, if you ask me. Thankfully right then my dad walked in, looking for his Genovian Air Force medal, since he had a state dinner to go to over at the emba.s.sy. I told him about my finals and how I really needed time off from princess stuff to study, and he was all, "Yes, of course."

When Grandmere protested, he just went, "For G.o.d's sake, if she hasn't got it by now, she never will."

Grandmere pressed her lips together and didn't say anything more after that. Sebastiano used the opportunity to ask me about my feelings on rayon. I told him I didn't have any.

For once, I was telling the truth.

Friday, December 12, Homeroom

HERE'S WHAT I HAVE TO DO: Stop thinking about Michael, especially when I should be studying.

Stop telling Grandmere anything about my personal life.

Start acting more: A. Mature B. Responsible C. Regal Stop biting my fingernails.

Write down everything Mom and Mr. G need to know about how to take care of Fat Louie while I'm gone.

CHRISTMAS/HANNUKAH PRESENTS!.

Stop watching Baywatch when I should be studying.

Stop playing Pod-Racer when I should be studying.

Stop listening to music when I should be studying.

Break up with Kenny.

Friday, December 12, Princ.i.p.al Gupta's office

Well, I guess it's official now: I, Mia Thermopolis, am a juvenile delinquent.

Seriously. That fire alarm I pulled was only the beginning, it appears.

I really don't know what's come over me lately. It's like the closer I get to actually going to Genovia and performing my first official duties as its princess, the less like a princess I act.

I wonder if I'll be expelled.

If I am, it is totally unfair. Lana started it. I was sitting there in Algebra, listening to Mr. G go on about the Cartesian plane, when suddenly Lana turns around in her seat and slaps a copy of USA Today down in front of me. There is a headline screaming:

TODAY'S POLL Most Popular Young Royal

Fifty-seven percent of readers say that Prince William of England is their favorite young royal, with Will's little brother Harry coming in at 28 percent. America's own royal, Princess Mia Renaldo of Genovia, comes in third, with 13 percent of the votes, and Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson's daughters, Beatrice and Eugenie, round out the votes with 1 percent each.

The reasons given for Princess Mia's third-place finish? "Not outgoing" is the most common answer. Ironically, Princess Mia is perceived as being as shy as Princess Diana-the mother of William and Harry-when she first stepped into the harsh glare of the media spotlight.

Princess Mia, who only recently learned she was heir to the throne of Genovia, a small princ.i.p.ality located on the Cote d'Azur, is expected to make her first official trip to that country next week. A representative for the princess describes her as looking forward to her visit with "eager antic.i.p.ation." The princess will continue her education in America, and will reside in Genovia only during the summer months.

I read the stupid article and then pa.s.sed the paper back to Lana.

"So?" I whispered to her.

"So," Lana whispered. "I wonder how popular you'd be-especially with the people of Genovia-if they found out their future ruler goes around pulling fire alarms when there isn't any fire."

She was only guessing, of course. She couldn't have seen me. Unless . . .

Unless maybe Justin Baxendale did figure it out! You know, seeing me in the hallway like that, just before the alarm went off-and he mentioned it to Lana. . . .

No. Not possible. I am so far out of the sphere of Justin Baxendale's consciousness as to be nonexistent to him. He didn't tell Lana anything. Lana, like Mr. G, obviously thinks it's a little coincidental that on that fateful Wednesday, the fire alarm went off about two minutes after I'd disappeared from cla.s.s with the pa.s.s to the bathroom.

But even so. Even though she could only have been guessing, it seemed to me like she knew, like she was going to make sure I never heard the end of it.

I really don't know what came over me. I don't know if it was A. The stress of finals B. My impending trip to Genovia C. This thing with Kenny D. The fact that I'm in love with this guy who is going out with a human fruit fly E. The fact that my mother is going to give birth to my Algebra teacher's baby F. The fact that Lana has been persecuting me practically my whole life and pretty much getting away with it, or G. All of the above.

Whatever the reason, I snapped. Just snapped. Suddenly, I found myself reaching for Lana's cell phone, which was lying on her desktop beside her calculator.

And then the next thing I knew, I had put the tiny little pink thing on the floor, and crushed it into a lot of pieces beneath the heel of my size-ten combat boot.

I guess I can't really blame Mr. G for sending me to the princ.i.p.al's office.

Still, you would expect a little sympathy from your own stepfather.

Uh-oh. Here comes Princ.i.p.al Gupta.

Friday, December 12, 5 p.m., the loft

Well, that's it then. I'm suspended.

Suspended. I can't believe it. ME! Mia Thermopolis! What is happening to me? I used to be such a good kid!

And okay, it's just for one day, but still. It's going on my permanent record! What are the Genovian cabinet ministers going to say?

I am turning into Courtney Love.

And yeah, it's not like I'm not going to get into college because I was suspended for one day in the first semester of my freshman year, but how totally embarra.s.sing! Princ.i.p.al Gupta treated me like I was some kind of criminal or something.

And you know what they say: Treat a person like a criminal, and pretty soon, she'll end up like one. At least I think that's what they say. The way things are going, I wouldn't be surprised if pretty soon I start wearing ripped-up fishnet stockings and dying my hair black. Maybe I'll even start smoking and get my ears double pierced or something. And then they'll make a TV movie about me, and call it Royal Scandal. It will show me going up to Prince William and saying, "Who's the most popular young royal now, huh, punk?" and then headb.u.t.ting him or something.

Except I practically fainted the first time I got my ears pierced, and smoking is really bad for you, and I always thought it must hurt to headb.u.t.t someone.

I guess I don't have the makings of a juvenile delinquent after all.

My dad doesn't think so, either. He's all ready to set the royal Genovian lawyers on Princ.i.p.al Gupta. The only problem, of course, is that I won't tell him-or anybody else, for that matter-what Lana said to make me a.s.sault her cell phone. It's kind of hard to prove the attack was provoked if the attacker won't say what the provocation was. My dad pleaded with me for a while when he came to pick me up from school, after having received The Call from Princ.i.p.al Gupta. But when I wouldn't tell him what he wanted, and Lars just looked carefully blank, my dad just went, "Fine," and his mouth got all scrunchy like it does when Grandmere has one too many sidecars and starts calling him Papa Cueball.

But how can I tell him what Lana said? If I do that, then everyone will know I'm guilty of not just one crime, but two!

Anyway, now I'm home, watching the Lifetime channel with my mother. She hasn't been doing much painting at her studio since she got pregnant. This is on account of her being exhausted. It's quite hard to paint lying down, she's discovered. So instead she has been doing a lot of sketching from bed, mostly line drawings of Fat Louie, who seems to enjoy having someone home all day with him. He sits for hours on her bed, watching the pigeons on the fire escape outside her window.

But since I'm home today, Mom did some drawings of me. I think she is making my mouth too big, but I'm not saying anything, as Mr. Gianini and I have discovered it's better not to upset my mother in her current hormonal state. Even the slightest criticism-like asking her why she left the phone bill in the vegetable crisper-can lead to an hour-long crying jag.

While she sketched me, I watched a very excellent movie called Mother, May I Sleep With Danger? starring Tori Spelling, of Beverly Hills 90210 fame, as a girl who has an abusive boyfriend. I really don't get why any girl would stay with a guy who hits her, but my mom says it's all about self-esteem and your relationship with your father. Except that my mom doesn't have that great a relationship with Papaw, and if any guy ever tried to slug her, you can bet she'd put him in the hospital, so go figure.

As my mom drew, she tried to get me to spill my guts to her, you know, about what Lana said that made me go on a cell-phone-stomping rampage. You could tell she was trying really hard to be all TV mom about it.

I guess it must have worked, because all of a sudden I found myself telling her all of it, every last thing: the stuff about Kenny and about my not liking to kiss him and about him telling everybody, and about how I plan to break up with him as soon as finals are over.

And along the way, I mentioned Michael and Judith Gershner and Tina and the greeting cards and the Winter Carnival and Lilly and her protest group and how I'm secretary of it, and just about everything else, except the part about pulling the fire alarm.

After a while my mom stopped drawing and just looked at me.

Finally, when I was done, she said, "You know what I think you need?"

And I said, "What?"

And she said, "A vacation."