Princess Diaries Series: Princess In Love Part 13

What a surprise they had had, when they'd 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 modeling career, and I was all, "What are you talking about?"

So, while Lilly and Boris looked on with curiosity, Dr. Moscovitz opened her paper and showed me: And there it was, in all of its four-color-layout glory.

I'm not going to lie and say I looked bad. I looked okay. What they had done was, they had taken all the photos Sebastiano's a.s.sistant 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 have to admit, I am a little hurt. I'd thought, when he'd asked me all those questions about Michael, Sebastiano 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 consent of her parents. Thank G.o.d 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, his eyes following my dad as if he were watching the US Open or something.

I bet if Sebastiano were here, my dad would smash up a lot more than just his cell phone.

Sat.u.r.day, December 13, 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.

And okay, she's an old lady and she didn't know that what she was doing was wrong, and I should really be more understanding.

But for her to do this-for her not to even 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, Phillipe!"

"My permission to use my daughter's image to promote your tawdry 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, Phillipe, 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 listen to her. He just thundered, "And so to repair her self-image, you went behind her back and gave permission for her photo to be used in an advertis.e.m.e.nt 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 behavior, 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, before storming off in the direction of his own suite.

Jeez.

It just goes to show, 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: That's Your Royal Highness to you, Ms. Lake. I did it to boost her self-esteem.

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 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 onto 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 tristate 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, again. 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 the dress by Sebastiano, which got delivered to the loft this morning, is it.

Which is one thing off my mind, anyway.

I guess.

Sat.u.r.day, December 13, 8 p.m., the loft

I've 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.

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? n.o.body 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 a bad 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 110 English: term paper, 10 pages, double s.p.a.ced; utilize appropriate margins; also, review Chapters 17 World Civ: review Chapters 112 G & T: none French: revue Chapitres UnNeuf Biology: review Chapters 112 Write out instructions on how to care for Fat Louie Christmas/Hannukah shopping: MomBon 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 pa.s.s it if it's 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 favorite Christmas movie, NOTHING.

I WILL Pa.s.s ALGEBRA THIS SEMESTER, and NOTHING IS GOING TO DISTRACT ME FROM STUDYING FOR THE FINAL!!!!!!!!!!!

Sat.u.r.day, December 13, 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 at work.

Sat.u.r.day, December 13, 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 guess were supposed 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.

Sat.u.r.day, December 13, 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 FILTER 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.

Do not confuse the bowl in the hall with the BOWL BY THE CHRISTMAS TREE. That bowl is there to discourage Louie from drinking out of the tree holder. Too much tree resin could make him constipated.

In the morning, Fat Louie likes to sit on the windowsill in my room and look at the pigeons on the fire escape. NEVER OPEN THIS WINDOW, but be sure the curtains are open so he can see out.

Also, sometimes he likes to look out the windows by the TV. If he cries while he is doing this, it means you should pet him.

P.M.:.

At dinnertime, give Fat Louie CANNED FOOD. Fat Louie only likes three flavors: CHICKEN AND TUNA FEAST (FLAKED), SHRIMP AND FISH FEAST (FLAKED), and OCEAN FISH FEAST (FLAKED). He won't eat anything with BEEF or PORK. He must have the contents of the can on a new, CLEAN saucer, or he won't eat. Also, he won't eat if the contents don't retain their CANLIKE SHAPE on the plate, so don't chop up his food.

After eating his canned food, Fat Louie likes to stretch out on the carpet in front of the front door. This is a good time to give him his exercise. When he stretches out, just put your hand under his front legs and straighten them (he likes this) until he bends like a comma. Then dig your thumbs between his shoulder blades and give him a kitty ma.s.sage. He will purr if you do it right. If you do it wrong you will know, because he will bite you.

Fat Louie gets bored very easily, and when he gets bored, he walks around crying, so here are some games he likes to play: Take some pieces of CAT TREAT and line them up on top of the stereo for Fat Louie to knock off and chase.

Put Fat Louie in my COMPUTER CHAIR and then hide behind the bookshelf and throw one end of a shoelace over the back of the chair so he can't see where it is coming from.

Make a FORT out of pillows on my bed and put Fat Louie inside of it and then stick your hand into any openings between the pillows (I recommend wearing an oven mitt during this game).

Put some catnip in an OLD SOCK and throw it to Fat Louie. Then leave him alone for four to five hours, because catnip makes him a little free with his claws.

THE LITTER BOX.

Mr. Gianini, this one is for you. Mom must not clean out the litter box or touch anything that may have come in contact with it, or she might develop toxoplasmosis, and the baby might get sick. Always wash your hands in warm, soapy water after changing Fat Louie's litter box, even if you don't think you got anything on your hands.