Princess Diaries Series: Princess In Love Part 16

"I can't believe you forgot about it," Tina said, sounding amused. "You have been getting stuff for your Secret Snowflake, haven't you, Mia?"

I felt a rush of guilt. I had totally blown it. Poor Tina!

"Uh, sure," I said, wondering where I was going to find a present for her by tomorrow morning, the last day of the Secret Snowflake thing. "Sure, I have."

Tina sighed. "I guess n.o.body picked me," she said. "Because I haven't gotten anything."

"Oh, don't worry," I said, hoping the guilt washing over me wasn't noticeable in my voice. "You will. Your Secret Snowflake is probably waiting, you know, until the last day because she's-or he's-gotten you something really good."

"Do you think so?" Tina asked, wistfully.

"Oh, yes," I gushed.

Rea.s.sured, Tina got businesslike.

"Now," she said, "that finals are over . . ."

"Um, yes?"

". . . when are you going to tell Michael that you're the one who sent him those cards?"

Shocked, I went, "How about never?"

To which Tina replied, tartly, "Mia, if you don't tell him, then what was the point of sending those cards?"

"To let him know that there are other girls out there who might like him, besides Judith Gershner."

Tina said, severely, "Mia, that's not enough. You've got to tell him it was you. How are you ever going to get him if he doesn't know how you feel?" Tina Hakim Baba, surprisingly, has a lot in common with my dad. "Remember Kenny? That's how Kenny got you. He sent the anonymous notes, but then he finally fessed up."

"Yeah," I said, sarcastically. "And look how great that turned out."

"It'll be different with you and Michael," Tina insisted. "Because you two are destined for each other. I can just feel it. You've got to tell him, and it's got to be tomorrow, because the next day, you are leaving for Genovia."

Oh, G.o.d. In my self-congratulations over having successfully maneuvered my first press conference, I'd forgotten about that, too. I am leaving for Genovia the day after tomorrow! With Grandmere! To whom I am not even speaking anymore!

I told Tina that I'd confess to Michael tomorrow. She hung up all happy.

But it was a good thing she hadn't been able to see my nostrils, because they were flaring like crazy, on account of the fact that I was totally lying to her.

Because there is no way I am ever telling Michael Moscovitz how I feel about him. No matter what my dad says. I can't.

Not to his face.

Not ever.

Friday, December 19, Homeroom

They are holding us hostage here in Homeroom until they've pa.s.sed out our final semester grades. Then we are free to spend the rest of the day at the Winter Carnival in the gym, and then, later this evening, the dance.

Really. We don't have any more cla.s.ses after this. We are just supposed to have fun.

As if. I am so never having fun again.

That is because-you know, aside from my many other problems, including the fact that I don't love my boyfriend, who also apparently does not love me anymore, at least not enough to ask me to the school dance, but I do love my best friend's brother, who is not even remotely aware of my feelings-that I think I know who my Secret Snowflake is.

Really, there is no other explanation. Why else would Justin Baxendale-who, even though he's so new, is still totally popular, not to mention way good-looking-be hanging around my locker so much? I mean, seriously. This is the third time I've spotted him lurking around there this week. Why else would he be hanging around there, except to leave those roses?

Unless he's planning on blackmailing me about the whole fire-alarm thing.

But Justin Baxendale doesn't exactly strike me as the blackmailer type. I mean, he looks to me like somebody who'd have something better to do than blackmail a princess.

Which leaves only one other explanation for why he could possibly be spending so much time around my locker: He is my Secret Snowflake.

And how totally embarra.s.sing is it going to be when I go out there when the bell rings, and Justin comes up to me to confess-because that's the rule, it turns out: You have to reveal your ident.i.ty to your Secret Snowflake today-and I have to look up into his smoky eyes with those long lashes and give a big fake smile and go, "Oh, gee, thanks, Justin. I had no idea it was you!"

Whatever. This is actually the least of my problems, right? I mean, considering that I am the only girl in this entire school who does not have a date to the dance tonight. And that tomorrow I have to leave for a country I am princess of, with my lunatic grandmother who isn't speaking to my father, and who, I know from past experience, is not above smoking in the airplane lavatory if the urge strikes her.

Really. Grandmere is a flight attendant's worst nightmare.

But that's not even half of it. I mean, what about my mom and Mr. Gianini? Sure, they're acting like they don't mind my spending the holidays in another country, and yes, we're going to have our own private little Christmas among ourselves before I leave, but really, I bet they mind. I bet they mind a lot.

And what about my grade in Algebra? Oh, Mr. Gianini says it's fine, but what is fine, exactly? A D? A D is not fine. Not considering the number of hours I've put into raising my grade from an F, it isn't. A D is not acceptable.

And what-oh G.o.d, what-am I going to do about Kenny?

At least I got Tina's present out of the way. I went on line last night and signed her up for a teen romance book-of-the-month club. I printed out the certificate, saying she is an official member, and will give it to her when the bell rings.

When the bell rings, which is also when I have to go out there and face Justin Baxendale.

It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for those eyes of his. Why does he have to be so good-looking? And why did a good-looking person have to pick me as his Secret Snowflake? Beautiful people, like Lana and Justin, can't help but be repulsed by ordinary-looking people, like me.

He probably didn't even pull my name from that jar at all. Probably, he picked Lana's name and has been putting those roses in my locker, thinking it's Lana's, seeing as how G.o.d knows she never hangs out in front of her own locker.

What's even worse is, Tina told me yellow roses mean love everlasting.

Which of course was why I figured maybe it was Kenny after all.

Oh, great. They are pa.s.sing around the printouts with our grades on them. I am not looking. I don't even care. I DO NOT CARE ABOUT MY GRADES.

Thank G.o.d for the bell. I'm just going to slip out of here-not looking at my grades, totally not looking at my grades-and go about my business like nothing out of the ordinary is going on.

Except of course when I get to my locker, Justin is there, looking for someone. Lana is there, too, waiting for Josh.

You know, I really don't need this. Justin revealing that he is my Secret Snowflake right in front of Lana, I mean. G.o.d only knows what she's going to say, the girl who has been suggesting I wear Band-Aids instead of a bra every day since the two of us. .h.i.t p.u.b.erty. Plus, it isn't like she's been super happy with me since the whole cell-phone thing. I'll bet she'll have something extra mean all prepared for the occasion. . . .

"Dude," Justin says.

Dude? I'm not a dude. Who is Justin talking to?

I turn around. Josh is standing there, behind Lana.

"Dude, I've been looking for you all week," Justin says, to Josh. "Do you have those Trig notes for me, or not? I've got to make up the final in one hour."

Josh says something, but I don't hear him. I don't hear him because there's a roaring sound in my ears. There's a roaring sound in my ears because standing behind Justin is Michael. Michael Moscovitz.

And in his hand is a yellow rose.

Friday, December 19, Winter Carnival

Oh, G.o.d.

I am in so much trouble.

Again.

And it isn't even my fault this time. I mean, I couldn't help myself. It just happened, you know? And it doesn't mean anything. It was just, you know, one of those things.

And besides, it's not what Kenny thinks. Not even. I mean, if you think about it, it is a complete and total letdown. For me, anyway.

Because of course the first thing Michael says, when he sees me standing there gaping at him while he is holding that flower, is, "Here. This just fell out of your locker."

I took it from him in a complete daze. I swear to G.o.d my heart was beating so hard, I thought I was going to pa.s.s out.

Because I thought they'd been from him. The roses, I mean. For a minute there, I really did think Michael Moscovitz had been leaving me roses.

But of course this time, there's a note attached to the rose. It says: Good luck on your trip to Genovia! See you when you get back!

Your Secret Snowflake, Boris Pelkowski Boris Pelkowski. Boris Pelkowski is the one who's been leaving those roses. Boris Pelkowski is my Secret Snowflake.

Of course Boris wouldn't know that a yellow rose represents love everlasting. Boris doesn't even know not to tuck his sweater into his pants. How would he know the secret language of flowers?

I don't know which was actually stronger, my feeling of relief that it wasn't Justin Baxendale leaving those roses after all . . .

. . . or my feeling of disappointment that it wasn't Michael.

Then Michael went, "Well? What's the verdict?"

To which I responded by staring at him blankly. I still hadn't quite gotten over it. You know, those brief few seconds when I'd thought-I'd actually thought, fool that I am-that he loved me.

"What did you get in Algebra?" he asked, slowly, as if I were dense.

Which, of course, I am. So dense that I never realized how much in love with Michael Moscovitz I was until Judith Gershner came along and swept him right out from under my nose.

Anyway, so I opened the computer printout containing my grades, and would you believe that I had raised my F in Algebra all the way up to a B minus?

Which just goes to show that if you spend nearly every waking moment in your life studying something, the likelihood is that you are going to retain at least a little of it.

Enough to get a B minus on the final, anyway.

I'm trying really hard not to gloat, but it's difficult. I mean, I'm so happy.

Well, except for the whole not-having-a-date-to-the-dance thing.

Still, it's hard to be unhappy. There is absolutely no way I got this grade because the teacher happens to be my stepfather. In Algebra, either you get the right answer, or you don't. There's nothing subjective about it, like in English. There's no interpretation of the facts. Either you're right, or you're not.

And I was right. Eighty percent of the time.

Of course it helped that I knew the answer to the final's extra-credit question: What instrument did Ringo, in the Beatles, play?

But that was only worth two points.

Anyway, here's the part where I got into trouble. Even though, of course, it isn't my fault.

I was so happy about my B minus, I completely forgot for a minute how much I am in love with Michael. I even forgot, for a change, to be shy around him. Instead, I did something really unlike me.

I threw my arms around him.

Seriously. Threw my arms right around his neck and went, "Wheeeeeee!!!!!"

I couldn't help it. I was so happy. Okay, the whole rose thing had been a little bit of a b.u.mmer, but the B minus made up for it. Well, almost.

It was just an innocent hug. That's all it was. Michael had, after all, tutored me almost the whole semester. He had some stake in that B minus, too.

But I guess Kenny, who Tina now tells me came around the corner right as I was doing it-hugging Michael, I mean-doesn't see it that way. According to Tina, Kenny thinks there's something going on between Michael and me.

To which, of course, I can only say, I WISH!

But I can't say that. I have to go find Kenny now, and let him know, you know, it was just a friendly hug.

Tina's all, "Why? Why don't you tell him the truth-that you don't feel the same way about him that he feels about you? This is your big chance!"

But you can't break up with someone during the Winter Carnival. I mean, really. How mean.