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. According to my mom, that would be a violation of the minister's right to free speech. But what about my


dad's right to take phone calls from the mother of his only child? Who is safeguarding that right, I would like to know?


I am really starting to be afraid that I am not going to be able to get out of this ball thingy.


'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.'


'Mia,' my mom said, 'Michael is not going to break up with you just because you have a familial commitment you cannot


get out of.'


'I wouldn't be so sure,' I said, darkly. 'Dave Farouq El-Abar broke up with Tina today because she didn't return his call.'


'That's different,' my mom said. 'It's just plain rude not to return someone's calls.'


'But Mom,' I said. I was getting tired of having to explain this stuff to my mom all the time. It is a wonder to me she ever got


a single guy in the first place, let alone two of them, when she clearly knows so little about the art of dating. 'If you are too available, the guy might think all the thrill has gone out of the chase.'


My mother looked suspicious. 'Don't tell me. Let me guess. Your grandmother told you that?'


'Urn,' I said. 'Yes.'


'Well, let me give you a little tip my mother once gave me,' my mom said. I was surprised. My mom doesn't get along so well with her parents, Mamaw and Papaw, who run the Handy Dandy Hardware Store of Versailles, Indiana. It is rare that she mentions either of them ever giving her a piece of advice worthy of passing down to her own daughter, as my mom ran away from home as soon as she was financially able to, and has only been back there, like, twice.


'If you think there's a chance you might have to cancel on Michael for Friday night,' she said, 'you'd better cat-on-the-roof


him now.'


I was understandably perplexed by this. 'Cat on the whatta?'


'Cat on the roof,' my mother said. 'You need to begin mentally preparing him for the disappointment. For instance, if


something had happened to Fat Louie while you were in Genovia—' My mouth must have fallen open, since my mom went, 'Don't worry, nothing did. But I'm just saying, if something had, I would not have blurted it right out to you, over the phone.


I'd have prepared you gently for the eventual letdown. Like I might have said, "Mia, Fat Louie escaped through your window and now he's up on the roof, and we can't get him down".'


'Of course you could get him down,' I protested. 'You could go up by the fire escape and take a pillowcase and when you


get near him, you could throw the pillowcase over him and scoop him up and carry him back down again.'


'Yes,' my mom said. 'But supposing I told you I'd try that. And the next day I called you and said it hadn't worked, Fat Louie had escaped to the neighbour's roof—'


Td tell you to go to the building next door and make someone let you in, then go up to their roof.' I really did not see where


this was going. 'Mom, how could you be so irresponsible as to let Fat Louie out in the first place? I've told you again and


again — you've got to keep my bedroom window closed, you know how he likes to watch the pigeons. Louie doesn't have


any outdoor survival skills . . .'


'So naturally,' my mom said, 'you wouldn't expect him to survive two nights out of doors.'


'No,' I practically wailed. 'I wouldn't.'


'Right. See. So you'd be mentally prepared when I called you on the third day to say despite everything we'd done, Louie


was dead.'


'OH, MY GOD!' I snatched up Fat Louie from where he was lying beside me on the bed. 'And you think I should do that


to poor Michael? He has a dog, not a cat! Pavlov's never going to get up on the roof!'


'No,' my mother said, looking tired. Well, and why not? She was hauling around a dozen or so extra pounds all of a sudden. 'I'm saying you should begin mentally preparing Michael for the disappointment he is going to feel if, indeed, you need to


cancel him on Friday night. Call him and tell him you might not be able to make it. That's all. Cat-on-the-roof him.'


I let Fat Louie go. Not just because I finally realized what my mom was getting at, but because he was trying to bite me in


order to get me to loosen the stranglehold I had on him.


'Oh,' I said. 'You think if I do that - start mentally preparing him for my not being able to go out with him on Friday - he


won't dump me when I get around to breaking the actual news?'


'Mia,' my mom said. 'No boy is going to dump you because you have to cancel a date. If any boy does, then he wasn't


worth going out with anyway. Much like Tina's Dave, I'd venture to say. She's probably better off without him. Now.


Do your homework.'


Only how could anyone expect me to do my homework after imparting a piece of information like that?


Instead I went online. I meant to instant message Michael, but I found that Tina was instant messaging me.


Iluvromance: Hi, Mia. What R U doing?


She sounded so sad! She was even using a blue font!


FtLouie: I'm just doing my Bio. How are you?


Iluvromance: OK, I guess. I just miss him so imichimmmilimiim I wish I had never even


heard of stupid Jane Eyre.


Remembering what my mom had said, I wrote:


FtLouie: Tina, if Dave was willing to break up with you just because you didn't return


his calls, then he was not worthy of you. You will find a new boy, one who


appreciates you.


Iluvromance: Do U really think so?


FtLouie: Absolutely.


Iluvromance: But where am I going to find a boy who appreciates me at AEHS? All the boys


who go there are morons. Except MM of course.


FtLouie: Don't worry, we'll find someone for you. I have to go IM my dad now . . .




I didn't want to tell her that the person I really had to IM was Michael. I didn't want to rub it in that I had a boyfriend and she didn't. Also, I hoped she didn't remember that in Genovia, where my dad was, it was four o'clock in the morning. Also that the Palais de Genovia doesn't have instant messaging.


FtLouie: so TTYL.


Iluvromance: OK, bye. If U feel like chatting later, I'll be here. I have nowhere else


to go.


Poor, sweet Tina! She is clearly prostrate with grief. Really, if you think about it, she is well rid of Dave. If he wanted to leave her for this Jasmine girl so badly, he could have let her down gently by cat-on-the-roofing her. If he were any kind of gentleman, he would have. But it was all too clear now that Dave was no gentleman at all.


I'm glad MY boyfriend is so different. Or at least, I hope he is. No, wait, of course he is. He's MICHAEL.


FtLouie: Hey!


LinuxRulz:Hey back atcha! Where have you been?


FtLouie: Princess lessons.


LinuxRulz:Don't you know everything there is to know about being a princess yet?


FtLouie: Apparently not. Grandmere's got me in for some fine tuning. Speaking of which,


is there, like, a later showing of Star Wars than the seven o'clock?


LinuxRulz:Yeah, there's an eleven. Why?


FtLouie: Oh, nothing.


LinuxRulz: WHY?



But see, here was the part where I couldn't do it. Maybe because of the capital letters, or maybe because my conversation


with Tina was still too fresh in my mind. The unparalleled sadness in her blue U letters was just too much for me. I know I should have just come right out and told him about the ball thingy then and there, only I couldn't go through with it. All I


could think about was how incredibly smart and gifted Michael is, and what a pathetic, talentless freak I am, and how


easy it would be for him to go out and find someone worthier of his attentions.


So instead, I wrote:


FtLouie: I've been trying to think of some names for your band.


LinuxRulz: What does that have to do with whether or not there's a later showing of Star Wars Friday night?



FtLouie: Well, nothing, I guess. Except what do you think of Michael and the Wookies?


LinuxRulz:! think maybe you've been playing with Fat Louie's catnip mouse again.


FtLouie: Ha ha. OK, how about The Ewoks?


LinuxRulz:The EWOKS? Where did your grandma take you today when she hauled you out of second period? Electric shock therapy?


FtLouie: I'm only trying to help.


LinuxRulz:! know, sorry. Only I don't think the guys would really enjoy being equated


with furry little muppets from the planet Endor. I mean, I know one of them


is Boris, but even he would draw the line at Ewoks, I hope . . .


FtLouie: BORIS PELKOWSKI IS IN YOUR BAND????


LinuxRulz: Yeah. Why?


FtLouie: Nothing.




All I can say is, if I had a band, I would NOT let Boris in it. I mean, I know he is a talented musician and all, but he is also a mouth breather. I think it's great that he and Lilly get along so well, and for short periods of time I can totally put up with him and even have a nice time with him and all. But I would not let him be in my band. Not unless he stopped tucking his sweaters into his pants.


LinuxRulz: Boris isn't so bad, once you get to know him.

FtLouie: I know. He just doesn't seem like the band type. All that Bartok.


LinuxRulz: He plays a mean bluegrass, you know. Not that we'll be playing any


bluegrass in the band.




This was comforting to know.



LinuxRulz: So will your grandmother let you off on time?




I genuinely had no idea what he was talking about.


FtLouie: What????


LinuxRulz: On Friday. You've got princess lessons, right? That's why you were asking


about later showings of the movie, wasn't it? You're worried your grandmother


isn't going to let you out on time?




This is where I screwed up. You see, he had offered me the perfect get-out - I could have said, 'Yes, I am,' and chances


were, he'd have been like, 'OK, well, let's make it another time, then.'


BUT WHAT IF THERE WERE NO OTHER TIME????


What if Michael, like Dave, just blew me off and found some other girl to take to the show????


So instead, I went:


FtLouie: No, it will be OK. I think I can get off early.



WHY AM I SO STUPID???? WHY DID I WRITE THAT???? Because of COURSE I won't be able to get off early,


I will be at the stupid black-and-white ball ALL NIGHT!!!!!


I swear, I am such an idiot, I don't even deserve to have a boyfriend.











Thursday, January 21,


Homeroom




This morning at breakfast, Mr G was all, 'Has anyone seen my brown corduroy pants?' and my mom, who had set her


alarm so that she could wake up early enough to possibly catch my dad on a break between Parliament sessions (no


such luck), went, 'No, but has anyone seen my Free Winona T-shirt?'


And then I went, 'Well, I still haven't found my Queen Amidala underwear.'


And that's when we all realized it: someone had stolen our laundry.


It is really the only explanation for it. I mean, we send laundry out, to the Thompson Street laundry-by-the-pound place,


and then they do it for us and deliver it all folded and stuff. Since we don't have a doorman, generally the bag just sits in


the vestibule until one of us picks it up and drags it up the three flights of stairs to the loft.


Only apparently, no one has seen the bag of laundry we dropped off the day before I left for Genovia!


Which can only mean that some freaky newsreporter (they regularly go through our garbage, much to the chagrin of


Mr. Molina, our building's superintendent) found our bag of laundry, and any minute we can expect a ground-breaking


news story on the front cover of the Post Out of the Closet: What Princess Mia Wears, and What it Means,


According to our Experts.


AND THEN THE WHOLE WORLD WILL FIND OUT THAT I WEAR QUEEN AMIDALA PANTIES!


I mean, it is not like I go around ADVERTISING that I have Star Wars underwear, or even that I have any kind of lucky panties at all. And by rights, I should have taken my


Queen Amidala underwear with me to Genovia, for luck on my Christmas Eve address to my people. If I had, maybe


I wouldn't have gone off on that six-pack-holder tangent.


But, whatever, I had been too caught up in the whole Michael thing, and had completely forgotten.


And now it looks like someone has gotten hold of my special lucky underwear, and the next thing you know, it will be


showing up on Ebay! Seriously! There is a ton of Princess Mia stuff being sold on Ebay, like used copies of the


unauthorized biographies of my life. Who is to say my underwear wouldn't sell like hotcakes? Especially the fact that


they are Queen Amidala panties.


I am so, so dead.


Mom has already called the 6th Precinct to report the theft, but those guys are too busy defusing bombs and tracking


down real criminals to go after a laundry swiper. They practically laughed her off the phone.


It is all very well for her and Mr G — all they lost were regular clothes. I am the only one who lost underwear. Worse,


my lucky underwear. Though I fully understand that the men and women who fight crime in this city have more important


things to do than look for my panties.


But the way things have been going, I really, really need all the good luck I can get.





Thursday; January 21


Algebra




Today, before class started, Lana was on her mobile, and this is what I overheard her saying:


'No, I can't make it to Pam's on Friday, I've got this stupid thing to go to. I don't know, it's some patient of my dad's.


Every year she has this stupid dance where everybody has to dress up in black and white.'


I froze, my Algebra I-II textbook only halfway open. Lana's dad, I remembered, all of my blood turning cold, is a plastic surgeon. Could he have been the one who gave Contessa Trevanni her anteater face?


'I don't know,' Lana was saying, into her phone. 'She claims to be some kind of countess. I swear to God, this town is


littered with wannabe royals.'


As she said the words wannabe royals, Lana swivelled her head around — getting her long, shiny blonde hair all over


Chapter Twelve of my Algebra book - and looked at me.


Um, excuse me. I never wanted to be royal. Never, ever, ever did I even remotely suggest to anyone that I thought it might


be cool to be a princess.


Oh, sure, I wouldn't mind being a princess the way Belle became a princess at the end of Beauty and the Beast. You know,


a fairy-tale princess with no problems or responsibilities, except to look pretty and be all sweet to people.


But being a princess in real life is nothing like that. You have to make all these decisions that affect the good of your country. Like should you or should you not make tourists pay for parking? And should you, or should you not, protect dolphins and


sea turtles from pollution?


Clearly Lana has never thought about any of this, however.


'No, I'm not taking Josh,' she said scornfully into the hone, as more of her stupid hair fell all over my textbook. In fact, I


thought about closing my book on her hair, just to hear her scream, but I wanted to hear why she wasn't taking her long-time boyfriend, Josh Richter, to the black-and-white ball with her.


'He is so immature at these things,' Lana said to her friend. 'I mean, at the last one we went to together, he actually started throwing grapes down the front of this one girl's dress. I know. High-school boys just don't know how to act. Besides,


there'll be all these West Pointers there. It'll be nice to be with some college boys for a change.'


Really, I may not have had a boyfriend all that long (thirty-four days to be exact) but it seems pretty disloyal to be looking forward to going to a dance with someone other than your significant other. I mean, I am totally dreading going to the contessa's black-and-white ball without Michael.


And now I am dreading it even more, knowing that Lana is going to be there.


Especially when Mr G walked into the classroom, and Lana — who had learned a lesson from last time — went,


'Oops, gotta go,' into her mobile and hung up, then happened to glance in my direction.


'What are you looking at, fish breath?' she wanted to know.


Now, I happen to know that I don't have fish breath. For one thing, I fully had oatmeal for breakfast, and for another, Lars


is addicted to those Listerine Pocket Pak thingies that melt on your tongue and is always handing them out, and I had just


had one in anticipation of Michael possibly stopping by my Algebra class on his way to Senior English (which he did, to


hand me a CD he burned for me last night of Pearl Jam's greatest hits, even though of course I don't really like bands that


don't have girls in them, except *NSYNC of course, but I will totally pretend that I listened to it and liked it).


So I know that my breath did not smell like fish.


But I didn't get to say anything back to Lana because Mr. G told us to get out last night's homework problems


(which I actually had done) so my opportunity was cut off.


But I am going to remember what she said for ever, because we Renaldo women, we can really hold a grudge when


we want to.







Defn: Square root of perfect sq. is either of the identical factors


Defn: Positive sq. root is called the principal sq. root


Negative numbers have no sq. root






Things to Do:



1. Have Genovian ambassador to the UN call the CIA. See if they can dispatch some agents to track down my


underwear (if it falls into the wrong hands, could be an international incident!)


2. Get cat food!!!!!


3. Check on Mom's folk-acid intake.


4. Tell Michael I will not be able to make first date with him.


5. Prepare to be dumped.








Thursday, January 21,


Health and Safety




Did you see that? They are meeting at Cosi for lunch!


Yes. He so loves her.


It's so cute when teachers are in love.


So are you nervous about your breakfast meeting tomorrow?


Hardly. THEY are the ones who should be nervous.


Are you going all by yourself? Your mom and dad aren't coming with you, are they?


Please. I can handle a bunch of movie executives on my own, thanks. God, how can they keep


stuffing this infantile swill down our throats,year after year. Don't they think we know by now that tobacco kills? Hey, did you get all your homework done, or were you up all night instant messaging


my brother instead?


Both.


You two are so cute, it makes me want to puke. Almost as cute as Mr Wheeton and Mademoiselle Klein.


Shut up.


God, this is boring. Want to make another list?


OK, you start.




Lilly Moscovitz's Guide to What's Hot and What's Not on TV


(with commentary by Mia Thermopolis):




Seventh Heaven



Lilly: A complex look at one family's struggles to maintain Christian mores in an ever-evolving, modern-day society. Fairly well acted and occasionally moving, this show can turn 'preachy', but does depict the problems facing normal families with surprising realism, and only occasionally sinks to the banal.


Mia: Even though the dad is a minister and everyone has to learn a lesson at the end of every episode, this show is pretty good. High point When the Olsen twins guest-starred. Low point When the show's cosmetician gave the youngest girl straight hair.




Popstars



Lilly: A ridiculous attempt to pander to the lowest common denominator, this show puts its young stars through


a humiliatingly public 'audition', then zeroes in as the losers cry and winners gloat.


Mia: They take a bunch of attractive people who can sing and dance and make them audition for a place in a pop group, and


some of them get it and some of them don't, and the ones who do are instant celebrities who then crack up, all the while


wearing interesting and generally navel-baring outfits. How could this show be bad?




Sabrina the Teenage Witch



Lilly: Though based on comic-book characters, this show is surprisingly affable, and even occasionally amusing. Although, sadly, actual Wiccan practices are not described. The show could benefit from some research into the age-old religion that has, through the centuries, empowered millions, primarily females. The talking cat is a bit suspect: I have not read any believable documentation that would support the possibility of transfiguration.


Mia: Totally awesome during the high school/Harvey years. Goodbye Harvey - goodbye show.




Baywatch



Lilly: Puerile garbage.


Mia: Most excellent show of all time. Everyone is good-looking; you can fully follow every plotline, even while instant messaging;


and there are lots of pictures of the beach, which is great when you are in dark gloomy Manhattan in February. Best episode:


when Pamela Anderson Lee got kidnapped by that half-man/half-beast, who after plastic surgery became a professor at UCLA. Worst episode: anytime Mitch adopts a son.



Powerpuff Girls



Lilly: Best show on television.


Mia: Ditto. Nuffsaid.



Roswell High



Lilly: An intriguing look at the possibility that aliens live among us. The fact that they might be teenagers, and extraordinarily attractive ones at that, stretches the show's credibility somewhat.


Mia: Hot guys with alien powers. What more can you ask? High point Future Max; any time anybody made out in the eraser


room. Low point: when that skanky Tess showed up.



Buffy the Vampire Slayer


Lilly: Feminist empowerment at its peak, entertainment at its best. The heroine is a lean, mean, vampire-killing machine, who worries as much about her immortal soul as she does messing up her hair. A strong role model for


young women - nay, people of all sexes and ages will benefit from the viewing of this show. All of television should


be this good. The fact that this show has, for so long, been ignored by the Emmys is a travesty.


Mia: If only the Buffster could just find a boyfriend who doesn't need to drink platelets to survive. High point


any time there's kissing. Low point none.



Gilmore Girls


Lilly: Thoughtful portrayal of single mother struggling to raise teenage daughter in a small, northeastern town.


Mia: Many, many, many, many, many, many cute boys. Plus it is nice to see single moms who sleep with their kid's teacher getting respect instead of lectures from the Moral Majority.



Charmed


Lilly: While this show at least accurately portrays historical Wiccan practices, the spells these girls routinely cast are completely unrealistic. You cannot, for instance, travel through time or between dimensions without creating rifts in the space-time continuum. Were these girls really to transport themselves to seventeenth-century Puritan America, they would arrive there with their oesophaguses ripped inside out, not neatly stuffed into a corset, as no one can


travel through a wormhole and maintain their mass integrity. It is a simple matter of physics. Albert Einstein must


be spinning in his grave.


Mia: Hello, witches in hot clothes. Like Sabrina, only better because the boys are cuter, and sometimes they are


in danger and the girls have to save them.








Thursday; January 21.


Gifted and Talented





Tina is so mad at Jane Eyre. She says Jane Eyre ruined her life.


She announced this at lunch. Right in front of Michael, who isn't supposed to know about the whole Jane Eyre technique


of not chasing boys thing, but, whatever. He admitted to never having read the book, so I think it is a safe bet he didn't


know what Tina was talking about.


Still, it was way sad. Tina said she is giving up her romance novels. Giving them up because they led to the ruination of


her relationship with Dave!


We were all very upset to hear about this. Tina loves reading romances. She reads about one a day.


But now she says that if it weren't for romance novels, she, and not this mysterious Jasmine person, would be going to


the Rangers game with Dave Farouq El-Abar this Saturday.


And my pointing out that she doesn't even like hockey didn't seem to help.


Lilly and I both realized that this was a pivotal moment in Tina's adolescent growth. It needed to be pointed out to her that Dave, not Jane, was the one who'd pulled the plug on their relationship . . . and, that when looked at objectively, the whole thing was probably for the best. It was ludicrous for Tina to blame romance novels for her plight.


So Lilly and I very quickly drew up the following list, and presented it to Tina, in the hope that she would see the error of


her ways:






Mia and Lilly's List of Romantic Heroines


and the Valuable Lessons Each Taught Us:




1. Jane Eyre from Jane Eyre:


Stick to your convictions and you will prevail.


2. Lorna Doone from Lorna Doone:


Probably you are secretly royalty and an heiress, only no one has told you yet (this applies to Mia Thermopolis, as well).


3. Elizabeth Bennet from Pride and Prejudice:


Boys like it when you are smart-alecky.


4. Scarlett O'Hara from Gone with the Wind:


Ditto.


5. Maid Marian from Robin Hood:


It is a good idea to learn how to use a bow and arrow.


6. Jo March from Little Women:


Always keep a second copy of your manuscript handy in case your vindictive little sister throws your first draft


on the fire.


7. Anne Shirley from Anne of Green Gables:


One word: Clairol.


8. Marguerite St Juste from The Scarlet Pimpernel:


Check out your husband's rings before you marry him.


9. Cathy, from Wuthering Heights:


Don't get too big for your breeches or you too will have to wander the moors in lonely heartbreak after you die.


10. Juliet from Romeo and Juliet:


If you're going to fake your own death, it might be nice if you clued your husband in about it first, to avoid any


tragic mishaps later.



Tina, after reading the list, admitted tearfully that we were right, that romantic heroines really were her friends, and that she could not, in good conscience, forsake them. We were all just breathing a sigh of relief (except for Michael and Boris; they were playing on Michael's Gameboy) when Shameeka made a sudden announcement, even more startling than Tina's:


'I'm trying out for cheerleading.'


We were, of course, stunned. Not because Shameeka would make a bad cheerleader - she is the most athletic of us all,


also the most attractive, and knows almost as much as Tina does about fashion and make-up.


It was just that, as Lilly so bluntly put it, 'Why would you want to go and do something like that?'


'Because,' Shameeka explained, 'I am tired of letting Lana and her friends push me around. I am just as good as any of them. Why shouldn't I try out for the squad, even if I'm not in their little clique? I have just as good a chance of getting on the team


as anybody else.'


Lilly said, 'While this is unarguably true, I feel I must warn you, Shameeka, if you try out for cheerleading, you might actually


get on the squad. Are you prepared to subject yourself to the humiliation of cheering for Josh Richter as he chases after a


little ball?'


'Cheerleading has, for many years, suffered from the stigma of being inherently sexist,' Shameeka said. 'But I think the cheerleading community in general is making strides at asserting itself as a fast-growing sport for both men and women. It is


a good way to keep fit and active, it combines two things I love dearly, dance and gymnastics, and will look excellent on my college applications. That is, of course, the only reason my father is allowing me to try out. That and the fact that I won't be allowed to attend any post-game parties.'


I didn't doubt this last part. Mr Taylor, Shameeka's dad, is way strict.


But as for the rest of it, well, I wasn't sure.


'Does that mean that if you get on the squad,' I wanted to know, 'you'll stop eating lunch with us and go sit over there?'


I pointed at the long table across the cafeteria from ours, at which Lana and Josh and all of their school-spirit minded, incredibly well-coiffed cronies sat. The thought of losing Shameeka, who was always so elegant and yet at the same


time sensible, to the Dark Side made my heart ache.


'Of course not,' Shameeka said, disparagingly. 'Getting on to the Albert Einstein High School cheerleading squad is not


going to change my friendships with all of you one iota. I will still be the camera person for your television show . . .' she nodded to Lilly, '. . . and your Bio. partner . . .' to me, '. . . and your lipstick consultant. . .' to Tina, '. . . and your portrait model,' to Ling Su. 'I just may not be around as much, if I get on to the squad.'


We all sat there, reflecting upon this great change that might befall us. If Shameeka made the squad it would, of course,


strike a blow for geeky girls everywhere. But it would also necessarily rob of us Shameeka, who would be forced to


spend all of her free time practising doing the splits and taking the bus to Mount Kisco for away games with Phillips Prep.


The silence at the table was palpable . . . well, except for the bing-bing-bing of Michael's electronic game. Boys -apparently even perfect boys, like Michael - are immune to things like mood.


But I can tell you, the mood of this year so far has been pretty bad. In fact, if things don't start looking up soon, I may have


to write this entire year off as a do-over.


Still no clue as to what my secret talent might be. One thing I'm pretty sure it's not is psychology. It was hard work talking


Tina out of giving up her books! And we didn't manage to convince Shameeka not to try out for cheerleading. I guess I can


see why she'd want to do it -I mean, it might be a little fun.


Though why anyone would willingly want to spend that much time with Lana Weinberger is beyond me.









Thursday, January 21


French





Mademoiselle Klein is NOT happy with Tina and me for skipping yesterday.


Of course I told her we didn't skip, that we had a medical emergency that necessitated a trip to Ho's (for Tampax), but


I am not sure Mademoiselle Klein believes me. You would think she would show some feminine solidarity with the whole surfing-the-crimson-wave thing, but apparently not. At least she didn't write us up. She let us off with a warning and


assigned us a five-hundred-word essay each (in French, of course) about snails.


But that isn't even what I want to write about. What I want to write about is this:


MY DAD RULES!!!!!


And not just a country, either. He totally got me out of the contessa's black-and-white ball!!!!


What happened was - at least according to Mr G, who just caught me outside in the hall and filled me in - the filibuster


over the parking fees was finally broken (after thirty-six hours) and my mom was finally able to get through to my dad


(those in favour of charging for parking won. It is a victory for the environment as well as the Genovian Historical Society,


who felt that many of our narrower streets would not be able to withstand the rumble of recreational vehicles that would


ensue if we allowed free parking).


Anyway, my dad fully said that I did not have to go to the contessa's party. Not only that, but he said he had never heard anything so ridiculous in his life, that the only feud going on between our family and the royal family of Monaco is Grandmere's. Apparently she and the contessa have been in competition since finishing school, and Grandmere had just wanted to show off her granddaughter, about whom books and movies have been made. Apparently the contessa's only granddaughter is in rehab in Fresno, so you can sort of see where Grandmere was coming from, although, of course, what she'd been trying to do isn't very nice.


So I am free! Free to spend tomorrow night with my only love! I cat-on-the-roofed Michael for nothing! Everything is going


to be all right, despite my lack of lucky underwear, I can feel it in my bones.


I am so happy, I feel like writing a poem. I will shield it from Tina, however, because it is unseemly to gloat over one's own fortunes when the fortunes of another are so exceedingly wretched (Tina found out who Jasmine is: a girl who goes to Trinity, with Dave. Her father is an oil sheikh, too. Jasmine has aquamarine braces and her screenname is Iluvjustin2345).



Poem for Michael



Oh, Michael,


soon we'll be parkin'


in front of Grand Moff Tarkin


Enjoying veggie moo shu


to the beeps of R2D2


And maybe even holding hands


while gazing upon the Tatooine sands


And knowing that our love by far


has more fire power than the Death Star


And though they may blow up our planet


and kill every creature living on it


Like Leia and Han, in the stars above,


they can never destroy our love—


Like the Millennium Falcon in hyperdrive


our love will continue to thrive and thrive.






Homework:


Algebra: probs at end of Chapt. 11


English: in journal, describe feelings pertaining to reading John Donne's The Bait


Biology: Don't know, Shameeka is doing it for me


Health and Safety: Chapter 2: Environmental Hazards and You


G & T: figure out secret talent


French: Chapitre Onze, ecrivez une narratif, 300 words, double space, plus 500 wds on snails


World Civ.: 500 wds, describe origins of Armenian conflict








Thursday, January 21,


Limo on Way Home from Grandmere's





It takes a big person to admit she's wrong - Grandmere is the one who taught me that.


And if it's true, then I must be even bigger than my five feet nine inches. Because I've been wrong. I've been wrong about Grandmere. All this time, when I thought she was inhuman and perhaps even sent down from an alien moth-ership to


observe life on this planet and then report back to her superiors. Yeah, it turns out Grandmere really is human, just like me.


How did I find this out? How did I discover that the Dowager Princess of Genovia did not, after all, sell her soul to the


Prince of Darkness as I have often surmised?


I learned it today when I walked into Grandmere 's suite at the Plaza, fully prepared to do battle with her over the whole Contessa Trevanni thing. I was going to be all, 'Grandmere, Dad says I don't have to go, and guess what, I'm not going to.'


That's what I was going to say, anyway.


Except that when I walked in and saw her, the words practically died on my lips. Because Grandmere looked as if someone had run over her with a truck! Seriously. She was sitting there in the dark - she had had these purple scarves thrown over the lampshades because she said the light was hurting her eyes - and she wasn't even dressed properly. She had on a velvet lounging robe, a cashmere throw over her knees and some slippers and that was it, and her hair was all in curlers and if her eyeliner hadn't been tattooed on, I swear it would have been all smeared. She wasn't even enjoying a Sidecar, her favourite refreshment, or anything.


She was just sitting there, with Rommel trembling on her lap, looking like death warmed over.


'Grandmere,' I couldn't help crying out, when I saw her. 'Are you all right? Are you sick or something? Do you want me


to get your maid?'


But all Grandmere said was, in a voice so unlike her own normally quite strident one that I could barely believe it belonged


to the same woman, 'No, I'm fine. At least I will be. Once I get over the humiliation.'


'Humiliation? What humiliation?' I went over to kneel by her chair. 'Grandmere, are you sure you aren't sick? You aren't even smoking!'


'I'll be all right,' she said, weakly. 'It will be weeks before I'll be able to show my face in public. But I'm a Renaldo. I'm strong.


I will recover.'


Actually, Grandmere is technically only a Renaldo by marriage, but at that point I wasn't going to argue with her, because I thought there was something genuinely wrong, like her uterus had fallen out in the shower or something (this happened to one


of the women in the condo community down in Boca where Lilly and Michael's grandmother lives).


'Grandmere,' I said, kind of looking around, in case her uterus was lying on the floor somewhere or whatever. 'Do you want


me to call a doctor?'


'No doctor can cure what is wrong with me,' Grandmere assured me. 'I am only suffering from the mortification of having a granddaughter who doesn't love me.'


I had no idea what she was talking about. Sure, I don't like Grandmere so much sometimes. Sometimes I even think I hate


her. But I don't not love her. I guess. At least I've never said so, to her face.


'Grandmere, what are you talking about? Of course I love you . . .'


'Then why won't you come with me to the Contessa Trevanni's black-and-white ball?' Grandmere wailed.


Blinking rapidly, I could only stammer, 'Wh-what?'


'Your father says you will not go to the ball,' Grandmere said. 'He says you have no wish to go!'


'Grandmere,' I said. 'You know I don't want to go. You know that Michael and—'


'That boy!' Grandmere cried. 'That boy again!'


'Grandmere, stop calling him that,' I said. 'You know his name perfectly well. It's Michael.'


'And I suppose this Michael,' Grandmere said, 'is more important to you than I am. I suppose you consider his feelings


over mine in this case.'


The answer to that, of course, was a resounding yes. But I didn't want to be rude. I said, 'Grandmere, tomorrow night


is our first date. Mine and Michael's, I mean. It's really important to me.'


And I suppose the fact that it was really important to me that you attend this ball - that is of no consequence?' Grandmere actually looked, for a moment, as she sat gazing down at me so miserably, as if she had tears in her eyes. But maybe it was


only a trick of the not very clear light. 'The fact that Elena Trevanni has, ever since I was a little girl, always lorded it over me, because she was born into a more respected and aristocratic family than I was? That until I married your grandfather, she always had nicer clothes and shoes and handbags than my parents could afford for me? That she still thinks she is so much better than me, because she married a comte who had no responsibilities or property, just unlimited wealth, whereas I have been forced to work my fingers to the bone in order to make Genovia the vacation paradise it is today? And that I was


hoping that just this once, by revealing what a lovely and accomplished granddaughter I have, I could show her up?'


I was stunned. I'd had no idea why this stupid ball was so important to her. I thought it had just been because she'd wanted


to try to split Michael and me up, or get me to start liking Prince Rene instead, so that the two of us could unite our families in holy matrimony someday and create a race of super-royals. It had never occurred to me that there might be some underlying, mitigating circumstance . . .


. . . such as that the Contessa Trevanni was, in essence, Grandmere's Lana Weinberger.


Because that's what it sounded like. Like Elena Trevanni had tortured and teased Grandmere as mercilessly as I had been tortured and teased by Lana through the years.


I wondered if Elena, like Lana, had ever suggested to Grandmere that she wear Band-Aids on her boobs instead of a bra.


If she had, she was a far, far braver soul than I.


And now,' Grandmere said, very sadly, 'I have to tell her that my granddaughter doesn't love me enough to put aside her


new boyfriend for one single night.'


I realized, with a sinking heart, what I had to do. I mean, I knew how Grandmere felt. If there had been some way, any way


at all, that I could have shown up Lana - you know, besides going out with her boyfriend, which I had already done, but that had ended up humiliating me way more than it had Lana — I'd have done it. Anything.


Because when someone is as mean and cruel and just downright nasty as Lana is - not just to me, either, but to all the girls at Albert Einstein High who aren't blessed with good looks and school spirit - she fully deserves to have her nose rubbed in it.


It was so weird to think about someone like Grandmere, who seemed so incredibly sure of herself, having a Lana


Weinberger in her life. I mean, I had always pictured Grandmere being the type of person who, if Lana flipped her long


blonde on to her desk, would go all Crouching Tiger on her and deliver a kick to the face.


But maybe there was someone even Grandmere was a little bit afraid of. And maybe that person was Contessa Trevanni.


And while it is not true that I love Grandmere more than I love Michael - I do not love anyone more than I love Michael, except of course for Fat Louie — I did feel sorrier for Grandmere at that moment than I did for myself. You know, if


Michael ended up dumping me because I cancelled our date. It sounds incredible, but it's true.


So I went, even as I said them, not quite believing the words were coming out of my mouth, 'All right, Grandmere,


I'll put in an appearance at your ball.'


A miraculous change overcame Grandmere. She seemed to brighten right up.


'Really, Amelia?' she asked, reaching out to grasp one of my hands. 'Will you really do this for me?'


I was, I knew, going to lose Michael forever. But like my mother had said, if he didn't understand then he probably


hadn't been right for me in the first place.


Yeah, right!!! Michael is the most perfect guy in the universe!! Our astrological charts even prove it!!! And I was throwing


it all away for Grandmere, whom I am pretty sure I don't even like!!!


God, I am such a pushover. But she just looked so happy. She flung off the cashmere throw, and Rommel, and rang for her maid to bring her a Sidecar and her cigarettes, and then we moved on to the day's lesson - how to cheat at canasta without being found out, a necessity during games with the highly volatile Bengazi royal family, who, if they aren't allowed to win,


tend to go out the next day and raze entire villages.


All I want to know is: What?


Not about the Bengazis.


I mean what - WHAT???? - am I going to tell Michael? I mean, seriously. If he doesn't dump me now then there's


something wrong with him. And since I know there is nothing wrong with him, I know that I am about to be dumped.


About which all I can say is THERE IS NO JUSTICE IN THE WORLD. NONE.


Since Lilly has her breakfast meeting with the producers of the made-for-TV movie of my life tomorrow morning, I guess


I will break the news to Michael then. That way he can dump me in time for Homeroom. Maybe then I will have stopped


crying before Lana sees me in Algebra second period. I don't think I'll be able to take her mockery, after already having


my heart ripped from my body and flung across the floor.


I hate myself.








Thursday; January 21,


The Loft





I saw the movie of my life. My mom taped it for me while I was in Genovia. She thought Mr. G recorded


Temptation Island over it, but it turned out he didn't.


The girl who played me was way prettier than I am in real life. My mom says that's not true, but I know it is.


I guess I can see why Lilly is so mad, though. I mean, her character wasn't exactly supportive of mine for a good


two-thirds of the movie.


The guy who played Michael was a total babe. In the movie, he and I end up together.


Too bad in real life he is going to dump me tomorrow ... even though Tina doesn't think so.


This is very nice of her, and everything, but the fact is, he is totally going to. I mean, it really is a matter of pride. If a girl


with whom you have been going out for a full thirty-four days cancels your very first date, you really have no choice but to break up with her. I mean, I totally understand. I would break up with me. It is clear now that royal teens can't be like


normal ones. I mean, for people like me and Prince William, duty will always have to come first. Who is going to be able to understand that, let alone put up with it?


Tina says Michael can, and will. Tina says Michael won't break up with me because he loves me. I said yes he will,


because he only loves me as a friend.


'Clearly Michael loves you as more than just a friend,' Tina keeps saying into the phone. 'I mean, you guys kissed!'


'Yes,' I say. 'But Kenny and I kissed, and I did not like him as more than just a friend.'


'This is a completely different situation,' Tina says. 'Because you and Michael are meant to be together!' Tina sounds exasperated. 'Your star chart says so! You and Kenny were never meant for one another, he is a Cancer.'


Tina's astrological predictions notwithstanding, there is no evidence that Michael feels more strongly for me than he does


for, say, Judith Gershner. Yes, he wrote me that poem that mentioned the L word. But that was an entire month ago, during which period I was in another country. He has not renewed any such protestations since my return. I think it highly likely that tomorrow will be the straw that breaks the hot guy's back. I mean, why would Michael waste his time on a girl like me, who can't even stand up to her own grandmother? I'm sure if Michael's grandmother had been all, 'Michael, you've got to go to bingo with me Friday night, because Olga Krakowski, my childhood rival, will be there, and I want to show you off,' he'd


have been all, 'Sorry, Gran, no can do.'


No, I'm the spineless one. I'm the one completely lacking in backbone.


And I'm die one who now must suffer for it.


I wonder if it is too late in the school year to transfer. Because I really don't think I can take going to the same school as Michael after we are broken up. Seeing him in the hallway between classes, at lunch, and in G and T, knowing he was once mine but that I'd lost him, might just kill me.


But is there another school in Manhattan that might take a talentless, backbone-lacking reject like myself? Doubtful.




For Michael



Oh, Michael, my one true love


We had all new pleasures yet to prove


But I lost you due to my own retardation


before our love had yet found frutation


And now through the years, for you I will pine


and mourn for the days when you were once mine.










Friday, January 22,


Homeroom





Well. That's it. It's over. He dumped me.


All right, not in so many words. But I could see it in his face.


He tried to be nice about it. I mean, he didn't come right out and say, 'Get back, Jack.'


But I could see it in his eyes.


'No, really, Mia,' was what he said. 'I understand. You're a princess. Duty comes first.'


That is what he said. What he meant was:


'Hmmm, I wonder if Judith Gershner has broken up with that guy from Trinity yet? Maybe she's available, since this loser


Mia sure isn't.'


I told him that I would try to get out of the ball early if I could. He said that if I did, I should stop by. The Moscovitzes' apartment, I mean.


I know what this means, of course:


That he is going to dump me there.


Because he can't dump me in my own limo, in front of my bodyguard and driver. I mean, for all Michael knows, Lars might


be trained to beat up boys who try to dump me in front of him. Surely Michael, having a normal sense of self-preservation,


will choose to break off our relationship in the privacy of his own home, where he will be safe from rubber bullets and ninja throwing stars.


I cannot blame him. I would do the same thing.


Now I know how Jane Eyre must have felt when she discovered, on her wedding day, that Mr Rochester had a wife yet


living. No, Michael doesn't have a wife that I know of. But my relationship with him, like Jane's with Mr Rochester, has


come to an end. And I can think of no earthly way it can ever be repaired. I mean, it's possible that tonight, when I go by


the Moscovitzes' place, it wall be in flames, and I will be able to prove myself worthy of Michael's love by selflessly saving


his mother, or perhaps his dog, Pavlov, from the fire.


But other than that, I don't see us getting back together. I will, of course, give him his birthday present, because I went to


all the trouble of stealing it.


But I know it won't do any good. It's over. Like my life.


They just announced the name of the newest member of the Albert Einstein High junior varsity cheerleading squad. It is Shameeka Taylor.


Who even cares?









Friday, January 22,


Algebra





Michael did not stop by here between classes. It is the first day all week that he hasn't slipped in to say hi on his way to


Senior English, three classrooms away from this one.


It is obvious why. I mean, we are broken up. He hates me now. I don't blame him. I hate myself.


To make matters worse — as if I can even care about something so trivial - Lana just turned around to hiss, 'Don't think


just because your little friend made the squad that anything is going to change between us, Mia. She's as much of a pathetic geekette as you are. They only let her on the squad to fulfil our freak quota.'


Then she whipped her head around again — but not as fast as she should have. Because a lot of her hair was still draped across my desk.


And when I slammed my Algebra I—II text closed as hard as I could - which is what I did next - a lot of her silky, awa-puhi-scented locks got trapped between page 212 and 213.


Lana shrieked in pain. Mr G, up at the chalkboard, turned around, saw where the screaming was coming from, and sighed.


'Mia,' he said, tiredly, 'Lana. What now?'


Lana stabbed an index finger in my direction. 'She slammed her book on my hair!'


I shrugged innocently. 'I didn't know her hair was in my book. Why can't she keep her hair to herself, anyway?'


Mr. Gianini looked bored. 'Lana,' he said, 'if you can't keep your hair under control, I recommend braids. Mia, don't


slam your book. It should be open to page two-twelve, where I want you to read from Section Two. Out loud.'


I read out loud from Section Two, but not without a certain primness. For once, vengeance on Lana had been mine, and


I had NOT been sent to the principal's office. Oh, it was sweet. Sweet, sweet vindication.


Although I don't even know why I have to learn this stuff; it isn't as if the Palais de Genovia isn't full of dweeby staffers


who are just dying to multiply fractions for me.








Polynomials


term: variable(s) multiplied by a coefficient


monomial: Polynomial w/ one term


binomial: Polynomial w/ two terms


trinomial: Polynomial w/ three terms


Degree of polynomial = the degree of the term with the highest degree





In my delight over the pain I had brought upon my enemy, I almost forgot about the fact that my heart is broken.


Must keep in mind that Michael is dumping me after the black-and-white ball tonight. Why can't I FOCUS????


Must be love. I am sick with it.










Fiday, January 22,


Health and Safety




Why do you look like you just ate ANOTHER sock?


I don't. How was your breakfast meeting? You do, too. The meeting went GREAT.


Really? Did they agree to print a full-page letter of apology in the Times?


No, better. Did something happen between you and my brother? Because I saw him looking all furtive in the hallway just now.


FURTIVE? Furtive like how? Like he was looking for Judith Gershner to ask her out tonight????


No, more like he was looking for a pay phone. Why would he ask out Judith Gershner? How many times


do I have to tell you, he likes you, not J.G.


He used to like me, you mean. Before I was forced to cancel our date tonight due to Grandmere forcing me to


go to a ball.


A ball? Really. Ugh. But excuse me. Michael isn't going to ask some other girl to go out with him tonight


just because you can't make it. I mean, he was really looking forward to going with you. Not just for concupiscent reasons, either.


REALLY????


Yes, you loser. What did you think? I mean, you guys are going out.


But that's just it We haven't gone out

yet I mean.


So? You'll go out sometime when you don't hove a ball to go to instead.


You don't think he's going to dump me?


Uh, not unless something heavy fell on his head between now and the last time I saw him. Guys with


cranial damage can't generally be held responsible for their actions.


Why would something heavy fall on his head? I'm being facetious. Do you want to hear about my meeting, or not?


Yes. What happened? They told me they want to option my show.


What does that mean?


It means that they will take Lilly Tells It Like It Is around to the networks to see if anybody wants to buy it.


To be a real show. On a real channel. Not like public access. Like ABC or Lifetime or VH1 or something.


Lilly! THAT IS SO GREAT!!!! Yes, I know. Oops, gotta go, Wheeton's looking this way.








Note to self: Look up words concupiscent and facetious.










Friday, January 22,


Gifted and Talented





Lunch was just one big celebration today. Everyone had something to be happy about:


• Shameeka, for making the cheerleading squad and striking a blow for tall geeky girls everywhere (even though, of course, Shameeka looks like a supermodel and can wrap both her ankles around her head, but, whatever).


• Lilly, for getting her TV show optioned.


• Tina, for finally deciding to give up on Dave, but not on romance in general, and get on with her life.


• Ling Su for getting her drawing of Joe, the stone lion, into the school art fair.


• And Boris for just, well, being Boris. Boris is always happy.


You will notice that I did not mention Michael. That is because I do not know what Michael's mental state at lunch was, whether or not he was happy or sad or concupiscent or whatever. That is because Michael didn't show up to lunch. He


said, when he breezed by my locker just before fourth period, 'Hey, I've got some things to do, I'll see you in G and T, OK?'


Some things to do. Like, for instance, find another girl to take to the movie tonight.


I should, of course, just ask him. I should just be like, Look, are we broken up, or what? Because I would really like to know, one way or the other, so I can begin planning either my wedding or my funeral.


Well, not really, because, of course, I don't live in Utah, and I would never kill myself over a boy, even Michael. But you


know what I mean.


Except that I can't just go up and ask Michael what the deal is between us, because right now he is busy with Boris, going


over band stuff. Michael's band is comprised (so far) of Michael (bass); Boris (electric violin); that tall guy Paul from the Computer Club (keyboards); this guy from the AEHS marching band called Trevor (guitar); and Felix, this scary-looking twelfth-grader with a goatee that's bushier than Mr Gianini's (drums). They still don't have a name for the band, or a place to practise. But they seem to think that Mr Kreblutz, the chief custodian, will let them into the band practice rooms on weekends


if they can get him tickets to the Westminster Kennel Show next month. Mr Kreblutz is a huge bichon frise fan.


The fact that Michael can concentrate on all this band stuff while our relationship is falling apart is just further proof that he is


a true musician, completely dedicated to his art. I, being the talentless freak that I am, can, of course, think of nothing but my heartbreak. Michael's ability to remain focused in spite of any personal pain he might be suffering is evidence of his genius.


Either that or he never cared that much about me in the first place.


I prefer to believe the former.


Oh, that I had some kind of outlet, such as music, into which to pour the suffering I am currently feeling! But alas, I'm no


artist. I just have to sit here in silent pain, while around me more-gifted souls express their innermost angst through song,


dance and filmography.


Well, OK, just through filmography since there are no singers or dancers in fifth period G and T. Though if you ask me, there should be. Instead we just have Lilly, putting together what she is calling her quintessential episode of Lilly Tells It Like It Is,


a show that will explore the seamy underbelly of that American institution known as Starbucks. It is Lilly's contention that Starbucks, through the introduction of the Starbucks card, with which caffeine addicts can now pay for their fix electronically,


is actually a secret branch of the Central Intelligence Agency that is tracing the movements of America's intelligentsia - writers, editors and other known liberal agitators - through their coffee consumption.


Whatever. I don't even like coffee.


This can't be how it ends, can it? My love affair with Michael, I mean. Not with a bang, but with hardly even a whimper,


like Rommel when you accidentally step on his tail?


This so isn't how Mr. Rochester would have done it. Broken up with Jane, I mean. If he'd decided to break up with her.


Which he never did because he loved her too much, even when she ran away from him and went to go live with another


guy. Well, OK, and his sisters, and he turned out to be her cousin, but, whatever.


No, even then Mr Rochester reached out psychically and touched Jane's mind with his. Because though their bodies


might be parted, their souls were forever entwined by a love that was stronger than—


Aw, crud. The bell.





Homework:


Algebra: Who cares?


English: Everything sucks.


Biology: I hate life.


Health and Safety: Mr. Wheeton is in love, too. I should warn him to get out now, while he still can.


G & T: I shouldn't even be in this class.


French: Why does this language even exist? Everyone there speaks English anyway.


World Civ.: What does it matter? We're all just going to die.


Once our boyfriends dump us, anyway.











Friday, January 22, 6 p.m.


Grandmere's Suite at the Plaza





Grandmere made me come here straight after school so that Paolo could start getting us ready for the ball. I didn't know


Paolo makes housecalls, but apparently he does. Only for royalty, he assured me, and Britney.


I explained to him about how I am growing out my hair on account of boys liking long hair better than short hair, and Paolo made some tut-tutting noises, but he slapped some curlers into it to try to get rid of the triangular shape, and I guess it


worked, because my hair looks pretty good. All of me looks pretty good. On the outside, anyway.


Too bad inside, I'm completely busted.


I am trying not to show it, though. You know, because I want Grandmere to think I am having a good time. I mean, I am


only doing this for her. Because she is an old lady and my grandmother and she fought the Nazis and all of that, for which someone has to give her some credit.


I just hope someday she appreciates it. My supreme sacrifice, I mean. But I doubt she ever will. Seventy-something-year-old ladies - particularly dowager princesses -never seem to remember what it was like to be fourteen and in love.


Well, I guess it is time to go. Grandmere has on this slinky black number with gutter all over it. She looks like Diana Ross.


Only with no eyebrows.


She says I look like a snowdrop. Hmmm, just what I always wanted, to look like a snowdrop.


Maybe that's my secret talent. I have the amazing ability to resemble a snowdrop.


My parents must be so proud.










Friday, January 22, 8 p.m.


Bathroom at the Contessa Trevanni's Fifth-Avenue Mansion






Yep. In the bathroom once again, where I always seem to end up at dances. Why is that?


The contessa's bathroom is a little bit overdone. It is nice and everything, but I don't know if I'd have chosen flaming wall-sconces as part of my bathroom decor. I mean, even at the palace, we don't have any flaming wall-sconces. Although


it looks very romantic and Ivanhoe-y and all, it is actually a pretty serious fire hazard, besides being probably a health risk, considering the carcinogens they must be giving off.


But, whatever. That isn't even the, real question — why would anyone have flaming wall-sconces in the bathroom? The real question, of course, is this: if I am supposedly descended from all these strong women - you know, Rosagunde, who strangled that warlord with her braid, and Agnes, who jumped off that bridge, not to mention Grandmere, who allegedly kept the Nazis from trashing Genovia by having Hitler over for tea — why is it that I am such a pushover?


I mean, seriously. I totally fell for Grandmere's whole riff about wanting to show up Elena Trevanni with her pretty and accomplished — yeah, at looking like a snowdrop — granddaughter. I actually felt sorry for her. I had empathy for Grandmere, not realizing then - as I do now - that Grandmere is completely devoid of human emotion, and that the whole


thing was just a charade to trick me into coming so she could parade me around as PRINCE RENE'S NEW GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


To his credit, Rene seems to have known nothing about it.


He looked as surprised as I was when Grandmere presented me to her supposed arch-rival, who, thanks to the skill of


Lana's plastic surgeon dad, looks about thirty years younger than Grandmere, though they are supposedly the same age.


But I think the contessa maybe went a little far with the surgery thing - it is so hard to know when to say 'when', I mean, look


at poor Michael Jackson - because she really does, just like Grandmere said, resemble an anteater. Like her eyes are sort of far apart on account of the skin around them being stretched so tight, which makes her nose look extra long and skinny.


When Grandmere introduced me - 'Contessa, may I present to you my granddaughter, Princess Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Renaldo' (she always leaves out the Thermopolis) - I thought everything was going to be all right. Well, not everything, of course, since directly after the ball, I knew I was going to go over to my best friend's house and get dumped by her brother. But you know, everything at the ball.


But then Grandmere added, 'And of course you know Amelia's beau, Prince Pierre Rene Grimaldi Alberto.'


Beau? BEAU??? Rene and I exchanged quick glances. It was only then that I noticed that, standing right behind us in the reception line was none other than Lana Weinberger, her dad, and her mom. RIGHT THERE BEHIND US.


And Lana's mom, I saw, had allowed Lana to wear black instead of white to the black-and-white ball, even though I had been told, on no uncertain terms, that it was unseemly for a girl of my tender years to wear black. And Lana is the same age as me.


Lana, of course, totally overheard Grandmere's remark about me and Rene, and she got this look on her face . . .


Well, let's just say I'm surprised she didn't pull out her mobile then and there and call everyone she knew to tell them that


Mia Thermopolis was two-timing her best friend's brother.


So while I was standing there getting totally red in the face, and probably not resembling a snowdrop any more as much as


a candy cane, the contessa looked down her foot-long nose at me and went, 'So that rascal Rene has finally been snatched


up, and by your granddaughter, Clarisse. How satisfying that must be for you.'


Then Grandmere said, 'Isn't it, though, Elena?' And then to Rene and me she went, 'Come along, children,' and we followed her, Rene looking amused. But me? I was seething.


'I can't believe you did that,' I cried, as soon as we were out of the contessa's earshot.


'Did what, Amelia?' Grandmere asked, nodding to some guy in traditional African garb - a member of the Bengazi royal


family, no doubt.


'Told that woman that Rene and I are going out,' I said, 'when we most certainly are not. Grandmere, how many times do


I have to tell you, I'm going out with Michael Moscovitz!' At least I was until tonight, anyway.


'Rene,' Grandmere said, sweetly. She can be very sweet when she wants to be. 'Be an angel and see if you can find us


some champagne, would you?'


Rene, still looking cynically amused - the way I imagined Mr Rochester must have looked a lot of the time before he went


blind and got his hand chopped off - moved off in search of libation.


'Really, Amelia,' Grandmere said, when he was gone. 'Must you be so rude to poor Rene? I am only trying to make your cousin feel welcome and at home.'


'There is a difference,' I said, 'between making my cousin feel welcome and wanted, and trying to pass him off as my boyfriend!'


'Well, what's so wrong with Rene, anyway?' Grandmere wanted to know. All around us, elegant people in tuxedos and


evening gowns were heading to the dance floor, where a full orchestra was playing that song Audrey Hepburn sang in that movie about Tiffany's. Everyone was dressed in either black or white or both. The contessa's ballroom bore a significant resemblance to the penguin enclosure at the Central Park Zoo, where I had once sobbed my eyes out after discovering the truth about my heritage.


'He's extremely charming,' Grandmere went on, 'and quite cosmopolitan. Not to mention devilishly handsome. How can you possibly prefer a high school boy to a prince?'


'Because, Grandmere,' I said, 'I love him.'


'Love,' Grandmere said, looking towards the big glass ceiling overhead. 'Pfuit'


'Yes, Grandmere,' I said. 'I do. The way you loved Grandpere - and don't try to deny it, because I know you did. Now


you've got to stop harbouring a secret desire to make Prince Rene your grandson-in-law, because it is not going to happen.'


Grandmere looked blandly innocent. 'I don't know what you can mean,' she said, with a sniff.


'Cut it out, Grandmere. You want me to marry Prince Rene, for no other reason than that he is a royal. Well, it isn't going to happen. Even if Michael and I were to break up . . .' which was going to happen sooner than she thought '... I wouldn't get together with Rene. He's not my type. He smokes. And he likes to gamble. And he has no sympathy whatsoever for the


plight of the giant sea turtle.'


Grandmere finally began to look as if she might believe me. Tine,' she said, without much grace. 'I will stop calling Rene


your beau. But you must dance with him. At least once.'


'Grandmere.' The last thing in the world I felt like was dancing. 'Please. Not tonight. You don't know—'


'Amelia,' Grandmere said, in a different tone of voice from the one she'd used thus far. 'One dance. That is all I am asking


for. I believe you owe it to me.'


'I owe it to you?' I couldn't help bursting out laughing at that one. 'How so?'


'Oh, only because of a little something,' Grandmere said, all innocently, 'that was recently found to be missing from the


palace museum.'


All of my Renaldo fighting spirit went right out the contessa's French doors to her backyard patio when I heard this. I felt


as if someone had punched me in my snowdrop stomach. Had Grandmere really said what I thought she'd said???


Swallowing hard, I went, 'Wh-what?'


'Yes.' Grandmere looked at me meaningfully. 'A priceless object - one out of a group of several, almost identical items that


was given to me by my very dear friend, Mr. Richard Nixon, the deceased former American president - has been found to


be missing. I realize the person who took it thought it would never be missed, because it wasn't the only such item, and they


all did look much alike. Still, it held great sentimental value for me. Dick was such a dear, sweet friend to Genovia while he


was in office, for all his later troubles. But you wouldn't happen to know anything about any of this, would you, Amelia?'


She had me! She had me, and she knew it. I don't know how she knew - undoubtedly through the black arts, in which I suspect Grandmere of being highly well-versed -but clearly, she knew. I was dead. I was so, so dead. I don't know if,


being a member of the royal family, and all, I was above the law back in Genovia, but I for one did not want to find out.


I should, I realize now, merely have dissembled. I should have been all, 'Priceless object? What priceless object?'


But I couldn't, on account of my nostrils. Instead, I went, in this squeaky, high-pitched voice I barely recognized as my own, 'You know what, Grandmere? I'll be happy to dance with Rene. No problem!'


Grandmere looked extremely satisfied. She said, 'Yes, I thought you would feel that way.' Then her drawn-on eyebrows


went up. 'Oh, look, here comes Prince Rene with our drinks. Sweet of him, don't you think?'


Anyway, that's how it happened that I was forced to dance with Prince Rene - who is a good dancer, but, whatever,


he's no Michael. I mean, he's never even seen Buffy the Vampire Slayer and he thinks Bill Gates is a pretty swell guy.


While we were dancing, though, this incredible thing happened. Rene went, 'Who is this blonde girl who keeps staring at us? Do you know her?'


I looked over to see who he was talking about, and sure enough, Lana was dancing nearby with some old guy who must


have been a friend of her father's. She looked extremely pained, like the old guy was talking to her about his investment portfolio or something, and, I have to admit, the looks she was throwing in my direction were pretty envious.


Well, I guess, to a girl like Lana, I was in an enviable position. I looked like a snowdrop, and I was dancing with the handsomest guy in the room. Too bad I was in love with somebody else.


So then, I don't know what came over me, but I actually sort of started feeling sorry for Lana. I mean, she's so shallow.


She can't see past how somebody looks. She never bothers to stop and try to see the person they might be inside.


I don't know, maybe being the daughter of a plastic surgeon makes her insecure, or something. But it's like, if you don't


look or dress a certain way, Lana won't even give you the time of day.


And yeah, I knew that on Monday she was going to be going around school, telling everybody she could get to listen about how she saw me with another guy. But by that time Michael and I would be broken up anyway. So what did it matter?


So for the second time in two days, I did something because I felt sorry for someone whom I'd formerly considered pretty much an enemy. I looked up at Rene and said, 'Yeah, I know her. Her name is Lana. She goes to my school. When this


dance is over, you should ask her for the next one.'


Rene looked dubious. 'Really?'


'Trust me,' I said. 'It'll be the thrill of her life to dance with a handsome prince.'


'But not so much for you, eh,' Rene said, still wearing his cynical smile.


'Rene,' I said. 'No offence. But I already met my prince, long before I ever met you. The only problem is, if I don't get out


of here soon, I don't know how much longer he's going to be my prince, because I already missed the movie we were supposed to see together, and pretty soon it's going to be too late even for me to stop by . . .'


'Never fear, Your Highness,' Rene said, twirling me around. 'If fleeing the ball before the clock strikes twelve is your


desire, I will see to it that your wish is fulfilled.'


I looked at him kind of dubiously. I actually needed to get out of the ball by nine, not twelve, if I still wanted to make it to Michael's at a decent hour. Also, I couldn't tell whether or not Rene was joking.


'Um,' I said. 'OK.'


And that's how I ended up in this bathroom. Rene told me to hide, and that he'd get Lars to flag down a cab, and once he'd


got one, and the coast was clear, Rene would knock three times, signalling that Grandmere was too otherwise occupied to notice my defection. Then, Rene promised, he'd tell her I must have eaten a bad truffle, since I'd looked queasy, and Lars


had taken me home.


It doesn't matter, of course. Any of this, I mean. Because I am just going to end up at Michael's in time for him to dump me. Maybe he'll feel bad about it, you know, after I give him his birthday present. Then again, maybe he'll just be glad to be rid


of me. Who knows? I've given up trying to figure out men. They are a breed apart.


Oops, there's Rene's knock. Gotta go.


To meet my fate.






Friday, January 22,11 p.m.


The Moscovitzes' Bathroom






Oh, my God, I am FREAKING OUT.


Now I know how Jane Eyre must have felt when she returned to Thornfield Hall to find it all burnt to the ground and


everyone telling her everybody inside of it was killed in the fire.


Only then she finds out Mr. Rochester didn't die, he just lost his sight and his hand and his crazy wife and everything,


and Jane's like super happy, because, you know, in spite of what he tried to do to her, she loves him.


That's how I feel right now. Super happy. Because I fully don't think Michael is going to break up with me after all!!!!


I was sure he was going to when I was standing outside the Moscovitzes' apartment, you know, with my finger on the buzzer.


I was standing there going, Why am I even doing this? I am fully just walking into heartbreak. I should turn around


and have Lars flag down another cab and just go back to the loft. I hadn't even bothered changing out of my stupid


ball gown, because what was the point? I was just going to be on my way home in a few minutes anyway, and I could


change there.


So I'm standing there in the hallway, and Lars is behind me going on about his stupid boar hunt in Belize, because that is all


he talks about any more, and I hear Pavlov, Michael's dog, barking because someone is at the door, and I'm going, inside


my head, OK, when he breaks up with me, I am NOT going to cry, I am going to remember Rosagunde and Agnes,


and I am going to be strong like they were strong . . .


And then Michael opened the door. He looked kind of taken aback by my apparel, I could tell. I thought maybe it was because he hadn't counted on having to break up with a snowdrop. But there was nothing I could do about that, though


I did remember at the last minute that I was still wearing my tiara, which I suppose might intimidate, you know, some boys.


So I took it off and went, 'Well, I'm here,' which is a foolish thing to say, because, well, duh, I was standing there, wasn't I?


But Michael kind of seemed to recover himself. He went, 'Oh, hey, come in, you look . . . you look really beautiful,' which


of course is exactly what a guy who is about to break up with you would say, you know, to kind of bolster your ego before


he grinds it beneath his heel.


But, whatever, I went in, and so did Lars, and Michael went, 'Lars, my mom and dad are in the living room watching


Dateline, if you want to join them,' which Lars totally did, because you could tell he didn't want to hang around and


listen to the Big Breakup.


So then Michael and I were alone in the foyer. I was twirling my tiara around in my hands, trying to think of what to say.


I'd been trying to think what to say the whole way down in the cab, but I hadn't been very successful.


Then Michael went, 'Well, did you eat yet? Because I've got some veggie burgers . . .'


I looked up from the parquet floor tiles, which I had been examining very closely, since it was easier than looking into


Michael's peat-bog eyes, which always suck me in until I feel like I can't move any more. They used to punish criminals


in ancient Celtic societies by making them walk into a peat bog. If they sank, you know, they were guilty, and if not, they


were innocent. Only you always sink when you walk into a peat bog. They uncovered a bunch of bodies from one in Ireland not too long ago, and they, like, still had all their teeth and hair and stuff. They were totally preserved. It was way gross.


That's how I feel when I look into Michael's eyes. Like I'm trapped in peat bog. Only I don't mind, because it's warm and


nice and cosy in there . . .


And now he was asking me if I wanted a veggie burger. Do guys generally ask their girlfriends if they want a veggie burger


right before they break up with them? I wasn't very well versed in these matters, so the truth was, I didn't know.


But I didn't think so.


'Um,' I said, intelligently. 'I don't know.' I thought maybe it was a trick question. 'If you're having one, I guess.'


So then Michael went, 'OK,' and gestured for me to follow him, and we went into the kitchen, where Lilly was sitting, using


the granite countertop to lay out her story-boards for the episode of Lilly Tells It Like It Is she was filming the next day.


'Jeez,' she said, when she saw me. 'What happened to you? You look like you swapped outfits with the Sugar Plum Fairy.'


'I was at a ball,' I explained.


'Oh,' Lilly said, 'of course. The ball. Well, if you ask me, the Sugar Plum Fairy got the better deal. But I'm not supposed


to be here. So don't mind me.'


'We won't,' Michael assured her.


And then he did the strangest thing. He started to cook.


Seriously. He was cooking.


Well, OK, not really cooking, more like reheating. Still, he fully got out these two veggie burgers he'd gotten from Balducci's, and put them on some buns, and then put the buns on these two plates. And then he took some fries that had been in the oven on a tray and put them on to the two plates, as well. And then he got ketchup and mayo and mustard out of the fridge, along with two cans of Coke, and he put all that stuff on a tray, and then he walked out of the kitchen, and before I could ask Lilly what in the name of all that was holy was going on, he came back, picked up the two plates, and went, to me, 'Come on.'


What could I do, but follow him?


I trailed after him into the TV room, where Lilly and I had viewed so many cinematic gems for the first time, such as


Valley Girl and Bring It On and Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman and Crossing Delancey.


And there, in front of the Moscovitzes' black leather couch, which sat in front of their thirty-two-inch Sony TV, sat two


little folding tables. On to these tables, Michael lowered the plates of food he'd prepared. They sat there, in the glow


of the Star Wars title image, which was frozen on the TV screen, obviously paused there.


'Michael,' I said, genuinely baffled. 'What is this?'


'Well, you couldn't make it to the Screening Room,' he said, looking as if he couldn't quite believe I hadn't figured it out


on my own yet. 'So I brought the Screening Room to you. Come on, let's eat. I'm starved.'


He might have been starved, but I was stunned. I stood there looking down at the veggie burgers - which smelt divine -


going, 'Wait a minute. Wait a minute. You aren't breaking up with me?'


Michael had already sat down on the couch and stuffed a few fries in his mouth. When I said that, about breaking up,


he turned around to look at me like I was demented. 'Break up with you? Why would I do that?'


'Well,' I said, starting to wonder if maybe he was right, and I really was demented. 'When I told you I couldn't make it


tonight you . . . well, you seemed kind of distant. . .'


'I wasn't distant,' Michael said. 'I was trying to figure out what we could do instead of, you know, going to the movie.'


'But then you didn't show up for lunch . . .'


'Right,' Michael said. 'I had to call and order the veggie burgers and get Maya to go to the store and get the rest of the stuff. And my dad had loaned our Star Wars DVD to a friend of his, so I had to call him and make him get it back.'


I listened in astonishment. Everyone, it seemed - Maya, the Moscovitzes' housekeeper; Lilly; even Michael's parents - had been in on Michael's scheme to recreate the Screening Room right in his own apartment.


Only I had been in ignorance of his plan. Just as he had been in ignorance of my belief that he was about to break up with me.


'Oh,' I said, beginning to feel like the world's number one biggest dork. 'So ... you don't want to break up?'


'No, I don't want to break up,' Michael said, starting to look mad now - probably the way Mr. Rochester looked when he heard Jane had been hanging out with that St. John guy. 'Mia, I love you, remember? Why would I want to break up with


you? Now come and sit down and eat before it gets cold.'


Then I wasn't beginning to feel like the world's biggest dork: I totally felt like it.


But at the same time, I felt incredibly, blissfully happy. Because Michael had said the L word! Said it right to my face!


And in a very bossy way, just like Captain Von Trapp or the Beast or Patrick Swayze!


Then Michael hit the play button on the remote, and the first chords of John Williams's brilliant Star Wars theme filled the


room. And Michael went, 'Mia, come on. Unless you want to change out of thaat dress first. Did you bring any normal clothes?'


Still, something wasn't right. Not completely.


'Do you just love me like a friend?' I asked him, trying to sound cynically amused, you know, the way Rene would, in


order to keep the truth from him - that my heart was pounding a mile a minute. 'Or are you in love with me?'


Michael was staring over the back of the couch at me. He looked like he couldn't quite believe his ears. I couldn't believe


my own. Had I really just asked him that? Just come out and asked him?


Apparently - judging from his incredulous expression, anyway - I had. I could feel myself starting to turn redder, and


redder, and redder, and redder ...


Jane Eyre would so never have asked that question.


But then again, maybe she ought to have. Because the way Michael responded made the whole embarrassment of having


had to ask completely and totally worth it. And the way he responded was, he reached out, took the tiara from me, laid it


down on the couch beside him, took both my hands in his, pulled me down, and gave me a really long kiss.


On the lips.


Of the French variety.


We missed the entire scrolling prologue to the movie, due to kissing. Then, finally, when the sound of Princess Leia's starship being fired upon roused us from our passionate embrace, Michael said, 'Of course I'm in love with you. Now come sit down and eat.'


It truly was the most romantic moment of my entire life. If I live to be as old as Grandmere, I will never be as happy as I was


at that moment. I just stood there, thrilled to pieces, for about a minute. I mean, I could barely get over it. He loved me. Not only that, he was in love with me! Michael Moscovitz is in love with me, Mia Thermopolis!


'Your burger is getting cold,' he said.


See? See how perfect we are for one another? He is so practical, while I have my head in the clouds. Has there ever been


as perfect a couple? Has there ever been as perfect a date?


We sat there, eating our veggie burgers and watching Star Wars, he in his jeans and vintage Boomtown Rats T-shirt, and


me in my Chanel ball gown. And when Ben Kenobi said, 'Obi Wan? That's a name I haven't heard in a long time,' we both went, right on cue, 'How long?' And Ben said, as he always does, 'A very long time.'


And when, just before Luke flies off to attack the Death Star, Michael put it on pause so he could go get dessert, I helped


him clear the plates.


And then, while he was making the ice-cream sundaes, I sneaked back into the TV room, put his present on his TV table,


and waited for him to come back and find it, which he did, a few minutes later.


'What's this?' he wanted to know, as he handed me my sundae, vanilla ice cream drowning in a sea of hot fudge, whipped cream and pistachios.


'It's your birthday present,' I said, barely able to contain myself, I was so excited to see what he'd think of it. It was way


better than candy or a sweater. It was, I thought, the perfect gift for Michael.


I feel like I had a right to be excited, because I'd paid a pretty hefty price for Michael's gift . . . weeks of worrying about


being found out, and then, after having been found out, being forced to waltz with Prince Rene, who was a good dancer,


and all, but who kind of smelt like an ashtray.


So I was pretty stoked as Michael, with a puzzled expression on his face, sat down and picked up the box.


'I told you that you didn't have to get me anything,' he said.


'I know.' I was bouncing up and down, I was so excited. 'But I wanted to. And I saw this, and I thought it was perfect.'


'Well,' Michael said. 'Thanks.' He untied the ribbon that held the minuscule box closed, then lifted the lid ...


And there, sitting on a wad of white cotton, it was. A dirty little rock, no bigger than an ant. Smaller than an ant, even.


The size of a pinhead.


'Huh,' Michael said, looking down at the tiny speck. 'It's . . . it's really nice.'


I laughed delightedly. 'You don't even know what it is!'


'Well,' he said. 'No, I don't.'


'Can't you guess?'


'Well,' he said, again. 'It looks like ... I mean, it closely resembles ... a rock.'


'It is a rock,' I said. 'Guess where it's from.'


Michael eyed the rock. 'I don't know. Genovia?'


'No, silly,' I crowed. 'The moon! It's a moon rock! From when Neil Armstrong was up there. He collected a load of them,


and then some of them got split up, and Richard Nixon gave my grandmother a bunch of them when he was in office. Well,


he gave them to Genovia, technically. And I saw them and thought . . . well, that you should have one. Because I know you


like space stuff. I mean how you've got the glow-in-the-dark constellations on the ceiling over your bed and all. . .'


Michael looked up from the moon rock - which he'd been staring down at like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing - and went, 'When were you in my room?'


'Oh,' I said, feeling myself beginning to blush again. 'A long time ago . . .' Well, it had been a long time ago. It had been


way back before I'd known he liked me, when I'd been sending him those anonymous love poems. '. . . once when Maya


was cleaning in there.'


Michael said, 'Oh,' and looked back down at the moon rock.


'Mia,' he said, a few seconds later. 'I can't accept this.'


'Yes, you can,' I said. 'There are plenty left back at the palace museum, don't worry. Richard Nixon must have really had


a thing for Grandmere, because I'm pretty sure we got more moon rocks than Monaco or anybody else.'


'Mia,' Michael said. 'It's a rock. From the moon.'


'Right,' I said, not certain what he was getting at. Did he not like it? It was kind of weird, I guess, to give your boyfriend


a rock for his birthday. But it wasn't just any rock. And Michael wasn't just any boyfriend. I'd really thought he'd like it.


'It's a rock,' he said again, 'that came from two hundred and thirty-eight thousand miles away. Two hundred and thirty-eight thousand miles away from our planet.'


'Yes,' I said, wondering what I had done. I had only just gotten Michael back, after having spent a whole week convinced


he was going to dump me over one thing, only to discover that he was going to dump me over something else entirely? There


is seriously no justice in the world. 'Michael, if you don't like it, I can give it back. I just thought—'


'No way,' he said, moving the box out of my grasp. 'You're not getting this back. I just don't know what I'm going to get


you for your birthday. This is going to be a hard act to follow.'


Was that all? I felt my blush receding.


'Oh, that,' I said. 'You can just write me another song.'


Which was kind of vixenish of me to say, because he had never admitted that song, the first one he'd ever played me,


'Tall Drink of Water', was about me. But I could tell by the way he was smiling now that I'd guessed correctly. It was.


It totally was.


So then we ate our sundaes and watched the rest of the movie, and when it was over and the credits were rolling,


I remembered something else I'd meant to give him, something I'd thought of in the cab on the way down from the


contessa's, when I'd been trying to think up what I was going to say to him if he broke up with me.


'Oh,' I said. 'I thought of a name for your band.' 'Not,' he groaned, 'the X-Wing Fighters. I beg of you.' 'No,' I said. 'Skinner Box.' Which is this thing this psychologist called Skinner had used to torture all these rats and monkeys and prove there's such a thing as a conditioned response. Pavlov, the guy Michael had named his dog after, had done the same thing, but with dogs and bells. 'Skinner Box,' Michael said, carefully. 'Yeah,' I said. 'I mean, I just figured, since you named your dog Pavlov . . .'


'I kind of like it,' Michael said. I'll see what the guys say.' I beamed. The evening was turning out so much better than I had originally thought it would, I couldn't really do anything but beam. In fact, that's why I locked myself in the bathroom. To


try to calm down a little. I am so happy, I can barely write. I—









Saturday, January 23,


the Loft





Oops. I had to break off there last night, because Lilly started banging on the bathroom door, wanting to know whether


I'd suddenly become bulimic or something. When I opened it (the door, I mean) and she saw me in there with my journal


and my pen, and she went, all crabby (Lilly is more of a morning person than a night person), 'Do you mean to say you've


been in here for the past half-hour writing in your journal?'


Which I'll admit is a little weird, but I couldn't help it. I was so happy, I HAD to write it down, so I would never forget


how it felt.


'And you still haven't figured out what you're good at?' she asked.


When I shook my head, she just stomped away, all mad.


But I couldn't be annoyed with her, because . . . well, because I'm so in love with her brother.


The same way I can't really be mad at Grandmere, even though she did, in essence, try to foist me on to this homeless prince last night. But I can't blame her for trying. She's only trying to keep the Renaldo bloodline clean. Grandmere has obviously never studied inbreeding, like we did in Bio. last semester.


Besides, she called here a little while ago, wanting to know if I was feeling all right after the bad truffle I'd ingested. My mom, playing along, assured her that I was fine. So then Grandmere wanted to know if I could come over and have tea with her


and the contessa . . . who was just dying to get to know me better. I said I was busy with homework. Which ought to impress the contessa. You know, with my diligent work ethic.


And I can't be mad at Rene, either, after the way he fully came to my aid last night. I wonder how he and Lana got along.


It would be pretty funny if she broke up with Josh on Monday, on account of finally having found her own handsome prince.


And I can't even be mad at Thompson Street Cleaners for losing my Queen Amidala underwear, because this morning there was a knock on the door to the loft, and when I opened it, our neighbour Ronnie was there with a big bag of our laundry, including Mr. G's brown cords and my mom's Free Winona T-shirt. Ronnie says she must have accidentally picked up the wrong bag from the vestibule, and then she'd gone to Barbados with her boss for the holidays, and only just now noticed


that she had a bag of clothing not her own.


Although I am not as happy about getting my Queen Amidala underwear back as you might think. Because, clearly, I can


get along without them. I was thinking about asking for more of them for my birthday, but now I don't have to, because Michael, even though he doesn't know it, has already given me the greatest gift I've ever gotten.


And no, it's not his love - although that is probably the second greatest thing he could have given me. No, it's something


that he said after Lilly went stomping away from the bathroom.


'What was that all about?' he wanted to know. 'Oh,' I said, putting away my journal, 'she's just mad because I haven't


figured out what my secret talent is.'


'Your what?' Michael said.


'My secret talent.' And then, because he'd been so honest with me, about the whole being in love thing, I decided to be


honest with him, too. So I explained, 'It's just that you and Lilly, you're both so talented. You guys are good at so many


things, and I'm not good at anything, and sometimes I feel like . . . well, like I don't belong. At least not in Gifted and


Talented class, anyway.'


'Mia,' Michael said. 'You're totally gifted.'


'Yeah,' I said, fingering my dress. At looking like a snowdrop.'


'No,' Michael said. Although now that you mention it, you're pretty good at that, too. But I meant writing.'


I have to admit, I kind of stared at him, and went, in a pretty unprincesslike manner, 'Huh?'


'Well, everyone knows,' he said, 'that you like to write. I mean, your head is always buried in that journal. And you always


get A's on your papers in English. I think it's pretty obvious, Mia, that you're a writer.'


And even though I had never really thought about it before, I realized Michael was right. I mean, I am always writing in this journal. And I do compose a lot of poetry, and write a lot of notes and emails and stuff. I mean, I feel like I am always


writing. I do it so much, I never even thought about it as being a talent. It's just something I do all the time, like breathing.


But now that I know what my talent is, you can bet I am going to start working on honing it. And the first thing I'm going to write is a bill to submit before the Genovian Parliament to get some rights for those sea turtles . . .


Right after I get home from going bowling with Michael and Lilly and Boris. Because even a princess has to have fun sometimes.




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