Princess Mia

Male? Boring? RECENT?

“What about her?” I asked, pointing to a portrait that was hanging in an alcove above the watercooler. It was a very nice little painting of a slightly moonfaced young girl in Renaissance-type clothes, framed elaborately in heavy gold leaf.

“Her?”Grandmère all but snorted. “Never mindher .”

“Who is she?” I asked. Mainly to annoy Grandmère, who so clearly wanted to keep on reading about drainage. But also because it was a very pretty picture. And the girl in it looked sad. Like she might not be unfamiliar with the sensation of slipping down a cistern.

“That,” Monsieur Christophe said in a weary tone, “is Her Royal Highness Amelie Virginie Renaldo, the fifty-seventh princess of Genovia, who ruled in the year sixteen sixty-nine.”

I blinked a few times. Then I looked at Grandmère.

“Why haven’t we ever studied her before?” I asked. Because, believe me, Grandmère has made me memorize my ancestral line. And nowhere is there an Amelie Virginie on it. Amelie is a very popular name in Genovia, because it’s the name of the patron saint of the country, a young peasant girl who saved the principality from a marauding invader by lulling him to sleep with a plaintive song, then lopping his head off.

“Because she only ruled for twelve days,” Grandmère said impatiently, “before dying of the bubonic plague.”

“She DID?” I couldn’t help it. I jumped up out of my seat and hurried over to the watercooler to look at the little portrait. “She looks like she’s MY age!”

“She was,” Grandmère said in a tired voice. “Amelia, would you please sit down? We don’t have time for this. The gala is in less than a week, we need to come up with a speech for younow —”

“Oh my God, this is so sad.” I guess one of the symptoms of being depressed is that you basically just cry all the time. Because I was fully welling up. Princess Amelie Virginie was so pretty, like Madonna, back before she went macrobiotic and got all into the Kabbalah and weight lifting and still had chubby cheeks and stuff. She looked a little bit like Lilly, in a way. If Lilly were a brunette. And wore a crown and a blue velvet choker. “What was she, like, sixteen?”

“Indeed.” Monsieur Christophe had come to stand beside me. “It was a terrible time to be alive. The plague was decimating not just the countryside, but the royal court as well. She lost both her parents and all of her brothers to it. That’s how she inherited the throne. She only ruled for, like Her Highness said, twelve days before succumbing to the Black Death herself. But during that time, she made some decisions—controversial at that time—that ultimately saved many Genovians, if not the entire coastal populace…including closing the Port of Genovia to all incoming and outgoing ship traffic, and shutting the palace gates against all visitors…even the physicians who might have been able to save her. She didn’t want to risk the disease spreading further to her people.”

“Oh my God,” I said, laying a hand on my chest and trying not to sob. “That is so sad! Where are her writings?”

Monsieur Christophe blinked up at me (because in my platform Mary Janes, I was, like, six feet two, and he was just a little guy—like Grandmère said, a nutcracker). “I beg your pardon, Your Highness?”

“Her writings,” I said. “Princess Amelie Virginie’s. I’d like to see them.”

“For God’s sake, Amelia,” Grandmère burst out, looking as if she could really use a Sidecar and a cigarette, and not the tea and finger sandwiches (without mayo) to which she’d been relegated by her doctor. “She doesn’t have any writings! She was dealing with a plague! She didn’t have time to write anything! She was too busy having the bodies of her maids burned in the palace courtyard.”

“Actually,” Monsieur Christophe said thoughtfully, “she kept a journal—”

“DO NOT GET THE JOURNAL,” Grandmère said, leaping up. As she did so, she dislodged Rommel, who went plunging to the floor, where he skittered around, trying to find his balance, before retiring gloomily to a far corner of the room. “WE DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR THIS!”

“Get the journal,” I said to Monsieur Christophe. “I want to read it.”

“Actually,” the archivist said. “We have a translation of it. Since it was written in seventeenth-century French, and it was, of course, so short—only twelve days—we started on a translation, only to discover they did not turn out to be twelve particularly, er, important days of Genovian history. Just from a glance at the first few pages, one can see that the princess does seem to write quite a bit about missing her cat—”

That’s when I knew I HAD to read it.

“I want to see the translation,” I said, just as Grandmère cried, “Amelia, SIT DOWN!”

Monsieur Christophe hesitated, clearly not knowing what to do. On the one hand, I’m closer in line to the throne than Grandmère is. On the other hand, she’s louder and way scarier.

“You know what?” I whispered to Monsieur Christophe. “I’ll call you later.”

Only I didn’t. As soon as I got out of there and into the safety of my limo, I called Dad and told him what I wanted.

If he thought it was strange, he didn’t say anything about it. Although I guess my taking an interest in anything that doesn’t involve my bed must seem like an improvement to him.

Anyway, when I got home, there was a package waiting for me. Dad had had Monsieur Christophe messenger over not just the translation of Princess Amelie Virginie’s journal but her portrait as well.

Which I’ve leaned against the wall at the end of my bed where my TV used to be. She perfectly covers up the ugly cable outlet, and I can see her from any angle when I’m in bed.

Which I’m in right now.

Because they can take away my television.

And they can throw away my Hello Kitty pajamas.

And they can make me go to school and to therapy.

But they can’t keep me out of my own bed!

(Although I have to say my own problems pale in comparison to poor Princess Amelie Virginie’s. I mean, at least I don’t have the PLAGUE.)

Sunday, September 19, 11 p.m., the loft

I just realized it’s been exactly a week since I got that phone call from Michael letting me know it’s all over between us. I mean, except as friends.

I really don’t know what to say about that. A part of me still wants to crawl into bed and just cry forever, of course, even though you would think by now I’d be all cried out (although whenever I think about how I’ll never feel his arms around me again, the tears come welling right back up).

But then I think about how many people have it worse than me. Princess Amelie Virginie, for instance. I mean, first her parents caught the plague and died. Which wasn’t SO bad because she wasn’t very close with them anyway, since they sent her away to a convent to be educated when she was four, and it was so far away that she hardly ever saw anyone in her family again after that.

But then all her brothers died of the plague, too—which didn’t bother her too much since she hardly knew any of them either.

But that meant she was the next in line to the throne.

So the nuns made Amelie pack up her stuff and go to the palace to be crowned princess of Genovia. Which Amelie really wasn’t too happy about, since she had to leave her cat, Agnès-Claire, behind.

Because cats aren’t allowed at the Palais de Genovia (it’s amazing how the more times change, the more they stay the same).

And when she got to the palace her dad’s brother, her uncle Francesco, whom no one in her family really liked on account of that time he kicked their dog, Padapouf (dogs ARE allowed in the palace), was already there bossing everyone around.

And, if I remember my Genovian history correctly (and believe me, after enough torturing from Grandmère, I do), Uncle Francesco—who became Prince Francesco the First after Amelie’s death (actually, he’s Prince Francesco the ONLY, since he was such a horrible person that no one in Genovia ever named their kid Francesco again after his death)—was disliked by everyone, not just his own family. He was the worst ruler Genovia ever knew, due to his attempting to tax the populace so heavily after the plagues in order to make up for his lost tithes that many of them starved to death.

He also had a reputation for profligacy (as his nearly thirty illegitimate children, all of whom tried to make a claim for the throne after he died, proved). In fact, during Francesco’s rule, Genovia very nearly became absorbed into France, as the prince owed so much money due to his gambling debts, even losing the crown jewels in a card game with William III of England at one point (they weren’t recovered until nearly a century later, when a cagey Princess Margarèthe seduced them away from George III, who was rumored to be not quite right in the head).

Anyway, thanks to Francesco basically thinking he was already prince, even though he wasn’t—yet—poor Amelie didn’t have anything to do. So, like any bored teen with no one to talk to—all the ladies-in-waiting were dead of plague—she went to the palace library and started reading all the books there. A bit like Belle inBeauty and the Beast , actually! Except the Beast was her uncle, so no chance of a love connection.

And instead of dancing teacups and candlesticks, there were just pustule-covered chancellors and stuff.

That’s as far into her journal as I’ve gotten. It’s so boring I probably wouldn’t go on.

But I want to find out what happens to the cat.

I—

I just got an e-mail. Check it out:

CHEERGRL: Hey, Mia! It’s me, Lana. Hope you had fun last night doing whatever. You missed an AWESOME party. You can see photos from it at LastNightsParty.com. OMG, on the way home I thought I saw your friend Lilly making out with a ninja or something at Around the Clock. But what would she be doing with a NINJA? I definitely partied WAY too hard. So how are those Louboutins from Saks working out for you? Too bad you can’t wear stilettos to school. Well, TTYL! ~*Lana*~

So Lilly’s romance with one of Kenny’s muay thai fighter friends continues! If you can call what they have together a “romance.”

When is Lilly going to realize that she’ll never find the emotional fulfillment she’s looking for in a relationship that’s based on pure physical attraction? I mean, what kind of muay thai fighter can keep up with Lilly on an intellectual basis? She’s going to toss him to the curb as soon as he opens his mouth.

It’s sad, really. You would think the daughter of two psychoanalysts would be able to recognize her own pathology for what it is.

But I guess since Lilly’s not in formal therapy, like I am, she thinks she doesn’t have a problem.

Ha!

Which reminds me—school tomorrow.

And I haven’t done any of my make-up work.

I wonder if I can get a note from Dr. Knutz?Please excuse Mia from her homework. She is depressed. Sincerely, Dr. Arthur T. Knutz.

Yeah. That’d go over great. Especially with Ms. Martinez—

OH MY GOD. Another e-mail from Michael just popped into my inbox.

Okay, I have got to stop having a panic attack every time this happens. I mean, we’re friends now. He’s going to write to me. I’ve got to stop losing it when he does. I’ve got to be normal. I can’t keep hyperventilating just because he’s reached out to me through cyberspace.

I’m sure he’s not writing because he’s realized what an awful, terrible mistake he’s made, saying he just wanted to be friends, and that he wants to get back together. I’m sure that’s not it at all. I’m sure he’s just wondering why I never replied to his last e-mail.

Or maybe I’m on some kind of forward list of his, and this is just some update on his eternal quest for an egg sandwich in Japan, or whatever.

Well. I guess I better click on it, or I’ll never know.

Maybe I’ll just wait for my heart rate to go down a little….

SKINNERBX: Dear Mia,

Hey, heard you had bronchitis. That sucks. Hope you’re feeling better now.

Things here are still good. We’re already working hard on the first stage of the robotic arm—or Charlie, as we’re calling it. I’m even starting to get used to the food, though baby squid isn’t really my idea of a snack. I understand my sister’s been giving you a hard time. You know how Lilly is, Mia. She’ll get over it eventually. You just have to give her space.

I know you’re feeling under the weather and probably swamped with homework and princess stuff, but if you get a chance, I’d love to hear from you.

Michael

Oh…God.

After I spent about half an hour crying over this e-mail, I deleted it without replying.

Because, I mean, seriously. Ican’t be friends with him.

I just can’t.

I’d rather have the plague.

Monday, September 20, French

Mia—what is that you’re reading?

It’s nothing, Tina. Just a journal belonging to one of my ancestresses.

Does it have a hot romance in it????

Um…not really. It’s actually kind of boring. Right now she’s just drafting some kind of executive order based on something she read in the palace library. Not that it’s going to do anybody any good. She, along with almost everybody else in the palace, dies of the plague at the end.

That doesn’t sound like your kind of read at all!

Yeah, I know. I don’t know what’s come over me lately.

Well, a lot’s been going on. Naturally, you’re growing and changing with the times. Speaking of growing—is that your new uniform?

Oh, yeah, it is. Thank God it came. I thought I was going to suffocate in that old one. Although I guess it wasn’t nearly as bad as the corsets they made my ancestress wear. Hey, did you hear Lilly was out this weekend with her mystery muay thai fighter man?

No! Who’d you hear that from?

Uh, I forget. Anyway, T, this is serious. You have to find out the 411 on this guy! Lilly could get seriously hurt.

I don’t know, I’m not exactly Lilly’s favorite person these days either. It’s like she hates me for still hanging out with you. You might have better luck with Kenny in your Chem class.

Right. I’m on it. Oh my God, did you know that in the 1600s people wore the lice they’d picked off you in lockets as a sign of affection?

Gross! I’m glad we have Kay Jewelers instead.

Seriously.

Monday, September 20, G & T

You know, I really didn’t think things could get any worse than my boyfriend dumping me and my best friend deciding I’m a cheating ho and refusing to speak to me anymore. Oh, and someone starting a website about what a dork I am and how much they hate me.

Then Lana Weinberger decided she’s my new best friend.

Look. I’m not saying I can’t use any more friends. Because God knows, I can.

But I’m just not sure I’m ready to have QUITE AS MANY FRIENDS as I apparently have now.

Especially since all I really want to do is get back in my bed and stay there.

Preferably forever.

But no. Clearly this is asking way, way too much.

Because today at lunch, when I went to sit down by Tina and Boris and J.P., I was astonished to find Lana and Trisha had put their trays down beside mine as well.

“Oh my God,” Lana said, when she saw what I was having for lunch. “Are you eating the corn dog? Do you have any idea how many carbs are in that? No wonder you’ve gone up a size. Hey, are those the new earrings you got Saturday? They look cute.”

Oh, yes. I was outed:

Outed as being a Friend of Lana.

Well, whatever. I mean, she’s not THAT bad. Sure, we’ve had our differences in the past.

But she does have some really great tips on how to stop biting your nails (put Sally Hansen Hard As Nails on them every night without fail before bed, and afterward, an olive oil cuticle rub).

Tina was staring at Lana with her mouth hanging open in astonishment, causing Trisha to say, “Take a picture, sweetie, it’ll last longer,” then remark that she liked the way Tina does her eyeliner, and asked if wearing it that way was part of her religion, or what.

This caused Tina to choke on her tuna salad.

“So do any of you have Schuyler for Precalc?” Lana wanted to know. “Because I don’t have a freaking clue what’s going on in that class.”

To which Boris replied, looking pained, “Um…I do.”

And then he spent the rest of the lunch period helping Lana with her homework, while Tina spent the rest of the lunch period showing Trisha how she does her eyes, and J.P. spent the rest of the lunch period smirking into his chili (sans corn).

All I wanted to do was read my translation of Amelie’s journal. But I couldn’t, because I was worried about how that might look. You know, that it might appear antisocial.

And I have enough strikes against me at the moment without “antisocial” being added to the list.

I did notice Lilly giving me a very dirty look over her shoulder as she went to take her tray up to the counter.

But that might have been because I was letting Lana put mini barrettes in my hair and Lilly has a thing about personal grooming in the caf.

Monday, September 20, Chemistry

J.P. wants to know how, merely by going shopping with Lana, I became one of the In Crowd.

I told him Lana and I didn’t merely go shopping: We wentbra shopping.

To which J.P. replied, “Please tell me all about it. And I meanall .”

But I was too busy reading about Princess Amelie. Uncle Francesco busted into the palace library and ordered all the books there burned, just to be mean, I’m sure, because he happened to know Amelie really liked them, not because he seriously believed they were contributing to the spread of the disease.

As if that weren’t upsetting enough, he also threw the drafts of the executive order she’d so carefully penned and signed—and hadwitnessed , which was no joke, since it was hard to find two living people in the palace to witness the signing of a document—into the fire. Even though Amelie explained to him that whatever it was she’d drawn up had been for the good of the Genovian people! Whom she did not believe he cared about. Especially since they were dropping like flies, and yet he was still allowing foreign ships to dock in the port, which only seemed to be bringing more disease into the country…not to mention spreading it back to the towns the ships had come from, on their return trips.

Amelie accused her uncle of only caring about whether or not the olive oil got delivered. To Uncle Francesco, it wasalways about the olive oil. And the crown, of course.

But no! He thought burning books (and executive orders) was the answer to all their problems!

I really wanted to keep reading because things were finally getting good with poor Amelie (or bad, as the case might be).

But Kenny yelled at me that if I wasn’t going to help with the experiment, I could just accept the zero I deserved.

So I’m stirring. Which would explain why my handwriting looks so bad.

Monday, September 20, the loft

Even though I am still in the depths of despair and all, I was actually kind of excited after school today because

No princess lessons

Even though I have no TV, I have something totally excellent to read.

I fully intended to take off my school uniform, put on my sweats, curl up in bed, and read about my ancestress.

But my (admittedly mild) excitement was short-lived, due to walking into the loft and finding Mr. G at the dining room table with all of the assignments that I missed last week.

“Sit,” he said, holding out a chair.

So I sat.

And now we’re tackling all my make-up work. One class at a time.

This is so unfair.

Monday, September 20, 11 p.m., the loft

Oh my God, I am so tired. And we’re not even halfway caught up with everything.

What is the POINT of piling so much work on us? Don’t they know that all they are doing is breaking our already fragile spirits? Is this really what the powers-that-be want? A generation of wounded, broken souls?

No wonder so many teens turn to drugs. I would, too, if I weren’t so tired. And I could find some.

So, it turns out Uncle Francesco didn’t appreciate Amelie saying he didn’t care about the people of Genovia. He told her that if she really cared about the people of Genovia, she’d step down and let him rule. Because she’s just a girl who doesn’t have any idea what she’s doing.

!!!!!!!!!!!!

But I guess Amelie had more of an idea about what she was doing than she let on, because she drew up ANOTHER executive order—this one was to close all Genovian roads and ports. No one was allowed in or out of the country. She did this because she thought it might do a little more to reduce the spread of the plague than burning all the books in the country.

Ha! Take that, Francesco, you loser!

Also, she had the best mousers in the city brought to the palace. Because she couldn’t help noticing that there’d been no outbreaks of the disease in places where there were cats—like back at the convent, where she’d left Agnès-Claire.

For a girl who’d lived in the 1600s back when they didn’t know what germs were, Princess Amelie was pretty smart.

Oh, and she had her uncle thrown out of the castle.

Man. And I thought MY family was dysfunctional.

Tuesday, September 21, Intro to Creative Writing

My relatives turn out not to be the only ones conspiring against me. The minute I walked into school today, Principal Gupta was waiting for me. She crooked her finger at me to follow her into her office. Lars and I exchanged panicky looks, like—Uh-oh!I couldn’t figure out what we’d done now.

Or whatI’d done, anyway. I was sure Principal Gupta must have found out about the time I pulled the fire alarm when there wasn’t really a fire. True, that was a year ago, but maybe that’s how long it had taken them to go through all the video surveillance of the hallways or something….

But it turned out to have nothing to do with that. Instead, she confiscated my journal.

I am writing this in my Chemistry notebook right now.

Principal Gupta said, “Mia, I understand you’re going through a rough time right now. But your grades are slipping. You’re a junior in high school. Soon colleges will be looking at your transcripts.”

I wanted to point out to her what she and everyone else knows perfectly well: that I am going to get into every college I apply to. Because I’m a princess. I wish it weren’t true. But it is. I mean, even Trisha knows it.

“I understand from Mrs. Potts,” Principal Gupta went on, “that you were even writing in your journal during physical education class the other day. This can’t go on. You can’t expect to be able to slide by just because you’re a minor celebrity, Mia.”

Talk about unfair! I have never tried to slide by on my celebrity, however minor!

“Consider writing in your journal during classverboten from this moment on,” Principal Gupta said. “I am holding on to your journal—don’t worry, I will NOT read it—until classes let out for the day. You may have it back then. And kindly do NOT bring it to school again tomorrow. Is that understood?”

What could I say? I mean…she’s not wrong.

She’s instructed all of my teachers to take away any paper they catch me writing on, unless it’s class-related. I am only getting away with writing this because Ms. Martinez thinks it’s the creative writing assignment she just gave us, to describe a moment that touched us deeply.

You know what moment touched me deeply?

When Principal Gupta locked my journal in the school safe. It was like being gutted with a Bic disposable pen.

Tuesday, September 21, English

Mia—Where’s your journal????

I don’t want to talk about it.

Oh. Okay. I’m sorry!

No,I’m sorry. That was rude. It’s just—Principal Gupta took it away. Because my grades are slipping.

Oh, Mia! That’s terrible!

No, it’s not. It’s my own fault. I’m not supposed to be passing notes, either. All of the teachers are supposed to take away anything they see me writing on that’s not class-related. So look out.

We’ll be careful,, then. Anyway, I wanted to say—that was kind of weird yesterday at lunch, huh? I didn’t know you and Lana had become such good friends! When did that happen? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking?

No, it’s okay. I should have told you. I just felt weird about it. I know she’s been really mean to you in the past, and I didn’t—well, I just didn’t want you to hate me.

Mia! I could never hate you! You know that!

Thanks, Tina. But you’re the only one.

What are you talking about? No one could ever hate you!

Uh…A lot of people hate me, actually. And Lilly REALLY hates me.

Oh. Well. LILLY. You know why she hates you.

Right. Your J.P. theory. Which is wrong. Anyway, I’m supposed to give this speech at the end of the week for this charity function Lana’s mother’s in charge of, and one thing led to another, and…she really isn’t that bad, you know. I mean, she’s BAD. But not AS BAD as we previously thought. I think. Do you know what I mean?

I think so. At least, when she says snarky things, it seems like she just doesn’t know better rather than, like, that she means to be hurtful.

I know. Kind of like Lindsay Lohan.

Exactly! Still. I don’t think Lilly’s too happy about it.

What do you mean? Did she say something about me?

Well, she doesn’t speak to ME anymore, either, since I’m friends with you, so no, she didn’t say anything to me. But I saw her giving you dirty looks across the caf.

Oh, yeah. I saw those, too. I—

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

Tuesday, September 21, Lunch

I apologized NONSTOP to Tina for getting her in trouble in English. Thank GOD our note didn’t get read out loud. That is the only good thing.

Tina says not to worry about it, that it’s nothing.

But it’s NOT nothing. I can’t believe I am dragging my friends down with me. It’s just WRONG, and I’ve got to STOP.

Anyway, they can’t stop me from writing at LUNCH. Even if I have to do it in my Chemistry notebook.

Though it’s very hard to write with Lana jostling me every minute and going, “Wait, so Gupta says you need to work harder if you want to get into college? Oh my God, that is so easily rectified. Just join the Spirit Squad. Seriously, we don’t even DO anything, except have bake sales, like, every five weeks. Oooh, or I know! You could join Hola—the Spanish Club? We just sit around and watch movies in Spanish. Like that one where the hot guys fight to the death with the hams. Well, we didn’t really watch that one in class because it was too sexy, Trisha and I watched that one at home for extra credit. Oh, or the dance committee! We’re working on the Cultural Diversity Dance right now! It’s going to be so rockin’ this year, we’re trying to get an actual band instead of a DJ for a change. Or there’s peer tutoring. Oh my God, I’m tutoring the cutest little second grader right now. I totally taught her to stay within the lines with her eyeshadow.”

I was just like, “Um. You know, I already have a lot going on, with the princess stuff. And the school paper.”

“Right,” Lana said. “Hey, what do you think of glitter gel? You know, for my nails? Too much?”

When did this become my life?

Oh, right, I remember. The day my ex-boyfriend dumped me and I lost all will to live.

Tuesday, September 21, G & T

Okay, they can’t keep me from writing in here, because

A) No one knows what I’m supposed to be doing in this stupid class anyway, given the fact that I am neither gifted nor talented, and

B) Mrs. Hill isn’t even here. There must be an auction on eBay she’s trying to win, or something, because she’s in the teacher’s lounge.

Anyway, the strangest thing just happened. After lunch I went to the girls’ room and while I was washing my hands Lilly came out of one of the stalls and started washing HER hands.

She was totally ignoring me, like I didn’t even exist. Just gazing at herself in the mirror.

I don’t know what came over me. Suddenly, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I turned off the water in my sink and grabbed some paper towels and ALMOST went, while I was drying my hands, “You know what, Lilly? You can ignore me all you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re wrong. I DID NOT cause your breakup with J.P., and I am NOT going out with him. We’re JUST friends. I can’t believe that after all these years of friendship, you’d even THINK that of me. And besides, you know I love your brother. I mean, despite the fact that we’re just friends now, too.”

But I didn’t.

I didn’t say a word.

Because why should I? Why shouldI make the first move, whenI didn’t do anything wrong? She’s the one givingme the cold shoulder, whenI’m the one in great personal pain. I mean, has it ever occurred to her that I could really use a friend right now? Has it ever occurred to her that now isn’t the best time to be giving me the silent treatment?

But it seems like whenever I’m going through a time of personal crisis—when I found out I was a princess; when her brother dumped me—Lilly turns her back on me.

Lilly must have known I was thinking about saying something to her, though, because she gave me the dirtiest look. Then she rinsed off her hands, turned off the taps, got some paper towels of her own, tossed them into the trash—the same way she seems to have tossed our friendship into the trash—and walked out without a word.

I almost ran after her. I really did. I almost ran after her and told her that whatever it was I did, I’m sorry, and that I know I’m a freak, but that I’m trying to get help. I almost went, “Look, I’m in therapy. Are you happy, now? You’ve driven me into therapy!”

But, number one, I know that’s not true. I’m not in therapy because of Lilly or Michael or anyone, really, except the Giant Hole.

And number two—well, I still havesome pride left. I mean, I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction.

Besides, what if she told Michael, or something? Then he’d think I was so torn up about our breaking up that I’m suicidal.

Which I’mnot.

I’m just sad. Dr. K even said so.

I’m just sad.

So, anyway. I let her walk out. And I never said a word.

And now I’m sitting here in G and T, watching her chat on her phone with Perin about their cell tower initiative.

You know what? I’m not even sure Iwant to be her friend anymore. I mean, to be honest, Lana Weinberger is actually a BETTER friend than Lilly ever was. At least with Lana, you know where you stand. It’s true Lana’s completely self-absorbed and shallow.

But at least she doesn’t try to pretend she’s otherwise. Unlike some people I could mention.

God, I am going to have SO MUCH to talk about with Dr. K on Friday.

Tuesday, September 21, 4 p.m., Chanel

Principal Gupta was all, “Mia. Let’stalk ,” in a super meaningful way when I went to snag my journal back from her.

So I had to sit down and listen to her yammer on about what a bright girl I am, with so much to offer—it’s such a shame I quit student council and that I’m not taking part in more extracurricular activities this year. Colleges, she said, look at other things besides grades and teacher recommendations, you know. They want to see that applicants to their schools also have interests outside of academics.

Lana was so right about Hola.

“I’m on the school paper,” I offered lamely.

“Mia,” Principal Gupta said. “You haven’t gone to one newspaper meeting this semester.”

I’d been hoping she hadn’t noticed that.

“Well,” I said. “It’s been kind of a bad semester so far.”

“I know,” Principal Gupta said. Behind her glasses, her eyes were kind. For once. “Clearly, you’ve been through a lot lately. But you can’t just shut down because of a boy, Mia.”

I blinked at her in horror. I mean, even if that might be true, I can’t believe she’dsay that.

“I’mn-not ,” I stammered. “This has nothing to do with Michael. I mean, yeah, I’m sad we broke up. But—it’s just…it’s a lot more than that.”

“What really disturbs me,” Principal Gupta said, “is that you seem to have given up your old friends as well. I’ve noticed that you’re no longer sitting with Lilly Moscovitz at lunch anymore.”

“She’s not sitting withme ,” I said indignantly. “I’m not the one who—”

“And I’ve noticed you’ve been spending time instead with Lana Weinberger.” Principal Gupta’s mouth got all small, the way my mom’s does when she’s mad. “While I must say I’m grateful you and Lana aren’t at each other’s throats anymore, I can’t help but wonder if she’s someone with whom you really have all that much in common—”

Now that I have boobs, she is. She knows EVERYTHING about nipple coverage.

And how to show them off, when it’s appropriate to do that, as well.

“I really appreciate your worrying about me, Principal Gupta,” I said. “But you have to remember something.”

She looked at me expectantly. “Yes?”

“I’m a princess,” I said. “I’m going to get into every college I apply to, because colleges want to brag that they have a girl who’s going to rule a country someday in their incoming freshman class. So it doesn’t really matter if I join the Spanish Club or the Spirit Squad, or whatever. But”—I waved my journal at her—“thanks for caring.”

No sooner had I stepped out of Principal G’s office than my cell phone rang and I looked down to find Grandmère was calling me.

Great. Because my day could not, evidently, get any better.

“Amelia,” she sang when I picked up. “What’s keeping you? I’m WAITING.”

“Grandmère? What do you mean? We don’t have princess lessons this week, remember?”

“I know that,” Grandmère said. “I’m outside the school in the limo. Today we’re going to Chanel to find something for you to wear to the gala on Friday. Remember?”

No, I did not remember. But what choice did I have? None.

So here I am at Chanel.

The staff is very excited about my new measurements. Mainly because they no longer have to take in the chest darts on the bodice of any dress Grandmère chooses for me.

The suit she’s picked out for the gala is pretty nice, actually.And she’s finally letting me wear black.

“Your first Chanel suit,” she keeps murmuring with a sigh. “Where did the time go? It seems like just yesterday you were a scabby-kneed fourteen-year-old, who came to me not even knowing how to use a fish knife! Now look at you! BREASTS!”

Whatever. I never had scabs on my knees.

Then Grandmère handed me the speech she’d had written for me. For the gala. I guess she’d given up on the idea of letting me write my own speech. She’d gone ahead and hired a former presidential speechwriter to come up with a twenty-minute soliloquy on Genovian drainage. The speechwriter she got is apparently a very famous one, who wrote some speech about a thousand points of light.

I suppose she used to write forStar Trek: The Next Generation , or something.

I’m supposed to memorize my speech, Grandmère says, so it seems more “spontaneous.”

Fortunately, I can read while they’re fitting me for my new suit.

Only I’m not reading my speech. Because Grandmère’s off trying to find her own dress for the gala. Since she’s been invited to attend as my “chaperone.” I know she’s hoping we’ll BOTH get invites to pledge Domina Rei.

Which might not be so bad, actually. Then I can tell Principal Gupta I have an extracurricular to put on my college apps after all. That will make her happy.

Anyway, Princess Amelie’s uncle didn’t stay away from the palace for long after she threw him out. That’s because there were no guards left, since they all had the plague, too. He came back and kept telling Amelie how much money she was losing by not allowing the ships exporting Genovian olive oil to leave the ports. Also by not demanding that the Genovian people continue to tithe to her, even though they had no money, since they all had the plague and couldn’t work.

But Uncle Francesco didn’t care. He kept saying she didn’t know what she was doing because she was Just a Girl, and how she was going to bankrupt the Renaldo royal family, and go down in history as the worst Genovian ruler of all time.

How ironic that in the end, HE was the one who earned that distinction.

Anyway, Amelie told her uncle to back off. She knew she was saving lives. Fewer new cases of the disease were being reported because of her initiatives.

Too late for her, though. Because she’d noticed her first pustule.

She decided not to tell her uncle. Because Amelie knew when she went, he’d get what he wanted: the throne, which was all he cared about. He didn’t care if there were no people left over to rule. He only wanted her money. And her crown.

Which she wasn’t about to relinquish just then. Because there was one more thing she had to do.

Too bad Grandmère’s back and WON’T STOP TALKING SO I CAN FIND OUT WHAT IT WAS!

Wednesday, September 22, 1 a.m., the loft

Oh my God! That was so sad! Princess Amelie totally died!

I mean, I knew she was sick.

And, obviously, I knew she was going to die.

But it was just so…traumatic! She was completely alone! There was no one even to hand her a tissue in the end because everyone else was dead (except her uncle, but he stayed away because he didn’t want to catch what she had).

Plus, there was no such thing as tissues back then.

That is just so…wrong.

Not about the tissues. About being alone.

I can’t stop crying now. Which is, you know, great. Since I have to get up and go to school tomorrow. For some reason. And it’s not like I haven’t exactly been depressed anyway. This is just, you know. Another shove farther down that hole.

I don’t even know why I bother to go on. I mean, look at the facts:

We’re born.

We live for a little bit of time.

And then we die, our uncle assumes the throne, burns all our stuff, and does everything he possibly can to illegitimize the twelve days we spent ruling by basically being the suckiest prince of all time.

At least Amelie managed to save her journal, which—she wrote, on the last few pages—she intended to send back to the convent where she’d been so comparatively happy, for safekeeping, along with her little portrait. The nuns, she said, would “know what to do.”

There’s something else she managed to save from burning, too—aside from Agnès-Claire, whom I have to imagine died happy and full of mice at the abbey where her mistress’s journal obviously eventually showed up, only to be returned to the Genovian palace by the dutiful nuns, according to Amelie’s wishes, to parliament, who…

…ignored it.

I can only assume they ignored it because they all figured, what could a sixteen-year-old girl have to say?

Plus, her uncle wasn’t exactly making life easy for them, what with his goal to spend every last penny in Genovia’s treasury. So it wasn’t like they had time to go home and read some dead princess’s diary.

Anyway, that other thing Amelie managed to save was one last copy of the thing she had drawn up and signed by those witnesses—whatever it was. She says she hid the parchment “somewhere close to my heart, where some future princess will find it, and do what is right.”

Except, of course, if you’re dying of the plague, it’s really not a good idea to hide anything close to your heart.

Because your corpse is just going to get burned to a cinder by your uncle in a fiery funereal pyre.

Wednesday, September 22, G & T

Lana just dropped a small weapon of mass destruction on the lunch table. Just dropped it, then shrugged, like it was nothing. But that, I’m learning, is her way.

“So how long hasthat been going on?” she wanted to know, waggling her fingers at the lunch table where Lilly was sitting with Kenny Showalter, et al.

I glanced over to where she was pointing. “Oh. Well, Lilly isn’t speaking to me for a number of reasons. First, and probably foremost, she blames me for J.P. dumping her—”

“Hey!” J.P. protested. “I didn’t dump her! I told her I thought it would be better if we were just friends.”

“Yeah. There’s a lot of that going around. Second,” I informed Lana, “Lilly’s upset because I refused to run for student council president. Even though I never wanted to be student council president in the first place,she did. Third, she—”

“I don’t mean how long have you two been fighting,” Lana said, rolling her eyes. “I meant, how long have she and the Beanpole been banging?”

Sometimes it’s quite difficult to understand what Lana is saying, because she uses a type of slang with which no one else at our lunch table (aside from Trisha Hayes and Shameeka, who has also come back into the fold) is familiar.

“Beanpole?” I echoed.

“Banging?” Tina added.

Lana rolled her eyes again and said, “How long has Lilly Moscovitz been sleeping with Mr. Rocket Science?”

I dropped my beef and cheese taquito.

“WHAT?” I cried. “Lilly andKenny ?”

But Lana just blinked her super long, volume-enhanced, mascaraed lashes and went, “Duh. I told you I saw them sucking face at Around the Clock this past weekend.”

“You said you saw Lilly and a NINJA making out,” I said. “Not KENNY. Kenny Showalter is not a ninja.”

“No,” Lana said as she chewed her tuna-avocado roll—which she has specially delivered every day for lunch since the caf doesn’t do sushi. “It was definitely that guy over there.”

“Totally,” Trisha said. “I’d recognize that bulbous Adam’s apple anywhere. It was bobbing all over the place.”

Tina and I looked at each other in shock. Then Tina swung an accusing glare at her boyfriend.

“Boris,” she said. “Was the guy Lilly was making out with in her kitchen KENNY?”

Boris looked uncomfortable. “It was hard to tell,” he said. “His back was to me. And all those muay thai fighters looked the same with their shirts off.”

“Oh my God!” Tina cried. “Itwas Kenny! Boris! You got Mia all upset for nothing, thinking Lilly was hooking up with a random strange muay thai fighter in her despair over J.P. dumping her, when really it was Kenny all along!”

“I didn’t dump her!” J.P. insisted.

But Boris just looked bored. “Who cares?” he wanted to know. “When are things going to go back tonormal around here?”

On the wordnormal , he looked over at Lana and Trisha.

No one, of course, noticed. Except for J.P., who smiled at me. J.P. reallydoes have a nice smile.

Not that that has anything to do with any of this.

Anyway, at first I was like, “But Lilly could so easily break Kenny’s neck with her thighs, like Daryl Hannah inBlade Runner .”

But then I remembered how Kenny’s been bulking up with all that muay thai fighting.

So. I’m happy for her. I really am. I mean, if she’s happy, I’m happy.

But still. KENNY SHOWALTER????????

Wednesday, September 22, Chemistry

I don’t care about the ban on my writing in class: I HAVE to get this down.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I HAD to ask Kenny what was going on with him and Lilly.

So I just went, “Kenny. Is it true about you and Lilly going out? Because if so I want you to know, I think you guys make a really nice couple.”

(Lie. But since when do I ever tell the truth?)

Anyway, Kenny totally didn’t seem to appreciate my kind remarks. He went, “Mia! Do you mind? I’m in the acid neutralization phase!”

So then I was like, “Fine, sorry I said anything,” and went back to my stool to write this.

And then a second ago J.P. sat down next to me and was like, “So, am I in the clear now?”

And I was like, “In the clear for what?”

And he was like, “Breaking Lilly’s heart. Now that she’s learned to love again, as Tina would put it.”

So I laughed and said, “J.P., whatever, I never blamed you for what happened between you and Lilly. You can’t help it if you didn’t feel the same way about her that she felt about you.”

Although he could probably have helped by not leading her on for so long. But I didn’t add that part out loud.

“I’m glad you feel that way, Mia,” J.P. said. “Because there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time now, and every time I start to, something seems to happen to interrupt me, so I’m just going to say it now, even though this might not be the ideal mo———————————————————”

Wednesday, September 22, East Seventy-fifth Street AEHS evacuation rendezvous

Oh my God.

Oh my God. J.P. is in love with me.

And we blew up the school.

Wednesday, September 22, Lenox Hill Hospital emergency room

To tell you the truth, I didn’t know which to write first back then.

I mean, I don’t know which is more upsetting—that it turns out J.P. has fallen in love with me, or that we all nearly died from Kenny’s experiment, in which he was trying to recreate—unbeknownst to the rest of us—a substance formerly used as filler in hand grenades during World War II, with a very high deflagration point, which means, in English, that it’s very unstable and BLOWS UP A LOT.

And we weren’t even supposed to be making it! Mr. Hipskin didn’t realize that’s what we were doing because Kenny told him we were making nitrocellulose, which is flash paper similar to what’s used in film.

Not nitrostarch, which is an EXPLOSIVE!

The emergency room nurse keeps assuring me that Kenny’s eyebrows will grow back someday.

I was much luckier. I’m here in the ER under protest—there’s nothing actually wrong with me. They just sent me here to avoid a lawsuit, I’m sure. I mean, I only had the wind knocked out of me. That’s because just before deflagration occurred, when Kenny yelled, “Everybody get down!” J.P. threw me off my stool and flattened his body over mine, so all the flaming debris landed on him and not me.

Which, I might add, was right after he’d said, “Because there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time now, and every time I start to, something seems to happen to interrupt me, so I’m just going to say it now, even though this might not be the ideal moment. And I know you’re going to freak out now, because that’s what you do. So put down your pen and take a deep breath.”

This is when his blue eyes locked on to my gray ones and he said, super intently and without looking away, “Mia, I’m in love with you. I know up until now we’ve just been friends—good friends—but I want more than that. And I think you do, too.”

It was right then that Kenny yelled to get down. And that J.P. threw himself at me.

Fortunately for J.P., Lars was ON IT with the fire extinguisher—I guess to make up for not being the one to throw himself over me, which is, after all, his job, and not J.P.’s—and put out the flames that erupted on the back of J.P.’s sweater. He didn’t even get burned, because our school uniforms are made of so many unnatural fibers, most of which are flame retardant.

So no flames actually ever touched J.P.’s skin. Just his V-neck.

All of us had to flee a cloud of billowing nitrogen dioxide vapor, though. And not just in our Chem class, either. The whole school.

Good thing it wasn’t freezing outside (some kind of cold front has come down from Canada, making the city unseasonably cool for September), and none of us had our coats, or anything. Not.

One of the nurses just came in and said the whole thing was on New York One—a live shot from a helicopter of everyone standing outside Albert Einstein High shivering, with the fire trucks and ambulances all flashing their lights and everything.

Only three people were actually taken to the hospital, though: J.P., Kenny, and me.

Principal Gupta caught me just before they closed the ambulance doors. She was all, “Mia, I want to give you my sincerest assurances that I intend to get to the bottom of this matter. Mr. Showalter willnot go unpunished….”

I pointed out that having no eyebrows is punishment enough, if you ask me. But Principal Gupta had already moved on to J.P.’s ambulance to repeat the same thing.

Which was smart of her because I hear J.P.’s dad is TOTALLY litigious.

It’s funny that no one has said anything about the fact that J.P. and I were Kenny’s lab partners, and we certainly never tried to stop him from blowing up the school. Except that both of us are so bad at chemistry, we didn’t know what he was trying to do.

Of course, Kenny swears that destroying the Chem lab was never his goal. He claims he only wanted to figure out how a synthesis of nitrostarch could be performed in a lab setting. Also, that he doesn’t know how it got so out of control. He says it was perfectly stable just seconds before…and then WHAMMO.

Honestly, I’m kind of glad Kenny’s experiment conflagrated. Because it kept me from having to figure out how to respond to J.P.’s totally shocking announcement that he’s in love with me.

Which, frankly, I find really hard to believe. Considering the fact that just two weeks ago, he and Lilly were totally an item.

And, okay, it wasn’t as if they didn’t have problems. I mean, Lilly was pretty upset that J.P. never said, “Me, too” to her when she told him that she loved him.

But heexplained that. He explained that he never felt that way about her, and that’s why he broke up with her, because he realized it wasn’t fair to her. He did the right thing…even if she hates him for it now.

And me, too, for still being friendly with him.

But that doesn’t mean—despite Tina’s insane theory about J.P. having always been in love with me and not Lilly from the beginning—that he reallywas in love with me that whole time. In fact, J.P. explained—as Lars was putting out the flames on his back—that his feelings for me had been coming on gradually, and he’d only decided to mention it because he couldn’t stand seeing me so sad about Michael.

“J.P.,” I’d gasped. It was hard to talk with all the breath knocked out of me. Also, given the toxic fumes. “We’ll discuss this later, okay?”

“But I really need to tell you now,” J.P. insisted.

“PRINCESS, RUN!” Lars was yelling. Because by then the cloud of noxious fumes was descending upon us.

Fortunately, since J.P. and I were taken away in separate ambulances, I had a chance to process this—sort of—and figure out what I’m going to do about it.

Which I’m pretty sure is nothing.

And yes, I know Dr. Knutz wouldn’t approve. He’d want me to do whatever scared me most.

Which, in this case, would be to date J.P.

But I can’t! I’m not ready! I’m barely broken up with my last long-term boyfriend—with whom I am still hopelessly in love! I can’t jump into another romantic relationship this soon!

Besides, I don’t feel that way about J.P. When I smell him, my oxytocin levels don’t rise. When I sniffed him the other night when he hugged me, I felt…nothing. All I smelled was dry-cleaning fluid.

Which is so not what I smell when Michael holds me, which is…well, okay, it’s just like soap and stuff.

But it’s not just ANY soap smell. It’s the special way Michael’s skin—and Michael’s skin alone—smells when he uses Dove unscented moisturizing beauty bar. That, and the detergent he uses on his shirts, combined with that particular Michael smell just makes…

…well, the best smell in the world.

I know it doesn’t make sense. But I’m just not sure I’m ready to move on from unscented Dove/detergent/Michael to…dry-cleaning fluid.

And what about HIM? What about J.P.? I mean, how much of this “love” thing is just a reaction to the discovery that Lilly has rebounded already with someone new? The timing is a little suspicious. I mean, we find out at lunch that Lilly and Kenny are an item, and all of a sudden, J.P. loves me? Come on!

And, okay, he says he’s been trying to tell me for a while…but I’m positive that can’t be true. Because up until very recently, I’ve been taken!

And J.P. knows I haven’t gotten over Michael yet. He has to know that the chances are I will NEVER get over Michael. At least, not for a long, long time. He wouldn’t be silly enough to fall in love with me knowing I could never return his feelings in that way….

Before senior year or so, anyway.

And, all right, J.P. does currently have a bit of a Dr. McDreamy quality about him, since the hospital has given him scrubs to change into since his sweater melted and his shirt is all scorched. So he looks pretty cute.

And he did save my life and all…

ACK! I am in no condition to deal with this right now! I just want to go home and get in my bed and try to sort out how I feel about all this!

Not the almost-getting-blown-up part.That part I can deal with. I mean, at this point, almost getting blown up is NOTHING compared to the humiliations I go through on a practically daily basis.

But the J.P.-loving-me part? It’s too weird! What could make him think I’d ever feel that way about him? Because I don’t!

At least, I think I don’t. I mean, I like him a lot. He’s one of my best friends—especially now that Lilly has dropped me.

But he’s not Michael.

He’s not Michael.

He’s not Michael.

Oh, here comes the doctor…

Wednesday, September 22, the loft

I’m home….

I don’t even care that I don’t have a TV anymore. It’s just so nice to be in my own bed, where no nitrostarches can explode, and no boys can announce their love for me.

You know, you would think, after everything that happened today, they’d finally let me move to Genovia and be palace-schooled now. For my ownphysical and emotional safety.

But no. Mr. G just informed me Albert Einstein is going to be cleaned up and fully functional tomorrow—including the Chem lab, which has been thoroughly fumigated,and they’ve already replaced the glass that was blown out of the windows (stupid emergency glaziers), and that I’m going to be there, just like everybody else.

Well, except for Kenny, who’s suspended for knowingly creating a secondary explosive in the lab. When I protested that if they were suspending Kenny, they ought to suspend me and J.P. as well, since we’re his lab partners, Mr. G just looked at me and went, “Mia. I’ve been trying to get you caught up in all of your classes this week, remember? Believe me, I know you and J.P. have no clue what you’re doing in that class.”

Which, you know. Harsh. But true, I guess.

So it looks like Kenny’s going to get his fifteen minutes of fame now, as opposed to after he starts working for Michael’s robotic surgical arm company, as he once asked me if I thought he could. What happened today at school is ALL OVER the news and Internet. Reporters are calling Kenny “Beaker” after that mad scientist Muppet character (which is mean, since Kenny really does have quite a lot of upper arm definition these days, and his mouth isn’t a gaping flap—as much as it used to be, anyway), and keep showing a picture of him being led off the ambulance, with his hair in all these crazy puffs on the top of his head.

That, coupled with his singed lab coat and the whole no-eyebrow thing, lent him a not dissimilar appearance to a certain dowager princess—not Muppet—that I know.

The thing’s been aired so many times by now, I’m SURE Michael must have heard about it. Every single article describes J.P. as this huge hero for throwing his body over mine and protecting me from the flames.

And every single article calls him “Princess Mia’s new boyfriend.”

Yeah. Nice.

I was almost afraid to check my e-mail. But I needn’t have worried. Michael didn’t write.

Tina IMed the minute she saw I was online though.

ILUVROMANCE: Oh my God, Mia!!!! Have you seen the news????

FTLOUIE:Seen it? I thought IWAS the news.

ILUVROMANCE: I can’t believe this! Poor Kenny! They suspended him!

FTLOUIE: Well, he DID blow up the Chem lab.

ILUVROMANCE: I know! But he didn’t mean to. You know that. I really hope this won’t go down on his permanent record. It could totally affect his chances of getting into college!

FTLOUIE: I’m sure Kenny will be just fine, Tina. I mean, don’t forget, he DID manage to make a bomb from scratch. I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets hired straight out of high school by the NSA.

ILUVROMANCE: What’s the NSA?

FTLOUIE: It’s—never mind. Listen, did you hear what happened right BEFORE the nitrostarch deflagrated?

ILUVROMANCE: You mean the part where J.P. covered your body with his in order to protect you from the raging fire wall???? Yes!!! It’s so romantic!!!!

FTLOUIE: Uh, there was no raging fire wall. But I mean before THAT, even. Tina—HE TOLD ME HE LOVES ME.

ILUVROMANCE:EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

FTLOUIE: I know. I thought you’d say that.

ILUVROMANCE: I TOLD YOU!!!!!! I TOLD YOU HE LOVES YOU!!!! I KNEW IT!!!! OH MY GOD, YOU GUYS MAKE THE CUTEST COUPLE!!!!!! BECAUSE YOU’RE BOTH SO TALL AND BLOND AND BLUE-EYED!!!!

FTLOUIE: My eyes are gray.

ILUVROMANCE: WHATEVER!!!! Okay, tell me everything. How did he say it? What did you say? How did you feel? Have you kissed yet? Where are you going on your first date? Or—wait. Was going toBeauty and the Beast your first date? Did he tell you WHEN he knew he loved you? It was before he dumped Lilly, right? I KNEW that’s why he ditched her. And now it totally makes sense why she’s so mad at you.

Oh, God!

FTLOUIE: Of COURSE he didn’t know he liked me when he was with Lilly! Do you think I’d even entertain the idea of going out with him if I knew he always liked me and was just using Lilly for—whatever? I mean, what kind of friend would I be if I did that???

ILUVROMANCE: Oh. So you mean…he DIDN’T always love you from the moment you first spoke to him in the caf last year? And that whole thing with Lilly WASN’T just because you were taken, and dating her was a convenient way for J.P. to stay close to you?

FTLOUIE: NO! Oh my God, Tina, are you sure you didn’t inhale any of those fumes that got released this afternoon?

ILUVROMANCE: Pretty sure. Wahim did a good job of hustling me out of there. Well, that IS what Dad pays him for. So, if J.P. DIDN’T love you from the moment you first spoke to him in the caf last year, how long DID he say he’s loved you?

FTLOUIE: He said it’s been coming on fairly slowly recently, and that he kept trying to tell me, but we kept getting interrupted. But that, even though he knew it was going to freak me out, he wanted me to know. And then the Chem lab exploded.

ILUVROMANCE: OH MY GOD!!!!

FTLOUIE: I know. It was kind of scary, actually. At first I thought the boiler room had finally exploded. You know how they’re always saying it’s about to go….

ILUVROMANCE: I DON’T MEAN THAT!!! I MEAN—Mia, I ALWAYS said that all J.P. needed was the right woman to unlock his heart—which up until now he has kept in a cold, hard shell for his own emotional protection—and he will be like an unstoppable volcano of passion!!!

FTLOUIE: Yeah. So?

ILUVROMANCE: SO HE’S FOUND HER!!! AND THAT’S WHY THE CHEM LAB EXPLODED!!!!

Seriously. Sometimes I wonder how Tina got put in so many AP classes. Not to be mean, or anything.

But still.

FTLOUIE: Tina. The Chem lab exploded because Kenny was synthesizing nitrostarch and obviously did something wrong—

ILUVROMANCE: He did something wrong, all right. What he did wrong was mix such a volatile chemical compound within such close proximity of J.P. while he was admitting his true feelings for you, the woman who has unlocked his heart at last!!!!!!!

Oh, man. I wish I had my TV back. I really could use a nice quiet rerun ofJudging Amy orJoan of Arcadia right now to soothe my nerves.

FTLOUIE: Tina. Come on. J.P.’s passion for me did not cause the explosion in the Chem lab today.

ILUVROMANCE: Oh, all right, fine. Be that way—a total unromantic about it! But you have to admit, it IS awfully coincidental. So, anyway. What did you say?

FTLOUIE: When J.P. landed on me? I said, “Get off, you’re squishing me and I can’t breathe.”

ILUVROMANCE: No! I mean, when he told you about his true feelings for you!

FTLOUIE: Oh. I didn’t say anything, really. I didn’t have a chance. The Chem lab exploded.

ILUVROMANCE: Right. But then later?

FTLOUIE: Well, then we were in the ambulances. And then in the ER. And then J.P.’s parents came and got him. And that was it.

ILUVROMANCE: THAT WAS IT??? But what did you say about his loving you? Did you say you love him, too?

FTLOUIE: Of course not, Tina! I love Michael!

ILUVROMANCE: Well, of course you love Michael. But, Mia, no offense—you and Michael are broken up. You can’t just go on loving him forever. Well, I mean, you CAN, of course, like Ross went on loving Rachel forever onFriends , but…what about the senior prom?

FTLOUIE: What ABOUT the senior prom?

ILUVROMANCE: Well, Mia, you need SOMEONE to go to the senior prom with! You can’t not go! You could go with other girls, I guess, like Perin and Ling Su are saying they’re going to…but don’t you remember our promise? That we’d lose our virginity on the night of our senior prom?

I couldn’t believe she was bringing this up. NOW.

FTLOUIE: Yes, but, Tina, that wasbefore the love of my life walked out of it .

ILUVROMANCE: Oh! I know! And I’m so sorry things didn’t work out with you and Michael. But, Mia, you will learn to love again. And J.P. looks really good in a tux. Don’t listen to what the haters are saying.

What is she TALKING about? This isn’t the Tina I know, my staunchest, most stalwart supporter! The Tina I know would never tell me I’ll learn to love again. The Tina I know would tell me to stay strong, that Michael would be coming to his senses soon and riding back to me on a milk-white charger, possibly in armor, bearing a corsage of one hundred percent zirconium from Kay Jewelers….

Or not. Because this is so something Michael would never, ever do.

And even Tina—starry-eyed, romantic Tina—knows it.

I should probably admit it to myself by now.

FTLOUIE: Michael’s never coming back, is he, Tina?

ILUVROMANCE: Oh, Mia! Of course he might come back! The question is…if he does, will you still even want him? Or will you have moved on…possibly to someone better?

My eyes filled with tears.

FTLOUIE: There’s no one better, Tina. You know that.

ILUVROMANCE: There might be! You don’t know!

FTLOUIE: And anyway, what’s the point in having this conversation? He’ll never take me back anyway. Not after how stupid I was.

ILUVROMANCE: He could! You never know! I TOLD you, don’t listen to the haters!

FTLOUIE: Haters? What haters? Why do you keep saying that?

ILUVROMANCE: Oh—Mia, I don’t care. They told me not to tell you, but you have a right to know.

FTLOUIE: About WHAT? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

ILUVROMANCE: ihatemiathermopolis.com.

FTLOUIE: Oh. That.

ILUVROMANCE: YOU’VE BEEN THERE???? YOU KNOW ABOUT IT????

FTLOUIE: Sure.

ILUVROMANCE: THEN WHY DON’T YOU GET YOUR DAD

TO GET IT SHUT DOWN?????

FTLOUIE: Tina, my dad may be a prince, but he doesn’t have control over the Internet.

ILUVROMANCE: But he could complain to Principal Gupta!

FTLOUIE: Principal Gupta? Why HER? What does SHE have to do with it?

ILUVROMANCE: Well, since the site is so obviously run by someone at AEHS….

FTLOUIE: What do you mean, obviously?

Even though it was kind of hard to see, what with my tears, and all, I clicked over to ihatemiathermopolis.com. So much had been going on in my life, I hadn’t had a chance to go there in a while.

I immediately saw that neglecting the site had been a mistake. Because there had been updates since my last visit. A LOT of updates.

Whoever owned the site had been keeping a close eye on my every move. And I mean myevery move. The day I got a drink out of the second-floor water fountain at AEHS and the spray hit me in the face instead of my mouth? Recorded with glee. The time I tripped over my new shoes and dropped all my books outside the Chem lab? Noted. The time I spilled soy sauce all down the front of my school uniform in the caf? There was actually a photo…a bad one, obviously taken with a cell phone camera.

But it was there.

And whoever had founded the site hadn’t stopped there. There was loads of advice as to how I could improve my looks so as not to appear so physically repulsive. For instance, according to ihatemiathermopolis.com, I needed to grow my hair out (well, obviously), and stop wearing my platform Mary Janes to school, because I’m “towering over everyone like some kind of supermodel. Or so she obviously THINKS she appears. Too bad no one’s told her she looks more like a superspastic.”

Nice.

That’s when the tears in my eyes spilled over. Suddenly sobs were wracking my body.

FTLOUIE: Tina. I’m sorry. I have to go.

ILUVROMANCE: Mia? Are you all right? You’re not taking this idiotic stuff SERIOUSLY, are you?

FTLOUIE: No, of course not! I just have to go. I’ll call you later.

ILUVROMANCE: Mia! I’m so sorry—but I thought you should know! Your dad should really call the school.

FTLOUIE: I’m glad you told me. Really. Good night, Tina.

ILUVROMANCE: Good night—

Wednesday, September 22, midnight, the loft

I just cried for, like, half an hour—in my bathroom, with the door shut, and the water running, so everyone would think I was just showering, and not bother me, asking me what was wrong. I think I cried harder just now than I ever have in my whole life. Fat Louie’s fur is SOAKED from all the tears that dropped into it while he curled up in my lap.

Well, okay. He wasn’t really curled up onto my lap. I was clutching him there, and he was trying to get away, and wailing piteously for help.

But whatever! If a girl can’t have her cat to comfort her in her time of direst need, what good is even HAVING a cat???

It just…it so blows, you know? I don’t WANT to be that girl. The crying emo girl. Next thing you know, I’ll start wearing skinny jeans and too much black eyeliner and nail polish and reading vampire romance novels.

God. I just…when am I going to start feeling BETTER? When am I going to get out of this hole Dr. Knutz PROMISED me he’d help me out of?

And it’s so lame, because I know how LUCKY I am. I mean, I don’t have any REAL problems. Well, except for the whole princess thing. And the ihatemiathermopolis.com thing.

But so what? Lots of people get crummy things written about them on the Internet. Look at Rachael Ray, that woman on the Food Network. There’s a whole online community devoted to how much people hate her, and she’s totally adorable. You can’t take it personally. You certainly can’t make a big deal out of it. That just gives the haters what they want—the attention they so obviously crave.

And if I tell on them—like if I tell my dad, and he goes to Principal Gupta about it, and she figures out who is doing it, and expels them, or whatever (because Albert Einstein High School has an online harassment policy that is supposed to protect its students from bullying like this), what good will it do?

They’re—whoever they are…and let’s face it, I have a pretty good idea who “they” are—just going to hate me more.

Right.

And so my boyfriend dumped me, and I’m still in love with him—so much so, it hurts? Big deal. Millions of girls have gotten dumped by their boyfriends over the years. I’m not special. My own best friend got dumped just like this a couple of weeks ago.

And now the guy who dumped her says he loves me.

Go figure.

That’s not why I’m crying, either. I guess. I don’t know….

And poor J.P.! I can’t believe I just left him hanging like that. I mean, I didn’t give him an answer either way. I just sort of…ignored him.

But I have to saysomething or it’s going to be weird.

It’s going to be weird either way, of course.

But he took a risk, putting himself out there like that. The least I can do is pay him the common courtesy of responding.

It’s just…I don’t know what to say.

I don’t! I mean, I know I don’t love him back—obviously.

But that doesn’t mean, like Tina said, that I couldn’t learn to. If I let myself.

In fact, if I let myself, I have an idea I could love J.P. a lot.

Just, you know. In a different way than I loved Michael.

But maybe I shouldn’t be making decisions like this after midnight on a day when I nearly got blown up and two weeks after I got dumped and one week into cowboy therapy and two nights before I’m supposed to make a speech about drainage in front of two thousand sophisticated New York businesswomen and an hour after I discovered ihatemiathermopolis.com is being written by someone who goes to my school and maybe, possibly my ex-best friend. (But itcouldn’t be her, right? That would betoo mean, even for Lilly.)

Maybe I should sleep on it. Maybe I should just go to bed and—

Okay. That is never going to work. I am never going to get to sleep unless I—

FTLOUIE: Dear J.P.,

Hi. So…today was weird, huh?

And it’s probably only going to be weirder tomorrow, what with all these newspapers and stuff saying how Kenny is a psychopathic madman, and you and I are going out and all. Not that I mind—if I’m going to be falsely romantically linked with anybody, I’m glad it’s you. Ha ha.

It’s just…I don’t know if I’m ready yet to be NOT falsely romantically linked with anybody. Do you know what I mean? Even though it was almost a couple of weeks ago now, it still seems like it was just yesterday that Michael and I broke up. And I’m not sure I’m ready to get back in the saddle and date again—

Oh my God. Dr. Knutz isn’t even here, and I’m using horse allegories. That is just so wrong.

Okay, delete, delete, delete.

Even though it was almost a couple of weeks ago now, it still seems like it was just yesterday that Michael and I broke up. I think I need more time to figure out who I am without him before I hook up with anybody—

Hook up!!! NO NO NO NO!!!! DELETE!!!

I think I need more time to figure out who I am without him before I start going out with somebody else.

Okay. Better.

I really do count you as one of my best friends, J.P. And if I WERE going to date anyone this soon, it would be you.

Oh, God. Is that even true? I mean, Ido like him…. He’s no Michael. But who is? Except Michael, of course.

But what about Lilly? It’s true she’s mad at me right now (but shecan’t be behind ihatemiathermopolis.com…where would she even find the time, between student council andLilly Tells It Like It Is and dating Kenny and all?)—and I’m not even really sure why.

But what if by some miracle she decides to forgive me for whatever it is that I did to her? And then she finds out I’m going out with her ex?

On the other hand…she’sgoing out withmy ex.

And, okay, I spent most of the time I was dating Kenny trying to figure out how to break up with him. But still. She can’t be mad at me for doing exactly whatshe’s doing…can she?

Oh, God. I don’t know.

I don’t know anything anymore.

Which leads me to:

But I need to get my head straightened out before I can let anybody else into it. Does that make sense?

Please don’t hate me.

Love,

Mia

Okay. Hitting SEND before I can change my mind…

Thursday, September 23, 7 a.m., the loft

Inbox: 2!

The first one was from Michael. My heart started beating super fast when I saw it.

But I must be getting a little better, because my palms didn’t get sweaty this time.

Could therapy be working? Or am I just completely dehydrated from all that crying last night?

I couldn’t help wondering, like always, if maybe he’d finally changed his mind, and decided he wanted to get back together after all….

If he did, would I go for it? Would I really stoop that low and take him back, after everything I’d been through in the past few weeks?

Yeah. I would.

But I was crushed (again) to see it was just a link to theNew York Post ’s story covering the AEHS explosion yesterday, with a note that said:

So I guess Kenny finally figured out how to get the attention he’s always felt he deserved….

Then there was a wink face, and then Michael’s signature.

So. I guess he’s not upset about all the stuff about me and J.P. after all.

Not that he would be. Since we’re just friends and all.

Sigh.

The second e-mail was from J.P. in response to mine. I have to admit, my heart didn’t speed up AT ALL when I saw it.

JPRA4: Dear Mia,

You take all the time you need to get your head straightened out (although I have to admit your head’s always seemed perfect to me). I’ll wait.

Love,

J.P.

So. That’s nice.

I guess.

Thursday, September 23, Homeroom

I know I’m not supposed to be writing in my journal at school, but this is just homeroom, and not a real class, anyway, so they can’t bust me.

And this isn’t my journal, which is at home, but my Precalculus notebook.

And besides, I HAVE to write this down, because I just saw the most random thing. And I’m sure Dr. Knutz would want me to write it down for my own SANITY just to process it:

When the limo pulled up to let me off at school—in a special cordoned-off area, because there are still so many reporters and news vans outside the school, trying to get interviews with students and faculty about the “mad bomber”—I got out and looked around for Lars, who turned out to be standing right next to me but I totally spaced noticing him because I’m so dazed from lack of sleep.

Anyway, that’s how I happened to see, under the scaffolding from where they’re replacing the mortar on one of the brick buildings across the street, this tall guy in a black leather jacket and faded jeans and dark sunglasses with a red bandanna around his head staring intently at the school.

And at first I was like,What is Ryan from The OCdoing across the street from our school? I thought that show got canceled….

And then the totally weird thing happened: A girl in an AEHS uniform walked up to the guy, and tugged on his sleeve…

…and he turned around and put his arms around her and the two of them started kissing passionately.

And I realized the girl was Lilly Moscovitz, and the hottie in the leather jacket was KENNY SHOWALTER!!!!

YES!!! The suspended juvenile delinquent who caused all of this trauma in the first place!!! Showing up at school to kiss his girlfriend before classes start!!!!

All of which, of course, begs the question:

When did Kenny Showalter get hot????

And also…

WHY WON’T LILLY TALK TO ME????

Because I am totally DYING to ask her how this whole Kenny thing came about in the first place. And also how the student council is going. And if Kenny has shown her his Final Fantasy action figure collection he first started assembling when he and I were going out. And if she’s behind ihatemiathermopolis.com, and if so, what I ever did to make her hate me so much.

Also if Michael ever asks about me.

But I can’t. Because she wouldn’t tell me anyway.

Thursday, September 23, English

Mia! How ARE you?

I’m fine, Tina! I mean, I’m a little stiff from being knocked to the ground yesterday. But my butt only hurts if I sit on it a certain way.

That’s good! But I meant…how are you EMOTIONALLY? You know…about ihhatemiathermopolis.com. And also J.P., and what he told you.

Oh! That! Yeah. No big deal. Us celebs have to get used to being cyberhated. And about the J.P. thing, I guess I’m okay. J.P. said he’s willing to wait, you know, until I’m ready. To date again. So. That’s good.

He’s so sweet! And it’s so romantic, how he SAVED you, the woman who unleashed his inner passion volcano. And did you see how hot he looked in that picture in theNew York Post this morning, with him on the back of that ambulance looking at you sitting on the back of that other ambulance? Now the whole city wants you to date him!

I know. No pressure.

You know I’m kidding!

I know, Tina. But that’s the thing: It’s really true. The problem is…I just don’t know ifI want to.

Well, whatever you decide, I’ll always love you. You know that, right?

Thanks, T. I just wish everyone were as sweet as you.

Thursday, September 23, G & T

Lunch was excruciating today. Everyone was coming up and congratulating J.P. for saving me.

Not that I don’t think J.P. deserves everybody’s praise and thanks.

It’s just that…that thing Tina said? It’s really true. It’s like everyone in the world is rooting for J.P. and me to go out—not including everyone who already thinks we ARE going out.

And I feel totally bad for resenting it, because J.P. really is a great guy, and we totally SHOULD be dating.

It’s just—how come everybody wasn’t this gung-ho aboutMichael and me going out? I mean, sure, Michael never saved me from exploding nitrostarch.

But he saved my sanity PLENTY of times.

And it’s not like he’s over there in Japan learning how to draw MANGAS or something like that. He’s over there building something that’s going to save people’slives.

Jeesh.

Thursday, September 23, PE

Oh my God. I KNEW it was going to happen. I knew there was going to be a price to pay for being chummy with Lana Weinberger:

She’s making me cut class with her.

And, okay, the only class I’m missing is PE, which isn’t exactly integral to my academic career.

But still! I’m so not a class-ditching type of girl!

Well, I mean, I’ve ditched…but usually only to sit in the third-floor stairwell to talk someone—generally MYSELF—through an emotional trauma…not to go to Starbucks.

But Lana and Trisha were waiting for me in the girls’ locker room when I got there today. They grabbed me and hustled me—right past Lars, who’d been leaning against the wall by the water fountain playing Fantasy Football on his cell phone—out of school and down the street. (Lars finally caught up around Seventy-seventh Street.) Lana said she really, really needed a nonfat mocha latte, and that she can’t possibly sit through Spanish (the class she has this period) anyway, because it’s right beneath the Chem lab, and that whole side of the school still reeks of smoke.

“Besides,” Lana said, “with all the reporters standing around outside, trying to get interviews with Principal Gupta about Beaker, it’s not like we’re going toobtenga cualquier trabajo a hecho , anyway.”

Which is no exaggeration. Our school is still the center of a media blitzkrieg, though the reporters are keeping off the school property, with the help of the NYPD, whom the school board apparently called in for crowd control.

However, we managed to get past them without my being recognized thanks to draping our blazers over our heads and running for it. Which was educational, in that it illustrated how it might feel to have to wear a burka.

“So,” Lana said, once we were all seated. “Everyone’s saying that J.P. guy saved your life. Are you two, like, going out?”

“No,” I said, feeling myself beginning to blush.

“Dude, why not?” Trisha ordered a nonfat no-whip caffè mocha and was blowing on it to cool it off. “Saving your life? That’s hot.”

“Yeah.” My cheeks felt as warm as my hot chocolate. “I just—you know. I’m just coming out of a long-term relationship, and I don’t know if I’m ready to jump back into another right now.”

“I hear you,” Lana said. “That’s how I’ve felt ever since I broke up with Josh. We’re young, you know? We have to play the field. Who needs to be tied down to one guy when you’re SIXTEEN?”

“I’d like to be tied down to Skeet Ulrich,” Trisha volunteered.

“It’s just…,” I said, ignoring the Skeet Ulrich remark. Although, you know, ditto. “I really love Michael. And the idea of being with some other guy…I don’t know. It doesn’t do anything for me.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Lana said, slurping some nonfat foam from her wooden stirrer. “After Josh and I broke up, I was like, who can ever replace Josh, you know? Because he’s, like, so tall and hot and smart and good about hanging out in the boyfriend chair while I’m shopping.”

“Totally,” Trisha said, nodding in agreement, “good about that. A lot of guys aren’t. You’d be surprised.”

“So I was really reluctant, you know, to hook up with anyone,” Lana went on, “because I just didn’t want to get hurt again. But then I thought, I need to make a new start. You know? Like a do-over. So I went to a party. And that’s where I met Blaine.”

“Blaize,” Trisha corrected her.

“Was that his name?” Lana looked far away. “Oh, yeah. Well, whatever. He was, like, my rebound guy. And after that I was totally cured.”

“You need a rebound guy,” Trisha said, pointing at me with her stirrer.

“I think it should be that J.P. guy,” Lana agreed. “I mean, he let himself get set on FIRE for you.”

“Getting set on fire is so hot,” Trisha informed me. Apparently without irony.

I nodded anyway. “I know. The thing is…on paper, J.P. is the perfect guy for me. We both love the theater and movies and come from similar backgrounds and my grandmother totally loves him and we both want to be writers—”

“And you’re both always scribbling in those notebooks,” Lana said, pointing at my Mead composition notebook with a manicured nail. “Like you’re doing now. Which isn’t weird at all, by the way.”

“Yeah,” I said, ignoring Trisha’s sarcastic snort. “And I know he’s good-looking and it was cool how he saved me and all. But it’s just…he doesn’t smell right.”

I knew they were both going to stare at me funny. And they both did. They had no idea what I was talking about.

No one does. No one gets it.

Except maybe my dad.

“Just get him a different cologne,” Trisha said.

“Yeah,” Lana said. “Josh used to wear this totally gross stuff that practically gave me a migraine, so for his birthday one year I got him some Drakkar Noir and he started wearing that instead. Problem solved.”

I had to pretend like I was thankful for this tip, and that it actually helped. Even though it totally didn’t. This, it turns out, is the problem with being friends with people in the popular crowd:

You can’t always tell them the truth about stuff, because a lot of things, they just don’t understand.

Thursday, September 23, Chemistry

Mia—you were so quiet at lunch today. Are you okay?

Yes, J.P.! Fine! Just…a little overwhelmed.

Not because of me, I hope.

No! Nothing to do with you!

You can’t tell cute guys the truth about stuff, either.

You’re lying.

No! I’m not! What would make you say that?

Your nostrils are flaring.

DANG! Can NOTHING in my life remain a secret?

Oh. Lilly told you about that?

She did. Listen, the last thing I want is for things to be weird between us.

They’re not! Well, I mean…not really.

I told you—I can wait.

I know! And it’s sweet of you. Really sweet!

I’m too sweet, aren’t I? Too much of a nice guy? Girls never fall for the nice guys.

No! You’re not nice. You’re scary, remember? At least according to your therapist….

Hey, that’s right. And didn’t your doctor tell you to do something every day that scares you?

Um. Yes….

Then you should go out with me Friday night.

I can’t! I have a thing.

Mia. I thought we were going to be honest with each other.

Do you see my nostrils flaring? Seriously, I have to give a speech at this Domina Rei gala.

Fine. I’ll be your escort.

You can’t. It’s women only.

Right.

I’m serious. Believe me, I wish I weren’t.

Okay. Saturday, then.

I can’t! I really have to study. Do you have any idea how tenuously I’m hanging on to my B-plus average right now?

Fine. But sooner or later, I’m taking you out. And you’re going to forget all about Michael. I promise.

J.P., you have no idea how much I hope that’s true.

Thursday, September 23, 8 p.m., limo on the way to the Four Seasons

Okay. It’s really hard to write this because my hands are shaking so hard.

But I need to get it all down. Because something happened.

Something big.

Bigger than a nitrostarch explosion. Bigger than Lilly hating me and maybe possibly being the founder of ihatemiathermopolis.com. Bigger than J.P. turning out to love me. Bigger than Michael turning out NOT to love me (anymore). Bigger than me having to start therapy. Bigger than my mom marrying my Algebra teacher and having his baby, or me turning out to be a princess, or Michael even loving me in the first place.

Bigger than anything that’s happened to me ever.

Okay. This is what happened:

It started out like a normal enough evening. I mean, I worked with Mr. G on my homework (I will never pass either Chemistry or Precalculus without daily tutoring—that much is clear), had dinner, and finally decided, you know, that Lana’s right: I need to make a new start. I need a do-over. Seriously. It’s time to go out with the old—old boyfriends, old best friends, old clothes that don’t fit me anymore, and old décor—and in with the new.

So I was rearranging my bedroom furniture (whatever. I was done with my homework, and I DON’T HAVE A TV ANYMORE. What ELSE was I supposed to do? Look up mean things about myself on the Internet? There is now a comment section on ihatemiathermopolis.com where someone from South Dakota just posted “I hate Mia Thermopolis, too! She is so shallow and self-absorbed! I once sent her an e-mail care of the Genovian palace and she never wrote back!”) when I accidentally knocked over Princess Amelie’s portrait.

And the back fell off. You know, the wood part that was over the back of the frame?

And I totally freaked out, because, you know, that portrait is probably priceless or whatever, like everything else at the palace.

So I scrambled over to pick it up.

And this paper fell out.

Not a paper, really. Some parchment. Like the kind they used to write on, back in the 1600s.

And it was covered all over in this scrawly seventeenth-century French that was really hard to read. It took me forever to decipher what it said. I mean, I could see that at the bottom it was signed by Princess Amelie—myPrincess Amelie. And that right next to her signature was the Genovian royal seal. And that next to that were the signatures of two witnesses, whose names were not familiar to me.

It took me a minute to figure out that they had to be the signatures of the two witnesses she had found to sign off on her executive order.

That’s when I realized what I was looking at. That thing Amelie had signed—the thing her uncle had gotten so mad at her for, and burned all the copies of…except one, that she’d hidden somewhere close to her heart.

At first I’d thought she’d meant LITERALLY next to her heart, and that whatever it was, it must have been burned to a crisp along with her body in the royal funereal pyre after Amelie’s death.

But then I realized she hadn’t been literal at all. She’d meant next to her PORTRAIT’s heart…which, in fact, is from where the parchment had fallen—from between the portrait and its backing. Where she’d hidden it to keep her uncle from finding it…and where the Genovian parliament was supposed to look for it, after Amelie’s diary and the portrait were returned to them from the abbey to which she’d sent them for safekeeping.

Except, of course, no one ever did. Read the diary, I mean (beyond translating it, apparently). Or found the parchment.

Until me.

So then, of course, I wondered what this thing could say. You know, if it had made her uncle so mad, he’d tried to burn all the copies, and she’d gone to so much trouble to hide the last one.

And even though at first it was kind of hard to figure out what, exactly, the document was talking about, by the time I’d finished translating all the words I didn’t know with the help of an online medieval French dictionary (thank you, nerds), I had a pretty good idea why Uncle Francesco had been so mad.

And also why Amelie had hidden it. And left clues in her journal as to where it could be found.

Because it was possibly the most inflammatory document I have ever read. Hotter, even, than Kenny’s nitrostarch synthesis experiment.

For a second, I could only stare down at it in total and complete astonishment.

And then I realized something…somethingamazing :

Princess Amelie Virginie Renaldo, all the way from 1669, had just totallysaved my butt !!!!!

Not just my butt, but my sanity…

…my life

…my future

…myeverything.

Really. It sounds like I’m exaggerating, and I know I do that a lot, but in this case…I’m not. I am totally and completely one-hundred-percent heart-pounding sweaty-palmed dry-mouthed serious.

So serious that for a minute, I thought I might have a heart attack on the spot.

Which is why as soon as I knew I was actually going to be okay, I called my dad and told him I was on my way uptown to see him. And Grandmère, too.

Because I have something to say to both of them.

Friday, September 24, 1 a.m., the loft

I can’t believe this. I can’t believe they’re—

This isn’t happening. It’s just NOT HAPPENING. It CAN’T be happening. Because how could my own blood relatives be so…so…sohorrible ?

I guess I could understand GRANDMÈRE’s reaction. But Dad? My OWNfather ?

It’s not like he didn’t think about what he was doing, either. He took the parchment from me and read it. He checked the seal and signature and everything. He studied it for a long time, while Grandmère sat there sputtering, “Ridiculous! A Genovian princess granting the people the right to ELECT a head of state, and declaring that the role of the Genovian sovereign is one of ceremony only? No ancestor of ours would be that stupid.”

“Amelie wasn’t being stupid, Grandmère,” I explained to her. “What she did was actually really smart. She was trying to HELP the Genovian people by sparing them from being ruled by someone she knew from personal experience was a tyrant, and who was only going to make an already bad situation, with the plague and everything, worse. It’s just bad luck that no one found the document until now.”

“It certainly is,” Dad said, still studying the parchment. “It might have spared the Genovian people a lot of hardship. The fact is, Princess Amelie made what, under the circumstances, was the best decision she could make at that time.”

“Right,” I said. “So we’ll have to get this to parliament as soon as possible. They’ll want to start nominating candidates for prime minister and figure out when they’re going to hold elections as soon as possible. And, Dad, I was going to say, I know this must come as a total blow to you, but if I know the Genovian people—and I think I do, by now—there’s only one person they’re going to want as their prime minister, and that’s you.”

“That’s kind of you to say, Mia,” Dad said.

“Well, it’s true,” I said. “And there’s nothing in the Bill of Rights as Amelie has laid them out to preclude any member of the royal family from running for prime minister if he or she wants to. So I think you should go for it. I know it’s not exactly the same thing, but I have some experience with elections thanks to the student council race last year. So if you need any help, I’ll be glad to do whatever I can.”

“What is this?” Grandmère sputtered. “Has everyone gone completely mad? Prime minister? No son of mine is going to be a prime minister! He’s a prince, need I remind you, Amelia!”

“Grandmère.” I know it’s really hard sometimes for old people to adjust to new things—like the Internet—but I knew Grandmère would catch on eventually. She’s a real pro with a mouse now. “I know Dad’s a prince. And he’ll always stay one. Just like you’ll always be dowager princess, and I’ll always be a princess. It’s just that, according to Amelie’s declaration, Genovia’s no longerruled by a prince or princess. It’s led by an elected parliament, and headed by an elected prime minister—”

“That is ridiculous!” Grandmère cried. “I did not spend all this time teaching you how to be a princess only to have it turn out you’re NOT one after all!”

“Grandmère.” Seriously. You’d think she’d never taken a Government class before. “I’m still a princess. Just a ceremonial one. Like Princess Aiko of Japan…or Princess Beatrice in England. Both England and Japan are constitutional monarchies…like Monaco.”

“Monaco!” Grandmère looked horrified. “Good God in heaven, Phillipe! We can’t be likeMonaco. What is she saying?”

“Nothing, Mother,” Dad said. I hadn’t noticed before, but his jaw was squared. That is always a sign—like Mom’s mouth getting small—that things are not about to go my way. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Well, yes,” I said. “Itis. I mean, a little. It’s going to be a pretty big change. But only in a good way, I think. Our membership in the European Union was on pretty shaky ground before because of the whole absolute monarchy thing, right? I mean, remember the snails? But now, as a democracy—”

“Democracy, again!” Grandmère cried. “Phillipe! What does all this mean? What is she TALKING about? Are you, or are you not, the prince of Genovia?”

“Of course I am, Mother,” Dad said in a soothing voice. “Don’t get excited. Nothing’s going to change. Let me ring for a Sidecar for you….”

I totally understood Dad trying to calm Grandmère down and all. But outright lying to her seemed a little cold.

“Well,” I said. “Actually, alot is going to change—”

“No,” Dad interrupted briskly. “No, Mia, actually, it’s not. I appreciate your bringing this document to my attention, but it doesn’t mean what you seem to think it means. It doesn’t have any validity.”

That’s when my jaw dropped. “WHAT? Ofcourse it does! Amelie completely followed all the rules laid out in the Genovian royal charter—used the seal and got the signature of two unrelated witnesses and everything! If I’ve learned anything since my princess lessons started, I’ve learned that. It’s valid.”

“But she didn’t have parliamentary approval,” Dad began.

“BECAUSE EVERYONE IN PARLIAMENT WAS DEAD!” I couldn’t believe this. “Or at home, nursing their dying relatives. And, Dad, you know as well as I do that in a national crisis—like, for instance, a PLAGUE, a ruler’s impending death, and her knowledge that her throne is going to a known despot—a crowned Genovian prince or princess can sign into law anything he or she wants to, by order of divine right.”

Seriously. Does he really think I’ve learned NOTHING but how to use a fish fork in three years of princess lessons?

“Right,” Dad said. “But this particular national crisis was four hundred years ago, Mia.”

“That doesn’t make this bill any less valid,” I insisted.

“No,” Dad admitted. “But it does mean there’s no reason we have to share it with parliament at this time. Or any time, really.”

“WHAT?”

I felt like Princess Leia Organa when she finally revealed the hidden location of the rebel base (even though she was lying) to Grand Moff Tarkin inStar Wars: A New Hope , and he went ahead and ordered the destruction of her home planet of Alderaan anyway.

“Ofcourse we have to share it,” I yelled. “Dad, Genovia has been living a lie for almost four hundred years!”

“This conversation is over,” Dad said, taking Amelie’s Bill of Rights and getting ready to slide it into his briefcase. “I appreciate the attempt, Mia—it was very clever of you to figure this all out. But this is hardly a legitimate legal document that we need to bring to the attention of the Genovian people—or parliament. It’s merely an attempt by a scared teenage girl to protect the interests of a people who are long since dead, and nothing we need to worry about—”

“That’s just it,” I said. I hurried over and took the parchment before he could seal it away forever in the darkness of his Gucci bag. I was starting to cry. I couldn’t help it. It was all just so unfair. “Isn’t it? That it’s written by agirl. Worse, that it’s written by aTEENAGE girl . So therefore, it has no legitimacy, and can just be ignored—”

Dad gave me a sour look. “Mia, you know that’s not what I mean.”

“Yes, it is! If this had been written by one of our MALE ancestors—Prince Francesco himself—you’d totally have presented it to parliament when they meet in session next month. TOTALLY. But because it was written by a teenage girl, who was only princess for twelve days before she died horribly and all alone, you plan on completely disregarding it. Does the freedom of your own people really mean so little to you?”

“Mia,” Dad said, sounding weary. “Genovia is consistently rated among the best places to live on theplanet , and the Genovian population the most content. The median temperature is seventy-two degrees, it’s sunny almost three hundred days out of the year, and no one there pays any taxes, remember? Genovians have certainly never expressed the slightest reservations about their freedom, or lack of it, since I’ve been on the throne.”

“How can they miss what they’ve never had, Dad?” I asked him. “And that’s not even the point. The point is that one of your ancestors left behind a legacy—something she intended to be used to protect the people she cared about. Her uncle threw it away, the same way he tried to throwher away. If we don’t honor her last request, we’re every bit as bad as he was.”

Dad rolled his eyes. “Mia. It’s late. I’m going back to my suite. We’ll talk about this some more tomorrow. If,” I distinctly heard him mutter, “you haven’t gotten over it by then.”

Which really gets to the heart of the matter, doesn’t it? He thinks I’m just suffering from some adolescent female histrionics…the same kind that prompted him to put me into therapy, and Princess Amelie into signing that bill in the first place.

The bill he is ignoring because—basically—a girl wrote it.

Nice. Really nice.

And Grandmère was no help whatsoever. I mean, you would think a fellow woman would have some sympathy for my—and Amelie’s—plight.

But Grandmère is just like all those other women who go around wanting the same rights as men, but don’t want to call themselves feminists. Because that isn’t “feminine.”

After Dad left, she just looked at me and was like, “Well, Amelia, I’m still not sure what all that was about, but I told you not to bother with that dusty old diary. Now, are you ready for your speech tomorrow? Your suit has been delivered here, so I suppose the best thing would be for you to come straight over after school and change here.”

“I can’t come straight over after school,” I said to her. “I have therapy tomorrow.”

She blinked at me a few times—I was never sure how much Dad had told her about Dr. Knutz. But now I know it’s nothing—and went, “Well. After that then.”

!!!!!

Seriously. My grandmother finds out I’m in therapy, and all she says is for me to come over AFTERWARD to change for the speech I am ONLY giving because SHE wants to be a Domina Rei.

I could kill both of them right now. Dad AND Grandmère.

I came home so mad, I couldn’t even speak. I just went into my room and shut the door.

Not that Mom or Mr. G even noticed. They finally got all the seasons so far ofThe Wire on Netflix and are glued to the TV.

The TV in their BEDROOM.

Because no one took THEIR TV away.

I thought about going in there and telling them—well, Mom, anyway—what was going on. Except that I knew the information would cause her head to explode. Her former boyfriend and his mother robbing a woman of her basic human rights (because that’s what Dad and Grandmère are doing to Amelie)? Mom would beso on the warpath. She would get all her Riot Grrls on the phone and be down picketing the Genovian Embassy in no time. Then if that didn’t work, she’d karate chop Dad in the neck (she’s been working off her leftover pregnancy weight and is back up to her brown belt).

Except…

Except that’s not what I want.

For one thing, domestic violence is never the answer.

And for another, I don’t want my MOM to fix this. I need advice on howI can fix this. ME.

I can’t believe any of this. Can this actually—truly—be my life?

And if so…how did thishappen ?

Friday, September 24, English

Mia! Are you all right? You look like you didn’t get much sleep last night!

Yeah. That’d be because I didn’t.

Why???? Oh my gosh, did d something happen with J.P.? Or MICHAEL???

Ha. No, Tina. Believe it or not, this has nothing to do with a boy. Well, except my dad.

Did he give you that speech again about how if you don’t study harder you won’t get into an Ivy League school and then you’ll end up married to a circus performer like your cousin Princess Stephanie? Because I’ve been meaning to say, I really think MOST people don’t end up getting into Ivy League schools, and very few of them end up married to contortionists, so I don’t think this is a very valid concern.

No. It’s worse than that.

Oh my God, did he find out about how you were going to give your Precious Gift to Michael??? Except Michael didn’t want it????

No. Something way, way more important…

More important than your Precious Gift? What is it, then???????

Well—

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

I will not pass notes in class.

Friday, September 24, Lunch period, third-floor stairwell

I don’t even know what to say. I bet the words on this page are all smeary from my tears.

Only I’m crying so hard I can’t tell, since I can barely see the page anyway.

I just—I just don’t understand how she could have SAID that.

Let alone DONE that.

I don’t even know what I was thinking.

It’s just that this is so much WORSE than the fact that my longtime boyfriend has dumped me. Worse than my best friend’s ex claiming to be in love with me. Worse than the fact that my former enemy now sits with me at lunch. Worse than the fact that I’m barely passing Precalc.

I mean, my father is trying to bilk the Genovian people out of their one shot at being a democratic society.

And there’s really only a single person I know of who can tell me what I ought to do about all of this (instead of, like, my mom taking over and doing it all herself).

And she’s not speaking to me.

But I thought we could rise above the petty stuff. I really thought we could.

Seriously. I just felt like Ineeded to talk to Lilly. Because Lilly would know what I should do.

And what, I thought, would be the worst thing that could happen if I just TOLD her? What if I just walked up andtold her what was going on? She’d HAVE to respond, right? Because it’s such an injustice, she wouldn’t be able to help it. She’s LILLY. Lilly can’t stand idly by while an injustice is being perpetrated. She’s physically incapable of it. She’d HAVE to say something.

And most likely, what she’d say was, “You have GOT to be kidding me. Mia, you have to—”

And then she’d tell me what to do. Right?

And then I’d be able to stop feeling like I’m sliding farther and farther down Papaw’s cistern.

I mean, maybe we wouldn’t be friends again.

But Lilly would never let a country be cheated out of government by the people. Right? As opposed as she is to the monarchy?

That was my reasoning, anyway. That’s why I went up to her just now in the cafeteria.

I swear that’s all I did. I just walked over to her. That’s it. All I did was go over to where she was sitting—ALONE, by the way, because Kenny is suspended, and Perin was off at an orthodontist’s appointment, and Ling Su had chosen to stay in the art room to finish a collage of herself she’s calling,Portrait of the Artist in Ramen Noodles and Olives —and go, “Lilly? Can I talk to you a second?”

And okay, maybe it was a bad idea to approach her in public. I probably should have waited in the girls’ room, since she always goes in there to wash her hands when she’s done eating. Then I could have talked to her in private, and if she reacted badly, no one would have seen or heard it but me and maybe a few freshmen.

But like an IDIOT I went up to her in front of everyone and slid into the seat across from hers and went, “Lilly, I know you’re not speaking to me, but I really need your help. Something terrible has happened: I found out that nearly four hundred years ago one of my ancestresses signed a bill making Genovia a constitutional monarchy, but no one found the bill until the other day, and when I showed it to my dad he basically dismissed it because it was written by a teenage girl who only ruled for twelve days before succumbing to the Black Death, and besides which, he doesn’t want a merely ceremonial role in the Genovian government, even though Itold him he should run for prime minister. You know everyone would vote for him. And I just feel like this enormous injustice is being done, but I don’t know what I can do about it, and you’re so smart, I figured you could help me—”

Lilly looked up from her salad and went, coldly, “Why are you even speaking to me?”

Which, I will admit, kind of threw me. I probably should have gotten up and walked away right then and there.

But like the idiot that I am, I kept going. Because…I don’t know. We’ve been through so much together, I just figured maybe she hadn’t heard me right, or something.

“I told you,” I said. “I need your help. Lilly, this whole cold-shoulder thing, it’s so stupid.”

She just stared at me some more. So I went, “Well, okay, if you feel like you have to go on hating me, that’s fine. What about the people of Genovia, though? They never did anything to you—although neither did I, but that’s not the point. Don’t you think the people of Genovia deserve to be free to choose their own leader? Lilly, they need you—Ineed you to help me figure out how to—”

“Oh. My. God.”

Lilly stood up on the word “Oh.” She raised her fist on the word “My.” And she brought it down hard on the table-top on the word “God.”

So hard that every single head in the caf swiveled toward us to see what was going on.

“I cannot believe this!” Lilly yelled. Literally, yelled at me, even though I was sitting right across from her, barely two feet away. “You are completely unbelievable. First, you break my brother’s heart. Then you steal my boyfriend. Then you think you can ask me for advice about your completely dysfunctional family?”

By the time she got to the word “family,” she was screaming.

I just blinked up at her, completely shocked. Also, not able to see very well, thanks to the tears in my eyes.

But probably that was good. Because I couldn’t see all the stricken faces that were turned in our direction.

Although I could hear the total silence that was roaring across the caf. You couldn’t even hear a fork scrape. That’s how eager everyone was to take in every second of the verbal tongue-lashing I was getting from my former best friend.

“Lilly,” I whispered. “You know I didn’t break Michael’s heart. He broke mine. And I didnot steal your boyfriend—”

“Oh, save it for theNew York Post ,” Lilly shouted. “Nothing is EVER your fault, is it, Mia? But then why should you ever admit you were in the wrong, when the victim thing is working so well for you, right? I mean, look at you. You’ve got LANA WEINBERGER as your best friend now. Isn’t that SPECIAL? Don’t you realize that she’s just USING you, you idiot? They’re all justusing you, Mia. I was your only real friend and look how you treated me!”

All I could see of Lilly was a big blur after that, because the tears were coming so fast. But I could hear the contempt in her voice. Also, the complete and utter silence of everyone around us.

“And you know what?” Lilly went on acidly—and still loudly enough to wake the dead. “You’re right. Youdidn’t break Michael’s heart. He was so sick of your constant whining and complete inability to solve your own problems, he couldn’t wait to get away from you. I just wish I were as lucky as he is! I’d give anything to be thousands of miles away from you, too. But in the meantime, at least I have the new website I’ve designed to comfort me. Perhaps you’ve seen it? If not let me give you the URL—it’s IHATEMIATHERMOPOLISDOTCOM!”

And with that, she whirled around and left the cafeteria.

Or at least I suppose so. It was kind of hard to tell since I couldn’t actually see what was happening, because by that time I was crying so hard, it looked like Niagara Falls was coming down my face.

Which was why I didn’t notice that Tina and Boris and J.P. and Shameeka and Lana and Trisha had hurried over to where I was sitting until they were patting me on the back and saying things like, “Don’t listen to her, Mia, she didn’t mean it,” and “She’s just jealous. She always has been,” and “Nobody’s using you, Mia. Because to be honest, you don’t really have anything I want.” (This last came from Lana. Who meant it kindly, I know.)

I knew they were just trying to be nice. I knew they just wanted to make me feel better.

But it was too late. Lilly’s total annihilation of me—in such a public manner—was the straw that broke the camel’s entire spinal column. And the fact that Lilly—Lilly, of all people!—was behind that stupid website?

I guess I always knew it.

But to hear her admit it like that—so proudly, like shewanted me to know…

I had to get out of there. I knew by doing so, I was just being what Lilly had accused me of—a whiny victim.

But I really needed to just be alone.

Which is what I’m doing here in the third-floor stairwell, which leads to the locked roof door, and where no one ever goes…

No one but Lilly and me, that is, when we’ve been upset about something in the past.

Lars is standing guard at the bottom of the stairs to keep anyone from coming up. He seems genuinely concerned about me. He went, “Princess, should I call your mother?”

I was like, “No, thanks, Lars.”

And then he was all, “Well, then, your father, maybe?”

And I was like, “NO!”

He looked kind of taken aback by my vehemence. But I was afraid he was going to ask if he should call Dr. Knutz next.

Thankfully, though, he just nodded and said, “All right, then. If you’re sure…”

Am I ever sure. I told him I just needed to be by myself for a little while. I said I’d be right back down…

But it’s been fifteen minutes, and I don’t feel like the tears are going to stop anytime soon. I just—how could shesay those things? After everything we’ve been through together? How could she WRITE those things on her site? How can she think I would ever do anything like what she accused me of? How could she ever be so…socruel ?

Oh, no. I hear footsteps. Lars is letting someone up! WHY, LARS, WHY???? I told you—

Friday, September 24, G & T

Oh, God. That was so…

Random.

Really. That’s the only word I can think of to describe it.

Which makes it no wonder Ms. Martinez despairs of my ever being a successful freelance writer or journalist.

But, seriously! How else can I put it? It was just…RANDOM.

And what was Lars THINKING? I told him to let NO ONE up. Except for Principal Gupta or a teacher, OBVIOUSLY.

So how did BORIS become exempt from that?

But sure enough, I heard footsteps on the stairs, and the next thing I knew, BORIS was there, all out of breath, like he’d been running.

At first I was worried he was going to tell me HE loves me, too (well, whatever, it’s amazing the things that start happening when you finally grow into a 36C).

But he just went, “There you are. I’ve been looking for you all over. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but it’s not true.”

“What’snot true, Boris?” I asked him, totally confused.

“What Lilly just said,” he said. “About Michael being sick of you. I can’t tell you how I know. But I do.”

I smiled at him. Even though I was still in total despair and everything, I couldn’t help it. Really, Tina is so lucky. She has the most fantastic boyfriend in the entire world.

Fortunately, she knows it.

“Thanks, Boris,” I said, trying to wipe away my tears with my sleeve so I didn’t look like quite as much of a lunatic as I was pretty sure I did. “That’s really sweet of you to say.”

“I’m not being sweet,” Boris insisted earnestly, still panting from all the running around he’d been doing, looking for me. “I’m telling the truth. And you should write him back.”

I blinked at him, more confused than ever. “W-what? Write who back?”

“Michael,” Boris said. “He’s been e-mailing you, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, stunned. “But how did you—”

“You should write him back,” Boris said. “I mean, just because you’re broken up doesn’t mean you can’t be friends anymore. Isn’t that what you both agreed? That you’d still be friends?”

“Yes,” I said, bewildered. “But, Boris, how do you know he’s been e-mailing me? Did…did Tina tell you?”

Boris hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. That’s right, Tina told me.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I can’t e-mail him back, Boris. I’m just…I’m not ready to be friends with him yet. It still hurts too much not to bemore than friends.”

“Well,” Boris said. “I can understand that, I guess. But…you should e-mail him back as soon as you feel ready. So he doesn’t think—you know. That you hate him. Or that you’ve forgotten about him. Or whatever.”

As if THAT’S ever going to happen.

I assured Boris I’d e-mail Michael when I felt emotionally capable of doing so without falling apart and begging him in eighteen-point type to take me back.

Then Boris did the nicest thing. He volunteered to walk me to class (once I’d pulled myself together and gotten rid of the evidence of my tears…smeared mascara, snot down my nose, etc.).

So the three of us—Boris, Lars, and I—all got to G and T at the same time (late).

But it didn’t matter, since neither Mrs. Hill nor Lilly is here.

I suppose Lilly’s skipping to meet Kenny somewhere. They’re like a regular Courtney Love and Kurt Cobain. Minus the heroin. All Lilly needs is to start smoking, though, and maybe get a tattoo or two, she’ll have completely perfected her tough girl image.

Boris asked me one last time if I was all right, and when I said I thought I was, he slipped into the supply closet and started practicing my favorite Chopin piece of his.

Which has to have been on purpose. He’s so thoughtful.

Tina really is a lucky girl.

I just hope someday I can be as lucky as she is.

Or maybe I’ve alreadyhad my luck where boys are concerned, and I completely squandered it.

God, I hope that’s not the case. Although if it is, all I can say is, it was good while it lasted.

Friday, September 24, Dr. Knutz’s waiting room

Lana and Trisha insisted on taking me out for what they like to call a Mani-Pedi Time-Out. They said I deserved it, after what Lilly did to me in the caf.

So instead of playing softball during sixth period, I got my toenails and what was left of my fingernails (I haven’t had new acrylic tips put on since I got back from Genovia this summer, and I’ve been biting what remains of my natural nails) painted I’m-Not-Really-a-Waitress red, a color Grandmère insists is totally inappropriate for young girls.

Which is precisely why I picked it.

But I have to admit, after we were done with our forty-five-minute manicure/pedicures, I didn’t feel much better. I know Lana and Trisha were trying.

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

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

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

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

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

“But Genovia already has a prime minister.”

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

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

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

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

I nearly flung myself out of my chair at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay.That got me mad.

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

Dr. Knutz regarded me calmly from behind his notepad.

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

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

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

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

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

WHAT WAS HETALKING ABOUT???

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

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

“Bye for now,” Dr. Knutz said.

And shooed me away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hates the nail polish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Due any day now,” the Contessa cooed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh my God.

OH MY GOD.

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

No. Just…

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

She meant for Genovia to be a democracy.

Only no one knew that.

But that’s not true. SOMEone does know.

Iknow.

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

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

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

My dad would KILL me.

But…that woulddefinitely not be like Pancho of me.

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

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

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

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

Oh, God.

I think someone already did.

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

PRINCESS DROPS BOMB OF DIFFERENT KIND

For immediate release

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know what? I don’t care.

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

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

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

I don’t regret it.

And I never will.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that my father wanted to see me at once.

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

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

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

THAT brought him up short. He looked all scared—like that time that flight attendant was claiming she was pregnant with his baby, until he realized he’d never met her before.

“Me?” he cried. “Coming to one of your appointments? With my MOTHER?”

“Yes,” I said, not backing down. “Because I really want to talk about how on your mental health assessment you checked offA little of the time in answer to the statementI feel as if true romantic love has passed me by when just a couple of weeks ago you told me that you’ll always regret having let Mom slip away. You totally lied to Dr. Knutz, and you know if you lie in therapy—even to MY therapist—you’re only hurting yourself, because how can you hope to make any progress if you’re not honest with yourself first?”

Dad just blinked at me, I guess because I’d changed the subject so abruptly.

But then, looking all irritated, he went, “Mia, contrary to what you might like to believe in that over-romantic imagination of yours, I do not sit around pining for your mother every minute of every day. Yes, occasionally I regret that things didn’t work out with her. But life goes on. As you will find that life after Michael does. So, yes, I do feel that true love has passed me by,a little of the time . But the REST of the time I feel hopeful that new love might very well be waiting for me right around the next corner—as I hope it’s waiting for you as well. Now can we get back to the matter at hand? You had absolutely no right to do what you did tonight, and I’m very, very disappointed that you—”

But I didn’t pay attention to the rest of what he said, because I was thinking about that phrase,hopeful that new love might very well be waiting for me right around the next corner.

How does someone make that transition? The transition from missing the person who they love so desperately that being without them feels like an empty ache inside their chest, to feeling hopeful that new love might very well be waiting for them right around the next corner?

I just don’t know.

But I hope it happens to me someday….

Oh. We’re on Thompson Street.

Great. As if my evening hasn’t been eventful enough, now there is a homeless guy standing in our vestibule. Lars is getting out to remove him.

I hope he doesn’t have to use the stun gun.

Saturday, September 25, 1 a.m., the loft

It wasn’t a homeless guy.

It was J.P.

He was waiting for me in the vestibule because it’s so unseasonably cold out, he hadn’t wanted to wait outside…and he hadn’t wanted to buzz my mom and possibly wake her up.

But he’d wanted to see me because he’d watched the news about my speech on New York One.

And he’d wanted to make sure I was all right.

So he came all the way downtown to do so.

“I mean,” he kept saying, “it’s kind of a big deal, like they’re saying on the news. One minute you’re a regular girl, and the next, you’re a princess. And, a few years later, you’re a princess, and the next minute…you’re not.”

“I’m still a princess,” I reassured him.

“You are?” He looked uncertain.

I nodded. “I’ll always be a princess,” I said. “It’s just that now I can be a princess with a regular job and an apartment and stuff. If I want.”

It was as I was explaining all this to him on the front stoop—after Lars had nearly Tasered him because he, too, had mistaken him for a vagrant—that the strangest thing happened:

It started to snow.

Iknow . Just very lightly, and freakishly early in the year for snow in Manhattan, especially given global warming. But it was definitely cold enough. Not cold enough to stick, or anything. But there was no denying the dozen or so tiny white flakes that started falling from the pinky night sky (pink because the clouds were hanging so low that the city lights were reflecting off them) as I was talking.

And something strange happened when I looked up at the snowflakes, feeling them fall gently on my face, while I was listening to J.P. explain that he was glad I was still a princess after all.

All of a sudden—just like that—I didn’t feel that depressed anymore.

I can’t really explain it any other way. Ms. Martinez would no doubt be disappointed in my lack of descriptive verbs.

But that’s exactly how it happened. Suddenly, I didn’t feel that sad anymore.

Not like I was cured, or anything.

But that I’d climbed a few more feet out of that big, black hole and could see the sky—clearly—again. It was only just out of reach, as opposed to being dozens of feet overhead. I wasalmost there….

And then, while J.P. was going, “And I hope you don’t think I’m stalking you, because I’m not, I just thought maybe you’d need a friend since I’m pretty sure your dad isn’t too happy with you right now—” I realized I felt…happy.

Really.Happy.

Not over the moon, or anything. Not ecstatic. Not joyous.

But that was such a welcome change from feeling sad all the time that I—completely spontaneously, and without thinking about it—flung both my arms around J.P.’s neck and gave him a great big kiss on the lips.

He seemed really surprised. But he rallied at the last minute and ended up putting his arms around me, too, and kissing me back.

And the weirdest thing of all was…I actuallyfelt something when his lips touched mine.

I’m pretty sure.

It wasn’t anything at all like what I felt when Michael and I kissed.

But it was something.

Maybe it was just the two or three flakes of snow on my face.

But maybe—just maybe—it was what my dad had talked about. You know:

Hope.

I don’t know. But it felt good.

Finally Lars cleared his throat and I let go of J.P.

Then J.P. said, looking embarrassed, “Well, maybe I’m stalking you alittle . Can I stalk you some more tomorrow?”

I laughed. Then I said:

“Yes. Good night, J.P.”

And then I went inside.

Where I saw that I had two messages in my inbox.

The first was from Tina:

ILUVROMANCE: Dear Mia,

Oh my God! I just saw it on the news! Mia, you’re just like Drew inEver After when she came in with the wings on her back! Except instead of just looking beautiful at a party, you actually DID something. Like CARRYING A PRINCE AROUND ON YOUR BACK. Only better. CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!

Love,

Tina

Then I clicked on the second message. It was from Michael.

As always, my heartbeat speeded up when I saw his name. I guess that’s something that’s never going to change.

But at least the temperature of my palms stayed the same.

In the text of his message was a link to the story about my dropping a bomb of my own, with a note underneath that read:

SKINNERBX: Dear Mia,

Did you just ditch your throne and bring democracy to a country that’s never known it?

Way to go, Thermopolis!

Michael

I laughed when I saw it. I couldn’t help it.

And you know…it felt good to laugh about something Michael had said (or written). It seemed like it had been a long time since that had happened.

And then it occurred to me that maybe Michael and Ican be friends—just friends. For now, anyway.

So this time, instead of DELETE, I hit REPLY.

And then I wrote him back.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to Beth Ader, Jennifer Brown, Barbara Cabot, Sarah Davies, Michele Jaffe, Laura Langlie, Amanda Maciel, Abigail McAden, and especially Benjamin Egnatz

About the Author

MEG CABOTis the author of the best-selling, critically acclaimed Princess Diaries books, which were made into the wildly popular Disney movies of the same name. Her other books for teens includePANTS ON FIRE, JINX, and the manga series Avalon High: Coronation. She also writes books for adults, includingBIG BONED andQUEEN OF BABBLE IN THE BIG CITY. She is still waiting for her real parents, the king and queen, to restore her to her rightful throne. She lives in Key West with her husband and a one-eyed cat named Henrietta, as well as various backup cats.

To learn more about her books and read her real-life diary, visit her at www.megcabot.com

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

Books byMEG CABOT

The Princess Diaries

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME II:

Princess in the Spotlight

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME III:

Princess in Love

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME IV:

Princess in Waiting

Valentine Princess:

A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK (VOLUME IV AND A QUARTER)

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME IV AND A HALF:

Project Princess

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME V:

Princess in Pink

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME VI:

Princess in Training

The Princess Present:

A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK (VOLUME VI AND A HALF)

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME VII:

Party Princess

Sweet Sixteen Princess:

A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK (VOLUME VII AND A HALF)

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME VIII:

Princess on the Brink

ILLUSTRATED BY CHESLEY MCLAREN:

Princess Lessons:

A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK

Perfect Princess:

A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK

Holiday Princess:

A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK

ALL-AMERICAN GIRL

READY OR NOT: AN ALL-AMERICAN GIRL NOVEL

TEEN IDOL

HOW TO BE POPULAR

PANTS ON FIRE

AVALON HIGH

AVALON HIGH: CORONATION#1:THE MERLIN PROPHECY

JINX

NICOLA AND THE VISCOUNT VICTORIA AND THE ROGUE

THE MEDIATOR BOOKS:

THE MEDIATOR1:SHADOWLAND

THE MEDIATOR2:NINTH KEY

THE MEDIATOR3:REUNION

THE MEDIATOR4:DARKEST HOUR

THE MEDIATOR5:HAUNTED

THE MEDIATOR6:TWILIGHT

THE1-800-WHERE-R-YOU BOOKS:

1:WHEN LIGHTNING STRIKES

2:CODE NAME CASSANDRA

3:SAFE HOUSE

4:SANCTUARY

5:MISSING YOU

THE BOY NEXT DOOR

BOY MEETS GIRL

EVERY BOY’S GOT ONE

SIZE12IS NOT FAT

SIZE14IS NOT FAT EITHER

BIG BONED

QUEEN OF BABBLE

QUEEN OF BABBLE IN THE BIG CITY

Credits

Jacket art © 2008 by Howard Huang

Copyright

PRINCESS MIA. Copyright © 2008 by Meg Cabot, LLC. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Microsoft Reader November 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-156649-3

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