What a surprise I had when the Drs Moscovitz congratulated me on my new modelling career, and I was all, 'What are you talking about?'


So, while Lilly and Boris looked on curiously, Dr. Moscovitz opened her paper and showed me:


And there it was, in all of its four-colour-layout glory.


I'm not going to lie and say I looked bad. I looked OK. What they had done was, they had taken all the photos Sebastiano's assistant had snapped of me trying to decide which dress to wear to my introduction to the people of Genovia, and laid them all out on this purple background. I'm not smiling in the pictures or anything. I'm just looking at myself in the mirror, clearly going, in my head, Ew, could I look more like a walking toothpick?


But of course, if you didn't know me and didn't know WHY I was trying on all these dresses, I'd seem like some freak who cares WAY too much about how she looks in a party dress.


Which is exactly the kind of person I've always wanted to be portrayed as.


NOT!!!!!!!


I can't figure out what Sebastiano was thinking. I mean, I have to admit, I am a little hurt. I'd thought, when he'd asked me all those questions about Michael, that he and I had kind of made a connection. But I guess not. Not if he could do something like this.


My dad has already called the Times and demanded that they remove the supplement from all the papers that haven't been delivered yet. He has called the concierge of the Plaza and insisted on Sebastiano being listed as persona non grata, which means the cousin to the Prince of Genovia won't be allowed to set foot on hotel property.


I thought this was a little harsh, but not as harsh as what my dad wanted to do, which was call the NYPD and press charges against Sebastiano for using the likeness of a minor without the authority of her parents. Thank God Grandmere talked him


out of that. She said there'd be enough publicity about this without the added humiliation of a royal arrest.


My dad is still so mad he can't sit still. He is pacing back and forth across the suite. Rommel is watching him very nervously from Grandmere's lap, his head moving back and forth, back and forth, as his eyes follow my dad, as if he were watching the US Open.


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







Saturday, December 12, 5 p.m., the Loft


Well.


All I can say is, Grandmere's really done it this time.


I'm serious. I don't think my dad is ever going to speak to her again.


And I know I never will.


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


But for her to do this — for her not even to take into consideration my feelings - I frankly don't think I will ever be able to forgive her.


What happened was, Sebastiano called right before I was getting ready to leave the hotel. He was completely perplexed


about why my dad is so mad at him. He tried to come upstairs to see us, he said, but Plaza security stopped him.


When my dad, who'd answered the phone, told Sebastiano that the reason Plaza security stopped him was because he'd


been PNG'd, and then explained why, Sebastiano was even more upset. He kept going, 'But I had your permish! I had your permish, Philippe!'


'My permission to use my daughter's image to promote your awful rags?' My father was disgusted. 'You most certainly did not!'


But Sebastiano kept insisting he had.


And little by little, it came out that he had had permission, in a way. Only not from me. And not my dad, either. Guess who, it appears, gave it to him?


Grandmere went, all indignantly, 'I only did it, Philippe, because Amelia, as you know, suffers from a terrible self-image and needed a boost.'


But my dad was so enraged he wouldn't even listen to her.


He just thundered, 'And so to repair her self-image you went behind her back and gave permission for her photos to be used


in an advertisement for women's clothing?'


Grandmere didn't have much to say after that. She just stood there going, 'Uhn . . . uhn . . . uhn . . .' like someone in a horror movie who'd been pinned to a wall with a machete but wasn't quite dead yet (I always close my eyes during parts like this, so


I know exactly what it sounds like). It became clear that even if Grandmere had had a reasonable excuse for her behaviour,


my father wasn't going to listen to it - or let me listen to it, either. He stalked over to me, grabbed my arm and marched me


right out of the suite. I thought we were going to have a bonding moment like fathers and daughters always do on TV, where he'd tell me that Grandmere was a very sick woman and that he was going to send her somewhere where she could take a


nice long rest, but instead all he said was, 'Go home.'


Then he handed me over to Lars - after slamming the door to Grandmere's suite VERY loudly behind him - and stormed off


in the direction of his own suite.


Jeez.


It just goes to show that even a royal family can be dysfunctional.


Couldn't you just see us on Ricki Lake?


Ricki: Clarisse, tell us: why did you allow Sebastiano to put your granddaughter's photos in that Times advertising supplement?


Grandmere: I did it to boost her self-esteem. And how dare you call me by my first name? That's Your Royal


Highness to you, Ms Lake.


I just know that when I get to school on Monday, everybody is going to be all, 'Oh, look, here comes Mia, that big FAKE, with her vegetarianism and her animal-rights activism and her looks-aren't-important-it's-what's-on-the-inside-that-matters-ism. But I guess it's all right to pose for fashion photo shoots, isn't it, Mia?'


As if it wasn't enough I had to be suspended. Now I am going to be sneered at by my peers too.


I'm home now, trying to pretend none of it ever happened. This is difficult, of course, because when I walked back into the


loft I saw that my mom had already pulled the supplement out of our paper and drawn little devil horns coming out of my


head in every picture, then stuck the whole thing on to the refrigerator.


While I appreciate this bit of whimsy, it does not make the fact that I will have to show my face - now plastered all over advertising supplements throughout the tri-state area - in school on Monday any easier.


Surprisingly, there is one good thing that's come out of all of this: I know for sure I look best in the white taffeta number with


the blue sash. My dad says over his dead body am I going to wear it, or any other Sebastiano creation. But there isn't another designer in Genovia who could do as good a job — let alone finish the dress in time. So it looks like it's going to be the dress by Sebastiano, which got delivered to the loft this morning.


Which is one thing off my mind, anyway.


I guess.







Saturday, December 12, 8 p.m., the Loft



I have already gotten seventeen e-mails, six phone calls and one visitor (Lilly) about the fashion thing. Lilly says it's not as bad as I think and that most people throw the supplements away without even looking at them.


But if that's true, I said, why are all these people calling and e-mailing me?


She tried to make out like it was all members of the Students Against the Corporatization of Albert Einstein High School,


calling to show their solidarity with my suspension, but I think we both know better:


It's all people who want to know what I was thinking, selling out like that.


How am I ever going to explain that I had nothing to do with it - that I didn't even know about it? Nobody is going to believe that. I mean, the proof is right there: I'm wearing the proof. There's photographic evidence of it.


My reputation is going down the drain, even as I sit here. Tomorrow morning, millions of subscribers to the New York Times are going to open their papers and be like, 'Oh, look, Princess Mia. Sold out already. Wonder how much she got paid? You wouldn't think she'd need the money, what with being royal and all.'


Finally I had to ask Lilly to please go home, because I'd developed such a headache. She tried to cure it with some shiatsu, which her parents frequently employ on their patients, but it didn't work. All that ended up happening was that I think she burst a blood vessel or something between my thumb and index finger, since it really hurts.


Now I am determined to start studying, even though it's Saturday night and everyone else my age is out having fun.


But haven't you heard? Princesses never get to have any fun.


Here is what I have to do:


• Algebra: review chapters 1-10


• English: term paper, 10 pages, double spaced, utilize appropriate margins; also, review chapters 1-7


• World Civ.: review chapters 1—12


• G & T: none


• French: revue chapitres Un—Neuf


• Biology: review chapters 1-12


• Write out instructions on how to care for Fat Louie.


• Christmas/Hanukkah shopping:


Mom - Bon Jovi maternity T


Dad - Book on anger management


Mr. G — Swiss Army knife


Lilly — blank videotapes


Tina Hakim Baba - copy of Emanuelle


Kenny - combination TV/VCR (I don't think this is too extravagant. And no, it's not guilt, either. He really wants one)


Grandmere - NOTHING!!!!!!


• Paint fingernails (maybe presence of foul-tasting polish will prevent biting them off)


• Break up with Kenny.


• Organize sock drawer.



I am going to start with the sock drawer because that is clearly the most important. You can't really concentrate on anything if your socks aren't right.


Then I will move on to Algebra because that is my worst subject, and also my first test. I am going to pass it if it is the last thing I do. NOTHING is going to distract me. Not this thing with Grandmere, not the fact that four of those seventeen e-mails are from Michael, not the fact that two are from Kenny, not the fact that I am leaving for Europe at the end of next week, not the fact that my mother and Mr. Gianini are in the next room watching Die Hard, my favourite Christmas movie, NOTHING.


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









Saturday, December 12, 9 p.m., the Loft



I just had to go out and see the part where Bruce Willis throws the explosives down the elevator shaft, but now I am back


to work.






Saturday, December 12, 9:30 p.m., the Loft




I was really curious about what Michael could possibly want, so I read his e-mails -just his. One was about the supplement (Lilly had told him, and he wanted to know if I was thinking of abdicating, ha ha) and the other three were jokes that I


suppose were meant to make me feel better. They weren't very funny but I laughed anyway.


I bet Judith Gershner doesn't laugh at Michael's jokes. She's too busy cloning things.







Saturday, December 12,10 p.m., the Loft




How to Care for Fat Louie While I am Away:



a.m.


In the morning, please fill Fat Louie's bowl with dry food. Even if there is already food in the bowl, he likes to have some


fresh served on top so he can feel like he is having breakfast like the rest of us.


In my bathroom is a blue plastic cup sitting by the bathtub. Please fill that every morning with water from the bathroom sink. You must use water from the bathroom sink because water from the kitchen sink isn't cold enough. And you have to put it


in the blue cup because that is the cup Fat Louie is used to drinking out of while I am brushing my teeth.


He has a bowl in the hallway outside my room. Rinse that out and fill it with water from the water filter pitcher in the refrigerator. It must be water from the water filter pitcher because even though New York tap is said to be contaminant-free, it is good for Louie to get at least some water that is definitely pure. Cats need to drink a lot of water to flush out their systems and prevent kidney and urinary tract infections, so always leave lots of water out, and not just by his food bowls but other places as well.


Do not confuse the bowl in the hall with the bowl by the Christmas tree. That bowl is there to discourage Louie from


drinking out of the tree holder. Too much tree resin could make him constipated.


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


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




p.m.



At dinnertime, give Fat Louie canned food. Fat Louie only likes three flavours, Chicken and Tuna Feast (Flaked),


Shrimp and Fish Feast (Flaked), and Ocean Fish Feast (Flaked). He won't eat anything with beef or pork.


He must have the contents of the can on a new CLEAN saucer or he won't eat. Also, he won't eat if the contents don't


retain their can-like shape on the plate, so don't chop up his food.


After eating his canned food, Fat Louie likes to stretch out on the carpet in front of the front door. This is a good time to


give him his exercise. When he stretches out, just put your hand under his front legs and straighten them (he likes this) until he bends like a comma. Then dig your thumbs between his shoulder blades and give him a kitty massage. He will purr if you do it right. If you do it wrong you will know because he will bite you.


Fat Louie gets bored very easily and when he gets bored, he walks around crying, so here are some games he likes to play:


• Take some pieces of cat treat and line them up on top of the stereo for Fat Louie to knock of and chase.


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


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


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



The Litter Box



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


Fat Louie's box needs to be scooped out every day. Always use clumping litter and then just scoop out the clumps into a Grand Union bag and dispose. Nothing could be simpler. He tends to do number 2 about two hours after his evening meal. You will be able to tell from the odour wafting from his box in my bathroom.





Most Important of All



Remember not to disturb Fat Louie's special area behind the toilet in my bathroom. That is where he keeps his collection


of shiny objects. If he takes something of yours and you find it there, be sure not to take it out while he is looking or for weeks he will try to bite you every time he sees you. I talked to the vet about it, but she said short of hiring an animal behaviourist at $70/hr there is nothing that can be done. We just have to put up with it.




Above all, be sure to pick Fat Louie up several times a day and hug and squeeze him!!!!! (He likes this.)







Saturday, December 12, Midnight, the Loft



I can't believe it's midnight already and I am still only on Chapter One of An Introduction to Algebra!


This book is incomprehensible. I sincerely hope whoever wrote it did not make very much money from it.


I should just go and ask Mr G what's going to be on the Final.


No, that would be cheating.


Wouldn't it?




Sunday, December 13,10 a.m., the Loft



Only forty-eight hours until the Algebra final and I am still on Chapter One.







Sunday, December 13,10:30 a.m., the Loft



Lilly just came over again. She wants to study for World Civ. together. I told her I can't worry about World Civ. when I am only on Chapter One in my Algebra review, but she said we could alternate: she would quiz me on Algebra for an hour - then


I could quiz her on World Civ. for an hour. I said OK, even though it really isn't fair - she is getting an A in Algebra so her quizzing me isn't really helping her any, while my quizzing her in World Civ. helps me study for it too.


But that's what friends are for, I guess.






Sunday, December 13,11 a.m., the Loft



Tina just called. Her little brothers and sisters are driving her crazy. She wanted to know if she could come down and study here. I said sure.


What else could I say? Besides, she promised to stop at H and H for bagels and vegetable cream cheese. And she said she thought the photos of me in the supplement were beautiful and that I shouldn't care if people call me a sellout because I look


so hot.




Sunday, December 13, Noon, the Loft



Michael told Boris where Lilly was, so now Boris is here too.


Lilly's right. Boris really does breathe too loudly. It's very distracting.


And I wish he wouldn't put his feet on my bed. The least he could do is take his shoes off first. But when I suggested it,


Lilly said that would be a bad idea.


Ew. I don't know why Lilly puts up with a boyfriend who is not only a mouth breather but also has stinky feet.


Boris may be a musical genius but he has a lot to learn about hygiene, if you ask me.






Sunday, December 13,12:30 p.m., the Loft



Now Kenny's here. I don't know how I am supposed to get any studying done with all of these people around. Plus Mr. Gianini has decided now would be a good time to practise his drums.





Sunday, December 13, 8 p.m., the Loft



I told Lilly and she agreed that once Boris and Kenny showed up, the whole studying thing kind of went down the drain. Plus Mr. G's drumming didn't help. So we decided it would be best to take a study break and go to Chinatown for dimsum.


We had a good time at Great Shanghai, eating vegetable dumplings and dried sauteed string beans with garlic sauce. I ended


up sitting by Boris and he really made me laugh, engineering it so that whenever the waiters brought something new, the only empty spot on the table was in front of him so they had to put it there, which meant Boris and I got first dibs on it.


This made me realize that in spite of the sweaters and the mouth-breathing, Boris really is a funny and nice person. Lilly is so lucky. I mean, that the boy she loves actually loves her back. If only I could love Kenny the way Lilly loves Boris!


But I don't seem to have any control over who I fall in love with. Believe me, if I did I would NOT love Michael. I mean, for one thing he is my best friend's older brother, and if Lilly ever found out I liked him, she would NOT understand. Also, of course, he is a senior and is graduating soon.


And oh, yeah, he already has a girlfriend.


But what am I supposed to do? I can't make myself fall in love with Kenny, any more than I can make him stop liking me, you know, in that special way.


Although he still hasn't asked me to the dance. Or mentioned it at all. Lilly says I should just call him and be like, 'So are we going, or not?' After all, she keeps pointing out, I had the guts to smash up Lana's mobile. Why don't I have the guts to call


my own boyfriend and ask him whether or not he is taking me to the school dance?


But I smashed up Lana's phone in the heat of passion. I cannot summon up anything like passion where Kenny is concerned. There is a part of me that doesn't want to go to the dance with him at all, and that part of me is relieved he hasn't mentioned anything about it.


OK, it is a very small part of me, but it is still there. So actually, even though I was having fun sitting by Boris at the restaurant and all, it was also a little depressing, on account of the whole Kenny thing.


And then things got even more depressing. That's because some little Chinese-American girls came up to me as I was opening my fortune cookie and wanted to know if they could have my autograph. Then they handed me pens and the advertising supplement that had appeared in that day's Times for me to sign.


I seriously thought about killing myself, only I couldn't think how I'd do it, except for maybe stabbing myself through the heart with a chopstick.


Instead, I just signed the stupid thing for them and tried to smile. But inside, of course, I was FREAKING OUT, especially when I saw how happy the little girls were to have met me. And why? No, not because of my tireless work on behalf of the polar bears or the whales or starving kids. Which I haven't actually done yet, but I fully intend to do.


No, because I'd been in a magazine in a bunch of pretty dresses, and I'm tall and skinny like a model.


Which is no accomplishment at all!


After that, my headache came back and I said I had to go home.


Nobody protested very much - I think because everybody realized all of a sudden how much time we'd wasted and how


much studying we all had left to do. So we left, and now I am home again and my mom says that while I was gone Sebastiano called four times AND he had this dress delivered.


Not just any dress, either. It is a dress Sebastiano designed just for me. To wear to the Non-Denominational Winter Dance.


It isn't sexy at all. It is dark green velvet with long sleeves and a wide square-shaped neckline.


But when I put it on and looked at my reflection in the mirror in my room, something funny happened:


I looked good. Really good.


There was a note attached to the dress that said:



Please forgive me.



I promise this dress will not make him think of you as his little sister's best friend.



S.




Which is very sweet. Sad, but sweet. Sebastiano can't know, of course, that the Michael situation is completely hopeless and that no dress is going to make any difference, no matter how nice I look in it.


But, hey, at least Sebastiano apologized. That's a lot more, I've noticed, than Grandmere has done.


Of course I forgive Sebastiano. I mean, none of it his fault, really.


And I guess someday I'll probably forgive Grandmere since she's too old to know any better.


But the person I will never, ever forgive is myself for getting into this situation in the first place. I totally should have known better. I should have told Sebastiano 'No photos, please'.


Only I was so carried away, looking at myself in all those beautiful dresses, that I forgot being a princess is more than just wearing pretty dresses: it's being an example to a lot of people . . . people you don't even know and may not ever even meet.






Which is why if I don't pass this Algebra test, I am dead.








Monday, December 14, Homeroom



Here are the number of students at Albert Einstein High School who (so far) have felt compelled to make comments to me about my smashing Lana Weinberger's mobile phone last Friday:


37



Here are the number of students at Albert Einstein High School who (so far) have felt compelled to mention my suspension last Friday:


59



Here are the number of students at Albert Einstein High School who (so far) have felt compelled to make comments to me about my appearance in an advertising supplement to the New York Times over the weekend:


74


Total number of comments made to me so far today by students at Albert Einstein High School:


170



Oddly, after wading through all of this negativity, when I got to my locker I found something that seemed extremely out of place: a single yellow rose, sticking out of the door.


What can this mean? Can there be someone in this school who does not despise me?


Apparently so. But when I looked around, wondering who my one supporter could be, I saw only Justin Baxendale, being stalked (as usual) by a horde of worshipful girls.


I suppose my anonymous rose-leaver must be Kenny, trying to cheer me up. He will not admit it, but who else could it be?


It is Reading Day today, which means we are supposed to spend the whole day - except for lunch - sitting in Homeroom, studying for Finals, which begin tomorrow. This is fine by me, since at least this way there's no chance I'll run into Lana. Her homeroom is on a whole other floor.


The only problem is that Kenny's in this class. We have to sit alphabetically, so he's way up at the front of this row, but he keeps passing notes back to me. Notes that say things like, Keep on smilin! and Hang in there, sunshine!


He won't fess up to the rose thing, though.


By the way, want to know the total number of comments made to me so far today by Michael Moscovitz?


1


And it wasn't even really a comment. He told me in the hallway that my combat boot had come untied.


And it had.


My life is so over.


Five days until the Non-Denominational Winter Dance, and still no date.



Distance formula: d-10xrt


r=10


t=2


d=10 + (10)(2)


= 10 + 20= 30


Variables are place holders for numbers (letters)


Distributive law


5x + 5y - 5


5(x + y- 1)




2a - 2b + 2c


2(-l)-2(-2) + 2(5)


-2 + 4+ 10= 12



| Four times a number is added to three, the result is five times the number.


Find the number.


x = the number


4x + 3 = 5x


-4x -4x


3 = x




Regardez les oiseaux stupides.


Cartesian coordinate system divides the plane into four parts called quadrants



Quadrant 1 (positive, positive)


Quadrant 2 (negative, positive)


Quadrant 3 (negative, negative)


Quadrant 4 (positive, negative)




Slope: slope of a line is line denoted m

Find slope


negative slopes


positive slopes


zero slope



vertical line has no slope

horizontal line has 0 slope

Collinear - points that lie on the same line parallel lines have the same slope


4x + 2y = 6


2y = -4x + 6 y


= -2x + 3



active voice indicates that the subject of the verb is acting passive voice indicates that the subject of the verb is being acted upon






Tuesday, December 15



Algebra and English finals completed. Only three more, plus term paper, to go.


76 comments today, 53 of them negative:


'Sellout' = 29 times


I-Must-Think-I'm-All-That = 14 times


Here Comes Miss Thang = 6 times


Lilly says, 'Who cares what people are saying? You know the truth, right? And that's all that matters.'


That's easy for Lilly to say. Lilly's not the one who people are saying all those mean things about. I am.


Somebody left another yellow rose in my locker. What is up with that? I asked Kenny again if it was him, but he denied it. Strangely, he seemed to get very red in the face about it. But this might have been because Justin Baxendale, who was


walking by at the time, stepped on Kenny's foot. Kenny has very large feet - larger even than mine.




Four more days until the Non-Denominational Winter Dance, and nada on the date front.







Wednesday, December 16



World Civ. exam finis.


Two more, plus term paper, to go.


62 comments, 34 negative: '


Don't give up your day job' = 12 times


'Sellout' = 5 times


'If I was flat-chested like you, Mia, I could be a model too' = 6 times




1 rose, yellow, still no indication who left it. Perhaps someone is mistaking my locker for Lana's. She is, after all, always hanging out in that area, waiting for Josh Richter whose locker is next door to mine, so that the two of them can suck face.


It is possible that someone thinks he is leaving roses for her.


God knows, no one at Albert Einstein High School would want to leave flowers for me. Unless I were dead, maybe, and


they could fling them on to my grave and say, 'Good riddance, Miss Thang.'




Three more days until the dance. Still nothing.







Thursday, December 17,1 a.m.



It just occurred to me:


Maybe Kenny is lying about the roses. Maybe they really are from him. Maybe he's leaving them as kind of teasers, leading


up to asking me to the dance tomorrow night.


Which is kind of insulting, really. I mean, him waiting this long to finally ask. For all he knows, I could have said yes to somebody else by now.


As if somebody else might have asked. HA!






Thursday, December 17, 4 p.m.,


Limo on the Way to the Plaza




THAT'S IT!!!!!


I'M DONE!!!!!!


DONE WITH FINALS!!!!!!!!!!!!


And guess what?


I'm pretty sure I passed all of them. Even Algebra. The grades aren't posted until tomorrow, during the Winter Carnival, but I bugged Mr. G so much he finally said, 'Mia, you did fine. Now leave me alone, all right?'


Got that????? He said I did FINE!!!!!!!!!! You know what fine means, don't you?


IT MEANS I PASSED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Thank God all of that's over. Now I can concentrate on what's important:


My social life.


I am serious. It is in a state of total disrepair. Everyone at school — with the exception of my friends - thinks I am this total sellout. They're like, 'You talk the talk, Mia, but you don't walk the walk.'


Well, I'm going to show them. Right after the World Civ. exam yesterday, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew exactly what


to do. It's what Grandmere would do.


Well, OK, maybe not quite what Grandmere would do, but it will solve the whole problem. Granted, Sebastiano isn't going


to like it very much. But, then, he should have asked ME, not Grandmere, if it was all right to run those photos in an ad for his clothes. Right?


I have to say, this is the most princessy thing I've done so far. And I am very, very nervous. Seriously. You wouldn't believe how much my palms are sweating.


But I cannot continue to lie back and meekly take this abuse. Something must be done about it, and I think I know what.


The best part is, I am doing it all by myself with no help from anyone.


Well, all right, the concierge at the Plaza helped by getting me a room, and Lars helped by making all the calls on his mobile phone.


And Lilly helped me write down what I was going to say, and Tina did my make-up and hair just now.


But other than that, it was all me.


OK, we're here.


Here goes nothing.







Thursday, December 17, 7 p.m.



I have now watched myself on all four major networks, plus New York 1, CNN, Headline News, MSNBC, and Fox News Channel. Apparently, they are also going to show it on Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood and E! Entertainment


News.


I have to say, for a girl who supposedly has issues with her self-image, I think I did a fine job. I didn't mess up, not even once. And if I maybe spoke a little too fast, well, you could still understand me. Unless, you know, you're a non-English speaker


or something.


I looked good too. I probably should have worn something other than my school uniform, but you know, royal blue comes off pretty good on TV.


The phone has been ringing off the hook ever since the press conference was first aired. The first time it rang, my mom picked


it up and it was Sebastiano, screaming incomprehensibly about how I've ruined him.


Only he can't say ruined. It just came out 'rued'.


I felt really bad. I mean, I didn't mean to ruin him. Especially after he was so nice about designing me that dress for the dance.


But what was I supposed to do? I tried to make him look on the bright side:


'Sebastiano,' I said, when I got on the phone. 'I haven't ruined you. Really. It's just the proceeds from the sales of the dresses I'm wearing in the ad that will go to Greenpeace.'


But Sebastiano completely failed to look at the big picture. He kept screaming, 'Rued! I'm rued!'


I pointed out that far from ruining him, his donating all the proceeds from sales of the dresses I modelled to Greenpeace was going to be perceived in the industry as a brilliant stroke of marketing genius, and that I wouldn't be surprised if those dresses flew off the racks since girls like me, who are really the people his fashions are geared for, care a great deal about the environment.


I must have picked up a thing or two during my princess lessons with Grandmere since in the end I totally won him over. By


the time I hung up, I think Sebastiano almost believed the whole thing had been his idea in the first place.


The next time the phone rang it was my dad. I may have to scratch the plan to get him a book on anger management because he was laughing his head off. He wanted to know if it had been my mom's idea, and when I said, No, it was all me, he went, You really have got the princess thing down, you know.


So in a weird way I feel like I passed that Final too.


Except, of course, that I'm still not speaking to Grandmere. Not a single one of the calls I've gotten tonight (which even included Mamaw and Papaw back in Indiana, who saw the broadcast) have been from her.


Really, I think she should be the one to apologize because what she did was totally underhanded.


Almost as underhanded, my mom pointed out to me over dinner from Number One Noodle Son, as what I did.


Which is sort of shocking. I mean, I never thought about it before, but it's true: what I did tonight was as sneaky as anything Grandmere's ever done.


But I guess that shouldn't be very surprising. We are related, after all.


Then again, so were Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader.


Must go. Baywatch is on. This is the first time in weeks I've been home to watch it.








Thursday, December 17, 9 p.m.



Tina just called. She didn't want to talk about the press conference. She wanted to know what I got from my Secret Snowflake. I was all, 'Secret Snowflake? What are you talking about?'


'You know,' Tina said. 'Your Secret Snowflake. You remember, Mia. We signed up for it like a month ago. You put your name in the jar and then someone draws it, and they have to be your Secret Snowflake for the last week of school before Winter Break. They're supposed to surprise you with little gifts and stuff. You know, as a stress breaker. Since it's Finals


week and all.'


I dimly remembered, one day before Thanksgiving Break, Tina dragging me over to a folding table where some nerdy-looking kids from the student government were sitting on one side of the cafeteria with a big jar filled with little pieces of paper. Tina had made me write my name on a slip of paper, then pick, someone else's name out of the jar.


'Oh my God,' I cried. With all the stress of Finals and everything, I had forgotten all about it!


Worse, I had forgotten that I had drawn Tina's name. No real coincidence since she'd stuffed her slip of paper into the jar


right before I picked. Still, what kind of heinous friend am I that I would forget something like this?


Then I realized something else. The yellow roses. They hadn't been put in my locker by mistake! And they really weren't from Kenny, either! They had to be from my Secret Snowflake.


Which was kind of upsetting in a way. I mean, it's really starting to look as if Kenny has no intention of asking me to tomorrow night's dance whatsoever.


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


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


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


Tina sighed. 'I guess nobody picked me,' she said. 'Because I haven't gotten anything.'


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


'Do you think so?' Tina asked wistfully.


'Oh, yes,' I gushed.


Reassured, Tina got businesslike.


'Now,' she said, 'that Finals are over . . . '


'Um, yes?'


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


Shocked, I went, 'How about never?'


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


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


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


Kenny got you. He sent the anonymous notes but then he finally fessed up.'


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


'It'll be different with you and Michael,' Tina insisted.


'Because you two are destined for one another. I can just feel it. You've got to tell him, and it's got to be tomorrow, because the next day you are leaving for Genovia.'


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


I told Tina that I'd confess to Michael tomorrow and she hung up all happily.


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


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


Not to his face.


Not ever.







Friday, December 18, Homeroom



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


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


As if. I am so never having fun again.


That is because - aside from my many other problems -I think I know who my Secret Snowflake is.


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


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


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


Which leaves only one other explanation: he is my Secret Snowflake.


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


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


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


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


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


And what - oh, God, what - am I going to do about Kenny?


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


Which is also when I have to go out there and face Justin Baxendale.


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


He probably didn't even pull my name from that jar at all. Probably, he picked Lana's name and has been putting those roses


in my locker, thinking it is Lana's, seeing as how God knows she never hangs out in front of her own locker.


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


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


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


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


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


You know, I really don't need this. Justin revealing that he is my Secret Snowflake right in front of Lana, I mean. God only knows what she's going to say - the girl who has been suggesting I wear Band Aids instead of a bra every day since the two


of us hit puberty. Plus it isn't like she's been super-happy with me since the whole mobile phone thing. I'll bet she'll have something extra-mean all prepared for the occasion . . .


'Dude,' Justin says.


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


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


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


Josh says something, but I do not hear him. I do not hear him because there is a roaring sound in my ears. Because standing behind Justin is Michael.


Michael Moscovitz,.


And in his hand is a yellow rose.








Friday, December 18, Winter Carnival



Oh, God.


I am in so much trouble.


Again.


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


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


Because, of course, the first thing Michael says when he sees me standing there gaping at him while he is holding that flower,


is, 'Here. This just fell out of your locker.'


I took it from him in a complete daze. I swear to God my heart was beating so hard, I thought I was going to pass out.


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


been leaving me roses.


But of course this time, there's a note attached to the rose. It says:



Good luck with your trip to Genovia! See you when you get back!

Your Secret Snowflake,


Boris Pelkowski




Boris Pelkowski. Boris is the one who has been leaving those roses. Boris is my Secret Snowflake.


Of course, Boris wouldn't know that a yellow rose represents love everlasting. Boris doesn't even know not to tuck his


sweater into his trousers. How would he know the secret language of flowers?


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


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


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


To which I responded by staring at him blankly. I still hadn't quite gotten over it. You know, those brief few seconds when


I'd thought - I'd actually thought, fool that I am - that he loved me.


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


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


Anyway, I opened the computer printout containing my grades, and would you believe that I had raised my F in Algebra all


the way up to a B minus?


Which just goes to show that if you spend nearly every waking moment in your life studying something, the likelihood is that


you are going to retain at least a little of it.


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


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


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


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


And I was right. Eighty per cent of the time.


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


But that was only worth two points.


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


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


I threw my arms around him.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Why must my life be so fraught with trauma?





Friday, December 18, Still the Winter Carnival


Well, I still haven't found Kenny, but I really have to hand it to the administrators: grasping they might be, but they sure do know how to throw a party. Even Lilly is impressed.


Of course, signs of corporatization are everywhere: there are McDonald's orange drink dispensers on every floor, and it


looks as if there was a run on Entenmann's, there are so many cake-and-cookie-laden tables scattered around.


Still, you can tell they are really trying to show us a good time. All of the clubs are offering activities and booths. There's ballroom dancing in the gym, courtesy of the Dance Club; fencing lessons in the auditorium, thanks to the Drama Club; even cheerleading lessons in the first-floor hallway, brought to us by, you guessed it, the junior varsity cheerleaders.


I couldn't find Kenny anywhere, but I ran into Lilly at the Students for Amnesty International booth (Students Against the Corporatization of Albert Einstein High School did not submit their application for a booth in time to get one, so Lilly is stuck running the Amnesty International booth instead). And guess what? Guess who got an F in something?


That's right.


'Lilly.' I couldn't believe it. 'Mrs. Spears gave you an F in English? YOU got an F?'


She doesn't seem too bothered by it, though.


'I had to take a stand, Mia,' she said. And sometimes, when you believe in something, you have to make sacrifices.'


'Sure,' I said. 'But an F? Your parents are going to kill you.'


'No, they won't,' Lilly said. 'They'll just try to psychoanalyse me.'


Which is true.


Oh, God. Here conies Tina.


I hope she doesn't remember—


She does.


We're going over to the Computer Club's booth right now.


I don't want to go to the Computer Club's booth. I already looked over there, and I know what's going on. Michael and Judith and the rest of the computer nerds are sitting behind all these colour monitors. When somebody comes up, they get to sit down in front of one of monitors and play a computer game the club designed where you walk through the school and all of the teachers are in funny costumes. Like Principal Gupta is wearing a leather domi-natrix's outfit and holding a whip, and Mr Gianini is in footie pyjamas with a teddy bear that looks exactly like him.


They used a different program when the club applied to be part of the carnival, of course, so none of the teachers or administrators know what everyone is sitting there looking at. You would think they'd wonder why all of the kids are laughing so hard.


Whatever. I don't want to do it. I don't want to go anywhere near it.


But Tina says I have to.


'Now's the perfect time to tell him,' she says. 'I mean, Kenny's nowhere to be seen.'


Oh, God. This is what comes from telling your friends anything.







Even Later on Friday, December 18, Still the Winter Carnival



Well, I'm in the Girls' Room again. And I think I can state with certainty that this time I'm never coming out.


I'm just going to stay in here until everyone has gone home. Only then will it be safe. Thank God I am leaving the country tomorrow. Maybe by the time I get back, everyone involved in this little incident will have forgotten about it.


But I doubt it. Not with my luck, anyway.


Why do these kinds of things always happen to me? I mean, seriously? What did I ever do to turn the gods against me?


Why can't they pick on Lana Weinberger? Why always me?


All right, so here's what happened.


I had no intention whatsoever of actually telling Michael anything. I mean, let me get that out right away. I was only going along with Tina because, well, it would have looked weird if I had completely avoided the Computer Club's booth. Plus Michael had asked me so many times to make sure I stopped by. So there was no way I could avoid it.


But I never intended to say a word about You-Know-What. I mean, Tina was just going to have to learn to live with disappointment. You don't love somebody for like as long as I have loved Michael, and then just go up to him at a school fair and be like, 'Oh, by the way, yeah, I love you.'


OK? You don't do that.


But whatever. So I went up to the stupid booth with Tina. Everyone was all giggly and excited because their program was so popular there was this really long line. But Michael saw us and went, 'Come on up!'


Like we were supposed to cut in front of all these other people. I mean, we did it, of course, but everyone behind us grumbled, and who can blame them? They'd been waiting a long time.


But I guess because of the thing the night before you know, when I explained on national television that the only reason I'd done that clothing ad was because the designer was donating all the proceeds to Greenpeace - I have been noticeably more popular (positive comments so far: 243. Negative: 1. From Lana, of course). So the grumbling wasn't as bad as it could have been.


Anyway, Michael was all, 'Here, Mia, sit at this one.' And he pulled out a chair in front of this one monitor.


So I sat down and waited for the stupid thing to come on, and all around me other kids were laughing at what they were seeing on their screens. I just sat there thinking, for some reason, Faint heart never won fair lady.


Which was stupid because, number one, I was NOT going to tell him I like him and, number two, Michael is dark-haired, not fair. And he isn't a lady either, obviously.


Then I heard Judith go, 'Wait, what are you doing?'


And then I heard Michael say, 'No, that's OK. I have a special one for her.'


Then the screen in front of my eyes flickered. I sighed. OK, I thought. Here goes the stupid teacher thing. Be sure to laugh so they think you like it.


I was sitting there, and I was actually kind of depressed because I really didn't have anything to look forward to, if you think about it. I mean, everybody else was all excited because later on they were going to the dance, but no one had asked me to the dance — not even my supposed boyfriend - so I didn't even have that to look forward to. And everyone else I knew was going skiing or to the Bahamas or wherever for Winter Break, and what did I get to do? Oh, hang out with a bunch of members of the Genovian Olive Growers Association. I'm sure they are all really nice people, but come on.


But before I even leave for- my boring trip to Genovia, I have to break up with Kenny - something I totally don't want to do because I really do like him and I don't want to hurt his feelings, but I guess I sort of have to.


Although I have to say, the fact that he still hasn't so much as mentioned the dance is making the idea of breaking up with him seem a lot less heinous.


Then tomorrow, I thought, I'll leave for Europe on a plane with my dad and Grandmere, who still aren't speaking to one another (and since I'm not speaking to Grandmere either, it should be a really fun flight), and when I come back, knowing my luck, Michael and Judith will be engaged.


That's what I was sitting there thinking in the split second the screen in front of me flickered. That, and You know, I'm not really in the mood to see any of my teachers in funny outfits.


Only when the flickering stopped, that's not what I saw. What I saw instead was this castle.


Seriously. It was a castle, like out of the knights of the Round Table, or Beauty and the Beast, or whatever. And then the picture zoomed in until we were over the castle walls and inside this courtyard, where there was a garden. In the garden, all these big fat red roses were blooming. Some of the roses had lost their petals, and you could see them lying on the courtyard floor. It was really, really pretty, and I was like, Hey, this is cooler than I thought it would be.


And I sort of forgot I was sitting there in front of a computer monitor at the Winter Carnival, with like two dozen people all around me. I began to feel like I was actually in that garden.


Then this banner waved across the screen, in front of the roses, like it was blowing in the wind. The banner had some words written on it in gold leaf. When it stopped flapping, I could read what the words said:



Roses are red


Violets are blue


You may not know it


But I love you too



I screamed and jumped up out of my chair, tipping it over behind me.


Everyone started laughing. I guess they thought I'd seen Principal Gupta in her leather catsuit.


Only Michael knew I hadn't.


And Michael wasn't laughing.


Only I couldn't look at Michael. I couldn't look anywhere, really, except at my own feet. Because I couldn't believe what had just happened. I mean, I couldn't process it. What did it mean? Did it mean Michael knew I was the one who'd been sending him those notes and that he felt the same way?


Or did it mean he knew I was the one who'd been sending him those notes, and he was trying to get back at me as a kind of joke?


I didn't know. All I knew was that if I didn't get out of there, I was going to start crying . . . . . and in front of everyone in the entire school.


I grabbed Tina by the arm and yanked her, hard, after me. I guess I was figuring I could tell her what I'd seen, and maybe she'd know what it meant, since I sure didn't.


Tina shrieked - I must have grabbed her harder than I thought - and I heard Michael call, 'Mia!'


But I just kept going, lugging Tina behind me, and pushing through the crowd for the door, thinking only one thing:


Must get to the Girls' Room. Must get to the Girls' Room before I start bawling my head off.


Somebody, with about as much force as I'd grabbed Tina, grabbed me. I thought it was Michael. I knew if I so much as looked at him, I'd burst into big baby sobs. I said, 'Get off,' and jerked my arm away.


It was Kenny's voice that said, 'But, Mia, I have to talk to you!'


'Not now, Kenny,' Tina said.


But Kenny was totally inflexible. He went, 'Yes, now' and you could tell from his face he meant it.


Tina rolled her eyes and backed off. I stood there, my back to the Computer Club's booth, and prayed, Phase, please don't come over here, Michael. Please stay where you are. Please, please, PLEASE don't come over here.


'Mia,' Kenny said. He looked more uncomfortable than I'd ever seen him, and I've seen Kenny look plenty uncomfortable. He's an awkward kind of guy. 'I just want to ... I mean, I just want you to know. Well. That I know.'


I stared at him. I had no idea what he was talking about. Seriously. I'd forgotten all about that hug he'd seen in the hallway. The one I'd given Michael. All I could think was, Please don't come over here, Michael. Please don't come over here, Michael. . .


'Look, Kenny,' I said. I don't even know how I got my tongue to work, I swear. I felt like a robot somebody had switched into the Off position. 'This really isn't a good time. Maybe we could talk later—'


'Mia,' Kenny said. He had a funny look on his face. 'I know. I saw him.'


I blinked.


And then I remembered. Michael, and the B minus hug.


'Oh, Kenny,' I said. 'Really. That was just ... I mean, there's nothing—'


'You don't have to worry,' Kenny said. And then I realized why his face looked so funny. It was because he was wearing an expression on it that I had never seen before. At least, not on Kenny. The expression was resignation. 'I won't tell Lilly.'


Lilly! Oh, God! The last person in the world I wanted to know how I felt about Michael!


Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe there was still a chance I could . . .


But no. No, I couldn't lie to him. For once in my life, I could not summon up a lie.


'Kenny,' I said. 'I am so, so sorry.'


I didn't realize until I said it that it was too late to run for the Girls' Room: I had already started crying. My voice broke, and when I put my hands to my face, they came away wet.


Great. I was crying, and in front of the entire student body of Albert Einstein High School.


'Kenny,' I said, sniffling. 'I honestly meant to tell you. And I really do like you. I.just don't. . . love you.'


Kenny's face was very white, but he didn't start crying -not like me. Thank God. In fact, he even managed to smile a little in that weird, resigned way as he said, shaking his head, 'Wow. I can't believe it. I mean, when it first hit me, I was like no way. Not Mia. No way would she do that to her best friend. But. . . well, I guess it explains a lot. About, um, us.'


I couldn't look him in the face any longer. I felt like a worm. Worse than a worm, because worms are very environmentally helpful. I felt like . . . like . . .


Like a fruit fly.


'I guess I've suspected for a long time that there was someone else,' Kenny went on. 'You never . . . well, you never exactly seemed to return my ardour when we ... you know.'


I knew. Kissed. Nice of him to bring it up, though, here in the gym, in front of everyone.


'I knew you just weren't saying anything because you didn't want to hurt my feelings,' Kenny said. 'That's the kind of girl you are. And that's why I put off asking you to the dance because I figured you'd just say no. On account of you, you know, liking someone else. I mean, I know you'd never lie to me, Mia. You're the most honest person I've ever met.'


HA! Was he joking? Me? Honest? Obviously, he did not have the slightest clue about my nostrils.


'That's how I know that this must be tearing you up inside. I just think you better tell Lilly soon,' Kenny said sombrely. 'I started to suspect, you know, at the restaurant. And if I figured it out, other people will too. And you wouldn't want her to hear it from somebody else.'


I had reached up to try to wipe some of my tears away with my sleeve, but paused with my hand only halfway there, and stared at him. 'Restaurant? What restaurant?'


'You know,' Kenny said, looking uncomfortable. 'That day we all went to Chinatown. You and he sat next to each other. You kept laughing . . . you looked pretty chummy.'


Chinatown? But Michael hadn't gone with us that day to Chinatown . . .


'And you know,' Kenny said, 'I'm not the only one who's noticed him leaving you those roses all week, either.'


I blinked. I could barely see him through my tears. 'W-what?'


'You know.' He looked around, then dropped his voice to a whisper. 'Boris. Leaving you all those roses. I mean, come on, Mia. If you two want to carry on behind Lilly's back, that's one thing, but—'


The roaring in my ears that had been there just after I'd read Michael's poem came back.


BORIS. BORIS PELKOWSKI. My boyfriend just broke up with me because he thinks I am having an affair with BORIS PELKOWSKI.


BORIS PELKOWSKI, who always has food in his braces.


BORIS PELKOWSKI, who wears his sweaters tucked inside his trousers.


BORIS PELKOWSKI, my best friend's boyfriend.


Oh, God. My life is so over.


I tried to tell him. You know - the truth. That Boris isn't my secret love, but my Secret Snowflake.


But Tina darted forward, grabbed me by the arm and went, 'Sorry, Kenny, Mia has to go now.' Then she dragged me into the Girls' Room.


'I have to tell him,' I kept saying over and over like a crazy person, as I tried to break free of her grip. 'I have to tell him. I have to tell him the truth.'


'No, you do not,' Tina said, pushing me past the toilet stalls. 'You two are broken up. Who cares why? You're through, and that's all that matters.'


I blinked at my tear-stained reflection in the mirror above the sinks. I looked awful. Never in your life have you seen anyone who looked less like a princess than I did then. Just looking at myself made me break out into a fresh wave of tears.


Of course Tina says she's sure Michael wasn't trying to make fun of me. Of course she says that he must have figured out that


I was the one who was sending him those cards, and was trying to let me know that he feels the same way about me.


Only of course I can't believe that. Because if that were true - if that were true - why did he let me go? Why didn't he try to stop me?



Tina has pointed out that he did try. But my shrieking when I read his poem, and then running in tears from the room, might not have seemed to him like a very encouraging sign. In fact, it might have actually looked to him like I was displeased by what I'd seen. Furthermore, Tina pointed out, even if Michael had tried to go after me, there'd have been Kenny cornering me on my way out. It had certainly looked as if the two of us were Having A Moment - which we most certainly were - and didn't wish


to be disturbed.


All of which could be true.


But it could also be true that Michael was just joking. A very mean joke under the circumstances, but Michael doesn't know that I love him with every fibre of my being. Michael doesn't know that I've been in love with him all my life. Michael doesn't know that without him, I will never, ever achieve self-actualization. I mean, to Michael, I'm just his kid sister's best friend. He probably didn't mean to be cruel. He probably thought he was being funny.


It isn't his fault that my life is over and that I am never, ever leaving this bathroom.


I'll just wait until everybody is gone, and then I'll sneak out, and no one will see me again until next semester starts, by which time, hopefully, all of this will have blown over.


Or, better yet, maybe I'll just stay in Genovia ...


Hey, yeah. Why not?






Friday, December 18, 5 p.m., the Loft



I don't know why people can't just leave me alone.


Seriously. I may be done with Finals, but I still have a lot to do. I mean, I have to pack, don't I? Don't people know that when you are leaving for your royal introduction to the people over whom you will one day reign, you have to do a lot of packing?


But no. No, people keep on calling, and e-mailing, and coming over.


Well, I'm not talking to anybody. I think I have made that perfectly clear. I am not speaking to Lilly, or Tina, or my dad, or


Mr. Gianini, or my mother, and ESPECIALLY not Michael, even though at last count he'd called four times.


I am way too busy to talk to anybody.


And with my headphones on, I can't even hear them pounding on the door. It's kind of nice, I have to say.





Friday, December 18, 5:30 p.m., the Fire Escape



People have a right to their privacy. If I want to go into my room and lock the door and not come out or have to deal with anyone, I should have a right to. People should not be allowed to take the hinges off my door and remove it. That is completely unfair.


But I have found a way to foil them. I am out on the fire escape. It is about thirty degrees out here and, by the way, it's snowing. But guess what? So far no one has followed me.


Fortunately, I bought one of those pens that is also a flashlight, so I can see to write. The sun went down a while ago, and I have to admit my butt is freezing. But it's actually sort of nice out here. All you can hear is the hiss of the snow as it lands on


the metal of the fire escape, and the occasional siren or car alarm. It is restful, in a way.


And you know what I'm finding out? I need a rest. Big-time.


Really. I need to like go and lie on a beach somewhere or something.


There's a nice beach in Genovia. With white sand, palm trees, the whole bit.


Too bad while I'm there, I'm never going to have time to visit it, since I'm going to be too busy christening battle ships or whatever.


But if I lived in Genovia . . . you know, moved there and lived there full time . . .


Oh, I'll miss my mom, of course. I've already considered that. She's leaned out the window about twenty times already,


begging me to come inside, or to at least put on a coat. My mom's a nice lady. I'll really miss her.


But she can come visit me in Genovia. At least, up until her eighth month. Then air travel might be a little risky. But she can come after my baby brother or sister is born. That would be nice.


And Mr. G, he's OK too. He just leaned out and asked if I wanted any of the four alarm chilli he just made. He left out the meat, he says, just for me.


That was nice of him. He can come visit me in Genovia too.


It will be nice to live there. I can hang out with my dad all the time. He's not such a bad guy, either, once you get to know him. He wants me to come in off the fire escape too. I guess my mom must have called him. He says he's really proud of me, on account of the press conference and my B minus in Algebra and all. He wants to take me out to dinner to celebrate. We can


go to the Zen Palatte, he says. A totally vegetarian restaurant. Isn't that nice of him?


Too bad he let Lars take my door down or I might have gone with him.


Ronnie, our next-door neighbour, just looked out her window and saw me. Now she wants to know what I'm doing, sitting


out on the fire escape in December.


I told her I needed some privacy, and that this appears to be the only way I can get it.


Ronnie went, 'Honey, don't I know how that is.'


She said I was going to freeze without a coat though, and offered me her mink. I politely declined as I cannot wear the skins


of dead animals.


So she loaned me her electric blanket, which she has plugged into the outlet beneath her air conditioner. I must say, this is an improvement.


Ronnie is getting ready to go out. It is nice to watch her put on her make-up. As she does it, she is keeping up a running conversation with me through the open window. She asked me if I was having trouble at school and if that was why I'm on the fire escape, and I said I was. She asked what kind and I told her. I told her I am being persecuted: that I am in love with my best friend's brother, but that to him it is apparently all this really big joke. Oh, and also that everyone apparently thinks I am having an affair with a mouth-breathing violinist who happens to be my best friend's boyfriend.


Ronnie shook her head and said it was good to know things haven't changed since she was in high school. She says she


knows what it is like to be persecuted, because Ronnie used to be a man.


I told Ronnie that it really doesn't matter, because I'm moving to Genovia. Ronnie said she was sorry to hear that. She'll miss me, as I have really improved conditions in the apartment building's incinerator room since I insisted on installing separate recycling bins for newspapers and cans and bottles.


Then Ronnie said she has to go because she's meeting her boyfriend for cocktails at the Carlyle. She said I could keep the electric blanket, though, so long as I remember to put it away when I'm done using it.


God. Even my next-door neighbour, who used to be a man, has a boyfriend. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME????


Uh-oh. I hear footsteps in my room. Who's coming now?






Friday, December 18, 7:30 p.m.



Well. You could knock me over with a feather.


Guess who just came out onto the fire escape and sat with me for half an hour?


Grandmere.


I am not even kidding.


I was sitting here, feeling all depressed, when all of a sudden this big furry sleeve appeared out my window, and then a foot in


a high-heeled shoe, and then a big blonde head, and next thing I knew, Grandmere was sitting there, blinking at me from the depths of her full-length chinchilla.


'Amelia,' she said, in her most no-nonsense tone. 'What are you doing out here? It's snowing. Come back inside.'


I was shocked. Shocked that Grandmere would even consider coming out on to the fire escape (it is an indelicate thing for a princess to mention, but there is actually a lot of bird poop out here), but also that she would dare to speak to me, after what she did.


But she addressed that issue right away.


'I understand that you are upset with me,' she said. 'And you have a right to be. But I want you to know that what I did, I did for you.'


'Oh, right!' Even though I swore I was never going to speak to her again, I couldn't help myself. 'Grandmere, how can you possibly say that? You completely humiliated me!'


'I didn't mean to,' Grandmere said. 'I meant to show you that you are just as pretty as those girls in the magazines you are always wishing you looked like. It's important that you know that you are not this hideous creature that you apparently think you are.'


'Grandmere,' I said. 'That's nice of you and all - I guess - but you shouldn't have done it that way.'


'What other way could I do it?' Grandmere demanded. 'You will not pose for any of the magazines that have offered to send photographers. Not for Vogue, or Harper's Bazaar. Don't you understand that what Sebastiano said about your bone structure is true? You really are quite beautiful, Amelia. If only you'd just have a little more confidence in yourself — show


off once in a while. Think how quickly that boy you like would leave the house fly girl for you!'


'Fruit fly,' I said automatically. 'And, Grandmere, I told you, Michael likes her because she's really smart. They have a lot of stuff in common - like computers. It has nothing to do with how she looks.'


'Oh, Mia,' Grandmere said. 'Don't be naive.'


Poor Grandmere. It really wasn't fair to blame her, because she comes from such a different world. In Grandmere's world, women are valued for being great beauties - or, if they aren't great beauties, they are revered for dressing impeccably. What they do, like for a living, isn't important, because most of them don't do anything. Oh, maybe they do some charity work, or whatever, but that's it.


Grandmere doesn't understand, of course, that today being a great beauty doesn't count for much. Oh, it matters in Hollywood, of course, and on the runways in Milan. But nowadays, people understand that perfect looks are the result of DNA - something the person has nothing to do with. It's not like it's any great accomplishment, being beautiful. It's just genetics.


No, what matters today is what you do with the brain behind those perfect blue eyes (or brown eyes, or green, or whatever). In Grandmere's day, a girl like Judith, who could clone fruit flies, would be viewed as a piteous freak unless she managed to clone fruit flies and look stunning in Dior.


Even in this remarkably enlightened age, girls like Judith still don't get as much attention as girls like Lana - which isn't fair,


since cloning fruit flies is probably way more important than having totally perfect hair.


The really pathetic people are the ones like me: I can't clone fruit flies and I've got bad hair.


But that's OK. I'm used to it by now.


Grandmere's the one who still needs convincing that I am an absolutely hopeless case.


'Look,' I said to Grandmere. 'I told you. Michael is not the type of guy who is going to be impressed because I'm in a Sunday Times supplement in a strapless ballgown. That's why I like him. If he were the kind of guy who was impressed by stuff like that, I wouldn't want anything to do with him.'


Grandmere didn't look very convinced.


'Well,' she said. 'Perhaps you and I must agree to disagree. In any case, Amelia, I came over to apologize. I never meant to distress you. I meant only to show you what you can do, if you'd only try.' She spread her gloved hands apart. 'And look how well I succeeded. Why, you planned and executed an entire press conference, all on your own!'


I couldn't help smiling a little at that one. 'Yes,' I said. 'I did.'


'And,' Grandmere said, 'I understand that you passed Algebra.'


I grinned harder. 'Yes. I did.'


'Now,' Grandmere said, 'there is only one thing left for you to do.'


I nodded. 'I know. And I've been thinking a lot about it. I think it might be best if I extended my stay in Genovia. Like maybe


I could just live there from now on. What do you think about that?'


Grandmere's expression, I could see in the light coming from my room, was one of disbelief.


'Live in ... live in Genovia?' For once, I'd caught her off" guard. 'What are you talking about?'


'You know,' I said. 'I could just finish ninth grade in school there. And then maybe I could go to one of those Swiss boarding schools you're always going on about.'


Grandmere just stared at me. 'You'd hate it.'


'No,' I said. 'It might be fun. No boys, right? That would be great. I mean, I'm kind of sick of boys right now.'


Grandmere shook her head. 'But your friends . . . your mother . . . '


'Well,' I said reasonably. 'They could come and visit.'


Then Grandmere's face hardened. She peered at me from between the heavily mascaraed slits her eyelids had become.


'Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Renaldo,' she said. 'You are running away from something, aren't you?'


I shook my head innocently. 'Oh, no, Grandmere,' I said. 'Really. I'd like to live in Genovia. It'd be neat.'


'NEAT?' Grandmere stood up. Her high heels went through the slots between the metal bars of the fire escape, but she didn't notice. She pointed imperiously at my window.


'You get inside right now,' she hissed, in a voice I had never heard her use before.


I have to admit, I was so startled I did exactly what she said. I unplugged Ronnie's electric blanket and crawled right back


into my room. Then I stood there while Grandmere crawled back in too.


'You,' she said, when she'd straightened out her skirt, 'are a princess of the royal house of Renaldo. A princess,' she said,


going to my wardrobe, and rifling through it, 'does not shirk her responsibilities. Nor does she run at the first sign of adversity.'


'Um, Grandmere,' I said. 'What happened today was hardly the first sign of adversity, OK? What happened today was the


last straw. I can't take it any more, Grandmere. I am getting out.'


Grandmere pulled from my wardrobe the dress Sebastiano had designed for me to wear to the dance. You know, the one


that was supposed to make Michael forget that I am his little sister's best friend.


'Nonsense,' Grandmere said.


That was all.


Just 'nonsense'. Then she stood there, tapping her toes and staring at me.


'Grandmere,' I said. Maybe it was all that time I'd spent outside. Or maybe it was that I was pretty sure my mom and Mr.G and my dad were all in the next room, listening. How could they not be? There was no door, or anything, to separate my room from the living room.


'You don't understand,' I said. 'I can't go back there.'


'All the more reason,' Grandmere said, 'for you to go.'


'No,' I said. 'First of all, I don't even have a date for the dance, OK? And P.S., only losers go to dances without dates.'


'You are not a loser, Amelia,' Grandmere said. 'You are a princess. And princesses do not run away when things become difficult. They throw their shoulders back and they face what disaster awaits them head on. Bravely, and without complaint.'


I said, 'Hello, we are not talking about marauding Visigoths, OK, Grandmere? We are talking about an entire high school that now thinks I am in love with Boris Pelkowski.'


'Which is precisely,' Grandmere said, 'why you must show them that it doesn't matter to you what they think.'


'Why can't I show them that it doesn't matter by not going?'


'Because that,' Grandmere said, 'is the cowardly way. And you, Mia, as you have shown amply this past week, are not a coward. Now get dressed.'


I don't know why I did what she said. Maybe it was because somewhere deep inside, I knew that for once, Grandmere was right.


Or maybe it was because secretly, I guess I was a little curious to see what would happen.


But I think the real reason was because, for the first time in my entire life, Grandmere didn't call me Amelia.


No. She called me Mia.


And because of my stupid sentimentalism, I am in a car right now, going back to stupid crappy Albert Einstein High School,


the dust from which I thought I'd managed to shake permanently from my feet not four hours ago.


But no. Oh, no. I'm going back, in the stupid velvet party dress Sebastiano designed for me. I'm going back and I will


probably be ridiculed for being the dateless biological freak that I am.


But regardless of what happens, I can always comfort myself with the knowledge of one thing:


Tomorrow, I will be thousands of miles away from all of this.


Oh, God. We're here.


I think I'm going to be sick.








Saturday, December 19, Royal Genovian Jet



When I was about to turn six years old, all I wanted for my birthday was a cat.


I didn't care what kind of cat. I just wanted one - a cat of my very own. We had been to visit my mom's parents at their farm


in Indiana, and they had a lot of cats. One of them had had kittens - little fluffy orange and white ones, which purred loudly when I held them under my chin, and liked to curl up inside the bib of my overalls and nap. More than anything in the world,


I wanted to keep one of those kittens.


I should mention that, at the time, I had a thumb-sucking problem. My mother had tried everything to get me to stop sucking my thumb, including buying me a Barbie, in spite of her fundamental stand against Barbie and all that she stands for, as a sort


of bribe. Nothing worked.


So when I started whining to her about wanting a kitten, my mom came up with a plan. She told me she would get me a kitten for my birthday if I quit sucking my thumb.


Which I did, immediately. I wanted a cat of my own that badly.


And yet, as my birthday rolled around, I had my doubts my mother would live up to her end of the bargain. For one thing,


even at the age of six I knew my mom wasn't the most responsible person. Why else was our electricity always being turned off? And about half the time I showed up at school wearing a skirt AND trousers, because my mother let me decide what I wanted to wear. So I wasn't sure she'd remember about the kitten - or that, if she did remember, she'd know where to get one.


So as you can imagine, when the morning of my sixth birthday rolled around, I wasn't holding out much hope.


But when my mother came into my bedroom holding this tiny ball of yellow and white fur and plopped it on to my chest, and I looked into Louie's (he didn't become Fat Louie until about twenty-something pounds later) great big blue eyes (this was


before they turned green), I knew a joy such as I had never known before in my life and never expected to feel again.


That is, until last night.


I am totally serious.


Last night was the best night of my ENTIRE life. After that whole fiasco with Sebastiano and the photos, I thought I would never ever feel anything like gratitude to Grandmere EVER again.


But she was SO RIGHT to make me go to that dance. I am SO GLAD I went back to Albert Einstein, the best, the loveliest school, in the whole country, if not the whole world!!!!!!!


OK, here's what happened:


Lars and I pulled up in front of the school. There were twinkly white lights in all the windows that I guess were supposed to represent icicles or whatever.


I was sure I was going to throw up and I mentioned this to Lars. He said I couldn't possibly throw up because to his certain knowledge I hadn't eaten anything since the Entemann's cake way before lunch, and that was probably all digested by now. With that piece of encouraging information, he escorted me up the steps and into the school.


There were masses of people teeming around the coat check in the front entrance. Lars checked our coats while I stood there waiting for someone to come up and ask me what I was doing there without a date. All that happened, however, was that Lilly-and-Boris and Tina-and-Dave descended upon me, and started acting all nice and said how happy they were that I'd come (Tina told me later that she'd already explained to everyone that Kenny and I had broken up, although she hadn't told them why, THANK GOD).


So, fortified by my friends, I went into the gym, which was decorated all wintery with cut-out paper snowflakes, one of those disco balls, and fake snow everywhere, which I must say looked a lot whiter and cleaner than the snow that was starting to


pile up on the ground outside.


There were tons of people there. I saw Lana and Josh (ugh), Justin Baxendale with his usual flock of adoring fans, and Shameeka and Ling Su and a bunch of other people. Even Kenny was there, though when he saw me he went bright red


and turned around and started talking to this girl from our Bio class. Oh well.


Everyone was there, except the one person I'd been most dreading. Or hoping to see. I didn't know which.


Then I saw Judith Gershner. She had changed out of her overalls and looked quite pretty in this red Laura Ashleyish dress.


But she wasn't dancing with Michael. She was dancing with some boy I'd never seen before.


So I looked around for Lilly and finally spotted her using one of the payphones. I went up to her and was like, 'Where's your brother?'


Lilly hung up the phone. 'How should I know?' she demanded. 'It's not my turn to babysit him.'


I went - oddly comforted by her demeanour, which simply proved that no matter how much other things change, Lilly always stayed the same - 'Well, Judith Gershner is here, so I just figured—'


'For God's sake,' Lilly said. 'How many times do I have to tell you? Michael and Judith are not going out.'


I went, 'Oh, right. Then why have they spent every waking moment together for the past two weeks?'


'Because they were working on that stupid computer program for the Carnival,' she said. 'Besides, Judith Gershner already


has a boyfriend.' Lilly grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me around so I could see Judith on the dance floor. 'He goes


to Trinity.'


I looked at Judith Gershner as she slow-danced with a boy who looked a lot like Kenny, only older and not as uncoordinated.


'Oh,' I said.


'Oh is right,' Lilly said. 'I don't know what is wrong with you today, but I can't deal with you when you're acting like such a freak. Sit down right here' - she pulled out a chair -'and don't you dare get up. I want to know where to find you when I


need to.'


I didn't even ask Lilly why she might need to find me. I just sat down. I felt like I couldn't stand up any more. I was that tired.


It wasn't that I was disappointed. I mean, I didn't want to see Michael. At least, part of me didn't.


Another part of me really wanted to see him and ask him just what he'd meant by that poem.


But I was sort of afraid of the answer.


Because it might not be the one I was hoping it would be.


After a while, Lars and Wahim came and sat down next to me. I felt like a complete tool. I mean, there I was, sitting at a


dance with two bodyguards, who were deep in a discussion about the advantages versus the disadvantages of rubber bullets. Nobody was asking me to dance. Nobody would, either.


Why was I even staying? I had done what Grandmere said. I had shown up. I had proved to everyone that I wasn't a coward. Why couldn't I leave? I mean, if I wanted to?


I stood up. I said to Lars, 'Gome on. We've been here long enough. I still have a lot of packing to do. Let's go.'


Lars said OK and started to get up. Then he stopped. I saw that he was looking at something behind me. I turned around.


And there was Michael.


He had obviously just gotten there. He was out of breath. His bow tie wasn't tied and there was still snow in his hair.


'I didn't think you were coming,' he said.


I knew my face had gone as red as Judith Gershner's dress. But there wasn't anything I could do about that. I said,


'Well, I almost didn't.'


He said, 'I called you a bunch of times. Only you wouldn't come to the phone.'


I said, 'I know.' I was wishing the floor of the gym would open up, like in It's a Wonderful Life, and that I'd fall into the pool underneath it and drown and not have to have this conversation.


'Mia,' he said. 'With that thing today. I didn't mean to make you cry.'


Or the floor could open and I could just fall and keep falling, for ever and ever and ever. That would be OK too. I stared at


the floor, willing it to crack apart and swallow me up.


'It didn't,' I said. 'I mean, it wasn't that. It was something Kenny said.'


'Yeah,' Michael said. 'Well, I heard you two broke up.'


Yeah. Probably by now the whole school had. Now, I knew, my face was even redder than Judith's dress.


'The thing is,' Michael went on, 'I knew it was you. Who was leaving those cards.'


If he had reached inside my chest, pulled out my heart, flung it to the floor and kicked it across the room, it could not possibly have hurt as much as hearing that. I could feel my eyes filling up with tears all over again.


'You did?' You know, it's one "thing to have your heart broken. But to have it happen at a school dance, in front of


everyone . . . well, that's harsh.


'Of course I did,' he said. He sounded impatient. 'Lilly told me.'


For the first time, I looked up into his face.


'Lilly told you?' I cried. 'How did she know?'


He waved his hand. 'I don't know. Your friend Tina told her, I guess. But that's not important.'


I looked around the gym and saw Lilly and Tina at the far side of it, both staring in my direction. When they saw me looking at them, they turned around really fast and pretended to be deeply absorbed in conversation with their dates.


'I'm going to kill them,' I murmured.


Michael reached out and grabbed both my shoulders. 'Mia,' he said, giving me a little shake. 'It doesn't matter. What matters


is that I meant what I wrote. And I thought you did too.'


I didn't think I could have heard him right. I went, 'Of course I meant it.'


He shook his head. 'Then why did you freak out like that today at the carnival?'


I stammered, 'Well, because . .. because ... I thought... I thought you were making fun of me.'


'Never,' he said.


And that's when he did it.


No fuss. No asking my permission. No hesitation whatsoever. He just leaned down and kissed me, right on the lips.


And I found out, right then, that Tina was right:

It isn't gross if you're in love with the guy.

In fact, it's the nicest thing in the whole world.

And do you know what the best part is?


I mean, aside from Michael being in love with me, and having kept it a secret almost as long as I have, if not longer?


And Lilly knowing all along but not saying anything up until a few days ago because she found it an interesting social


experiment to see how long it would take us to figure it out on our own (a long time, it turned out)?


And the fact that Michael's going to Columbia next year, which is only a few subway stops away so I'll still be able to see him as much as I want?


Oh, and Lana walking by while we were kissing, and going, in this disgusted voice, 'Oh, God, get a room, would you?'


And slow dancing with him all night long, until Lilly finally came up and said, 'Come on, you guys, it's snowing so hard, if we don't leave now we'll never get home'?


And kissing good night outside the stoop to my loft, with the snow falling all around us (and grumpy Lars complaining he was getting cold)?


No, the best part is that we moved right into Frenching without any trouble at all. Tina was right - it just seemed perfectly natural.


And now the captain says we have to put away our tray tables for take-off, so I'll have to quit writing in a minute.


Dad says if I don't stop talking about Michael, he's going to go sit up front with the pilot for the flight.


Grandmere says she can't get over the change in me. She says I seem taller. And you know maybe I am. She thinks it's because I'm wearing another one of Sebastiano's original creations, designed just for me, just like the dress that was supposed to make Michael see me as more than just his little sister's best friend . . . except that it turned out he already did. But I know that's not it.


And it isn't love, either. Well, not entirely.


I'll tell you what it is: self-actualization.


That and the fact that it turns out I'm really a princess, after all. I must be, because guess what?


I'm living happily ever after.







ABOUT THE AUTHOR



Meg Cabot has lived in Indiana and California, USA, and in France. She has worked as an assistant dorm manager of a large university, an illustrator, and a writer of historical romance (under a different name). She currently lives in New York City with her husband and a one-eyed cat called Henrietta, and says she is still waiting for her real parents, the king and queen, to come and restore her to her rightful throne.


Visit Meg Cabot's website at www.megcabot.com






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