Authors: Meg Cabot
It's quite another to try to get that woman's attention by driving your newly acquired vintage Formula One race car at a hundred and eighty miles per hour down one of the most highly trafficked highways in the world. He could have been killed . . . or worse, killed someone else.
I hope I impressed upon him the gravity of the situation.
And really, what worse punishment is there than to have to face the Dowager Princess of Genovia after having spent the night in a jail nicknamed “The Tombs”? I can't think of any.
Frankly, Dad's lucky that paparazzo came along when he did, otherwise
he's
the one who would have been hit by that Birkin.
Still, a part of me can't help feeling like this is all my own fault (not what happened to Dad, of course, or what Grandmère did. They're responsible for their own actions, but how rotten I feel right now).
Why did I click on Rate the Royals????
Dominique is always saying to me in her thick French accent: “Your 'ighness, why do you do this to yourself? Stop going online! Nothing good evair comes from going online. You will only see something terrible that will make you feel bad, like that princesses can't be feminist role models, or another comment from your crazy stalker about 'ow 'e would like to kill you!”
Dominique is right. It's ridiculous how one critical remark can ruin your whole day. After all these years, why do I still let it? I should know better. I'm a college-âeducated, vital, attractive, newly-turned-twenty-six-year-old woman, with meaningful employment, a loving (if sometimes challenging) family, an amazing boyfriend, loads of great friends, and tons to offer the world.
So what do I care what some nutcase on Rate the Royals says? Screw Rate the Royals. Everyone knows that if 95 percent of the people don't hate you, you're not doing your job right.
So I'm going to ignore the haters, get out of this bed, and get to work doing what human beings were put on this planet to do: leave it a better place than they found it.
(Which is something Rate the Royals will never be able to say it's done.)
P.S.
Oh, Lord, I see I once again forgot to add tea bags to my grocery-store delivery list, so as soon as I'm done with this pot Marie Rose brought me, I'm out.
But for some reason I have tons of cookies, ice cream, cheese popcorn, and cat food. At least Fat Louie will be all right. He has a plethora of varieties to choose from in his finicky old age.
I'm sure if Rate the Royals saw how incredibly giving and kind I am to the animals, it would be worth another point. Prince Harry doesn't even
own
a cat.
P.P.S.
No! I must stop this!
I don't care!
I'm not going to stoop to the level of Brian Fitzpatrick. You thought you would bring me down, didn't you, Brian? But all you've done is make me more determined than ever to conquer the universe with my wit, charm, and kindness.
P.P.P.S.
Would having the Royal Genovian Guard look up the ISP address of Rate the Royals and then send Brian Fitzpatrick a cease and desist be an abuse of my powers? Check on this. Because this is what I'd
really
like to do for my birthday.
Aside from getting out of seeing Cirque du Soleil tonight. And, of course, sending Brian Fitzpatrick a box filled with deadly scorpions.
9:25 a.m., Friday, May 1
Third-Floor Apartment
Consulate General of Genovia
Rate the Royals Rating:
5
Was getting out of the shower when I got the following text(s):
Michael Moscovitz “FPC”: Picking you up in exactly one hour for a birthday surprise. Take the bag Marie Rose has packed for you and meet me in the consulate lobby. Don't bring your laptop. There's no Internet where we're going.
Before I could text back that I couldn't possibly do as he asked, I got this:
Don't argue. Just do it.
Then this:
P.S. Make sure she's packed that bikini you wore to the beach last New Year's. The white one.
He added an emoji of a penguin experiencing what appeared to be a fatal myocardial infarction, since its heart was exploding from its body.
I think this was meant to show love or possibly lust, not a marine animal suffering a brutal death, though I'm not entirely sure. Guys are so odd, especially guys who work with computers (and robots) all day, like Michael does, and also like to design their own emojis as a hobby.
I know Michael meant his new emoji to be funny, but considering how Mr. G. died, it's a little insensitive.
Wait . . .
Could
this
be what's behind that strange shadow in his eyes? Simply that he's been plotting something behind my back?
No.
What kind of place doesn't have Internet access, though? Does that mean it also doesn't have cable television? What if it really
is
a yoga/meditation retreat?
God, I hope not. Michael knows I freak out if I go too long without television. It's embarrassing to admit, but television is my drug of choice. And how will I be able to keep abreast with what's happening
on all the
NCISs
in Qalif?
9:45 a.m., Friday, May 1
Third-Floor Apartment
Consulate General of Genovia
Rate the Royals Rating:
5
Just dialed Michael's cell, but he wouldn't pick up.
So then I phoned his office number, but his latest assistant (Michael goes through assistants the way I go through tea bags, only because he keeps promoting them, not because he's dunked them in boiling water) said he was in a town car headed up to see
me
.
“Do you want me to put you through to his cell phone, Your Highness?”
I told the assistant that he doesn't have to call me “Your Highness” because he's not a Genovian citizen and we're on U.S. soil. Then I said no, that I'd tried Michael's cell already, thanked him, and hung up.
â¢Â  Â
Note to self:
Is it my imagination, or did Michael's new assistant sound disappointed about the Your Highness thing? I hope he doesn't turn out to be another one of those weirdos who fetishizes royals. I'll have to get his full name from Michael and then have Lars look into him.
Oh, another text:
Are you just sitting there writing in your diary or are you actually making progress?
Oh my God. How does he DO that?
HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”> |
Michael, this is very sweet of you, but you KNOW whatever it is you've got planned, I can't go. It's absurd. Why won't you pick up your phone?
Because I don't want to get into it with you. What part of “don't argue” did you not understand?
I'm not arguing, I'm telling you
facts
. Seriously, this is a terrible time for me to leave. The country of Genovia needs me. The center needs me. My family needs me.
I
need you. We need to have a relaxing weekend away from orange-throwing Genovians and your insane family.
There's been a DEATH in my insane family, Michael, and another ALMOST death (if you count my dad). And what about my grandmother? I can't leave.
Yes, you CAN leave, and you will. Perin and Ling Su can handle the centerâthat's why you hired them. And Frank died a year ago. And don't worry about your dad, he can take care of himself. And your grandmother's been taken care of, too.
What? What is that supposed to mean? No one “takes care” of my grandmother. Grandmère's like that old dowager countess on
Downton Abbey
(only not as nice). She takes care of herself, although occasionally she allows servants to prepare her food and drink and drive her around (thank God, since they took away her license years ago, which they should probably do to my dad).
It's sweet of you, Michael, whatever you have planned, but you know this is crazy. It's because of the orange-throwing Genovians that I can't leave. And in addition to everything else, I have that charity gala I promised to attend on Saturday night. And I can't leave behind my laptop. Neither can you! Do I have to remind you that you own a computer-based business?
I don't want to think of myself as predictable (who does?) but it almost seems as if he anticipated my response, he wrote back so quickly:
We both need to disconnect from work and the Internet. Don't even try to tell me that you didn't see RTR this morning. I know you check it every five minutes to make sure you're in the top three.
This is a scurrilous falsehood! I check Rate the Royals no more than once a day.
But before I could protest, I received this:
I already asked Dominique to give your regrets about the gala and she said she'd be glad to. I know how anxious you are to rebuild what you consider your family's “tarnished reputation,” but I think throwing your support behind every charity that asks for your help (such as a society hoping to reverse the “alarming decline of butterflies and moths in urban areas”) might not be the most effective way to do it.
He'd spoken to my publicist behind my back? How dare he?
But again, before I could text a word in reply, I received this:
And both your mom AND dad say they'll be fine without you. They agree with me that you need a break after all the stress you've been through this past year. It's making you physically ill.
Lilly would rightfully have accused her brother of being both patriarchal and controlling here, talking to my parents behind my back like I'm a child . . .
. . . though I sort of love it when he tells me what to do, especially in bed, like when we play Fireman, the game we invented where he's the fireman and I'm the naughty resident who ignored the smoke detector and didn't evacuate the building in a timely manner.
Then he finds me sprawled half conscious on my bed in my sexy lingerie, and has to give me mouth-to-mouth to revive me. Only when I get revived, we realize burning timbers have fallen across our only form of egress, so he has no choice but to spend his time waiting for rescue giving me a sexy lesson in fire safety.
Plus I ran the whole trip through the RGG and they cleared it. The youth of New York City, the women and children of Qalif, and the genetically modified oranges of Genovia will be all right without you for one weekend.
Now grab the bag and get downstairs. Are you even dressed? The clock is ticking, Thermopolis. The jet leaves from Teterboro at eleven.
Jet? He's hired a private
jet
?
Who does he think he is all of a sudden, Christian Grey?
I am not okay with this. I'm not some shy virginal college student who only owns one shirt. I am a twenty-six-year-old woman fully in charge of making up my own mind about whether or not I want to go on vacation.
I do love it when Michael calls me Thermopolis, though. Even when it's only in writing, it does something to me, something that normally only happens when he walks into the room after I haven't seen him in a while and hugs me, and I get a whiff of his amazing, clean, Michael smell, or when he comes out of the shower wearing only a towel and his hair is all wet and plastered down darkly to the back of his strong, newly shaved neck, and he announces he smells smokeâ
Maybe he's right. Maybe I
do
need a relaxing vacation. Especially away from my crazy family, and the consulate, and the Internet, and . . .
Oh, crap. Might as well admit it: after all these years, I'm still disgustingly, revoltingly in love with him, exploding penguins and all. I'd even go on some kind of weird, wireless retreat with him.
Now,
that's
love.
10:00 a.m., Friday, May 1
Lobby, Consulate General of Genovia
Rate the Royals Rating:
5
Sitting downstairs, waiting for Michael to pick me up for the wireless meditation/yoga retreat, or whatever it is.
Everyone who comes in (quite a lot of people for a Friday morning in May, but they were probably put off coming yesterday by the crowd of orange-throwing protesters) is giving me the side-eye.
I suppose they weren't expecting to see Princess Mia Thermopolis writing in her diary in the lobby of the consulate of Genovia when they popped by to get a visa or certificate of nationality. Most of them look quite pleased . . .
I wish I could say the same for the consulate staff. From the moment I set foot down here, I was immediately:
â¢Â   chastised by Madame Alain, the ambassador's secretary, for entering the consulate staff kitchen (to steal tea bags, but she doesn't know that), and
â¢Â   told to remove the four gold iPhones and dozens of other birthday cards and packages that arrived for me via the consulate's address.
This was only slightly embarrassing since the Royal Genovian Guard opens all my packages/mail thanks to RoyalRabbleRouser, who pledged to “destroy my world.”
One of the packages sent to me today turned out to be a world destroyer, all right, but it was from my boyfriend's sister (and soon-to-be exâbest friend), not my stalker. It consisted of a waterproof vibrator shaped like a dolphin with a note that said:
I'm FLIPPING out over your birthday!
XOXO Lilly
When Lars handed it to me just now (back in its wrapping paper, though not very nicely; apparently they're out of Scotch tape in the security office, so he used blue medical tape from the first-aid kit), he didn't even bother to wipe the smirk off his face.