Princess in Waiting (18 page)

I prefer to believe the former.

Oh, that I had some kind of outlet, such as music, into which to pour the suffering I am currently feeling!

But alas, I'm no

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

through song,

dance and filmography.

Well, OK, just through filmography since there are no singers or dancers in fifth period G and T. Though

if you ask me, there should be. Instead we just have Lilly, putting together what she is calling her

quintessential episode of
Lilly Tells It Like It Is,

a show that will explore the seamy underbelly of that American institution known as Starbucks. It is Lilly's

contention that Starbucks, through the introduction of the Starbucks card, with which caffeine addicts can

now pay for their fix electronically,

is actually a secret branch of the Central Intelligence Agency that is tracing the movements of America's

intelligentsia - writers, editors and other known liberal agitators - through their coffee consumption.

Whatever. I don't even like coffee.

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

even a whimper,

like Rommel when you accidentally step on his tail?

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

break up with her.

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

live with another

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

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

their bodies

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

Aw, crud. The bell.

Homework:

Algebra: Who cares?

English: Everything sucks.

Biology: I hate life.

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

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

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

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

Once our boyfriends dump us, anyway.

Friday, January 22, 6 p.m.

Grandmere's Suite at the Plaza

Grandmere made me come here straight after school so that Paolo could start getting us ready for the

ball. I didn't know

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

I explained to him about how I am growing out my hair on account of boys liking long hair better than

short hair, and Paolo made some tut-tutting noises, but he slapped some curlers into it to try to get rid of

the triangular shape, and I guess it

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

Too bad inside, I'm completely busted.

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

time. I mean, I am

only doing this for her. Because she is an old lady and my grandmother and she fought the Nazis and all

of that, for which someone has to give her some credit.

I just hope someday she appreciates it. My supreme sacrifice, I mean. But I doubt she ever will.

Seventy-something-year-old ladies - particularly dowager princesses -never seem to remember what it

was like to be fourteen and in love.

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

like Diana Ross.

Only with no eyebrows.

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

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

My parents must be so proud.

Friday, January 22, 8 p.m.

Bathroom at the Contessa Trevanni's Fifth-Avenue Mansion

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

The contessa's bathroom is a little bit overdone. It is nice and everything, but I don't know if I'd have

chosen flaming wall-sconces as part of my bathroom decor. I mean, even at the palace, we don't have

any flaming wall-sconces. Although

it looks very romantic and
Ivanhoe-y
and all, it is actually a pretty serious fire hazard, besides being

probably a health risk, considering the carcinogens they must be giving off.

But, whatever. That isn't even the, real question — why would anyone have flaming wall-sconces in the

bathroom? The real question, of course, is this: if I am supposedly descended from all these strong

women - you know, Rosagunde, who strangled that warlord with her braid, and Agnes, who jumped off

that bridge, not to mention Grandmere, who allegedly kept the Nazis from trashing Genovia by having

Hitler over for tea — why is it that I am such a pushover?

I mean, seriously. I totally fell for Grandmere's whole riff about wanting to show up Elena Trevanni with

her pretty and accomplished — yeah, at looking like a snowdrop — granddaughter. I actually felt sorry

for her. I had empathy for Grandmere, not realizing then - as I do now - that Grandmere is completely

devoid of human emotion, and that the whole

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

NEW GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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

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

to the skill of

Lana's plastic surgeon dad, looks about thirty years younger than Grandmere, though they are

supposedly the same age.

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

'when', I mean, look

at poor Michael Jackson - because she really does, just like Grandmere said, resemble an anteater. Like

her eyes are sort of far apart on account of the skin around them being stretched so tight, which makes

her nose look extra long and skinny.

When Grandmere introduced me - 'Contessa, may I present to you my granddaughter, Princess Amelia

Mignonette Grimaldi Renaldo' (she always leaves out the Thermopolis) - I thought everything was going

to be all right. Well, not everything, of course, since directly after the ball, I knew I was going to go over

to my best friend's house and get dumped by her brother. But you know, everything at the ball.

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

Alberto.'

Beau? BEAU??? Rene and I exchanged quick glances. It was only then that I noticed that, standing right

behind us in the reception line was none other than Lana Weinberger, her dad, and her mom. RIGHT

THERE BEHIND US.

And Lana's mom, I saw, had allowed Lana to wear black instead of white to the black-and-white ball,

even though I had been told, on no uncertain terms, that it was unseemly for a girl of my tender years to

wear black. And Lana is the same age as me.

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

face . . .

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

to tell them that

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

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

more as much as

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

finally been snatched

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

Then Grandmere said, 'Isn't it, though, Elena?' And then to Rene and me she went, 'Come along,

children,' and we followed her, Rene looking amused. But me? I was seething.

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

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

Bengazi royal

family, no doubt.

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

how many times do

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

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

you can find us

some champagne, would you?'

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

time before he went

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

'Really, Amelia,' Grandmere said, when he was gone. 'Must you be so rude to poor Rene? I am only

trying to make your cousin feel welcome and at home.'

'There is a difference,' I said, 'between making my cousin feel welcome and wanted, and trying to pass

him off as my boyfriend!'

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

in tuxedos and

evening gowns were heading to the dance floor, where a full orchestra was playing that song Audrey

Hepburn sang in that movie about Tiffany's. Everyone was dressed in either black or white or both. The

contessa's ballroom bore a significant resemblance to the penguin enclosure at the Central Park Zoo,

where I had once sobbed my eyes out after discovering the truth about my heritage.

'He's extremely charming,' Grandmere went on, 'and quite cosmopolitan. Not to mention devilishly

handsome. How can you possibly prefer a high school boy to a
prince?'

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

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

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

you did. Now

you've got to stop harbouring a secret desire to make Prince Rene your grandson-in-law, because it is

not going to happen.'

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

'Cut it out, Grandmere. You want me to marry Prince Rene, for no other reason than that he is a royal.

Well, it isn't going to happen. Even if Michael and I were to break up . . .' which was going to happen

sooner than she thought '... I wouldn't get together with Rene. He's not my type. He smokes. And he

likes to gamble. And he has no sympathy whatsoever for the

plight of the giant sea turtle.'

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

stop callingRene

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

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

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

is all I am asking

for. I believe you owe it to me.'

you?'

'Iowe it to

I couldn't help bursting out laughing at that one. 'How so?'

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

missing from the

palace museum.'

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

heard this. I felt

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

she'd said???

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

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

identical items that

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

has been found to

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

such item, and they

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

Genovia while he

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

would you, Amelia?'

She had me! She had me, and she knew it. I don't know how she knew - undoubtedly through the black

arts, in which I suspect Grandmere of being highly well-versed -but clearly, she knew. I was dead. I was

so, so dead. I don't know if,

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

want to find out.

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

object?'

But I couldn't, on account of my nostrils. Instead, I went, in this squeaky, high-pitched voice I barely

recognized as my own, 'You know what, Grandmere? I'll be happy to dance with Rene. No problem!'

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

drawn-on eyebrows

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

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