Princess in Waiting (20 page)

redder, and

redder, and redder, and redder ...

Jane Eyre would so never have asked that question.

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

embarrassment of having

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

tiara from me, laid it

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

kiss.

On the lips.

Of the French variety.

We missed the entire scrolling prologue to the movie, due to kissing. Then, finally, when the sound of

Princess Leia's starship being fired upon roused us from our passionate embrace, Michael said, 'Of

course I'm in love with you. Now come sit down and eat.'

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

be as happy as I was

at that moment. I just stood there, thrilled to pieces, for about a minute. I mean, I could barely get over it.

He loved me. Not only that, he was
in
love with me! Michael Moscovitz is in love with me, Mia

Thermopolis!

'Your burger is getting cold,' he said.

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

Has there ever been

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

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

Rats T-shirt, and

me in my Chanel ball gown. And when Ben Kenobi said, 'Obi Wan? That's a name I haven't heard in a

long time,' we both went, right on cue, 'How long?' And Ben said, as he always does, 'A very long time.'

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

dessert, I helped

him clear the plates.

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

on his TV table,

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

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

fudge, whipped cream and pistachios.

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

of it. It was way

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

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

worrying about

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

a good dancer,

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

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

box.

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

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

it was
perfect.'

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

...

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

an ant, even.

The size of a pinhead.

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

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

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

'Can't you guess?'

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

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

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

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

collected a load of them,

and then some of them got split up, and Richard Nixon gave my grandmother a bunch of them when he

was in office. Well,

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

Because I know you

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

and all. . .'

Michael looked up from the moon rock - which he'd been staring down at like he couldn't quite believe

what he was seeing - and went, 'When were you in my room?'

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

ago. It had been

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

once when Maya

was cleaning in there.'

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

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

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

have really had

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

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

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

your boyfriend

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

thought he'd like it.

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

hundred and thirty-eight thousand miles away from our planet.'

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

week convinced

he was going to dump me over one thing, only to discover that he was going to dump me over something

else entirely? There

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

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

I'm going to get

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

Was that all? I felt my blush receding.

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

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

played me,

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

correctly. It was.

It totally was.

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

were rolling,

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

from the

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

'Oh,' I said. 'I thought of a name for your band.' 'Not,' he groaned, 'the X-Wing Fighters. I beg of you.'

'No,' I said. 'Skinner Box.' Which is this thing this psychologist called Skinner had used to torture all

these rats and monkeys and prove there's such a thing as a conditioned response. Pavlov, the guy

Michael had named his dog after, had done the same thing, but with dogs and bells. 'Skinner Box,'

Michael said, carefully. 'Yeah,' I said. 'I mean, I just figured, since you named your dog Pavlov . . .'

'I kind of like it,' Michael said. I'll see what the guys say.' I beamed. The evening was turning out so much

better than I had originally thought it would, I couldn't really do anything
but
beam. In fact, that's why I

locked myself in the bathroom. To

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

Saturday, January 23,

the Loft

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

know whether

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

with my journal

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

mean to say you've

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

Which I'll admit is a little weird, but I couldn't help it. I was so happy, I HAD to write it down, so I

would never forget

how it felt.

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

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

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

The same way I can't really be mad at Grandmere, even though she did, in essence, try to foist me on to

this homeless prince last night. But I can't blame her for trying. She's only trying to keep the Renaldo

bloodline clean. Grandmere has obviously never studied inbreeding, like we did in Bio. last semester.

Besides, she called here a little while ago, wanting to know if I was feeling all right after the bad truffle I'd

ingested. My mom, playing along, assured her that I was fine. So then Grandmere wanted to know if I

could come over and have tea with her

and the contessa . . . who was just dying to get to know me better. I said I was busy with homework.

Which ought to impress the contessa. You know, with my diligent work ethic.

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

Lana got along.

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

own handsome prince.

And I can't even be mad at Thompson Street Cleaners for losing my Queen Amidala underwear,

because this morning there was a knock on the door to the loft, and when I opened it, our neighbour

Ronnie was there with a big bag of our laundry, including Mr. G's brown cords and my mom's Free

Winona T-shirt. Ronnie says she must have accidentally picked up the wrong bag from the vestibule, and

then she'd gone to Barbados with her boss for the holidays, and only just now noticed

that she had a bag of clothing not her own.

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

Because, clearly, I can

get along without them. I was thinking about asking for more of them for my birthday, but now I don't

have to, because Michael, even though he doesn't know it, has already given me the greatest gift I've ever

gotten.

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

it's something

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

'What was that all about?' he wanted to know. 'Oh,' I said, putting away my journal, 'she's just mad

because I haven't

figured out what my secret talent is.'

'Your what?' Michael said.

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

decided to be

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

good at so many

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

Gifted and

Talented class, anyway.'

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

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

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

writing.'

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

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

And you always

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

And even though I had never really thought about it before, I realized Michael was right. I mean, I am

always writing in this journal. And I do compose a lot of poetry, and write a lot of notes and emails and

stuff. I mean, I feel like I am
always

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

time, like breathing.

But now that I know what my talent is, you can bet I am going to start working on honing it. And the first

thing I'm going to write is a bill to submit before the Genovian Parliament to get some rights for those sea

turtles . . .

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

to have fun sometimes.

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