Princess in the Spotlight

I could hear my father murmuring reassurances through the phone. My mom noticed me and whispered, “Are they still out there?”

I said, “Um, yes. You mean you didn’t invite them?”

“Of course not!” My mother’s eyes were as wide as Calamata olives. “Your grandmother invited them for some cockamamie wedding she thinks she’s throwing for me and Frank on Friday!”

I gulped guiltily. Oops.

Well, all I can say in my own defense is that things have been very very hectic lately. I mean, what with finding out my mother is pregnant, and then getting sick, and the whole thing with Jo-C-rox, and then the interview. . . .

Oh, all right. There’s no excuse. I am a horrible daughter.

My mom held out the phone to me. “He wants to talk to you,” she said.

I took the phone and went, “Dad? Where are you?”

“I’m in the car,” he said. “Listen, Mia, I got the concierge to arrange for rooms for your grandparents at a hotel near your place—the SoHo Grand. Okay? Just put them in the limo and send them there.”

“Okay, Dad,” I said. “What about Grandmère and this whole wedding thing? I mean, it’s sort of out of control.” Understatement of the year.

“I’ll take care of Grandmère,” my dad said, sounding very Captain Picardish. You know, fromStar Trek: The Next Generation. I got the feeling Beverly Bellerieve was there in the car with him, and he was trying to sound all princely in front of her.

“Okay,” I said. “But . . .”

It’s not that I didn’t trust my dad, or anything, to take care of the situation. It’s just—well, we are talking about Grandmère. She can be very scary, when she wants to be. Even, I am sure, to her own son.

I guess he must have known what I was thinking, since he said, “Don’t worry, Mia. I’ll take care of it.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling bad for doubting him.

“And Mia?”

I’d been about to hang up. “Yeah, Dad?”

“Assure your mother I didn’t know anything about this. Iswear it.”

“Okay, Dad.”

I hung up the phone. “Don’t worry,” I said to my mom. “I’ll take care of this.”

Then, my shoulders back, I returned to the living room. My grandparents were still sitting at the table. Their farmer friend, however, had gotten up. He was in the kitchen,

peering into the refrigerator.

“This all you got to eat around here?” he asked, pointing to the carton of soy milk and the bowl of edamame on the first shelf.

“Um,” I said. “Well, yes. We are trying to keep our refrigerator free from any sort of contaminants that might harm a developing fetus.”

When the guy looked blank, I said, “We usually order in.”

He brightened at once, and closed the refrigerator door. “Oh, Dominos?” he said. “Great!”

“Um,” I said. “Well, you can order Dominos, if you want, from your hotel room—“

“Hotel room?”

I spun around. Mamaw had snuck up behind me.

“Um, yes,” I said. “You see, my father thought you might be more comfortable at a nice hotel than here in the loft—“

“Well, if that doesn’t beat all,” Mamaw said. “Here your Papaw and Hank and I come all the way to see you, and you stick us in a hotel?”

I looked at the guy in the overalls with renewed interest.Hank? As in mycousin Hank? Why, the last time I’d seen Hank had been during my second—and ultimately final—trip toVersailles , back when I’d been about ten or so. Hank had been dropped off at the Thermopolis homestead the year before by his globe-trotting mother—my aunt Marie, who my mom can’t stand, primarily because, as my mother puts it, she exists in an intellectual and spiritual vacuum (meaning that Marie is a Republican).

Back then, Hank had been a skinny, whiny thing with a milk allergy. He wasn’t as skinny as he’d once been, but he still looked a little lactose intolerant, if you ask me.

“Nobody said anything about us being hauled off to an expensiveNew York City hotel when that French woman called.” Mamaw had followed me into the kitchen, and now she stood with her hands on her generous hips. “She said she’d pay for everything,” Mamaw said, “free and clear.”

I realized at once where Mamaw’s concern lay.

“Oh, um, Mamaw,” I said. “My father will take care of the bill, of course.”

“Well, that’s different.” Mamaw beamed. “Let’s go!”

I figured I’d better go with them, just to make sure they got there all right. As soon as we got into the limo, Hank forgot all about how hungry he was, in his delight over all the buttons there were to push. He had a swell time sticking his head in and out of the sun roof. At one point he stuck his whole body through the sun roof, spread his arms out wide, and yelled, “I’m the king of the world!”

Fortunately the limo’s windows are tinted, so I don’t think anyone from school could have recognized me, but I couldn’t help feeling mortified.

So you can understand why, after I got them all checked into the hotel and everything, and Mamaw asked me if I would take Hank to school with me in the morning, I nearly passed out.

“Oh, you don’t want to go to school with me, Hank,” I said, quickly. “I mean, you’re on vacation. You could go do something really fun.” I tried to think of something that might seem really fun to Hank. “Like go to the Harley Davidson Cafe.”

But Hank said, “Heck, no. I want to go to school with you, Mia. I always wanted to see what it was like at a realNew York City high school.” He lowered his voice, so Mamaw and Papaw wouldn’t hear. “I hear the girls inNew York City have all got their belly buttons pierced.”

Hank was in for a real big disappointment if he thought he’d see any pierced navels in my school—we wear uniforms, and you aren’t even allowed to tie the ends of your shirt into a halter top, a la Britney Spears.

But I couldn’t see a way to get out of having him accompany me for the day. Grandmère was always going on about how princesses have to be gracious. Well, I guess this is my big test.

So I said, “Okay.” Which didn’t sound very gracious, but what else could I say?

Then Mamaw surprised me by grabbing me and giving me a hug good-bye. I don’t know why I was so surprised. This was a very grandmotherly thing to do, of course. But I guess, seeing as how the grandmother I spend the most time with is Grandmère, I wasn’t expecting it.

As she hugged me, Mamaw said, “Why, you aren’t anything but skin and bones, are you?” Yes, thank you, Mamaw. It is true, I am mammarily challenged. But must you shout it out in the lobby of the SoHo Grand? “And when are you going to stop shooting up so high? I swear, you’re almost taller than Hank!”

Which was, unfortunately, true.

Then Mamaw made Papaw give me a hug good-bye, too. Mamaw had been very soft when I hugged her. Papaw was the exact opposite, very bony. It was sort of amazing to me that these two people had managed to turn my strong-willed, independent-minded mother into such a gibbering mess. I mean, Grandmère used to lock my dad in the castle dungeon when he was a kid, and he wasn’t half as resentful toward her as my mom was toward her parents.

On the other hand, my dad is in deep denial and suffers from classic Oedipal issues. At least according to Lilly.

When I got home, my mom had moved from the closet to her bed, where she lay covered withVictoria ’s Secret and J. Crew catalogs. I knew she must be feeling a little better. Ordering things is one of her favorite hobbies.

I said, “Hi, Mom.”

She looked out from behind the Spring Bathing Suit edition. Her face was all bloated and splotchy. I was glad Mr. Gianini wasn’t around. He might have had second thoughts about marrying her if he’d gotten a good look at her just then.

“Oh, Mia,” she said when she saw me. “Come here and let me give you a hug. Was it horrible? I’m sorry I’m such a bad mother.”

I sat down on the bed beside her. “You aren’t a bad mother,” I said. “You’re a good mother. You just aren’t feeling well.”

“No,” my mother said. She was sniffling, so I knew the reason she looked bloated and horrible was that she’d been crying. “I’m a terrible person. My parents came all the way fromIndiana to see me, and I sent them to a hotel.”

I could tell my mom was having a hormonal imbalance and wasn’t herself. If she’d been herself, she wouldn’t have thought twice about sending her parents to a hotel. She has never forgiven them for

a. not supporting her decision to have me,

b. not approving of the way she was raising me, and

c. voting for George Bush Sr., as well as his son.

Hormonal imbalance or not, though, the truth is, my mother does not need this kind of stress. This should be a really happy time for her. It says in all the stuff I’ve read about pregnancy that preparing for the birth of your child should be a time of joy and celebration.

And it would be, if Grandmère hadn’t come around and ruined it all by sticking her nose where no one wants it.

She hasgot to be stopped.

And I’m not just saying that on account of how much I really, really want to go toRocky Horror on Friday with Michael.

Tuesday, October 28,11 p.m.

Another e-mail from Jo-C-rox!

This one said:

JOCROX:Dear Mia,

Just a note to tell you I saw you last night on TV. You looked beautiful, as always. I know some people at school have been giving you a hard time. Don’t let them get you down. The majority of us think you rock the world.

Your Friend

Isn’t that the sweetest? I wrote back right away:

FTLOUIE:Dear Friend,

Thank you so much. PLEASE won’t you tell me who you are? I swear I won’t tell a soul!!!!!!!!!!!

Mia

He hasn’t written back yet, but I think my sincerity really shows, considering all the exclamation points.

I am slowly wearing him down, I just know it.

ENGLISH JOURNAL

My most profound moment was

ENGLISH JOURNAL

Make the most of yourself, for that is all there is of you.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

I believe that Mr. Emerson was talking about the fact that you are only given one life to live, and so you had better make the best of it. This idea is best illustrated by a movie I saw on the Lifetime Channel while I was sick. The movie was calledWho Is Julia? In this movie, Mare Winningham portrays Julia, a woman who wakes up one day after an accident to discover that her body has been completely destroyed and her brain transplanted into someone whose body was okay but whose brain had ceased functioning. Since Julia formerly was a fashion model and now her brain is in a housewife’s body (Mare Winningham’s), she is understandably upset. She goes around banging her head against things because she is no longer blond, five foot ten, and a hundred and ten pounds.

But finally, through Julia’s husband’s undying devotion to her—despite her iffy new looks and a brief kidnapping by the housewife’s psychotic husband, who wants her to come back home to do his laundry—Julia realizes that looking like a model isn’t as important as not being dead.

This movie raises the inevitable question, If your body was destroyed in an accident, and they had to transplant your brain into someone else’s body, whose body would you want it to be? After considerable thought, I have decided that I would most want to be in the body of Michelle Kwan, the Olympic ice skater, since she is very pretty and has a marketable skill. And as everyone knows, it is quite stylish these days to be Asian.

Either Michelle or Britney Spears, so I could finally have bigger breasts.

Wednesday, October 29, English

Well, one thing is for sure:

Having a guy like my cousin Hank follow you around from class to class certainly keeps people’s minds off the idiot you made of yourself on TV the other night.

Seriously. Not that the cheerleaders have forgotten all about the wholeTwentyFour/Seven thing—I’m still getting the evil eye in the hallway every once in a while. But as soon as their gazes flicked over me and settled on Hank, something seemed to happen to them.

I couldn’t figure out what it was, at first. I thought it was just that they were so stunned to see a guy in a flannel shirt and overalls in the middle ofManhattan .

Then I slowly started realizing it was something else. I guess Hank is sort of buff, and he does have sort of nice blond hair that kind of hangs in his pretty-boy-blue eyes.

But I think it’s something even more than that. It’s like Hank is giving off those pheromones we studied in Bio, or something.

Only I can’t sense them, because I am related to him.

As soon as girls notice Hank, they sidle up to me and whisper “Who isthat?” while gazing longingly at Hank’s biceps, which are actually quite pronounced beneath all that plaid.

Take Lana Weinberger, for instance. There she was, hanging around my locker, waiting for Josh to show up so the two of them could take part in their morning face-suckage ritual, when Hank and I appeared. Lana’s eyes—heavily circled in Bobbi Brown—widened, and she went, “Who’s your friend?” in this voice I had never heard her use before. And I’ve known her a while.

I said, “He’s not my friend, he’s my cousin.”

Lana said to Hank, in the same strange voice, “You can bemy friend.”

To which Hank replied, with a big smile, “Gee, thanks, ma’am.”

And don’t think in Algebra Lana wasn’t doing everything she could to get Hank to notice her. She swished her long blond hair all over my desk. She dropped her pencil like four times. She kept crossing and recrossing her legs. Finally Mr. Gianini was like, “Miss Weinberger, do you need a bathroom pass?” That calmed her down, but only for like five minutes.

Even Miss Molina, the school secretary, was strangely giggly when she was making out a guest pass for Hank.

But that’s nothing compared to Lilly’s reaction as she climbed into the limo this morning, when we swung by to pick up her and Michael. She looked across the seat and her jaw dropped open and this piece of Pop Tart she’d been chewing fell right out onto the floor. I’d never seen her do anything like that before in my life. Lilly is generally very good at keeping things in her mouth.

Hormones are very powerful things. We are helpless in their wake.

Which would certainly explain the whole Michael thing.

I mean, about my being so deeply besotted by him and all.

T. Hardy—buried his heart inWessex , body inWestminster

Um, excuse me, butgross.

Wednesday, October 29, G & T

I don’t believe this. I really don’t.

Lilly and Hank are missing.

That’s right.Missing.

Nobody knows where they are. Boris is beside himself. He won’t stop playing Mahler. Even Mrs. Hill now agrees that shutting him into the supply closet is the best way to maintain our sanity. She let us sneak into the gymnasium and steal some exercise mats and lean them up against the supply closet door to muffle the sound.

It isn’t working, though.

I guess I can understand Boris’s despair. I mean, when you’re a musical genius and the girl you’ve been French-kissing on a fairly regular basis suddenly disappears with a guy like Hank, it has to be demoralizing.

I should have seen it coming. Lilly was excessively flirty at lunch. She kept asking Hank all these questions about life back inIndiana . Like if he was the most popular boy in his school, and all. Which of course he said he was—though I personally don’t believe being the most popular boy at Versailles (which in Indiana-speak is pronounced Ver-Sales, by the way) High School is such a big accomplishment.

Then she was all, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

Hank got bashful and said that he used to, only “Amber” had ditched him a couple weeks ago for a guy whose father owns the local Outback Steakhouse. Lilly acted all shocked, and said Amber must be suffering from a borderline personality disorder if she couldn’t see what a fully self-actualized individual Hank was.

I was so revolted by this display, I could hardly keep my veggie burger down.

Then Lilly started talking about all the fabulous things there are to do in the city, and how Hank really ought to take advantage of them, rather than hanging around here at school with me. She said, “For instance, there’s theTransitMuseum , which is fascinating.”

Seriously. She actually said theTransitMuseum was fascinating.Lilly Moscovitz.

I swear, hormones are way dangerous.

Then she went, “And on Halloween, there’s a parade in the Village, and then we are all going toThe Rocky Horror Picture Show. Have you ever been to that before?”

Hank said that no, he hadn’t.

I should have known right then that something was up, but I didn’t. The bell rang, and Lilly said she wanted to take Hank to the auditorium to show him the part of theMy Fair Lady set that she had painted herself (a street lamp). Feeling that even a momentary alleviation from Hank’s constant stream of reminders of our last visit together—“Remember that time we left our bikes in the front yard and you were all worried somebody might come in the night and steal them?”—would be a relief, I said, “Okay.”

And that was the last any of us saw of them.

I blame myself. Hank is apparently simply too attractive to be released amongst the general population. I ought to have recognized that. I ought to have recognized that the pull of an uneducated but completely gorgeous farm boy from Indiana would be stronger than the pull of a not-so-attractive musical genius from Russia.

Now I have turned my best friend into a two-timer AND a class ditcher. Lilly has never skipped a class in her life. If she gets caught, she will get detention. I wonder if she’ll think sitting in the cafeteria for an hour after school with the other juvenile delinquents will be worth the fleeting moments of teenage lust she and Hank are sharing.

Michael is no help. He isn’t worried about his sister at all. In fact, he seems to find the situation highly amusing. I have pointed out to him that for all we know, Lilly and Hank could have been kidnapped by Libyan terrorists, but he says he finds that unlikely. He thinks it more reasonable to assume that they are enjoying an afternoon showing at the Sony Imax.

As if. Hank is totally prone to motion sickness. He told us all about it when we drove past the cable car to Roosevelt Island this morning on the way to school.

What are Mamaw and Papaw going to say when they find out I lost their grandson?

TOP FIVE PLACES LILLY AND HANK COULD BE

1. Transit Museum

2. Enjoying some corned beef at 2nd Avenue Deli

3. Looking up Dionysius Thermopolis’s name on the wall of immigrants at Ellis Island

4. Getting tattoos on St. Marks’ Place

5. Making wild passionate love back in his room at the SoHo Grand

OH, GOD!

Wednesday, October 29, World Civ

Still no sign of them.

Wednesday, October 29, Bio

Still nothing.

HOMEWORK

Algebra: solve problems #3, 9, 12 on pg. 147

English: Profound Moment!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

World Civ: read Chapter 10

G&T: please

French: 4 sentences: une blague, la montagne, la mer, il y a du soleil

Biology: ask Kenny

I am so sure—who can concentrate on homework when your best friend and cousin are missing in New York City????

Wednesday, October 29, Algebra Review

Lars says he thinks it would be precipitous at this point to call the police. Mr. Gianini agrees with him. He says Lilly is ultimately quite sensible, and it is unrealistic to believe that she might let Hank fall into the hands of Libyan terrorists. I was, of course, only using Libyan terrorists as an example of the type of peril that might befall the two of them. There is another scenario which is much more disturbing:

Supposing Lilly is in love with him.

Seriously. Supposing Lilly, against all reason, has fallen madly in love with my cousin Hank, and he has fallen in love with her. Stranger things have happened. I mean, maybe Lilly is starting to realize that, yeah, Boris is a genius, but he still dresses funny and is incapable of breathing through his nose. Maybe she’s willing to sacrifice those long intellectual conversations she and Boris used to have for a boy whose only asset is what is commonly referred to as booty.

And Hank, maybe he’s been dazzled by Lilly’s superior intellect. I mean, her IQ is easily a hundred points higher than his.

But can’t they see that in spite of their mutual attraction, this relationship can only lead to ruin? I mean, suppose they DO IT, or something? And suppose that in spite of all those public service announcements on MTV, they neglect to practice safe sex, like my mom and Mr. G? They’ll have to get married, and then Lilly will have to go live in Indiana in a trailer park, because that’s where all teen mothers live. And she’ll be wearing Wal-Mart housedresses and smoking Kools while Hank goes off to the rubber tire factory and makes five fifty an hour.

Am I the only one who can see where all of this is heading? What is wrong with everyone?

First—grouping (evaluate with grouping symbols beginning with the innermost one)

Second—evaluate all powers

Third—multiply and divide left to right

Fourth—add and subtract in order left to right

Wednesday, October 29, 7 p.m.

It’s all right. They’re safe.

Apparently, Hank got back to the hotel around five, and Lilly showed up at her apartment, according to Michael, a little before that.

I would seriously like to know where they were, but all either of them will say is, “Just walking around.”

Lilly adds, “God, could you be a little more possessive?”

I am so sure.

But I have bigger things to worry about. Right as I was about to step into Grandmère’s suite at the Plaza for my princess lesson today, Dad appeared, looking nervous.

Only two things make my dad nervous. One is my mother.

And the other is his mother.

He said in a low voice, “Listen, Mia, about the wedding situation . . .”

I said, “I hope you had a chance to talk to Grandmère.”

“Your grandmother has already sent out the invitations. To the wedding, I mean.”

“What?”

Oh, my God. Oh, my God. This is a disaster. Adisaster!

My dad must have known what I was thinking from my expression, since he went, “Mia, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. Just leave it to me, all right?”

But how can I not worry? My dad is a good guy and all. At least he tries to be, anyway. But we’re talkingGrandmère here.GRANDMÈRE. Nobody goes up against Grandmère, not even the prince of Genovia.

And whatever he might have said to her so far, it certainly hasn’t worked. She and Vigo are more deeply absorbed than ever in their nuptial planning.

“We have had acceptances already,” Vigo informed me proudly when I walked in, “from the mayor, and Mr. Donald Trump, and Miss Diane Von Furstenberg, and the royal family of Sweden, and Mr. Oscar de la Renta, and Mr. John Tesh, and Miss Martha Stewart—“

I didn’t say anything. That’s because all I could think was what my mother was going to say if she walked down the aisle and there was John Tesh and Martha Stewart. She might actually run screaming from the room.

“Your dress arrived,” Vigo informed me, his eyebrows waggling suggestively.

“My what?” I said.

Unfortunately Grandmère overheard me and clapped her hands so loudly she sent Rommel scurrying for cover, apparently thinking a nuclear missile or something had gone off.

“Do not ever let me hear you saywhat again,” Grandmère fire-breathed at me. “Say, I beg your pardon.”

I looked at Vigo, who was trying not to smile. Really! Vigo actually thinks it’s funny when Grandmère gets mad.

If there is a Genovian medal for valor, he should totally get it.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Vigo,” I said, politely.

“Please, please,” Vigo said, waving his hand. “Just Vigo, none of this mister business, Your Highness. Now tell me. What do you think of this?”

And suddenly, he pulled this dress from a box.

And the minute I saw it, I was lost.

Because it was the most beautiful dress I have ever seen. It looked just like Glinda the Good Witch’s dress fromThe Wizard of Oz —only not as sparkly. Still, it was pink, with this big poofy skirt, and it had little rosettes on the sleeves. I had never wanted a dress as much as I wanted that one the minute I laid eyes on it.

I had to try it on. I just had to.

Grandmère supervised the fitting, while Vigo hovered nearby, offering often to refresh her Sidecar. In addition to enjoying her favorite cocktail, Grandmère was smoking one of her long cigarettes, so she looked more officious than usual. She kept pointing with the cigarette and going, “No, not that way,” and “For God’s sake, stop slouching, Amelia.”

It was determined that the dress was too big in the bust (what else is new?) and would have to be taken in. The alterations would take until Friday, but Vigo assured us he’d see that they were done in time.

And that’s when I remembered what this dress was actually for.

God, what kind of daughter am I? I am terrible. I don’t want this wedding to happen. My mother doesn’t want this wedding to happen. So what am I doing, trying on a dress I’m supposed to be wearing at this event nobody but Grandmère wants to see happen, and which, if my dad succeeds, isn’t going to happen anyway?

Still, I thought my heart might break as I took off the dress and put it back on its satin hanger. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, let alone worn. If only, I couldn’t help thinking, Michael could see me in this dress.

Or even Jo-C-rox. He might overcome his shyness and be able to tell me to my face what he’d been able to tell me before only in writing . . .and if it turns out he isn’t that chili guy, maybe we could actually go out.

But there was only one appropriate place to wear a dress like this, and that was in a wedding. And no matter how much I wanted to wear that dress, I certainly didn’t want there to be a wedding. My mother was barely holding on to her sanity as it was. A wedding at which John Tesh was in attendance—and who knows, maybe even singing—might push her over the edge.

Still, I’ve never in my life felt as much like a princess as I did in that dress.

Too bad I’ll never get to wear it.

Wednesday, October 29, 10 p.m.

Okay, so I was just casually flipping through the channels, you know, taking a little study break and all from thinking up a profound moment to write about in my English journal, when all of a sudden I hit Channel 67, one of the public access channels, and there is an episode of Lilly’s show,Lilly Tells It Like It Is, that I have never seen before. Which was weird, becauseLilly Tells It Like It Is is usually on Friday nights.

Then I figured since this Friday is Halloween, maybe Lilly’s show was being preempted for coverage of the parade in the Village or something.

So I’m sitting there, watching the show, and it turns out to be the slumber party episode. You know, the one we taped on Saturday, with all the other girls confessing their French-kissing exploits, and me dropping the eggplant out the window? Only Lilly had edited out any scene showing my face, so unless you knew Mia Thermopolis was the one in the pajamas with the strawberries all over them, you would never have known it was me.

All in all, pretty tame stuff. Maybe some really puritanical moms would get upset about the French-kissing, but there aren’t too many of those in the five boroughs, which is the extent of the broadcast region.

Then the camera did this funny skittering thing, and when the picture got clear again, there was this close-up of my face. That’s right. MY FACE. I was lying on the floor with this pillow under my head, talking in this sleepy way.

Then I remembered: At the slumber party, after everyone else had fallen asleep, Lilly and I had stayed awake, chatting.

And it turned out she’d been FILMING ME THE WHOLE TIME!

I was lying there going, “The thing I most want to do is start a place for stray and abandoned animals. Like I went to Rome once, and there were about eighty million cats there, roaming around the monuments. And they totally would have died if these nuns hadn’t fed them and stuff. So the first thing I think I’ll do is, I’ll start a place where all the stray animals in Genovia will be taken care of. You know? And I’d never have any of them put to sleep, unless they were really sick or something. And there’ll just be like all these dogs and cats, and maybe some dolphins and ocelots—“

Lilly’s voice, disembodied, went, “Are there ocelots in Genovia?”

I went, “I hope so. Maybe not, though. But whatever. Any animals that need a home, they can come live there. And maybe I’ll hire some Seeing Eye dog trainers, and they can come and train all the dogs to be Seeing Eye dogs. And then we can give them away free to blind people who need them. And then we can take the cats to hospitals and old people’s homes, and let the patients pet them, because that always makes people feel better—except people like my grandmère, who hates cats. We can take dogs for them. Or maybe one of the ocelots.”

Lilly’s voice: “And that’s going to be your first act when you become the ruler of Genovia?”

I said, sleepily, “Yeah, I think so. Maybe we could just turn the whole castle into an animal shelter, you know? And like all the strays in Europe can come live there. Even those cats in Rome.”

“Do you think your grandmère is going to like that? I mean, having all those stray cats around the castle?”

I said, “She’ll be dead by then, so who cares?”

Oh, my God! I hope they don’t have public access on the TVs up at the Plaza!

Lilly asked me, “What part of it do you hate the most? Being a princess, I mean.”

“Oh, that’s easy. Not being able to go to the deli to buy milk without having to call ahead and arrange for a bodyguard to escort me. Not being able just to come over and hang out with you without it being this big production. This whole thing with my fingernails. I mean, who cares how my fingernails look, right? Why does it even matter? That kind of stuff.”

Lilly went, “Are you nervous? About your formal introduction to the people of Genovia, in December?”

“Well, not really nervous, just . . .I don’t know. What if they don’t like me? Like the ladies-in-waiting and stuff? I mean, nobody at school likes me. So chances are, nobody in Genovia will like me, either.”

“People at school like you,” Lilly said.

Then, right in front of the camera, I drifted off to sleep. Good thing I didn’t drool, or worse, snore. I wouldn’t have been able to show my face at school tomorrow.

Then these words floated up over the screen:Don’t Believe the Hype! This Is the RealInterview with the Princess of Genovia!

As soon as it was over, I called Lilly and asked her exactly what she thought she’d been doing.

She just went, in this infuriatingly superior voice, “I just want people to be able to see the real Mia Thermopolis.”

“No, you don’t,” I said. “You just want one of the networks to pick up on the interview, and pay you lots of money for it.”

“Mia,” Lilly said, sounding wounded. “How can you even think such a thing?”

She sounded so taken aback that I realized I must have been wrong about that one.

“Well,” I said, “you could have told me.”

“Would you have agreed to it?” Lilly wanted to know.

“Well,” I said. “No . . .probably not.”

“There you go,” Lilly said.

I guess I don’t come off as quite as much of a big-mouthed idiot in Lilly’s interview. I just come off as a whacko who has a thing for cats. I really don’t know which is worse.

But the truth is, I’m actually starting not to care. I wonder if this is what happens to celebrities. Like maybe at first, you really care what they say about you in the press, but after a while, you’re just like, Whatever.

I do wonder if Michael saw this, and if so, what he thought of my pajamas. They are quite nice ones.

Thursday, October 30, English

Hank didn’t come to school with me today. He called first thing this morning and said he wasn’t feeling too well. I am not surprised. Last night Mamaw and Papaw called wanting to know where in Manhattan they could go for a New York strip. Since I do not generally frequent restaurants that serve meat, I asked Mr. Gianini for a suggestion, and he made a reservation at this semi-famous steak place.

And then, in spite of my mother’s strenuous objections, he insisted on taking Mamaw and Papaw and Hank and me out, so he could get to know his future in-laws better.

This was apparently too much for my mother. She actually got out of bed, put mascara and lipstick and a bra on, and went with us. I think it was mostly to guard against Mamaw driving Mr. G away with her many references to the number of family cars my mother accidentally rolled over in cornfields while she was learning to drive.

At the restaurant, I am horrified to report, in spite of the increased risk of heart disease and some cancers to which saturated fats and cholesterol have scientifically been linked, my future stepfather, my cousin, and my maternal grandparents—not to mention Lars, whom I had no idea was so fond of meat, and my mother, who attacked her steak like Rosemary attacked that raw chunk of ground round inRosemary’s Baby (which I’ve never actually seen, but I heard about it)—ingested what had to have been the equivalent of an entire cow.

This distressed me very much and I wanted to point out to them how unnecessary and unhealthy it is to eat things that were once alive and walking around, but, remembering my princess training, I merely concentrated on my entree of grilled vegetables and said nothing.

Still, I am not at all surprised Hank doesn’t feel well. All that red meat is probably sitting, completely undigested, behind those washboard abs even as we speak. (I am only assuming Hank has washboard abs, since, thankfully, I have not actually seen them).

Interestingly, however, that was the one meal my mother has been able to keep down. This baby is no vegetarian, that’s for sure.

Anyway, the disappointment Hank’s absence has generated here at Albert Einstein is palpable. Miss Molina saw me in the hall and asked, sadly, “You don’t need another guest pass for your cousin today?”

Hank’s absence also apparently means that my special dispensation from the mean looks the cheerleaders have been giving me is revoked: This morning Lana reached out, snapped the back of my bra, and asked in her snottiest voice, “What are you wearing a bra for? You don’t need one.”

I long for a place where people treat each other with courtesy and respect. That, unfortunately, is not high school. Maybe in Genovia? Or possibly that space station the Russians built, the one that’s falling apart above our heads.

Anyway, the only person who seems happy about Hank’s misfortune is Boris Pelkowski. He was waiting for Lilly by the front doors to the school when we arrived this morning, and as soon as he saw us, he asked, “Where is Honk?” (Because of his thick Russian accent, that’s the way he pronounces Hank’s name.)

“Honk—I mean, Hank—is sick,” I informed him, and it would not be exaggerating to say that the look that spread across Boris’s uneven features was beatific. It was actually a little bit touching. Boris’s doglike devotion to Lilly can be annoying, but I know that I really only feel that way about it because I am envious.I want a boy I can tell all my deepest secrets to.I want a boy who will French-kiss me.I want a boy who will be jealous if I spend too much time with another guy, even a total bohunk like Hank.

But I guess we don’t always get what we want, do we? It looks like all I’m going to get is a baby brother or sister, and a stepfather who knows a lot about the quadratic formula and who is moving in tomorrow with his foozball table.

Oh, and the rule of the throne of a country, someday.

Big deal. I’d rather have a boyfriend.

Thursday, October 30, World Civ

THINGS TO DO BEFORE MR. G MOVES IN

1. Vacuum

2. Clean out cat box

3. Drop off laundry

4. Take out recycling, esp. any of Mom’s magazines that refer to orgasms on the cover—very imp.!!!

5. Remove feminine hygiene products from all bathrooms

6. Clear out space in living room for foozball table/pinball machine/large TV

7. Check medicine cabinet: Hide Midol, Nair, Jolene—very imp.!!!

8. RemoveOur Bodies, Ourselves andThe Joy of Sex from Mom’s bookshelves

9. Call cable company. Get Classic Sports Network added. Remove Romance Channel.

10. Get Mom to stop hanging bras on bedroom doorknob

11. Stop biting off fake fingernails

12. Stop thinking so much about M. M.

13. Fix lock on bathroom door

13. Toilet paper!!!!

Thursday, October 30, G & T

I don’t believe this.

They’ve done it again.

Hank and Lilly have disappeared AGAIN!

I didn’t even know about the Hank part until Lars got a call on his cell phone from my mother. She was very annoyed, because her mother had called her at the studio, screaming hysterically because Hank was missing from his hotel room. Mom wanted to know if Hank had shown up at school.

Which, to the best of my knowledge, he had not.

Then Lilly didn’t show up for lunch.

She wasn’t even very subtle about it, either. We were doing the Presidential Fitness exam in PE, and just as it was her turn to climb the rope, Lilly started complaining that she had cramps.

Since Lilly complains that she has cramps every single time the Presidential Fitness exam rolls around, I wasn’t suspicious. Mrs. Potts sent Lilly to the nurse’s office, and I figured I’d see her at lunch, miraculously recovered.

But then she didn’t show up for lunch. A consultation with the nurse revealed that Lilly’s cramps had been of such severity, she’d decided to go home for the rest of the day.

Cramps. I am so sure. Lilly doesn’t have cramps. What she has is the hots for my cousin!

The real question is, how long can we keep this from Boris? Remembering the Mahler we’d been subjected to yesterday, everyone is being careful not to remark how coincidental it is that Lilly is sick and Hank is missing in action at the same time. Nobody wants to have to resort to the gym mats again. Those things were heavy.

As a precaution, Michael is trying to keep Boris busy with a computer game he invented called Decapitate the Backstreet Boy. In it, you get to hurl knives and axes and stuff at members of the Backstreet Boys. The person who cuts the heads off the most Backstreet Boys moves up to another level, where he gets to cut off the heads of the boys in 98 Degrees, then ‘N Sync, etc. The player who cuts off the most heads gets to carve his initials on Ricky Martin’s naked chest.

I can’t believe Michael only got a B on this game in his computer class. But the teacher took points off because he felt it wasn’t violent enough for today’s market.

Mrs. Hill is letting us talk today. I know it’s because she doesn’t want to have to listen to Boris play Mahler, or worse, Wagner. I went up to Mrs. Hill after class yesterday and apologized for what I said on TV about her always being in the teachers’ lounge, even though it was the truth. She said not to worry about it. I’m pretty sure this is because my dad sent her a DVD player, along with a big bunch of flowers, the day after the interview was broadcast. She’s been a lot nicer to me since then.

You know, I find all of this stuff about Lilly and Hank very difficult to process. I mean,Lilly, of all people, turning out to be such a slave to lust. Because she can’t genuinely be in love with Hank. He’s a nice enough guy and all—and very good-looking—but let’s face it, his elevator doesnot go all the way up.

Lilly, on the other hand, belongs to Mensa—or at least she could if she didn’t think it hopelessly bourgeois. Plus Lilly isn’t exactly what you’d call a traditional beauty—I mean,I think she’s pretty, but according to today’s admittedly limited ideal of what “attractive” is, Lilly doesn’t really pass muster. She’s much shorter than me, and kind of chunky, and has that sort of squished-in face. Not really the type you’d expect a guy like Hank to fall for.

So what do a girl like Lilly and a guy like Hank have in common, anyway?

Oh, God, don’t answer that.

HOMEWORK

Algebra: pg. 123, problems 1–5, 7

English: in your journal, describe one day in your life; don’t forget profound moment

World Civ: answer questions at end of Chapter 10

G&T: bring one dollar on Monday for earplugs

French: une description d’une personne, trente mots minimum

Biology: Kenny says not to worry, he’ll do it for me

Thursday, October 30, 7 p.m., Limo back to the loft

Another huge shock. If my life continues along this roller-coaster course, I may have to seek professional counseling.

When I walked in for my princess lesson, there was Mamaw—Mamaw—sitting on one of Grandmère’s tiny pink couches, sipping tea.

“Oh, she was always like that,” Mamaw was saying. “Stubborn as a mule.”

I was sure they were talking about me. I threw down my bookbag and went, “I amnot!”

Grandmère was sitting on the couch opposite Mamaw, a teacup and saucer poised in her hands. In the background, Vigo was running around like a little windup toy, answering the phone and saying things like, “No, the orange blossoms are for the wedding party, the roses are for the centerpieces,” and “Butof course the lamb chops were meant to be appetizers.”

“What kind of way is that to enter a room?” Grandmère barked at me in French. “A princess never interrupts her elders, and she certainly never throws things. Now come here and greet me properly.”

I went over and gave her a kiss on both cheeks, even though I didn’t want to. Then I went over to Mamaw and did the same thing. Mamaw giggled and went, “How continental!”

Grandmère said, “Now sit down, and offer your grandmother a madeleine.”

I sat down, to show how unstubborn I can be, and offered Mamaw a madeleine from the plate on the table in front of her, the way Grandmère had shown me to.

Mamaw giggled again and took one of the cookies. She kept her pinky in the air as she did so.

“Why, thanks, hon,” she said.

“Now,” Grandmère said, in English. “Where were we, Shirley?”

Mamaw said, “Oh, yes. Well, as I was saying, she’s always been that way. Just stubborn as the day is long. I’m not surprised she’s dug her heels in about this wedding. Not surprised at all.”

Hey, it wasn’t me they were talking about after all. It was—

“I mean, I can’t tell you we were thrilled when this happened the first time. ‘Course, Helen never mentioned he was a prince. If we had known, we’d have encouraged her to marry him.”

“Understandably,” Grandmère murmured.

“But this time,” Mamaw said, “well, we just couldn’t be more thrilled. Frank is a real doll.”

“Then we are agreed,” Grandmère said. “This wedding must—and will—take place.”

“Oh, definitely,” Mamaw said.

I half expected them to spit in their hands and shake on it, an old Hoosier custom I learned from Hank.

But instead they each took a sip of their tea.

I was pretty sure nobody wanted to hear from me, but I cleared my throat anyway.

“Amelia,” Grandmère said, in French. “Don’t even think about it.”

Too late. I said, “Mom doesn’t want—“

“Vigo,” Grandmère called. “Do you have those shoes? The ones that match the princess’s dress?”

Like magic, Vigo appeared, carrying the prettiest pair of pink satin slippers I have ever seen. They had rosettes on the toes that matched the ones on my maid-of-honor dress.

“Aren’t they lovely?” Vigo said, as he showed them to me. “Don’t you want to try them on?”

It was cruel. It was underhanded.

It was Grandmère, all over.

But what could I do? I couldn’t resist. The shoes fit perfectly, and looked, I have to admit, gorgeous on me. They gave my ski-like feet the appearance of being a size smaller—maybe even two sizes! I couldn’t wait to wear them, and the dress, too. Maybe if the wedding was called off,

I could wear them to the prom. If things worked out with Jo-C-rox, I mean.

“It would be a shame to have to send them back,” Grandmère said with a sigh, “because your mother is being so stubborn.”

Then again, maybe not.

“Couldn’t I keep them for another occasion?” I asked. Hint, hint.

“Oh, no,” Grandmère said. “Pink is so inappropriate for anything but a wedding.”

Why me?

When my lesson was over—apparently today’s consisted of sitting there listening to my two grandmothers complain about how their children (and grandchildren) don’t appreciate them—Grandmère stood up and said to Mamaw, “So we understand each other, Shirley?”

And Mamaw said, “Oh, yes, Your Highness.”

This sounded very ominous to me. In fact, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that my dad hasn’t done a single solitary thing to bail Mom out of what is clearly going to be a very messy situation. According to Grandmère, a limo is going to swing by our place tomorrow evening to pick up me, Mom, and Mr. Gianini, and whisk us off to the Plaza. It’s going to be pretty obvious to everyone when my mom refuses to get into the car that there isn’t going to be any wedding.

I think I am going to have to take matters into my own hands. I know Dad assured me that everything is under control, but we’re talking Grandmère. GRANDMÈRE!

During the ride downtown I tried pumping Mamaw for information—you know, about what she and Grandmère meant when they said they “understood” one another.

But she wouldn’t tell me a thing . . .except that she and Papaw were too tired, what with all the sightseeing they’ve been doing—not to mention worrying about Hank, whom they still hadn’t heard from—to go out for dinner tonight, and were going to stay in and order room service.

Which is just as well, because I’m pretty sure if I have to hear one more person say the words “medium rare,” I might hurl.

More Thursday, October 30, 9 p.m.

Well, Mr. Gianini is all moved in. I have already played nine games of foozball. Boy, are my wrists tired.

It’s not really weird having him here on a permanent basis, because he was always hanging around before anyway. The only difference really is the big TV, the pinball machine, the foozball table, and the drum set in the corner where we normally keep Mom’s life-size metallic gold bust of Elvis.

But the coolest thing is the pinball machine. It’s called Motorcycle Gang, and it has all these very realistic drawings of tattooed, leather-wearing Hell’s Angels on it. Also, it has pictures of the Hell’s Angels’ girlfriends—who don’t have very much clothing on at all—bending over and sticking out their enormous bosoms. When you sink a ball, the pinball machine makes the noise of a motorcycle engine revving very loudly.

My mother took one look at it and just stood there, shaking her head.

I know it’s misogynistic and sexist and all, but it’s also really, really neat.

Mr. Gianini told me today that he thought it would be all right for me to call him Frank now, considering the fact that we are practically related. But I just can’t bring myself to do it. So I just call him Hey. I go, “Hey, can you pass the parmesan?” and “Hey, have you seen the remote control?”

See? No names needed. Pretty clever, huh?

Of course, it hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing. There’s the small fact that tomorrow, there’s supposedly going to be this huge celebrity wedding that I know has not been canceled, and that I also know my mother still hasn’t the slightest intention of attending.

But when I ask her about it, instead of freaking out, my mom just smiles all secretively, and says, “Don’t worry about it, Mia.”

But how can I help worrying about it? The only thing that is definitely off is my mom and Mr. G’s trip to the courthouse. I asked if they still wanted me to come dressed as the Empire State Building, thinking I should probably start working on my costume, and all, and my mom just got this furtive look in her eyes and said why don’t we just hold off on that.

I could kind of tell she didn’t want to talk about it, so I clammed up and went and called Lilly. I figured it was about time she gave me some explanation as to just what was going on here.

But when I called her, the line was busy. Which meant there was a good chance Lilly or Michael was online. I took a gamble and instant-messaged Lilly. She wrote back right away.

FTLOUIE:Lilly, just where did you and Hank disappear to today? And don’t lie and say you weren’t together.

WmnRule: I fail to see what business it is of yours.

FTLOUIE:Well, let’s just say that if you want to hang on to your boyfriend, you better come up with a good explanation.

WmnRule: I have a very good explanation. But I am not likely to share it with you. You’ll just blab it to Beverly Bellerieve. Oh, and twenty-two million viewers.

FTLOUIE:That is so totally unfair. Look, Lilly, I’m worried about you. It isn’t like you to skip school. What about your book about high school society? You may have missed out on some valuable material for it.

WmnRule: Oh, really? Did something happen today worth recording?

FTLOUIE:Well, some of the seniors snuck into the teachers’ lounge and put a fetal pig in the mini-fridge.

WmnRule: Gosh, I’m so sorry I missed that. Is there anything else, Mia? Because I am trying to research something on the Web right now.

Yes, there was something else. Didn’t she know how wrong it was to be seeing two boys at the same time? Especially when some of us don’t even haveone boy? Couldn’t she see how selfish and mean-spirited that was?

But I didn’t write that. Instead, I wrote:

FTLOUIE:Well, Boris was pretty upset, Lilly. I mean, he totally suspects something.

WmnRule: Boris has got to learn that in a loving relationship, it is important to establish bonds of trust. That is something you might keep in mind yourself, Mia.

I realize, of course, that Lilly is talking aboutour relationship—hers and mine. But if you think about it, it applies to more than just Lilly and Boris, and Lilly and me. It applies to me and my dad, too. And me and my mom. And me and . . .well, just about everybody.

Was this, I wondered, a profound moment? Should I get out my English journal?

It was right after this that it happened: I got instant-messaged by someone else. By Jo-C-rox himself!

JOCROX:So are you going toRocky Horror tomorrow?

Oh, my God. Oh, my GOD. OH, MY GOD!

Jo-C-rox is going toRocky Horror tomorrow.

And so is Michael.

Really, there is only one logical explanation that can be drawn from this: Jo-C-rox is Michael. Michael is Jo-C-rox. He HAS to be. He just HAS to be.

Right?

I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to jump up from my computer and run around my room and scream and laugh at the same time.

Instead—and I don’t know where I got the presence of mind to do this, I wrote back:

FTLOUIE:I hope so.

I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. Michael is Jo-C-rox.

Right?

What am I going to do? What am I going to do?

Friday, October 31, Homeroom

I woke with the strangest feeling of foreboding. I couldn’t figure out why for a few minutes. I lay there in bed, listening to the rain patter against my window. Fat Louie was at the end of my bed, kneading the comforter and purring very loudly.

Then I remembered: Today, according to my grandmother, is the day my pregnant mother is supposed to marry my Algebra teacher in a huge ceremony at the Plaza Hotel, with musical accompaniment courtesy of John Tesh.

I lay there for a minute, wishing my temperature was one hundred and two again, so I wouldn’t have to get out of bed and face what was sure to be a day of drama and hurt feelings.

And then I remembered my e-mail from the night before, and jumped right out of bed.

Michael is my secret admirer! Michael is Jo-C-rox!

And with any luck, by the end of the night, he’ll have admitted it to my face!

Friday, October 31, Algebra

Mr. Gianini is not here today. Instead, we have a substitute teacher named Mrs. Krakowski.

It is very strange that Mr. G isn’t here, because he was certainly in the loft this morning. We played a game of foozball before Lars showed up in the limo. We even offered Mr. G a ride to school, but he said he was coming in later.

Reallylater, it looks like.

A lot of people aren’t here today, actually. Michael, for instance, didn’t catch a ride with us this morning. Lilly says that is because he had last-minute problems printing out a paper that is due today.

But I wonder if it is really because he is too scared to face me after admitting that he is Jo-C-rox.

Well, not that he actually admitted it. But he sort of did.

Didn’t he?

Mr. Howell is three times as old as Gilligan. The difference in their ages is 48. How old are Mr. Howell and Gilligan?

T=Gilligan

3T=Mr. Howell

3T–T=48

2T=48

T=24

Oh, Mr G, where ARE you?

Friday, October 31, G & T

Okay.

I will never underestimate Lilly Moscovitz again. Nor will I suspect her of having anything but the most altruistic motives. This I hereby solemnly swear in writing.

It was at lunch when it happened:

We were all sitting there—me, my bodyguard, Tina Hakim Baba and her bodyguard, Lilly, Boris, Shameeka, and Ling Su. Michael, of course, sits over with the rest of the Computer Club, so he wasn’t there, but everybody else who mattered was.

Shameeka was reading aloud to us from some of the brochures her father had gotten from girls’ schools in New Hampshire. Each one filled Shameeka with more terror, and me with more shame for ever having opened my big mouth in the first place.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over our little table.

We looked up.

There stood an apparition of such godlike stature that for a minute, I think even Lilly believed the chosen people’s long lost Messiah had finally shown up.

It turned out it was only Hank—but Hank looking as I had certainly never seen him before. He had on a black cashmere sweater beneath a clinging black leather coat, and black jeans that seemed to go on and on over his long, lean legs. His golden hair had been expertly styled and cut, and—I swear—he looked so much like Keanu Reeves inThe Matrix that I actually might have believed he had wandered in off the set if it hadn’t been for the fact that on his feet, he wore cowboy boots. Black, expensive-looking ones, but cowboy boots, just the same.

I don’t think it was my imagination that the entire crowd inside the cafeteria seemed to gasp as Hank slid into a chair at our table—the reject table, I have frequently heard it called.

“Hello, Mia,” Hank said.

I stared at him. It wasn’t just the clothes. There was something . . .different about him. His voice seemed deeper, somehow. And he smelled . . .well, good.

“So,” Lilly said to him, as she scooped a glob of creamy filling out of her Ring Ding. “How’d it go?”

“Well,” Hank said, in that same deep voice. “You’re looking at Calvin Klein’s newest underwear model.”

Lilly sucked the filling off her finger. “Hmmm,” she said, with her mouth full. “Good for you.”

“I owe it all to you, Lilly,” Hank said. “If it weren’t for you, they never would have signed me.”

Then it hit me. The reason Hank seemed so different was that his Hoosier drawl was gone!

“Now, Hank,” Lilly said. “We discussed this. It’s your natural ability that got you where you are. I just gave you a few pointers.”

When Hank turned his gaze toward me, I saw that his sky-blue eyes were damp. “Your friend Lilly,” he said, “has done something no one’s ever done for me in my life.”

I threw an accusing gaze at Lilly.

I knew it. Iknew they’d had sex.

But then Hank said, “She believed in me, Mia. Believed in me enough to help me pursue my dream . . .a dream I’ve had since I was a very young boy. A lot of people—including my own Mamaw and Pa—I mean, my grandparents—told me it was a pipe dream. They told me to give it up, that it would never happen. But when I told my dream to Lilly, she held out her hand”—Hank held out his hand to illustrate this, and all of us—me, Lars, Tina, Tina’s bodyguard Wahim, Shameeka, and Ling Su—looked at that hand, the nails of which had been perfectly manicured—“and said, ‘Come with me, Hank. I will help you achieve your dream.’”

Hank put his hand down. “And do you know what?”

All of us—except Lilly, who went right on eating—were so astonished, we could only stare.

Hank did not wait for us to reply. He said, “It happened. Today, it happened. My dream came true. I was signed by Ford. I am their newest male model.”

We all blinked at him.

“And I owe it all,” Hank said, “to this woman here.”

Then something really shocking happened. Hank got up out of his chair, walked over to where Lilly was sitting, innocently finishing her Ring Ding, not suspecting a thing, and pulled her to a standing position.

Then as everyone in the entire cafeteria looked on—including, I noticed, Lana Weinberger and all her cronies over at the cheerleaders’ table—my cousin Hank laid such a kiss on Lilly Moscovitz, I thought he just might suck that Ring Ding right back up again.

When he was done kissing her, Hank let go. And Lilly, looking as if someone had just poked her with an electric prod, sank slowly back down to her seat. Hank adjusted the lapels of his leather coat and turned to me.

“Mia,” he said. “Tell Mamaw and Papaw they’re going to have to find somebody to cover my shift at the hardware store. I ain’t—I mean, I’mnot —going back to Versailles. Ever.”

And with that, he strode from our cafeteria like a cowboy walking away from a gunfight he’d just won.

Or I suppose I should say hestarted to stride from the cafeteria. Unfortunately for Hank, he didn’t make it out quite fast enough.

Because one of the people who had observed that searing kiss he’d laid on Lilly was none other than Boris Pelkowski.

And it was Boris Pelkowski—Boris Pelkowski, with his retainer and his sweater tucked into his pants—who stood up and said, “Not so fast, hot shot.”

I’m not sure if Boris had just seen the movieTop Gun or what, but thathot shot came out sounding pretty menacing, considering Boris’s accent and all.

Hank kept going. I don’t know if he hadn’t heard Boris, or if he wasn’t about to let some little violin-playing genius mess up his great exit.

Then Boris did something completely reckless. He reached out and grabbed Hank by the arm as he went by and said, “That’smy girl you had your lips all over, pretty boy.”

I am not even joking. Those were his exact words. Oh, how my heart thrilled to hear them! If only some guy (okay, Michael) would say something like that about me. Not the Josiest girl he’d ever met, buthis girl. Boris had actually referred to Lilly ashis girl! No boy has ever referred to me ashis girl. Oh, I know all about feminism and how women aren’t property and it’s sexist to go around claiming them as such. But, oh! If only somebody (okay, Michael) would say I washis girl!

Anyway, Hank just went, “Huh?”

And then, from out of nowhere, Boris’s fist went sailing into Hank’s face.Pow!

Only it didn’t really sound like pow. It sounded more like a thud. There was a sickening crunch of bones splintering. All of us girls gasped, thinking that Boris had marred Hank’s perfect cover-guy face.

But we needn’t have worried: It was Boris’s hand that made the crunching sound, not Hank’s face. Hank escaped completely unscathed. Boris is the one who has to have his knuckles splinted.

And you know what that means:

No more Mahler.

Whoopee!!!

It’s unprincess-like of me, however, to gloat over another’s misfortune.

Friday, October 31, French

I borrowed Lars’s cell phone and called the SoHo Grand between lunch and fifth period. I mean, I figured someone should let Mamaw and Papaw know that Hank was all right. Well, a Ford model, but all right.

Mamaw must have been sitting by the phone, since she picked up on the first ring.

“Clarisse?” she said. “I still haven’t heard from them.”

Which is weird. Because Clarisse is Grandmère’s name.

“Mamaw?” I said. “It’s me, Mia.”

“Oh,Mia.” Mamaw laughed a little. “I’m sorry, honey. I thought you were the princess. I mean, the dowager princess. Your other grandma.”

I went, “Uh, yeah. Well, it’s not. It’s me. And I’m just calling to tell you that I heard from Hank.”

Mamaw shrieked so loud, I had to hold the cell phone away from my ear.

“WHERE IS HE?” she yelled. “YOU TELL HIM FROM ME THAT WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON HIM, HE’S—“

“Mamaw,” I cried. It was kind of embarrassing, because all sorts of people in the hallway heard her yelling and were looking at me. I tried to make myself inconspicuous by hunching behind Lars.

“Mamaw,” I said, “he got a contract with Ford Models, Inc. He’s the newest Calvin Klein underwear model. He’s going to be a big celebrity, like—“

“UNDERWEAR?” Mamaw yelled. “Mia, you tell that boy to call me RIGHT NOW.”

“Well, I can’t really do that, Mamaw,” I said. “On account of the fact that—“

“RIGHT NOW,” Mamaw repeated, “or he’s in BIG TROUBLE.”

“Um,” I said. The bell was ringing anyway. “Okay, Mamaw. Is, um, the, uh, wedding still on?”

“The WHAT?”

“The wedding,” I said, wishing I could, just for once, be a normal girl who did not have to go around asking people if the royal marriage of her pregnant mother and her Algebra teacher was still on.

“Well, of course it’s still on,” Mamaw said. “What do you think?”

“Oh,” I said. “You, um, talked to my mom?”

“Of course I did,” Mamaw said. “Everything is all set.”

“Really?” I was immensely surprised. I could not picture my mother going along with this thing. Not in a million years. “And she said she’d be there?”

“Well, of course she’ll be there,” Mamaw said. “It’s her wedding, isn’t it?”

Well . . .sort of, I guess. I didn’t say that to Mamaw, though. I said, “Sure.” And then I hung up, feeling crushed.

For entirely selfish reasons, too, I confess. I was a little bit sad for my mom, I guess, since she really had tried to put up a resistance against Grandmère. I mean, she really had tried. It wasn’t her fault, of course, that she’d been going up against such a inexorable force.

But mostly I felt sad for myself. I would NEVER escape in time forRocky Horror. Never, never,never. I mean, I know the movie doesn’t even start until midnight, but wedding receptions last way longer than that.

And who knows if Michael will ever ask me out again? I mean, not once today has he acknowledged that he is, in fact, Jo-C-rox, nor has he mentionedRocky Horror. Not once. Not even so much as a reference to Rachel Leigh Cook.

And we talked at length during G and T. AT LENGTH. That is on account of how some of us who saw last year’s groundbreaking episode ofLilly Tells It Like It Is were understandably confused by Lilly’s helping Hank to realize his dream of supermodel stardom. The segment was titled “Yes, You as an IndividualCan Bring Down the Sexist, Racist, Ageist, and Sizeist Modeling Industry” (by “criticizing ads that demean women and limit our ideas of beauty” and “finding ways to make your protest known to the companies advertised” and “letting the media know you want to see more varied and realistic images of women.” Also, Lilly urged us to “challenge men who judge, choose, and discard women on the basis of appearance”).

The following exchange took place during Gifted and Talented (Mrs. Hill has returned to the teachers’ lounge—permanently, one can only hope) and included Michael Moscovitz, who, as you will see, did NOT ONCE mention Jo-C-rox orRocky Horror :

Me: Lilly, I thought you found the modeling industry as a whole sexist and racist and belittling to the human race.

Lilly: So? What’s your point?

Me: Well, according to Hank, you helped him realize his dream of becoming a you know what. A model.

Lilly: Mia, when I recognize a human soul crying out for self-actualization, I am powerless to stop myself. I must do what I can to see that that person’s dream is realized.

[Gee, I haven’t noticed Lilly doing all that much to help me realizemy dream of French-kissing her brother. But on the other hand, I have not exactly made that dream known to her.]

Me: Um, Lilly, I hadn’t noticed that you had a real foothold in the modeling industry.

Lilly: I don’t. I merely taught your cousin how to make the most of his God-given talents. Some simple lessons in elocution and fashion, and he was well on his way to landing that contract with Ford.

Me: Well, why did it have to be such a big secret?

Lilly: Do you have any idea how fragile the male ego is?

[Here Michael broke in.]

Michael: Hey!

Lilly: I’m sorry, but it’s true. Hank’s self-esteem had already been reduced to nothing thanks to Amber, Corn Queen of Versailles County. I couldn’t allow any negative comments to ruin what little self-confidence he had left. You know how fatalistic boys can be.

Michael: Hey!

Lilly: It was vital that Hank be allowed to pursue his dream without the slightest fatalistic influence. Otherwise, I knew, he didn’t stand a chance. And so I kept our plan a secret even from those I most cared about. Any one of you, without consciously meaning to, might have torpedoed Hank’s chances with the most casual of comments.

Me: Come on. We’d have been supportive.

Lilly: Mia, think about it. If Hank had said to you, ‘Mia, I want to be a model,’ what would you have done? Come on. You would have laughed.

Me: No, I wouldn’t have.

Lilly: Yes, you would have. Because to you, Hank is your whiny, allergy-prone cousin from the boondocks who doesn’t even know what a bagel is. But I, you see, was able to look beyond that, to the man Hank had the potential to become. . . .

Michael: Yeah, a man who is destined to have his own pin-up calendar.

Lilly: You, Michael, are just jealous.

Michael: Oh, yeah. I’ve always wanted a big picture of myself in my underwear hanging up in Times Square.

[Actually, I think that is something I would really enjoy seeing, but Michael was, of course, being sarcastic.]

Michael: You know, Lil, I highly doubt Mom and Dad are going to be so impressed by your tremendous act of charity that they’re going to overlook the fact that you skipped school to do it. Especially when they find out you’ve got detention next week because of it.

Lilly: (looking long-suffering) The most eleemosynary are often martyred.

And that was it. That’s all he said to me, all day. ALL DAY.

Note to self: look upeleemosynary

POSSIBLE REASONS MICHAEL WON’T ADMIT HE IS JO-C-ROX

1. He really is too shy to reveal his true feelings for me.

2. He thinks I don’t feel the same way about him.

3. He’s changed his mind and doesn’t like me after all.

4. He doesn’t want to have to bear the social stigma of dating a freshman and he is just waiting until I am a sophomore before asking me out. (Except that by then he’ll be a freshman in college and won’t want to bear the social stigma of dating a high school girl.)

5. He isn’t Jo-C-rox at all and it turns out I am obsessing about something written by that guy from the cafeteria who has the thing about corn.

HOMEWORK

Algebra: none (no Mr. G!)

English: finish Day in a Life! Plus Profound Moment!

World Civ: read and analyze one current event from Sunday Times (200 wd minimum)

G&T: don’t forget the dollar!

French: pg. 120, huit phrases (ex. A)

Biology: questions at end of Chapter 12—get answers from Kenny!

ENGLISH JOURNAL

A Day In My Lifeby Mia Thermopolis

(I chose to write about a night instead.

Is that okay, Mrs. Spears?)

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31

3:16 p.m.—Arrive home at SoHo loft with bodyguard (Lars). Find it ostensibly empty. Decide mother probably napping (something she does a lot these days).

3:18 p.m.–3:45 p.m.—Play foozball with bodyguard. Win three out of twelve games. Decide must practice foozball in spare time.

3:50 p.m.—Curious as to why riotous game of foozball—not to mention incredibly loud pinball machine—have not awakened mother from nap. Knock gently on bedroom door. Stand there hoping door does not open and reveal view of mother actually sharing bed with Algebra teacher.

3:51 p.m.—Knock louder. Decide perhaps cannot be heard due to intense lovemaking session. Sincerely hope I will not be inadvertent witness to any nakedness.

3:52 p.m.—After receiving no response to my knock, i go into mother’s bedroom. No one is there! Check of mother’s bathroom reveals crucial items such as mascara, lipstick, and bottle of folic acid tablets missing from medicine cabinet. Begin to suspect something is afoot.

3:55 p.m.—Phone rings. I answer it. It is my father. Following conversation ensues:

Me: Dad? Mom’s missing. And so is Mr. Gianini. He didn’t even come to school today.

Father: You still call him Mr. Gianini even though he lives with you?

Me: Dad. Where are they?

Father: Don’t worry about it.

Me: That woman is carrying my last chance at having a sibling. How can i help but worry about her?

Father: Everything is under control.

Me: How am I supposed to believe that?

Father: Because i said so.

Me: Dad, I think you should know, I have some very serious trust issues concerning you.

Father: How come?

Me: Well, Part of it might be the fact that up until about a month ago, you had lied to me for my entire life about who you are and what you do for a living.

Father: Oh.

Me: So just tell me. WHERE IS MY MOTHER?

Father: She left you a letter. You can have it at eight o’clock.

Me: Dad, eight o’clock is when the wedding is supposed to start.

Father: I am aware of that.

Me: Dad, you can’t do this to me. What am i supposed to tell—

Voice: Phillipe, is everything all right?

Me: Who is that? Whois that, Dad? is that Beverly Bellerieve?

Father: I have to go now, Mia.

Me: No, Dad, wait—

CLICK

4:00 p.m.–4:15 p.m.—Tear apartment apart, looking for clues as to where mother might have disappeared to. Find none.

4:20 p.m.—Phone rings. Paternal grandmother on line. Requests to know if mother and I are ready for trip to salon for beauty makeover. Inform her that mother has left already (well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?). Grandmother suspicious. Inform her that if she has any questions to consult with her son, my father. Grandmother says she fully intends to do so. Also says limo will be by at five o’clock to pick me up.

5:00 p.m.—Limo pulls up. Bodyguard and I Get into it. Inside is paternal grandmother (hereafter known as Grandmère) and maternal grandmother (hereafter known as Mamaw). Mamaw is very excited about upcoming nuptials—though excitement is somewhat dampened by cousin’s desertion to become male supermodel. Grandmère, on other hand, is mysteriously calm. Says son (my father) has informed her that bride has decided to make own hair and make-up plans. Remembering missing folic acid tablets, I say nothing.

5:20 p.m.—Enter Chez Paolo.

6:45 p.m.—Emerge from Chez Paolo. Amazed at difference Paolo has made with Mamaw’s hair. She no longer resembles mom in John Hughes film, but member of upscale country club.

7:00 p.m.—Arrive at Plaza. Father attributes bride’s absence to her desire to nap before ceremony. When i surreptitiously force Lars to call home on his cell phone, however, no one answers.

7:15 p.m.—Begins to rain again. Mamaw observes that rain on a wedding day is bad luck. Grandmère says, No, that’s pearls. Mamaw says, No, rain. First sign of division within formerly united ranks of grandmas.

7:30 p.m.—I am ushered into little chamber just off the White and Gold Room, where i sit with the other bridesmaids (supermodels Gisele, Karmen Kass, and Amber Valetta, whom Grandmère has hired due to fact that my mother refused to supply her with list of her own bridesmaids). I have changed into my beautiful pink dress and matching shoes.

7:40 p.m.—None of the other bridesmaids will talk to me, except to comment about how I look so “sweet.” All they can talk about is a party they went to last night where someone threw up on Claudia Schiffer’s shoes.

7:45 p.m.—Guests begin to arrive. I fail to recognize my maternal grandfather without his baseball cap. He looks quite spry in his tux. a little like an elderly Matt Damon.

7:47 p.m.—Two people arrive who claim to be parents of the groom. Mr. Gianini’s parents from Long Island! Mr. Gianini Sr. calls Vigo “Bucko.” Vigo looks delighted.

7:48 p.m.—Martha Stewart stands near door, chatting with Donald Trump about Manhattan real estate. She can’t find a building with a co-op board that will let her keep her pet chinchillas.

7:50 p.m.—John tesh has cut his hair. Almost don’t recognize him. Looks faintly babe-like. Queen of Sweden asks him if he is friend of bride or groom. Says groom, for some inexplicable reason, though I happen to know from having looked through Mr. Gianini’s CDs that he owns nothing but the Rolling Stones and a little Who.

7:55 p.m.—Everyone goes quiet as John Tesh sits down at baby grand. Pray that my mother is in different hemisphere and cannot see or hear this.

8:00 p.m.—Everyone waits expectantly. I demand that my father, who has joined me and the supermodels, give me letter from my mother. Dad surrenders letter.

8:01 p.m.—I read letter.

8:02 p.m.—I have to sit down.

8:05 p.m.—Grandmère and Vigo in deep consultation. They seem to have realized that neither the bride nor the groom have shown up.

8:07 p.m.—Amber Valetta whispers that if we don’t get a move on, she’s going to be late for a dinner engagement with Hugh Grant.

8:10 p.m.—A hush falls over the guests as my father, looking excessively princely in his tux (in spite of his bald head) strides to the front of the white and gold room. John Tesh stops playing.

8:11 p.m.—My father makes the following announcement:

Father: I want to thank all of you for taking the time out of your busy schedules to come here tonight. Unfortunately, the wedding between Helen Thermopolis and Frank Gianini will not take place . . .at least, not this evening. The happy couple have given us the slip, and this morning they flew to Cancun, where I understand they plan to be married by a justice of the peace.

[A shriek is heard from the far side of the baby grand. It does not appear to have come from John Tesh, but rather, Grandmère.]

Father: You are of course urged to join us in the Grand Ballroom for dinner. And thank you again for coming.

[Father strides off. Bewildered guests gather their belongings and go in search of cocktails. No sound whatsoever is heard from behind baby grand.]

Me: (To no one in particular) Mexico! They must be crazy. If my mother drinks the water, my future brother or sister will be born with flippers for feet!

Amber: Don’t worry, my friend Heather got pregnant in Mexico, and she drank the water, and she just gave birth to twins.

Me: And they had dorsal fins coming out of their backs, didn’t they?

8:20 p.m.—John Tesh begins to play. At least until grandmère barks, “Oh, shut up!”

What the letter from my mother said:

By the time you read this, Frank and I will be married. I am sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner, but when your grandmother asks you if you knew (and she will ask you), I wanted to be sure you could say truthfully that you didn’t, so there won’t be any ill feeling between the two of you.

[Ill feeling between Grandmère and me? Who does she think she’s kidding? There’s nothing but ill feeling between us!

Well, as far I’m concerned, anyway.]

More than anything, Frank and I wanted you to be there for our wedding. So we have decided that when we get back, we’re going to have another ceremony: This one will be kept strictly secret and very private, with just our little family and our friends!

[Well, that certainly should be interesting. Most of my mom’s friends are militant feminists or performance artists. One of them likes to stand up on a stage and pour chocolate syrup all over her naked body while reciting poetry.

I wonder how they are going to get along with Mr. G’s friends, who I understand like to watch a lot of sports.]

You have been a tower of strength during this crazy time, Mia, and I want you to know how much I—as well as your father, and stepfather—appreciate it. You are the best daughter a mother could have, and this new little guy (or girl) is the luckiest baby in the world to have you as a big sister.

Missing you already—

Mom

Friday, October 31, 9 p.m.

I am in shock. I really am.

Not because my mom and my Algebra teacher eloped. That’s kind of romantic, if you ask me.

No, it’s the fact that my dad—my dad—helped them to do it. He actually defied his mother. In a BIG way.

In fact, because of all this, I’m starting to think my dad isn’t scared of Grandmère at all! I think he just doesn’t want to be bothered. I think he just feels it’s easier to go along with her than to fight her, because fighting her is so messy and exhausting.

But not this time. This time, he put his foot down.

And you can bet he’s going to pay for it, too.

I may never get over this. I am going to have to readjust everything I ever thought about him. Kind of like when Luke Skywalker finds out his dad is really Darth Vader. Only the opposite.

Anyway, while Grandmère was plotzing behind the baby grand, I went up to Dad and threw my arms around him and was like, “You did it!”

He looked at me curiously. “Why do you sound surprised?”

Oops. I said, totally embarrassed, “Oh, well, because, you know.”

“No, I don’t know.”

“Well,” I said. (WHY? WHY do I have such a big mouth?)

I thought about lying. But I think my dad must have realized what I was thinking, since he said, in this warning voice, “Mia . . .”

“Oh, okay,” I said, grudgingly, letting him go. “It’s just that sometimes you give the appearance—just the appearance, mind you—of being a little bit scared of Grandmère.”

My dad reached out and wrapped an arm around my neck. He did this right in front of Liz Smith, who was getting up to follow everyone into the Grand Ballroom. She smiled at us as if she thought it was sweet, though.

“Mia,” my dad said. “I am not scared of my mother. She really isn’t as bad as you think. She just needs proper handling.”

This was news to me.

“Besides,” my dad said, “do you really think I would ever let you down? Or your mother? I will always be there for you two.”

This was so nice, I actually got tears in my eyes for a minute. But it might have been the smoke from all the cigarettes. There were a lot of French people at this party.

“Mia, I haven’t done so badly by you, have I?” my dad asked, all of a sudden.

I was surprised by the question. “No, Dad, of course not. You guys have always been okay parents.”

My dad nodded. “I see.”

I could see I hadn’t been complimentary enough, so I added, “No, I mean it. I really couldn’t ask for better . . .” I couldn’t help adding, “I could probably live without the princess thing, though.”

He looked as if he probably would have reached out and ruffled my hair if it hadn’t been so full of mousse his hand would have stuck to it.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “But do you really think you’d be happy, Mia, being Nancy Normal Teenager?”

Um. Yes.

Except I wouldn’t want my name to be Nancy.

We might have gone on to have a really profound moment I could have written about in my English journal if Vigo hadn’t come hurrying up just then. He looked frazzled. And why not? His wedding was turning out to be a disaster! First the bride and groom had neglected to show up, and now the hostess, the dowager princess, had locked herself into her hotel suite and would not come out.

“What do you mean, she won’t come out?” my father demanded.

“Just what I said, Your Highness.” Vigo looked like he was about to start crying. “I have never seen her so angry! She says she has been betrayed by her own family, and she will never be able to show her face in public again, the shame is so great.”

My dad looked heavenward. “Let’s go,” he said.

When we got to the door to the penthouse suite, my dad signaled for Vigo and me to be quiet. Then he knocked on the door.

“Mother,” he called. “Mother, it’s Phillipe. May I come in?”

No response. But I could tell she was in there. I could hear Rommel moaning softly.

“Mother,” my dad said. He tried turning the door handle, and found it locked. This caused him to sigh very deeply.

Well, you could see why. He had already spent the better part of the day thwarting all of her well-laid plans. That had to have been exhausting. And nowthis?

“Mother,” he said. “I want you to open this door.”

Still no response.

“Mother,” my father said. “You are being ridiculous. I want you to open this door this instant. If you don’t do it, I shall fetch the housekeeper, and have her open it for me. Are you trying to force me to resort to this? Is that it?”

I knew Grandmère would sooner let us see her without her makeup than ever allow a member of the hotel staff to be privy to one of our family squabbles, so I laid a hand on my dad’s arm and whispered, “Dad, let me try.”

My father shrugged, and, with a sort of if-you-want-to look, stepped aside.

I called through the door, “Grandmère? Grandmère, it’s me, Mia.”

I don’t know what I’d expected. Certainly not for her to open the door. I mean, if she wouldn’t do it for Vigo, whom she seemed to adore, or for her own son, who, if she didn’t adore, was at least her only child, why would she do it for me?

But I was greeted with only silence from behind that door. Well, except for Rommel’s whining.

I refused to be daunted, however. I raised my voice and called, “I’m really sorry about my mom and Mr. Gianini, Grandmère. But you have to admit it, I warned you that she didn’t want this wedding. Remember? I told you she wanted something small. You might have realized that by the fact that there isn’t a single person here who was actually invited by my mother. These are allyour friends. Well, except for Mamaw and Papaw. And Mr. G’s parents. But I mean, come on. My mom does not know Imelda Marcos, okay? And Barbara Bush? I’m sure she’s a very nice lady, but not one of my mom’s closest buddies.”

Still no response.

“Grandmère,” I called through the door. “Look, I am really surprised at you. I thought you were always teaching me that a princess has to be strong. I thought you said that a princess, no matter what kind of adversity she is facing, has to put on a brave face and not hide behind her wealth and privilege. Well, isn’t that exactly what you’re doing right now? Shouldn’t you be down there right now, pretending this was exactly the way you planned things to go, and raising a glass to the happy couple in absentia?”

I jumped back as the doorknob to my grandmother’s suite slowly turned. A second later, Grandmère came out, a vision in purple velvet and a diamond tiara.

She said, with a great deal of dignity, “I had every intention of returning to the party. I merely came up here to freshen my lipstick.”

My dad and I exchanged glances.

“Sure, Grandmère,” I said. “Whatever you say.”

“A princess,” Grandmère said, closing the door to her suite behind her, “never leaves her guests unattended.”

“Okay,” I said.

“So what are you two doing here?” Grandmère glared at my dad and me.

“We were, um, just checking on you,” I explained.

“I see.” Then Grandmère did a surprising thing. She slipped her hand through the crook of my elbow. Then, without looking at my dad, she said, “Come along.”

I saw my dad roll his eyes at this blatant dis.

But he didn’t look scared, the wayI would have been.

“Hold on, Grandmère,” I said.

Then I slipped my hand through the crook of my dad’s elbow, so the three of us were standing in the hallway, linked by . . .well, by me.

Grandmère just sniffed and didn’t say anything. But my dad smiled.

And you know what? I’m not sure, but I think it might have been a profound moment for all of us.

Well, all right. At least forme, anyway.

Saturday, November 1, 2 p.m.

The evening wasn’t a total bust.

Quite a few people seemed to have a very good time. Hank, for one. He actually showed up just in time for dinner—he’d always been good at that—looking totally gorgeous in an Armani tux.

Mamaw and Papaw were delighted to see him. Mrs. Gianini, Mr. Gianini’s mom, took quite a shine to him, too. It must have been his clean-cut good manners. He hadn’t forgotten any of Lilly’s elocution lessons, and only mentioned his affection for ‘muddin’ on the weekends once. And later, when the dancing started, he asked Grandmère for the second waltz—Dad got the first—forever cementing him in her mind as the ideal royal consort for me.

Thank God first-cousin marriages were made illegal in Genovia in 1907.

But the happiest people I talked to all evening weren’t actually at the party. No, at around ten o’clock, Lars handed me his cell phone, and when I said, “Hello?” wondering who it could be, my mom’s voice, sounding very far away and crackly, went, “Mia?”

I didn’t want to say the word ‘Mom’ too loudly, since I knew Grandmère was hovering nearby. And I don’t think it likely that Grandmère is going to forgive my parents anytime soon for the fast one they pulled. I ducked behind a pillar and whispered, “Hey, Mom! Mr. Gianini make an honest woman out of you yet?”

Well, he had. The deed was done (a little late, if you ask me, but hey, at least the kid won’t be born harboring the stigma of illegitimacy like I’ve had to all my life). It was only like six o’clock where they were, and they were on a beach somewhere sipping (virgin) piña coladas. I made my mom promise not to have any more, because you can’t trust the ice at those places.

“Parasites can exist in ice, Mom,” I informed her. “There are these worms that live in the glaciers in Antarctica, you know. We studied them in Bio. They’ve been around for thousands of years. So even if the water’s frozen, you can still get sick from it. You definitely only want to get ice made from bottled water. Here, why don’t you put Mr. Gianini on the phone, and I’ll tell him exactly what he has to do—“

My mom interrupted me.

“Mia,” she said. “How are—“ She cleared her throat. “How’s my mother taking it?”

“Mamaw?” I looked in Mamaw’s direction. The truth was, Mamaw was having the time of her life. She was thoroughly enjoying her gig as mother of the bride. So far, she’d gotten to dance with Prince Albert, who was there representing the royal family of Monaco, and Prince Andrew, who didn’t seem to be missing Fergie one bit, if you asked me.

“Um,” I said. “Mamaw’s . . .really mad at you.”

It was a lie, of course, but it was a lie I knew would make my mother happy. One of her favorite things to do is make her parents mad.

“Really, Mia?” she asked, breathlessly.

“Uh-huh,” I said, watching as Papaw twirled Mamaw around practically into the champagne fountain. “They’ll probably never speak to you again.”

“Oh,” Mom said happily. “Isn’t that too bad?”

Sometimes my natural ability to lie actually comes in handy.

But unfortunately, right then our connection broke up. Well, at least Mom had heard my warning about the ice worms before we lost contact.

As for me, well, I can’t say I had the time of my life—I mean, the only person even close to my age was Hank, and he was way too busy dancing with Gisele to talk to me.

Thankfully, around eleven, my dad was like, “Uh, Mia, isn’t it Halloween?”

I said, “Yeah, Dad.”

“Don’t you have someplace you’d rather be?”

You know, I hadn’t forgotten the wholeRocky Horror thing, but I figured Grandmère needed me. Sometimes family things are more important than friend things—even romance things.

But as soon as I heard that, I was like, “Um, yes.”

The movie started at midnight down at the Village Cinema—about fifty blocks away. If I hurried, I could make it. Well, Lars and I could make it.

There was only one problem. We had no costumes: On Halloween, they don’t let you into the theater if you come in street clothes.

“What do you mean, you don’t have a costume?” Martha Stewart had overheard our conversation.

I held out the skirt of my dress. “Well,” I said, dubiously. “I guess I could pass for Glinda the Good Witch. Only I don’t have a wand. No crown, either.”

I don’t know if Martha had too many champagne cocktails, or if she’s just like this, but next thing I knew, she was whipping me up a wand from a bunch of crystal drink stirrers that she tied together with some ivy from the centerpiece. Then she fashioned this big crown for me out of some menus and a glue gun she had in her purse.

And you know what? It looked good, just like the one inThe Wizard of Oz! (She turned the writing so it was on the inside of the crown.)

“There,” Martha said, when she was through. “Glinda the Good Witch.” She looked at Lars. “And you’re easy. You’re James Bond.”

Lars seemed pleased. You could tell he’d always fantasized about being a secret agent.

No one was more pleased than me, however. My fantasy of Michael seeing me in this gorgeous dress was about to be realized. What’s more, the outfit was going to give me the confidence I needed to confront him about Jo-C-rox.

So, with my father’s blessings—I would have stopped to say good-bye to Grandmère, only she and Gerald Ford were doing the tango out on the dance floor (no, I am not kidding)—I was out of there like a shot—

And stumbled right into a thorny patch of reporters.

“Princess Mia!” they yelled. “Princess Mia, what are your feelings about your mother’s elopement?”

I was about to let Lars hustle me into the limo without saying anything to the reporters. But then I had an idea. I grabbed the nearest microphone and said, “I just want to say to anyone who is watching that Albert Einstein High School is the best school in Manhattan, maybe even North America, and that we have the most excellent faculty and the best student population in the world, and anyone who doesn’t recognize that is just kidding himself, Mr. Taylor.”

(Mr. Taylor is Shameeka’s dad.)

Then I shoved the microphone back at its owner, and hopped into the limo.

We almost didn’t make it. First of all, because of the parade, the traffic downtown was criminal. Secondly, there was a line to get into the Village Cinema that wound all the way around the block! I had the limo driver cruise the length of it, while Lars and I scanned the assorted hordes. It was pretty hard to recognize my friends, because everyone was in costume.

But then I saw this group of really weird-looking people dressed in WWII Army fatigues. They were all covered in fake blood, and some of them had phony stumps in place of limbs. They were holding a big sign that saidLooking for Private Ryan. Standing next to them was a girl wearing a black lacy slip and a fake beard. And standing next to her was a boy dressed as a Mafioso type, holding a violin case.

The violin case was what did it.

“Stop the car!” I shrieked.

The limo pulled over, and Lars and I got out. The girl in the nightie went, “Oh, my God! You came! You came!”

It was Lilly. And standing next to her, a big pile of bloody intestines coming out of his Army jacket, was her brother, Michael.

“Quick,” he said, to Lars and me. “Get in line. I got two extra tickets just in case you ended up making it after all.”

There was some grumbling from the people behind us as Lars and I cut in, but all he had to do was turn so that his shoulder holster showed, and they got quiet pretty quick. Lars’s Glock, being real and all, was pretty scary-looking.

“Where’s Hank?” Lilly wanted to know.

“He couldn’t make it,” I said. I didn’t want to tell her why. You know, that last time I’d seen him, he’d been dancing with Gisele. I didn’t want Lilly to think Hank preferred supermodels to, you know, us.

“He cannot come. Good,” Boris said, firmly.

Lilly shot him a warning look, then, pointing at me, demanded, “What are you supposed to be?”

“Duh,” I said. “I’m Glinda the Good Witch.”

“I knew that,” Michael said. “You look really . . .You look really . . .”

He seemed unable to go on. I must, I realized, with a sinking heart, look really stupid.

“You are way too glam for Halloween,” Lilly declared.

Glam? Well, glam was better than stupid, I guess. But why couldn’t Michael have said so?

I eyed her. “Um,” I said. “What, exactly, are you?”

She fingered the straps to her slip, then fluffed out her fake beard.

“Hello,” she said, in a very sarcastic voice. “I’m a Freudian slip.”

Boris indicated his violin case. “And I am Al Capone,” he said. “Chicago gangster.”

“Good for you, Boris,” I said, noticing he was wearing a sweater, and yes, it was tucked into his pants. He can’t help being totally foreign, I guess.

Someone tugged on my skirt. I looked around, and there was Kenny, my Bio partner. He was in Army fatigues, too, and missing an arm.

“You made it!” he cried.

“I did,” I said. The excitement in the air was contagious.

Then the line started moving. Michael and Kenny’s friends from the Computer Club, who made up the rest of the bloody platoon, started marching and going, “Hut, two, three, four. Hut, two, three, four.”

Well, they can’t help it. They’re in the computer club, after all.

It wasn’t until the movie started that I began to realize something weird was going on. I very cleverly maneuvered myself in the aisle so that I would end up sitting next to Michael. Lars was supposed to be on my other side.

But somehow Lars got pushed out, and Kenny ended up on my other side.

Not that it mattered . . .then. Lars just sat behind me. I hardly noticed Kenny, even though he kept trying to talk to me, mostly about Bio. I answered him, but all I could think about was Michael. Did he really think I looked stupid? When should I mention that I happen to know that he is Jo-C-rox? I had this little speech all rehearsed. I was going to be like, Hey, seen any good cartoons lately?

Lame, I know, but how else was I supposed to bring it up?

I could hardly wait for the movie to be over so I could spring my offensive.

Rocky Horror,even if you can’t wait for it to end, is pretty fun. Everybody just acts like a lunatic. People were throwing bread at the screen, and putting up umbrellas when it rained in the movie, and dancing the Pelvic Thrust. It really is one of the best movies of all time. It almost beats outDirty Dancing as my favorite, except, of course, there’s no Patrick Swayze.

Except I forgot there aren’t really any scary parts. So I didn’t actually get a chance to pretend to be scared so Michael could put his arm around me, or anything.

Which kind of sucks, if you think about it.

But hey, I got to sit by him, didn’t I? For like two hours. In the dark. That’s something, isn’t it? And he kept laughing and looking at me to see whether or not I was laughing, too. That counts, right? I mean, when someone keeps checking to see whether you think the same things are funny that he does? That totally counts for something.

The only problem was, I couldn’t help noticing that Kenny was doing the same thing. You know, laughing and then looking at me to see if I was laughing, too.

That should have been my next clue.

After the movie, we all went out to breakfast at Round the Clock. And this is where things got even more weird.

I had been to Round the Clock before, of course—where else in Manhattan can you get pancakes for two dollars?—but never quite this late, and never with a bodyguard. Poor Lars was looking a little worse for wear by that time. He kept ordering cup after cup of coffee. I was jammed in at this table between Michael and Kenny—funny how that kept happening—with Lilly and Boris and the entire Computer Club all around us. Everyone was talking really loud and at the same time, and I was having a really hard time figuring out how I was ever going to bring up the cartoon thing, when all of a sudden, Kenny said, right in my ear, “Had any interesting mail lately?”

I am sorry to say that it was only then that the truth dawned.

I should have known, of course.

It hadn’t been Michael.Michael wasn’t Jo-C-rox.

I think a part of me must have known that all along. I mean, it really isn’t like Michael to do anything anonymously. He just isn’t the type not to sign his name. I guess I’d been suffering from a bad case of wishful thinking, or something.

A REALLY bad case of wishful thinking.

Because of course Jo-C-rox was Kenny.

Not that there’s anything wrong with Kenny. There totally isn’t. He is a really, really nice guy. I mean, I really like Kenny Showalter. Really, I do.

But he’s not Michael Moscovitz.

I looked up at Kenny after he’d made that comment about having any interesting mail lately, and I tried to smile. I really did.

I said, “Oh, Kenny. Are you Jo-C-rox?”

Kenny grinned.

“Yes,” Kenny said. “Didn’t you figure it out?”

No. Because I am a complete idiot.

“Uh-huh,” I said, forcing another smile. “Finally.”

“Good.” Kenny looked pleased. “Because you really do remind me of Josie, you know. OfJosie and the Pussycats, I mean. See, she’s lead singer in a rock group, and she solves mysteries on the side. She’s cool. Like you.”

Oh, my God.Kenny. My Bio partner,Kenny. Six-foot-tall, totally gawky Kenny, who always gives me the answers in Bio. I’d forgotten he’s like this huge Japanese anime fan. Of course he watches the Cartoon Network. He’s practically addicted to it.Batman is like his favorite thing of all time.

Oh, someone shoot me. Someone please shoot me.

I smiled. I’m afraid my smile was very weak.

But Kenny didn’t care.

“And you know, in later episodes,” Kenny said, encouraged by my smile, “Josie and the Pussycats go up into space. So she’s also a pioneer into space exploration.”

Oh, God, make this be a bad dream. Please make this be a bad dream, and let me wake up and have it not be true!

All I could do was thank my lucky stars that I hadn’t said anything to Michael. Could you imagine if I’d gone up to him and said what I’d planned to? He’d have thought I’d forgotten to take my medication, or something.

“Anyway,” Kenny said. “You want to go out sometime, Mia? With me, I mean?”

Oh, God. I hate that. I really hate that. You know, when people go “Do you want to go out with me sometime?” instead of “Do you want to go out with me next Tuesday?” Because that way you can make up an excuse. Because then you can always go, “Oh, no, on Tuesday I have this thing.”

But you can’t go, “No, I don’t want to go out with you EVER.”

Because that would be too mean.

And I can’t be mean to Kenny. I like Kenny. I really do. He’s very funny and sweet and everything.

But do I want his tongue in my mouth?

Not so much.

What could I say? “No, Kenny? No, Kenny, I don’t want to go out with you ever, because I happen to be in love with my best friend’s brother?”

You can’t say that.

Well, maybe some girls can.

But not me.

“Sure, Kenny,” I said.

After all, how bad could a date with Kenny be? What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. That’s what Grandmère says, anyway.

After that, I had no choice but to let Kenny put his arm around me—the only one he had, the other being tightly secured beneath his costume to give him the appearance of having been severely injured in a land mine explosion.

But we were all jammed in so closely at that table that Kenny’s arm, as it went around my shoulders, jostled Michael, and he looked over at us. . . .

And then he looked over at Lars, really fast. Almost like he—I don’t know . . .

Saw what was going on, and wanted Lars to put a stop to it?

No. No, of course not. It couldn’t be that.

But it is true that when Lars, who was busy pouring sugar into like his fifth cup of coffee that night, didn’t look up, Michael stood and said, “Well, I’m beat. What do you say we call it a night?”

Everyone looked at him like he was crazy. I mean, some people were still finishing their food and all. Lilly even went, “What’s with you, Michael? Gotta catch up on your beauty sleep?”

But Michael totally took out his wallet and started counting out how much he owed.

So then I stood up really fast and said, “I’m tired, too. Lars, could you call the car?”

Lars, delighted finally to be leaving, whipped out his cell phone and started dialing. Kenny, beside me, started saying stuff like, “It’s a shame you have to go so early,” and “So, Mia, can I call you?”

This last question caused Lilly to look from me to Kenny and then back again. Then she looked at Michael. Then she stood up, too.

“Come on, Al,” she said, giving Boris a tap on the head. “Let’s blow this juke joint.”

Only of course Boris didn’t understand. “What is a juke joint?” he asked. “And why are we blowing it?”

Everyone started digging around for money to pay the bill . . .which was when I remembered that I didn’t have any. Money, I mean. I didn’t even have a purse to put money in. That was the one part of my wedding ensemble Grandmère had forgotten.

I elbowed Lars and whispered, “Have you got any cash? I’m a little low at the moment.”

Lars nodded and reached for his wallet. That’s when Kenny, who noticed this, went, “Oh, no, Mia. Your pancakes are on me.”

This, of course, completely freaked me out. I didn’t want Kenny to pay for my pancakes. Or Lars’s five cups of coffee, either.

“Oh, no,” I said. “That isn’t necessary.”

Which didn’t have at all the desired effect, since Kenny said, all stiffly, “I insist,” and started throwing dollar bills down on the table.

Remembering I’m supposed to be gracious, being a princess and all, I said, “Well, thank you very much, Kenny.”

Which was when Lars handed Michael a twenty and said, “For the movie tickets.”

Only then Michael wouldn’t take my money—okay, it was Lars’s money, but my dad totally would have paid him back—either. He looked totally embarrassed, and went, “Oh, no. My treat,” even after I strenuously insisted.

So then I had to say, “Well, thank you very much, Michael,” when all I really wanted to say was, “Get me out of here!”

Because with two different guys paying for me, it was like I’d been out on a date with both of them at once!

Which, I guess, in a way, I had.

You would think I would be very excited about this. I mean, considering I’d never really been out even withone guy before, let alonetwo at the same time.

Except that it was totally and completelynot fun. Because, for one thing, I didn’t actually want to be going out with one of them at all.

And for another, he was the one who’d actually confessed to liking me . . .even if it had been anonymous.

The whole thing was excruciating, and all I wanted to do was go home and get in bed and pull the covers up over my head and pretend it hadn’t happened.

Only I couldn’t even do that because, what with my mom and Mr. G being in Cancun, I had to stay up at the Plaza with Grandmère and my dad until they got back.

But just when I thought things had sunk to an all-time low, as everyone was piling into the limo (well, a few people asked for rides home, and how could I say no? It wasn’t like we didn’t have the room) Michael, who ended up standing beside me, waiting for his turn to get into the car, said, “What I meant to say before, Mia, was that you look . . .you look really . . .”

I blinked up at him in the pink-and-blue light from the neon Round the Clock sign in the window behind us. It’s amazing, but even bathed in pink-and-blue neon, with fake intestines hanging out of his shirt, Michael still looked totally—

“You look really nice in that dress,” he said, all in a rush.

I smiled up at him, feeling just like Cinderella all of a sudden. . . .You know, at the end of the Disney movie, when Prince Charming finally finds her and puts the slipper on her foot and her rags change back into the ball gown and all the mice come out and start singing?

That’s how I felt, just for a second.

Then this voice right beside us said, “Are you guys coming, or what?” and we looked over and there was Kenny sticking his head and his one unsevered arm out of the sun roof of the limo.

“Um,” I said, feeling totally and utterly embarrassed. “Yes.”

And I got into the limo like nothing had happened.

And actually, if you think about it, nothing really had.

Except that the whole way back to the Plaza, this little voice inside my brain was going, “Michael said I looked nice. Michael saidI looked nice.Michael said I looked nice.”

And you know what? Maybe Michael didn’t write those notes. And maybe he doesn’t think I’m the Josiest girl in school.

But he thought I looked nice in my pink dress. And that’s all that matters to me.

And now I am sitting in Grandmère’s suite at the hotel, surrounded by piles of wedding and baby presents, with Rommel trembling down at the other end of the couch in a pink cashmere sweater. I am supposed to be writing thank-you notes, but of course I am writing in my journal instead.

No one seems to have noticed, though, I guess because Mamaw and Papaw are here. They stopped by to say good-bye on their way to the airport before they fly back to Indiana. Right now, my two grandmothers are making lists of baby names and talking about who to invite to the christening (oh, no. Not again.) while my dad and Papaw are talking about crop rotation, as this is an important topic to both Indiana farmers and Genovian olive growers. Even though, of course, Papaw owns a hardware store and Dad is a prince. But whatever. At least they’retalking.

Hank is here, too, to say good-bye and to try to convince his grandparents they are not doing the wrong thing, leaving him here in New York—though to tell the truth, he isn’t doing such a good job of it, since he hasn’t once gotten off his cell phone since he arrived. Most of these calls seem to be from last night’s bridesmaids.

And I’m thinking that, all in all, things aren’t so bad. I mean, I am getting a baby brother or sister and have also acquired not just a stepfather who is exceptionally good at Algebra, but a foozball table as well.

And my dad proved that there is at least one person on this planet who is not afraid of Grandmère . . .and even Grandmère seems a bit more mellow than usual, in spite of never having made it to Baden-Baden.

Though she still isn’t talking to my dad, except when she absolutely has to.

And yes, it is true that later today I have to meet Kenny back at the Village Cinema for a Japanese anime marathon, since I said I would, and all.

But after that I am going down to Lilly’s, and we are going to work on next week’s show, which is about repressed memories. We are going to try to hypnotize each other and see if we can remember any of our past lives. Lilly is convinced, for instance, that in one of her past lives she was Elizabeth I.

You know what? I, for one, believe her.

Anyway, after that, I am spending the night at Lilly’s, and we are going to rentDirty Dancing andRocky Horror -ize it. We plan to yell things in response to the actors’ lines and throw things at the screen.

And there is a very good chance that tomorrow morning, Michael will come to the Moscovitzes’ breakfast table wearing pajama bottoms and a robe, and forget to tie the robe like he did once before.

Which would actually make for a very profound moment, if you ask me.

Avery profound moment.

About the Author

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

Visit Meg’s website at: www.megcabot.com

Books by

MEG CABOT

THE PRINCESS DIARIES

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME II:

PRINCESS IN THE SPOTLIGHT

Credits

Jacket photographs © 2001 by Timothy Hampson

Jacket design by Alison Donalty

Cover © 2001 by HarperCollins Publishers, Inc

Typography by Alison Donalty

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

PRINCESS IN THE SPOTLIGHT.Copyright © 2001 by Meggin Cabot. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™.

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Gemstar E-book edition v 1. April 2002 ISBN 0-06-05984-3

Print edition first published in 2001 by HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

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