Princess in Training

Who knew it was all for show?

Now we both have to sit here until the bell for sixth period rings and we can duck back downstairs and mingle with the rest of the hordes. We’re missing Gifted and Talented, but I have my pass from the nurse to show Mrs. Hill on Monday, so she won’t count me absent from today.

I don’t know what Lilly’s going to do about it. She doesn’t seem to care all that much, either. Really, if you think about it, Grandmère and Lilly could BOTH teach the world a thing or two about acting like a princess.

Which is kind of scary, if you think about it.Friday, September 11, U.S. Government

THEORIES OF GOVERNMENT:

EVOLUTIONARY THEORY

Darwin theory of evolution—applied government =

1. Family

2. Clan

3. Tribe

Groups formed to coordinate and manage enterprise of goods and services.

To maintain internal order and protect from external danger, governmental institutions were formed.

Wow, this is just like cliques! Seriously! I mean, the way cliques are formed within a school—to protect from external danger. Like, for instance, all of us Geeks bonded together and formed a clique to protect ourselves from being picked on by the Jocks and Cheerleaders, because there is safety in numbers. This explains so much:

The Sk8terboi clique formed to protect themselves from the Punks

The Punks formed to protect themselves from the Drama Club

The Drama Club formed to protect themselves from the Nerds

The Nerds formed to protect themselves from the Jocks

And the Jocks formed to protect themselves from…

Well, I don’t know who the Jocks formed together to protect themselves from.

But otherwise it’s all making sense now. This is why cliques exist! Darwin was right!!!Friday, September 11, Earth Science

Magnetic field surrounding Earth due to interior convection currents

Discovered by Van Allen (radiation belts)

High radiation zone due to particles, some radioactive and charged, from space and sun

Aurora borealis caused by interaction of charged particles with the atmosphere

KENNY’S NEW GIRLFRIEND, HEATHER, ACCORDING TO KENNY:

1. Has naturally blond hair, and never needs to get her roots touched up

2. Gets straight A’s and is in all honors classes

3. Can do a back handspring

4. Often does them at parties

5. And in restaurants

6. Is totally popular at her school in Delaware

7. Is coming to see him at Thanksgiving

8. Has her own horse

9. Never wastes her time watching TV, because she is too busy reading books

10. Doesn’t have an answering machine

Which is just as well, because probably no one ever wants to call her, since she doesn’t watch TV, and therefore has nothing to talk about.

HOMEWORK

PE: n/a

Geometry: exercises, pages 42–45

English: Strunk and White, pages 55–75

French: ????

G&T: ????

U.S. Government: How is Darwin’s theory

applied to dev. of gov.?

Earth Science: section 2, Nature of Energetic

EnvironmentFriday, September 11, the Plaza

Grandmère felt so badly about having caused me to have a crying jag in the middle of the school day that she insisted on taking me to tea downstairs at the Palm to make up for it.

Of course, I knew she didn’t REALLY feel bad. I mean, she is GRANDMÈRE, after all. And there WAS press all over the place, trying to get pictures of us eating our scones with clotted cream, so that tomorrow on the front of the Post there’ll be a photo of us sitting there and a big headline that goes Tea 4 2 / Take that, EU! or FU, EU, or something.

But it was nice to sit there and eat tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off while Grandmère nattered on about Lana’s pom-pom-shaped squeezy things and how cheap they are and how much more superior our Propriété du Palais Royal de Genovia pens are. Especially, you know, since I hadn’t gotten any lunch due to having spent all of that period in the nurse’s office with a cool cloth on my forehead.

Grandmère was being so nice on account of the whole feeling guilty thing (note to self: Can someone with borderline personality disorder feel guilt? Check on this.) that I finally just came out and went, “Grandmère, can I have Lilly and Tina and Shameeka and Ling Su over for a slumber party in my room tonight, so we can do a mock debate?” and she went, totally calmly, “Of course, Amelia.”

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, then I got on my cell phone and called them all and invited them. Mr. Taylor had to speak to Grandmère before he would let Shameeka come, to make sure there was going to be adequate supervision and all, but Grandmère carried it off like a champ. By the time she handed the phone back to me, Mr. Taylor was asking if there was anything we wanted Shameeka to bring, like a popcorn popper, or whatever.

But I assured him that the Plaza would see to all of our needs.

We sent Grandmère’s maid back to the loft to get my stuff and feed Fat Louie.

I hope he’ll be all right on his own. It’s going to be weird for him not to have Rocky around. He’s gotten very used to licking all the leftover milk from Rocky’s face every evening, as a sort of midnight snack.

Note to self:

Call Mom on cell as soon as her plane has landed and remind her to keep Rocky away from:

Hay threshers

Copperhead snakes (native to Indiana, and highly poisonous)

Pitchforks

Black widow spiders (their bite is deadly to infants)

Unpasteurized milk (salmonella)

Papaw’s La-Z-Boy (Rocky could become wedged inside it and suffocate)

Farm animals (E. coli)

Mamaw’s tuna-potato-chip-macaroni casserole (it’s just gross)

The cellar (escapee from local mental institution could be hiding there) Friday, September 11, the Plaza, room 1620, Time ???? LATE!!!!!!!

Oh, my God, Ling Su found the coolest quiz online and brought it with her so that we can all do it and find out stuff about ourselves!!!!

QUIZ

DO NOT CHEAT!!! NO reading ahead…just answer the questions in order!

First, get a pen and paper. When you choose names, make sure it’s people you actually know. Go with your first instinct. DO THIS NOW!

1. First, write the numbers 1 through 11 in a column.

2. Beside numbers 1 and 2, write down any two numbers you want.

3. Beside the 3 and 7, write down the names of members of the opposite sex.

4. Write anyone’s name (like friends or family) in spots 4, 5, and 6.

5. Write down four song titles in 8, 9, 10, and 11.

DO THIS NOW, WITHOUT READING AHEAD TO THE ANSWERS!!!!!!!!

Mia Thermopolis’s Answers:

1. Ten

2. Three

3. Michael Moscovitz

4. Fat Louie

5. Lilly Moscovitz

6. Rocky Thermopolis-Gianini

7. Kenny Showalter

8. “Crazy in Love”—Beyoncé

9. “Bootylicious”—Destiny’s Child

10. “Belle”—Beauty and the Beast

11. Theme song from Friends

Answer key:

1. You must tell (the numbers in spaces 1 and 2) people about this game.

2. The person in space 3 is the one whom you love.

3. The person in 7 is one you like but can’t work out.

4. You care most about the person you put in 4.

5. The person you name in number 5 is the one who knows you very well.

6. The person you name in 6 is your lucky star.

7. The song in 8 is the song that matches with the person in number 3.

8. The title in 9 is the song for the person in 7.

9. The song in 10 tells you most about YOUR mind.

10. The answer in 11 is the song telling you how you feel about life.

Oh, my God!!! THIS IS SO CRAZY!!!! IT’S ALL SO TRUE!!!!!!

Like, Michael is totally the person I love! And Rocky is totally my lucky star! And Lilly is the person who knows me the best! And Fat Louie is the person (or cat) that I care about the most!

And I don’t think I’ll EVER figure out Kenny. “Bootylicious” is an appropriate song for him, because one thing I do know: I don’t think he’s ready for this jelly.

And I am DEFINITELY “Crazy in Love” with Michael! And the Friends theme song is TOTALLY my life—No one told you life was gonna be this way… Because nobody ever TOLD me I was going to be PRINCESS OF GENOVIA.

And as for the song “Belle,” Lilly can laugh all she wants, but it IS one of my favorite songs, ever. And yeah, Ms. Martinez would probably find that reprehensible…you know, a so-called writer liking a song from a Disney musical. But whatever! Belle and I have a LOT in common: We both always have our head in a book (well, mine’s a journal, but whatever) and everyone thinks we’re weird.

Except the men who love us.

Whatever. This is so much fun! We’ve ordered, like, EVERYTHING from room service. And a little while ago, Lilly practically made us all wet ourselves from laughing so hard after Shameeka told her about Perin, from French, and how we can’t tell if Perin is a boy or a girl, and Lilly said we should go into class on Monday and make a circle around Perin and chant, “Pull…down…your…pants! Pull…down…your…pants!” so we could look and see.

Could you imagine the look on Mademoiselle Klein’s face if we did that? Only, of course, I think that would be sexual harassment. And it wouldn’t be very nice to Perin, that poor girl or boy.

So, then we all jumped up and down on the bed and chanted, “Pull…down…your…pants! Pull…down…your…pants!” at the top of our lungs until I thought I actually might WET my pants from laughing so hard.

Next, we’re going to have a karaoke contest. Because I told everyone about how if we are ever traveling cross-country and we have to sing for gas money and all, like Britney Spears in Crossroads, we’ll need a good act. So we’re gonna get on that right away.

Oh, and Michael called a minute ago, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying, on account of how Tina was screaming because we found a love note Boris left in her backpack and Ling Su was reading it out loud. Even Lilly was laughing.

This is the BEST NIGHT EVER. Except, of course, for the night of the Nondenominational Winter Dance.

And the night Michael and I watched Star Wars together and he told me he was IN love with me, not just loved me.

And the prom.

Except for those.

Note to self: Remember to tell Mom to keep Rocky away from Papaw’s chewing tobacco! Nicotine is toxic to babies if ingested! I saw it on Law and Order!

LILLY, SHAMEEKA, TINA, LING SU, AND MIA’S LIST OF TOTALLY HOT GUYS

1. Orlando Bloom, in anything, with or without a shirt on.

2. Boris Pelkowski (This is so WRONG! Boris should NOT be on this list. But Lilly and I were outvoted.)

3. The cute guy from the most recent movie of Mia’s life (Except that none of what happened in that movie could ever happen in real life since Genovia is a principality, not a monarchy, and it doesn’t matter if the heir is married or not. Plus, Skinner Box is unlikely to get a record deal since most of its members are too busy getting college degrees/thirty-day sobriety chips to practice.)

4. Seth from The OC.

5. Harry Potter. Because even though he plays a boy wizard, he’s getting kind of hot.

6. Jesse Bradford from Swimfan.

7. Chad Michael Murray from A Cinderella Story and One Tree Hill. Ooooh la la.

8. Samantha’s hot boyfriend on Sex and the City, particularly when he shaved his head for her (Shameeka had to abstain from voting on this one since her dad won’t let her watch this show.)

9. Trent Ford from How to Deal.

10. Ramon Riveras.

11. Hellboy (Even if Mia is the only one who thinks Hellboy is hot on account of her obsession with two-dimensional heroes.) Saturday, September 12, the Great Lawn, Central Park

I’m so tired. WHY did I invite everybody over last night? And WHY did we stay up singing karaoke until 3 A.M.???

More to the point, WHY did I let Lilly talk me into going to an Albert Einstein High School SOCCER game today????

It’s so boring. I mean, I’ve always thought sports were boring—God knows Mrs. Potts has yelled “Let’s see some hustle, Mia!” at me enough times when I’ve let balls bounce right past me.

But watching sports is even more boring than playing them. At least when you’re playing sports, you get those sweaty-palmed, heart-pounding moments of Oh, no! The ball’s not coming toward ME, is it? Oh, no. It IS coming toward me. What do I do? If I try to catch it, I’ll miss, and everyone will hate me. But if I DON’T try to catch it, everyone will hate me for THAT, too.

But when you’re WATCHING sports, there’s none of that. There’s just…boredom. Seemingly never-ending boredom.

When Lilly asked me to keep Saturday during the day free for her, I didn’t know she meant it was for a school-related event. Why would I want to do school stuff (besides homework, I mean) on a WEEKEND?

But Lilly says it’s important that I show myself at as many school functions as possible before the election on Monday. She keeps poking me and going, “Stop writing in your journal and go mingle.”

But I’m not actually so sure mingling at a school soccer game is the way to get votes. You know? Because it’s pretty much guaranteed that everyone here is going to vote for Lana.

And why SHOULDN’T they? Look at her over there, doing all those basket tosses, or whatever. She’s totally PERFECT. On the outside, anyway. Inside, I know her heart is black as pitch and all. But outside—well, she’s got that perfect smile with those perfect, gap-free teeth, and those perfectly smooth tanned legs with no razor nicks, and that shiny lip gloss her hair never gets stuck to—why WOULD anyone vote for me when they could vote for Lana?

Lilly says not to be stupid—that the election for student council president isn’t a beauty or popularity contest. But then how come she wants ME to run in her place? And how come I’m HERE? The only people AT this game are the other jocks and cheerleaders. And none of them are likely to vote for ME.

Lilly says they for sure won’t vote for me if I don’t get my nose out of this book and go talk to them. TALK TO THEM! THE PERFECT POPULAR PEOPLE!

They’ll be lucky if I don’t BARF on them.Saturday, September 12, 3 p.m., Ray’s Pizza

Well, THAT was a big waste of time.

Lilly says it wasn’t. Lilly says that actually, the day was extremely EDUCATIONAL. Whatever that means.

I’m not sure how Lilly would even KNOW this, since she spent almost the entire game sitting behind Dr. and Mrs. Weinberger—who were in the stands—eavesdropping on their conversation with Trisha Hayes’s parents. She didn’t even WATCH the game, so far as I know. I was the one who had to wander around, going up to people who wouldn’t have looked twice at me if we passed in the hallway at AEHS, and going, “Hi, we haven’t met. I’m Mia Thermopolis, princess of Genovia, and I’m running for student council president.”

Seriously. I have never felt like a bigger dork.

Nobody paid the least bit of attention to me, either. The game was apparently a superexciting one. We were playing the Trinity varsity men’s team, who have basically kicked our butts every single year in, like, the history of AEHS soccer, or something.

But not today. Because today AEHS produced their secret weapon: Ramon Riveras. Basically, once Ramon got hold of the ball, it pretty much never left his feet, except when he was kicking it past the Trinity goalie, into the big netty thing. AEHS beat Trinity four to nothing.

And it turned out I was right about Ramon. He fully whipped his shirt off and threw it into the air after the winning goal. I don’t want to start a rumor, or anything, but I saw Mrs. Weinberger sit up a little straighter when that happened.

And of course Lana went running out onto the field and fell into Ramon’s arms. The last time I saw her that day, he was carrying her around on his shoulders as if she were a trophy, or something. For all I know, maybe she is: Win a game for AEHS, get one cheerleader, free.

Whatever. Ramon can have her. Maybe he’ll keep her busy enough to leave ME alone. Me and my “college boy.”

Which reminds me. I’m supposed to go over to Michael’s dorm room after this, to meet his roommate and “catch up” since we haven’t seen each other all week.

At least, that’s what Michael said we were going to do, when we managed to get ahold of each other, earlier today. He sounded kind of annoyed when I finally remembered to turn my cell phone on and he got through at last.

“What was going on last night when I called?” he wanted to know.

“Um,” I said. I was kind of in the middle of buying a pretzel from one of those carts in the park when he called. A lot of people don’t know this, but New York City pretzels—the kind you buy from a vendor on the street—have healing properties. It’s true. I don’t know what’s in them, but if you buy one when you have a headache, or whatever, as soon as you bite into one, your headache goes away. And I had a pretty big headache, on account of not having had any sleep.

“I had the girls over,” I explained to Michael, once I’d swallowed my first bite of hot, salty pretzel. “For a sleepover. Only, you know, there wasn’t much sleeping.” And I told him how we jumped on the bed screaming “Pull…down…your…pants,” and all.

Only, Michael didn’t seem to think it was very funny. Of course, I didn’t mention the part about how later I sang “Milkshake” into the TV remote for everyone while wearing the rubber shower mat as a minidress. I mean, I don’t want him to think I am completely INSANE.

“You have a hotel suite all to yourself,” was all Michael said, “and you invite my sister over.”

“And Shameeka and Tina and Ling Su,” I said, wiping mustard from my chin. Because you have to put mustard on your pretzel, or the healing properties don’t work.

“Right,” Michael said. “Well, are you going to come over here later, or not?”

Which some people might have found kind of, you know, rude. Except to me the fact that Michael was annoyed with me—for whatever reason—was kind of a relief. Because if he was annoyed with me, it probably meant that Doing It wasn’t foremost on his mind. And I really wasn’t looking forward to having the Doing It conversation, even though I knew Tina was right, and we were going to have to get that out in the open one of these days.

So, now I’m just having a restorative slice of plain cheese pizza with Lilly before I summon up my strength to get into the limo with Lars and head uptown to Michael’s dorm. Really, after an evening of partying, it is very difficult to function the next day. I don’t know how those Hilton sisters do it.

Lilly is now saying that we have this election in the bag. I don’t have the slightest idea what she’s talking about, since

A) We never did end up doing that mock debate thingie last night, so it’s not like I ever had a chance to brush up on my answers for Monday, and

B) Most of the people I talked to in the stands at the game today just looked at me like I was a mental case and went, “I’m voting for Lana, dawg.”

But whatever. Lilly spent the entire game sitting with people’s PARENTS, so what does she even know?

I wish I could ask her about this Doing It thing, though. I mean, Lilly’s never Done It either…at least, I don’t think so. She only got to second base with her last boyfriend.

Still, I’m sure she’d have some valuable insights into the whole thing.

But I can’t talk to Lilly about Doing It or not Doing It with her BROTHER. I mean, GROSS. If any girl wanted to talk to me about Doing It with Rocky, I would probably punch her lights out. Although he is, of course, my younger brother, and only four months old.

Besides, I think I kind of know what Lilly would say: Go for it.

Which is very easy for Lilly to say, because she is very at ease in her body. She doesn’t, like I do, change out of her school uniform and into her gym shorts as fast as possible before and after PE, and in the darkest, emptiest corner of the room she can find. She has even, upon occasion, strutted around the locker room COMPLETELY naked, going, “Does anyone have any deodorant I can borrow?” And the remarks Lana and her friends make concerning Lilly’s pot-belly and cellulite seem not to bother her in the least.

Not that I’m worried Michael’s going to make remarks about my nude body. I’m just not so sure I’m comfortable with him knowing anything about it at all.

Although, I wouldn’t mind, of course, seeing his.

Probably, this means I’m inhibited and a prude and sexist and everything bad. Probably, I don’t deserve to be president of the Albert Einstein student council, even for only a couple of days before I resign and let Lilly take over. Certainly, I don’t deserve to be princess of a country that I have managed to get thrown out of the EU…well, if it comes to that, anyway.

Really, I don’t deserve much of anything.

Well, I guess I’ll go to Michael’s now.

Someone, please shoot me.Saturday, September 12, 5 p.m., Michael’s dorm room bathroom

Okay, I thought Columbia was a hard school to get into. I thought they actually screened their applicants.

So, what are they doing letting crazy people like Michael’s roommate in here?

Everything was going fine until HE showed up. Lars and I buzzed Michael from the lobby of Engle Hall, which is Michael’s dorm, and Michael came down to sign us in, because they take their students’ safety very seriously here at Columbia University (too bad they don’t worry as much about the safety of their students’ guests!). I had to leave my student ID at the security desk so I wouldn’t try to leave the building without signing out. Lars had to leave his gun permit (although they let him keep his gun when they found out I was the princess of Genovia and he was my bodyguard).

Anyway, once we were all signed in, Michael took us upstairs. I had been in Engle Hall before, of course, the day he moved in, but it looks very different now that all the moving carts and parents are gone. There were people running around in just towels up and down the hallway, screaming, just like on Gilmore Girls! And very loud music was blaring out of some open doorways. There were posters everywhere urging residents to come to this or that protest march, and invitations to poetry readings at various nearby coffeehouses. It was all very collegiate!

Michael seemed to have gotten over being annoyed with me, since he gave me a very nice kiss hello, during which I got to smell his neck, and immediately felt better about things. Michael’s neck is almost as good as a NYC vendor pretzel, as far as healing properties go.

Anyway, we managed to ditch Lars in the student lounge on Michael’s floor, since there was a baseball game on the big TV in there. You would think Lars would have had enough athletics for one day, seeing as how we’d just spent, like, three hours at one sporting event, but whatever. He took one look at the score, which was tied, and was glued to the set, along with a number of other people who were as slackjawed as he was.

Michael went ahead and took me to his room, which looks a lot better than it did the last time I’d seen it, the day he’d moved in. There’s a map of the galaxy covering most of the cinderblock, more computer equipment than they probably have in NORAD covering every available flat surface (not counting the beds), and a big sign on the ceiling that says DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT PARKING HERE that Michael swears he didn’t steal off the street.

Michael’s side of the room is very tidy, with a dark blue comforter over the bed and a tiny fridge as a nightstand, and CDs and books EVERYWHERE.

The other side of the room is a little messier, with a red comforter, a microwave instead of a fridge, and DVDs and books EVERYWHERE.

Before I even had a chance to ask where Doo Pak was and when I was going to get to meet him, Michael pulled me down onto his bed. We were getting very nicely reacquainted after our week apart when the door opened suddenly and a tall Korean boy wearing glasses came in.

“Oh, hi, Doo Pak,” Michael said, very casually. “This is my girlfriend, Mia. Mia, this is Doo Pak.”

I held out my right hand and gave Doo Pak my best princess smile.

“Hello, Doo Pak,” I said. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

But Doo Pak didn’t take my hand and shake it. Instead, he looked from Michael to me and back again very quickly. Then he laughed and said, “Ha ha, that is very funny! How much is he paying you to play this joke on me, huh?”

I looked at Michael all confused, and he said, “Uh, Doo Pak, I’m not joking. This really is my girlfriend.”

Doo Pak just laughed some more and said, “You Americans are always playing jokes! Really, you can stop now.”

So then I tried.

“Um,” I said. “Doo Pak, I really am Michael’s girlfriend. My name’s Mia Thermopolis. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

This is when Doo Pak began laughing so hard that he doubled up and fell over onto his bed.

“No,” he said, shaking his head, as tears of laughter streamed down his face. “No, no. This is not possible. You”—he pointed at me—“cannot be going out with him.” And he pointed at Michael.

Michael was kind of starting to look irritated.

“Doo Pak,” he said, in the same kind of warning voice I’ve heard him use with Lilly when she starts in on him about his fondness for Star Trek: Enterprise.

“Seriously,” I said to Doo Pak, trying to help, even though I didn’t have the slightest idea what was so funny. “Michael and I have been going out for over nine months. I go to Albert Einstein High School, which is just down the street, and live with my mother and stepdad down in the Vill—”

“You stop talking now, please,” Doo Pak said to me—very politely, I have to admit. But still. It’s kind of weird to be told to stop talking. Especially when then Doo Pak turned his back on me and started talking to Michael in a very urgent, low voice, and Michael responded in an equally low, but more annoyed than urgent voice.

It is extremely weird to be standing in a room watching two people have an urgent and annoyed conversation that you can’t even eavesdrop on. So, I came in here, to give them some privacy.

I can hear Doo Pak out there whispering very urgently to Michael, who fortunately has stopped whispering his responses, so I can at least hear HIS part of the conversation.

“Doo Pak, I TOLD you who she is,” he just said. “She’s my GIRLFRIEND. Nobody is trying to play a joke on you.”

You know, their bathroom is actually quite clean, for boys. There’s nothing in here I’m actually afraid to touch. I see they’ve exchanged the institutional rubber shower curtain for one with a map of the world on it. That must be to comfort Doo Pak, who clearly misses his native land. This way he can take a shower and gaze at his home country the whole time.

Oooooh, Doo Pak isn’t whispering anymore now, either. They must both think I’m completely DEAF.

“But I don’t understand, Mike,” Doo Pak is saying. MIKE????? “Why would SHE go out with YOU?”

It’s all becoming clearer now. Doo Pak must have recognized me. I have been in the press quite a lot lately, on account of the whole snail thing, and the election, and all. Maybe he can’t believe Michael is actually dating a princess.

I can’t say I blame him. There really isn’t anything in the world quite as dorky as being a princess. No wonder Michael didn’t warn him ahead of time. It must be excruciatingly embarrassing to him to have to admit to his college friends that not only is he dating a high school girl, but she’s also a PRINCESS.

Poor Michael. I never knew people actually TEASED him about the fact that he goes out with a royal. That, on top of the fact that his girlfriend has a bodyguard, is mammary-challenged, and a baby-licker, makes Michael’s devotion to me all the more extraordinary.

Ooooh, they’ve stopped talking. Maybe it’s safe to come out now….Saturday, September 12, 7 p.m., Café (212)

I have to write this fast, while Michael is up paying for the food. Fortunately, there’s a horrendously long line at the cash register—this place is PACKED—so it should take him a while.

Anyway, I found out the reason Doo Pak thought Michael was pulling his leg about me being his girlfriend. And it has nothing to do with me being a princess. It has to do with Doo Pak thinking I’m too PRETTY for Michael.

I am not even kidding. Doo Pak told me so himself when I came out of the bathroom. He looked totally ashamed of himself. And he said, without Michael even hitting him first or anything, “I am very sorry I did not believe you when you said you were Mike’s girlfriend. You see,” he went on, in the same apologetic tone, “you are much too pretty to be dating Mike. He is—what do you call it? Oh, yes—a nerd. Like me. And nerds like us don’t get pretty girlfriends. So I thought he was pranking me. Please accept my very humble apologies for my mistake.”

I looked from Michael to Doo Pak to see if they were, um, pranking me, but I could tell from Doo Pak’s red, embarrassed face and Michael’s even redder, more embarrassed face that Doo Pak was telling the truth: He thinks I’m too pretty to go out with Michael!!!!! SERIOUSLY!!!!!!

They must have very different standards for prettiness in South Korea than they have here in the U.S.

Also, apparently, where Doo Pak is from, boys who play with computers all day just don’t get girlfriends. At all.

Maybe this is why they are always drawing them. You know, through anime and manga.

But, as I explained to Doo Pak, being a nerd in America is actually quite stylish, and most sensible girls WANT to date a nerd, as opposed to a jock or a playa.

Doo Pak didn’t look as if he dared believe me, but I pointed out that Bill Gates, who is in fact the King of the Nerds, is married. And that seemed to cinch it for him. He shook my hand and asked very excitedly whether I had any female friends I might bring over someday for him and the rest of the boys on the floor to meet.

I told him that I would certainly try.

Then Doo Pak excused himself to go to the computer store to buy the latest version of Myst, and Michael said irritably that he wished they would let freshmen have single rooms in the dorm, instead of forcing them to share with a roommate.

Which reminds me about something I noticed in their bathroom right before I left it. Something that completely didn’t register until JUST NOW. SOMETHING THAT MAY BURN ITSELF PERMANENTLY INTO THE SOFT TISSUE OF MY BRAIN:

THERE IS A BOX OF CONDOMS IN MICHAEL AND DOO PAK’S MEDICINE CABINET!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Seriously. I SAW it. Oh, my God, I TOTALLY SAW IT.

WHAT DOES THIS MEAN???? I mean, clearly DOO PAK isn’t Doing It with anyone. I mean, he basically ADMITTED he’s never had a girlfriend.

So whose condoms ARE those?????

Oops, “Mike” is back—Sunday, September 13, 1 a.m., limo back to the Plaza

OH, MY GOD. OH, MY GOD OH, MY GOD OH, MY GOD. I just have to breathe. Really. Like they made me do in yoga that one time I went. In. Out. In. Out.

Okay. I can do this. I can write this. I can just set it down on paper like I do every other little thing that happens to me, and then it will be all right. It HAS to be all right. It just HAS to.

We did it.

We had The Talk.

AND MICHAEL EXPECTS US TO HAVE SEX…

…SOMEDAY.

There. I wrote it.

So, why don’t I feel any better??????

Oh, God, what am I going to DO???? How could it turn out that Lana is right? Lana has never been right about ANYTHING!!! I remember she told us if you sneezed and held your nose at the same time, your eardrums would explode. And what about the great “If you take a shower while you have your period, you could bleed to death” rumor she started? Even last year, she had a couple of people going with the whole Bayer + Diet Coke = hole in your stomach.

The thing is, none of those turned out to be true.

Why did THIS one have to be the one she was telling the truth about?????

College boys DO expect their girlfriends to Do It. At least, eventually. I mean, Michael was very sweet and understanding and almost as embarrassed as I was about it. It’s not like, you know, he’s going to dump me if we don’t Do It tomorrow, or whatever.

But he’s DEFINITELY interested in Doing It.

Someday.

AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

I should have known, of course. Because real men—even two-dimensional ones like the X-Men’s Wolverine, and the Beast from Beauty and the Beast and even Hellboy—ALL want to Do It. They may, you know, be polite about it. I mean, Wolverine might engage in witty repartee with Jean Grey while he lets Cyclops slobber all over her.

And the Beast might whirl Belle around that ballroom as if there is nothing on his mind but doing the box step.

But there is no getting around the fact that ultimately, deep down inside, ALL GUYS WANT TO DO IT.

I don’t know why I thought Michael might be different. I mean, I have seen Real Genius and Revenge of the Nerds. I should know perfectly well that even smart boys like sex. Or would like it, if they could find someone willing to have it with them.

And it’s not like either of us belong to a religion where it’s, like, against the law to Do It before you get married, or whatever. Well, I mean, Michael’s Jewish, but he’s not THAT Jewish. He eats BLTs all the time.

Still. I mean, SEX. That is a BIG step.

Which is what I said to Michael when we were making out in his room after dinner tonight. Not like, you know, he Made a Grab or anything. He’s never done that—although now I know he’s WANTED to. It’s just, you know, that someone’s always around. Except for tonight, because Lars was totally glued to the TV in the lounge with the rest of the sports freaks. And Doo Pak had gone to the library to see if he could find any girls who might be looking for a nerd-for-the-night.

But we came in from dinner and Michael put on some retro Roxy Music and pulled me onto his bed and we were kissing and stuff, and all I could think was, THERE ARE CONDOMS IN HIS MEDICINE CABINET and COLLEGE BOYS EXPECT THEIR GIRLFRIENDS TO DO IT and WENDELL JENKINS and CORN PRINCESS and I couldn’t concentrate on kissing and finally I just pulled away from him and went, “I AM NOT READY TO HAVE SEX.”

Which I have to say seemed to surprise him very much.

Not the part about me not being ready, but the part about even mentioning it.

Still, he seemed to get over it pretty quickly because after blinking a few times he just went, “Okay,” and went straight back to kissing me.

But this wasn’t very reassuring, because I couldn’t tell if he’d really heard me or not. And besides, Tina had said Michael and I really needed to have The Talk about this, and I figured if she could talk to Boris about it, I should be able to talk to Michael.

So, I pushed him away again and said, “Michael, we need to talk,” and he looked at me all confused and went, “About what?”

And I said—EVEN THOUGH IT WAS THE HARDEST THING I’VE EVER DONE, EVEN HARDER THAN THE TIME I HAD TO ADDRESS THE GENOVIAN PARLIAMENT ON THE PARKING METER ISSUE—“The condoms in your medicine cabinet.”

And he said, “The what?” and his eyes seemed all swirly and unfocused. Then he seemed to remember and went, “Oh, those. Yeah. Everybody got them. As we were moving in. In that welcome pack they handed everyone at check-in.”

And then his eyes seemed to get VERY focused—like laser beams—and he pointed them at me and went, “But even if I’d bought them, what’s the big deal? Is it wrong that I care about you and would want to protect you in the event we do make love?”

Which, of course, made me feel all melty inside, and it was VERY hard to remember that we were supposed to be having The Talk and not making out, especially when it occurred to me that:

As good as Michael’s neck smells, the rest of him might smell EVEN BETTER.

Which is all the more reason why I knew we had to hurry up and have The Talk.

“No,” I said, moving his hand away from mine, because I knew it would be even harder to concentrate on having The Talk if he was touching me. “I think that’s a good thing. It’s just that—”

And then it all came spilling out. What Lana had said in the jet line. Wendell Jenkins. What Lana said in the shower (not the part about it backing up, though. That was too gross.). Corn princess. The fact that I love him but I’m not sure I’m ready to Do It yet (I said I wasn’t sure, but of course, I AM sure. I just, you know, didn’t want to sound too harsh). The fact that condoms break (if it happened on Friends, it could happen in real life). My mother’s excessive fertility. EVERYTHING.

Because, you know, when you’re having The Talk, you have to put it ALL out there, or what’s the point?

Well, almost all of it, anyway. I kind of left out the part about how I’m not so jazzed about the whole nudity thing. Well, MY nudity. His I’d be totally fine with. Plus, you know, on TV sex looks kind of…well, difficult. What if I mess it up? Or turn out to be not good at it? He might dump me.

Only, you know. I didn’t mention any of that, or anything.

Michael listened to the whole speech with a very serious look on his face. He even at one point got up to turn the music down. It was only when I got to the part about not being sure I was ready to Do It yet that he finally said something, and that was, in a very dry tone, “Well, that’s not actually a big surprise to me, Mia.”

Which was a surprise to ME, anyway.

But when I went, “Really?” he said, “Well, you made it fairly obvious where things stood when you invited all of your girlfriends, and not me, over the minute you found out you had a hotel room all to yourself for the weekend.”

HELLO. This is so not true. First of all, Lilly and those guys invited THEMSELVES over. And secondly—

Well, okay, he was right about this part.

“Michael,” I said, feeling completely horrible. “I’m so, so sorry. I never even—I mean, I didn’t even—”

I felt so awful, I couldn’t even VERBALIZE it. I felt like a total jerk. Kind of like how I felt at dinner, when Michael was talking about his Sociology in Science Fiction class, and how in Orwell’s 1984, the Lottery is used as a way to control the masses, giving them false hope that they might one day be able to leave their dead-end jobs, and how in Fahrenheit 451, Montag’s wife is totally unsympathetic to his problems with setting books on fire for a living and how all she ever does is talk on the phone with her friends about some fictional TV show called the White Clown. I couldn’t help remembering that all Lilly and Tina and I ever talk about half the time is Charmed.

But, hello, how can you NOT talk about that show?

But maybe that’s all part of the government’s strategy to keep us from noticing what they’re up to with the clear-cutting of the national forests and the passing of laws that keep teens from being able to seek reproductive health care without their parents’ consent….

Besides, sometimes I think Michael won’t ever stop talking about the shows he likes, like 24 and, lately, 60 Minutes.

Anyway, I did my best to make it up to Michael about the whole not-inviting-him-over-to-the-hotel thing. I put my hand on his and gazed deeply into his eyes and said, “Michael, I really am sorry. Not just about that, either. But the whole…well, everything.”

But instead of saying he forgave me or anything like that, Michael just went, “Fine. The question is, when ARE you going to be ready?”

And I was like, “Ready for what?”

And he said, “It.”

It took me a minute to figure out what he meant.

And then, when it finally dawned on me, I turned bright red.

“Um,” I said.

Then I thought fast.

“How about after the prom,” I said, “on a king-sized bed with white satin sheets in a deluxe suite with Central Park views at the Four Seasons, with champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries upon arrival, and an aromatherapy bath for after, then waffles for two in bed the next morning?”

To which Michael replied, very calmly, “One, I’m never going to the prom again and you know it, and two, I can’t afford the Four Seasons—which you also know. So, why don’t you give that answer another try?”

Damn! Tina is so LUCKY to have a boyfriend she can push around. WHY isn’t Michael as malleable as BORIS?

“Look,” I said, desperately trying to think of some way to get out of the whole situation. Because it wasn’t going AT ALL the way I’d planned it in my head. In my head, I told Michael I wasn’t ready to Do It and he said okay and we played some Boggle and that was the end of it.

Too bad things never work out the way they do inside my head.

“Do I have to decide this right NOW?” I asked, deciding DELAY was the best strategy at this point. “I have a lot on my mind. I mean, it’s possible that at this very moment, my mom could be exposing Rocky to some very harmful stimuli, such as clog dancing, or even funnel cakes. And I have this debate thing on Monday…Did I mention that Grandmère and Lilly are working on it together? I mean, it’s like Darth Vader joining forces with Ann Coulter, only leftist. I’m telling you, I’m a wreck. Can I take a rain check on this whole thing?”

“Absolutely,” Michael said, with a smile that was so sweet, it made me want to lean over to kiss him….

Until he added, “But just so you know, Mia, I’m not going to wait around forever.”

This caused me to pause just as my lips were on the way to his.

Because he didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to wait around forever for my answer. Oh, no. He meant he wasn’t going to wait around forever to Do It.

He didn’t say it like it was a threat, or anything. He said it kind of lightly, even jokingly.

But I could tell it wasn’t really a joke. Because boys really do expect you to Do It. Someday.

I didn’t know what to say. Actually, I don’t think I could have spoken after that if I’d tried. Fortunately, I didn’t have to, because there was a knock on the door, and Lars’s voice called, “The game is over. It’s after midnight. Time to go, Princess,” which of course caused Michael and me to spring to separate sides of the room.

(I just asked Lars how he has such an uncanny knack for picking the wrong—or right, as the case may be—moment to interrupt me when I’m alone with Michael, and he went, “As long as I hear voices, I’m not worried. It’s when things get quiet I start to wonder what’s going on. Because—no offense, Your Highness—but you talk a lot.”)

Anyway. So that’s it.

Lana was right.

All boys want to Do It.

Including Michael.

My life is over.

The end.

Note to self: Call Mom and remind her that she is still breast-feeding and that even though she might FEEL like drinking a lot of gin and tonics, seeing as how she’s around her mother, this could be very dangerous to Rocky’s cognitive development at this point.Sunday, September 13, noon, my room, the Plaza

Why can’t my life be like the lives of the kids on The N? None of them are princesses. None of them created eco-disasters in their native lands by pouring ten thousand snails into the local bay. None of them have boyfriends who expect them to Do It someday. Well, actually, some of them do.

But still. It’s different when you’re on TV.Sunday, September 13, 1 p.m., my room, the Plaza

Why won’t everyone leave me alone? If I want to wallow in my own grief, that should be my prerogative. After all, I AM a princess.Sunday, September 13, 2 p.m., my room, the Plaza

I so wish I could talk to Michael right now. He called earlier, but I didn’t pick up. He left a message with the hotel operator that said, “Hey, it’s me. Are you still there, or have you gone home yet? I’ll try you there, too. Anyway, if you get this message, call me.”

Yeah. Call him. So he can break up with me for my reluctance to Do It with him. So not giving him the satisfaction.

I tried calling Lilly, but she’s not home. Dr. Moscovitz said she has no idea where her daughter is, but that if I hear from her, I should let her know that Pavlov needs walking.

I hope Lilly isn’t trying to secretly film through the windows of the Sacred Heart Convent again. I know she’s convinced those nuns are running an illegal methamphetamine lab in there, but it was kind of embarrassing the last time, when she sent the video footage to the Sixth Precinct and all it turned out to have on it was shots of the nuns playing bingo.

Oooooh, a Sailor Moon marathon…

Sailor Moon is so lucky to be a cartoon character. If I were a cartoon character, I’m sure I would have none of the problems I am having right now.

And even if I did, they would all be solved by the end of the episode.Sunday, September 13, 3 p.m., my room, the Plaza

Okay, this is just a violation of my personal rights. I mean, if I want to wallow in bed all day, I should be allowed to. If that’s what SHE felt like doing, and I went barreling into HER private room and told her to stop feeling sorry for herself and sat down and started yammering away at her, you can bet SHE never would have gone along with it. She’d just have thrown a Sidecar at me, or whatever.

But somehow it’s all right for HER to do that to me. Come barreling into my room, I mean, and tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself.

Now she’s dangling this gold necklace in front of me. It’s got a pendant almost as big as Fat Louie’s head swinging from it. There are jewels all over the pendant. It looks like something 50 Cent might wear on his night off, while he’s working out or just hanging with his homies, or something.

“Do you know what you are looking at here, Amelia?” Grandmère is asking me.

“If you’re trying to hypnotize me into not biting my nails anymore, Grandmère,” I said, “it won’t work. Dr. Moscovitz already tried.”

Grandmère ignored that.

“What you are looking at here, Amelia, is a priceless artifact of Genovian history. It belonged to your namesake, St. Amelie, the beloved patron saint of Genovia.”

“Um, sorry, Grandmère,” I said. “But I was named after Amelia Earhart, the brave aviatrix.”

Grandmère snorted. “You most certainly were not,” she said. “You were named after St. Amelie, and no one else.”

“Um, excuse me, Grandmère,” I said. “But my mom very definitely told me—”

“I don’t care what that mother of yours told you,” Grandmère said. “You were named after the patron saint of Genovia, pure and simple. St. Amelie was born in the year 1070, a simple peasant girl whose greatest love was tending to her family’s flock of Genovian goats. As she tended her father’s herd, she often sang traditional Genovian folk songs to herself, in a voice that was rumored to be one of the loveliest, most melodic of all time, much nicer than that horrible Christina Aguilera person you seem to like so much.”

Um, hello. How does Grandmère even know this? Was she alive in the year 1070? Besides, Christina has, like, a seven-octave range. Or something like that.

“One fine day when Amelie was fourteen years old,” Grandmère went on, “she was guarding the herd near the Italian/Genovian border, when she happened to spy, billeted in a copse, an Italian count and the army of hired mercenaries he’d brought with him from his nearby castle. Fleet of foot as the goats she so loved, Amelie stole near enough to the miscreants to discover their dire purpose in her beloved land. The count planned to wait until nightfall, then seize control of the Genovian palace and its populace, and add them to his own already sizeable holdings.

“A quick-thinking girl, Amelie hurried back to her flock. The sun was already low in its zenith, and Amelie knew she would not be able to return to her village and inform the villagers of the count’s dastardly plan until it was far too late, and he would already be on the move. And so instead, she began to sing one of her plaintive folk tunes, pretending to be oblivious of the scores of hardened soldiers just a few hillocks over….

“It was then that a miracle occurred,” Grandmère went on. “One by one, the loathsome mercenaries dropped off, lulled to sleep by Amelie’s lilting voice. And when finally the count, too, sunk into the deepest of slumbers, Amelie scurried back to his side, and—taking the little axe she kept with her for cutting away the brambles that often clung to the coats of her beloved goats—she whacked off the head of the Italian count, and held it high for his suddenly wakeful army to see.

“‘Let this be a warning to anyone who dares to dream of defiling my beloved Genovia,’ Amelie cried, waving the count’s lifeless skull.

“And with that, the mercenaries—terrified that this small, seemingly defenseless girl was an example of the kind of fighters they would encounter if they set foot on Genovian soil—gathered their things and rode quickly back whence they came. And Amelie, returning to her family with the count’s head as proof of her astonishing tale, was quickly hailed the country’s savior, and lived long and well in her native land for the rest of her days.”

Then Grandmère reached out and undid a latch on the pendant, causing the thing to spring open and reveal what was nestled inside….

“And this,” she said, all dramatically, “is all that remains of St. Amelie today.”

I looked at the thing inside the locket.

“Um,” I said.

“It’s all right, Amelia,” Grandmère said, encouragingly. “You may touch it. It’s a right reserved only for the Renaldo royal family. You may as well take advantage of it.”

I reached out and touched whatever was inside the locket. It looked—and felt—like a rock.

“Um,” I said again. “Thanks, Grandmère. But I don’t know how my touching some saint’s rock is supposed to make me feel better.”

“That is no rock, Amelia,” Grandmère said, scornfully. “That’s St. Amelie’s petrified heart!”

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THIS is what Grandmère busted in here to show me? THIS is how she tries to cheer me up? By having me pick up some dead saint’s petrified HEART????

WHY CAN’T I HAVE A NORMAL GRANDMA WHO TAKES ME TO SERENDIPITY FOR FROZEN HOT CHOCOLATE WHEN I’M DOWN, instead of making me fondle petrified body parts??????

And, okay, I GET it. I GET that I’m named after a woman who performed an incredible act of bravery and saved her country. I GET what Grandmère was trying to do: instill some of St. Amelie’s chutzpah into me in time for my big debate against Lana tomorrow.

But I’m afraid her plan totally backfired, because the truth is, except for a fondness for goats, Amelie and I have NOTHING in common. I mean, sure, Rocky stops crying when I sing to him. But it’s not like anybody’s rushing out to make me a saint.

Also, I highly doubt St. Amelie’s boyfriend was all “I’m not going to wait around forever.” Not if she still had that axe on her.

It’s all just so depressing. I mean, even my own grandmother thinks I can’t beat Lana Weinberger without divine intervention. That is just so nice.

Oh, great. Time to go home.Sunday, September 13, 9 p.m., the loft

I’m sooooooooo glad to be back. It feels like I’ve been gone for SO MUCH LONGER than just two days. Seriously. It feels like a YEAR since I last lay on this bed, with Fat Louie curled around my feet, purring his head off, and the dulcet tones of Lash in my ears, since I don’t have to listen for Rocky’s mournful cry, because my mom cured him of the crying-to-get-attention thing. Apparently, she did it by leaving him with Mamaw and Papaw to babysit while she and Mr. G went to a classic car show in the parking lot of the Kroger Sav-On, because that was the closest thing to a cultural event that was actually going on in Versailles this past weekend.

By the time they got home—four hours later—Mamaw and Papaw were still sitting exactly where they’d been when Mom and Mr. G left (in front of the TV, watching reruns of America’s Funniest Home Videos) and Rocky was sound asleep. All Mamaw said was, “Well, he’s got a set of lungs on him, I’ll say that fer’im.”

Anyway, Mom says Mr. G was a real trooper, and that if she hadn’t been sure he loved her before, she definitely knows it now, because no other man would willingly have put up with as many indignities as he endured on her behalf, one of which included riding on Papaw’s tractor (Mr. G says the closest to a tractor he’s ever been before is the Zamboni at a Rangers game). Mr. G says he was particularly impressed by the road signs he saw along the highway from the Indianapolis International Airport, urging him to repent his sins and be saved. Although, he reports that sadly, the Versailles County Bank appears to have taken down the IF BANK IS CLOSED, PLEASE SLIDE MONEY UNDER THE DOOR sign I loved so much.

I was very pleased to hear that they followed all of my advice and kept Rocky far away from hay threshers, copperhead snakes, and Hazel, Mamaw’s goat. Mom did say something about how it wasn’t actually necessary for me to have called every three hours to let them know that there was no cyclone activity on Doppler radar in their area, but that she appreciated my sisterly vigilance on Rocky’s behalf.

Later, while Mr. G was struggling to fit their suitcases back into the crawl space, I asked Mom if she’d happened to look up Wendell Jenkins, and she was all, “Why would I?”

“Because,” I said. “I mean, you loved him.”

“Sure,” Mom said. “Twenty years ago.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But you loved Dad fifteen years ago, and you see still see him.”

“Because I have a child with him,” my mom said, looking at me sort of strangely. “Believe me, Mia, if it weren’t for you, your dad and I probably wouldn’t have anything to do with each other. We’ve both moved on, just like Wendell and I moved on.”

Then my mom went on, “If I hadn’t met Frank, maybe I’d regret breaking up with Wendell or your dad. But I’m married to the man of my dreams. So, in answer to your question, Mia, no, I didn’t look up Wendell Jenkins this weekend.”

Wow. That is just…I don’t know. So nice. About Mr. G being the man of my mom’s dreams. I mean, I hope he realizes it. How lucky he is. Because whereas I strongly suspect there are a lot of women out there who might consider my dad, being a rich prince and all, the man of their dreams, I don’t think there are a whole lot of ladies who are going, “Hmmm, I wish I could meet a poor, flannel-shirt wearing, drum-playing Algebra teacher named Frank Gianini,” like my mom evidently did.

Anyway, that’s kind of nice. That both my mom and I are with the men of our dreams at the same time…

Except that mine is about to break up with me.

But would the man of my dreams REALLY tell me he’s not going to wait around for me forever? Wouldn’t the man of my dreams be willing to wait around for all ETERNITY to have me? I mean, look at Tom Hanks in the movie Cast Away. He TOTALLY waited for Helen Hunt. For FOUR years.

And okay, it’s not like he had much of a choice since there weren’t exactly any other girls running around on that island with him, but whatever.

Anyway, when I got home, I found a message from Michael on the answering machine. It was almost exactly like the one he’d left for me at the hotel, asking me to call.

And when I turned on my computer, there was an e-mail from him, too, saying basically the same thing he’d said in both phone messages: to call him.

No way am I falling for that one. I’m not calling him, just so he can break up with me.

Ooooooo nooooooooo Instant Message!

Let it be Michael.

No, don’t let it be Michael.

Let it be Michael.

No, don’t let it be Michael.

Let it be Michael.

No, don’t let it be Michael.

Let it be Michael.

ILUVROMANCE: Hey! It’s me!

Oh. It’s Tina.

FTLOUIE: Hi, T.

ILUVROMANCE: Just wanted to say thanx again for the GR8 time on Friday nite. It was SO MUCH fun.

FTLOUIE: OK. Thanks.

ILUVROMANCE: Hey, what’s the matter?

FTLOUIE: Nothing.

ILUVROMANCE: SOMETHING is the matter. You haven’t used a single exclamation point yet! What’s wrong? Did you and Michael have The Talk?

Sometimes I think Tina must be psychic.

FTLOUIE: Yes. And Tina, it was AWFUL. He totally shot down the idea of Doing It on prom night, and says he can’t afford the Four Seasons. He was nowhere NEAR as nice as Boris about it. He even said he wasn’t going to wait around for me forever!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

ILUVROMANCE: NO! He did NOT say that!!!!

FTLOUIE: He totally did!!! Tina, I don’t know what to do. My world is collapsing around me. It’s like Lana was TOTALLY RIGHT.

ILUVROMANCE: That is not possible, Mia. You must have misunderstood.

FTLOUIE: Believe me, I didn’t. Michael wants to Do It and isn’t going wait around forever for me to make up my mind about it, either. I can’t believe this. All this time, you know, I thought he was the man of my dreams!!!!

ILUVROMANCE: Mia, Michael IS the man of your dreams. But just because you’ve found your one true love doesn’t mean that your relationship isn’t going to be fraught with hardship from time to time.

FTLOUIE: It doesn’t?

ILUVROMANCE: Oh, gosh, no! The road to romantic bliss is filled with many potholes and speed bumps. People think that once they’ve found that special someone, everything is smooth sailing. But nothing could be farther from the truth. Good relationships only stay that way through hard work and personal sacrifice on the part of both participants.

FTLOUIE: Then…what should I do?

ILUVROMANCE: Well…I don’t know. How did you leave things?

FTLOUIE: Um, Lars banged on the door and said it was time for me to go home. And I haven’t spoken to Michael since.

ILUVROMANCE: Well, what are you doing sitting there writing to ME? Get on the phone and call Michael right now!!!

FTLOUIE: You really think I should?

ILUVROMANCE: I KNOW you should. Let him know how much you love him and how hard this is for you and how much you’re hurting inside. Then TALK to him, Mia. Remember, communication is the key.

FTLOUIE: Well, if you really think it’ll help, I guess I could—

WOMYNRULE: Hey, Mia. So tomorrow’s the big day. Are you ready?

FTLOUIE: Lilly, where have you been? Your mother was looking for you. You haven’t been messing around with those nuns again, have you? You know Sergeant McLinsky told you to leave them alone.

WOMYNRULE: For your information, little missy, I have spent the entire day working tirelessly on YOUR behalf. You are going to ACE that debate tomorrow, thanks to some info I was just able to independently confirm. Although, one of these days, I WILL bring those nuns down. They are up to no good in there, of THAT I can assure you.

FTLOUIE: Lilly, what are you talking about? What info? And your mother wants you to walk Pavlov.

WOMYNRULE: Already done. Hey, are you and my brother in a fight or something?

FTLOUIE: WHY???? DID HE ASK ABOUT ME????

WOMYNRULE: Well, that answers THAT question. And yes, he did ask if I’d heard from you. But right now I want you to put whatever personal differences you’re having with my brother OUT OF YOUR MIND. I need you to be at your best tomorrow for the BIG DEBATE. Go to bed early tonight—like right now, for instance—and eat a really good breakfast in the morning. AND THINK POSITIVE. There’s an abbreviated fourth period tomorrow, with an assembly in the gym for the debate. Then voting’s right after, at lunch. NO PRESSURE. But if you don’t do well at the debate, everything we’ve done so far—the posters, the networking at the soccer game, all of it—will have been for nothing.

FTLOUIE: NO PRESSURE??? Lilly, I’m under NOTHING BUT pressure!!!! The country over which I will one day rule is being kicked out of the EU. My grandmother made me touch a dead saint’s petrified heart. My boyfriend wants to Do It. My baby brother doesn’t need to be sung to anymore—

WOMYNRULE: My brother wants to WHAT???????

FTLOUIE: OMG. I didn’t mean to admit that.

WOMYNRULE: YOU CAN’T DO IT BEFORE I DO IT!!! I WILL KILL YOU!!!!

FTLOUIE: I AM NOT DOING IT. YET. I meant he WANTS to Do It. Someday.

WOMYNRULE: Oh, God. Then what’s the problem? ALL guys want to Do It, you should know that by now. Just tell him to cool his jets.

FTLOUIE: You can’t tell someone like your brother to cool his jets, Lilly. He is a MANLY man, and has a manly man’s needs. You wouldn’t tell BRAD PITT to cool his jets. No. Because BRAD PITT is a manly man. LIKE YOUR BROTHER.

WOMYNRULE: Okay, only you, Mia, would call my brother a manly man. But whatever. Don’t think about all that tonight. Tonight, just concentrate on getting a good night’s sleep so you can be fresh for the debate tomorrow morning. And don’t worry. You’re gonna knock ’em dead.

FTLOUIE: LILLY!!! WAIT!!! I CAN’T DO IT!!! THE DEBATE, I MEAN!!! YOU HAVE TO DO IT FOR ME!!! YOU’RE THE ONE WHO WANTS TO BE PRESIDENT ANYWAY!!!!!!!! I HAVE A FEAR OF PUBLIC SPEAKING!!!! NONE OF THE GREAT WOMEN OF GENOVIA HAVE BEEN GOOD IN FRONT OF CROWDS!!! WE’RE ONLY GOOD AT KILLING MARAUDERS!!! LILLY!!!!!!!!!!!!

WOMYNRULE: terminated

ILUVROMANCE: If it’s any consolation to you, Mia, I think you’ll do great tomorrow.

FTLOUIE: Thanks, Tina. But I have to go now. I think I’m going to be sick.Monday, September 14, 1 a.m.

I cannot do this. I canNOT do this. I am going to make the hugest fool of myself….

Why did I ever say I would do this?Monday, September 14, 3 a.m.

This isn’t fair. Haven’t I endured enough for one person in my lifetime? Why must total humiliation in front of my peers—once again—be added to it?Monday, September 14, 5 a.m.

Why won’t Fat Louie stop sleeping on my head?Monday, September 14, 7 a.m.

I’m going to die now.Monday, September 14, Homeroom

Really, if you think about it, I’m worrying for nothing. I mean, if the world really is going to end in ten to twenty years due to all of the accessible petroleum running out, you have to ask yourself, What’s the big deal?

And what about the ice caps melting? If that happens, New York won’t even exist anymore.

And the supervolcano in Yellowstone? Hello, nuclear WINTER.

And what about the killer algae? If my snails don’t work, the entire Mediterranean coast will be destroyed. It’s really only a matter of time before every seafloor in the entire world is carpeted with Caulerpa taxifolia. Life as we know it will cease, because there will no longer be any seafood…no shrimp scampi or lobster rolls or smoked salmon…since there won’t be any shrimp or lobster or salmon. Or anything else living in the ocean. Except killer algae.

Really, considering all of this, isn’t my debate with Lana just SLIGHTLY insignificant?Monday, September 14, PE

WHY did we have to start our section on volleyball today, of all days? I SUCK at volleyball. All that smacking the ball with the insides of your wrists…it really HURTS! I am totally going to have black-and-blue marks.

And also, I don’t appreciate Mrs. Potts’s little joke of making Lana and me team captains. Because, of course, it totally descended into a game of the Popular versus the Unpopular, with Lana picking Trisha and all of her heinous friends, and me picking Lilly and all of the uncoordinated rejects in the class, on account of, well, I knew LANA wasn’t going to pick them, and I didn’t want them to feel left out, because I KNOW what it’s like to be the last person picked for a team. It’s the most horrible feeling in the world, standing there while the person doing the picking flicks a glance your way, then moves coolly past you, as if you weren’t even THERE!

And, of course, Lana won the coin toss so she got to serve first, and she whacked that ball straight AT ME, I swear. Good thing I ducked, or it might have hit me and left a bruise.

And I don’t care if Mrs. Potts DOES say that’s the point. Hasn’t she heard of all those volleyball-related injuries that occur every year? How would SHE like to have an EYE put out by a BALL?

But then, of course, none of my teammates rushed forward to hit it, because clearly ALL of them knew the volleyball-to-eye-related-injury ratio as well as I did.

Needless to say, we lost every round.

Now Lana is prancing around the locker room in Ramon Riveras’s soccer shorts, talking about what a FABULOUS time they had this weekend after the game. Apparently, she and Ramon went sailing around Manhattan on her dad’s yacht. This is something she won’t be able to do when the ice caps melt, because Manhattan won’t exist anymore since it will be underwater, so I hope she appreciated it. Although I don’t think she did because she said they had a fun time throwing bottle caps overboard and watching the seagulls swoop down to try to eat them, not realizing they were bottle caps and not food.

Obviously, Lana is not very environmentally savvy if she doesn’t realize those bottle caps could choke a not particularly intelligent seagull or fish.

Then her dad took them to the Water Club, a restaurant I have always wanted to go to, but that will probably be going out of business soon if something isn’t done about the killer algae strangling all the other undersea plant life in the world.

Although, I highly doubt that Lana has ever once in her life thought about what’s going on UNDER the ocean. She only cares about what’s going on ON TOP of the water. As in, how she looks in a bikini.

Which, having seen her in a thong, I can honestly state is disgustingly good.

But that doesn’t make her a good person.

Why won’t someone shoot me?Monday, September 14, Geometry

Two more periods until I make a fool of myself in front of the entire school.

Indirect proof = assumption made at the beginning that leads to contradiction.

Contradiction indicates the assumption is false and the desired conclusion is true.

Because Lana is pretty, she must be nice. Because all things that are pretty are nice.

FALSE FALSE FALSE FALSE

Killer algae is pretty, but it is also deadly.

Postulate = a statement that is assumed to be true without proof.

I can pretty much postulate that I will lose today’s debate to Lana.

You know what? I think I might be getting the hang of this Geometry thing.

Oh, my God, wouldn’t it be weird if all this time, I thought I was good at one thing, and bad at another, and it turns out I was really bad at that one thing, and good at another????

Except…I don’t want to be a mathematician when I grow up. I want to be a WRITER. I want to be good at WRITING. I don’t WANT to be good at Geometry.

Well, okay, I want to be good at it. Just not, you know, SO good that I start winning all these Geometry prizes and everyone is all, “Mia! Mia! Solve this theorem!”

Because that would be boring.Monday, September 14, English

One more period until I make a fool of myself in front of the entire school.

Look at her. Who does she think she is, in those Samantha Chang slippers?

I know! She fully thinks she’s all that. You can so tell.

I bet she doesn’t even need those glasses. She probably just wears them to distract from the fact that she has horrible, squinty little eyes.

Totally. And those cargo pants. Hello.

SO last year. I think.

MIA!!! ARE YOU PUMPED???? You don’t look pumped. In fact, you look as crappy as you did in PE. Did you get ANY sleep at all last night?

How was I supposed to sleep, knowing, as I did, that today I’m going to get flayed alive in front of the entire student body—like that guy in Horatio Hornblower?

Nobody is going to get flayed alive. Except maybe Lana. Because you are going to flatten her.

LILLY! I’m NOT! I’m no good at public speaking, you KNOW that. And evolutionarily speaking, Lana has the advantage of both looks AND the fact that her sociopolitical group is the one to whom the rest of us willingly tithe.

What are you talking about?

Just trust me. I’m going to lose.

You aren’t. I have a secret weapon.

YOU’RE GOING TO SHOOT HER?????

No, Tina, you SPAZ, I am not going to shoot Lana during the debate. I have a little something up my sleeve that—if the student body looks unconvinced—I will pull out. But only if Mia looks as if she needs it.

I NEED IT!!!! I NEED IT!!!!

Patience, my young padawan.

Lilly, PLEASE, if you know something, you’ve got to tell me, I’m DYING here. Between your brother and this and the snails, I’m completely fried—

Mia! She wants to see you! In the hallway!

Breathe. Just breathe. And you’ll be all right. Just like Drew in Ever After.

That’s easy for you to say, Lilly. She didn’t stomp all over YOUR dreams.Monday, September 14, third-floor stairwell

Who does she think she is? I mean, REALLY? Does she think just because I’m BLONDE (well, okay, dishwater blonde, but still) and a PRINCESS that I’m STUPID, too?

If so, she’s going to have to WORK ON THAT POSTULATE.

“Mia,” she said, after dragging me out into the hallway “so we can talk” in front of EVERYONE. “I’ve spoken with your father. He came in on Friday to talk to me about your schoolwork. Mia, I had no idea you were so upset over your grades in my class. You should have said something—”

Um, hello, I believe I did. I asked to rewrite the paper. Remember, Ms. Martinez?

“You know you can come talk to me about anything, anytime.”

Um, oh, okay. Can I talk to you about how worried I am about Britney’s too-hasty marriage and subsequent leave of absence from the entertainment industry? No, I don’t believe I can, can I, Ms. Martinez. Because you don’t like slick popular culture references.

“I know I’m a harsh grader, Mia, but really, a B is a very good grade for my class. I’ve only given out one A so far this semester—”

Um, I know, because I saw it. On Lilly’s writing sample.

“The only reason I didn’t feel comfortable giving you an A is because I still don’t think you’re working up to your potential. You’re a very talented writer, Mia, but you need to apply yourself, and stick to topics that are a little more substantive than Britney Spears.”

THIS is what’s wrong with this school. That people don’t understand that Britney Spears IS a substantive topic! She is a human barometer by which the mood of the country can be determined. When Britney does something outrageous, people reach excitedly for their copies of Us Weekly and In Touch magazines. Britney gives us all something to look forward to. Yes, there might be murders and natural disasters and other downers in the news. But then there’s Britney, French-kissing Madonna on the MTV Video Music Awards, and suddenly, things don’t seem quite so bad as they did before.

I guess my outrage must have shown on my face, because a second later, Ms. Martinez was all, “Mia? Are you all right?”

But I didn’t say anything. Because what COULD I say?

Great. The late bell for fourth period just went off. I’m going to get a tardy from Mademoiselle Klein when I finally get to French.

Not that I care. What’s a tardy compared to what’s going to happen to me in precisely forty minutes in front of the WHOLE SCHOOL?Monday, September 14, French

0 periods until I make a fool of myself in front of the entire school.

WHERE WERE YOU???? YOU MISSED IT!!!!

Missed what? What are you talking about, Shameeka? WAIT—Did everybody circle around Perin and chant “PULL DOWN YOUR PANTS”????

Of course not. But Mademoiselle Klein DID make us all read our histoires out loud, and we had to say our name first when we did it—you know, like, “Mon histoire, par Shameeka” and when we got to Perin, who said, “Mon histoire, par Perinne,” Mademoiselle Klein went, “You mean Perin,” and Perin went, “No, Perinne,” and Mademoiselle Klein went, “No, you mean Perin because Perin is the masculine for Perin and you’re a boy. Perinne is feminine,” and Perin went, “I know Perinne is feminine. I’M A GIRL.”

PERIN IS A GIRL???? OH, MY GOD!!!!! Poor Perin! How embarrassing! I mean, that Mademoiselle Klein thought he was a he. I mean, that she was a he. Well, you know what I mean. What did she do? Mademoiselle Klein, I mean?

Well, she apologized, of course. What else COULD she do? Poor Perin turned BRIGHT RED. I felt so sorry for her!

That’s okay, Shameeka. We’ll ask him—I mean her—to sit with us at lunch today. I saw her sitting by herself all last week, over by the guy who hates it when they put corn in the chili. I really think she needs us.

Oh! That’s such a good idea! You’re so good at things like that. Knowing how to make people feel better. It’s kind of like—

What?

Well, I was going to say it’s kind of like you’re a princess, or something. But you ARE a princess! So, of course, you’re good at that kind of thing. It’s kind of like your job.

Yeah. It kind of is, isn’t it?Monday, September 14, Principal Gupta’s office

You know what? I don’t even care. I don’t even care that I’m sitting here in the principal’s office.

I don’t care that Lana is sitting here beside me shooting me evil looks.

I don’t care that the lion head badge is hanging off my blazer by a few threads.

And I don’t care that the entire school is currently in the gym, waiting for us to arrive for our debate.

Where does she get off? That’s what I want to know. Lana, I mean. HOW DARE SHE??? It is one thing to pick on me, but it is QUITE another to pick on someone who is completely defenseless and not to mention NEW TO OUR SCHOOL.

If she thinks I’m going to stand idly by and just let her make fun of someone that way, she is sadly, sadly mistaken. Well, I suppose she realizes that, seeing as how I’m still holding a chunk of her hair. Although, I guess it’s not actually her hair, since it turned out to be a clip-on extension braid she’d added to show her school spirit (it’s a blue ribbon braided into a lock of fake blond hair).

Which would explain why it came out so easily in my hand when I lunged at her, intent on ripping out every strand of hair on her stupid head, after she told me to mind my own business and ripped off my AEHS Lions sew-on patch.

Still. I hope it hurt.

The sad thing is, she doesn’t know how lucky she is. I’d have inflicted a lot more damage if Lars and Perin hadn’t held me back.

Perin may have turned out to be a girl, but she’s a surprisingly strong one.

She’s also very well-mannered. As Principal Gupta was dragging me off to her office, I heard Perin call, “Thank you, Mia!”

And although I may be mistaken in this—I was still in a rage-fueled frenzy—I think a few people even applauded.

Except, of course, it would never occur to Principal Gupta that Lana might have done anything wrong. Please! She thinks the reason I lunged at Lana was “nerves” over the debate. Yeah, that’s right, Principal Gupta. It was nerves, all right. It had NOTHING to do with the fact that as we were coming out of French, Lana walked by, and leaned over to Perin and said, “HERMAPHRODITE.”

Or that I, in response, told Lana to shut her stupid mouth.

Or that Lana, in retaliation, reached out and yanked off my AEHS lion patch.

The part where I, totally instinctively, yanked off Lana’s clip-on braid was the only part Principal Gupta heard about.

Principal Gupta says I’m lucky she doesn’t suspend me on the spot. She says the only reason she’s not is because she knows I have a lot of problems at home right now (HELLO??? WHAT IS SHE TALKING ABOUT? THE SNAILS? THE FACT THAT I’M A BABY-LICKER? THAT MY BOYFRIEND WANTS TO DO IT SOMEDAY? WHAT?????).

She says she thinks it would be better for Lana and me to take out our differences with each other in a more civilized manner than brawling in the second-floor hallway. She’s making us go through with the debate after all. She says, “Mia, will you please lift your head out of that journal and pay attention to what I’m saying?”

Geez. What does she THINK I’m writing about? Star Wars fan fic?

Lana’s laughing, of course.

I don’t think she’d be laughing quite so hard if she found out that I happen to be named after someone who cut off another person’s head with an axe.Monday, September 14, the gym

Oh, God. How did I ever get into this? They’re ALL here. All ONE THOUSAND students at Albert Einstein High School, grades nine through twelve, sitting there in the bleachers in front of me, LOOKING at me, STARING at me, because there’s nothing else to stare at, except for Lana and the two podiums and this potted palm they pulled out to make it look homier or something—or maybe to provide me with oxygen if I start to pass out—and Principal Gupta, standing in between our two folding chairs like a referee at a prize fight.

I’m totally going to barf into the potted palm.

Principal Gupta is going on about how this is just a friendly debate so that Lana and I can let the voters know where we stand on the issues.

Friendly. Right. That’s why I’m still holding Lana’s braid in my hand.

And, hello, issues? There are ISSUES???? NOBODY TOLD ME THERE WERE GOING TO BE ISSUES!!!

I can see Lilly, her video camera pointed and ready, in the front row of bleachers—sitting with Tina and Boris and Shameeka and Ling Su and, oh, look, isn’t that sweet, Perin—signaling me. What is Lilly trying to tell me? She can’t be getting ready to pull out her secret weapon. Not yet, anyway. The debate hasn’t even started! What is she doing with her hands??? Why is she making that folding motion?

Oh, I get it. She wants me to sit up straight and stop writing in my journal. Yeah, fat chance, Lilly. I—

OH, MY GOD. That smell. I recognize that smell. Chanel Number Five. Only one person I know of wears Chanel Number Five—or at least slathers on so much of it that you can smell it for miles before she ever enters the room—

WHAT IS SHE DOING HERE????

Oh, God. Why ME? Seriously. They should NOT allow people’s families to just saunter onto school grounds whenever they feel like it. I would not have half the amount of problems I currently have if there was some kind of security at this school, keeping my parents and grandparents OUT of it—

Oh, no. Not my dad, too.

And Rommel.

Yes. My grandmother brought her DOG to my debate.

And a phalanx of reporters.

Good grief! Is that LARRY KING????

Great. All I need now is for my mom and Rocky to show up, and it’ll turn into a Thermopolis-Gianini-Renaldo family reunion—

Oh. And there she is. Waving Rocky’s little arm at me from the bleachers. Hi, Rocky! So glad you could come! So glad you could come watch your sister be totally and systematically annihilated by her mortal enemy—

Oh, no. It’s starting.

WHERE IS MICHAEL WHEN I NEED HIM????Monday, September 14, ladies’ room

Well, here I am. In the ladies’ room. How unusual.

I don’t think I’ll be coming out for awhile. A long, long while. As in…maybe never.

The whole thing was so surreal. I mean, I saw Principal Gupta tap on the microphone. I heard the murmuring from the people in the bleachers suddenly stop. Every single eye in the place was on us.

And then Principal Gupta welcomed everyone to the debate—making a special effort to thank Larry King for coming, with his cameras—and explained the importance of the student council, and the vital role the president plays in its governance. Then she said, “We have two very different young ladies—each with her own uniquely, er, strong personality—running for office today. I hope you will give them all your attention while each of our candidates tells us why she is suited to the role of president, and what she intends to do to make Albert Einstein High School a better place.”

And then—I guess as punishment for the whole braid-ripping-out thing—Principal Gupta let Lana go first.

The applause that went up as Lana swished her way to her podium could only be called thunderous. The whoops and catcalls, the chants of “La-na, La-na,” were almost deafening, especially since it was the gym, after all, and the sound really carried, what with the metal rafters.

Then Lana—looking coolly unconcerned over the fact that she was addressing a thousand of her peers, and another seventy-five or so members of the AEHS faculty and staff (if you count the lunch ladies), my entire family, and a number of CNN correspondents—began to speak.

Suffice it to say that what those thousand peers of hers wanted to hear—well, most of them, anyway—Lana gave them. Not surprisingly, Lana turned out to be a strong supporter of better cafeteria food, a longer lunch hour, larger mirrors in the girls’ bathrooms, less homework, more sports, guaranteed admission from the guidance office to such Ivy League schools as AEHS graduates might want to attend, and more diet and low-carb options in the candy and soda machines. She was against the outdoor security cameras, and vowed to have them removed. She promised a cheering student populace that if they elected her as president, she would make all of these things happen….

…even though I happen to know that she can’t. Because those security cameras may infringe upon the rights of the people who like to smoke outside the school and litter the steps with their gross cigarette butts, but mostly they help keep the school safe from vandalism and break-ins.

And the food distributor for the cafeteria is the same one that services all the schools—and hospitals—in the area, and offers the lowest prices for the highest quality food that can be found in the tri-state area.

And if the trustees approve a longer lunch period, they’ll have to shorten classes, which are already only fifty minutes.

And where does Lana think she’s going to get the money for bigger mirrors in the ladies’ room? And has she considered the facts that:

less homework will leave us less prepared for the college courses some of us might want to take later on?

more sports will result in less money for enrichment programs in the arts?

no one can be guaranteed admission to an Ivy League school, not even people whose parents went there?

our choices in the candy and soda machines are limited to what the vendors are able to offer?

Obviously not.

But I guess that didn’t matter to her. Or to her constituents, since by the time she finished, they were screaming their heads off, and pounding their feet on the bleachers to show their approval. I saw Ramon Riveras stand up and whip his school blazer around his head a few times to pump the crowd up even more.

Principal Gupta looked a little tight-lipped as she stepped up to the microphone and said, “Er, um, thank you, Lana. Mia, would you like to respond?”

I thought I was going to barf. I really did. Although, I don’t know what I possibly could have thrown up, since I hadn’t been able to eat breakfast this morning, and only had five Starbursts Lilly had given me, half a Bit-O-Honey mooched off Boris, three Tic Tacs from Lars, and a Coke in my system.

But as I started walking toward that podium—my knees shaking so badly, I’m surprised they even managed to hold me up—something happened. I don’t know what, exactly. Or why.

Maybe it was the intermittent booing.

Maybe it was the way Trisha Hayes pointed at my combat boots and snickered.

Maybe it was the way Ramon Riveras cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, “PIT! PIT!” in a manner that could hardly be called flattering.

But as I looked out at the sea of humanity before me, and saw bobbing amidst it Perin’s bright and shining face, as she clapped her guts out for me, it was like the ghost of my ancestress, Rosagunde, the first princess of Genovia, took over my body.

Either that, or my patron saint Amelia did some swooping down from the clouds to lend me some of her axe-wielding ’tude.

In any case, even though I still wanted to barf, and all, when I got to the podium, and remembered the way Grandmère had harangued me about leaning my elbows on it, I did something totally unheard of in the history of student council presidential debates at Albert Einstein High School:

I ripped the microphone off its stand, and, holding it in my hand, went to stand in FRONT of the podium.

Yeah. In front. So there was nothing for me to shield my body behind.

Nowhere for me to hide.

Nothing separating me from my audience.

And then, when they fell into stunned silence because of this unusual move, I said—not having the slightest idea where the sudden tide of words flowing from me was coming from—“‘Give me your tired, your poor/Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.’ That’s what it says on the Statue of Liberty. That’s the first thing millions of immigrants to this country saw when they stepped onto its shores. A statement assuring them that into this great melting pot of a nation, all would be welcome, regardless of socioeconomic status, what color hair she has, who she might be dating, whether she waxes, shaves, or goes au naturel, or whether or not she chooses to play a sport.

“And isn’t a school a melting pot unto itself? Aren’t we a group of people thrown together for eight hours a day, left to fend as best we can?

“But, despite the fact that we here at Albert Einstein are a nation unto ourselves, I don’t exactly see us acting like one. All I see are a bunch of people who’ve split off into cliques for their own protection, and who are totally afraid to let anybody new—any of the huddled masses, yearning to breathe free—into their precious, selective little group.

“Which totally sucks.”

I let this sink in for a minute, as before me, I saw a ripple of disbelief pass over my audience. Larry King murmured something into Grandmère’s ear.

But it was like I didn’t even care. I mean, I still felt like projectile vomiting all over the jocks, who were sitting directly in front of me.

But I didn’t. I just kept going. Like…

Well, like St. Amelie.

“History has tried and rejected many forms of government over time, including governance of divine right, something this country abolished hundreds of years ago.

“And yet for some reason, at this school, the divine right of governance still seems to exist. There’s a certain set of people who seem to believe they have an inherent right to office, because they are more attractive than the rest of us—or better at sports—or get invited to more parties than we do.”

As I said this, I looked very pointedly back at Lana, then eyed Ramon and Trisha, too, for good measure. Then I looked back at the crowd before me, most of whom were staring at me with their mouths open—and not, like Boris, because of deviated septums, either.

“These are the people who are at the top of the evolutionary ladder,” I went on. “The people with the nicest complexions. The people with the bodies that are shaped most like the models we see in magazines. The people who always have the hottest new bag or sunglasses. The popular people. The people who want to make you wish you were more like them.

“But I’m standing here before you today to tell you that I’ve been there. That’s right. I’ve been to the popular side. And guess what? It’s all a scam. These people, who act as if they have a right to govern you and me, are completely unqualified for the job due to the simple fact that they don’t believe in the most fundamental precepts of our nation, and that’s that we are ALL CREATED EQUAL. Not a single one of us is better than any other person here. And that includes any princesses who might be in the room.”

This got a laugh, even though the truth is, I wasn’t trying to be funny. Still, the laugh made me feel a little less like barfing for some reason. I mean…I had made people laugh.

And not, you know, AT me. But at something I’d said. And not in a mocking way, either.

I don’t know. But that felt kind of…cool.

And suddenly, even though I could still feel my palms sweating, and my fingers shaking, I felt…good.

“Look,” I said. “I am not going to stand up here and promise you a bunch of junk you and I both know I can’t deliver.” I looked back at Lana, who had crossed her arms over her chest, and now made a face at me. I turned back to the crowd. “Longer lunch periods? You know the board of trustees will never approve that. More sports? Is there anyone here who really feels his or her sports needs aren’t being met?”

A few hands shot up.

“And is there anyone here who feels that his or her creative or educational needs aren’t being met? Anybody here who thinks that this school needs a literary magazine, or new digital video, photography, and editing technology for the Film and Photography clubs, or a kiln for the art department, or a new stage-lighting system for the Drama Club more than we need a soccer district championship trophy?”

Many, many more hands shot up.

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s what I thought. There is a real problem in this school, and that’s that for too long, a group that is in the minority has been making decisions for the majority. And that is just wrong.”

Someone whooped. And I don’t even think it was Lilly.

“Actually,” I said, encouraged by the whoop, “it’s more than just wrong. It’s a total violation of the principles upon which this nation was founded. As the philosopher John Locke put it, ‘Government is legitimate only to the extent that it is based on the consent of the people being governed.’ Are you really going to give your consent to the privileged few to make your decisions for you? Or are you going to entrust those decisions to someone who actually understands you, someone who shares your ideals, your hopes, and your dreams? Someone who will do her very best to make sure YOUR voice, and not the voice of the so-called popular minority, is heard?”

At this there was another whoop, and this one came from way on the other side of the bleachers—definitely not one of my friends.

The second whoop was followed by a third. And then there was a smattering of applause. And a voice that shouted, “Go, Mia!”

Whoa.

“Um, thank you, Mia.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Principal Gupta take a step toward me. “That was very enlightening.”

But I pretended like I hadn’t heard her.

That’s right. Principal Gupta was giving me the okay to sit down—to get out of the limelight—to shrink back down into my chair.

And I blew her off.

Because I had some more stuff to get off my unendowed chest.

“But that’s not all that’s wrong with this school,” I said into the microphone, enjoying the way it made my voice bounce around the gym.

“How about the fact that there are people working here—people who call themselves teachers—who seem to feel that theirs is the only legitimate form of expression? Are we really going to tolerate being told by instructors in a field as subjective as something like—oh, English, for example—that the subject matter of our essays is inappropriate because it might be considered—by some—not substantive enough in topical importance? If, for instance, I choose to write a paper about the historical significance of Japanese anime or manga, is my paper worth less than someone else’s essay on the caldera in Yellowstone Park that might one day explode, killing tens of thousands of people?

“Or,” I added, as everyone started buzzing because they didn’t know that Yellowstone Park is nothing more than a deadly magma reservoir and probably a lot of them have been unknowingly going there on family vacations and whatnot, “is my paper on Japanese anime or manga JUST AS IMPORTANT as the paper on the caldera at Yellowstone, because knowing as we do now, that such a caldera exists, we need something entertaining—such as Japanese anime or manga—to get our minds off it?”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then someone from somewhere in the middle of the bleachers yelled, “Final Fantasy!” Someone else yelled, “Dragonball!” Another person, from way at the top, shouted, “Pokémon!” and got a big laugh.

“Maybe things like the lottery and television were invented to sell products, bilk workers of their hard-earned cash, and lull us all into a false sense of complacency, and distract us from the true horrors of the world around us. But maybe we NEED those distractions, so that during our leisure time, we can enjoy ourselves,” I went on. “Is there something wrong with, after our work is done, hanging out and watching a little of The OC? Or singing karaoke? Or reading comic books? Does something have to be complicated and hard to understand to be culture? A hundred years from now, after we’re all dead from the Yellowstone caldera, or the ice caps melting, or no more petroleum, or killer algae taking over the planet, when whatever remains of human civilization looks back at early twenty-first century society, which do you think is going to better describe what our lives were really like—an essay on the ways in which the media exploits us, or a single episode of Sailor Moon? I’m sorry, but as far as I’m concerned, give me anime, or give me death.”

The gym exploded.

Not because the Computer Club had finally succeeded in building a killer robot and setting it loose among the cheerleaders.

But because of what I’d said. Really. Because of what I, Mia Thermopolis, had said.

The thing was, though, I wasn’t finished.

“So, today,” I said, having to shout to be heard over the applause, “when you’re casting your vote for student council president, ask yourself this question: What is meant by ‘the people’ in the phrase ‘governance of the people, by the people’? Does it mean the privileged few? Or the vast majority of us who were born without a silver pom-pom in our mouths? Then vote for the candidate who you feel most represents you, the people.”

And then, my heart slamming into my ribs, I turned, tossed Principal Gupta the microphone, and ran from the gym. To thunderous applause.

And into the safety of this bathroom stall.

The thing is, I feel so WEIRD. I mean, I have never in my life stood up and done anything like that. Well, except for the parking meter thing, but that was different. I wasn’t asking people to support ME. I was asking them to support less damage to the infrastructure and higher revenue. That was kind of a no-brainer.

This, though.

This was different. I was asking people to put their trust—their vote—in me. Not like in Genovia, where that support is kind of automatic because, um, there IS no other princess. It’s just me. What I say goes. Or will, you know, when I take over the throne.

Uh-oh. I hear voices in the hallway. The debate must be over. I wonder what Lana said in her rebuttal. I probably should have stuck around to rebut her rebuttal. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

Oh, no. I hear Lilly—Monday, September 14, G&T

Well, that was fun. Lunch, I mean. Everybody kept stopping by our table to congratulate me, and tell me I had their vote. It was kind of cool. I mean, not just people from my clique—the Nerds—but the Sk8terbois, and the Punks, and the Drama kids and even a few of the Jocks. It was bizarre to be talking to all these people who normally look right past me in the hallway.

And all of a sudden, it was like they wanted to sit at MY lunch table, for a change.

Only they couldn’t, because now that Perin’s sitting there, in addition to the regular crowd, there’s no more room.

We were a particularly festive bunch today on account of a couple of pieces of good news—at least, I thought it was good news. And that’s that after I ran from the gym, and Lana attempted a rebuttal, she was booed down, and couldn’t even get a word in edgewise. Principal Gupta had to turn up the sound system until the feedback became so unbearable that people finally calmed down. And by then Lana had left the gym in tears (Serves her right. I don’t know how I’m going to get my school patch back on. My mom certainly doesn’t sew. Maybe I can ask Grandmère’s maid).

But that’s not the only good thing that happened. After Lilly finally managed to drag me out of the bathroom, I ran into my mom and dad and Grandmère. Mom gave me a big hug—and Rocky beamed at me—and told me I’d done her proud.

But Dad had the really big news. He’d heard from the Royal Genovian Naval Scuba Squad, and the Aplysia depilans have actually started eating the killer algae! Really and truly! They’ve already polished off thirty-seven acres practically overnight, and will probably eradicate the entire crop by October, when the waters of the Mediterranean will become too cold to support them, and they’ll die.

“But that’s all right,” Dad said, smiling at me. “I’ve already introduced a bill to parliament that calls for another ten thousand snails to be transported to the bay next spring, if any of our neighboring countries’ algae creeps into our territory.”

I could barely believe my ears.

“So, does this mean we aren’t going to be voted out of the EU?” I asked.

My dad looked shocked.

“Mia,” he said. “That was never going to happen. Well, I mean, I know a few countries might have wanted us ejected from the EU. But I believe they’re the same ones who caused this ecodisaster in the first place. So, no one was actually giving their calls for our expulsion serious consideration.”

Now he tells me. Nice one, Dad. Like I wasn’t up all night, worrying about this. Well, among other things.

It was right about then that I noticed Ms. Martinez standing there, too, looking kind of…well, sheepish is the only way I can think of to describe it.

“Mia,” she said, when I’d finally stopped hugging my dad (in my joy at hearing that my snails had saved the bay). “I just want to say that that was a great speech. And that you’re right. Popular culture isn’t necessarily lacking in value or merit. It has its place, just like high culture. I’m very sorry if I made you feel that the things you enjoy writing about were less worthy than more serious subjects. They aren’t.”

Whoa!!!!

The fact that my dad was kind of giving Ms. Martinez the old eye as all this was going on kind of diminished my joy over my victory somewhat, however.

But whatever. I think it’s highly unlikely my dad’s going to start dating someone who actually knows what a gerund is. His last girlfriend thought gerunds were mean, foul-smelling rodents.

Speaking of which, Grandmère came up to me right after that and took me by the arm and led me a little bit away from everyone.

“You see, Amelia,” she said, in a raspy, Sidecar-scented whisper. “I told you that you could do it. That was inspired in there. Truly inspired. I almost felt as if the spirit of St. Amelie was among us.”

The freaky thing about this was—I’d kind of felt the same thing.

But I didn’t say so. Instead, I said, “So, uh, Grandmère? What’s this secret weapon you and Lilly came up with? And when are you going to launch it?”

But she just lifted my half-torn-off AEHS patch between her thumb and index finger and said, “What happened to your coat? Really, Amelia, can’t you take better care of your things? A princess really ought not to walk about looking like such a slattern.”

But anyway. The whole thing was still pretty cool. Especially the part where Grandmère said she had to cancel our princess lesson for the day so she could go have a facial. Apparently, all the stress of helping Lilly with the election has caused her pores to expand.

All in all, it was almost enough to make me think things—I don’t know—might actually go my way for a change.

But then I remembered Michael. Who, by the way, hasn’t once called or even text messaged me today, to say good luck on the debate, or ask how I’d done, or anything. In fact, I haven’t talked to him at all since the whole Doing It talk.

And I’ll admit, that talk didn’t actually go as well as I’d hoped it would.

But still. You’d think he’d call. Even if, you know, I’m the one who hasn’t returned HIS calls or e-mails.

Boris is playing “God Save the Queen” on his violin on my behalf. I told him it’s a little early for that. After all, the votes collected over lunch are still being tabulated. Principal Gupta’s going to make the announcement over the loudspeaker last period.

Lilly just went, all softly, to me, “Then, when you win, next week you can make an announcement of your own. You know, about your stepping down, and leaving the presidency to me.”

Huh. Isn’t it funny? But up until that moment, I had kind of forgotten about that part of our plan.Monday, September 14, U.S. Government

Mrs. Holland congratulated me on my speech today, and said it made her proud. PROUD! OF ME!!! A teacher is proud of me!!!

ME!!!!!!!Monday, September 14, Earth Science

Kenny just said the strangest thing to me. Just blurted it right out, as we were drawing our diagrams of the Van Allen radiation belts.

“Mia,” he said. “I want to tell you something. You know my girlfriend, Heather?”

“Yeeee-ah,” I said, reluctantly, because I thought he was getting ready to tell me another long boring story about Heather’s gymnastic prowess.

“Well.” Kenny’s face turned red as the radiation belt I was coloring. “I made her up.”

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yes, that is right. Kenny has spent the past five days telling me MADE-UP stories about his MADE-UP girlfriend, Heather. A girlfriend who, I will admit, I actually felt threatened by! Because she’s so perfect! I mean, blond and sporty AND she gets straight A’s????

Actually, now that I think about it, I should probably be grateful Heather turns out not to be real. She was making me feel pretty inadequate, to tell the truth.

But anyway. I just looked at him and was like, “Kenny. Why would you do that?”

And he said, all shamefaced, “I just couldn’t stand it, you know? You having this whole perfect princess life, with Michael, your perfect princely boyfriend. It…I don’t know. It just got to me.”

Yeah. Right. My perfect life. My perfect princess life, with Michael, my perfect princely boyfriend. Let me tell you something, Kenny. You want to know how NOT perfect my perfect princess life is? My perfect princely boyfriend is getting ready to dump me, because I don’t want to Do It. How’s that for perfect, Kenny?

Except, of course, I couldn’t say that. Because that’s none of Kenny’s business. Also, because I don’t much want the whole Michael-wants-to-Do-It thing getting around school. Thanks to the many movies based—however loosely—on my life that are floating around out there, enough people already think they know everything there is to know about me. I don’t need any MORE info leaking out.

But whatever. I just assured Kenny that my life isn’t as perfect as he might think. That, in fact, I have a LOT of problems, among them the fact that I am a baby-licker and very nearly got my own country kicked out of the EU.

Surprisingly, this information seemed to cheer him up excessively. So much so, in fact, that I’m feeling kind of annoyed.

Wha—

Oh, no. The classroom loudspeaker just crackled. Principal Gupta is coming on to announce the results of today’s votes.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

Here it is:

Lana Weinberger, three hundred fifty nine votes.

Mia Thermopolis, six hundred forty one votes.

Oh, my God.

OH, MY GOD.

I’M THE NEW STUDENT COUNCIL PRESIDENT OF ALBERT EINSTEIN HIGH.Monday, September 14, 5 p.m., Ray’s Pizza

Okay. That was…that was just totally surreal.

I don’t even know how else to describe it. I’m in a total and complete daze. Still. And it’s been two hours since Principal Gupta declared me the winner. And I’ve had half a plain cheese pizza and three Cokes since then.

And I’m STILL in shock.

Maybe it’s not so much winning the election as it is what happened after I found out I won the election. Which was…

…a LOT, actually.

First off, everyone in my Earth Science class, including Kenny, started jumping all over the place, congratulating me, then asking me if I could please ask the trustees to buy the bio lab electrophoresis kits, something for which they’d unsuccessfully lobbied the last president.

So, obviously, in no time at all, I understood the full weight of the responsibility I would bear as president.

And…

I welcomed it.

I know. I KNOW.

I mean, like it’s not enough I’m

the princess of Genovia

sister to a defenseless infant whose mother and father are somewhat lacking in the parenting department, if you know what I mean

a budding writer who still has to get through sophomore Geometry this year

a teen, with all that that word implies, such as mood swings, insecurities, and the occasional zit

in love with a college boy.

Now I’m actually entertaining the idea of being all that, AND president of my school student council???

But. Well. Yeah.

Yeah, I am. Because winning that election against Lana?

That totally RULED.

But anyway. That was just the FIRST thing that happened.

The next thing was that after the bell rang, letting us out for the day, I was making my way down to my locker—slowly…very slowly, because everyone kept stopping me to congratulate me—when I ran into Lilly, who leapt into my arms (even though I’m a lot taller than she is, she still weighs more. She’s lucky I didn’t drop her. But I guess I had, like, that adrenaline thing you get when your baby is stuck under a car or you win the presidency of your school’s student council, or something, since I was able to hold on to her until she climbed down again).

Anyway, Lilly was all, “WE DID IT!!! WE DID IT!!!!”

And then Tina and Boris and Shameeka and Ling Su and Perin showed up, and started jumping up and down along with us. Then, we all made our way down to my locker, singing that “We Are the Champions” song.

Then, as everybody else was chatting excitedly, and I was working the combination to my locker, I noticed something very odd going on at the locker next door to mine. And that was that Ramon Riveras, flanked by Principal Gupta and Lana Weinberger’s DAD, of all people, was taking everything—and I do mean EVERYTHING—out of his locker, and putting it glumly in his gym bag.

And standing a little ways behind him, tears streaming down her face, was Lana, who kept stomping her foot and going, “But, Daddy, WHY???? Why, Daddy, WHY???”

Except that Dr. Weinberger wasn’t answering her. He just stood there, looking very solemn, until Ramon had gotten the last of his stuff out of the locker. Then Principal Gupta said, “Very well. Come along.”

And she, Ramon, Dr. Weinberger, and Lana all trailed back to the principal’s office.

But not before Lana swung a decidedly nasty look over her shoulder at me, and hissed, “I’ll get you back for this if it’s the last thing I do! You’ll be sorry!”

I thought she meant she’d get back at me for winning the election over her. But when Shameeka went, “Hey, where are they taking Ramon?” Lilly smiled in an evil way and said, “The airport, probably.”

While we all asked, in a chorus, what she was talking about, Lilly said, “My secret weapon. Only after that speech you gave, Mia, I knew we didn’t need it. Looks like that grandmother of yours dropped the dime on the Weinbergers anyway, even though she didn’t have to. I have to hand it to that Clarisse. She is one old dame you don’t want to get on your bad side.”

Since this didn’t exactly clear the matter up any—at least as far as I was concerned—I asked Lilly just what the heck she was talking about, and she explained. It turns out that day at the soccer game, when Lilly had been sitting behind Lana’s parents, she’d totally eavesdropped on their conversation, and found out that Ramon is a ringer!

Yes! He is already a high school graduate! He graduated last year, back in his native Brazil, where he’d led his school district to claim the national championship! Dr. Weinberger and a couple of the other trustees got the brilliant idea to PAY him to come to this country and enroll at AEHS, so we’d have a chance at actually winning some games for a change.

Lilly and Grandmère had planned on using this information as part of a smear campaign against Lana, in the event that it looked as if, after the debate, she was going to win.

But my pulling out Sailor Moon and that John Locke quote convinced them I had the election in the bag. So, Grandmère ended up not calling Principal Gupta’s office to tell her about Ramon until after the election results were announced.

I must say, this information caused me to look at Lilly in a new light. I mean, I’ve always known that Lilly is capable of some underhanded things. And I’m not saying the Weinbergers had a right to use poor Ramon that way, or to dupe the other trustees.

But, geez! I would not want to be on the wrong side of Lilly—much less Grandmère—in a fight.

Lilly was standing there looking all pleased with herself while everyone else patted her on the back and said what a cool thing she had done.

And I guess it was cool, in a way, if you agree—which I most definitely do—that anything that makes Lana cry is a good thing.

“So,” Lilly said, when I’d gotten all my stuff together and was standing there, ready to go. “Since Clarisse let you out of princess hell for the day, want to go celebrate OUR victory?”

She put a very significant emphasis on the word OUR that only a moron would have missed.

I got it, all right.

And felt my stomach lurch.

“Um,” I said. “Yeah, Lilly. About that. Something kind of happened when I was giving that speech today….”

“You’re telling me something happened,” Lilly said, patting me on the back. “You struck a blow for unpopular kids everywhere, is what happened while you were giving that speech today.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know. About that. I just don’t know how I feel about it now. I mean, Lilly, don’t you think your plan is kind of unfair? Those people voted for me. I’m the one they expect—”

I saw Lilly’s eyes widen at something she saw behind my back.

“What’s HE doing here?” she wanted to know. Then, to whoever was standing back there, she said, “In case you forgot, you GRADUATED, you know.”

Something gripped my heart at her words. Because I knew—just KNEW—who she was talking to.

The LAST person I wanted to see just then.

Or maybe the person I MOST wanted to see just then.

It all depended on what he had to say to me.

Slowly, I turned around.

And there stood Michael.

I guess it would sound superdramatic to say that everything else in the hallway seemed to vanish, until it was as if it was only Michael and me alone, standing there, just looking at each other.

If I wrote that in a story, Ms. Martinez would probably write CLICHÉ on it, or something.

Except, that it’s NOT a cliché. Because that’s really what it was like. Like there was no one else in the whole world except us two.

“We need to talk,” is what Michael said to me. No Hello. No Why didn’t you call me? or Where have you been? And certainly no kiss.

Just We need to talk.

And those four words were all it took to make my heart feel as shriveled and hard as St. Amelie’s.

“Okay,” I said, even though my mouth had gone completely dry.

And when he turned around to leave the school, I followed him, after throwing a warning glance over my shoulder—letting Lars know to stay FAR behind me, and Lilly know there wasn’t going to be any celebrating.

At least, not just yet.

Lars took it like the professional he is. But I heard Lilly scream, “Fine! Go with your BOYFRIEND! See if we care!”

But Lilly didn’t know. Lilly didn’t know about how shriveled and small my heart had suddenly gotten. Lilly didn’t know that I suspected that my life—my perfect princess life—was about to explode into fifty billion pieces. That supervolcano under Yellowstone? Yeah, when that thing finally blows, it’ll be NOTHING in comparison.

I followed Michael down the steps of the school—right under the watchful eye of the security cameras—and away from the crowds gathered around Joe. I followed him across two avenues, neither of us saying a word. I certainly wasn’t going to speak first.

Because everything was different now. If he was going to break up with me because I wouldn’t Do It—well, I didn’t care.

Oh, I CARED, of course. My heart was breaking ALREADY, and all he’d said was, “We need to talk.”

But, hello. I am the princess of Genovia. I am the newly elected president of the AEHS student council.

And NO ONE—not even Michael—is going to tell me when to Do It.

Finally, we got here—to Ray’s Pizza. The place was empty because school hadn’t been out long enough for it to fill up, and it was way past lunchtime, and not quite dinner.

Michael pointed to a booth and said, “You want a pie?”

“We need to talk.”

“You want a pie?”

That’s all he’d said to me so far.

I said, “Yes.” And because my mouth still felt as dry as sand, I added, “And a Coke.”

He went to the counter and ordered both. Then he came back to the booth, slid into the seat across from mine, looked me in the eye, and said, “I saw the debate.”

This was NOT what I’d expected him to say.

It was SO not what I’d expected him to say, that my jaw dropped. I didn’t remember to shut my mouth again until I felt cool, pizza-scented air on my tongue, and realized I was breathing out of my mouth, just like Boris.

I snapped my mouth shut. Then I asked, “You were there?”

AND YOU DIDN’T COME UP AND SAY HI??????????? Only I didn’t say that last part.

Michael shook his head.

“No,” he said. “It was on CNN.”

“Oh,” I said. Seriously, who else but ME would get their school debate aired on CNN?

And who else but MY BOYFRIEND would happen to catch its broadcast?

“I liked what you said about Sailor Moon,” he said.

“You DID?” I don’t know why this came out so squeaky.

“Yeah. And the John Locke quote? That kicked butt. You get that from Holland’s government class?”

I nodded, unable to speak, I was so astonished he’d known this.

“Yeah,” he said. “She’s cool. So.” He leaned an arm against the back of his side of the booth. “You’re the new president of AEHS.”

I folded my hands on the tabletop, hoping he wouldn’t notice the damage I’d done to my fingernails since the last time I’d seen him. Damage that was almost entirely due to worry about HIM.

“Looks like it,” I said.

“I thought Lilly wanted to be president,” Michael said. “Not you.”

“She does,” I said. “But now…well, I sort of don’t want to give it up.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. Then he let out a low whistle.

“Wow,” he said. “Mind if I’m not around when you explain that to her?”

“No,” I said. “That’s okay.”

Then I froze. Wait…if he didn’t want to be around when I explained to Lilly that I had no intention of stepping down from the presidency, did that mean…

That had to mean that…

Suddenly, my poor, shriveled heart seemed to be showing some signs of life.

“Pie’s up,” the guy behind the counter said.

So, Michael got up and got the pizza and our three sodas—he’d also gotten one for Lars, who was sitting at a table on the other side of the restaurant, pretending to be very interested in the Dr. Phil episode the guy behind the counter was watching on the TV hanging from the ceiling—and brought them back to the booth.

I didn’t know what else to do. So, I pulled a slice from the pie, slapped it onto a paper plate, and brought it over to Lars, along with his soda. It’s no joke, having to worry about your bodyguard all the time.

Then, I went and sat back down and pulled my own slice onto a plate, and carefully sprinkled hot pepper flakes all over it.

Michael, as was his custom, merely picked up a slice—seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was steaming hot—folded it in half, and took a big bite.

His hands, as he did this, looked alarmingly…large. Why had I never noticed this before? How large Michael’s hands are?

Then, after he’d swallowed, he said, “Look. I don’t want to fight about this.”

I glanced up at him kind of sharply, on account of having been staring at his hands. I wasn’t sure what he meant by “this.” Did he mean about Lilly and the presidency? Or did he mean—

“All I want to know is,” he went on, in a sort of tired voice, “are we EVER going to Do It?”

Okay. Not Lilly and the presidency.

I practically choked on the tiny bite of pizza I’d taken, and had to swallow about a gallon of Coke before I was able to say, “OF COURSE.”

But Michael looked suspicious.

“Before the end of this decade?”

“Absolutely,” I said, with more conviction than I necessarily felt. But, you know. What else could I say? Plus, my face was as red as the pizza sauce. I know because I saw my reflection in the napkin holder.

“I knew going into this that it wasn’t going to be easy, Mia,” Michael said. “I mean, aside from the age difference and your being my sister’s best friend, there’s the whole princess aspect to it…the constant-hounding-bypaparazzi/can’t-go-anywhere-without-a-bodyguard thing. A lesser man might find all that daunting. I, on the other hand, have always enjoyed a challenge. Besides which, I love you, so it’s all worth it to me.”

I practically melted right there on the spot. I mean, seriously. Has any guy EVER said anything so sweet?

But then he went on.

“It’s not that I’m trying to rush you into something you aren’t ready for,” Michael said, as matter-of-factly as if he were discussing the next move he planned on making in Rebel Strike. How do boys do this, by the way? “It’s just that I know it takes you a while to get used to things. So, I want you to start getting used to this: You’re the girl I want. One day, you WILL be mine.”

Now my face was REDDER than the pizza sauce. At least, that’s what it felt like.

“Um,” I said. “Okay.” Because what else COULD I say to that????

Besides, it wasn’t like I was displeased. I WANT Michael to want me.

It’s just, you know, for him to SAY it like that was actually kind of…I don’t know.

Hot.

“So long as that’s clear,” Michael said.

“Crystal,” I said, after I’d choked for a while.

Then, he said as far as Doing It went, I was off the hook for the time being, but he expected periodic re-evaluation of our stances on that issue.

I asked how often he thought we should re-evaluate our stances, and he said about once a month, and I said I thought six-month evaluations might be better, and then he said two, and I said three, and then he said, “Deal.”

Then, he got up and went to offer Lars another slice and got sucked into a conversation Lars is having with the guy behind the counter about the Yankees’ chances in the World Series this year, even though to my knowledge, Michael has never watched a baseball game in his life.

He did, however, design a computer model in which you can input all the statistics concerning a team, and it will then tell you what their chances are of beating another team to within a two-point spread.

The fact is, I love him. He’s the boy I want. And one day, he WILL be mine.

And now he wants to know if I want to go get a gelato.

I said:

“I most certainly do.”ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to Beth Ader, Jennifer Brown, Barb Cabot, Laura Langlie, Abigail McAden and, especially, Benjamin Egnatz.About the Author

MEG CABOT is the author of the best-selling, critically acclaimed Princess Diaries books, which were made into the wildly popular Disney movies of the same name. Her other books for teens include the Mediator series, the 1-800-Where-R-You books, ALL-AMERICAN GIRL, TEEN IDOL, NICOLA AND THE VISCOUNT, and VICTORIA AND THE ROGUE. Meg’s books for older readers include THE BOY NEXT DOOR, BOY MEETS GIRL, and EVERY BOY’S GOT ONE. She is still waiting for her real parents, the king and queen, to restore her to her rightful throne. She lives in Key West and New York City with her husband and a one-eyed cat named Henrietta.

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

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Books by MEG CABOT

The Princess Diaries

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME II:

Princess in the Spotlight

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME III:

Princess in Love

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME IV:

Princess in Waiting

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME IV AND A HALF:

Project Princess

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME V:

Princess in Pink

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME VI:

Princess in Training

The Princess Present:

A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK

Princess Lessons:

A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK

Perfect Princess:

A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK

THE MEDIATOR BOOKS:

THE MEDIATOR 1: SHADOWLAND

THE MEDIATOR 2: NINTH KEY

THE MEDIATOR 3: REUNION

THE MEDIATOR 4: DARKEST HOUR

THE MEDIATOR 5: HAUNTED

THE MEDIATOR 6: TWILIGHT

ALL-AMERICAN GIRL

TEEN IDOL

NICOLA AND THE VISCOUNT

VICTORIA AND THE ROGUE

THE BOY NEXT DOOR

BOY MEETS GIRL

EVERY BOY’S GOT ONE

THE 1-800-WHERE-R-YOU BOOKS:

WHEN LIGHTNING STRIKES

CODE NAME CASSANDRA

SAFE HOUSE

SANCTUARY

Credits

Jacket art © 2005 by Howard Huang

Jacket design by Amy Ryan

Jacket © 2005 by HarperCollins Publishers Inc.COPYRIGHT

PRINCESS IN TRAINING. Copyright © 2005 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™.

PerfectBound™ and the PerfectBound™ logo are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Microsoft Reader March 2005 ISBN 0-06-083904-X

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cabot, Meg.

Princess in training / by Meg Cabot.—1st ed.

p. cm. — (The princess diaries; v. 6)

Summary: High school sophomore Princess Mia records in her diary her struggles with geometry, the expectations of being a college student's girlfriend, running for president of the student council, and a potential ecological disaster in her native land, Genovia.

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