by Meg Cabot
He looked as if he probably would have reached out and ruffled my hair if it hadn’t been so full of mousse his hand would have stuck to it.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “But do you really think you’d be happy, Mia, being Nancy Normal Teenager?”
Um. Yes.
Except I wouldn’t want my name to be Nancy.
We might have gone on to have a really profound moment I could have written about in my English journal if Vigo hadn’t come hurrying up just then. He looked frazzled. And why not? His wedding was turning out to be a disaster! First the bride and groom had neglected to show up, and now the hostess, the dowager princess, had locked herself into her hotel suite and would not come out.
“What do you mean, she won’t come out?” my father demanded.
“Just what I said, Your Highness.” Vigo looked like he was about to start crying. “I have never seen her so angry! She says she has been betrayed by her own family, and she will never be able to show her face in public again, the shame is so great.”
My dad looked heavenward. “Let’s go,” he said.
When we got to the door to the penthouse suite, my dad signaled for Vigo and me to be quiet. Then he knocked on the door.
“Mother,” he called. “Mother, it’s Phillipe. May I come in?”
No response. But I could tell she was in there. I could hear Rommel moaning softly.
“Mother,” my dad said. He tried turning the door handle, and found it locked. This caused him to sigh very deeply.
Well, you could see why. He had already spent the better part of the day thwarting all of her well-laid plans. That had to have been exhausting. And now this?
“Mother,” he said. “I want you to open this door.”
Still no response.
“Mother,” my father said. “You are being ridiculous. I want you to open this door this instant. If you don’t do it, I shall fetch the housekeeper, and have her open it for me. Are you trying to force me to resort to this? Is that it?”
I knew Grandmère would sooner let us see her without her makeup than ever allow a member of the hotel staff to be privy to one of our family squabbles, so I laid a hand on my dad’s arm and whispered, “Dad, let me try.”
My father shrugged, and, with a sort of if-you-want-to look, stepped aside.
I called through the door, “Grandmère? Grandmère, it’s me, Mia.”
I don’t know what I’d expected. Certainly not for her to open the door. I mean, if she wouldn’t do it for Vigo, whom she seemed to adore, or for her own son, who, if she didn’t adore, was at least her only child, why would she do it for me?
But I was greeted with only silence from behind that door. Well, except for Rommel’s whining.
I refused to be daunted, however. I raised my voice and called, “I’m really sorry about my mom and Mr. Gianini, Grandmère. But you have to admit it, I warned you that she didn’t want this wedding. Remember? I told you she wanted something small. You might have realized that by the fact that there isn’t a single person here who was actually invited by my mother. These are all your friends. Well, except for Mamaw and Papaw. And Mr. G’s parents. But I mean, come on. My mom does not know Imelda Marcos, okay? And Barbara Bush? I’m sure she’s a very nice lady, but not one of my mom’s closest buddies.”
Still no response.
“Grandmère,” I called through the door. “Look, I am really surprised at you. I thought you were always teaching me that a princess has to be strong. I thought you said that a princess, no matter what kind of adversity she is facing, has to put on a brave face and not hide behind her wealth and privilege. Well, isn’t that exactly what you’re doing right now? Shouldn’t you be down there right now, pretending this was exactly the way you planned things to go, and raising a glass to the happy couple in absentia?”
I jumped back as the doorknob to my grandmother’s suite slowly turned. A second later, Grandmère came out, a vision in purple velvet and a diamond tiara.
She said, with a great deal of dignity, “I had every intention of returning to the party. I merely came up here to freshen my lipstick.”
My dad and I exchanged glances.
“Sure, Grandmère,” I said. “Whatever you say.”
“A princess,” Grandmère said, closing the door to her suite behind her, “never leaves her guests unattended.”
“Okay,” I said.
“So what are you two doing here?” Grandmère glared at my dad and me.
“We were, um, just checking on you,” I explained.
“I see.” Then Grandmère did a surprising thing. She slipped her hand through the crook of my elbow. Then, without looking at my dad, she said, “Come along.”
I saw my dad roll his eyes at this blatant dis.
But he didn’t look scared, the way I would have been.
“Hold on, Grandmère,” I said.
Then I slipped my hand through the crook of my dad’s elbow, so the three of us were standing in the hallway, linked by . . . well, by me.
Grandmère just sniffed and didn’t say anything. But my dad smiled.
And you know what? I’m not sure, but I think it might have been a profound moment for all of us.
Well, all right. At least for me, anyway.
Saturday, November 1, 2 p.m.
The evening wasn’t a total bust.
Quite a few people seemed to have a very good time. Hank, for one. He actually showed up just in time for dinner—he’d always been good at that—looking totally gorgeous in an Armani tux.
Mamaw and Papaw were delighted to see him. Mrs. Gianini, Mr. Gianini’s mom, took quite a shine to him, too. It must have been his clean-cut good manners. He hadn’t forgotten any of Lilly’s elocution lessons, and only mentioned his affection for ‘muddin’ on the weekends once. And later, when the dancing started, he asked Grandmère for the second waltz—Dad got the first—forever cementing him in her mind as the ideal royal consort for me.
Thank God first-cousin marriages were made illegal in Genovia in 1907.
But the happiest people I talked to all evening weren’t actually at the party. No, at around ten o’clock, Lars handed me his cell phone, and when I said, “Hello?” wondering who it could be, my mom’s voice, sounding very far away and crackly, went, “Mia?”
I didn’t want to say the word ‘Mom’ too loudly, since I knew Grandmère was hovering nearby. And I don’t think it likely that Grandmère is going to forgive my parents anytime soon for the fast one they pulled. I ducked behind a pillar and whispered, “Hey, Mom! Mr. Gianini make an honest woman out of you yet?”
Well, he had. The deed was done (a little late, if you ask me, but hey, at least the kid won’t be born harboring the stigma of illegitimacy like I’ve had to all my life). It was only like six o’clock where they were, and they were on a beach somewhere sipping (virgin) piña coladas. I made my mom promise not to have any more, because you can’t trust the ice at those places.
“Parasites can exist in ice, Mom,” I informed her. “There are these worms that live in the glaciers in Antarctica, you know. We studied them in Bio. They’ve been around for thousands of years. So even if the water’s frozen, you can still get sick from it. You definitely only want to get ice made from bottled water. Here, why don’t you put Mr. Gianini on the phone, and I’ll tell him exactly what he has to do—”
My mom interrupted me.
“Mia,” she said. “How are—” She cleared her throat. “How’s my mother taking it?”
“Mamaw?” I looked in Mamaw’s direction. The truth was, Mamaw was having the time of her life. She was thoroughly enjoying her gig as mother of the bride. So far, she’d gotten to dance with Prince Albert, who was there representing the royal family of Monaco, and Prince Andrew, who didn’t seem to be missing Fergie one bit, if you asked me.
“Um,” I said. “Mamaw’s . . . really mad at you.”
It was a lie, of course, but it was a lie I knew would make my mother happy. One of her favorite t
hings to do is make her parents mad.
“Really, Mia?” she asked, breathlessly.
“Uh-huh,” I said, watching as Papaw twirled Mamaw around practically into the champagne fountain. “They’ll probably never speak to you again.”
“Oh,” Mom said happily. “Isn’t that too bad?”
Sometimes my natural ability to lie actually comes in handy.
But unfortunately, right then our connection broke up. Well, at least Mom had heard my warning about the ice worms before we lost contact.
As for me, well, I can’t say I had the time of my life—I mean, the only person even close to my age was Hank, and he was way too busy dancing with Gisele to talk to me.
Thankfully, around eleven, my dad was like, “Uh, Mia, isn’t it Halloween?”
I said, “Yeah, Dad.”
“Don’t you have someplace you’d rather be?”
You know, I hadn’t forgotten the whole Rocky Horror thing, but I figured Grandmère needed me. Sometimes family things are more important than friend things—even romance things.
But as soon as I heard that, I was like, “Um, yes.”
The movie started at midnight down at the Village Cinema—about fifty blocks away. If I hurried, I could make it. Well, Lars and I could make it.
There was only one problem. We had no costumes: On Halloween, they don’t let you into the theater if you come in street clothes.
“What do you mean, you don’t have a costume?” Martha Stewart had overheard our conversation.
I held out the skirt of my dress. “Well,” I said, dubiously. “I guess I could pass for Glinda the Good Witch. Only I don’t have a wand. No crown, either.”
I don’t know if Martha had too many champagne cocktails, or if she’s just like this, but next thing I knew, she was whipping me up a wand from a bunch of crystal drink stirrers that she tied together with some ivy from the centerpiece. Then she fashioned this big crown for me out of some menus and a glue gun she had in her purse.
And you know what? It looked good, just like the one in The Wizard of Oz! (She turned the writing so it was on the inside of the crown.)
“There,” Martha said, when she was through. “Glinda the Good Witch.” She looked at Lars. “And you’re easy. You’re James Bond.”
Lars seemed pleased. You could tell he’d always fantasized about being a secret agent.
No one was more pleased than me, however. My fantasy of Michael seeing me in this gorgeous dress was about to be realized. What’s more, the outfit was going to give me the confidence I needed to confront him about Jo-C-rox.
So, with my father’s blessings—I would have stopped to say good-bye to Grandmère, only she and Gerald Ford were doing the tango out on the dance floor (no, I am not kidding)—I was out of there like a shot—
And stumbled right into a thorny patch of reporters.
“Princess Mia!” they yelled. “Princess Mia, what are your feelings about your mother’s elopement?”
I was about to let Lars hustle me into the limo without saying anything to the reporters. But then I had an idea. I grabbed the nearest microphone and said, “I just want to say to anyone who is watching that Albert Einstein High School is the best school in Manhattan, maybe even North America, and that we have the most excellent faculty and the best student population in the world, and anyone who doesn’t recognize that is just kidding himself, Mr. Taylor.”
(Mr. Taylor is Shameeka’s dad.)
Then I shoved the microphone back at its owner, and hopped into the limo.
We almost didn’t make it. First of all, because of the parade, the traffic downtown was criminal. Secondly, there was a line to get into the Village Cinema that wound all the way around the block! I had the limo driver cruise the length of it, while Lars and I scanned the assorted hordes. It was pretty hard to recognize my friends, because everyone was in costume.
But then I saw this group of really weird-looking people dressed in WWII Army fatigues. They were all covered in fake blood, and some of them had phony stumps in place of limbs. They were holding a big sign that said Looking for Private Ryan. Standing next to them was a girl wearing a black lacy slip and a fake beard. And standing next to her was a boy dressed as a Mafioso type, holding a violin case.
The violin case was what did it.
“Stop the car!” I shrieked.
The limo pulled over, and Lars and I got out. The girl in the nightie went, “Oh, my God! You came! You came!”
It was Lilly. And standing next to her, a big pile of bloody intestines coming out of his Army jacket, was her brother, Michael.
“Quick,” he said, to Lars and me. “Get in line. I got two extra tickets just in case you ended up making it after all.”
There was some grumbling from the people behind us as Lars and I cut in, but all he had to do was turn so that his shoulder holster showed, and they got quiet pretty quick. Lars’s Glock, being real and all, was pretty scary-looking.
“Where’s Hank?” Lilly wanted to know.
“He couldn’t make it,” I said. I didn’t want to tell her why. You know, that last time I’d seen him, he’d been dancing with Gisele. I didn’t want Lilly to think Hank preferred supermodels to, you know, us.
“He cannot come. Good,” Boris said, firmly.
Lilly shot him a warning look, then, pointing at me, demanded, “What are you supposed to be?”
“Duh,” I said. “I’m Glinda the Good Witch.”
“I knew that,” Michael said. “You look really . . . You look really . . .”
He seemed unable to go on. I must, I realized, with a sinking heart, look really stupid.
“You are way too glam for Halloween,” Lilly declared.
Glam? Well, glam was better than stupid, I guess. But why couldn’t Michael have said so?
I eyed her. “Um,” I said. “What, exactly, are you?”
She fingered the straps to her slip, then fluffed out her fake beard.
“Hello,” she said, in a very sarcastic voice. “I’m a Freudian slip.”
Boris indicated his violin case. “And I am Al Capone,” he said. “Chicago gangster.”
“Good for you, Boris,” I said, noticing he was wearing a sweater, and yes, it was tucked into his pants. He can’t help being totally foreign, I guess.
Someone tugged on my skirt. I looked around, and there was Kenny, my Bio partner. He was in Army fatigues, too, and missing an arm.
“You made it!” he cried.
“I did,” I said. The excitement in the air was contagious.
Then the line started moving. Michael and Kenny’s friends from the Computer Club, who made up the rest of the bloody platoon, started marching and going, “Hut, two, three, four. Hut, two, three, four.”
Well, they can’t help it. They’re in the computer club, after all.
It wasn’t until the movie started that I began to realize something weird was going on. I very cleverly maneuvered myself in the aisle so that I would end up sitting next to Michael. Lars was supposed to be on my other side.
But somehow Lars got pushed out, and Kenny ended up on my other side.
Not that it mattered . . . then. Lars just sat behind me. I hardly noticed Kenny, even though he kept trying to talk to me, mostly about Bio. I answered him, but all I could think about was Michael. Did he really think I looked stupid? When should I mention that I happen to know that he is Jo-C-rox? I had this little speech all rehearsed. I was going to be like, Hey, seen any good cartoons lately?
Lame, I know, but how else was I supposed to bring it up?
I could hardly wait for the movie to be over so I could spring my offensive.
Rocky Horror, even if you can’t wait for it to end, is pretty fun. Everybody just acts like a lunatic. People were throwing bread at the screen, and putting up umbrellas when it rained in the movie, and dancing the Pelvic Thrust. It really is one of the best movies of all time. It almost beats out Dirty Dancing as my favorite, except, of course, there’s no Patrick
Swayze.
Except I forgot there aren’t really any scary parts. So I didn’t actually get a chance to pretend to be scared so Michael could put his arm around me, or anything.
Which kind of sucks, if you think about it.
But hey, I got to sit by him, didn’t I? For like two hours. In the dark. That’s something, isn’t it? And he kept laughing and looking at me to see whether or not I was laughing, too. That counts, right? I mean, when someone keeps checking to see whether you think the same things are funny that he does? That totally counts for something.
The only problem was, I couldn’t help noticing that Kenny was doing the same thing. You know, laughing and then looking at me to see if I was laughing, too.
That should have been my next clue.
After the movie, we all went out to breakfast at Round the Clock. And this is where things got even more weird.
I had been to Round the Clock before, of course—where else in Manhattan can you get pancakes for two dollars?—but never quite this late, and never with a bodyguard. Poor Lars was looking a little worse for wear by that time. He kept ordering cup after cup of coffee. I was jammed in at this table between Michael and Kenny—funny how that kept happening—with Lilly and Boris and the entire Computer Club all around us. Everyone was talking really loud and at the same time, and I was having a really hard time figuring out how I was ever going to bring up the cartoon thing, when all of a sudden, Kenny said, right in my ear, “Had any interesting mail lately?”
I am sorry to say that it was only then that the truth dawned.
I should have known, of course.
It hadn’t been Michael. Michael wasn’t Jo-C-rox.
I think a part of me must have known that all along. I mean, it really isn’t like Michael to do anything anonymously. He just isn’t the type not to sign his name. I guess I’d been suffering from a bad case of wishful thinking, or something.
A REALLY bad case of wishful thinking.
Because of course Jo-C-rox was Kenny.
Not that there’s anything wrong with Kenny. There totally isn’t. He is a really, really nice guy. I mean, I really like Kenny Showalter. Really, I do.
