by Meg Cabot
“Not a donation,” Grandmère hastened to explain, sounding more like her usual self. “Tell him we’ll pay. But, Amelia, you do know if we had something like that in our hospital in Genovia, we’d…well, it would improve the state of care we’re able to give our own citizens to such an incredible degree. They wouldn’t have to go to Paris or Switzerland for heart surgery. Surely you see what a—”
I ripped my hand out from hers. Suddenly I saw that she wasn’t crazy at all. Or suffering from a stroke or heart attack. Her pulse had been strong and steady.
“Oh my God!” I cried. “Grandmère!”
“What?” Grandmère looked bewildered by my outburst. “What is the matter? I’m asking you to ask Michael for one of his machines. Not donate it. I said we’d pay—”
“But you want me to use my relationship with him,” I cried, “so Dad can gain an edge over René in the election!”
Grandmère’s drawn-on eyebrows furrowed.
“I never said a word about the election!” she declared, in her most imperious voice. “But I did think, Amelia, if you were to go to this event at Columbia tomorrow—”
“Grandmère!” I sprang up from the couch. “You’re horrible! Do you really think the people of Genovia would be more likely to vote for Dad because he managed to buy them a CardioArm, as opposed to René, who’s only managed to promise them an Applebee’s?”
Grandmère looked at me blankly.
“Well,” she said. “Yes. Which would you rather have? Easy access to heart surgery, or a bloomin’ onion?”
“That’s Outback,” I informed her acidly. “And the point of a democracy is that no one’s vote can be bought!”
“Oh, Amelia,” Grandmère said with a snort. “Don’t be naïve. Everyone can be bought. And anyway, how would you feel if I told you at my recent visit to the royal physician, he told me my heart condition has gotten more serious, and that I might need bypass surgery?”
I hesitated. She looked totally sincere.
“D-do you?” I stammered.
“Well,” Grandmère said. “Not yet. But he did tell me I have to cut back to three Sidecars a week!”
I should have known.
“Grandmère,” I said. “Leave. Now.”
Grandmère frowned at me.
“You know, Amelia,” she said. “If your father loses this election, it will kill him. I know he’ll still be prince of Genovia and all of that, but he won’t rule it, and that, young lady, will be no one’s fault but your own.”
I groaned in frustration and said, “GET OUT!”
Which she did, muttering very darkly to Lars and to the receptionist, both of whom had watched our entire exchange with a great deal of amusement.
But honestly, I don’t see what’s so funny about it.
I guess to Grandmère, using an ex-boyfriend to jump to the head of the waiting list (as if Michael would even consider such a thing) to get a million-dollar piece of medical equipment is just a normal day’s work.
But though we may share the same gene pool, I am nothing like my grandmother.
NOTHING.
Friday, April 28, the limo home from
Dr. Knutz’s office
Dr. K, as usual, was less than sympathetic to my problems. He seems to feel I’ve brought them all down upon myself.
Why can’t I have a nice, normal therapist, who asks me, “And how do you feel about that?” and hands me anti-anxiety medication, like everyone else I go to school with?
Oh, no. I have to have the one therapist in all of Manhattan who doesn’t believe in psychopharmaceuticals. And who thinks every crummy thing that happens to me (lately, anyway) is my own fault for not being emotionally honest with myself.
“How is my boyfriend not asking me to our senior prom my fault for not being honest with my emotions?” I asked him at one point.
“When he asks you,” Dr. Knutz said, countering my question with another question, in classic psychotherapist style, “are you going to say yes?”
“Well,” I said, feeling uncomfortable. (Yes! I am honest enough with myself to admit I felt uncomfortable at that question!) “I really don’t want to go to the prom.”
“I think you’ve answered your own question,” he said, a self-satisfied gleam shining behind the lenses of his glasses.
What is that even supposed to mean? How does that help me?
I’ll tell you: It doesn’t.
And you know what else? I’m just going to say it:
Therapy doesn’t help me anymore.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. There was a time when it did, when Dr. K’s long rambling stories about the many horses he’d owned really helped me through my depression and what was going on with my dad and Genovia and the rumors about him and our family having known about Princess Amelie’s declaration all along—not to mention getting me through the SATs and the college application process and losing Michael and Lilly and all of that.
Maybe since I’m not depressed anymore and the pressure’s off (somewhat) and he’s a child psychologist and I’m not really a kid anymore—or won’t be after Monday—I’m just ready to cut the cord now. Which is why our last therapy session is next week.
Anyway.
I tried to ask him what I should do about choosing a college, and the thing Grandmère had brought up, about getting Michael to sell one of his CardioArms to Genovia in time for Dad’s election, and if I should just tell people the truth about Ransom My Heart.
Instead of offering constructive advice, Dr. K started telling me this long story about a mare he’d once had named Sugar, this thoroughbred he’d bought from a dealer who everyone said was such a great horse, and he knew was a great horse, too.
On paper.
Even though on paper Sugar was this fantastic horse, Dr. Knutz could just never find his place in the saddle with her, and their rides were totally uncomfortable, and eventually he had to sell her, because it wasn’t fair to Sugar, as he’d started avoiding her, and riding all his other horses instead.
Seriously. What does this story have to do with me?
Plus, I’m so sick of horse stories I could scream.
And I still don’t know where I’m going to go to college, what I’m going to do about J.P. (or Michael), or how I’m going to stop lying to everyone.
Maybe I should just tell people I want to be a romance writer? I mean, I know everyone laughs at romance writers (until they actually read a romance). But what do I care? Everyone laughs at princesses, too. I’m pretty much used to it by now.
But…what if people read my book and think it’s about…I don’t know.
Me?
Because it’s so not. I don’t even know how to shoot a bow and arrow (despite the erroneous movies made of my life).
Who would even name a horse Sugar? That’s a little bit cliché, right?
Friday, April 28, 7 p.m., the loft
Dear Ms. Delacroix,
Thank you for your submission. After a great deal of consideration, we have decided Ransom My Heart is not right for us at this time.
Sincerely,
Pembroke Publishing
Rejected again!
Seriously, is the entire publishing world on crack? How can no one want to publish my novel? I mean, I know it’s not War and Peace, but I’ve seen way worse out there. My book is better than that! I mean, at least my book doesn’t have spanking sex robots in it or anything.
Maybe if I’d put spanking sex robots in it, someone would want to publish it. But I can’t put spanking sex robots in it now. It’s too late, and besides, that wouldn’t be historically accurate.
Anyway.
Things are insane here with preparations for arrivals for the birthday extravaganza. Mamaw and Papaw will be staying at the Tribeca Grand this time, and every effort is being undertaken to see that Mom and Mr. G have as little one-on-one time with them as possible. They’re being sent on tours of Ellis Island, Liberty Island, Little Italy, Harlem, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Madame Tussa
ud’s wax museum, Ripley’s Believe It or Not!, and M&M’s World (the last three at their request).
Of course, they want to visit with me and Rocky (mostly Rocky), but Mom keeps saying, “Oh, there’ll be plenty of time for that.” They’re only staying for three days. How there’ll be time for visiting and all that touring, as well as the party, is a secret known only to Mom.
Uh-oh, an IM from Tina:
ILUVROMANCE: So we’re meeting on Broadway and 168th Street tomorrow at 1:30 p.m. The dedication ceremony or whatever it is starts at 2 so that should give us plenty of time to get good seats so we can see Michael up close.
What is it going to take to get through to these girls that I am NOT going to this thing?
FTLOUIE: Sounds good!
“Sounds good” isn’t a lie. I mean, what she said does sound good.
It’ll be sad and all when they’re standing on the corner of Broadway and 168th all by themselves. But no one said life was fair.
ILUVROMANCE: Wait…Mia, you are coming, right? Crud.
Whoa. How did she guess????
FTLOUIE: No. I told you I wasn’t.
ILUVROMANCE: Mia, you HAVE to come! The whole thing is for nothing if you’re not there! I mean, aren’t you the least bit curious about how Michael looks after all this time? And whether or not—be serious, now—he cares? You know, in THAT way?
Oh, God. She would have to play the “If he still cares” card.
FTLOUIE: Tina, I already have a boyfriend who loves me and whom I love back. And anyway, how am I going to be able to tell if Michael still cares “in THAT way” just by seeing him at some public event?
ILUVROMANCE: You’ll be able to tell. You just will. Your eyes will meet across the room and you’ll know. So. What are you going to wear????
Fortunately I just got a call from J.P. He’s done with rehearsal for the day and wants to grab some sushi at Blue Ribbon. Using his dad’s producer connections, he’s gotten a table for two (virtually impossible at a place like that on a Friday night). He wants to know if I can join him for some crispy salmon skin and dragon rolls.
My other choice for dinner is leftover pizza from last night, or two nights’ old Number One Noodle Son cold sesame noodles.
Or I could shoot up to Grandmère’s newly renovated condo at the Plaza and join her and Vigo for salads as they strategize for my party.
Hmmm, what to choose, what to choose? It’s so hard.
And, okay, J.P. might use the opportunity to ask me to the prom…like, maybe he’ll slip a written invitation into an oyster shell or under a piece of unagi or something.
But I’m willing to risk it only if I can end this conversation.
FTLOUIE: Sorry, T, going out with J.P. I’ll text you later!
Saturday, April 29, midnight, the loft
It turns out I needn’t have worried about J.P. asking me to the prom at dinner tonight. He was too exhausted from rehearsal—and frustrated: He spent almost the whole time complaining about Stacey—even to be thinking about it, apparently.
And then after dinner, we had other concerns. It’s so weird how everywhere I go with J.P., the paparazzi seem to show up. This never happened when I dated Michael.
I guess that’s the difference between going out with a lowly college student (which Michael was at the time), and a rich theater producer’s son like J.P.
Anyway, as we were coming out of Blue Ribbon, the paps were out in full force. I thought at first Drew Barrymore must have been in there with her latest boy toy or whatever, and I was looking around for her.
But it turned out they were all trying to get pictures of ME.
At first it was fine, just…whatever. I had on my new Christian Louboutin boots so I was feeling okay about it. It’s like Lana says…if you have on your CLs, nothing bad can happen to you (shallow…but true).
But then one of them yelled, “Hey, Princess, how does it feel to know your father is going to lose the election…and to your cousin René, who’s never run so much as a Laundromat, let alone a whole country?”
I haven’t had nearly four years of princess lessons (well, on and off) for nothing. It wasn’t like I was unprepared for this. I just said, “No comment.”
Except that might have been a mistake, because, of course, if you say anything, that just baits them to ask you more, and even though J.P. and Lars and I were trying to walk back to the loft (it’s literally, like, two blocks from the restaurant, so we hadn’t bothered with the limo), the paps crowded all around us, and we couldn’t walk fast enough, especially since my CLs have, like, four-inch heels and I haven’t really practiced walking in them enough and I was kind of teetering in them (just a little) like Big Bird.
So the reporters were totally able to keep up even though I had Lars on one side and J.P. on the other, hustling me along.
“But your dad is losing in the polls,” the “journalist” said. “Come on. That’s gotta hurt. Especially since if you had just kept your mouth shut, none of this would be happening.”
Man! These guys are brutal. Also, their grasp on politics is somewhat lacking.
“I did what was right for the people of Genovia,” I said, trying to keep a pleasant smile plastered across my face, the way Grandmère had taught me. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re just trying to get home—”
“Yeah, guys,” J.P. said, while Lars was opening his coat to make sure his gun showed. Not that this ever scared the paps, because they knew good and well he couldn’t shoot them (although he had, upon occasion, shoulder rolled a few of them). “Just leave her alone, will you?”
“You’re the boyfriend, right?” one of the paps wanted to know. “Is that Abernathy-Reynolds, or Reynolds-Abernathy?”
“Reynolds-Abernathy,” J.P. said. “And quit pushing!”
“The people of Genovia sure do seem to want bloomin’ onions,” another of the paparazzi pointed out. “Don’t they, Princess? How does that make you feel?”
“I’ve been trained in a special technique that can send your nasal cartilage into your brain using only the heel of my hand,” Lars informed the pap. “How does that make YOU feel?”
I know I should be used to this stuff by now. Really, there are other people who have it so much worse than me. I mean, at least the “press” lets me go to and from school in relative anonymity.
Still. Sometimes…
“Is it true Sir Paul McCartney is bringing Denise Richards to your birthday party Monday night, Princess?” one of the reporters yelled.
“Is it true Prince William will be there?” yelled another.
“What about your ex-boyfriend?” yelled a third. “Now that he’s back in—”
That was the exact moment when Lars physically threw me into an empty cab he’d signaled to pull over, and commanded it to take us around SoHo a few times until he was sure we’d shaken off all the reporters (who’ve given up staking out the loft due to the fact that all the residents, including Mom, Mr. G, and me routinely water-balloon-bomb them from above).
All I can say is, thank God J.P. is so busy with his play that he had no idea what that last reporter had been talking about. He no sooner checks the Internet for Google alerts on me (or Michael Moscovitz) than he remembers to eat breakfast. That’s how crazed he is right now.
Anyway, when we got back to the loft, there was no sign of any reporters lurking around (thanks to their having gotten soaked one too many times due to Mom’s expert aim).
That was when J.P. asked if he could come up.
I knew what he wanted, of course. I also knew Mom and Mr. G would be asleep, because they always crash early on Fridays after a long work week.
Really, the last thing I felt like doing after the paparazzi incident was to mess around in my room with my boyfriend.
But as he pointed out (beneath his breath, so Lars couldn’t overhear), it had been ages since we’d been alone together, what with his rehearsal schedule and my princess stuff.
So I said good-bye to Lars at the vestib
ule and let J.P. come up. I mean, he WAS sweet, defending me from the paparazzi like that.
And he let me have that extra piece of crispy salmon skin, even though I know he wanted it.
I feel terrible about all the lies I’ve told him. Really, I do.
An excerpt from Ransom My Heart by Daphne Delacroix
“I told you not to move!” said the diminutive captor astride Hugo’s back.
Hugo, admiring the slim arch of the foot, the only part of her that he could actually see, decided he ought to apologize now. Surely the girl had a right to be angry; in all innocence, she had come to the spring to bathe, not to be spied upon. And while he was greatly enjoying the feel of her nubile body against him, he was not enjoying her wrath. Better that he calm the spirited wench, and see her back on the road to Stephensgate, where he could make sure that she was kept from straddling other men’s backs, and thereby getting herself into mischief.
“I earnestly beg your pardon, demoiselle,” he began, in what he hoped was a contrite tone, though it was difficult for him to speak without laughing. “I stumbled upon you in your most private hour, and for that, I must ask your forgiveness—”
“I took you for simple, but not completely stupid” was the girl’s surprising reply. Hugo was amazed to hear that her own voice was as rich with amusement as his own.
“I meant for you to stumble upon me, of course,” she elaborated. Quick as lightning, the knife left his throat, and the maid seized both of his wrists and had them trussed behind him before he was even aware of what was happening.
“You’re my prisoner now,” Finnula Crais said, with evident satisfaction at a job well done. “To gain your freedom, you’ll have to pay for it. Handsomely.”
Saturday, April 29, 10 a.m., the loft
