Princess in Love

by Meg Cabot

  8:00 p.m.–11:00 p.m.–I make polite conversation with the empress while we eat. Like me, she was just a normal person until one day she married the emperor and became royal. I, of course, was born royal. I just didn’t know it until September, when my dad found out he couldn’t have any more kids, due to his chemotherapy for testicular cancer having rendered him sterile. Then he had to admit he was actually a prince and all, and that though I am “illegitimate,” since my dad and my mom were never married, I am still the sole heir to the Genovian throne.

  And even though Genovia is a very small country (population 50,000) crammed into a hillside along the Mediterranean Sea between Italy and France, it is still this very big deal to be princess of it.

  Not a big enough deal for anyone to raise my allowance higher than ten dollars a week, apparently. But a big enough deal that I have to have a bodyguard follow me around everywhere I go, just in case some Euro-trash terrorist in a ponytail and black leather pants takes it into his head to kidnap me.

  The empress knows all about this—what a bummer it is, I mean, being just a normal person one day, and then having your face on the cover of People magazine the next. She even gave me some advice: She told me I should always make sure my kimono is securely fastened before I raise my arm to wave to the populace.

  I thanked her, even though I don’t actually own a kimono.

  11:30 p.m.–I am so tired on account of having gotten up so early to go to Long Island, I have yawned in the empress’s face twice. I have tried to hide these yawns the way Grandmère taught me to, by clenching my jaw and refusing to open my mouth. But this only makes my eyes water, and the rest of my face stretch out like I am hurtling through a black hole. Grandmère gives me the evil eye over her salad with pears and walnuts, but it is no use. Even her malevolent stare cannot shake me from my state of extreme drowsiness.

  Finally, my father notices, and grants me a royal reprieve from dessert. Lars drives me back to the apartment. Grandmère is clearly upset because I am leaving before the cheese course. But it is either that, or pass out in the fromage bleu. I know that in the end, Grandmère will have retribution, undoubtedly in the form of forcing me to learn the names of every member of the Swedish royal family, or something equally as heinous.

  Grandmère always gets her way.

  12:00 a.m.–After a long and exhausting day of giving thanks to the founders of our nation—those genocidal hypocrites known as the Pilgrims—I finally go to bed.

  And that concludes Mia Thermopolis’s Thanksgiving.

  Saturday, December 6

  Over.

  That is what my life is. O-V-E-R.

  I know I have said that before, but this time I really mean it.

  And why? Why THIS TIME? Surprisingly, it’s not because:

  Three months ago, I found out that I’m the heir to the throne of a small European nation, and that at the end of this month, I am going to have to go to said small European nation and be formally introduced for the first time to the people over whom I will one day reign, and who will undoubtedly hate me, because given that my favorite shoes are my combat boots and my favorite TV show is Baywatch, I am so not the royal-princess type.

  Or because:

  My mother, who is expecting to give birth to my Algebra teacher’s child in approximately seven months, recently eloped with said Algebra teacher.

  Or even because:

  At school they’ve been loading us down with so much homework—and after school, Grandmère’s been torturing me so endlessly with all the princess stuff I’ve got to learn by Christmas—that I haven’t even been able to keep up with this journal, let alone anything else.

  Oh, no. It’s not because of any of that. Why is my life over?

  Because I have a boyfriend.

  At fourteen years of age, I suppose it’s about time. I mean, all my friends have boyfriends. All of them, even Lilly, who blames the male gender for most, if not all, of society’s ills.

  And okay, Lilly’s boyfriend is Boris Pelkowski, who may, at the age of fifteen, be one of the nation’s leading violin virtuosos, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t tuck his sweater into his pants, or that he doesn’t have food in his braces more often than not. Not what I would call ideal boyfriend material, but Lilly seems to like him, which is all that matters.

  I guess.

  I have to admit, when Lilly—possibly the pickiest person on this planet (and I should know, having been best friends with her since kindergarten)—got a boyfriend, and I still didn’t have one, I pretty much started to think there was something wrong with me. Besides my gigantism and what Lilly’s parents, the Drs. Moscovitz, who are psychiatrists, call my inability to verbalize my inner rage.

  And then, one day, out of the blue, I got one. A boyfriend, I mean.

  Well, okay, not out of the blue. Kenny started sending me all these anonymous love letters. I didn’t know it was him. I kind of thought (okay, hoped) someone else was sending them. But in the end, it turned out to be Kenny. And by then I was in too deep, really, to get out. So voila! I had a boyfriend.

  Problem solved, right?

  Not. So not.

  And it isn’t that I don’t like Kenny. I do. I really do. We have a lot in common. For instance, we both appreciate the preciousness of not just human, but all life forms, and refuse to dissect fetal pigs and frogs in Bio. Instead, we are writing term papers on the life cycles of various grubs and mealworms.

  And we both like science fiction. Kenny knows a lot more about it than I do, but he has been very impressed so far by the extent of my familiarity with the works of Robert A. Heinlein and Isaac Asimov, both of whom we were forced to read in school (though he doesn’t seem to remember this).

  I haven’t told Kenny that I actually find most science fiction boring, since there seem to be very few girls in it.

  There are a lot of girl characters in Japanese anime, which Kenny also really likes, and which he has decided to devote his life to promoting (when he is not busy finding a cure for cancer). I have noticed that most of the girls in Japanese anime seem to have misplaced their bras.

  Plus I really think it might be detrimental to a fighter pilot to have a lot of long hair floating around in the cockpit while she is gunning down the forces of evil.

  But like I said, I haven’t mentioned any of this to Kenny. And mostly, we get along great. We have a fun time together. And in some ways, it’s very nice to have a boyfriend. Like, I don’t have to worry now about not being asked to the Albert Einstein High School Nondenominational Winter Dance (so called because its former title, the Albert Einstein High School Christmas Dance, offended many of our non–Christmas-celebrating students).

  And why is it that I do not have to worry about not being asked to the biggest dance of the school year, with the exception of the prom?

  Because I’m going with Kenny.

  Well, okay, he hasn’t exactly asked me yet, but he will. Because he is my boyfriend.

  Isn’t that great? Sometimes I think I must be the luckiest girl in the whole world. I mean, really. Think about it: I may not be pretty, but I am not grossly disfigured; I live in New York City, the coolest place on the planet; I’m a princess; I have a boyfriend. What more could a girl ask for?

  Oh, God.

  WHO AM I KIDDING?????

  This boyfriend of mine? Here’s the scoop:

  I DON’T EVEN LIKE HIM.

  Well, okay, it’s not that I don’t like him. But this boyfriend thing, I just don’t know. Kenny’s a nice enough guy and all—don’t get me wrong. I mean, he is funny and not boring to be with, certainly. And he’s pretty cute, you know, in a tall, skinny sort of way.

  It’s just that when I see Kenny walking down the hall, my heart so totally doesn’t start beating faster, the way girls’ hearts start beating faster in those teen romances my friend Tina Hakim Baba is always reading.

  And when Kenny takes my hand, at the movies or whatever, it’s not like my hand gets all tingly in his, the way girl
s’ hands do in those books.

  And when he kisses me? Those fireworks people always talk about? Forget about it. No fireworks. Nil. Nada.

  It’s funny, because before I got a boyfriend, I used to spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to get one, and once I got him, how I’d get him to kiss me.

  But now that I actually have a boyfriend, mostly all I do is try to figure out how to get out of kissing him.

  One way that I have found that works quite effectively is the head turn. If I notice his lips coming toward me, I just turn my head at the last minute, so all he gets is my cheek, and maybe some hair.

  I guess the worst thing is, when Kenny gazes deeply into my eyes—which he does a lot—and asks me what I am thinking about, I am usually thinking about this one certain person.

  And that person isn’t Kenny. It isn’t Kenny at all. It is Lilly’s older brother, Michael Moscovitz, whom I have loved for, oh, I don’t know, MY ENTIRE LIFE.

  Wait, though. It gets worse.

  Because now it’s like everybody considers me and Kenny this big Item. You know? Now we’re Kenny-and-Mia. Now, instead of Lilly and me hanging out together Saturday nights, it’s Lilly-and-Boris and Kenny-and-Mia. Sometimes my friend Tina Hakim Baba and her boyfriend, Dave Farouq El-Abar, and my other friend Shameeka Taylor and her boyfriend, Daryl Gardner, join us, making it Lilly-and-Boris and Kenny-and-Mia and Tina-and-Dave and Shameeka-and-Daryl.

  So if Kenny and I break up, who am I going to hang around with on Saturday nights? I mean, seriously. Lilly-and-Boris and Tina-and-Dave and Shameeka-and-Daryl won’t want just plain Mia along. I’ll be just like this seventh wheel.

  Not to mention, if Kenny and I break up, who will I go to the Nondenominational Winter Dance with? I mean, if he ever gets around to asking me.

  Oh, God, I have to go now. Lilly-and-Boris and Tina-and-Dave and Kenny-and-Mia are supposed to go ice-skating at Rockefeller Center.

  All I can say is, be careful what you wish for. It just might come true.

  Saturday, December 6, 11 p.m.

  I thought my life was over because I have a boyfriend now and I don’t really like him in that way, and I have to break up with him without hurting his feelings, which is, I guess, probably impossible.

  Yeah, well, I didn’t know how over my life could actually be.

  Not until tonight, anyway.

  Tonight, Lilly-and-Boris and Tina-and-Dave and Mia-and-Kenny were joined by a new couple, Michael-and-Judith.

  That’s right: Lilly’s brother Michael showed up at the ice-skating rink, and he brought with him the president of the Computer Club—of which he is treasurer—Judith Gershner.

  Judith Gershner, like Lilly’s brother Michael, is a senior at Albert Einstein High School.

  Judith Gershner, like Michael, is on the honor roll.

  Judith Gershner, like Michael, will probably get into every college she applies to, because Judith Gershner, like Michael, is brilliant.

  In fact, Judith Gershner, like Michael, won a prize last year at the Albert Einstein High School Annual Biomedical Technology Fair for her science project, in which she actually cloned a fruit fly.

  She cloned a fruit fly. At home. In her bedroom.

  Judith Gershner knows how to clone fruit flies in her bedroom. And me? I can’t even multiply fractions.

  Hmmm. Gee, I don’t know. If you were Michael Moscovitz—you know, a straight-A student who got into Columbia, early decision—who would you rather go out with? A girl who can clone fruit flies in her bedroom, or a girl who is getting a D in Freshman Algebra, in spite of the fact that her mother is married to her Algebra teacher?

  Not that there’s even a chance of Michael ever asking me out. I mean, I have to admit, there were a couple of times when I thought he might. But that was clearly just wishful thinking on my part. I mean, why would a guy like Michael, who does really well in school and will probably excel at whatever career he ultimately chooses, ever ask out a girl like me, who would have flunked out of the ninth grade by now if it hadn’t been for all those extra tutoring sessions with Mr. Gianini, and, ironically, Michael himself?

  But Michael and Judith Gershner, on the other hand, are perfect for each other. Judith even looks like him, a little. I mean, they both have the same curly black hair and pale skin from being inside all the time, looking up stuff about genomes on the Internet.

  But if Michael and Judith Gershner are so suited for each other, how come when I first saw them walking toward us while we were lacing up our rental skates, I got this very bad feeling inside?

  I mean, I have absolutely no right to be jealous of the fact that Michael Moscovitz asked Judith Gershner to go skating with him. Absolutely no right at all.

  Except that when I first saw them together, I was shocked. I mean, Michael hardly ever leaves his room, on account of always being at his computer, maintaining his webzine, Crackhead. The last place I’d ever expected to see him is the ice-skating rink at Rockefeller Center during the height of the Christmas-tree–lighting hysteria. Michael generally avoids places he considers tourists traps, like pretty much everywhere north of Bleecker Street.

  But there he was, and there was Judith Gershner, in her overalls and Rockports and ski parka, chatting away with him about something—probably something really smart, like DNA.

  I nudged Lilly in the side—she was lacing up her skates—and said, in this voice that I hoped didn’t show what I was feeling inside, “Look, there’s your brother.”

  And Lilly wasn’t even surprised to see him! She looked over and saw him and went, “Oh, yeah. He said he might show up.”

  Show up with a date? Did he mention that? And would it have been too much for you, Lilly, to have mentioned this to me beforehand, so I could have had time for a little mental preparation?

  Only Lilly doesn’t know how I feel about her brother, so I guess it never occurred to her to break it to me gently.

  Here’s the subtle way in which I handled the situation. It was really smooth (NOT).

  As Michael and Judith were looking around for a place to put on their skates:

  Me: (Casually, to Lilly) I didn’t know your brother and Judith Gershner were going out.

  Lilly: (Disgusted for some reason) Please. They’re not. She was just over at our place, working with Michael on some project for the stupid Computer Club. They heard we were all going skating, and Judith said she wanted to come, too.

  Me: Well, that sounds like they’re going out to me.

  Lilly: Whatever. Boris, must you constantly breathe on me?

  Me: (To Michael and Judith as they walk up to us) Oh, hi, you guys. Michael, I didn’t know you knew how to ice-skate.

  Michael: (shrugging) I used to be on a hockey team.

  Lilly: (snorting) Yeah, Pee Wee Hockey. That was before he decided that team sports were a waste of time because the success of the team was dictated by the performance of all the players as a whole, as opposed to sports determined by individual performance such as tennis and golf.

  Michael: Lilly, don’t you ever shut up?

  Judith: I love ice-skating! Although I’m not very good at it.

  And she certainly isn’t. Judith is such a bad skater, she had to hold on to both of Michael’s hands while he skated backwards in front of her, just to keep from falling flat on her face. I don’t know which astonished me more: that Michael can skate backwards, or that he didn’t seem to mind having to tow Judith all around the rink. I mean, I may not be able to clone a fruit fly, but at least I can remain upright unaided in a pair of ice skates.

  Kenny, however, seemed to really think Michael and Judith’s method of skating was way preferable to skating the old-fashioned way—you know, solo—so he kept coming up and trying to get me to let him tow me around the way Michael was towing Judith.

  And even though I was all, “Duh, Kenny, I know how to skate,” he said that that wasn’t the point. Finally, after he’d bugged me for like half an hour, I gave in, and let him hold both my hands as h
e skated in front of me, backwards.

  Only the thing is, Kenny isn’t very good at skating backwards. I can skate forward, but I’m not good enough at it that if someone is wobbling around in front of me, I can keep from crashing into him if he falls down.

  Which was exactly what happened. Kenny fell down, and I couldn’t stop, so I crashed into him, and my chin hit his knee and I bit my tongue and all this blood filled up my mouth, and I didn’t want to swallow it so I spat it out. Only unfortunately it went all over Kenny’s jeans and onto the ice, which clearly impressed all of the tourists standing along the railings around the rink, taking pictures of their loved ones in front of the enormous Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, since they all turned around and started taking pictures of the girl spitting up blood on the ice below, a truly New York moment.

  And then Lars came shooshing over—he is a champion ice-skater, thanks to his Nordic upbringing; quite a contrast to his bodyguard training in the heart of the Gobi desert—picked me up, looked at my tongue, gave me his handkerchief and told me to keep pressure on the wound, and then said, “That’s enough skating for one night.”

  And that was it. Now I’ve got this bloody gouge in the tip of my tongue, and it hurts to talk, and I was totally humiliated in front of millions of tourists who’d come to look at the stupid tree at stupid Rockefeller Center, not to mention in front of my friends and, worst of all, Judith Gershner, who it turns out also got accepted early decision at Columbia (great, the same school Michael’s going to in the fall), where she will be pre-med, and who advised me that I should go to the hospital, as it seemed likely to her that I might need stitches. In my tongue. I’m lucky, she said, I didn’t bite the tip of it off.

  Lucky!

  Oh, yeah, I’ll tell you how lucky I am: I’m so lucky that while I lie here in bed writing this, with no one but my twenty-five-pound cat, Fat Louie, to keep me company (and Fat Louie only likes me because I feed him), the boy I’ve been in love with since like forever is up at midtown right now with a girl who knows how to clone fruit flies and can tell if wounds need stitches or not.