Mia Goes Fourth pd-4

by Meg Cabot

  nesting grounds of the giant sea turtles who lay their eggs on Genovian beaches — irks me.

  So yes, I did mention this to him. It just seems to me that Prince Rene needs to realize there is more to life than racing around

  in his Alfa Romeo, or swimming in the palace pool wearing nothing but one of those little black Speedos (which are very stylish here in Europe). I also asked my dad to please, for the love of all that is holy, stick to swimming trunks, which, thankfully, he has.

  And, OK, Rene just laughed at me.

  But at least I can rest easy knowing I have done everything I could to show one extremely self-absorbed prince the error

  of his profligate ways.

  So that's it. That is my life in Genovia. Basically, all I want is to go home. I would not even mind having to start school early

  if it meant I could forgo this evening's dinner with the Prince and Princess of Liechtenstein. Who are totally nice people, but hello, it's Tuesday, I could be watching Buffy instead.

  With my new boyfriend.

  My new boyfriend with whom I have not even been able to have a date yet, because the very day after we finally confessed

  our secret passion to one another, we were cruelly torn apart and cast to opposite sides of the earth - I to my castle in Genovia, and he to his grandmother's condo in Boca Raton.

  You know, it has been exactly eighteen days since we last spoke to one another. It is entirely possible that Michael has forgotten all about me by now. I know Michael is vastly superior to all the other members of his species - boys, I mean. But everyone knows that boys are like dogs - their short-term memory is completely nil. You tell them your favourite fictional character is Xena, Warrior Princess, and next thing you know, they are going on about how your favourite fictional character

  is Xica of Telemundo. Boys just don't know any better, on account of how their brains are too filled up with stuff about modems and Star Trek Voyager and Limp Bizkit and all.

  Michael is no exception to this rule. Oh, I know he is co-valedictorian of his class, and got a perfect score on his SATs and was accepted early-decision to one of the most prestigious universities in the country. But, you know, it took him about five million years even to admit he liked me. And that was only after I'd sent him all these anonymous love letters. Which turned

  out not to be so anonymous because he fully knew it was me the whole time thanks to all of my friends, including his little

  sister, having such exceptionally large mouths.

  But, whatever. I am just saying, eighteen days is a long time. How do I know Michael hasn't met some other girl? Some Floridian girl, with long, sun-streaked hair, and a tan, and breasts? Who has access to the Internet and isn't cooped up in

  a palace with her crazy grandma, a homeless, Speedo-wearing prince and a freakish, hairless miniature poodle?

  'Amelia!' Grandmere just shrieked at me. Are you paying attention?'

  Yeah, sure, Grandmere. I'm paying attention. You are only squandering what are supposed to be the best days of my life.

  And probably, because of you, right now my boyfriend is strolling down the beach with some girl named Tiffany who can

  do long division in her head and knows how to ride a boogie board.

  But yes, I am paying attention to your very boring lecture about maintaining regal poise at all times.

  'I swear I do not know what is wrong with you,' Grandmere said. 'Your head has been in the clouds ever since we left New York. Even more so than usual.' Then she narrowed her eyes at me - always a very scary thing, because Grandmere has had black kohl tattooed all around her lids so that she can spend her mornings shaving off her eyebrows and drawing on new

  ones rather than messing around with mascara and eyeliner. 'You are not thinking about that boy, are you?'

  That boy is what Grandmere has started calling Michael, ever since I announced that he was my reason for living. Well,

  except for my cat, Fat Louie, of course.

  'If you are speaking of Michael Moscovitz,' I said to her, in my most regal voice, 'I most certainly am. He is never far from

  my thoughts, because he is my heart's breath.'

  Grandmere gave a very rude snort in response to this. 'Puppy love,' she said. 'You'll get over it soon enough.' Um, I beg

  your pardon, Grandmere, but I so fully will not. I have loved Michael for approximately eight years. That is more than half

  my life. A deep and abiding passion such as this cannot be dismissed as easily as that, nor can it be defined by your

  pedestrian grasp of human emotion.

  I didn't say any of that out loud, though, on account of how Grandmere has those really long nails that she tends to

  'accidentally' stab people with.

  Except that even though Michael really is my reason for living and my heart's breath, I don't think I'll be decorating my

  Algebra notebook with hearts and flowers and curlicue Mrs. Michael Moscovitzes, the way Lana Weinberger decorated

  hers (only with Mrs. Josh Richters, of course). Not only because doing stuff like that is completely lame and because I do

  not care to have my identity subjugated by taking my husband's name, but also because as consort to the ruler of Genovia, Michael will of course have to take my name. Not Thermopolis. Renaldo. Michael Renaldo. That looks kind of nice, now

  that I think about it.

  Thirteen more days until I see the lights of New York and Michael's dark brown eyes again. Please God, let me live that long.

  HRH Michael Renaldo

  M. Renaldo, Prince Consort

  Michael Moscovitz Renaldo of Genovia

  Friday, January 8, 2a.m.,

  Royal Genovian Bedchamber

  This just occurred to me:

  When Michael said he loved me that night during the Non-Denominational Winter Dance, he might have meant love in the platonic sense. Not love in the tides of flaming passion sense. You know, like maybe he loves me like a friend.

  Only you don't generally stick your tongue in your friend's mouth, do you?

  Well, maybe here in Europe you might. But not in America, for God's sake.

  Except Josh Richter used tongue that time he kissed me in front of the school, and he was certainly never in love with

  me!!!!!

  This is very upsetting. Seriously. I realize it is the middle of the night and I should be at least trying to sleep since tomorrow

  I have to go cut the ribbon at the new children's wing of the Prince Philippe Memorial Hospital.

  But how can I sleep when my boyfriend - the first real boyfriend I have ever had, since my last boyfriend, Kenny, doesn't count, seeing as how I didn't actually like him as more than just a friend — could be in Florida, loving me as a friend, and,

  at this very minute, actually falling in love with some girl named Tiffany?

  Why am I so stupid? Why didn't I demand that Michael specify when he said he loved me? Why didn't I go,

  'Love me how? Like a friend? Or like a life partner?'

  I am so retarded.

  And even if he managed to find the phone number of the palace somehow (and if anyone could, it would be Michael,

  since he once figured out a way to program his computer to autodial the 700 Club's toll-free donation hotline every two seconds, thus costing Pat Robertson a quarter of a million dollars in a single weekend and causing him to yank the toll-free number off the air, which, in the world of computer hacking, is practically like winning a Nobel Prize) I am sure the palace operator wouldn't even put the call through. Apparently, I get something like seven hundred calls a day, none of which are

  from people I actually know. No, they're all from creepy paedophiles who would like to receive an autographed photo of

  me, or from girls who want to know what it was like when I met Prince William (he is a very cute guy and everything, but

  my heart fully belongs to another). I am never going to be able to sleep now. I mean, how can I
, knowing that the man I

  love could conceivably think of me only as a friend he likes to French kiss?

  There is just one thing I can do: I have to call the only person I know who might be able to help me. And it is OK to call

  her because:

  1. it is only six o'clock where she is, and

  2. she got her own mobile phone for Christmas, so even though right now she is skiing in Aspen, I can still reach her,

  even if she is on a ski lift or whatever.

  Thank God I have my own phone in my room. Even if I do have to dial nine to get a line outside of the palace.

  Friday, January 8, 3 a.m

  Royal Genovian Bedchamber

  Tina answered on the very first ring! She totally wasn't on a ski lift. She sprained her ankle on a slope yesterday. Oh,

  thank you, God, for causing Tina to sprain her ankle, so that she could be there for me in my hour of need.

  And it is OK because she says it only hurts when she moves.

  Tina was in her room at the ski lodge, watching the Lifetime Movie Channel when I called (Co-Ed Call Girl, in which

  Tori Spelling portrays a young woman struggling to pay for her college education with money earned working as an escort - based on a true story).

  At first it was very difficult to get Tina to focus on the situation at hand. All she wanted to know about was what Prince

  William was like. I tried to explain to her that, beyond commenting that it was hot on the Cote d'Azur for December, Prince William and I hardly spoke to one another; I because my heart, of course, belongs to another, and he because apparently

  he found my treatise on the plight of the giant sea turtle less than scintillating.

  This was extremely disappointing to Tina.

  'The least you could have done,' she said, 'was get his email address. I mean, even Britney Spears has that, and she's not

  even royalty.'

  Ever since she started going out with him, Tina's boyfriend, Dave Farouq El-Abar, has shied away from commitment, saying that a man can't let himself get tied down before the age of sixteen. So, even though Tina claims Dave is her Romeo in cargo pants, she has been keeping her eyes open for a nice boy willing to make a commitment.

  Although I think Prince William is too old for her. I suggested she try for Will's little brother Harry, who is actually very cute

  as well, but Tina said then she'd never get to be queen, a sentiment I guess I can understand, although believe me, being

  royal loses a lot of its glamour once it actually happens to you.

  'Look,' I said. "I'm sorry, OK? But I had other things on my mind. Like for instance that there is a distinct possibility

  Michael only likes me as a friend.'

  'What?' Tina was shocked. 'But I thought you said he used the L word the night of the Non-Denominational Winter Dance!'

  'He did,' I said. 'Only he didn't say he was in love with me. He just said he loved me.'

  Fortunately I didn't have to explain any further. Tina has read enough romance novels to know exactly what I was getting at.

  'Guys don't say the word love unless they mean it, Mia,' she said. 'I know. Dave never uses it with me.' There was a throb

  of pain in her voice.

  'Yes, I know,' I said, sympathetically. 'But the question is, how did Michael mean it? I mean, Tina, I've heard him say he

  loves his dog. But he is not in love with his dog.'

  'I guess I can see what you mean,' Tina said, though she sounded kind of doubtful. 'So, what are you going to do?' 'That's

  why I'm calling you!'

  So then, just as I'd known she would, Tina came up with a plan. She was perfectly appalled when she found out Michael

  and I had not even spoken since the night of the Non-Denominational Winter Dance. I explained to her the whole phone situation, and she said, no problem, that I should call her back in five minutes. So I did. It was a really long five minutes,

  but I managed to keep from going crazy during it by pushing down all my cuticles with the tip of my sceptre, which was

  lying around.

  Pushing down your cuticles is not biting them, so I was still well within the confines of my New Year's resolution.

  When I called back precisely five minutes later, Tina had the number of Michael's grandmother's condo in Florida!

  'How did you get it?' I asked her, in astonishment.

  'Easy,' Tina said. 'I just called information, and asked for the number for every Moscovitz in Boca Raton, and then I called

  each one on the list until I got the right one. Lilly answered. She's expecting your call.'

  I couldn't believe how nice this was of Tina. Also how stupid I was not to have thought of doing it myself.

  'Now that you have the number,' Tina said, 'how are you going to find out? Whether Michael is in love with you or not?

  I mean, you're not just going to ask him, are you?'

  'Well,' I said. 'Yeah. That was the plan.'

  'You can't put him on the spot like that,' Tina said. 'You've got to be more subtle. Remember, he's Michael, which of course makes him vastly superior to most people, but he's still a guy.'

  I hadn't thought of this. I hadn't thought of a lot of things, apparently. I couldn't believe that I had just been going along on

  this sea of bliss, happy just to know Michael even liked me, while the whole time he could have been falling in love with someone else.

  'Well,' I said. 'Maybe I should just be like, "Do you like me as a friend, or do you like me as a girlfriend?'"

  'Mia,' Tina said, T really do not think you should ask Michael point-blank like that. He might run away in fear, like a startled fawn. Boys have a tendency to do that, you know. They aren't like us. They don't like to talk about their feelings.'

  It is just so sad that to get any kind of trustworthy advice about men, I have to call someone six thousand miles away.

  Thank God for Tina Hakim Baba, is all I have to say.

  'So what do you think I should do?' I asked. 'Well, it's going to be hard for you to do anything,' Tina said, 'until you get back here. The only way to tell what a boy is feeling is to look into his eyes. You'll never get anything out of him over the phone. Boys are no good at talking on the phone.'

  This was certainly true, if my ex-boyfriend Kenny had been any sort of indication.

  'I know.' Tina said, sounding like she'd just gotten a good idea. 'Why don't you ask Lilly?'

  'I don't know,' I said. 'I'd feel kind of funny about dragging her into something that's between Michael and me .. .' The truth was, Lilly and I still hadn't really even talked about me liking her brother, and her brother liking me back. I had always

  thought she'd be kind of mad about it. But then it turned out in the end she actually kind of helped us get together, by

  telling Michael I was the one who'd been sending him these anonymous love letters.

  'Just ask her,' Tina said. 'And then call me back! I want to know what she says.' 'OK,' I said.

  Then I hung up and looked at the number Tina had given me for Lilly and Michael's grandmother's condo. I have to admit

  that, as I dialled, my fingers were shaking. I mean, I was going to talk to Michael - Michael, my new boyfriend, whom I'd l

  oved for years and years - for the first time since we'd stood kissing outside my apartment building on Thompson Street.

  What was I going to say? I had no idea. The only thing I knew for sure was that I was not going to say, 'Do you like me as

  a friend, or do you like me as a girlfriend?' Because Tina had told me not to.

  Lilly answered on the first ring. Our conversation went like this:

  Lilly: (Sounding grouchy) It's about time. I thought you'd never call.

  Me: (Sounding defensive) You never gave me your grandma's number.

  Lilly: What? And you couldn't figure it out? I mean, you take off for Genovia, and you don't leave me a number

  where I can reach you . .
.

  Me: I didn't know the number. My dad always calls me. Besides, you didn't give me the number where you were

  going to be, either . . .