by Meg Cabot
Whatever, Dad. Like anyone writes with a pen any more.
And hello, I am only going to be in Genovia for Christmas and summers, as per our agreement drawn up last September.
A pen. I am so sure. Am I the only person in my family with a modicum of romance in my bones?
Oops, gotta stop writing, Father Christoff is looking this way. But it is his own fault. I wouldn't write in my journal during
mass if his sermons were even semi-inspiring. Or at least in English.
Monday, January 11, 1 a.m.,
Royal Genovian Bedchamber
I just got off the phone with Michael. I had to call him. It wasn't like I had a choice. I had to find out what he wanted for his birthday. I mean, I have to get him Something. And it has to be something really good, since I forgot. About his birthday,
and all.
Of course he says he doesn't want anything, that I am the only thing he needs (!!!!!!!!!!) and that he will see me in eight
days, and that is the best present anyone could get him.
This seems to indicate that he might actually be in love with me, as opposed to only loving me as a friend. I will, of course,
have to check with Tina to see what she thinks, but I would have to say that in this case, Signs Point to Yes!!!!!!
But of course he is only saying that. That he doesn't want anything for his birthday, I mean, I have to get him something. Something really good. Only what?
Anyway, I really did have a reason to call him. I didn't do it just because I wanted to hear the sound of his voice, or anything.
I mean, I am not that far gone.
Oh, all right, maybe I am. How can I help it? I have only been in love with Michael since, like, forever. I love the way he
says my name. I love the way he laughs. I love the way he asks my opinion, like he really cares what I think - God knows, nobody around here feels that way. I mean, make a suggestion - like that it might save water to turn off the fountain in front
of the palace at night, when no one is around anyway - and everybody practically acts like one of the suits of armour in the Grand Hall started talking.
Well, OK, not my dad. But I see him less here in Genovia than I do back home, practically, because he is so caught up
in parliamentary meetings, and racing his yacht in regattas, and hanging out with the new blonde bareback rider from the
Cirque du Soleil - which just got to town for an extended stint at one of the casinos.
Anyway, I like talking to Michael. Is that so wrong? I mean, he is my boyfriend, after all.
So we were just saying goodbye after having had a perfectly pleasant conversation about his birthday and the Genovian
Olive Growers' Association and Michael's band that he hasn't formed yet, and whether it is off-putting to call it Frontal Lobotomy, and I was just working up the guts to go, 'I miss you,' or 'I love you,' thus leaving an opening for him to say something similar back to me and therefore resolve the does-he-just-love-me-like-a-friend-or-is-he-in-love-with-me
dilemma once and for all, when I heard Lilly in the background, demanding to talk to me.
Michael went, 'Go away!' but Lilly kept on shrieking, 'I have to talk to her, I just remembered I have something really
important to ask her.'
Then Michael went, 'Don't tell her about that,' and my heart skipped a beat because I thought Lilly had all of a sudden remembered that Michael had been going out with some girl named Tiffany behind my back after all. Before I could say
another word, Lilly had wrestled the phone away from him (I heard Michael grunt, I guess in pain because she must have kicked him or something), and then she was going, 'Oh, my God, I forgot to ask. Did you see it?'
'Lilly,' I said, since even five thousand miles away, I could feel Michael's pain - Lilly kicks hard, I know. I have been the recipient of quite a few kicks of hers over the years. 'I know that you are used to having me all to yourself, but you are going
to have to learn to share me with your brother. Now, if this means we are going to have to set boundaries in our relationship, then I guess we will have to. But you can't just go around ripping the phone out of Michael's hand when he might have had something really important to—'
'Have you been watching Dr. Phil again?' Lilly wanted to know. 'I can't believe they have Oprah there, but not email.
Anyway, shut up about my sainted brother for a minute. Did . . . you . . . see . . . it?'
'See what? What are you talking about?' I thought maybe somebody had tried to jump into the polar bear cage at the
Central Park Zoo again. As if those bears don't have enough problems, what with the stress of living in Manhattan and
not on an iceberg, the way they are supposed to, plus being on display twenty-four/seven, weirdos are always trying to
dive in there with them.
I totally don't blame those bears for ripping the arms off the last guy who tried it.
'Oh, just the movie,' Lilly said. 'Of your life. Or hadn't you heard your life story has been made into a movie of the week?'
I wasn't very surprised to hear this. There are already four unauthorized biographies about me floating around out there.
One of them made the best-seller list for about half a second.
'So?' I said. I was kind of mad at Lilly. I mean, she'd booted Michael off the phone just to tell me about some dumb movie?
'Hello,' Lilly said. 'Movie. Of your life. You were portrayed as shy and awkward.'
'I am shy and awkward,' I reminded her.
'They made your grandmother all kindly and sympathetic to your plight,' Lilly said. 'It was the grossest mischaracterization
I've seen since Shakespeare in Love tried to pass off the Bard as a hottie with a six-pack and a full set of teeth.'
'That's horrible,' I said. 'Now can I please finish talking to Michael?'
'You didn't even ask how they portrayed me,' Lilly said, accusingly, 'your loyal best friend.'
'How did they portray you, Lilly?' I asked, looking at the big fancy clock on top of the big fancy marble mantelpiece over
my big fancy bedroom fireplace. 'And make it quick, I've got a breakfast and then a ride with the Genovian Equestrian
Society in exactly seven hours.'
'They portrayed me as less than fully supportive of your royalness,' Lilly practically screamed into the phone. 'They made
out like after you first got that stupid haircut, I mocked you for being shallow and a trend-follower!'
'Yeah,' I said, waiting for her to get to the point of her tirade. Because, of course, Lilly hadn't been very supportive of my haircut, or my royalness - at least at first.
But it turned out Lilly had already gotten to the point of her tirade.
'I was never unsupportive of your royalness!' she shrieked into the phone, causing me to hold the receiver away from my
head in order to keep my eardrums intact. 'I was your number one most supportive friend through the whole thing!'
This was so patently untrue, I thought Lilly was joking. But then I realized when she greeted my laughter with stone-cold
silence that she was totally serious. Apparently Lilly has one of those selective memories, where she can remember all the
good things she did, but none of the bad things. Kind of like a politician.
Because, of course, if it were true that Lilly had been so supportive of me, I never would have become friends with
Tina Hakim Baba, whom I only started sitting with at lunch back in October because Lilly wasn't speaking to me, on
account of the whole princess thing.
'I sincerely hope,' Lilly said, 'that you are laughing in disbelief over the idea that I was ever anything less than a good friend
to you, Mia. I know we've had our ups and downs, but any time I was ever hard on you, it was only because I thought you weren't being true to yourself.'
'Um,' I said, getting serious fast. 'OK.' 'I am going to write a letter,' Lilly went on,
'to the studio that produced that piece of libellous trash, demanding a written apology for their irresponsible screenwriting. And if they do not provide one - and publish
it in a full-page ad in the New York Times - I will sue. I don't care if I have to take my case to the Supreme Court. Those Hollywood types think they can throw anything they want to in front of a camera and the viewing public will just lap it up.
Well, that might be true for the rest of the proles, but I am going to fight for more honest portrayals of actual people and
events. The man is not going to keep me down!'
I asked Lilly what man, thinking she meant the director or something, and she just went, 'The man! The man!' like I was mentally challenged, or something.
Then Michael got back on the phone and explained that 'the man' is a figurative allusion to authority, and that in the way
that Freudian analysts blame everything on 'the mother', blues musicians have historically blamed their woes on 'the man'. Traditionally, Michael informed me, 'the man' is white, financially successful, in his mid to late forties, and in a position of considerable power over others.
We discussed calling Michael's band The Man, but then dismissed it as having possible misogynistic undertones.
Eight days until I can once again be in Michael's arms. Oh, that the hours would fly as fleetly as winged doves!
I just realized - Michael's description of The Man sounds a lot like my dad! Although I doubt all those blues musicians
were talking about the Prince of Genovia. As far as I know, my dad has never even been to Memphis.
Monday, January 11, 2 p.m.,
Dowager Princess's Private Terrace
Just when it seems like maybe, just maybe, things might be starting to go my way, something always has to come
along to ruin it.
And, as usual, this time it was Grandmere.
I guess she could tell, because I was so sleepy again today, that I'd been up all night talking to Michael. So this morning, between my ride with the Genovian Equestrian Society and my meeting with the Genovian Beachfront Development
Society, Grandmere sat me down and gave me a lecture. This time it wasn't about the socially acceptable gifts to give
a boy on his birthday. Instead, it was about Appropriate Choices.
'It is all very well and good, Amelia,' Grandmere said, for you to like that boy. But I do not think it wise of you to
allow your affection for this Michael fellow to blind you to other, more suitable consorts such as—'
I interrupted to tell Grandmere that if she said the words Prince William I was going to jump off the Pont des Vierges.
Grandmere told me not to be more ridiculous than I already am. I could never marry Prince William anyway on account of
his being Church of England. However, there are apparently other, infinitely more suitable romantic partners for a princess of the royal house of Renaldo than Michael. And Grandmere said she would hate for me to miss the opportunity to get to know these other young men, just because I think I have to be faithful to Michael. She assured me that, were the circumstances reversed, and Michael were the heir to a throne and a considerable fortune, she highly doubted he would be as scrupulously faithful as I was being.
I objected to this assessment of Michael's character very much. I informed Grandmere that in every aspect of Michael's life, from his being editor in chief of the now defunct Crackhead, to his role as treasurer in the Computer Club, he has shown nothing but the utmost loyalty and integrity. I also explained, as patiently as I could, that it hurt me to hear her saying
anything negative about a man to whom I have pledged my heart.
'That is just it, Amelia,' Grandmere said, rolling her scary eyes. 'You are entirely too young to pledge your heart to anyone.
I think it very unwise of you, at the age of fourteen, to decide with whom you are going to spend the rest of your life.'
I informed Grandmere that I will be fifteen in four months, and also that Juliet was fourteen when she married Romeo.
To which Grandmere replied, 'And that relationship turned out very nicely, didn't it!'
Grandmere clearly has never been in love. Furthermore, she has no appreciation whatsoever of fine literature.
'And in any case,' Grandmere added, 'if you hope to keep that boy, you are going about it all wrong.'
I thought it was very unsupportive of Grandmere to be suggesting that I, after only having had a boyfriend for
twenty-four days, during which time I had seen him exactly once, was already in danger of losing him, and said so.
'Well, I'm sorry, Amelia,' Grandmere said. 'But I can't say you know what you're about if it's true you actually want
to keep this young man. You call him at all hours of the night—'
'Actually,' I said, 'where he is, it is a perfectly civilized time for me to call, right after he and his grandparents and
sister get back from their Early Bird special dinner.'
But Grandmere wasn't listening,
'You do not give him any reason to doubt your affections,' she went on.
'Of course not,' I said, horrified. 'Why would I do that? I love him!'
'But you mustn't let him know that!' Grandmere looked ready to throw her mid-morning Sidecar at me. Are you
completely dense? Never let a man be sure of your affections for him! You did a very good job at first, with the
business of forgetting his birthday. But now you are ruining everything by calling all the time. If that boy realizes
how you really feel, he will stop trying to please you.'
'But Grandmere.' I was way confused. 'You married Grandpa. Surely he figured out you loved him if you went ahead
and married him.'
'Grandpere, Mia, please, not this vulgar Grandpaw you Americans insist upon.' Grandmere sniffed and looked insulted. 'Besides which, your grandfather most certainly did not "figure out" my feelings for him. I made quite certain he thought
I was only marrying him for his money and title. And I don't think I need to point out to you that we had forty blissful years together. And without separate bedrooms,' she added, with some malice, 'unlike some royal couples I could mention.'
'Wait a minute.' I stared at her. 'For forty years you slept in the same bed as Grandpere, but you never once told him that
you loved him?'
Grandmere drained what was left of her Sidecar and laid an affectionate hand on top of her miniature poodle Rommel's
head. Since returning to Genovia, most of Rommel's fur has started to grow back. According to the royal Genovian vet,
the allergy that caused it all to fall out was to New York City in general. White fuzz was starting to come out all over him,
like down on a baby chicken. But it didn't make him look any less repulsive.
'That,' Grandmere said, 'is precisely what I am telling you. I kept your grandfather on his toes, and he loved every minute
of it. If you want to keep this Michael fellow, I suggest you do the same thing. Stop this business of calling him every night.
Stop this business of not looking at any other boys. And stop this obsessing over what you are going to get him for his
birthday. He should be the one obsessing over what he is going to buy to keep you interested, not the other way around.'
'Me? But my birthday isn't until May!' I didn't want to tell her that I had already figured out what I was getting for Michael.
I didn't want to tell her because I had sort of snitched it out of the back of the Palais de Genovia museum.
Well, nobody else was using it, so I don't see why I can't. I'm the Princess of Genovia, after all. I own everything in that museum anyway. Or at least the royal family does.
'Who says a man should give a woman gifts only on her birthday?' Grandmere was looking at me like she pretty much despaired of me as a Homo sapiens. She held up her wrist. Dripping from it was a bracelet Grandmere wears a lot, one
