Forever Princess

by Meg Cabot

  So I didn’t have to answer Tina’s question.

  I sort of wish now that I hadn’t stopped Tina from telling me her theory. I mean, now that my heart rate has slowed down. (It was totally pounding back there in the stairwell for some reason. I have no idea why.)

  I bet, whatever it was, it would have made me laugh.

  Oh, well. I’ll ask her about it later.

  Or not.

  Actually, probably not.

  Friday, April 28, G&T

  Okay. They’ve descended into madness.

  I guess some of them (namely Lana, Trisha, Shameeka, and Tina) didn’t have that far to go, anyway.

  But I think they’ve taken the word “senioritis” to new extremes.

  So Tina and I were out in the hallway just before lunch when we ran into Lana, Trisha, and Shameeka, and Tina yelled, over the din of everyone passing by, “Did you guys hear? Michael is back! And his robotic arm is a huge success! And he’s a millionaire!”

  Lana and Trisha, as one might predict, both let out shrieks that I swear could have burst the glass in all the emergency fire pulls nearby. Shameeka was more subdued, but even she got a crazed look in her eyes.

  Then, when we got into the jet line to get our yogurts and salads (well, those guys. They’re all trying to lose five pounds before the prom. I was getting a tofurkey burger), Tina started telling them about Michael’s donating a CardioArm to the Columbia University Medical Center, and Lana went, “Oh my God, when is that, tomorrow? We are so going.”

  “Uh,” I said, my heart sliding up into my throat. “No, we aren’t.”

  “Seriously,” Trisha said, agreeing with me. (I could have kissed her.) “I’ve got a tanning appointment. I’m totally building up a golden glow for prom next weekend. I’m wearing white, you know.”

  “Whatever,” Lana said, picking out diet sodas for all of us. “You can tan after.”

  “But we’ve got Mia’s party Monday,” Trisha said. “There’re going to be celebrities there. I don’t want to look pasty in front of celebrities.”

  “Trisha really has her priorities straight,” I pointed out. “Not looking pasty in front of celebrities comes before stalking my ex-boyfriends.”

  “I don’t want to stalk Michael,” Shameeka said. “But I agree with Lana that we should at least check out this event. I want to see how Michael looks. Aren’t you curious, Mia?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “And besides, I’m sure we won’t be able to get in. It’s probably closed to everyone but invited guests and press.”

  “Oh, that won’t be a problem,” Lana said. “You can get us in. You’re a princess. And besides, even if you can’t—you’re on the staff of the Atom. Get us press passes. Just ask Lilly.”

  Lifting up my lunch tray, I shot her a very sarcastic look. It took Lana a second or two to realize what she’d said. Then, when she finally did, she went, “Oh. Yeah. He’s her brother. And she was really mad at you for dumping him last year, or something. Right?”

  “Let’s just drop it,” I said. I swear, I wasn’t even hungry anymore. My tofurkey burger, sitting on its plate in front of me, looked completely unappetizing. I thought about ditching it for tacos. If ever there’d been a day I could have used some spicy beef, it seemed like today.

  “Isn’t your little sister writing for the Atom this year?” Shameeka asked Lana.

  Lana looked over at her little sister Gretchen, who was sitting with the other cheerleaders at a table by the door.

  “Oooh,” Lana said. “Good suggestion. She’s such a little butt kisser, trying to get extracurriculars for college, she’ll have been to the Atom meeting this morning for sure. Let me go check and see if she got assigned to the Michael story.”

  I could have stabbed them both with my spork.

  “I am going to go sit down now,” I said from between gritted teeth. “With my boyfriend. You guys can come sit with me, but if you do, I don’t want you to be talking about this. In front of my boyfriend. Do you understand? Good.”

  I kept my gaze locked on J.P. as I made my way across the caf to our table, determined not to glance in Lana’s direction. J.P., chatting with Boris, Perin, and Ling Su, noticed me coming, looked up, and smiled. I smiled back.

  Still, out of the corner of my eye, I managed to see Lana hit her sister on the back of the head, grab her Miu Miu purse, and dig around in it.

  Great. That could only mean one thing. Gretchen had press passes to tomorrow’s event.

  “How’s it going?” J.P. asked me as I sat down.

  “Great,” I lied.

  Mia Thermopolis’s Big Fat Lie Number Five.

  “Fantastic,” J.P. said. “Hey, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

  I froze with my tofurkey burger halfway to my lips. Oh, God. Here? Now? He was going to ask me to the prom in the cafeteria, in front of everybody? This was J.P.’s idea of romantic?

  No. It couldn’t be. Because J.P.’s made me dinner at his apartment before when his parents were out of town, and he’s pulled out all the stops…candles, jazz on the stereo, delicious fettuccini Alfredo, chocolate mousse for dessert. The guy knows romantic.

  And he’s no slouch on Valentine’s Day, either. He got me a beautiful heart locket (from Tiffany, of course) with our initials entwined on it for our first, and a diamond journey necklace (to show how far we’d come from that first kiss outside my building) for our second.

  Surely he wasn’t going to ask me to the prom as I was biting into a tofurkey burger in the cafeteria.

  Then again…he thought he didn’t have to bother asking me to the prom at all. So…

  Tina, overhearing J.P.’s question as she slid her tray down next to Boris’s, gasped.

  Well, let’s face it. She would. This is another reason I can never tell her about Ransom My Heart. She’d never be able to keep it to herself. Especially the steamier parts. She’d want to know how I researched them.

  Then she recovered herself and said, “Oh? You have a question for Mia, J.P.?”

  “Uh,” J.P. said. “Yeah…”

  “How nice.” Tina tried not to look as smug as if she were about to give birth to the twentieth Duggar sibling. “Everybody? J.P. wants to ask Mia something.”

  “Uh,” J.P. said, a light pink shade tingeing his cheeks as a hush fell over the cafeteria table and everyone looked at him expectantly. “I just wanted to ask what you were getting Principal Gupta and the rest of them as thank-you gifts for writing your letters of recommendation?”

  Oh. Also, phew.

  “I’m getting them each a set of six hand-blown Genovian crystal water goblets,” I said. “With the royal Genovian crest on them.”

  “Oh,” he said, gulping. “I think my mom’s just going to get them each a gift certificate to Barnes and Noble.”

  “I’m sure they’ll like that much better,” I said, feeling bad. Grandmère was always so over-the-top with her gift-giving.

  “We’re giving them Swarovski crystal apples,” Ling Su and Perin said at the same time. This made them sound nerdier than they are; which they so totally aren’t. Well, anymore. They’d actually completely given up sitting with the Backpack Patrol, as J.P. refers to Kenny’s—I mean, Kenneth’s—gang, across the caf, who’d taken to traveling everywhere with their giant backpacks of books, even this late in the school year, knowing full well they’d already gotten into their colleges of choice (well, second choice). Some of them had so many books, in fact, they used wheelie suitcases to cart them around. It was like they’d never heard of using their lockers.

  Lilly, who used to sit among them—until Lilly Tells It Like It Is took off and her lunch hour became too busy for her to spend it in the caf—with her multiple piercings and often variantly colored hair, looked like an exotic flower. I think they were all pretty sorry to see her go—although I’m not sure any of them but Kenny really noticed, seeing as how their heads were all buried in their Advanced Chem books.

  “Well, that’s taken care of,” Lana a
nnounced, setting her tray down. “Two o’clock tomorrow, geek.”

  She was addressing me. Geek is Lana’s pet name for me. I’ve learned she means it as a term of endearment.

  “What’s at two o’clock tomorrow?” J.P. wanted to know.

  “Nothing,” I said quickly, just as Shameeka slid her tray down, too, and said, covering for me, “Mani-pedi appointments. Who’s got the Diet Cokes? Oh, thanks, Mia.”

  “This is so lame.” Trisha took one of the Diet Cokes I’d bought, too. “Did I mention how lame this is? I have to tan.”

  “What are they talking about?” J.P. asked Boris.

  “Don’t ask,” Boris advised him. “Just ignore them, and maybe they’ll go away.”

  And that was that. It was decided—sort of nonverbally, but more verbally after lunch was over and we were all walking to class and the guys were gone. Lana got press passes (two of them, one for a reporter, and one for a photographer) from her sister Gretchen for Michael’s donation of one of his CardioArms to Columbia.

  Apparently they all think we’re going tomorrow (to them, two press passes = permission for the five of us to enter, in Lana Fantasy Land).

  But the REAL fantasy is that they think I’m actually going to go, because no way am I setting foot anywhere near that place. I mean, nothing has changed—I still don’t want to see Michael—I still can’t see Michael…not sneaking in to see him on Lana Weinberger’s little sister’s high school newspaper’s press pass. I mean, that is insane. That’s like something out of a book—something that’s just not going to happen.

  Ever.

  God, Boris is really scraping away on that thing!

  And Lilly isn’t even here. Which is no big surprise, she hasn’t been in G&T since her show got picked up by a television network in Seoul. She tapes every day during lunch and fifth period. They actually let her out of school to do this, and give her class credit and everything.

  Which is cool. I guess she’s a huge star in Korea.

  Well, I always knew she’d be a star.

  For some reason I just always thought I’d be friends with her when it happened.

  Well, things change, I guess.

  Friday, April 28, French

  Tina won’t stop texting me, even though I’m not texting back. (I don’t need a repeat performance of yesterday’s debacle.)

  She wants to know what I’m going to wear tomorrow when we go to see Michael donate a CardioArm to Columbia’s Medical Center.

  I wonder what it’s like to live in Tinaville.

  I get the feeling it’s very shiny there.

  Friday, April 28, Psychology

  I finally texted Tina back that I’m not going tomorrow.

  There has been radio silence ever since, so I’m just slightly suspicious about what’s going on between her and the rest of the gang.

  It’s slightly restful, however, not to have my phone buzzing every five seconds.

  Amelia—I still haven’t had your answerrrrrrr. I need you to disinvite twenty-ffiveeeee people to your party. The captain is telling me we won’t be able to set saillllllll with three hundred. Weeeeeeeeee need to cut it down to two seventy-five max. I think Nathan and Claire, Frank’s niece and nephew, can go, obviously. What about your mother? You don’t need her there, do you? She’ll understandddddd. And Frank, tooooooo. I’ll be waiting for your call. Clarisse, your grandmotherrrrrrr

  Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device

  Oh my God.

  Major histocompatibility complex—MHC: Gene family found in most mammals. Believed to play an important role in mate selection through olfactory (scent) recognition. In studies, female college students asked to smell the unwashed T-shirts worn by male college students invariably chose ones worn by males possessing MHC that was entirely dissimilar to their own. This is believed to be due to the fact these males would make the most genetically desirable mates (pairing opposite MHC genes would create offspring with the strongest immune systems). The more genetically dissimilar mates are to each other, the stronger the immune system of the offspring, a fact believed detected through the olfactory senses of the female of the species.

  HOMEWORK

  World History: Study for final

  English Lit: Ditto

  Trig: Ditto

  G&T: Ugh, I’m so SICK of Chopin

  French: Final

  Psychology II: Final

  Friday, April 28, Dr. Knutz’s waiting room

  Great, I walked in here today for my next-to-last session and who should be sitting here but none other than the dowager princess of Genovia herself.

  I was like, “What the—” but fortunately managed to control myself at the last minute.

  “Oh, Amelia, there you are,” she said, like we were meeting for tea at the Carlyle, or whatever. “Why haven’t you phoned back?”

  I just stared at her in horror. “Grandmère,” I said. “This is my therapy session.”

  “Well, I know that, Amelia.” She smiled at the receptionist, as if to apologize for my idiocy. “I’m not slow, you know. But how else am I supposed to get you to communicate with me, when you won’t return my calls and you refuse to write back to my e-mails, which is the method of communication I thought was all the rage with you young people today? Really, I had no choice but to hunt you down here.”

  “Grandmère.” I was seriously about to bubble over with rage. “If this is about my party, I am NOT disinviting my own mother and stepfather to make room for your society friends. Disinvite Nathan and Claire if you want, I don’t care. And can I just add, it is totally inappropriate of you to show up at therapy to talk to me about this. I realize we’ve had joint therapy sessions in the past, but those were scheduled beforehand. You can’t just show up at therapy and expect me to—”

  “Oh, that.” Grandmère made a little waving motion in the air, the sapphire cocktail ring the Shah of Iran had given her sparkling as she did so. “Please. Vigo has straightened out the difficulties with the invitation list. And don’t worry, your mother is safe. Though I wouldn’t say the same for her parents. I hope they’ll enjoy the view of the party from the steering deck. No, no, I’m here about That Boy.”

  I couldn’t figure out what she was talking about at first. “J.P.?” She never calls J.P. That Boy. Grandmère loves J.P. I mean seriously loves him. When the two of them get together, they talk about old Broadway shows I’ve never even heard of until I practically have to drag J.P. away. Grandmère is more than a little convinced she could have had a great career on the stage if she hadn’t chosen to marry my grandfather and been the princess of a small European country instead of a huge Broadway star à la that girl who stars in Legally Blonde, the musical. Only, of course, in Grandmère’s mind, she’s better than her.

  “Not John Paul,” Grandmère said, looking shocked at the very idea. “The other one. And this…thing he’s invented.”

  Michael? Grandmère had invited herself to my therapy session to talk to me about Michael?

  Also, great. Thanks, Vigo. Had he set her BlackBerry to receive Google alerts about me, too?

  “Are you serious?” I swear at this point I had no idea what she was up to. I really hadn’t put two and two together. I still thought she was worried about the party. “You want to invite Michael, now, too? Well, sorry, Grandmère, but no. Just because he’s a famous millionaire inventor now doesn’t mean I want him at my party. If you invite him, I swear I’ll—”

  “No. Amelia.” Grandmère reached out and grabbed my hand. It wasn’t one of her usual grasping, needy grabs, where she tries to force me to give her sciatica a massage. It was as if she was taking my hand to…well, to hold it.

  I was so surprised, I actually sank down onto the leather couch and looked at her, like, What? What’s going on?

  “The arm,” Grandmère said. Like a normal person, and not like she was telling me not to lift my pinky up when I drank my tea, or anything. “The robot arm he’s made.”

  I blinked at her. “What?”<
br />
  “We need one,” she said. “For the hospital. You have to get us one.”

  I blinked even harder. I’ve suspected Grandmère might be losing her mind for…well, the entire time I’ve known her, actually.

  But now it was clear she’d gone completely around the bend.

  “Grandmère.” I discreetly felt for her pulse. “Have you been taking your heart medication?”

  “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?”