Forever Princess

by Meg Cabot

  What’s wrong with me? Seriously, do I have some sort of wish to live alone (well, with Fat Louie) for the rest of my life?

  I really think I do. J.P.’s confident smile wavered…but just a little.

  “That’s my girl,” he said, and stood up and hugged me, while somewhere out in the crowd, someone started to clap…slowly at first (I recognized that clap…it had to have been Boris), and then more rapidly, until everyone was politely applauding.

  It was horrible! They were applauding for me saying “Well, we’ll see!” in response to my boyfriend’s asking me to the prom! I didn’t deserve applause. I deserved to be tossed overboard. They were only doing it because I’m a princess, and their hostess. I know deep down inside, they were thinking, “What a byotch!”

  Why? Why had Michael left?

  As J.P. hugged me, I whispered, “We have to talk.”

  He whispered back, “I have certification to prove it’s blood free. Is that why you look so freaked out?”

  “Partly,” I said, inhaling his mingled scent of dry cleaning and Carolina Herrera for Men. We’d stepped away from the microphone by then, so there was no chance of anyone overhearing us. “It’s just—”

  “It’s only a promise ring.” J.P. broke the hug first, but he still held on to one of my hands…into which he’d slipped the box holding the ginormous diamond ring. “You know I’d do anything to make you happy. I thought this was what you wanted.”

  I just looked up at him in total confusion. Part of my confusion was over the fact that here was this wonderful, wonderful guy who really did mean what he’d just said—I knew he would do anything to make me happy. So why couldn’t I just let him?

  And another part of me was wondering what I had ever said to make him think what I wanted was a ring—promise, engagement, or otherwise?

  “It’s what Boris got Tina,” J.P. explained, seeing my lack of comprehension. “And you were so happy for her.”

  “Right,” I said. “Because that’s the kind of thing she likes—”

  “I know,” J.P. said. “The same way she likes romance novels, and you wrote one—”

  “So naturally if her boyfriend gave her a promise ring, I’d want one, too?” I shook my head. Hello. Couldn’t he see there was a big difference between me and Tina?

  “Look,” J.P. said, closing my fingers around the velvet box. “I saw the ring, and it reminded me of you. Think of it as a birthday gift if it freaks you out to think of it the other way. I don’t know what’s been going on with you lately, but I just want you to know…I’m not going anywhere, Mia. I’m not leaving you, for Japan or anywhere else. I’m staying right here, by your side. So whatever you decide, whenever you decide it…you know where to find me.”

  That’s when he leaned down and kissed me.

  And then he, too, walked away.

  Just like Michael.

  And that’s when I ran for the safety of…this. Wherever I am now.

  I know I should come down. My guests are probably leaving, and it’s rude that I’m not there to say good-bye.

  But hello! How many times does a girl get sort-of proposed to? On her birthday? In front of everyone she knows? And then turns the guy down? Sort of? Only not really?

  Also…what’s wrong with me? Why didn’t I just say yes? J.P. is clearly the most amazing guy on the planet…he’s wonderful, gorgeous, fantastic, and sweet. And he loves me. He LOVES me!

  So why can’t I just love him back, the way he deserves to be loved?

  Oh, crud…someone’s coming. Who do I know who’s limber enough to climb all the way up here? Not Grandmère, that’s for sure…

  Tuesday, May 2, midnight, limo home from my party

  My dad isn’t too happy with me.

  He’s the one who climbed all the way to the yacht’s bow to tell me I had to stop “sulking” (his word for what I was doing, which isn’t completely accurate, in my opinion…I’d call it venting, since I’m writing in my journal), and come down and say good-bye to all my guests.

  That wasn’t all he said, either. Not by a long shot.

  He said I have to go to the prom with J.P. He said you can’t go out with a guy for nearly two years, then decide, a week before the senior prom, that you’re not going to go with him, just because you don’t feel like going to the prom.

  Or, as he so unfairly put it, “Just because your ex-boyfriend happens to have come back to town.”

  I was like, “Whatever, Dad! Michael and I are just friends!” Love, Michael. “Like going to the prom with him had ever even OCCURRED to me!”

  Because it totally hasn’t. Who takes a twenty-one-year-old college graduate millionaire robotic-surgical-arm inventor to their high school prom? Who, by the way, broke up with me two years ago, and also clearly doesn’t care about me now either, so it’s not like he’d go if I asked.

  And like I’d do that to J.P., anyway.

  “There’s a name for girls like you,” Dad said, as he sat down next to me on my precarious perch out over the water. “And what you’re doing to J.P. And I don’t even want to repeat it. Because it’s not a nice name.”

  “Really?” I was totally curious. No one’s ever called me a name before. Except for the names Lana routinely calls me—geek and spazoid and stuff like that. Well, and all the stuff Lilly called me on ihatemiathermopolis.com. “What name?”

  “Tease,” Dad said gravely.

  I have to admit, that made me start laughing. Even though the situation was supposed to be completely and totally serious, with Dad sitting there on the edge of the yacht, talking me down like I was about to commit suicide or something.

  “It’s not funny,” Dad said, sounding irritated. “The last thing we need right now, Mia, is for you to get a reputation.”

  This just made me laugh even harder. Considering the fact that I happen to be the last virgin in the graduating senior class of Albert Einstein High School (besides my boyfriend). It was just so ironic that my dad was lecturing me—me!—about getting a reputation. I was laughing so hard I had to hold on to the side of the boat to keep from falling into the inky black waters of the East River.

  “Dad,” I said, when I could finally speak. “I can assure you, I am not a tease.”

  “Mia, actions speak louder than words. I’m not saying I think you and J.P. should get engaged. That, of course, is completely absurd. I expect you to kindly and gently explain to him that you’re much too young to be thinking of that kind of thing right now—”

  “Da-ad,” I said, rolling my eyes. “It’s a promise ring.”

  “Regardless of your personal feelings about the prom,” he went on, ignoring me, “J.P. wants to go, and surely wasn’t wrong to have expected to take you—”

  “I know,” I said. “And I told him I wouldn’t mind if he takes someone else—”

  “He wants to take you. His girlfriend. Whom he’s been seeing for nearly two years. He has certain rights of expectation because of that. One of them is that, barring any sort of gross misconduct on his part, you would go to the prom with him. And so the right thing for you to do is go with him.”

  “But, Dad,” I said, shaking my head. “You don’t understand. I mean…I wrote a romance novel, and I gave it to him, and he hasn’t even—”

  My dad blinked at me. “You wrote a romance novel?”

  Oops. Yeah, guess I forgot to mention that part to good old Dad. Maybe I could distract him.

  “Um,” I said. “Yeah. About that. You don’t have to worry. No one wants to publish it anyway—”

  My dad waved a hand like my words were something annoying that was buzzing around his head.

  “Mia,” he said. “I think you know by now that being royal isn’t all about being driven around in limos and having a bodyguard and taking private jets and buying the latest handbag or jeans and always being in style. You know what it’s really about is always being the bigger person, and being kind to others. You chose to date J.P. You chose to date him for nearly two years. Yo
u cannot not go to the prom with him, unless he’s been in some way cruel to you…which, from what you describe, it doesn’t sound as if he has. Now, stop being such a—what do you kids call it? Oh, right, a drama queen—and come down from here. My leg is getting a cramp.”

  I knew my dad was right. I was being stupid. I’d been acting like an idiot all week (so what else was new?). I was going to the prom, and I was going with J.P. J.P. and I were perfect for each other. We always had been.

  I wasn’t a kid anymore, and I needed to stop acting like one. I needed to stop lying to everyone, just like Dr. Knutz said.

  But most importantly, I needed to stop lying to myself.

  Life isn’t a romance novel. The truth is, the reason romance novels sell so well—the reason why everyone loves them—is because no one’s life is actually like that. Everyone wants their life to be like that.

  But no one’s life really is.

  No. The truth was, Michael and I were through—even if he did sign his letter to me Love, Michael. But that didn’t mean anything. That little ember of hope I’d been carrying around—partly, I knew, because my dad had told me that love is always waiting right around the corner—needed to die and stay well and truly dead. I needed to allow it to die, and be happy with what I had. Because what I had was pretty freaking great.

  I think what happened tonight finally killed that ember of hope about Michael I’ve been carrying around. I really do.

  At least, I’m almost positive when I climbed down and found J.P. (talking to Sean Penn again, of course) and I went up to him and said, “Yes,” and showed him that I was wearing the ring, that killed it. Killed it pretty much dead.

  He gave me a big hug and lifted me up and swung me around. Everyone standing around cheered and clapped.

  Except my mom. I saw her give my dad a look, and he shook his head, and she narrowed her eyes at him, like, You are so gonna get it, and he gave her a look, like, It’s just a promise ring, Helen.

  I suspect I’m due for a breakfast lecture on post-modern feminism from Mom tomorrow morning. As Lana would say, whatevs. Like any lecture of Mom’s can make me feel worse than the sight of Michael’s back did a little while ago.

  Tina and Lana and Trisha and Shameeka and Ling Su and Perin were all over the ring, though Ling Su mainly wanted to know if I could cut plates in half with my new diamond, since she’s doing a new installation piece that involves pieces of broken ceramic (we experimented on some of the dishware from the caterer and the answer is yes, my ring can cut plates in half).

  The person who seemed most interested was Lilly. She came over and really looked at it and was like, “So what are you now, like, engaged?” and I was all, “No, it’s just a promise ring,” and Lilly went, “That’s some big promise,” meaning the diamond. Which I’m pretty sure she meant in a semi-insulting way…

  And she succeeded.

  What I couldn’t figure out was why Lilly hadn’t sprung her “surprise” on me yet…the one she’d said she could only give me if she came to my party. I’d assumed that meant she was going to give it to me at my party—or at least on my birthday itself. But so far she’d showed no sign of doing so.

  Maybe I’d misunderstood.

  Or maybe—just maybe—there was still some sliver of affection for me somewhere in her, and whatever diabolical scheme she’d been planning, she’d decided not to launch it after all.

  So remembering what Dad had said about how being royal is about being the bigger person, I refused to take offense at her “That’s some big promise” remark.

  And I also refused to ask her where her brother had gone. Though Tina, of course, sidled up to me and pointed out—in case I’d missed it, somehow—that he’d left…and that he’d done it as soon as J.P. had whipped out the ring.

  “Do you think,” Tina whispered, “Michael left because he couldn’t stand to see the woman he’s loved for so long promising herself to another man?”

  Really, this was too much.

  “No, Tina,” I said flatly. “I think he left because he just doesn’t care about me.”

  Tina looked shocked.

  “No!” she cried. “That’s not why! I know that’s not why! He left because he thinks YOU don’t care about him, and knew he couldn’t control his unbridled passion for you! He was probably afraid if he’d stay, he’d KILL J.P.!”

  “Tina,” I said. It was sort of hard to stay calm, but I remembered my new motto—life is not a romance novel—and that made it a little easier. “Michael doesn’t care about me. Face the facts. I’m with J.P. now, the way I always should have been. And please don’t talk to me that way about Michael anymore. It really upsets me.”

  And that was the end of it. Tina apologized for having upset me—about a million times—and was really concerned about having hurt my feelings, but we hugged it out, and everything was fine after that.

  The party went on for a little while longer, but then pretty much fizzled out when the dock master came along and said Madonna’s band had to unplug due to complaints from the neighborhood associations of nearby waterside condos (I guess they’d have preferred Pavarotti).

  In all, it was a pretty good party. I cleared some excellent loot: a ton of Marc Jacobs and Miu Miu totes, clutches, and wallets and stuff; a lot of scented candles (which you can’t even take with you to the dorm—whatever college I end up in—since candles are considered a fire hazard); a Princess Leia cat costume for Fat Louie, which won’t be too confusing for him, gender-wise; a Brainy Smurf T-shirt from Fred Flare; a Cinderella Disney castle pendant; diamond and sapphire hair clips (from Grandmère, who always says my hair is in my face now that it’s long); and $253,050 in donations to Greenpeace.

  Oh, yeah, and one three-carat blood-free diamond promise ring.

  I’d add one broken heart to the list, but I’m trying not to be a “drama queen,” like Dad said. Besides, Michael broke my heart a long time ago. He can’t break it again. And all he did was say he liked my book and write Love, Michael at the end of his note to me about it. That hardly constitutes wanting to get back together. I have no idea why I got my hopes up in such a ridiculous, girly manner.

  Oh, right: Because I’m a ridiculous, girly girl.

  Tuesday, May 2, World History final

  It probably wasn’t such a good idea to have my eighteenth birthday soirée the actual night of my birthday, seeing as how finals start today. I’ve seen more than a few people wandering around, looking all bleary-eyed, like they could have used a couple more hours of sleep. Including me.

  Thank God the schedules are all topsy-turvy for finals week and I just have World History and English Lit today, my easiest classes. If I had Trig or French finals today, I’d die.

  Literally. My mom’s speech about how women have come a long way from the time when they used to have to get married right out of high school because females weren’t allowed in universities, nor were there any jobs open to them either, went on for a really long time. And every time I started to doze during it, she poked me awake again.

  I said, “Mom, duh! J.P. and I aren’t getting married after graduation! I’m ambitious, all right? I totally got into every college I applied to already and I wrote a novel and I’m trying to get it published! What more do you want from me?”

  But somehow none of this seemed to comfort her. She kept saying, “But you haven’t chosen a school. You have less than a week to decide which one you’re going to,” and “It’s a romance novel,” like somehow either of these made a difference.

  And whatever: The heroine of my romance novel is a total dead shot with a bow and arrow.

  I don’t even wear J.P.’s ring around the house so I’m not sure what the problem is. It’s not like she even has to see it. What about it is so offensive to her?

  Tuesday, May 2, Lunch

  Everyone is forever asking to see my ring. I mean, it’s flattering, and all, but…kind of embarrassing. Then I have to explain it’s not an engagement ring. Because, of course, it
looks exactly like one. And they all think J.P. proposed.

  And it’s so big it keeps getting snagged on things. Like loose threads of my uniform skirt and once in one of Shameeka’s braids. It took, like, five minutes to get it unsnagged.

  I’m not used to being so glamorous at school.

  You can tell J.P. is really pleased though.

  So. There’s that. If he’s happy, I’m happy.

  Tuesday, May 2, English Lit final

  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Okay, once again, I have made a complete and total fool out of myself.

  But really, what else is new?

  Not that it matters, because I’ve moved on. I’m eighteen, and an adult, and in four days I will be out of this hellhole FOREVER (just don’t ask me where I’ll be going instead, because I still have no idea).

  Anyway, it’s all Tina’s fault, because Tina is barely speaking to me. I know I told her not to talk to me about Michael, but that’s not the same as saying Don’t talk to me at all.

  You’d think she’d have a lot to talk to me about, seeing as how we’re both engaged-to-be-engaged, and all.

  But maybe she’s so scared of saying the wrong thing to me now, for fear of hurting my feelings, she’s decided to say nothing to me at all.

  I don’t know what her problem is. I can’t win in the best-friend division, apparently. I can’t ever seem to make them happy.

  I really should just settle for having Lana as my best friend. She’s much easier-going than anyone else I know. She’s very excited today because she’s got a love bite and she claims it’s from Prince William (she so wishes). She’s going around, showing it off to everyone. I’m surprised she hasn’t drawn a big red circle around it, in lipstick, with an arrow, and a sign that says, PRINCE WILLIAM’S (ALLEGED) HICKEY.

  Anyway, after lunch I saw Tina in the girls’ bathroom and I was like, “What exactly is your problem?”

  And she was all, “Problem? What problem? There’s no problem, Mia,” with her big Bambi eyes.