The Princess Diaries I

by Meg Cabot

  "I can’t go," I said, "because my mom wouldn’t let me go to a party like that."

  Oh, my God. Why did I say that? Why, why, why? I should have lied. I totally should have lied. Because how did I sound, saying something like that? Uh, like a total freak. Worse than a freak. A dork. A grade A nerd.

  I don’t know what compelled me to tell the truth in the first place. It wasn’t even the real truth. I mean, it was a truth, but it wasn’t the real reason I was saying no. I mean, it’s true there was no way my mom was going to let me go to a party in a boy’s apartment when his parents are out of town. Even with a bodyguard. But the real reason, of course, is that I wouldn’t know how to act at a party like that. I mean, I’ve heard about these kinds of parties. There are like whole rooms reserved for people to go into to make out. We’re talking major French kissing. Maybe even MORE than French kissing. Maybe even like above-the-waist touching. Maybe even below-the-waist touching. I don’t know for sure, because no one I know has ever been to one of those parties. No one I know is popular enough to get invited.

  Plus everybody drinks. But I don’t drink, and I don’t have anybody to make out with. So what would I do there?

  Lana looked at me, and then she looked at her friends, and then she burst out laughing. Loud. I mean, REALLY loud.

  Well, I guess I can’t really blame her.

  "Oh my God," Lana said when she had gotten over laughing so hard that she couldn’t talk. "You can’t be serious."

  I knew right then Lana had just latched upon a whole new thing to torture me about. I didn’t really care so much about me, but I felt bad for Tina Hakim Baba, who’d managed to keep such a low profile for so long. Suddenly, because of me, she was being sucked into the middle of the popular girl torture zone.

  "Oh my God," Lana said. "Are you kidding me?"

  "Um," I said. "No."

  "Well, you’re not supposed to tell her the truth," Lana said, all snotty again.

  I didn’t know what she was talking about.

  "Your mom. Nobody tells their mom the truth. You tell her you’re spending the night at a girlfriend’s house. Duh."

  Oh.

  She meant lie. To my mom. Lana had obviously never met my mom. Nobody lies to my mom. You just can’t. Not about something like that. No way.

  So I said, "Look, it’s not like I don’t appreciate being asked, and all, but I really don’t think I can come. Besides, I don’t even drink. . . . "

  Okay, that was another big mistake.

  Lana looked at me like I’d just said I’d never watched Party of Five, or something. She went: "You don’t drink?"

  I just looked at her. The truth is, at Miragnac I do drink. We drink wine with dinner every night. That’s just what you do in France. You don’t drink it for fun, though. You drink it because it goes with the food. It’s supposed to make the foie gras taste better. I wouldn’t know about that, since I don’t eat foie gras, but I can tell you from experience that wine goes better with goat cheese than Dr Pepper does.

  I certainly wouldn’t chug a whole bottle of it, though, not even on a dare. Not even for Josh Richter.

  So I just shrugged and went, "No. I try to be respectful of my body and not put a whole lot of toxins into it."

  Lana snorted at that, but across from her—beside me—Josh Richter swallowed the mouthful of burger he was chewing and said, "I can respect that."

  Lana’s mouth dropped open. So, I’m sorry to say, did mine. Josh Richter respected something I had said? Are you kidding me?

  But he looked perfectly serious. More than serious. He looked the way he had that day at Bigelows, like he could see into my soul with those electric blue eyes of his. . . . Like he already had seen into my soul. . . .

  I guess Lana didn’t notice her boyfriend looking into my soul, though. Because she said, "God, Josh. You drink more’n anybody else in this whole school."

  Josh turned his head and looked at her with those hypnotic eyes. He said, without smiling, "Well, maybe I should quit, then."

  Lana started laughing. She said, "Oh, right! That’ll happen!"

  Josh didn’t laugh, though. He just went on looking at her.

  That’s when I started to get the heebie-jeebies. Josh just kept staring at Lana. I was glad he wasn’t staring at me like that; those blue eyes of his are no joke.

  I got up real fast and grabbed my tray. Tina, seeing what I was doing, did the same.

  "Well," I said, "bye."

  Then we booked out of there.

  On the way to drop off our trays, Tina was like, "What was that all about?" and I said I didn’t know. But I know one thing for sure:

  For once, I’m kind of glad I’m not Lana Weinberger.

  More Thursday, French

  When I went to my locker after lunch to get my books for French, Josh was there. He was sort of leaning on his closed locker door, looking around. When he saw me coming, he straightened up and went, "Hey."

  And then he smiled. A big smile that showed all of his white teeth. His perfectly straight white teeth. I had to look away, those teeth were so perfect and so blindingly white.

  I said, "Hey," back. I was really embarrassed and all, since I had sort of seen him fighting with Lana a few minutes before. I figured he was probably waiting for her, and that the two of them would make up and probably French kiss all over the place, so I tried to work my combination as quickly as possible and get the heck out of there so I wouldn’t have to watch.

  But Josh started talking to me. He said, "I really agree with what you said in the caf just now. You know, about respecting your body and everything. I think that’s really, you know, a cool attitude."

  I could feel my face start to burn. It was sort of like I was on fire. I concentrated on not dropping anything as I moved books around in my locker. It’s too bad my hair is so short now. I couldn’t duck my head to hide the fact that I was blushing. "Huh," I said, real intelligently.

  "So," Josh said, "are you going to the dance with anyone, or not?"

  I dropped my Algebra book. It went skittering across the hall. I stooped down to pick it up.

  "Um," I said, by way of answering his question.

  I was down on my hands and knees, picking up old worksheets that had slid out of my Algebra book, when I saw these knees covered in gray flannel bend. Then Josh’s face was right next to mine.

  "Here," he said, and handed me my favorite pencil, the one with the feathery pom-pom on the end.

  "Thanks," I said. Then I made the mistake of looking into his too-blue eyes.

  "No," I said, real faintly, because that’s how his eyes made me feel: faint. "I’m not going to the dance with anyone."

  Then the bell rang.

  Josh said, "Well, see you." And then he left.

  I am still in shock.

  Josh Richter spoke to me. He actually spoke to me. Twice.

  For the first time in like a month, I don’t care that I’m flunking Algebra. I don’t care that my mom is dating one of my teachers. I don’t care that I’m the heir to the throne of Genovia. I don’t even care that my best friend and I aren’t speaking.

  I think Josh Richter might like me.

  HOMEWORK

  Algebra: ??? Can’t remember!!!

  English: ??? Ask Shameeka

  World Civ: ??? Ask Lilly. Forgot. Can’t ask Lilly. She’s not speaking to me.

  G & T: none

  French: ???

  Biology: ???

  God, just because a boy might like me, I completely lose my head. I disgust myself.

  Thursday Night

  Grandmère says: "Well, of course the boy likes you. What wouldn’t he like? You are turning out very well, thanks to Paolo’s handiwork and my tutelage."

  Geez, Grandmère, thanks. Like it would be impossible for any guy to like me for me, and not because all of a sudden I’m a princess with a $200 haircut.

  I think I sort of hate her.

  I mean it. I know it’s wrong to hate people, but I really do
sort of hate my grandmother. At least, I strongly dislike her. I mean, besides the fact that she’s totally vain and thinks only about herself, she’s also kind of mean to people.

  Like tonight, for instance:

  Grandmère decided that for my lesson today we would go to dinner somewhere outside of the hotel so she could teach me how to deal with the press. Only there wasn’t a whole lot of press around when we went outside, just some kid reporter from Tiger Beat, or something. I guess all the real reporters had gone home to get their dinner. (Plus it’s no fun for the press to stalk you when you’re ready for them. It’s only when you least expect them that they come around. This is how they get their kicks, at least as far as I can figure out.)

  Anyway, I was pretty happy about this, because who needs the press around, yelling questions and setting off flashbulbs in your face? Believe me, as it is, I see big purple splotches everywhere I go.

  But then as I was getting into the car Hans had brought around, Grandmère said, "Wait one moment," and went back inside. I thought maybe she’d forgotten her tiara or something, but she came back out a minute later looking no different than before.

  But then, when we pulled up in front of the restaurant, which was the Four Seasons, there were all these reporters there! At first I thought somebody important had to be inside, like Shaquille O’Neal or Madonna, but then they all started taking pictures of me and yelling "Princess Amelia, how does it feel to grow up in a single-parent household, then find out your mom’s ex has three hundred million dollars?" and "Princess, what kind of running shoes do you wear?"

  I totally forgot my whole fear of confrontation thing. I was mad. I turned to Grandmère in the car, and I said, "How did they know we were coming here?"

  Grandmère just dug around in her purse for her cigarettes. "Now, what did I do with that lighter?" she asked.

  "You called them, didn’t you?" I was so mad, I could hardly even see straight. "You called and told them we were coming here."

  "Don’t be ridiculous," Grandmère said. "I had no time to call all these people."

  "You didn’t have to. You’d just have to call one, and they’d all follow. Grandmère, why?"

  Grandmère lit her cigarette. I hate when she smokes in the car. "This is an important part of being a royal, Amelia," she said between puffs. "You must learn to handle the press. Why are you taking on so?"

  "You’re the one who told all that stuff to Carol Fernandez." I said it totally calm.

  "Of course I did," Grandmère said, with a kind of So, what? shrug.

  "Grandma," I yelled. "How could you?"

  She looked totally taken aback. She said, "Don’t call me Grandma."

  "Seriously," I yelled. "Dad thinks Mr. Gianini did it! He and Mom had this totally big fight about it. She said it was you, but he wouldn’t believe her!"

  Grandmère blew cigarette smoke out of her nostrils. "Phillipe," she said, "always was incredibly naïve."

  "Well," I said, "I’m telling him. I’m telling him the truth."

  Grandmère just waved a hand, as if to say Whatever.

  "Seriously," I said. "I’m telling him. He’s going to be really mad at you, Grandmère."

  "He won’t. You needed the practice, darling. That piece in the Post was only the beginning. Soon you’ll be on the cover of Vogue, and then—"

  "Grandmère!" I yelled. "I DO NOT WANT TO BE ON THE COVER OF VOGUE! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND? I JUST WANT TO PASS THE NINTH GRADE!"

  Grandmère looked a little startled. "Well, all right, darling, all right. You needn’t shout."

  I don’t know how much of that sank in, but after dinner I noticed the reporters had all gone home. So maybe she heard me.

  When I got home, Mr. Gianini was here, AGAIN. I had to go into my room to call my dad. I said, "Dad, it was Grandma, not Mr. Gianini, who told Carol Fernandez everything," and he said, "I know," in this miserable way.

  "You know?" I could hardly believe it. "You know, and you haven’t said anything?"

  He went, "Mia, your grandmother and I have a very complicated relationship."

  He means he’s scared of her. I guess I can’t really blame him, considering the fact that she used to lock him in the dungeon and everything.

  "Well," I said, "you could still apologize to Mom for what you said about Mr. Gianini."

  He went, still sounding all miserable, "I know."

  So I said, "Well? Are you going to?"

  And he said, "Mia . . . " Only now he sounded all exasperated. I figured I’d done enough good deeds for one day, and hung up.

  After that, I sat around while Mr. Gianini helped me with my homework. I was too distracted by Josh Richter’s talking to me today to pay attention while Michael was trying to help me in G & T.

  I guess I can sort of see how my mom likes Mr. G. He’s okay to just hang out with, you know, like in front of the TV. He doesn’t hog the remote, like some of my mom’s past boyfriends. And he doesn’t seem to care about sports at all.

  About a half hour before I went to bed, my dad called back and asked to speak to my mother. She went into the room to talk to him, and when she came out again she looked all smug, in an I-told-you-so sort of way.

  I wish I could tell Lilly about Josh Richter talking to me.

  Friday, October 17, English

  OH MY GOD!!!

  JOSH AND LANA BROKE UP!!!!

  I am not even kidding. It’s all over school. Josh broke up with her last night after crew practice. They were having dinner together at the Hard Rock Cafe, and he asked for his class ring back!!! Lana was completely humiliated under the pointy cone bra Gaultier made for Madonna!

  I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.

  Lana wasn’t hanging around Josh’s locker this morning, like usual. And then when I saw her in Algebra, her eyes were all red and squinty, and her hair looked like it hadn’t been brushed, let alone washed, and her thigh-highs had come unglued and were all baggy around her knees. I never thought I’d see Lana Weinberger looking like a mess!!! Before class started, she was on her cell phone with Bergdorf’s, trying to convince them to take her Cultural Diversity Dance dress back even though she’d already removed the tags. Then, during class, she sat there with a big black marker crossing out "Mrs. Josh Richter" from where she’d written it all over her book covers.

  It was so depressing. I could hardly factor my integers, I was so distracted.

  I WISH I WERE

  1. A size 36 double D

  2. Good at math

  3. A member of a world-famous rock band

  4. Still friends with Lilly Moscovitz

  5. Josh Richter’s new girlfriend

  More Friday

  You will not even believe what just happened. I was putting my Algebra book away in my locker, and Josh Richter was there getting his Trig notes, and he goes, in this totally casual way, "Hey, Mia, who you going to the dance with tomorrow?"

  Needless to say, the fact that he actually spoke to me at all practically caused me to pass out. And then the fact that he was actually saying something that sounded like it might be a prelude to asking me out—well, I nearly threw up. I mean it. I felt really sick, but in a good way.

  I think.

  Somehow, I managed to stammer out, "Uh, no one," and he goes, and I kid you not:

  "Well, why don’t we go together?"

  OH MY GOD!!!!! JOSH RICHTER ASKED ME OUT!!!!!

  I was so shocked I couldn’t say anything at all for like a minute. I thought I was going to hyperventilate, like I did the time I saw that documentary about how cows become hamburgers. I could only stand there and look up at him. (He’s so tall!)

  Then a funny thing happened. This tiny part of my brain—the only part that wasn’t completely stunned by his asking me out—went: He’s only asking you out because you’re the princess of Genovia.

  Seriously. That’s what I thought, for just a second.

  Then this other part of my brain, a much bigger part, went: SO WHAT???

 
I mean, maybe he asked me to the dance because he respects me as a human being and wants to get to know me better and maybe, just maybe, likes me, sort of.

  It could happen.

  So the part of my brain that was rationalizing all this made me go, all nonchalantly, "Yeah, okay. That might be fun."

  Then Josh said a bunch of stuff about how he’d pick me up and we’d have dinner beforehand or something. But I barely heard him. Because inside my head, this voice was going:

  Josh Richter just asked you out. Josh Richter just asked YOU out. JOSH RICHTER JUST ASKED YOU OUT!!!!

  I think I must have died and gone to heaven. Because it had happened. It had finally happened: Josh Richter had finally looked into my soul. He had looked into my soul, and had seen the real me, the one beneath the flat chest. AND THEN HE’D ASKED ME OUT.

  Then the bell rang, and Josh went away, and I just kept standing there until Lars poked me in the arm.

  I don’t know what Lars’s problem is. I know he’s not my personal secretary.

  But thank God he was there, or I’d never have known Josh was picking me up tomorrow night at seven. I’m going to have to learn not to be so shocked the next time he asks me out, or I’ll never get the hang of this dating thing.

  THINGS TO DO (I THINK, NEVER HAVING BEEN ON A DATE BEFORE, I AM NOT EXACTLY SURE WHAT TO DO)

  1. Get a dress

  2. Get hair done

  3. Get nails redone (stop biting fake ones off)

  Friday, G & T

  Okay, so I don’t know who Lilly Moscovitz thinks she is. First she stops talking to me. Then, when she finally does deign to speak to me, it’s only to criticize me some more. What right has she got, I ask you, to dump all over my Cultural Diversity Dance date? I mean, she’s going with Boris Pelkowski. Boris Pelkowski. Yeah, he might be a musical genius and all, but he’s still Boris Pelkowski.