by Meg Cabot
“Princess in training,” was all Lilly had to say to that.
I just looked at her like she’s a mental case. Which, I’m pretty sure, she is.
“Princess in training,” she said, again. “That’s what PIT stands for. Since you asked.”
“I told you,” I said, through gritted teeth, “not to call me that anymore!”
“No,” Lilly said. “You said not to call you baby-licker or POG—Princess of Genovia. Not PIT—Princess in Training.”
“Lilly.” My teeth were still gritted. “I do not want to be student council president. I have enough problems right now. I do not need this. I do not need to debate Lana Weinberger on Monday in front of the whole school.”
“Do you want to make this school a better place or not?” Lilly wanted to know.
“Yeah,” I said. “I do. But it’s hopeless, Lilly. I can’t beat Lana. She’s the most popular girl in school. No one is going to vote for me.”
At that moment, even though I’d thought we were alone in the ladies’ room, a toilet flushed. The next thing I knew, a tiny little freshman girl came out of a stall and over to the sinks to wash her hands.
“Um, excuse me, Your Highness,” she said to me, after Lilly and I had stared at her in dumbfounded silence for several seconds. “But I really admire that thing you did with the snails. And I’m planning on voting for you.”
Then she threw her paper towel in the trash and walked out.
“Ha!” said Lilly. “HA HA! See? I TOLD you! Something’s HAPPENING, Mia. It’s like a groundswell of resentment toward Lana and her ilk. The people are sick of the reign of the popular crowd. They want a new queen. Or princess, as the case may be.”
“Lilly—”
“Just keep doing what you’re doing, and everything will be fine.”
“But, Lilly—”
“And keep Saturday during the day open. You can do whatever it is you’re doing with my brother at night. Just give me the day.”
“Lilly, I don’t WANT to be president,” I screamed.
“Don’t worry,” Lilly said, giving my cheek a pat. “You won’t be.”
“But I also don’t want to be humiliatingly beat by Lana in a student election, either!”
“Don’t worry,” Lilly said, adjusting one of her many barrettes in the mirror above the sinks. “You won’t be.”
“Lilly,” I said. “HOW CAN BOTH OF THOSE THINGS NOT HAPPEN???? IT’S IMPOSSIBLE!!!!”
But then the bell rang and she left.
I wonder if there’s a disorder in Yahoo! Health for whatever it is that’s wrong with my best friend.Thursday, September 10, U.S. Government
THEORIES OF GOVERNMENT, con’t
THEORY OF FORCE
Religion and economics play important roles in history. As a result, this theory says:
Governments have always forced the people within their reach to pay tribute or tax.
This became sanctioned by custom and people developed myths and legends to justify their rule.
Sort of like the way people accept that the jocks and the cheerleaders run this school, despite the fact that they don’t necessarily make the best grades, so it’s not like they’re the smartest group of people here, nor are they even very nice to those of us who don’t eat, drink, and breathe sports and partying. How are they even QUALIFIED to lead us? And yet their word is law and everyone pays tribute to them by not calling them on their cruelty to others or by not telling on them when they flagrantly disregard school policy, such as smoking on school grounds and wearing their boyfriends’ shorts beneath their skirts. This is just wrong. The misdeeds of a few are having a negative impact on the many, and that’s not fair. I wonder what John Locke would have to say about it.Thursday, September 10, Earth Science
Why won’t Kenny stop talking about his girlfriend? I’m sure she’s nice, and all, but really, does he HAVE to keep reciting every conversation he’s ever had with her to me?
Magnetic field
1. Not constant—varies in strength but hardly detectable
2. Poles wander—number of times poles have reversed
3. Reversal of magnetic field—during times poles reverse, field disappears, allowing ions to hit Earth, mutations, climactic ruin, etc.
Last major reversal, 800,000 years ago, magnetic particles that were pointing north about-faced to point south
HOMEWORK
PE: n/a
Geometry: exercises, pages 33–35
English: Strunk and White, pages 30–54
French: lisez L’Étranger pour lundi
G&T: n/a
U.S. Government: Define force theory of gov.
Earth Science: orbital perturbationsThursday, September 10, limo on the way home from the Plaza
So when I walked into Grandmère’s suite at the Plaza for my princess lesson this afternoon, what did I find?
A pop quiz about seating arrangements for heads of state at a diplomatic banquet? Oh, no.
A waltz I needed to learn for some ball? Uh-uh.
Because those would be the kinds of things you’d EXPECT at a princess lesson. And Grandmère likes to keep me on my toes, apparently.
Instead, I found about two dozen journalists gathered in her suite, all eager to discuss my student council presidency campaign with me and my campaign manager, Lilly.
That’s right. Lilly. Lilly was sitting, cool as a cucumber, on a blue velvet settee with Grandmère, answering the reporters’ questions.
When the journalists saw me come in, they all jumped up and shoved microphones in my face instead of Lilly’s, and went, “Your Highness, Your Highness! Are you looking forward to your debate on Monday?” and “Princess Mia, do you have anything you’d like to say to your constituents?”
I had one thing I wanted to say to one constituent. And that was, “LILLY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”
That was when Grandmère sprang into action. She hurried up and draped an arm around my shoulder and went, “Your dear friend Lilly and I were just chatting with these nice reporters about your campaign for student council president, Amelia. But what they’d really like is a statement from you. Why don’t you be a darling and give them one?”
The minute Grandmère calls you darling, you know something is up. But, of course, I already knew something was up, because Lilly was there. How had she even gotten to the Plaza so fast? She must have taken the subway, while I’d been tied up in traffic in the limo.
“Yes, Princess,” Lilly said, reaching out to take my hand, then pulling me—none too gently—down onto the settee beside her. “Tell the nice reporters about all the reforms you’re planning to make at AEHS.”
I leaned over, pretending I was reaching for a watercress sandwich from the tray Grandmère’s maid had set out for the reporters, who are always hungry, and not just for a story. But then, as I grabbed one of the dainty little sandwiches, I hissed in Lilly’s ear, “Now you’ve gone too far.”
But Lilly just smiled blandly at me and said, “I think the princess would like some tea, Your Highness,” to which Grandmère replied, “But, of course. Antoine! Tea for the princess!”
The press conference went on for an hour, with reporters from all over the country peppering me with questions about my campaign platform. I was just thinking that it must be a REALLY slow news day if my running for student council president qualified as a decent story, when one of the reporters asked me a question that shed a little light on just why Grandmère was so keen on my making an ass of myself in front of Middle America, and not just my fellow AEHS students.
“Princess Mia,” a journalist from the Indianapolis Star asked. “Isn’t it true that the only reason you’re running for student council president—and the only reason we were invited here today—is that your family is trying to distract the news media from the real story currently hitting headlines in Europe—your act of ecoterrorism, concerning the dumping of ten thousand snails into the Bay of Genovia?”
Suddenly, two dozen microphones
were shoved into my face. I blinked a few times, then went, “But that wasn’t an act of ecoterrorism. I did that to save the—”
Then Grandmère was clapping her hands and going, “Who wants a nice glass of grappa? Come now, real Genovian grappa. No one can resist that!”
But none of the reporters were falling for it.
“Princess Mia, would you like to comment on the fact that Genovia is currently being considered for expulsion from the EU, thanks to your selfish act?”
Another one cried, “How does it feel, Your Highness, to know that you’re single-handedly responsible for destroying your own nation’s economy?”
“Wh…What?” I couldn’t believe it. What were these reporters talking about?
For once, Lilly came to my rescue.
“People!” she cried, leaping to her feet. “If you don’t have any more questions about Mia’s campaign for school president, then I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave!”
“Cover-up!” someone yelled. “That’s all this is! A cover-up to keep us from the real story!”
“Princess Mia, Princess Mia,” someone else called, as Lars began herding—or, to put it more accurately, bodily removing—all of the reporters from the suite. “Are you a member of ELF, the Earth Liberation Front? Do you want to make a statement on behalf of other ecoterrorists like yourself?”
“Well,” Grandmère said, downing half a Sidecar in one gulp as Lars finally closed the doors on the last of the reporters. “That went well, don’t you think?”
I couldn’t believe it. I just sat there in total shock. Ecoterrorism? ELF? All because of some SNAILS????
Lilly picked up her Palm Pilot (when did she get one of those???) and strolled over to where Grandmère was standing.
“Right. So we’ve got Time magazine at six, and Newsweek at six thirty,” Lilly said. “I heard from NPR, and I definitely think we should squeeze them in this evening—drive time, you know. It can’t hurt. And we got a request from New York One for Mia to go on tonight’s broadcast of Inside Politics. I’ve gotten them to swear there won’t be any questions about the E word. What do you think?”
“Marvelous,” Grandmère said, taking another swig from her Sidecar. “What about Larry King?”
Lilly tapped the headset she’d slipped on and said, “Antoine? Have you gotten hold of Larry K yet? No? Well, get on it.”
Larry K? The E word? What was HAPPENING?
Which is exactly what I wailed.
Grandmère and Lilly looked at me as if only just realizing I was there at all.
“Oh,” Lilly said, taking off the headset. “Mia. Right. The ELF thing? Don’t worry about it. Par for the course.”
PAR FOR THE COURSE???? Since when has Lilly known anything about golf?
“We didn’t want to trouble you, Amelia,” Grandmère said coolly, as she lit a cigarette. “It’s nothing, really. Tell me, is that really how you’re wearing your hair these days? Wouldn’t you like it better if it were a little…shorter?”
“What is going on?” I demanded, ignoring her hair question. “Is Genovia REALLY going to get expelled from the EU for what I did with the snails?”
Grandmère exhaled a long plume of blue smoke.
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” she informed me, casually.
My heart seemed to twist inside my chest. It’s true!
“Can they do that?” I demanded. “Can the European Union really kick us out because of a few snails?”
“Of course not.” This came from my dad, who’d wandered into the room, a cell phone clutched to his ear. I felt a momentary relief, until I realized he wasn’t speaking to me. He was talking into his cell phone.
“No,” he yelled at whoever was on the end of the line, as he bent to scoop up a handful of leftover sandwiches from the tray, then head back to his own suite. “She was acting entirely on her accord, not in the name of any global organization. Oh, really? Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. Maybe when you have a teenaged daughter of your own, you’ll understand.”
He slammed the door on his way out.
“Well,” Grandmère said, stubbing out her cigarette and reaching for the rest of her Sidecar. “Shall we talk about Amelia’s platform, then?”
“Excellent idea,” Lilly said, and pressed some buttons on her Palm Pilot.
So, now at least I know why GRANDMÈRE is so behind this presidency thing. It’s the only thing she can think of to keep reporters distracted from the whole Genovia being kicked out of the EU for ecoterrorism thing.
But what’s LILLY’s excuse? I mean, she’s the LAST person I ever thought Grandmère could turn to the dark side.
Et tu, Lilly?
My dad came back into the room between my Time and Newsweek interviews. He looked way stressed. I felt really bad, and apologized to him about the whole snail-dumping thing.
He seemed to take it in stride.
“Don’t worry too much about it, Mia,” he said. “We’ll probably get through this, if I can manage to impress upon everyone the fact that you were acting on your own accord as a private citizen, and not as regent.”
“And maybe,” I added, hopefully, “when people see that the snails are only doing good and not anything bad, they’ll change their minds.”
“That’s just it,” my dad said. “Your snails aren’t doing anything at all. According to the latest reports I’ve had from the Royal Genovian Naval Scuba Squad, they’re all just sitting down there. They are not, as you so passionately assured me they would, eating that damned seaweed.”
This was very disheartening to hear.
“Maybe they’re still in shock,” I said. “I mean, they were flown in from South America. They’ve probably never been that far from home before. It might take a while before they get acclimated to the new environment.”
“Mia, they’ve been down there for almost two weeks. In two weeks, you’d think they’d get a little hungry, and eat something.”
“Yeah, but maybe they had a big meal on the plane,” I said, feeling desperate. “I mean, I requested that they be kept as comfortable as possible during transport—”
My dad just looked at me.
“Mia,” he says. “Do me a favor. From now on, if you come up with any more grand schemes to save the bay from killer algae, run them by me first.”
Ouch.
Poor Dad. It’s really hard, being a prince.
I left right after that. But Lilly stayed. LILLY STAYED WITH MY GRANDMA. Because she still hadn’t managed to get through to Larry. Lilly told me if she could get me on Larry King, I’d be a shoo-in to beat Lana on Monday.
But I disagree. If it were TRL, maybe. But no one at AEHS watches CNN. Except Lilly, of course.
Anyway. I get why Grandmère is so into the idea of my running for student council president.
But what’s LILLY getting out of it? I mean, you would think, mad as she is about the security camera thing, SHE’D be the one running for president. What’s up with that, anyway?Thursday, September 10, the loft
So, guess where I’m staying while my mom and Mr. G are out of town? Yeah. That’d be at the Plaza.
WITH GRANDMÈRE.
Oh, they’re getting me my own room. BELIEVE ME. No WAY am I sleeping in the same suite as Grandmère. Not after that time she stayed over at the loft. I barely slept a wink the whole time she was there, she snored so loud. I could hear her all the way out in the living room.
Not to mention that she’s a total bathroom hog.
I guess I kind of expected it. I mean, no way would Mom and Mr. G let me stay alone at the loft. Even if, like, the entire Royal Genovian Guard was positioned on the roof of our building, ready to take out any potential international princess hostage-takers. Not after what happened during my birthday party.
Not that I even care. Not now that I am responsible for making the country over which I will one day rule the most hated land in Europe. Which is pretty hard to do, considering, you know, France.
&nb
sp; I didn’t actually think it was possible for me to get more stressed than I already was, considering that:
I think I might be flunking Geometry after only three days of it.
My best friend is making me run for student council president against the most popular girl in school, who is going to crush me like a bug in a humiliating defeat in front of the entire student body on Monday.
My English teacher—the one I was so excited about and who I was sure was going to help mold me into the kind of writer I know in my heart I have the potential to be—seems to think my prose is so bad it should never be unleashed upon the unsuspecting public. Well, more or less.
My boyfriend apparently expects me to Do It.
I’m a baby-licker.
Thank God to all of that I get to add that I had ten thousand snails flown from South America and dumped into the Bay of Genovia in the hopes that they would consume the killer algae currently destroying our delicate ecosystem, only to discover that South American snails apparently don’t like European food and that Genovia’s neighbors now want nothing to do with us. Yay!
Why can’t I do ANYTHING right?
Maybe Becca is right. Maybe I should take up yoga. Except that I tried it that one time with Lilly and her mom at the 92nd Street Y, and they made you stick your butt up in the air the whole time. How is sticking your butt up into the air supposed to make you feel less stressed? It just made me feel MORE stressed, because I kept wondering what everyone was thinking about my butt.
Ordinarily, to soothe my frazzled nerves, I might write a poem or something.
However, it is impossible for me to write poetry, knowing, as I do, that at this very moment, Karen Martinez is poring over the piece of my soul that I handed to her. I hope she is aware that she is currently holding all of my dreams of ever succeeding as a novelist—or at least a hard-hitting international journalist—in her black-nail-polished fingers. I sincerely hope she won’t squash them like a bug under Fat Louie’s massive paw.
