Princess Mia

by Meg Cabot

  Only I can’t. Because I don’t think I could bear to see that dead-eyed thing she does whenever she looks at me now.

  Because I know that’s exactly how she’ll respond.

  Friday, September 17, PE

  I’m standing here, shaking.

  Standing and not sitting because I’m in one of the ball-fields on the Great Lawn in Central Park. I guess I’m playing left outfield, or something, but it’s hard to tell with all the yelling. Get the ball! Get the ball!

  As if. You get the ball, loser. Can’t you see I’m busy writing in my journal?

  I totally should have made Dr. Fung give me a note to get me out of gym class. WHAT WAS I THINKING?

  Because it’s not just this Get the ball thing. I had to DISROBE in front of everybody. Which meant I had to lift up my sweater, and everyone saw the SAFETY PIN holding my skirt together.

  I went, “Ha, ha, lost a button.”

  But that explanation didn’t work for why, when I put on my gym shorts, they were SKIN TIGHT and gave me total camel toe. Thank God my gym tee was always a little too big to begin with. Now it fits just right.

  As if all of that weren’t bad enough, somehow LANA WEINBERGER ended up being in the locker room when I was changing.

  I don’t know what she was doing there since she doesn’t even have PE this period. I guess she didn’t like the way her hair was curling, or something, because she was giving herself another blow-out. Eva Braun, aka Trisha Hayes, was standing right next to her, filing her nails.

  And, of course, even though I ducked my head instinctively as soon as I saw them, hoping they wouldn’t notice me, it was too late. Lana must have spied my reflection in the mirror she was gazing into, or something, because next thing I know, she’d switched the hair dryer off and was going, “Oh, there you are. Where have you been all week?”

  LIKE SHE’D BEEN LOOKING FOR ME!

  See, this is EXACTLY why I didn’t want to go back to school. I can’t deal with stuff like this on TOP of all the other stuff that’s going on. Seriously, my head is going to explode.

  “Um,” I said. “Bronchitis.”

  “Oh,” Lana said. “Well, about that letter you got from my mother—”

  I closed my eyes. I actually CLOSED MY EYES because I knew what was coming next—or thought I did, anyway—and I didn’t think I was emotionally capable of dealing with it.

  “Yes,” I said. And inside, I was thinking, Just say it. Whatever mean, bitter, humiliating thing you’re going to say, just say it, so I can get out of here. Please. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

  “Thanks for saying yes,” was the completely astonishing thing Lana said, instead. “Because Angelina Jolie was supposed to do it, but she totally dropped out to play Mother Teresa in some new movie. Mom was driving me crazy, she was so frantic to find a replacement. So I suggested you. You gave that speech last year, you know, when we were both running for student council president. And it was kind of good. So I figured you’d be a decent sub for Angelina. So. Thanks.”

  I’m not positive—we’ll have to check with seismologists worldwide—but I truly think at that moment, hell actually froze over.

  Because Lana Weinberger said something nice to me.

  That, of course, isn’t the part that makes me wish I’d gotten a note from Dr. Fung excusing me from PE today, however.

  This next part is.

  I was so astonished that Lana Weinberger was acting like a human being, that I couldn’t reply right away. I just stood there staring at her. Which unfortunately gave Trisha Hayes a chance to notice the safety pin holding my skirt closed.

  And she’s way too savvy to believe the lost button excuse.

  “Dude,” Trisha said. “You, like, totally need a new skirt.” Then her gaze flicked up toward my chest. “And a bigger bra.”

  I could feel myself turning bright, bright red. It’s a good thing I have an appointment with a therapist after school today. Because we’re going to have SO much to talk about.

  “I know,” I said. “I, um, need to go shopping.”

  Which is when the next totally astounding thing happened. Lana turned back toward her reflection and, running her fingers through her now stick-straight hair, said, “We’re going to the lingerie trunk show at Bendel’s tomorrow. Wanna come with?”

  “Dude, are you—” Insane was clearly what Trisha was going to ask.

  But I saw Lana cut her a warning glance in the mirror, and just like Admiral Piett when he realized he’d let the Millennium Falcon get away right in front of Darth Vader, Trisha shut her mouth…though she looked scared.

  I just stood there, not sure if any of this was really happening, or if it was a symptom of my depression. Maybe I have some form of depression where you hallucinate invitations to lingerie trunk shows at Bendel’s from cheerleaders who’ve always hated you. You never know.

  When I didn’t reply right away, Lana turned around to face me. For once, she didn’t look snobby. She just looked…normal.

  “Look,” she said. “I know you and I haven’t always gotten along, Mia. That thing with Josh…well, whatever. He was such a jerk sometimes. Plus, some of your friends are really…I mean, that Lilly girl—”

  “Say no more,” I said, raising a hand. I wasn’t just saying it, either. Because I really meant it. I really didn’t want Lana to say anything more about Lilly. Who, it’s true, has been treating me like dirt lately.

  But maybe I deserve to be treated like dirt.

  “Yeah, well,” Lana went on. “I saw you weren’t sitting with her at lunch today.”

  “We’re having,” I said stiffly, “a time-out.”

  “Well, whatever,” Lana said. “You’re really bailing my mom out of a jam. And if you’re going to be in Domina Rei someday, like I will—with any luck—then I think we ought to let bygones be bygones. I mean, we’re hopefully a little more mature than we used to be, and can be grown-up about this. Don’t you think?”

  I was so shocked I just nodded.

  Instead of pointing out that it isn’t so much that Lana and I haven’t gotten along as that she’s been totally mean to some of my friends.

  Instead of going, “For your information, I wouldn’t be in Domina Rei if you paid me.”

  Instead of doing either of those things, I just stood there and nodded.

  Because I couldn’t think of anything else to do. That’s how completely astonished I was by what was going on.

  Or how crazy depressed I am about everything.

  “Cool,” Lana said. “So tomorrow morning, ten o’clock, at Bendel’s. We’ll do lunch somewhere after. If you want. Come on, Trish. We gotta get to class.”

  And, just like that, the two of them walked out……at almost the exact same time that Mrs. Potts came in and blew her whistle and told us to get in line to go to the park.

  I did what I was told without even thinking about it. That’s how much of a daze I was in from what had just happened. A part of me was going, It’s a trick. It has to be. I’m going to get to Bendel’s, and instead of Lana, Carrot Top is going to be there, along with all these paparazzi who’ll take pictures of me and Carrot Top together, and the headline in all the Sunday papers will be, “Meet the New Future Royal Consort of Genovia…Carrot Top!”

  But the rational part of me—I guess, even as sunk into depression as I am, there’s still a rational side of me—was going, OBVIOUSLY Lana was being sincere. That thing she said about Josh—I mean, basically, what happened between you and Josh and Lana is no different than what’s happening now between you and J.P. and Lilly. Even though you and J.P. are just friends, Lilly still THINKS you stole him, same as Lana thought about Josh. The only difference really was that you were actually crushing on Josh. No wonder Lana was mad. No wonder LILLY is mad. God, Mia. You do suck.

  So maybe it’s not a trick after all. Maybe Lana really does want to hang out with me.

  The question is…do I really want to hang out with her?

  Oh,
crud. Here comes Mrs. Potts. She doesn’t look too happy about the fact that I’ve brought my journal out to left field with me.

  But is it my fault no one will throw the ball to me?

  Friday, September 17, Chemistry

  Oh, God.

  As far as I can tell, utter bedlam has overtaken this class since I’ve been gone. We’ve broken off into individual group experiments of our choice. The one Kenny and J.P. have chosen in my absence appears to be something called nitro starch synthesis, which, they inform me, is actually “a mixture of several nitrate esters of starch with the formula [C6H7(OH)x(ONO2)y]n where x+y=3 and n is any whole number from 1 on up.”

  I have no idea what any of that means. I just put on my goggles and my lab coat, and am sitting here holding stuff out to them when they ask for it.

  When I can actually identify what it is that they want, anyway.

  I think I’m still in shock from the whole Lana incident. I have to figure out how I’m going to get out of going to the lingerie trunk show at Bendel’s with Lana Weinberger tomorrow.

  True, I totally do need new bras. But how can I hang out with Lana? I mean, even if she did apologize. She’s still…Lana. What do we even have in common? She likes partying. I like lying in bed in my Hello Kitty flannel pajamas watching Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy.

  Which reminds me. I can’t go shopping at Bendel’s tomorrow. There’s no school tomorrow, which means I can spend the whole day in bed. YES!!! I love my bed. It’s safe in there. No one can get me there.

  Except that Mr. G took my TV away.

  Oh, well. I can always read Jane Eyre again. I mean, there’s that whole part in it where Jane and Mr. Rochester get separated because of the whole Bertha thing, and then she hears his disembodied voice floating over the moor…. Maybe I’ll hear Michael’s disembodied voice floating over the Hudson, and know that deep down he still loves me and wants me back, and then I can fly to Japan and—

  Mia! What are you doing tomorrow night? If I got tickets to something, would you come with me? Anything you want to see, you name it.—J.P.

  Oh, God. What can I say? I just want to stay in bed. Forever.

  That’s sweet, J.P., but I’m still not quite over my bronchitis. I think I’m going to lay low. Thanks for thinking of me, though!—M

  That’s cool! If you want, I could come over. We could watch some movies….

  Oh, wow. J.P. is really taking this breakup with Lilly hard. Even though he, of course, is the one who initiated it. Still, he can’t even stand the thought of being alone on a Saturday night.

  I’d love to, but the truth is, my TV is on the fritz.

  Which isn’t the truth at all. But is about as much of the truth as J.P. is ever going to get.

  Mia, is this about the newspaper thing? Everybody thinking we’re going out? Is the paparazzi staking out your place or something? You don’t want to be caught being seen with me, a mere commoner, again?

  Oh, God.

  NO! Of course not! I’m just really beat. It’s been a long week.

  Okay. I can take a hint. There’s someone else, isn’t there? It’s Kenny, right? You two are engaged? When’s the wedding? Where are you registered? Sharper Image, right? You guys want an iJoy 550 robotic massage chair, don’t you?

  I couldn’t help bursting out laughing at that. Which, of course, made Mr. Hipskin look over at our table and go, “Is there a problem, people?”

  “No,” Kenny said, then glared at us. “Could you two,” he hissed, “quit passing notes and help?”

  “Absolutely,” J.P. said. “What do you want us to do?”

  “Well, for starters,” Kenny said. “You could pass me the starch.”

  Which reminded me:

  “So, Kenny,” I said, as Kenny was sprinkling some white stuff into a jar of other white stuff. “What’s this I hear about Lilly hooking up with some muay thai fighter friend of yours at her party Saturday night?”

  Kenny nearly dropped the white stuff. Then he gave me a very irritated look.

  “Mia,” he said. “With all due respect. I am in the middle of a hazardous procedure involving the use of highly corrosive acids. Please can we talk about Lilly some other time?”

  God! What a baby.

  Friday, September 17, limo on the way home from Dr. Knutz’s office

  Seriously, I don’t know which is worse: princess lessons or therapy. I mean, they are both equally horrible, in their own way.

  But at least with princess lessons, I get the POINT. I’m being prepared to one day rule a country. With therapy, it’s like…I don’t even KNOW what the point is. Because if it’s supposed to be making me feel better, it’s NOT.

  And there’s HOMEWORK. I mean, like I don’t have ENOUGH to do with a week of school to make up. I have to do homework on my PSYCHE, too?

  I don’t know what we’re paying Dr. Knutz for, when he’s making ME do all the work.

  Like, today’s session started off with Dr. Knutz asking me how school went. We were alone in his office this time—Dad wasn’t there, because this was a real session and not a consultation. Everything was exactly the same as last time…crazy cowboy décor, wire-rimmed glasses, white hair, and all.

  The only difference, really, was that I was in my too-small school uniform instead of my Hello Kitty pajamas. Which I told him my mom had put down the incinerator. The same night my stepfather took away my TV.

  To which Dr. Knutz replied, “Good. Now. What happened in school today?”

  So then I told him—ONCE AGAIN—that I don’t even get why I have to GO to school, since I already have complete job assurance after graduation ANYWAY, and I hate it, so why can’t I just stay home?

  Then Dr. Knutz asked me why I hate school so much, and so—just to illustrate my point—I told him about Lana.

  But he totally didn’t get it. He was like, “But isn’t that a good thing? A girl with whom you haven’t gotten along in the past made a friendly overture toward you. She is willing to move on from your past differences. Isn’t that what you’d like your friend Lilly to do?”

  “Yeah,” I said, amazed he couldn’t understand something so obvious. “But I LIKE Lilly. Lana’s been nothing but mean to me.”

  “And Lilly’s been kind lately?”

  “Well, not LATELY. But she thinks I stole her boyfriend….” My voice trailed off as I remembered that I’d once stolen Lana’s boyfriend, too. “Okay,” I said. “I get your point. But…should I really go shopping with Lana Weinberger tomorrow?”

  “Do YOU think you should go shopping with Lana tomorrow?” Dr. Knutz wanted to know.

  Seriously. This is what we’re paying some ungodly amount of money for.

  “I don’t know!” I cried. “I’m asking you!”

  “But you know yourself better than I do.”

  “How can you even say that?” I practically yelled. “Everyone knows me better than I do! Haven’t you seen the movies of my life? Because if not, you’re the only one in the world who hasn’t!”

  “I might,” Dr. Knutz admitted, “have ordered them from Netflix. But they haven’t come yet. I only met you yesterday, remember. And I’m more of a Western fan, myself.”

  I rolled my eyes at all the mustang portraits. “Gee,” I said. “I couldn’t tell.”

  “So,” Dr. Knutz said. “What else?”

  I blinked at him. “What do you mean, what else? Except for the fact that, I reiterate, my STEPDAD TOOK AWAY MY TV!!!”

  “Do you know what the one thing every student who has ever been admitted to West Point has in common?”

  Hello. Random. “No. But I guess you’re gonna tell me.”

  “None of them had a television in their room.”

  “BUT I DON’T WANT TO GO TO WEST POINT!” I yelled.

  Dr. Knutz, however, doesn’t respond to yelling. He just went, “What else about your school do you hate?”

  Where to begin? “Well, how about the fact that everybody thinks I’m dating a guy I’m not?” I as
ked. “Just because it said so in the New York Post? And the fact that the guy I do like—whom I, in fact, love—is sending me e-mails asking how I am, like nothing happened between us, and that he didn’t yank my heart out of my chest and kick it across the room, like we’re friends or something?”

  Dr. Knutz looked confused. “But didn’t you agree with Michael that the two of you should just be friends?”

  “Yes,” I said, frustrated. “But I didn’t mean it!”

  “I see. Well, how did you respond to his e-mail?”

  “I didn’t,” I said, suddenly feeling a bit ashamed. “I deleted it.”

  “Why did you do that?” Dr. Knutz wanted to know.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I just…I didn’t trust myself not to beg him to take me back. And I don’t want to be that girl.”

  “That’s a valid reason for deleting his e-mail,” Dr. Knutz said. And for some reason—even though he’s a COWBOY THERAPIST—I felt pleased by this. “Now. Why don’t you want to go shopping with your friend?”

  I stopped feeling so pleased. Could he not PAY ATTENTION TO THE SIMPLEST DETAIL?

  “I told you. She’s not my friend. She’s my enemy. If you had seen the movies—”

  “I’ll watch them this weekend,” he said.

  “All right. But…the thing is…her mom asked me to speak at this event. And Grandmère says it’s a big honor. And she’s super excited about it. And it turns out the mom asked me because Lana recommended me. Which was…decent of her.”

  “So that,” Dr. Knutz said, “is why you didn’t turn down her invitation to go shopping right away?”

  “Well, that, and…I need new clothes. And Lana knows a lot about shopping. And if I’m supposed to do one thing every day that scares me—well, the idea of shopping with Lana Weinberger DEFINITELY scares me.”