Princess on the Brink

I know I shouldn’t have done it.

  I don’t know why I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I don’t know why I couldn’t make my lips say the things I wanted them to say, like, “Michael, I am so proud of you,” and, “This really is such a great opportunity.”

  I mean, I DID say those things. Really, I did.

  But then—as we were walking down that bike path by the Hudson (Lars could barely keep up, we were walking so fast…well, mostly because Lars was texting people on his Sidekick as we went, but whatever), because it was such a nice night and I wasn’t ready to go home yet, because I wanted to squeeze every minute I could out of my last few days with him—and Michael was telling me how excited he was about moving to Japan, and how they eat noodles for breakfast there, and how the shumai you buy on the street are even better than the shumai at Sapporo East—somehow the words, “But, Michael…what about US?” slipped out of my mouth, before I could stuff them back in.

  Which is probably the lamest, most idiotic, Lana Weinbergerish thing a girl in my position could have said. Seriously. Pretty soon I’m going to start snapping the back of my own bra and be all, “Why are you wearing a bra, Mia? You don’t need one.”

  But Michael didn’t even skip a beat. He went, “I think we’ll be fine. Of course I’m going to miss you. But I have to admit, it’s going to be a lot easier to miss you than it’s been to be around you lately.”

  And I totally froze in the middle of the bike path and was like, “WHAT?”

  Because I’d known it. I’d totally known it. I’d asked him if part of why he was going had to do with me.

  And it turned out I was right.

  “It’s just,” he said, “that sometimes I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to deal with it.”

  To which I was all, “Deal with WHAT?” Because I had NO IDEA what he was talking about.

  “Being with you all the time,” he said, “and not. You know.”

  I STILL didn’t get it (yes, I know I am the one who is suffering from developmental retardation and not Rocky, after all).

  I was like, “Being with me all the time and not WHAT?”

  And Michael finally just had to say, “Not having sex.”

  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Yes, that’s right. My boyfriend apparently doesn’t mind moving to Japan so much, because that is easier than being around me and not having sex.

  I guess I should consider myself fortunate, since it’s clear from this that my boyfriend is a sex maniac, and I am probably lucky to be getting rid of him.

  But, of course, that didn’t occur to me at the time. At the time, I was just so shocked by what he said that I had to sit down.

  And the closest seat was a swing in the Hudson River Park playground.

  So I sat down on a swing and looked down at my knees while Michael said, “I told you last year that I’m willing to wait.” He sat down on the swing next to mine. “And I am willing to wait, Mia. Although to tell you the truth I’m not really sure how you think the whole prom night thing is going to work since I am not going to your senior prom, because I already graduated and my prom days are over, and it’s totally lame for girls to bring their college boyfriends to the prom. But whatever. The fact remains that your senior prom isn’t for two more years. And two years is a long time for us to keep—well, doing what we’re doing. I’m getting really tired of taking so many cold showers.”

  I TOTALLY couldn’t look at him after that. I could feel my face turning bright red. Fortunately it was getting dark out so I don’t think he noticed. I mean, the streetlamps were starting to turn on. We were the only ones on the swings, so it wasn’t like anyone could overhear us. Lars was pretending to be very interested in the view of the river a few dozen yards away—but really he was scoping on all the pretty in-line skaters—so there was no danger of him eavesdropping.

  Still. It was totally embarrassing.

  I mean, I guess I knew where Michael was coming from. I always did wonder what he did, you know, after a heavy-duty make-out session, about the whole…well, what-was-going-on-in-his-pants issue.

  Now I guess I know.

  “It’s just,” Michael went on, as over in the sandbox, some little kids ran around, trying to throw sand on each other, while their mothers gossiped on a bench not far away, “that it’s not easy, Mia. I mean, it seems like it’s easy for you—”

  “It’s not easy for me,” I interrupted. Because it’s NOT easy for me. I mean, there are lots of times when I think about how great it would be to just, you know, rip his clothes off and have my way with him. I’ve even gotten to a point now where the idea of letting him rip my clothes off ME is starting to have its appeal, whereas before the thought of him seeing me naked made my mouth go dry.

  Only…where is this clothes-ripping-off supposed to happen? In my room, with my mom in the next room? In HIS room, with HIS mom in the next room? In his dorm room, with my bodyguard in the hallway, and his roommate busting in at any moment?

  And what about birth control? And what about the fact that once you Do It, that’s ALL you want to do when you get together? I mean, good-bye Star Wars movie marathons. Hello, edible body paint.

  Whatever. I’ve read Cosmo. I know the score.

  “Right,” Michael said. “Anyway, given all that, I just think my spending a year abroad might not be the worst idea.”

  I couldn’t believe it had come to this. Seriously. Suddenly I just—well, I couldn’t stop myself. I started crying.

  And I couldn’t stop.

  Which was HORRIBLE of me, because, OF COURSE, his going was a GOOD THING. I mean, if his robot arm thingie can really do everything all these people are thinking it could do—if Columbia University is willing to let him go off to Japan and work for some company and get course credit while doing so—well, crying about it wasn’t a very princessy thing for me to do, was it?

  But I never said I was very good at being princessy.

  “Mia,” Michael said, coming off his swing and kneeling in the sand in front of mine, and taking my hands in his. He was sort of laughing. I guess I’d be laughing, too, if some girl was crying as hard as I was. Seriously. It was like I was one of those little kids in the sandbox, who’d fallen down and skinned my knee. The moms over on the bench even looked at me in alarm, thinking the sound was coming from one of their kids. When they saw it was just me, they started whispering together—probably because they recognized me from Inside Edition (“The romantic life of Princess Mia of Genovia took another tumble the other night, as longtime boyfriend, Columbia student Michael Moscovitz, announced he was moving to Japan, and the princess responded by crying on a park swing”).

  “This is a good thing, Mia,” Michael said. “Not just for me, but for us. It’s my chance to prove to your grandmother, and all those people who think I’m a big nobody and not good enough for you, that I actually am somebody, and might possibly even be worthy of you someday.”

  “You’re totally worthy of me,” I wailed. The truth is, of course, I’m not worthy of him. But I didn’t say that out loud.

  “A lot of people don’t think so,” Michael said.

  And I couldn’t exactly say that wasn’t true, because he’s right: It seems like every other week Us Weekly runs some article about who I should be dating instead of Michael. Prince William was high on the list last week, but Wilmer Valderrama usually makes a token appearance every other month or so. There’ll be a picture of Michael coming out of class or something, next to a picture of James Franco or whoever, and then they’ll put, like, a 2 percent over Michael’s picture, to show that only 2 percent of the readers polled think I should be with Michael, and then a 98 percent over James Franco, showing that everyone else thinks I should be with some guy who never did anything in his life except stand in front of a camera and say a bunch of words somebody else wrote, and then maybe have a swordfight that was choreographed for him.


  And, of course, my grandmother’s feelings on the matter are so well known, they are almost legendary.

  “The fact is, Mia,” Michael said, his dark eyes looking very intently up into my not-dark ones. “As much as you might like to pretend it isn’t true, you’re a princess. You’re going to be a princess forever. You’re going to rule a country someday. You already know what your destiny is. It’s all laid out for you. I don’t have that. I still have to figure out who I am and how I’m going to leave my mark on the world. And if I’m going to be with you, it’s going to have to be a pretty big mark, because everyone thinks a guy has to be pretty special in order to be with a princess. I’m just trying to live up to everyone’s expectations.”

  “My expectations should be the only ones that matter,” I said.

  “They’re the ones that matter most,” Michael said, squeezing my hands. “Mia, you know I’d never be happy just being your consort—walking one step behind you all the time. And I know you’d never be happy if that’s all I was, either.”

  I winced at the reminder of the Genovian parliament’s hideous rules for whomever I marry—my so-called consort, who will have to rise the moment I rise, not lift his fork until I’ve lifted mine, not engage in any sort of risk-taking behavior (such as racing, either car or boat, mountain-climbing, skydiving, et cetera) until such time as an heir has been provided, give up his right, in the event of annulment or divorce, to custody of any children born during the marriage…and also give up the citizenship of his native country in favor of citizenship of Genovia.

  “It’s not that I wouldn’t be willing to do any of that stuff,” Michael went on. “I’d be fine with it if I knew that…well, that I’d accomplished something with my life, too…not ruling a country, maybe. But something like…well, something like I have the opportunity to do now. Make a difference. The way you’ll be making a difference someday.”

  I blinked down at him. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand. I did understand. Michael was right. He isn’t the kind of guy who could be happy walking one step behind me all his life—unless he had his own thing. Whatever that thing was.

  I just didn’t understand why his own thing had to be all the way in JAPAN.

  “Listen,” Michael said, squeezing my hands again. “You better quit crying. Lars looks like he’s ready to come over.”

  “That’s his job,” I pointed out, sniffling. “He’s supposed to protect me from…from…getting hurt!”

  And the realization that this was a hurt not even a six-foot-five guy with a gun could protect me from just made me sniffle harder.

  What was even more infuriating was that Michael just started laughing.

  “It’s not funny.” I sniffled through my tears.

  “It sort of is,” Michael said. “I mean, you have to admit. We’re a pretty pathetic pair.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s pathetic,” I said. “You’re going to go away to Japan and meet some geisha girl and forget all about me. That’s what’s pathetic.”

  “What would I want with some geisha girl,” Michael wanted to know, “when I could have you?”

  “Geisha girls have sex with you whenever you want,” I pointed out, between sniffles. “I know, I saw that movie.”

  “Well,” Michael said. “Actually, now that you mention it, a geisha girl might not be so bad.”

  So then I had to hit him. Even though I still wasn’t seeing anything funny in the situation.

  I still don’t. It’s a horrible, unfair, completely tragic situation.

  Oh, sure, I stopped crying. And when Lars came over and asked if everything was all right, I told him it was.

  But it wasn’t.

  And it isn’t. Everything will never be all right again.

  But I acted like I was okay with it. I mean, I had to, right? I let Michael walk me home, and I even held his hand the whole way. And at the door to the loft, I let him kiss me, while Lars politely pretended to need to tie his shoe at the bottom of the stairs. Which was good because there was also some under-the-bra action going on.

  But in a tender way, like in that scene where Jennifer Beals and Michael Nouri are in the abandoned factory in Flashdance.

  And when Michael whispered, “Are we okay?” I said, “Yes, we’re okay,” even though I don’t believe we are. At least, I’m not.

  And when Michael said, “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said, “You do that.”

  And then I went inside the loft, walked straight to the fridge, took out the container of macadamia brittle Häagen-Dazs, grabbed a spoon, went into my room, and ate the whole thing.

  But I still don’t feel okay.

  I don’t think I’ll ever feel okay again.

  Tuesday, September 7, 11 p.m.

  My mom just tapped on my door and was all, “Mia? Are you in there?”

  I said I was, and she opened the door.

  “I didn’t even hear you come in,” she said. “Did you have a nice time with—”

  Then her voice trailed off, because she’d seen the empty Häagen-Dazs container. And my face.

  “Honey,” she said, sinking down onto the bed beside me. “What happened?”

  And all of a sudden, I started crying all over again, like I hadn’t just been crying an hour before.

  “He’s moving to Japan,” was all I could say. And I flung myself into her arms.

  I wanted to tell her a lot more. I wanted to tell her about how it was all my fault, for not sleeping with him (even though I know, deep down inside, that’s not really true). It’s more my fault because I’m a princess—a freaking PRINCESS—and what guy could live up to that, EVER? Except a prince.

  The worst part is, being a princess isn’t even something I DID. I mean, it’s not like I saved the president from being shot like Samantha Madison, or found all these missing kids with my psychic powers like Jessica Mastriani, or kept hundreds of tourists from drowning like ten-year-old Tilly Smith did when she was on that beach in Thailand and realized a tsunami was coming because she’d just been studying tsunamis in school, and told all those people to “RUN!”

  All I did was get born.

  And EVERYONE has done that.

  But I couldn’t tell Mom any of that stuff. Because we’ve been through the princess thing before. It’s like Michael said: I’m a princess. I’m going to be one forever. No use complaining about it. It just IS.

  So instead I just cried.

  It made me feel a little better, I guess. I mean, it’s always nice to get hugged by your mom, no matter how old you get. Moms don’t give off pheromones—at least, I don’t think they do—but they still smell really nice. At least mine does. Like Dove soap and turpentine and coffee. Which mixed together is the second-best smell in the world.

  The first being Michael’s neck, of course.

  My mom said all the usual mom things, like, “Oh, honey, it will be okay,” and, “A year will go by before you know it,” and, “If Phillipe gets you the new PowerBook with the camera built in, you and Michael can videophone, and it will be like he’s right in the room with you.”

  Except that it won’t. Because I won’t be able to smell him.

  But when Mr. G came in to see what all the noise was about, I finally pulled myself together, and said I felt better, and not to worry about me. I tried to smile all bravely, and Mom patted me on the head and said that if I’d survived spending so much time with Grandmère, I’d survive this, easy.

  But she’s wrong. Spending time with Grandmère is like eating an entire container of macadamia brittle compared to being without Michael for an entire year.

  Or more.

  ME, A PRINCESS???? YEAH, RIGHT.

  A Screenplay by Mia Thermopolis

  (first draft)

  Scene 14

  INT/NIGHT—The penguin tank at the Central Park Zoo. In the blue glow from the water of the illuminated penguin tank, a young girl (MIA) sits alone, frantically writing in her journal.

  MIA

  (voiceover)


  I don’t know where to go or to whom to turn. I can’t go to Lilly’s. She is vehemently opposed to any form of government that is not for the people, by the people. She’s always said that when sovereignty is vested in a single person whose right to rule is hereditary, the principles of social equality and respect for the rights of the individual within a community are irrevocably lost. This is why today, real power has passed from reigning monarchs to constitutional assemblies, making royals such as Queen Elizabeth mere symbols of national unity.

  Except in Genovia, apparently.

  Wednesday, September 8, Homeroom

  Michael told Lilly. I know he told her because when we stopped by the Moscovitzes’ apartment building to pick her up for school this morning, he was standing outside with her, holding a large hot chocolate (with whipped cream) from Starbucks for me. When the limo pulled up and Hans opened the door, Michael leaned in and said, “Good morning. This is for you. Tell me you didn’t change your mind overnight and hate me now.”

  Except, of course, I could never hate Michael. Especially when the sun is just coming up all shiny and new and its rays hit his freshly shaved neck and when I lean over to take the hot chocolate and give him a good morning kiss, I smell his Michaely scent, which always seems to make everything seem like it’s going to be okay.

  Until he’s out of range for me to smell him anymore, anyway.

  Which is definitely what he’s going to be when he’s in Japan.

  “I don’t hate you,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Um,” I said. “Something with you?”

  “Good answer. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  Then he kissed me and got out of the way so that Lilly could get in the car. Which she did with a crabby, “God, move, you ass,” to her brother, since she’s not exactly a morning person.

  Then Michael said, “Play nice with the other kids, girls,” and shut the door. And Lilly turned to me and said, “He’s such an ass.”