Forever Princess

  What is wrong with me?

  And now I can’t go home, because I don’t think I can deal with running into any of my various family members from Indiana (or Genovia) who might be there. I just have to sit out here in the park and try to forget what a complete idiot I was back there (while Lars stands guard to protect me from the drug dealers who keep asking me to “Smoke? Smoke?” and the homeless people who want to know if I can give them “a five dollars” and the packs of touring NYU kids with their parents, who keep going, “Oh my God, is that—It is! It’s Princess Mia of Genovia!”) and hope eventually I’ll go back to normal and my fingers will stop shaking and my heart will stop beating Mi-chael, Michael, Mi-chael like I’m back in freaking ninth grade again.

  I really hope that hot chocolate washes out of his jeans.

  Also, I would just like to ask the gods or anyone else who might be listening…why can’t I conduct myself in a grown-up fashion around guys I used to date and with whom I broke up and whom I should be completely and one hundred percent OVER?

  It was just so…weird sitting so close to him again. Even before I could smell him. And I get that we’re just friends now—and, of course, I know I have a boyfriend, and Michael’s got a girlfriend (probably—I never did get a straight answer about this).

  But he’s just so…I don’t know! I can’t explain it! He sort of emanates this…touchable quality.

  And, of course, I knew I couldn’t touch him (before I did touch him…which he ASKED me to do. He couldn’t have known what that hug would do to me. Did he know? No, he couldn’t have. He isn’t a sadist. Not like his sister).

  But being there in the café with him, it was like…well, it was like no time had gone by. Except, of course, a lot of time had gone by. Only in the best way, you know? Like, even though I might have sounded stupid on the tape (I just played it back. I sounded like a complete idiot), I didn’t feel stupid while I was saying it—not the way I used to when I was younger around Michael. I think it’s because…well, a lot of stuff has happened since I was last in Michael’s company, and I just feel more confident about things (okay, well…about men) than I used to. Recent hug-related freak-out aside.

  For instance—now that I played the tape back, I realize Michael was kind of flirting with me! Just a little.

  But that’s okay. It’s more than okay, actually.

  Oh, no. Did I just write that?

  Not that it matters, because I’m pretty sure he thinks the only reason I was there was because I’m doing an article for the Atom (although some reporter I am, since I didn’t even ask him all my questions, once I got so preoccupied wrestling him over his phone).

  Wrestling! In a restaurant! Like a seven-year-old! Great. When am I ever going to learn to act like a grown-up? I really thought I’d reached the point of being able to maintain a somewhat dignified demeanor in a public place.

  And then I wrestled my ex-boyfriend in a café over his iPhone! And spilled hot chocolate over him!

  Then I smelled him.

  I think I lost one of my chandelier earrings, too.

  Thank God no paparazzi showed to get photos of that.

  Which is kind of odd, if you think about it. That none of them was around, since they seem to show up everywhere else I go.

  Whatever.

  Anyway, I guess it was…sweet? Michael, I mean, and his reaction to my telling him I wrote a romance novel. Even though I completely regret sending it to him.

  He said he’s going to read it! Tonight!

  Of course, J.P. said the same thing. But J.P. also told me I shouldn’t sell myself short. Michael didn’t say anything like that.

  Then again, Michael’s not my boyfriend. He doesn’t have my best interests at heart the way J.P. does.

  It was just so adorable how he said I was the inspiration for his inventing the CardioArm, though. Even if that was ages ago, and before we broke up.

  He also said it was nice of me to let bygones be bygones with Lilly. He obviously doesn’t know the truth. I mean that I’m not the one who’s been holding a grudge all this time, but—

  Oh, no. Grandmère’s calling. I’m going to pick up, because I have a few things I want to say to her.

  “Amelia?” Grandmère sounds like she’s in a tunnel. I hear blow-drying in the background, though, so I know it’s only because she’s getting her hair done. “Where are you? Why aren’t you answering any of my e-mails?”

  “I have a better question for you, Grandmère. Why did you invite my ex-boyfriend and his family to my birthday party tomorrow night? And you better not say it’s to butter him up so I can ask him for a CardioArm, because—”

  “Well, of course that’s why, Amelia,” Grandmère says. I hear a slapping noise, and then she says, “Stop that, Paolo. I said not so much hair spray.” To me she says, in a louder voice, “Amelia? Are you still there?”

  Really, nothing she says or does should surprise me anymore. And yet, it does. Continuously.

  “Grandmère,” I say. I’m mad. Really. This isn’t just any ex-boyfriend. It’s Michael. “You can’t do this. You can’t use people like this.”

  “Amelia, don’t be stupid. You want your father to win the election, don’t you? We need one of those arm contraptions. As I think I told you. If you had done what I asked you and requested one from him, I wouldn’t have had to send him and that horrible sister of his an invitation, and you wouldn’t be placed in the awkward position of having to entertain your former paramour at your birthday soiree tomorrow night in front of your current paramour. Which I admit will be tricky…”

  “Former—” I sputter. There’s a pack of pubescent boys skateboarding nearby. I watch as one of them wipes out on a cement mound placed in the park for this purpose. I know exactly how he feels. “Grandmère, Michael was not my paramour. That word suggests that we were lovers, and we were not—”

  “Paolo, I told you, not so much hair spray. Are you trying to gas me? Just look at poor Rommel, he’s practically hyperventilating, his lung capacity isn’t the same as a human’s, you know!” Grandmère’s voice is fading in and out. “Now, Mia, about your gown for tomorrow night. Chanel will be delivering it in the morning. Kindly let your mother know someone needs to be at your flat to receive it. This means your mother will have to stay home from her little art studio for once. Do you think she can handle that, or is it too much responsibility? Never mind, I already know the answer to that question—”

  My call-waiting is going off. It’s Tina!

  “Grandmère. This isn’t over,” I inform her. “But I’m going now—”

  “Don’t you dare disconnect me, young lady. We haven’t spoken about what we’re going to do if the Domina Rei make an offer of membership to you tomorrow, as you know they’re likely to. You—”

  I know it’s rude, but I’ve had quite enough of Grandmère. Really, thirty seconds of her is enough.

  “Bye, Grandmère,” I say. And switch over to Tina. I’ll deal with Grandmère’s wrath later.

  “Oh my God,” Tina says, the minute I pick up. “Where are you?”

  “Washington Square Park,” I say. “Sitting on a bench. I just met Michael and spilled hot chocolate on his pants. We hugged good-bye. I smelled him.”

  “You spilled hot chocolate on his pants?” Tina sounds confused. “You smelled him?”

  “Yeah.” The skateboarders are all trying to outdo one another with their jumps, but most of them just keep crashing. Lars is watching them with a little smile on his face. I really hope he isn’t thinking about asking one of them to borrow a skateboard to show them how it’s done. “He smelled really, really good.”

  There is a long pause as Tina digests this.

  “Mia,” she says. “Did Michael smell better to you than J.P.?”

  “Yes,” I say, in a small voice. “But he always has. J.P. smells like his dry cleaner.”

  “Mia,” Tina says. “I thought you bought him some cologne.”

  “I did. It didn’t take.”
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  “Mia,” Tina says. “I have to talk to you. I think you better come over.”

  “I can’t,” I say. “I have to take my grandparents to the Central Park Zoo.”

  “Then I’ll meet you,” Tina says, “at the zoo.”

  “Tina,” I say. “What’s going on? What’s so important that you can’t tell me what you need to say over the phone?”

  “Mia,” Tina says. “You know.”

  She is wrong. I have no idea!

  And it has to be something pretty bad if she’s afraid TMZ might pick it up, and it would damage my dad in the polls even worse than he is doing now.

  “Meet me inside the Edge of the Icepack penguin enclosure at four fifteen,” she says, sounding just like Kim Possible. If Kim Possible ever asked people to meet her inside penguin enclosures.

  Still, I’m not surprised. Somehow, the Central Park Zoo penguin enclosure is where I always end up during my hours of darkest need.

  “Can you just give me a hint?” I ask. “What does it have to do with? Boris? Michael? J.P.?”

  “Your book,” Tina says. And hung up.

  My book? What could my book have to do with anything? Unless…

  Could it be that bad?

  Great. And both J.P. and Michael are reading copies of it right now. RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE!

  I could throw up just thinking about it.

  I should just go over to Eighth Street, buy a wig from one of the drag queen stores, and ditch town. I’m practically legal, and there’s nothing left for me here. I’ve been humiliated in every way a person possibly can be. I might as well just grab a bus for Canada.

  If only I could figure out a way to get rid of my bodyguard….

  Sunday, April 30, 4 p.m., Edge of the Icepack penguin exhibit at the Central Park Zoo

  Wow.

  Between having my current boyfriend tell me I’m selling myself short writing popular fiction, then spilling hot chocolate all over the jeans of my ex-boyfriend (who is currently reading my book—RIGHT THIS VERY MOMENT), then having my best friend say she has to meet me because there’s a PROBLEM with that book—the same book I spent twenty-one months working on—I really didn’t think my twenty-four hours could get any worse.

  But that was before I got to the zoo with my mother, stepfather, baby brother, grandparents, and bodyguard in tow.

  I guess I was just born under a particularly lucky star seventeen years, three hundred and sixty-four days ago.

  The Central Park Zoo wasn’t too crowded on the first perfectly sunny Sunday afternoon of the spring, so it wasn’t like we had any problems navigating Rocky’s enormous stroller through the crowds (NOT!!!!!).

  Or that anyone noticed my huge bodyguard, who discreetly chose to wear a pair of wraparound shades with his black suit jacket and matching black shirt, tie, and pants.

  And Mamaw didn’t stand out too much in her hot pink size-extra-large Juicy Couture knock-off sweat suit (instead of Juicy, it says Spicy on the butt. Spicy is one word you definitely don’t want to associate with your grandma’s butt. Juicy is another).

  Good thing Papaw refused to conform to New York City fashion dictates, and kept on his good old green and yellow John Deere tractor baseball cap—though he did let Mamaw buy him a new one that said Legally Blonde: The Musical. Which I will pay hard cash to see him wear.

  Much was made over showing Rocky the polar bears and monkeys, his two favorite animals. And I will admit, my kid brother is cute, especially when it comes to doing a monkey imitation, with the underarm scratching and whatnot (an ability he clearly inherited from his father. No offense, Mr. G).

  Mamaw was pretty excited to be spending time with me, not just her grandson. The good thing is, after this, we get to spend even more time together…we’re spending quality time over dinner at a restaurant of Mamaw and Papaw’s choice. And the restaurant they chose was…Applebee’s.

  Yes! It turns out there is an Applebee’s in Times Square, and that is where my grandparents want to go. I turned to Lars when I heard this and said, “Please put a bullet in my brain now,” but he wouldn’t do it.

  And Mom told me to shut my piehole or she’d shut it for me.

  Seriously, though. Applebee’s? Out of all the restaurants in Manhattan? Why a chain restaurant that can be found in nearly every city in America?

  I told Mamaw that I have a black American Express card and could afford to take them to any restaurant they wanted if price was a problem. Mamaw said it wasn’t the price. It was Papaw. He didn’t like eating strange food. He liked always going to the same place, so he’d know exactly what he was getting.

  The whole fun of eating out is getting to try new things!

  But Papaw said trying new things isn’t fun at all.

  I just pray to every single god that exists in the heavens—Yahweh, Allah, Vishnu, etc.—that no paparazzi show up and snap photos of me, the princess of Genovia, coming out of an Applebee’s during this crucial time in my father’s campaign.

  Anyway, Mamaw keeps wanting to talk about college. As in, where I’m going (welcome to the club, Mamaw). She’s got a lot of advice as to what I ought to be studying. In her opinion, what I ought to be studying is…nursing. She says there are always jobs for nurses, and as the American population ages, good nurses will always be in high demand.

  I told Mamaw that while she’s quite right, and that nursing is a very noble profession, I didn’t think I’d be able to pursue it, what with my being a princess, and all. I mean, I have to choose a career where I’ll be able to spend at least a largish chunk of my time in Genovia, doing princess stuff like christening ships and hosting benefits and all of that.

  Being a nurse wouldn’t exactly be conducive to that.

  But being a writer would, because you can do that in the privacy of your own palace.

  Plus with my SAT score I think the last thing anyone wants me doing is trying to measure out their medicine. I would probably kill way more people than I’d save.

  Thank God we have people like Tina, who are good at math, going into the medical profession instead of me.

  Speaking of Tina, I’ve snuck into the penguin enclosure to wait for her while Mom and those guys are getting Rocky a freeze pop or something he saw someone else eating and threw a very special soon-to-be-three-year-old tantrum for. They’ve fixed this place up a bit since the last time I was here. It isn’t nearly as smelly and the light’s a lot better to write by. But there are so many more people! I swear, New York City is becoming the Disneyland of the Northeast. I thought I heard someone ask where the monorail was. But maybe they were joking.

  Even so, how am I supposed to leave this place to go to college? How??? I love it so much!!!!

  Oh, here’s Tina now. She looks…concerned. Possibly she heard where I’m going to dinner?

  I’m kidding….

  Sunday, April 30, 6:30 p.m., the ladies’ room at the Times Square Applebee’s

  Okay, I am FREAKING OUT OVER WHAT TINA TOLD ME IN THE EDGE OF THE ICEPACK PENGUIN EXHIBIT.

  I’m just going to write this down the way it happened and try to ignore the squashed French fry on the floor underneath me (who eats French fries on the toilet? WHO??? Who eats ANYTHING on the toilet???? Excuse me, but gross, also, ew) and the fact that I am writing this in an Applebee’s ladies’ room, the only place I could go to get away from my grandparents:

  So, Tina came up to me in the penguin house and was like, “Mia, I’m so glad I found you, we have to talk.”

  And I was all, “Tina, what’s wrong? Did you hate my book, or something?”

  Because, I have to admit, I mean, I know my book isn’t the greatest or anything—if it were, I’m sure someone would have wanted to publish it by now.

  But I didn’t think it could be SO bad that Tina would have to meet me in the Edge of the Icepack penguin exhibit at the Central Park Zoo to tell me in person.

  Plus, she looked kind of pale underneath her kohl and lipstick. But it could have been the blue glow from t
he penguin tank.

  But then she grabbed my arm and was like, “Oh my God, Mia, no! I loved your book! It was so cute! And it had beer in it! I thought that was so funny, because of your bad experience with beer, remember, in tenth grade, when you tried to be a party princess, and you drank that beer and did the sexy dance with J.P. in front of Michael?”

  I glared at her. “I thought we agreed we were never going to speak of the sexy dance again.”

  She bit her lip. “Oops. Sorry,” she said. “But it’s just so cute. I mean, that you wrote about beer! I love that! No, when I said I needed to talk to you about your book, what I meant was—”

  And she gave Lars this total look, like—GO AWAY!

  And he got the message and went over to join Wahim, Tina’s bodyguard, looking at the cute penguins swimming around, both of them keeping an eye on the two of us, but out of earshot.

  And the whole time, I was like, in my head, Okay, I wrote about beer, I mean, there’s beer in my book, does Tina think I’m an alcoholic? Is she here to perform an intervention on me? I’ve totally seen that show Intervention on TV, is that what’s happening right now?

  And I was looking around for the camera crew, wondering how I was going to get out of going to rehab, because, seriously, I don’t even like beer—

  Then Tina turned to me and asked me the question that still has me shaking to my very core. I mean, she was smiling as she asked it, and her eyes were shining, but she looked super serious, too.

  And as I’m writing this, I still can’t believe it. I mean—TINA! TINA HAKIM BABA! Of all people.

  I’m not judging. I just never, ever expected it.

  Or suspected it.

  It’s just…TINA!

  Anyway, she turned to me and said, “Mia, I just had to ask—I mean, I was reading your book, and—don’t get me wrong, I like it—but…I started wondering—and I know it’s none of my business, but—have you and J.P. had sex?”