The Princess Diaries

  CRACKING: NO ONE EVER SAID LIFE WAS FAIR, THERMOPOLIS. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HOME, ANYWAY? WHAT’S THE MATTER? DREAMBOY DIDN’T CALL?

  FTLOUIE: WHO’S DREAMBOY?

  CRACKING: YOU KNOW, YOUR POSTNUCLEAR ARMAGEDDON LIFE-MATE OF CHOICE, JOSH RICHTER.

  Lilly told him! I can’t believe she told him! I’m going to kill her.

  FTLOUIE: WOULD YOU PLEASE GO OFF-LINE SO I CAN CALL LILLY????

  CRACKING: WHAT’S THE MATTER, THERMOPOLIS? DID I STRIKE A NERVE?

  I logged off. He can be such a jerk sometimes.

  But then about five minutes later the phone rang, and it was Lilly. So I guess even though Michael’s a jerk, he can be a nice jerk when he wants to be.

  Lilly’s very upset about how her parents are violating her First Amendment right to free speech by not letting her make the episode of her show dedicated to her feet. She is going to call the ACLU as soon as it opens on Monday morning. Without her parents’ financial support, which they have currently revoked, Lilly Tells It Like It Is cannot go on. It costs about $200 per episode, if you include the cost of tape and all. Public access is only accessible to people with cash.

  Lilly was so upset that I didn’t feel like yelling at her about telling Michael that I chose Josh. Now that I think about it, it’s probably just better that way.

  My life is a convoluted web of lies.

  Sunday, October 5

  I can’t believe Mr. Gianini told her. I can’t believe he told my mother I skipped his stupid review session on Friday!!!!

  Hello? Do I have no rights here? Can’t I skip a review session and not get finked on by my mother’s boyfriend?

  I mean, it’s not like my life isn’t bad enough: I’m already deformed, and I have to be a princess. Do I have to have my every activity reported upon by my Algebra teacher????

  Thanks a lot, Mr. Gianini. Thanks to you, I got to spend my entire Sunday having the quadratic formula drilled into me by my demented father, who kept rubbing his bald head and screaming in frustration when he found out I don’t know how to multiply fractions.

  Hello? May I remind everyone that I’m supposed to have Saturday and Sunday OFF from school?

  AND Mr. Gianini had to go and tell my mother there’s going to be a pop quiz tomorrow. I mean, I guess that was kind of nice of him and all, to give me a heads-up, but you’re not supposed to study for a pop quiz. The whole point is to test what you’ve retained.

  Then again, since I’ve apparently retained nothing mathematical since about the second grade, I guess I can’t really blame my dad for being so mad. He said if I don’t pass Algebra he’s going to make me go to summer school. So then I pointed out that summer school was fine by me, since I’d already agreed to spend summers in Genovia. So then he said I’d have to go to summer school in GENOVIA!

  I am so sure. I met some kids who went to school in Genovia and they didn’t even know what a number line was. And they measure everything by kilos and centimeters. As if metric wasn’t so totally over!

  But just in case, I’m not taking any chances. I wrote out the quadratic formula on the white rubber sole of my Converse high-top, right where it curves in between my heel and my toes. I’ll wear them tomorrow and cross my legs and take a peek if I get stuck.

  Monday, October 6, 3 a.m.

  I’ve been up all night, worrying about getting caught cheating. What will happen if someone sees I have the quadratic formula written on my shoe? Will I be expelled? I don’t want to be expelled! I mean, even though everybody at Albert Einstein High School thinks I’m a freak, I’m sort of getting used to it. I don’t want to have to start over at a whole new school. I’ll have to wear the scarlet mark of being a cheater for the rest of my high school career!

  And what about college? I might not get into college if it goes down on my permanent record that I’m a cheater.

  Not that I want to go to college. But what about Greenpeace? I’m sure Greenpeace doesn’t want cheaters. Oh my God, what am I going to do???

  Monday, October 6, 4 a.m.

  I tried washing the quadratic formula off my shoe, but it won’t come off! I must have used indelible ink or something! What if my dad finds out? Do they still behead people in Genovia?

  Monday, October 6, 7 a.m.

  Decided to wear my Docs and throw my high-tops away on the way to school—but then I broke one of the bootlaces! I can’t wear any of my other shoes because they’re all size nine and a half, and my foot grew a whole half inch last month! I can barely walk in my loafers, and my heels hang out over the backs of my clogs. I have no choice but to wear my high-tops!

  I’m going to get caught for sure, I just know it.

  Monday, October 6, 9 a.m.

  Realized in the car on the way to school that I could have taken the laces out of my high-tops and strung them through my Doc Martens. I am so stupid.

  Lilly wants to know how much longer my dad is going to be in town. She doesn’t like being driven to school. She likes to ride the subway, because then she can brush up on her Spanish, by reading all the health awareness posters. I told her I didn’t know how long my dad was going to be in town, but that I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be allowed to ride the subway anymore, anywhere.

  Lilly observed that my father was taking this infertility thing too far, that just because he can no longer render anyone embarrazada is no reason to get all overprotective of me. I noticed that, in the driver’s seat, Lars was sort of laughing to himself. I hope he doesn’t speak Spanish. How embarrassing.

  Anyway, Lilly went on to say I should take a stand right away, now, before things get worse, and that she could tell it was already starting to take a toll on me, since I seemed listless and there were circles under my eyes.

  Of course I’m listless! I’ve been up since 3 a.m., trying to wash my shoes!

  Went into the girls’ room to try to wash them again. Lana Weinberger came in while I was there. She saw me washing my shoes, and she just rolled her eyes and started brushing her long, Marcia Brady hair and staring at herself in the mirror. I half expected her to walk right up to her reflection and kiss it, she is so obviously in love with herself.

  The quadratic formula is smeared, but still legible, on my sneaker. But I won’t look at it during the test, I swear.

  Monday, October 6, G & T

  Okay. I admit it. I looked.

  Fat lot of good it did me, too. After he’d collected the test, Mr. Gianini went over the problems on the board, and I got every single one of them wrong anyway.

  I CAN’T EVEN CHEAT RIGHT!!!

  I have got to be the most pathetic human being on the planet.

  polynomials

  term: variables multiplied by a coefficient

  degree of polynomial = the degree of the term with the highest degree

  Hello? Does ANYONE care??? I mean, really, truly care about polynomials? I mean, besides people like Michael Moscovitz and Mr. Gianini. Anyone? Anyone at all?

  When the bell finally rang, Mr. Gianini goes, “Mia, will I have the pleasure of your company this afternoon at the review session?”

  I said yes, but I didn’t say it loud enough for anyone to hear but him.

  Why me? Why, why, why? Like I don’t have enough to worry about. I’m flunking Algebra, my mom’s dating my teacher, and I’m the princess of Genovia.

  Something has just got to give.

  Tuesday, October 7

  Ode to Algebra

  Thrust into this dingy classroom

  we die like lampless moths

  locked into the desolation of

  fluorescent lights and metal desks.

  Ten minutes until the bell rings.

  What use is the quadratic formula

  in our daily lives?

  Can we use it to unlock the secrets

  in the hearts of those we love?

  Five minutes until the bell rings.

  Cruel Algebra teacher,

  won’t you let us go?

  HOMEWORK

>   Algebra: problems 17–30 on handout

  English: proposal

  World Civ: questions at end of Chapter 7

  G & T: none

  French: huit phrase, ex. A, pg. 31

  Biology: worksheet

  Wednesday, October 8

  Oh no.

  She’s here.

  Well, not here, exactly. But she’s in this country. She’s in the city. She’s only like fifty-seven blocks away, as a matter of fact. She’s staying at the Plaza, with Dad. Thank God. Now I’ll only have to see her after school and on the weekends. It would suck so bad if she were staying here.

  It’s pretty awful, seeing her first thing in the morning. She wears these really fancy negligees to bed, with big lace sections that everything shows through. You know. Stuff you wouldn’t want to see. Plus, even though she takes her makeup off to sleep, she still has on eyeliner, because she had it tattooed onto her eyelids back in the eighties when she went through a brief manic phase shortly after Princess Grace died (according to my mom). It looks pretty weird, seeing this little old lady in a lace nightie with big black lines around her eyes first thing in the morning.

  Actually, it’s scary. Scarier than Freddy Kruger and Jason put together.

  No wonder Grandpère died of a heart attack in bed. He probably rolled over one morning and got a real good look at his wife.

  Somebody ought to warn the president she’s here. I mean it; he really ought to know. Because if anybody could start World War III, it’s my grandmother.

  Last time I saw Grandmère, she was having this dinner party, and she served everybody foie gras except this one woman. She just had Marie, her cook, leave that lady’s plate bare for the foie gras course. And when I tried to give the lady my foie gras, because I thought maybe they had run out—and anyway, I don’t eat anything that once was alive—my grandmother was all, “Amelia!” She said it so loud, she scared me. She made me drop my slice of foie gras on the floor. Her horrible miniature poodle pried it up off the parquet before I could even move.

  And then later, after everybody left, when I asked her why she wouldn’t give that lady any foie gras, Grandmère said it was because the lady had had a child out of wedlock.

  Hello? Grandmère, may I point out that your own son had a child out of wedlock, namely me, Mia, your granddaughter?

  But when I said that, Grandmère just yelled for her maid to bring her another drink. Oh, so I guess it’s okay to have a child out of wedlock if you’re a PRINCE. But if you’re just a regular person, no foie gras for you.

  Oh, no! What if Grandmère comes to the loft? She’s never seen the loft before. I don’t think she’s ever been below Fifty-seventh Street. She’s going to hate it here in the Village, I’m telling you right now. People of the same sex kiss and hold hands in our neighborhood all the time. Grandmère has a fit when she sees people of the opposite sex holding hands. What’s she going to do during the Gay Pride Parade, when everybody is kissing and holding hands and shouting “We’re Here, We’re Queer, Get Over It?” Grandmère won’t get over it. She might have a heart attack. She doesn’t even like pierced ears, let alone pierced anything else.

  Plus it’s against the law to smoke in restaurants here, and Grandmère smokes all the time, even in bed, which is why Grandpère had these weird disposable oxygen masks installed in every single room at Miragnac and had an underground tunnel dug that we could run through in case Grandmère fell asleep with a cigarette in her mouth and the chateau burst into flames.

  Also, Grandmère hates cats. She thinks they jump on children while they’re sleeping on purpose to suck out their breath. What’s she going to say when she sees Fat Louie? He sleeps in bed with me every night. If he ever jumped on my face, he’d kill me instantly. He weighs twenty-five pounds and seven ounces, and that’s before he’s had his can of Fancy Feast in the morning.

  And can you imagine what she’ll do when she sees my mom’s collection of wooden fertility goddesses?

  Why did she have to come NOW? She’s going to ruin EVERYTHING. There’s no way I’m going to be able to keep this a secret from everyone with HER around.

  Why?

  Why??

  WHY???

  Thursday, October 9

  I found out why.

  She’s giving me princess lessons.

  In too much shock to write. More later.

  Friday, October 10

  Princess lessons.

  I am not kidding. I have to go straight from my Algebra review session every day to princess lessons at the Plaza with my grandmother.

  Okay, so if there’s a God, how could this have happened?

  I mean it. Like, people always talk about how God doesn’t ever give you more than you can handle, but I’m telling you right now, I cannot handle this. This is just too much! I cannot go to princess lessons every day after school. Not with Grandmère. I am seriously considering running away from home.

  My dad says I have no choice. Last night, after I left Grandmère’s room at the Plaza, I went straight down to his. I banged on the door, and when he answered it I stalked straight in and told him I wasn’t doing it. No way. Nobody had told me anything about princess lessons.

  And do you know what he said? He says I signed the compromise, so I am obligated to attend princess lessons as part of my duties as his heir.

  I said then we are just going to have to revise the compromise, because there was nothing in there about me having to meet with Grandmère every day after school for any princess lessons.

  But my dad wouldn’t even talk to me about it. He said he was late and could we please talk about it later. And then while I was standing there, going on about how unfair this all was, in walks this reporter from ABC. I guess she was there to interview him, but it was kind of funny, because I’ve seen her interview people before, and normally she doesn’t wear black sleeveless cocktail dresses when she’s interviewing the president or somebody like that.

  I’m going to have to take a good look at that compromise tonight, because I don’t recall it saying anything about princess lessons.

  Here is how my first “lesson” went, yesterday after school:

  First the doorman won’t even let me in (big surprise). Then he sees Lars, who is like six foot seven and must weigh three hundred pounds. Plus, Lars has this bulge sticking out of his jacket, and I only just now figured out that it’s a gun and not the stump of an extraneous third arm, which is what originally I thought. I was too embarrassed to ask him about it, in case it dredged up painful memories for him of being teased as a child in Amsterdam, or wherever he is from. I mean, I know what it’s like to be a freak: It’s just better not to bring that kind of thing up.

  But no, it’s a gun, and the doorman got all upset about it and called the concierge over. Thank God the concierge recognized Lars, who’s staying there, after all, in a room in Dad’s suite.

  So then the concierge himself escorted me upstairs to the penthouse, which is where Grandmère is staying. Let me tell you about this penthouse: It is very fancy. I thought the ladies’ room at the Plaza was fancy? The ladies’ room is nothing compared to this penthouse.

  First of all, everything is pink. Pink walls, pink carpet, pink curtains, pink furniture. There are pink roses everywhere, and these portraits hanging on the walls that all feature pink-cheeked shepherdesses and stuff.

  And just when I thought I was going to drown in pinkness, out came Grandmère, dressed completely in purple, from her silk turban all the way down to her mules with the rhinestone clips on the toes.

  At least, I think they’re rhinestones.

  Grandmère always wears purple. Lilly says people who wear purple a lot usually have borderline personality disorders, because they have delusions of grandeur. Traditionally, purple has always stood for the aristocracy, since for hundreds of years peasants weren’t allowed to dye their clothes with indigo, and therefore couldn’t make violet.

  Of course, Lilly doesn’t know my grandmother IS a member of t
he aristocracy. So while Grandmère is definitely delusional, it’s not because she THINKS she’s an aristocrat; she really IS one.

  So Grandmère comes in off the terrace, where she was standing, and the first thing she says to me is, “What’s that writing on your shoe?”

  But I didn’t need to worry about getting caught cheating, because Grandmère started in right away about everything else that was wrong with me.

  “Why are you wearing tennis shoes with a skirt? Are those tights supposed to be clean? Why can’t you stand up straight? What’s wrong with your hair? Have you been biting your nails again, Amelia? I thought we agreed you were going to give up that nasty habit. My God, can’t you stop growing? Is it your goal to be as tall as your father?”

  Only it sounded even worse, because it was all in French.

  And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, she goes, in her creaky old cigaretty voice, “Haven’t you a kiss for your grandmère, then?”

  So I go up to her and bend down (my grandmother is like a foot shorter than me) and kiss her on the cheek (which is very soft because she rubs Vaseline on her face every night before she goes to bed), and then when I start to pull away she grabs me and goes, “Pfui! Have you forgotten everything I taught you?” and makes me kiss her on the other cheek, too, because in Europe (and SoHo), that’s how you say hello to people.

  Anyway, I bent down and kissed Grandmère on the other cheek, and as I did so I noticed Rommel peeking out from behind her. Rommel is Grandmère’s fifteen-year-old miniature poodle. He is the same shape and size as an iguana, only not as smart. He shakes all the time and has to wear a fleece jacket. Today his jacket was the same purple as Grandmère’s dress. Rommel won’t let anyone touch him except for Grandmère, and even then he rolls his eyes around as if he were being tortured while she’s petting him.