Anyway, I am just saying, all the kids who hate me should just chill, because I have never once sought the spotlight I have been thrust into. I’ve never even called my own press conference.
But I digress.
So Sebastiano was there, drinking aperitifs and listening as I rattled off name after name (Grandmère has made flashcards out of the pictures of the cabinet ministers—kind of like those bubble gum cards you can get of the Backstreet Boys, only the cabinet ministers don’t wear as much leather). I was kind of thinking maybe I was wrong about Sebastiano’s commitment to fashion, and that maybe Sebastiano was there to try and pick up some pointers for after he’s thrust me into the path of an oncoming limo or whatever.
But when Grandmère paused to take a phone call from her old friend General Pinochet, Sebastiano started asking me all these questions about clothes, in particular what clothes my friends and I like to wear. What were my feelings, he wanted to know, on velvet stretch pants? Spandex tube tops? Sequins?
I told him all of that sounded, you know, okay for Halloween or Jersey City, but that generally in my day-to-day life I prefer cotton. He looked saddened by this, so I told him that I really felt orange was going to be the next pink, and that perked him right up, and he wrote a bunch of stuff down in this notebook he carries around. Kind of like I do, now that I think about it.
When Grandmère got off the phone, I informed her—quite diplomatically, I might add—that, considering how much progress we’d made in the past three months, I felt more than prepared for my impending introduction to the people of Genovia, and that I did not feel it would be necessary to have lessons next week, as I have FIVE finals to prepare for.
But Grandmère got totally huffy about it! She was all, “Where did you get the idea that your academic education is more important than your royal training? Your father, I suppose. With him, it’s always education, education, education. He doesn’t realize that education is nowhere near as important as deportment.”
“Grandmère,” I said. “I need an education if I’m going to run Genovia properly.” Especially if I’m going to convert the palace into a giant animal shelter—something I’m not going to be able to do until Grandmère is dead, so I see no point in mentioning it to her now . . . or ever, for that matter.
Grandmère said some swear words in French, which wasn’t very dowager-princessy of her, if you ask me. Thankfully right then my dad walked in, looking for his Genovian Air Force medal, since he had a state dinner to go to over at the embassy. I told him about my finals and how I really needed time off from princess stuff to study, and he was all, “Yes, of course.”
When Grandmère protested, he just went, “For God’s sake, if she hasn’t got it by now, she never will.”
Grandmère pressed her lips together and didn’t say anything more after that. Sebastiano used the opportunity to ask me about my feelings on rayon. I told him I didn’t have any.
For once, I was telling the truth.
Friday, December 12, Homeroom
HERE’S WHAT I HAVE TO DO:
Stop thinking about Michael, especially when I should be studying.
Stop telling Grandmère anything about my personal life.
Start acting more: A. Mature
B. Responsible
C. Regal
Stop biting my fingernails.
Write down everything Mom and Mr. G need to know about how to take care of Fat Louie while I’m gone.
CHRISTMAS/HANNUKAH PRESENTS!
Stop watching Baywatch when I should be studying.
Stop playing Pod-Racer when I should be studying.
Stop listening to music when I should be studying.
Break up with Kenny.
Friday, December 12, Principal Gupta’s office
Well, I guess it’s official now:
I, Mia Thermopolis, am a juvenile delinquent.
Seriously. That fire alarm I pulled was only the beginning, it appears.
I really don’t know what’s come over me lately. It’s like the closer I get to actually going to Genovia and performing my first official duties as its princess, the less like a princess I act.
I wonder if I’ll be expelled.
If I am, it is totally unfair. Lana started it. I was sitting there in Algebra, listening to Mr. G go on about the Cartesian plane, when suddenly Lana turns around in her seat and slaps a copy of USA Today down in front of me. There is a headline screaming:
* * *
TODAY’S POLL
Most Popular Young Royal
* * *
Fifty-seven percent of readers say that Prince William of England is their favorite young royal, with Will’s little brother Harry coming in at 28 percent. America’s own royal, Princess Mia Renaldo of Genovia, comes in third, with 13 percent of the votes, and Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson’s daughters, Beatrice and Eugenie, round out the votes with 1 percent each.
The reasons given for Princess Mia’s third-place finish? “Not outgoing” is the most common answer. Ironically, Princess Mia is perceived as being as shy as Princess Diana—the mother of William and Harry—when she first stepped into the harsh glare of the media spotlight.
Princess Mia, who only recently learned she was heir to the throne of Genovia, a small principality located on the Cote d’Azur, is expected to make her first official trip to that country next week. A representative for the princess describes her as looking forward to her visit with “eager anticipation.” The princess will continue her education in America, and will reside in Genovia only during the summer months.
I read the stupid article and then passed the paper back to Lana.
“So?” I whispered to her.
“So,” Lana whispered. “I wonder how popular you’d be—especially with the people of Genovia—if they found out their future ruler goes around pulling fire alarms when there isn’t any fire.”
She was only guessing, of course. She couldn’t have seen me. Unless . . .
Unless maybe Justin Baxendale did figure it out! You know, seeing me in the hallway like that, just before the alarm went off—and he mentioned it to Lana. . . .
No. Not possible. I am so far out of the sphere of Justin Baxendale’s consciousness as to be nonexistent to him. He didn’t tell Lana anything. Lana, like Mr. G, obviously thinks it’s a little coincidental that on that fateful Wednesday, the fire alarm went off about two minutes after I’d disappeared from class with the pass to the bathroom.
But even so. Even though she could only have been guessing, it seemed to me like she knew, like she was going to make sure I never heard the end of it.
I really don’t know what came over me. I don’t know if it was
A. The stress of finals
B. My impending trip to Genovia
C. This thing with Kenny
D. The fact that I’m in love with this guy who is going out with a human fruit fly
E. The fact that my mother is going to give birth to my Algebra teacher’s baby
F. The fact that Lana has been persecuting me practically my whole life and pretty much getting away with it, or
G. All of the above.
Whatever the reason, I snapped. Just snapped. Suddenly, I found myself reaching for Lana’s cell phone, which was lying on her desktop beside her calculator.
And then the next thing I knew, I had put the tiny little pink thing on the floor, and crushed it into a lot of pieces beneath the heel of my size-ten combat boot.
I guess I can’t really blame Mr. G for sending me to the principal’s office.
Still, you would expect a little sympathy from your own stepfather.
Uh-oh. Here comes Principal Gupta.
Friday, December 12, 5 p.m., the loft
Well, that’s it then. I’m suspended.
Suspended. I can’t believe it. ME! Mia Thermopolis! What is happening to me? I used to be such a good kid!
And okay, it’s just for one day, but still. It’s going on my permanent record! What are the
Genovian cabinet ministers going to say?
I am turning into Courtney Love.
And yeah, it’s not like I’m not going to get into college because I was suspended for one day in the first semester of my freshman year, but how totally embarrassing! Principal Gupta treated me like I was some kind of criminal or something.
And you know what they say: Treat a person like a criminal, and pretty soon, she’ll end up like one. At least I think that’s what they say. The way things are going, I wouldn’t be surprised if pretty soon I start wearing ripped-up fishnet stockings and dying my hair black. Maybe I’ll even start smoking and get my ears double pierced or something. And then they’ll make a TV movie about me, and call it Royal Scandal. It will show me going up to Prince William and saying, “Who’s the most popular young royal now, huh, punk?” and then headbutting him or something.
Except I practically fainted the first time I got my ears pierced, and smoking is really bad for you, and I always thought it must hurt to headbutt someone.
I guess I don’t have the makings of a juvenile delinquent after all.
My dad doesn’t think so, either. He’s all ready to set the royal Genovian lawyers on Principal Gupta. The only problem, of course, is that I won’t tell him—or anybody else, for that matter—what Lana said to make me assault her cell phone. It’s kind of hard to prove the attack was provoked if the attacker won’t say what the provocation was. My dad pleaded with me for a while when he came to pick me up from school, after having received The Call from Principal Gupta. But when I wouldn’t tell him what he wanted, and Lars just looked carefully blank, my dad just went, “Fine,” and his mouth got all scrunchy like it does when Grandmère has one too many sidecars and starts calling him Papa Cueball.
But how can I tell him what Lana said? If I do that, then everyone will know I’m guilty of not just one crime, but two!
Anyway, now I’m home, watching the Lifetime channel with my mother. She hasn’t been doing much painting at her studio since she got pregnant. This is on account of her being exhausted. It’s quite hard to paint lying down, she’s discovered. So instead she has been doing a lot of sketching from bed, mostly line drawings of Fat Louie, who seems to enjoy having someone home all day with him. He sits for hours on her bed, watching the pigeons on the fire escape outside her window.
But since I’m home today, Mom did some drawings of me. I think she is making my mouth too big, but I’m not saying anything, as Mr. Gianini and I have discovered it’s better not to upset my mother in her current hormonal state. Even the slightest criticism—like asking her why she left the phone bill in the vegetable crisper—can lead to an hour-long crying jag.
While she sketched me, I watched a very excellent movie called Mother, May I Sleep With Danger? starring Tori Spelling, of Beverly Hills 90210 fame, as a girl who has an abusive boyfriend. I really don’t get why any girl would stay with a guy who hits her, but my mom says it’s all about self-esteem and your relationship with your father. Except that my mom doesn’t have that great a relationship with Papaw, and if any guy ever tried to slug her, you can bet she’d put him in the hospital, so go figure.
As my mom drew, she tried to get me to spill my guts to her, you know, about what Lana said that made me go on a cell-phone-stomping rampage. You could tell she was trying really hard to be all TV mom about it.
I guess it must have worked, because all of a sudden I found myself telling her all of it, every last thing: the stuff about Kenny and about my not liking to kiss him and about him telling everybody, and about how I plan to break up with him as soon as finals are over.
And along the way, I mentioned Michael and Judith Gershner and Tina and the greeting cards and the Winter Carnival and Lilly and her protest group and how I’m secretary of it, and just about everything else, except the part about pulling the fire alarm.
After a while my mom stopped drawing and just looked at me.
Finally, when I was done, she said, “You know what I think you need?”
And I said, “What?”
And she said, “A vacation.”
So then we had a sort of vacation, right there on her bed. I mean, she wouldn’t let me go study. Instead, she made me order a pizza, and together we watched the satisfying but completely unbelievable end of Mother, May I Sleep with Danger?, which was followed, much to our joy, by the dishiest made-for-TV movie ever, Midwest Obsession, in which Courtney Thorne-Smith plays the local Dairy Princess, who goes around in a pink Cadillac wearing cow earrings and kills people like Tracey Gold (deep in the throes of her post–Growing Pains anorexia) for messing with her boyfriend. And the best part was, it was all based on a true story.
For a while, there on my mom’s bed, it was almost like old times. You know, before my mom met Mr. Gianini and I found out I was a princess.
Except, of course, not really, because she’s pregnant, and I’m suspended.
But why quibble?
Friday, December 12, 8 p.m., the loft
Oh, my God, I just checked my e-mail. I am being inundated with supportive messages from my friends!
They all want to congratulate me on my decisive handling of Lana Weinberger. They sympathize with my suspension and encourage me to stay firm in my refusal to back down from my stand against the administration (what stand against the administration? All I did was destroy a cell phone. It has nothing to do with the administration). Lilly went so far as to compare me with Mary, Queen of Scots, who was imprisoned and then beheaded by Elizabeth I.
I wonder if Lilly would still think that if she knew that the reason I smashed Lana’s cell phone was because she was threatening to spill the beans about my having pulled the fire alarm that ruined Lilly’s walkout.
Lilly says it’s all a matter of principle, that I was banished from the school for refusing to back down from my beliefs. But actually, I was banished from school for destroying someone else’s private property—and I only did it to cover up for another crime that I committed.
No one knows that but me, though. Well, me and Lana. And even she doesn’t know for sure why I did it. I mean, it could have been just one of those random acts of violence that are going around.
Everyone else, however, is seeing it as this great political act. Tomorrow, at the first meeting of the Students Against the Corporatization of Albert Einstein High School, my case is going to be held up as an example of one of the many unjust decisions of the Gupta Administration.
I think tomorrow I might develop a case of weekend strep throat.
Anyway, I wrote back to everyone, telling them how much I appreciate their support, and not to make a bigger deal out of this than it actually is. I mean, I’m not proud of what I did. I would much rather have NOT done it, and stayed in school.
One bright note: Michael is definitely getting the cards I’ve been sending him. Tina walked by his locker today after PE and saw him take the latest one out and put it in his backpack! Unfortunately, according to Tina, he did not wear an expression of dazed passion as he slipped the card into his bag, nor did he gaze at it tenderly. He did not even put it away very carefully: Tina regretted to inform me that he slipped his iMac laptop into his backpack next, undoubtedly squashing the card.
But he wouldn’t, Tina hastened to assure me, have done that if he’d known it was from you, Mia! Maybe if you’d signed it . . .
But if I signed it, he’d know I like him! More than that, he’d know I love him, since I do believe the L word was mentioned in at least one card. And what if he doesn’t feel the same way about me? How embarrassing! Way worse than being suspended.
Oh, no! As I was writing this, I got Instant Messaged by, of all people, Michael himself! I freaked out so bad, I shrieked and scared Fat Louie, who was sleeping on my lap as I wrote. He sank all of his claws into me, and now I have little puncture marks all over my thighs.
Michael wrote:
CRACKING: Hey, Thermopolis, what’s this I hear about you getting suspended?
I wrote back:
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FTLOUIE: Just for one day.
CRACKING: What’d you do?
FTLOUIE: Crushed a cheerleader’s cellular phone.
CRACKING: Your parents must be so proud.
FTLOUIE: If so, they’ve done a pretty good job of disguising it so far.
CRACKING: So are you grounded?
FTLOUIE: Surprisingly, no. The attack on the cell phone was provoked.
CRACKING: So you’ll still be going to the Carnival next week?
FTLOUIE: As secretary to the Students Against the Corporatization of Albert Einstein High School, I believe my attendance is required. Your sister is planning for us to have a booth.
CRACKING: That Lilly. She’s always looking out for the good of mankind.
FTLOUIE: That’s one way of putting it.