Princess in Training

  Who does she think she is? I mean, REALLY? Does she think just because I’m BLONDE (well, okay, dishwater blonde, but still) and a PRINCESS that I’m STUPID, too?

  If so, she’s going to have to WORK ON THAT POSTULATE.

  “Mia,” she said, after dragging me out into the hallway “so we can talk” in front of EVERYONE. “I’ve spoken with your father. He came in on Friday to talk to me about your schoolwork. Mia, I had no idea you were so upset over your grades in my class. You should have said something—”

  Um, hello, I believe I did. I asked to rewrite the paper. Remember, Ms. Martinez?

  “You know you can come talk to me about anything, anytime.”

  Um, oh, okay. Can I talk to you about how worried I am about Britney’s too-hasty marriage and subsequent leave of absence from the entertainment industry? No, I don’t believe I can, can I, Ms. Martinez. Because you don’t like slick popular culture references.

  “I know I’m a harsh grader, Mia, but really, a B is a very good grade for my class. I’ve only given out one A so far this semester—”

  Um, I know, because I saw it. On Lilly’s writing sample.

  “The only reason I didn’t feel comfortable giving you an A is because I still don’t think you’re working up to your potential. You’re a very talented writer, Mia, but you need to apply yourself, and stick to topics that are a little more substantive than Britney Spears.”

  THIS is what’s wrong with this school. That people don’t understand that Britney Spears IS a substantive topic! She is a human barometer by which the mood of the country can be determined. When Britney does something outrageous, people reach excitedly for their copies of Us Weekly and In Touch magazines. Britney gives us all something to look forward to. Yes, there might be murders and natural disasters and other downers in the news. But then there’s Britney, French-kissing Madonna on the MTV Video Music Awards, and suddenly, things don’t seem quite so bad as they did before.

  I guess my outrage must have shown on my face, because a second later, Ms. Martinez was all, “Mia? Are you all right?”

  But I didn’t say anything. Because what COULD I say?

  Great. The late bell for fourth period just went off. I’m going to get a tardy from Mademoiselle Klein when I finally get to French.

  Not that I care. What’s a tardy compared to what’s going to happen to me in precisely forty minutes in front of the WHOLE SCHOOL?

  Monday, September 14, French

  0 periods until I make a fool of myself in front of the entire school.

  WHERE WERE YOU???? YOU MISSED IT!!!!

  Missed what? What are you talking about, Shameeka? WAIT—Did everybody circle around Perin and chant “PULL DOWN YOUR PANTS”????

  Of course not. But Mademoiselle Klein DID make us all read our histoires out loud, and we had to say our name first when we did it—you know, like, “Mon histoire, par Shameeka” and when we got to Perin, who said, “Mon histoire, par Perinne,” Mademoiselle Klein went, “You mean Perin,” and Perin went, “No, Perinne,” and Mademoiselle Klein went, “No, you mean Perin because Perin is the masculine for Perin and you’re a boy. Perinne is feminine,” and Perin went, “I know Perinne is feminine. I’M A GIRL.”

  PERIN IS A GIRL???? OH, MY GOD!!!!! Poor Perin! How embarrassing! I mean, that Mademoiselle Klein thought he was a he. I mean, that she was a he. Well, you know what I mean. What did she do? Mademoiselle Klein, I mean?

  Well, she apologized, of course. What else COULD she do? Poor Perin turned BRIGHT RED. I felt so sorry for her!

  That’s okay, Shameeka. We’ll ask him—I mean her—to sit with us at lunch today. I saw her sitting by herself all last week, over by the guy who hates it when they put corn in the chili. I really think she needs us.

  Oh! That’s such a good idea! You’re so good at things like that. Knowing how to make people feel better. It’s kind of like—

  What?

  Well, I was going to say it’s kind of like you’re a princess, or something. But you ARE a princess! So, of course, you’re good at that kind of thing. It’s kind of like your job.

  Yeah. It kind of is, isn’t it?

  Monday, September 14, Principal Gupta’s office

  You know what? I don’t even care. I don’t even care that I’m sitting here in the principal’s office.

  I don’t care that Lana is sitting here beside me shooting me evil looks.

  I don’t care that the lion head badge is hanging off my blazer by a few threads.

  And I don’t care that the entire school is currently in the gym, waiting for us to arrive for our debate.

  Where does she get off? That’s what I want to know. Lana, I mean. HOW DARE SHE??? It is one thing to pick on me, but it is QUITE another to pick on someone who is completely defenseless and not to mention NEW TO OUR SCHOOL.

  If she thinks I’m going to stand idly by and just let her make fun of someone that way, she is sadly, sadly mistaken. Well, I suppose she realizes that, seeing as how I’m still holding a chunk of her hair. Although, I guess it’s not actually her hair, since it turned out to be a clip-on extension braid she’d added to show her school spirit (it’s a blue ribbon braided into a lock of fake blond hair).

  Which would explain why it came out so easily in my hand when I lunged at her, intent on ripping out every strand of hair on her stupid head, after she told me to mind my own business and ripped off my AEHS Lions sew-on patch.

  Still. I hope it hurt.

  The sad thing is, she doesn’t know how lucky she is. I’d have inflicted a lot more damage if Lars and Perin hadn’t held me back.

  Perin may have turned out to be a girl, but she’s a surprisingly strong one.

  She’s also very well-mannered. As Principal Gupta was dragging me off to her office, I heard Perin call, “Thank you, Mia!”

  And although I may be mistaken in this—I was still in a rage-fueled frenzy—I think a few people even applauded.

  Except, of course, it would never occur to Principal Gupta that Lana might have done anything wrong. Please! She thinks the reason I lunged at Lana was “nerves” over the debate. Yeah, that’s right, Principal Gupta. It was nerves, all right. It had NOTHING to do with the fact that as we were coming out of French, Lana walked by, and leaned over to Perin and said, “HERMAPHRODITE.”

  Or that I, in response, told Lana to shut her stupid mouth.

  Or that Lana, in retaliation, reached out and yanked off my AEHS lion patch.

  The part where I, totally instinctively, yanked off Lana’s clip-on braid was the only part Principal Gupta heard about.

  Principal Gupta says I’m lucky she doesn’t suspend me on the spot. She says the only reason she’s not is because she knows I have a lot of problems at home right now (HELLO??? WHAT IS SHE TALKING ABOUT? THE SNAILS? THE FACT THAT I’M A BABY-LICKER? THAT MY BOYFRIEND WANTS TO DO IT SOMEDAY? WHAT?????).

  She says she thinks it would be better for Lana and me to take out our differences with each other in a more civilized manner than brawling in the second-floor hallway. She’s making us go through with the debate after all. She says, “Mia, will you please lift your head out of that journal and pay attention to what I’m saying?”

  Geez. What does she THINK I’m writing about? Star Wars fan fic?

  Lana’s laughing, of course.

  I don’t think she’d be laughing quite so hard if she found out that I happen to be named after someone who cut off another person’s head with an axe.

  Monday, September 14, the gym

  Oh, God. How did I ever get into this? They’re ALL here. All ONE THOUSAND students at Albert Einstein High School, grades nine through twelve, sitting there in the bleachers in front of me, LOOKING at me, STARING at me, because there’s nothing else to stare at, except for Lana and the two podiums and this potted palm they pulled out to make it look homier or something—or maybe to provide me with oxygen if I start to pass out—and Principal Gupta, standing in between our two folding chairs like a referee at a prize
fight.

  I’m totally going to barf into the potted palm.

  Principal Gupta is going on about how this is just a friendly debate so that Lana and I can let the voters know where we stand on the issues.

  Friendly. Right. That’s why I’m still holding Lana’s braid in my hand.

  And, hello, issues? There are ISSUES???? NOBODY TOLD ME THERE WERE GOING TO BE ISSUES!!!

  I can see Lilly, her video camera pointed and ready, in the front row of bleachers—sitting with Tina and Boris and Shameeka and Ling Su and, oh, look, isn’t that sweet, Perin—signaling me. What is Lilly trying to tell me? She can’t be getting ready to pull out her secret weapon. Not yet, anyway. The debate hasn’t even started! What is she doing with her hands??? Why is she making that folding motion?

  Oh, I get it. She wants me to sit up straight and stop writing in my journal. Yeah, fat chance, Lilly. I—

  OH, MY GOD. That smell. I recognize that smell. Chanel Number Five. Only one person I know of wears Chanel Number Five—or at least slathers on so much of it that you can smell it for miles before she ever enters the room—

  WHAT IS SHE DOING HERE????

  Oh, God. Why ME? Seriously. They should NOT allow people’s families to just saunter onto school grounds whenever they feel like it. I would not have half the amount of problems I currently have if there was some kind of security at this school, keeping my parents and grandparents OUT of it—

  Oh, no. Not my dad, too.

  And Rommel.

  Yes. My grandmother brought her DOG to my debate.

  And a phalanx of reporters.

  Good grief! Is that LARRY KING????

  Great. All I need now is for my mom and Rocky to show up, and it’ll turn into a Thermopolis-Gianini-Renaldo family reunion—

  Oh. And there she is. Waving Rocky’s little arm at me from the bleachers. Hi, Rocky! So glad you could come! So glad you could come watch your sister be totally and systematically annihilated by her mortal enemy—

  Oh, no. It’s starting.

  WHERE IS MICHAEL WHEN I NEED HIM????

  Monday, September 14, ladies’ room

  Well, here I am. In the ladies’ room. How unusual.

  I don’t think I’ll be coming out for awhile. A long, long while. As in…maybe never.

  The whole thing was so surreal. I mean, I saw Principal Gupta tap on the microphone. I heard the murmuring from the people in the bleachers suddenly stop. Every single eye in the place was on us.

  And then Principal Gupta welcomed everyone to the debate—making a special effort to thank Larry King for coming, with his cameras—and explained the importance of the student council, and the vital role the president plays in its governance. Then she said, “We have two very different young ladies—each with her own uniquely, er, strong personality—running for office today. I hope you will give them all your attention while each of our candidates tells us why she is suited to the role of president, and what she intends to do to make Albert Einstein High School a better place.”

  And then—I guess as punishment for the whole braid-ripping-out thing—Principal Gupta let Lana go first.

  The applause that went up as Lana swished her way to her podium could only be called thunderous. The whoops and catcalls, the chants of “La-na, La-na,” were almost deafening, especially since it was the gym, after all, and the sound really carried, what with the metal rafters.

  Then Lana—looking coolly unconcerned over the fact that she was addressing a thousand of her peers, and another seventy-five or so members of the AEHS faculty and staff (if you count the lunch ladies), my entire family, and a number of CNN correspondents—began to speak.

  Suffice it to say that what those thousand peers of hers wanted to hear—well, most of them, anyway—Lana gave them. Not surprisingly, Lana turned out to be a strong supporter of better cafeteria food, a longer lunch hour, larger mirrors in the girls’ bathrooms, less homework, more sports, guaranteed admission from the guidance office to such Ivy League schools as AEHS graduates might want to attend, and more diet and low-carb options in the candy and soda machines. She was against the outdoor security cameras, and vowed to have them removed. She promised a cheering student populace that if they elected her as president, she would make all of these things happen….

  …even though I happen to know that she can’t. Because those security cameras may infringe upon the rights of the people who like to smoke outside the school and litter the steps with their gross cigarette butts, but mostly they help keep the school safe from vandalism and break-ins.

  And the food distributor for the cafeteria is the same one that services all the schools—and hospitals—in the area, and offers the lowest prices for the highest quality food that can be found in the tri-state area.

  And if the trustees approve a longer lunch period, they’ll have to shorten classes, which are already only fifty minutes.

  And where does Lana think she’s going to get the money for bigger mirrors in the ladies’ room? And has she considered the facts that:

  less homework will leave us less prepared for the college courses some of us might want to take later on?

  more sports will result in less money for enrichment programs in the arts?

  no one can be guaranteed admission to an Ivy League school, not even people whose parents went there?

  our choices in the candy and soda machines are limited to what the vendors are able to offer?

  Obviously not.

  But I guess that didn’t matter to her. Or to her constituents, since by the time she finished, they were screaming their heads off, and pounding their feet on the bleachers to show their approval. I saw Ramon Riveras stand up and whip his school blazer around his head a few times to pump the crowd up even more.

  Principal Gupta looked a little tight-lipped as she stepped up to the microphone and said, “Er, um, thank you, Lana. Mia, would you like to respond?”

  I thought I was going to barf. I really did. Although, I don’t know what I possibly could have thrown up, since I hadn’t been able to eat breakfast this morning, and only had five Starbursts Lilly had given me, half a Bit-O-Honey mooched off Boris, three Tic Tacs from Lars, and a Coke in my system.

  But as I started walking toward that podium—my knees shaking so badly, I’m surprised they even managed to hold me up—something happened. I don’t know what, exactly. Or why.

  Maybe it was the intermittent booing.

  Maybe it was the way Trisha Hayes pointed at my combat boots and snickered.

  Maybe it was the way Ramon Riveras cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, “PIT! PIT!” in a manner that could hardly be called flattering.

  But as I looked out at the sea of humanity before me, and saw bobbing amidst it Perin’s bright and shining face, as she clapped her guts out for me, it was like the ghost of my ancestress, Rosagunde, the first princess of Genovia, took over my body.

  Either that, or my patron saint Amelia did some swooping down from the clouds to lend me some of her axe-wielding ’tude.

  In any case, even though I still wanted to barf, and all, when I got to the podium, and remembered the way Grandmère had harangued me about leaning my elbows on it, I did something totally unheard of in the history of student council presidential debates at Albert Einstein High School:

  I ripped the microphone off its stand, and, holding it in my hand, went to stand in FRONT of the podium.

  Yeah. In front. So there was nothing for me to shield my body behind.

  Nowhere for me to hide.

  Nothing separating me from my audience.

  And then, when they fell into stunned silence because of this unusual move, I said—not having the slightest idea where the sudden tide of words flowing from me was coming from—“‘Give me your tired, your poor/Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.’ That’s what it says on the Statue of Liberty. That’s the first thing millions of immigrants to this country saw when they stepped onto its shores. A statement assuring them that
into this great melting pot of a nation, all would be welcome, regardless of socioeconomic status, what color hair she has, who she might be dating, whether she waxes, shaves, or goes au naturel, or whether or not she chooses to play a sport.

  “And isn’t a school a melting pot unto itself? Aren’t we a group of people thrown together for eight hours a day, left to fend as best we can?

  “But, despite the fact that we here at Albert Einstein are a nation unto ourselves, I don’t exactly see us acting like one. All I see are a bunch of people who’ve split off into cliques for their own protection, and who are totally afraid to let anybody new—any of the huddled masses, yearning to breathe free—into their precious, selective little group.

  “Which totally sucks.”

  I let this sink in for a minute, as before me, I saw a ripple of disbelief pass over my audience. Larry King murmured something into Grandmère’s ear.

  But it was like I didn’t even care. I mean, I still felt like projectile vomiting all over the jocks, who were sitting directly in front of me.

  But I didn’t. I just kept going. Like…

  Well, like St. Amelie.

  “History has tried and rejected many forms of government over time, including governance of divine right, something this country abolished hundreds of years ago.

  “And yet for some reason, at this school, the divine right of governance still seems to exist. There’s a certain set of people who seem to believe they have an inherent right to office, because they are more attractive than the rest of us—or better at sports—or get invited to more parties than we do.”

  As I said this, I looked very pointedly back at Lana, then eyed Ramon and Trisha, too, for good measure. Then I looked back at the crowd before me, most of whom were staring at me with their mouths open—and not, like Boris, because of deviated septums, either.