Princess in Waiting (13 page)

year's crop of debutantes, the daughters of

socialites and other so-called American royalty, who were 'coming out' to Society with a capital S, and

looking for husbands (even though what they should be looking for, if you ask me, is a good

undergraduate programme, and maybe a part-time job teaching illiterate homeless people to read - but

that's just me) when all of a sudden it occurred to me - the solution to my problem:

Why couldn't Michael be my escort to the Contessa Trevanni's black-and-white ball?

OK, granted, it was no
Star Wars.
And yeah, he'd have to get his hands on a tux and all. But at least we

would be together.

At least I could still give him his birthday present somewhere outside of the cinderblock walls of Albert

Einstein High. At least

I wouldn't have to cancel altogether. At least the state of diplomatic affairs between Genovia and

Monaco would remain at DEFCON 5.

But how, I wondered, was I ever going to get Grandmere to go along with it? I mean, she hadn't said

anything about the contessa letting me bring a date.

Still, what about all those debutantes? Weren't they bringing dates? Wasn't that what West Point Military

Academy
was for?
Providing dates for debutante balls? And if those girls could bring dates, and they

weren't even princesses, why couldn't I?

How I was going to get Grandmere to let me bring Michael to the black-and-white ball, after all of our

long discussions about how you mustn't let the object of your affection even know that you like him, was

going to be a major obstacle. I decided I would have to exercise some of the diplomatic tact Grandmere

had taken so much trouble to teach me.

'And please, whatever else you do, Amelia,' Grandmere was saying, as she sat there running a metal

comb through Rommel's sparse - and getting sparser - fur, as the royal Genovian vet had instructed, 'do

not stare too long at the contessa's facelift. I know it will be difficult - it looks as if the surgeon botched it

horribly. But actually, it's exactly the way Elena wanted it to look. Apparently she has always fancied

resembling an anteater—'

'Listen, about this dance, Grandmere,' I started in, all subtly. 'Do you think the contessa would mind if I,

you know, brought someone?'

Grandmere looked at me confusedly over Rommel's pink, trembling body. 'What do you mean? Amelia,

I highly doubt your mother would have a very nice time at the contessa Trevanni's black-and-white ball.

For one thing, there won't be any other hippy radicals there . . .'

'Not my mom,' I said, realizing that perhaps I had been a little
too
subtle. 'I was thinking more, you know,

of an escort.'

'But you already have an escort.' Grandmere adjusted Rommel's diamond-chip-encrusted collar.

'I do?' I did not recall asking anyone to scrounge up a West Pointer for me.

'Of course you do,' Grandmere said, still not, I noticed, meeting my gaze. 'Prince Rene has very

generously offered to serve as your escort to the ball. Now, where were we? Oh, yes. About the

contessa's taste in clothes. I think you've learned enough by now to know that you aren't to comment - at

least to her face - on what your hostess happens to be wearing. But I think it necessary to warn you that

the contessa has a tendency to wear clothes that are somewhat young on her, and that reveal—'

'Rene
is going to be my escort?' I stood up, nearly knocking Grandmere's maid, who'd come to refresh

her mistress's

Sidecar, off her feet as I did so.
'Rene
is taking me to the black-and-white ball?'

'Well, yes,' Grandmere said, looking blandly innocent — a little too blandly innocent, if you asked me.

'He is, after all, a stranger to the city — to this country, as a matter of fact. I would think that you,

Amelia, would be only too happy to make

him feel welcome and wanted . . .'

I narrowed my eyes at her. 'What is going on here?' I demanded. 'Grandmere, are you trying to fix up

Prince Rene and me?'

'Certainly not,' Grandmere said, looking genuinely appalled by the suggestion. But then, I'd been fooled

by Grandmere's expressions before. Especially the one she puts on when she wants you to think that she

is just a helpless old lady. 'Your imagination most definitely conies from your mother's side of the family.

Your father was never as fanciful as you are, Amelia, for which I can only thank God. He'd have driven

me to an early grave, I'm convinced of it, if he'd been half as capricious as you tend to be, young lady.'

'Well, what else am I supposed to think?' I asked, feeling a little sheepish over my outburst. After all, the

idea that Grandmere might, even though I am only fourteen, be trying to fix me up with some prince that

she wants me to marry
is
a little outlandish.

I mean, even for Grandmere. Still, if it
walks
like a duck, and
talks
like a duck ... 'I mean, first that thing

with making us dance together

'For a magazine pictorial,' Grandmere sniffed.

'. . . and then your not liking Michael. . .'

'I never said I didn't like him. I think he is a perfectly charming boy. I just want you to be realistic about

the fact that you, Amelia, are not like other girls. You are a princess, and have the good of your country

to think of.'

'... and then Rene showing up like this, and your announcing that he's taking me to the black-and-white

ball...'

'Is it wrong of me to want to see the poor boy have a nice time while he is here? He has suffered so many

hardships, losing

his ancestral home, not to mention his own principality.'

'Grandmere,' I said. 'Rene's principality got absorbed into Italy, like, three hundred years ago. He wasn't

even alive when it happened.'

'A man without a country,' Grandmere said, 'is like a man without a soul.'

Great. And this is my date for the Contessa Trevanni's black-and-white ball. A man without a soul. What

next, I ask you? Brunch with Count Dracula?

And what am I supposed to do now? About Michael, I mean? I can't bring both him
and
Prince Rene to

the ball. I mean,

I look weird enough, with my half-grown-out hair and my androgyny (although judging by Grandmere's

description of her,

the contessa might look even weirder than I do) without hauling two dates and a bodyguard around with

me.

This new year is not turning out to be very propitious for any of us. I mean, first Tina sprains her ankle,

then loses her one

true love; then I get saddled with Prince Rene, a black-and-white ball, and the realization that I am one

hundred percent not talented at anything . . . well, except for maybe one thing, only I don't know what it

is, and the person who does know won't tell me because I am supposed to figure it out on my own.

But I can't even figure out how to explain to my boyfriend that I can't make our very first date with one

another. How am I supposed to figure out what my secret talent is?????

Wednesday, January 20,

The Loft

Well, my mom getting hold of my dad was a washout. Apparently the whole parking fees debate has

gotten way out of

control. The Minister of Tourism is conducting a filibuster, and there can't be a vote until he stops talking

and sits down. So

far he's been talking for twelve hours, forty-eight minutes. I don't know why my dad doesn't just have him

arrested and put

in the dungeon. According to my mom, that would be a violation of the minister's right to free speech. But

what about my

dad's right to take phone calls from the mother of his only child? Who is safeguarding that right, I would

like to know?

I am really starting to be afraid that I am not going to be able to get out of this ball thingy.

'You better let Michael know,' my mom just poked her head in to say, helpfully, 'that you won't be able

to make it Friday.

Hey, are you writing in your journal again? Aren't you supposed to be doing your homework?'

Trying to change the subject from my homework (hello, I am totally doing it, I am just taking a break

right now), I went,

'Mom, I am not saying anything to Michael until we've heard from Dad. Because there's no point in my

running the risk of Michael breaking up with me if Dad's just going to turn around and say I don't have to

go to the stupid ball.'

'Mia,' my mom said, 'Michael is not going to break up with you just because you have a familial

commitment you cannot

get out of.'

'I wouldn't be so sure,' I said, darkly. 'Dave Farouq El-Abar broke up with Tina today because she

didn't return his call.'

'That's different,' my mom said. 'It's just plain rude not to return someone's calls.'

'But Mom,' I said. I was getting tired of having to explain this stuff to my mom all the time. It is a wonder

to me she ever got

a single guy in the first place, let alone two of them, when she clearly knows so little about the art of

dating. 'If you are too available, the guy might think all the thrill has gone out of the chase.'

My mother looked suspicious. 'Don't tell me. Let me guess. Your grandmother told you that?'

'Urn,' I said. 'Yes.'

'Well, let me give you a little tip my mother once gave me,' my mom said. I was surprised. My mom

doesn't get along so well with her parents, Mamaw and Papaw, who run the Handy Dandy Hardware

Store of Versailles, Indiana. It is rare that she mentions either of them ever giving her a piece of advice

worthy of passing down to her own daughter, as my mom ran away from home as soon as she was

financially able to, and has only been back there, like, twice.

'If you think there's a chance you might have to cancel on Michael for Friday night,' she said, 'you'd

better cat-on-the-roof

him now.'

I was understandably perplexed by this. 'Cat on the whatta?'

'Cat on the roof,' my mother said. 'You need to begin mentally preparing him for the disappointment. For

instance, if

something had happened to Fat Louie while you were in Genovia—' My mouth must have fallen open,

since my mom went, 'Don't worry, nothing did. But I'm just saying, if something had, I would not have

blurted it right out to you, over the phone.

I'd have prepared you gently for the eventual letdown. Like I might have said, "Mia, Fat Louie escaped

through your window and now he's up on the roof, and we can't get him down".'

'Of course you could get him down,' I protested. 'Youcould go up by the fire escape and take a

pillowcase and when you

get near him, you could throw the pillowcase over him and scoop him up and carry him back down

again.'

'Yes,' my mom said. 'But supposing I told you I'd try that. And the next day I called you and said it

hadn't worked, Fat Louie had escaped to the neighbour's roof—'

Td tell you to go to the building next door and make someone let you in, then go up to their roof.' I really

did not see where

this was going. 'Mom, how could you be so irresponsible as to let Fat Louie out in the first place? I've

told you again and

again — you've got to keep my bedroom window closed, you know how he likes to watch the pigeons.

Louie doesn't have

any outdoor survival skills . . .'

'So naturally,' my mom said, 'you wouldn't expect him to survive two nights out of doors.'

'No,' I practically wailed. 'I wouldn't.'

'Right. See. So you'd be mentally prepared when I called you on the third day to say despite everything

we'd done, Louie

was dead.'

'OH, MY GOD!' I snatched up Fat Louie from where he was lying beside me on the bed. 'And you think

I should do that

to poor Michael? He has a dog, not a cat! Pavlov's never going to get up on the roof!'

'No,' my mother said, looking tired. Well, and why not? She was hauling around a dozen or so extra

pounds all of a sudden. 'I'm saying you should begin mentally preparing Michael for the disappointment

he is going to feel if, indeed, you need to

cancel him on Friday night. Call him and tell him you might not be able to make it. That's all.

Cat-on-the-roof him.'

I let Fat Louie go. Not just because I finally realized what my mom was getting at, but because he was

trying to bite me in

order to get me to loosen the stranglehold I had on him.

'Oh,' I said. 'You think if I do that - start mentally preparing him for my not being able to go out with him

on Friday - he

won't dump me when I get around to breaking the actual news?'

'Mia,' my mom said. 'No boy is going to dump you because you have to cancel a date. If any boy does,

then he wasn't

worth going out with anyway. Much like Tina's Dave, I'd venture to say. She's probably better off

without him. Now.

Do your homework.'

Only how could anyone expect me to do my homework after imparting a piece of information like that?

Instead I went online. I meant to instant message Michael, but I found that Tina was instant messaging

me.

Iluvromance: Hi, Mia. What R U doing?

She sounded so sad! She was even using a blue font!

FtLouie: I'm just doing my Bio. How are you?

Iluvromance: OK, I guess. I just miss him so imichimmmilimiim I wish I had never even

heard of stupid Jane Eyre.

Remembering what my mom had said, I wrote: