Princess in Waiting (6 page)

I am fully going to hit my dad up for a StarTAC phone tomorrow. Hey, I am heir to the throne of an

entire country. At the

very least I should have a beeper.

Note to self: look up word
stile.

Four days, fourteen hours and forty minutes until I see Michael again.

Friday, January 15,

Royal Genovian Limo on the Way to State Dinner in Neighbouring Monaco

To Do Before Leaving Genovia:

1. Find a safe place to put Michael's present where it will NOT be found by grandmother or nosy

ladies-in-waiting

while packing my stuff (inside toe of combat boot? Inside panties I'll be wearing on plane?)

2. Say goodbye to kitchen staff, and thank them for all the vegetarian entrees.

3. Make sure harbourmaster has hung pair of scissors off every buoy in bay for use of yachting tourists

who didn't

bring along their own set to snip six-pack holders.

4. Take funny nose and glasses off the statue of Grandmere in the Portrait Hall before she notices.

5. Give Rommel's mink sweater back.

6. Break Francois' record of eleven feet, seven inches sock-sliding down Crystal Hallway.

7. Let all the doves in the Palace dovecote go (if they want to come back, that is fine, but they should

have the option

to be free).

8. Let Tante Jean Marie know that this is the twenty-first century and that she no longer has to live with

the stigma of

feminine facial hair, and leave her my Jolene.

9. Go to the beach, just once, and walk barefoot through that famous white sand I haven't gotten within

ten yards of

the entire time I've been here. Also, establish Sea-Turtle Nest Patrol so that eggs will be protected.

10. Get crown fixed (combs keep spearing me in the head).

Saturday, January 16, 11 p.m.

Royal Genovian Bedchamber

Grandmere so needs to get a life.

Tonight was the royal ball - you know, to celebrate the end of my first official trip to Genovia in my

capacity as heir to the throne.

Anyway, Grandmere's been going on about this ball all week, like this is going to be my big chance to

redeem myself for

the whole snip-your-plastic-six-pack-holder thing I pulled during my first televised address to the

populace.

So she makes this big deal out of my dress (a Sebastiano design - my dad finally forgave Sebastiano for

putting those

pictures of me wearing his designs in the
New York Times
Sunday supplement. My dad even forgave

Grandmere for letting Sebastiano do it without clearing it through him first. Though things are still a little

strained between the two of them - I heard him tell her to 'lay off' the other day when she was giving him

grief about his latest girlfriend, one of those bendy trapeze girls from the Cirque du Soleil. I don't know

what happened to the bareback rider.

And she makes this big deal out of my hair (growing out and so becoming triangle-shaped again, but who

cares, boys are supposed to like girls with long hair better than girls with short hair - I read that in French

Cosmo).
And she makes this big

deal out of my fingernails (OK, so in spite of the whole New Year's resolution thing, I still keep biting

them. So sue me.

I can't help that I am orally fixated, the man is keeping me down).

Then, after all this big-deal making, we finally get to the stupid ball. And it turns out that all that fuss was

just so that

Grandmere could shove me at Prince Rene, of all people,and the two of us could dance in front of this

Newsweek

reporter who is in Genovia to do a story on our country's transition to the Euro!

Afterwards I was all, 'Grandmere, I am willing to cool it with the calling Michael stuff, but that does not

mean I am going to start going out with Prince Rene,' who, by the way, asked me if I wanted to step

outside on to the terrazzo and have a smoke.

I, of course, told him I do not smoke and that he shouldn't either as tobacco is responsible for half a

million deaths a year

in the United States alone, but he only laughed at me all James Spader from
Pretty in Pink-ishly.

So then I told him not to get any big ideas, that I already have a boyfriend and that maybe he didn't see

the movie of my life,

but I fully know how to handle guys who are only after me for my crown jewels.

So then Prince Rene said I was adorable, and I said please don't patronize me as I am not a child, and

then my dad came up and asked me if I had seen the Prime Minister of Greece and I said, 'Dad,

Grandmere is trying to fix me uprwith Rene,' and then my dad got all tight-lipped and took Grandmere

aside and had A Word with her while Prince Rene slunk off to go

make out with one of the Hilton sisters.

Afterwards, Grandmere came up and told me not to be so ridiculous, that she merely wanted Prince

Rene and I to dance together because it was a nice photo op for
Newsweek
and that maybe if they ran a

story on us, it would attract more tourists.

To which I replied that in light of our crumbling infrastructure more tourists is exactly what this country

doesn't need.

I suppose if my palace had been bought out from under me by some shoe designer, I would be pretty

desperate, too,

but I wouldn't hit on a girl who has the weight of an entire populace on her shoulders, and already has a

boyfriend, besides.

On the bright side, if
Newsweek
does run the photo, maybe Michael will get all jealous of Rene the way

Mr. Rochester

did of that St. John guy, and he'll boss me around some more!!!

Two days, fourteen hours, and twelve minutes until I see Michael again.

I CAN'T WAIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Monday, January 18, 3 p.m., Genovian Time,

Royal Genovian Jet, 20,000 Feet in the Air

I cannot believe that:

a. my dad is staying in Genovia in order to resolve the parking crisis rather than coming back to New

York with me

b. he actually believed Grandmere when she said that my princess lessons need to continue

c. she (not to mention Rommel) is coming back to New York with me

IT IS NOT FAIR. I held up my part of the agreement. I went to every single princess lesson Grandmere

gave last fall.

I passed Algebra. I gave my stupid address to the Genovian people.

Grandmere says that in spite of what I might think, I still have a lot to learn about governance. Except that

she is so wrong.

I know she is only coming back to New York with me so she can go on torturing me. It is kind of like

her hobby now.

It is so not fair.

And yes, before I left, my dad slipped me a hundred dollars and told me if I didn't make a fuss about

Grandmere, he'd

make it up to me someday.

But there is nothing he can do to make
this
up to me. Nothing.

He says she is just a harmless old lady and that I should try to enjoy her while I can because someday

she won't be with

us any more. I just looked at him like he was crazy. Even he couldn't keep a straight face. He went, 'OK,

I'll donate two hundred bucks a day to Greenpeace if you keep her out of my hair.'

Which is funny because of course my dad hasn't got any. Hair, I mean.

I sincerely hope Greenpeace appreciates the supreme sacrifice I am making for its sake.

So she is coming back to New York with me, and dragging a cowering Rommel along with her. Just

when his fur had

started to grow back, too. Poor thing.

I told my dad I'd put up with the whole princess lesson thing again this semester, but that he'd better get

one thing straight

with Grandmere beforehand, and that is this: I have a serious boyfriend now. Grandmere had better not

try to sabotage this,

or think she can be trying to fix me up with any more Prince Renes. I don't care how many royal titles the

guy has, my heart belongs to Michael Moscovitz, Esquire.

My dad said he'd see what he could do. But I don't know how much he was actually paying attention,

since Tapeka, the bareback rider, and Natasha, the trapeze artist, were kind of having a fight over him at

the time in the royal palace lemon

grove.

Anyway, a little while ago I told Grandmere myself that she better watch it where Michael is concerned.

'I don't want to hear anything more about how I'm too young to be in love,' I said, over the lunch

(poached salmon for Grandmere, three-bean salad for me) we were served by the royal Genovian flight

attendants. 'I am old enough to know

my own heart, and that means I am old enough to give that heart away if I choose to.'

Grandmere said something about how then I should get ready for some heartache, but I ignored her. Just

because her

romantic life since Grandpa died has been less than satisfactory is no reason for her to be so cynical

about mine. I mean,

that is just what she gets for going out with media moguls and dictators and stuff.

Michael and I, on the other hand, are going to have a great love, just like Jane and Mr. Rochester.

Or Buffy and Angel. Or Brad and Jennifer.

Or at least, we will if we ever actually get to go out on a date
.

Twenty-two hours until I see him again.

Monday, January 18, Martin Luther King Day,

National Holiday, the Loft, at Last

I am so happy I feel like I could burst, just like that eggplant I once dropped out of Lilly's sixteenth-floor

bedroom window.

I'm home!!!!!!! I'm finally home!!!!!!

I cannot tell you how good it felt to look out the window of the plane and see the bright lights of

Manhattan below me. It brought tears to my eyes, knowing I was once again in the air space over my

beloved city. Below me, I knew, cab drivers

were running down litde old ladies (unfortunately not Grandmere); deli owners were short-changing their

customers;

investment bankers were not cleaning up after their dogs; and people all over town were having their

dreams of becoming

a singer, actress, musician, novelist, or dancer completely crushed by soulless producers, directors,

agents, editors and choreographers.

Yes, I was back in my beautiful New York. I was back home at last.

I especially knew it when I stepped off the plane, and there was Lars, waiting for me, ready to take over

body-guarding

duty from Francois, the guy who had looked after me in Genovia, and who had taught me all the French

swear words. Lars looked especially menacing on account of being all darkly tanned from his month off.

He had spent his Winter Break with

Tina Hakim Baba's bodyguard, Wahim, snorkelling and hunting wild boar in Belize. He gave me a piece

of tusk as a

memento of his trip, even though of course I don't approve of killing animals recreationally, even wild

boars, who really

can't help being so ugly and mean.

Then, sixty-five minutes later, thanks to a pile-up on the Long Island Expressway, I was home.

It was so good to see my mom!!!!! She is beginning to show now. I didn't want to say anything because

even though my

mom says she does not believe in the Western standard of idealized beauty and thinks that there is

nothing wrong with a

woman who is bigger than a size eight, I'm pretty sure that if I had said anything like, 'Mom, you're huge,'

even in a complimentary fashion, she would start to cry. After all, she still has more than four months left

to go.

So instead I just went, as I tried to hug her close even though her belly is starting to get in the way, That

baby has to be

a boy. Or if it's not it's a girl who is going to be as tall as me.'

'Oh, I hope so,' my mom said, as she brushed tears of joy from her face — or maybe she was crying

because Fat Louie

was biting her ankles so hard in his effort to get near me. 'I could use another you for when you aren't

around. I missed

you so much! There was no one to berate me for ordering ' roast pork and wonton soup from Number

One Noodle Son.'

'I tried,' Mr. Gianini assured me.

Mr. G looks great, too. He is growing a goatee beard. I pretended I liked it.

Then I bent down and picked up Fat Louie, who was yowling to get my attention, and gave him a great

big hug. I may be wrong, but I think he lost weight while I was away. I do not want to accuse anyone of

purposely starving him, but I noticed

his dry-food bowl was not completely full. In fact, it was perilously close to being only half full. I always

keep Fat Louie's

bowl filled to the brim, because you never know when there might be a sudden plague, killing everyone in

Manhattan but

cats. Fat Louie can't pour out his own food, having no thumbs, so he needs a little extra just in case we

all die and there is

no one around to open the bag for him.

But the loft looks so great!!!!!!!! Mr. Gianini did a lot to it while I was gone. He got rid of the Christmas

tree - the first time

in the history of the Thermopolis household that the Christmas tree was out of the loft by Easter - and

had the place wired

for DSL. So now you can email or go on the Internet anytime you want, without tying up the phone.

It is like a Christmas miracle.

And that's not all. Mr. G also fully redid the darkroom, leftover from when my mom was going through