Princess in the Spotlight Read online

  “Just one sentence?”

  “No.”

  Michael didn’t know about the book either. He told me right before Mrs. Hill came in that he offered to publish it in his webzine, Crackhead, but Lilly said, in quite a snotty voice, that she was holding out for a “legitimate” publisher.

  “Am I in it?” I wanted to know. “Your book? Am I in it?”

  Lilly said if people don’t stop bothering her about it, she is going to fling herself off the top of the school water tower. She is exaggerating, of course. You can’t even get up to the water tower anymore, since the seniors, as a prank a few years ago, poured a bunch of tadpoles into it.

  I can’t believe Lilly’s been working on a book and never told me. I mean, I always knew she was going to write a book about the adolescent experience in post–Cold War America. But I didn’t think she was going to start it before we had graduated. If you ask me, this book can’t be very balanced. Because I hear things get way better sophomore year.

  Still, I guess it does make sense that you would tell someone whose tongue has been in your mouth things you wouldn’t necessarily tell your best friend. But it makes me mad Boris knows things about Lilly that I don’t know. I tell Lilly everything.

  Well, everything except how I feel about her brother.

  Oh, and about my secret admirer.

  And about my mom and Mr. Gianini.

  But I tell her practically everything else.

  DON’T FORGET:

  1. Stop thinking about M.M.

  2. English journal! Profound moment!

  3. Cat food

  4. Q-tips

  5. Toothpaste

  6. TOILET PAPER!

  Tuesday, October 28, Bio

  I am winning friends and influencing people everywhere I go today. Kenny just asked me what I’m doing for Halloween. I said I might have a family obligation to attend, and he said if I could get out of it, he and a bunch of his friends from the Computer Club are going to Rocky Horror, and that I should come along.

  I asked him if one of his friends was Michael Moscovitz, because Michael is treasurer of the Computer Club, and he said yes.

  I thought about asking Kenny if he’s heard Michael mention whether or not he likes me, you know, in any special way, but I decided not to.

  Because then Kenny might think I like him. Michael, I mean. And how pathetic would I look then?

  Ode to M

  Oh, M,

  why can’t you see

  that x = you

  and y = me?

  And that

  you + me

  = ecstasy,

  and together we’d B

  4ever happy?

  Tuesday, October 28, 6 p.m.,

  On the way back to the loft from Grandmère’s

  What with all the backlash about my interview on TwentyFour/Seven, I completely forgot about Grandmère and Vigo, the Genovian event organizer!

  I mean it. I swear I didn’t remember a thing about Vigo and the asparagus tips, not until I walked into Grandmère’s suite tonight for my princess lesson, and there were all these people scurrying around, doing things like barking into the phone: “No, that’s four thousand long-stemmed pink roses, not four hundred,” and calligraphy-ing place cards.

  I found Grandmère sitting in the midst of all this activity, sampling truffles with Rommel—stylishly dressed in a chinchilla cape, dyed mauve—in her lap.

  I’m not kidding. Truffles.

  “No,” Grandmère said, putting a gooey half-eaten chocolate ball back into the box Vigo was holding out to her. “Not that one, I think. Cherries are so vulgar.”

  “Grandmère.” I couldn’t believe this. I was practically hyperventilating, the way Grandmère had when she’d found out my mom was pregnant. “What are you doing? Who are all these people?”

  “Ah, Mia,” Grandmère said, looking pleased to see me. Even though, judging from the remains in the box Vigo was holding, she’d been eating a lot of stuff with nougat in it, none of it got onto her teeth. This is one of the many royal tricks Grandmère had yet to teach me. “Lovely. Sit down and help me decide which of these truffles we should put in the gift box the wedding guests are getting as party favors.”

  “Wedding guests?” I sank onto the chair Vigo had pulled up for me, and dropped my backpack. “Grandmère, I told you. My mom is never going to go along with this. She wouldn’t want something like this.”

  Grandmère just shook her head and said, “Pregnant women are never the most rational creatures.”

  I pointed out that, judging from my research into the matter, while it was true that hormonal imbalances often cause pregnant women discomfort, I saw no reason to suppose that these imbalances in any way invalidated my mother’s feelings on the matter—especially since I knew that they’d have been exactly the same if she weren’t pregnant. My mom is not a royal wedding type of gal. I mean, she gets together with her girlfriends for margarita-poker night once a month.

  “She,” Vigo pointed out, “is the mother of the future reigning monarch of Genovia, Your Highness. As such, it is vital that she be extended every privilege and courtesy the palace can offer.”

  “Then how about offering her the privilege of planning her wedding for herself?” I said.

  Grandmère had a good laugh at that one. She practically choked on the swig of Sidecar she was taking after each bite of truffle in order to cleanse her palate.

  “Amelia,” she said, when she was through coughing—something Rommel had found extremely alarming, if the way he rolled his eyes back up into his head was any indication. “Your mother will be eternally grateful to us for all the work we are doing on her behalf. You’ll see.”

  I realized it was no good arguing with them. I knew what I was going to have to do.

  And I would do it right after my lesson, which was how to write a royal thank-you note. You would not believe all the wedding presents and baby stuff that people have started sending my mother, care of the Genovian royal family at the Plaza Hotel. Seriously. It is unreal. The place is jam-packed with electric woks, waffle irons, tablecloths, baby shoes, baby hats, baby clothes, baby diapers, baby toys, baby swings, baby changing tables, baby you-name-it. I had no idea so much stuff was necessary for raising a baby. But I have a pretty good idea my mom isn’t going to want any of it. She’s not really into pastels.

  I marched up to the door to my father’s hotel suite, and banged on it.

  He wasn’t there! And when I asked the concierge down in the lobby if she knew where my dad had gone, she said she wasn’t sure.

  One thing she was quite certain of, however, was that Beverly Bellerieve had been with my dad when he’d left.

  Well, I’m glad my dad’s found a new friend, I guess, but hello? Is he not aware of the impending disaster growing under his own royal nose?

  Tuesday, October 28, 10 p.m., The loft

  Well, it happened. The impending disaster is now officially a real disaster.

  Because Grandmère has gotten completely out of hand. I didn’t even realize how badly, either, until I got home tonight from my lesson and saw this family sitting at our dining-room table.

  That’s right. An entire family. Well, a mom and a dad and a kid, anyway.

  I am not kidding. At first I thought they were tourists that had maybe taken a wrong turn—our neighborhood is very touristy. Like maybe they thought they were going to Washington Square Park, but ended up following a Chinese food delivery guy to our loft instead.

  But then the woman who was wearing pink jogging pants—a clear indication that she was from out of town—looked at me and said, “Oh, my Lord! Are you telling me that you actually wear your hair like that in real life? I was sure it was just that way for TV.”

  My jaw dropped. I went, “Grandmother Thermopolis?”

  “Grandmother Thermopolis?” The woman squinted at me. “I guess all this royal stuff really has gone to your head. Don’t you remember me, honey? I’m Mamaw.”

  Mamaw! My gr
andmother from my mother’s side!

  And there, sitting beside her—roughly half her size and wearing a baseball cap—was my mother’s father, Papaw! The hulking boy in a flannel shirt and overalls I didn’t recognize, but that hardly mattered. What were my mother’s estranged parents, who had never left Versailles, Indiana, before in their lives, doing in our downtown Village loft?

  A quick consultation with my mother explained it. I was able to find her by following the phone cord first into her bedroom, then into her walk-in closet, where she was huddled behind her shoe rack (empty—all her shoes were on the floor) in whispered conspiracy with my father.

  “I don’t care how you do it, Phillipe,” she was hissing into the phone. “You tell that mother of yours she’s gone too far this time. My parents, Phillipe? You know how I feel about my parents. If you don’t get them out of here, Mia is going to end up paying visits to me through a slot in the door up at Bellevue.”

  I could hear my father murmuring reassurances through the phone. My mom noticed me and whispered, “Are they still out there?”

  I said, “Um, yes. You mean you didn’t invite them?”

  “Of course not!” My mother’s eyes were as wide as Calamata olives. “Your grandmother invited them for some cockamamie wedding she thinks she’s throwing for me and Frank on Friday!”

  I gulped guiltily. Oops.

  Well, all I can say in my own defense is that things have been very very hectic lately. I mean, what with finding out my mother is pregnant, and then getting sick, and the whole thing with Jo-C-rox, and then the interview. . . .

  Oh, all right. There’s no excuse. I am a horrible daughter.

  My mom held out the phone to me. “He wants to talk to you,” she said.

  I took the phone and went, “Dad? Where are you?”

  “I’m in the car,” he said. “Listen, Mia, I got the concierge to arrange for rooms for your grandparents at a hotel near your place—the SoHo Grand. Okay? Just put them in the limo and send them there.”

  “Okay, Dad,” I said. “What about Grandmère and this whole wedding thing? I mean, it’s sort of out of control.” Understatement of the year.

  “I’ll take care of Grandmère,” my dad said, sounding very Captain Picardish. You know, from Star Trek: The Next Generation. I got the feeling Beverly Bellerieve was there in the car with him, and he was trying to sound all princely in front of her.

  “Okay,” I said. “But . . .”

  It’s not that I didn’t trust my dad, or anything, to take care of the situation. It’s just—well, we are talking about Grandmère. She can be very scary, when she wants to be. Even, I am sure, to her own son.

  I guess he must have known what I was thinking, since he said, “Don’t worry, Mia. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Okay,” I said, feeling bad for doubting him.

  “And Mia?”

  I’d been about to hang up. “Yeah, Dad?”

  “Assure your mother I didn’t know anything about this. I swear it.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  I hung up the phone. “Don’t worry,” I said to my mom. “I’ll take care of this.”

  Then, my shoulders back, I returned to the living room. My grandparents were still sitting at the table. Their farmer friend, however, had gotten up. He was in the kitchen, peering into the refrigerator.

  “This all you got to eat around here?” he asked, pointing to the carton of soy milk and the bowl of edamame on the first shelf.

  “Um,” I said. “Well, yes. We are trying to keep our refrigerator free from any sort of contaminants that might harm a developing fetus.”

  When the guy looked blank, I said, “We usually order in.”

  He brightened at once, and closed the refrigerator door. “Oh, Dominos?” he said. “Great!”

  “Um,” I said. “Well, you can order Dominos, if you want, from your hotel room—”

  “Hotel room?”

  I spun around. Mamaw had snuck up behind me.

  “Um, yes,” I said. “You see, my father thought you might be more comfortable at a nice hotel than here in the loft—”

  “Well, if that doesn’t beat all,” Mamaw said. “Here your Papaw and Hank and I come all the way to see you, and you stick us in a hotel?”

  I looked at the guy in the overalls with renewed interest. Hank? As in my cousin Hank? Why, the last time I’d seen Hank had been during my second—and ultimately final—trip to Versailles, back when I’d been about ten or so. Hank had been dropped off at the Thermopolis homestead the year before by his globe-trotting mother—my aunt Marie, who my mom can’t stand, primarily because, as my mother puts it, she exists in an intellectual and spiritual vacuum (meaning that Marie is a Republican).

  Back then, Hank had been a skinny, whiny thing with a milk allergy. He wasn’t as skinny as he’d once been, but he still looked a little lactose intolerant, if you ask me.

  “Nobody said anything about us being hauled off to an expensive New York City hotel when that French woman called.” Mamaw had followed me into the kitchen, and now she stood with her hands on her generous hips. “She said she’d pay for everything,” Mamaw said, “free and clear.”

  I realized at once where Mamaw’s concern lay.

  “Oh, um, Mamaw,” I said. “My father will take care of the bill, of course.”

  “Well, that’s different.” Mamaw beamed. “Let’s go!”

  I figured I’d better go with them, just to make sure they got there all right. As soon as we got into the limo, Hank forgot all about how hungry he was, in his delight over all the buttons there were to push. He had a swell time sticking his head in and out of the sun roof. At one point he stuck his whole body through the sun roof, spread his arms out wide, and yelled, “I’m the king of the world!”

  Fortunately the limo’s windows are tinted, so I don’t think anyone from school could have recognized me, but I couldn’t help feeling mortified.

  So you can understand why, after I got them all checked into the hotel and everything, and Mamaw asked me if I would take Hank to school with me in the morning, I nearly passed out.

  “Oh, you don’t want to go to school with me, Hank,” I said, quickly. “I mean, you’re on vacation. You could go do something really fun.” I tried to think of something that might seem really fun to Hank. “Like go to the Harley Davidson Cafe.”

  But Hank said, “Heck, no. I want to go to school with you, Mia. I always wanted to see what it was like at a real New York City high school.” He lowered his voice, so Mamaw and Papaw wouldn’t hear. “I hear the girls in New York City have all got their belly buttons pierced.”

  Hank was in for a real big disappointment if he thought he’d see any pierced navels in my school—we wear uniforms, and you aren’t even allowed to tie the ends of your shirt into a halter top, a la Britney Spears.

  But I couldn’t see a way to get out of having him accompany me for the day. Grandmère was always going on about how princesses have to be gracious. Well, I guess this is my big test.

  So I said, “Okay.” Which didn’t sound very gracious, but what else could I say?

  Then Mamaw surprised me by grabbing me and giving me a hug good-bye. I don’t know why I was so surprised. This was a very grandmotherly thing to do, of course. But I guess, seeing as how the grandmother I spend the most time with is Grandmère, I wasn’t expecting it.

  As she hugged me, Mamaw said, “Why, you aren’t anything but skin and bones, are you?” Yes, thank you, Mamaw. It is true, I am mammarily challenged. But must you shout it out in the lobby of the SoHo Grand? “And when are you going to stop shooting up so high? I swear, you’re almost taller than Hank!”

  Which was, unfortunately, true.

  Then Mamaw made Papaw give me a hug good-bye, too. Mamaw had been very soft when I hugged her. Papaw was the exact opposite, very bony. It was sort of amazing to me that these two people had managed to turn my strong-willed, independent-minded mother into such a gibbering mess. I mean, Grandmère used
to lock my dad in the castle dungeon when he was a kid, and he wasn’t half as resentful toward her as my mom was toward her parents.

  On the other hand, my dad is in deep denial and suffers from classic Oedipal issues. At least according to Lilly.

  When I got home, my mom had moved from the closet to her bed, where she lay covered with Victoria’s Secret and J. Crew catalogs. I knew she must be feeling a little better. Ordering things is one of her favorite hobbies.

  I said, “Hi, Mom.”

  She looked out from behind the Spring Bathing Suit edition. Her face was all bloated and splotchy. I was glad Mr. Gianini wasn’t around. He might have had second thoughts about marrying her if he’d gotten a good look at her just then.

  “Oh, Mia,” she said when she saw me. “Come here and let me give you a hug. Was it horrible? I’m sorry I’m such a bad mother.”

  I sat down on the bed beside her. “You aren’t a bad mother,” I said. “You’re a good mother. You just aren’t feeling well.”

  “No,” my mother said. She was sniffling, so I knew the reason she looked bloated and horrible was that she’d been crying. “I’m a terrible person. My parents came all the way from Indiana to see me, and I sent them to a hotel.”

  I could tell my mom was having a hormonal imbalance and wasn’t herself. If she’d been herself, she wouldn’t have thought twice about sending her parents to a hotel. She has never forgiven them for

  a) not supporting her decision to have me,

  b) not approving of the way she was raising me, and

  c) voting for George Bush Sr., as well as his son.

  Hormonal imbalance or not, though, the truth is, my mother does not need this kind of stress. This should be a really happy time for her. It says in all the stuff I’ve read about pregnancy that preparing for the birth of your child should be a time of joy and celebration.

  And it would be, if Grandmère hadn’t come around and ruined it all by sticking her nose where no one wants it.

  She has got to be stopped.

  And I’m not just saying that on account of how much I really, really want to go to Rocky Horror on Friday with Michael.