Princess in Pink Read online

  Your boyfriend refusing to take you to the prom.

  Your best friend calling you weak.

  Her boyfriend needing stitches in his head from a self-inflicted globe wound.

  And your grandmother trying to force you to have dinner with the sultan of Brunei.

  What’s worse is your pregnant mother passing out in the frozen foods section at the Grand Union.

  I am totally serious. She landed face-first in the Häagen-Dazs. Thank God she bounced off the Ben and Jerry’s and came to rest on her back, or my potential brother or sister would have been crushed under the weight of his or her own mother.

  The manager of the Grand Union apparently didn’t have the slightest idea what to do. According to witnesses, he ran all around the store, flapping his arms and yelling, “Deadwoman in Aisle Four! Dead woman in Aisle Four!”

  I don’t know what would have happened if the New York Fire Department hadn’t happened to be there. I’m serious. Ladder Company 9 does their grocery shopping for the firehouse at the Grand Union—I know, because Lilly—back when we were friends and first realized firemen are hot— and I used to go there all the time to watch them as they picked through the nectarines and mangoes—and they happened to be there, stocking up for the week, when my mom went horizontal. They checked her pulse right away and figured out she wasn’t dead. Then they called an ambulance and whisked her to St. Vincent’s, the closest ER.

  Too bad my mom was unconscious. She would so totally have loved to have seen all those hot firefighters bending over her. Plus, you know, the fact that they were strong enough to lift her… and at her current weight, that’s saying a lot. That’s pretty cool.

  You can imagine when I was just sitting there, bored out of my skull in French, and my cell phone rang… well, I freaked. Not because it was the first time anyone had ever called me, or even because Mademoiselle Klein fully confiscates any cell phones that ring during her class, but because the only people who are allowed to call me on my cell phone are my mom and Mr. G, and then only to let me know that I need to get to home, because my sibling is about to be born.

  Except that when I finally answered the phone—it took me a minute to figure out it was MY phone that was ringing—I kept looking around accusingly at everybody else in class, who just blinked confusedly back at me—it wasn’t my mom or Mr. G to tell me the baby was coming. It was Captain Pete Logan, to ask me if I knew a Helen Thermopolis, and if so, could I meet her at St. Vincent’s Hospital immediately. The firemen had found my mom’s cell phone in her purse, and dialed the only number she stored in it….

  Mine.

  I about had a coronary, of course. I shrieked and grabbed my backpack, then Lars. Then he and I booked out of there without a word of explanation to anyone… like I had suddenly developed Asperger’s syndrome or something. On our way out of the building, I skidded past Mr. Gianini’s classroom, then backed up and stuck my head in to scream that his wife was in the hospital and that he better put down that chalk and come with us.

  I’ve never seen Mr. G look so scared. Not even the first time he met Grandmère.

  Then the three of us all ran out for the Seventy-seventh-Street subway station—because there was no way a cab was going to get us there fast enough in the midday traffic, and Hans and the limo are off duty every day until I get out of school at three.

  I don’t think the staff at St. Vincent’s—who are totally excellent, by the way—ever encountered anything quite like a hysterical princess of Genovia, her bodyguard, and her stepfather before. The three of us burst into the ER waiting area and just stood there screaming my mom’s name until finally this nurse came out of triage and was like, “Helen Thermopolis is just fine. She’s awake and resting right now. She just got a little dehydrated, and fainted.”

  “Dehydrated?” I about had another coronary, but this time for different reasons. “She hasn’t been drinking her eight glasses of water a day?”

  The nurse smiled and said, “Well, she mentioned that the baby is putting a lot of pressure on her bladder….”

  “Is she going to be all right?” Mr. G wanted to know.

  “Is the BABY going to be all right?” I wanted to know.

  “Both of them are going to be fine,” the nurse said. “Come with me, and I’ll take you to her.”

  Then the nurse took us into the ER—the actual ER of St. Vincent’s Hospital, where everybody in Greenwich Village who gets shot or has a kidney stone goes!!!!!!!!!! I saw tons of sick people in there. There was a guy who had all sorts of tubes sticking out of him, and another guy who was throwing up in a basin. There was an NYU student “sleeping one off,” and an old lady who’d had heart palpitations and a supermodel who’d fallen off her stilettos and a construction worker who had a gash in his hand and a bike messenger who had been hit by a taxi.

  Anyway, before I got a good look at all the patients— patients like the ones I might have someday, if I ever pull up my Algebra grade and get into medical school—the nurse tugged a curtain back, and there was my mom, awake and looking pretty peeved.

  When I noticed the needle in her arm, I saw why she was so peeved. She was hooked up to an IV!!!!!!!!!!!!

  “OH, MY GOD!!!” I yelled at the nurse. Even though you aren’t supposed to yell in the ER, because there are sick people there. “If she’s so okay, why does she have THAT???”

  “It’s just to get some fluids into her,” the nurse said. “Your mom is going to be fine. Tell them you’re going to be fine, Mrs. Thermopolis.”

  “It’s Ms.,” my mom snarled.

  And I knew then that she was going to be just fine.

  I threw myself on her and gave her the biggest hug I could, what with the IV and the fact that Mr. G was hugging her, too.

  “I’m all right, I’m all right,” my mom said, patting us both on our heads. “Let’s not make a bigger deal out of this than has been made already.”

  “But it IS a big deal,” I said, feeling tears trickle down my face. Because it is very upsetting, getting a phone call in the middle of French class from Captain Pete Logan, telling you that your mother is being taken to the hospital.

  “No, it’s not,” my mom said. “I’m fine. The baby’s fine. And once they get the rest of this Ringer’s lactate into me, I get to go home.” She shot the nurse a look. “RIGHT?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the nurse said, and closed the curtain so that the four of us—my mom, Mr. G, me, and my bodyguard— could have some privacy.

  “You have to be more careful, Mom,” I said. “You can’t let yourself get worn out like this.”

  “I’m not worn out,” my mom said. “It’s that damned roast-pork-and-noodle soup I had for lunch—”

  “From Number One Noodle Son?” I cried, horrified. “Mom, you didn’t! There’s, like, one million grams of sodium in that! No wonder you passed out! The MSG alone—”

  “I have an idea, Your Highness,” Lars said, speaking in a low voice in my ear. “Why don’t you and I go across the street and see if we can get your mother a smoothie?”

  Lars always keeps such a level head in a crisis. That is no doubt on account of his intense training with the Israeli army. He is a distinguished expert marksman with his Glock, and pretty good with a flamethrower, too. Or so he once confided in me.

  “That’s a good idea,” I said. “Mom, Lars and I will be right back. We’re going to get you a nice, healthy smoothie.”

  “Thanks,” my mom said weakly, but for some reason she was looking more at Lars than at me. No doubt because her eyes were still out of focus from the whole fainting thing.

  Except that when we returned with the smoothie, the nurse wouldn’t let us back in to see my mom. She said there was only one visitor per hour per patient in the ER, and that she’d only made an exception before because we’d all looked so worried and she’d wanted us to see for ourselves that Mom was okay, and I’m the princess of Genovia, and all.

  She did take the smoothie Lars and I had bought, and promised to g
ive it to my mom.

  So now Lars and I are sitting in the hard orange plastic chairs in the waiting room. We’ll be here until my mom gets released. I already called Grandmère and canceled my princess lesson for the day. I must say, Grandmère wasn’t very alarmed, once she heard my mom was going to be all right. From the tone of her voice, you would think relatives of hers faint in the Grand Union every day. My dad’s reaction to the news was much more gratifying. He got ALL worked up and wanted to fly in the royal physician all the way from Genovia to make sure the baby’s heartbeat was regular and that the pregnancy wasn’t putting undue stress on my mom’s admittedly worn-out thirty-six-year-old system—

  OH, MY GOD!!!!!!!!!! You’ll never guess who just walked into the ER. My OWN royal consort, HRH Michael Moscovitz Renaldo-to-be.

  More later.

  Tuesday, May 6, the loft

  Michael is SO sweet!!!!!!!!! As soon as school let out he rushed over to the hospital to make sure my mom was all right. He found out what happened from my dad. Can you IMAGINE???? He was so worried when he heard from Tina that I had gone rushing out of French that he called MY DAD when he couldn’t get an answer at the loft.

  How many boys would willingly call their girlfriends’ dads? Hmmm? None that I know of. Especially if their girlfriend’s dad happened to be a crowned PRINCE, like my dad. Most boys would be too scared to call their girlfriend’s dad in a situation like that.

  But not my boyfriend.

  Too bad he still thinks the prom is lame. But whatever. Having your pregnant mother pass out in the refrigerated section of the Grand Union has a way of putting things into perspective.

  And now I know that, much as I would have loved to have gone, the prom is not really important. What is important is family togetherness, and being with the ones you love, and being blessed with good health, and—

  Oh God, what am I talking about? Of COURSE I still want to go to the prom. Of COURSE it’s still killing me inside that Michael refuses even to entertain the IDEA of going.

  I fully brought it up right there in the St. Vincent’s ER waiting room. I was helped, of course, by the fact that there’s a TV in the waiting room, and that the TV was turned to CNN, and that CNN was doing a story on proms and the trend toward separate proms in many urban high schools— you know, like one prom for the white kids, who dance around to Eminem, and one prom for the African-American students, who dance around to Ashanti.

  Only at Albert Einstein, there is only one prom, because Albert Einstein is a school that promotes cultural diversity and plays both Eminem and Ashanti at its events.

  So since we were still waiting for my mom to get through with her Ringer’s lactate, and we were all three of us just sitting there—me, Michael, and Lars—watching the TV and the occasional ambulance that came rolling in, bringing yet another patient to the ER, I went to Michael, “Come on. Doesn’t that look like fun?”

  Michael, who was watching the ambulance and not the TV, went, “Getting your chest cracked open with a rib spreader in the middle of Seventh Avenue? Not really.”

  “No,” I said. “On the TV. You know. Prom.”

  Michael looked up at the TV, at all the students dancing in their formalwear, and went, “No.”

  “Yeah, but seriously. Think about it. It might be cool. You know. To go and make fun of.” This was not really my idea of a perfect prom night, but it was better than nothing. “And you don’t have to wear a tux, you know. I mean, there’s, like, no rule that says you do. You could just wear a suit. Or not even a suit. You could wear jeans and one of those T-shirts that look like a tux.”

  Michael looked at me like he thought I might have dropped a globe on my head.

  “You know what would be even more fun?” he said. “Bowling.”

  I heaved this enormous sigh. It was sort of hard to have this intensely personal conversation there in the St. Vincent’s ER waiting room, because not only was my bodyguard sitting RIGHT THERE, but so were all these sick people, some of whom were coughing EXTREMELY loudly right in my ear.

  But I tried to remember the fact that I am a gifted healer and should be tolerant of their disgusting germs.

  “But Michael,” I said. “Seriously. We could go bowling any old night. And frequently do. Wouldn’t it be more fun, just once, to get all dressed up and go dancing?”

  “You want to go dancing?” Michael perked up. “We could go dancing. We could go to the Rainbow Room if you want. My parents go there on their anniversary and stuff. It’s supposed to be really nice. There’s live music, really great old-time jazz, and—”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know. I’m sure the Rainbow Room is very nice. But I mean, wouldn’t it be nice to go dancing some place with PEOPLE OUR OWN AGE?”

  “Like from AEHS?” Michael looked skeptical. “I guess so. I mean, if, like, Trevor and Felix and Paul were going to be there—” These are the guys from his band. “But you know, they wouldn’t be caught dead at something as lame as the prom.”

  OH, MY GOD. It is EXTREMELY hard to be life-mates with a musician. Talk about marching to your own drummer. Michael marches to his own BAND.

  I know Michael and Trevor and Felix and Paul are cool and all, but I still fail to see what is so lame about the prom. I mean, you get to elect a prom king and queen. At what other social function do you get to elect monarchs to rule over the proceedings? Hello, how about none.

  But whatever. I am not going to let Michael’s refusal to act like a typical male seventeen-year-old get in the way of my enjoyment of this evening. You know, the family togetherness my mom and Mr. G and I are currently having. We are all having a nice time watching Miracle Pets. An old lady had a heart attack and her pet pig walked TWENTY miles to get help.

  Fat Louie wouldn’t walk to the corner to get help for me. Or he might, but he would soon be distracted by a pigeon and run off, never to be seen again, while my corpse rotted on the floor.

  ASPERGER’S SYNDROME

  A Report by Mia Thermopolis

  The condition known as Asperger’s syndrome (a type of Pervasive Developmental Disorder) is marked by an inability to function normally in social interactions with others.

  (Wait a minute…. this sounds like… ME!).

  The person suffering from Asperger’s exhibits poor non-verbal communication skills (oh, my God—this is ME!!!!!!!!!), is unsuccessful in developing relationships with peers (also me), does not react appropriately in social ituations (ME ME ME!!!!!!!), and is incapable of expressing pleasure in the happiness of others (wait—this is totally Lilly).

  There is a higher incidence of the syndrome in males (Okay, not me. Or Lilly).

  Frequently, sufferers of Asperger’s syndrome are socially inept (ME) . When tested, however, many score in the above-average intelligence range (okay, not me—but Lilly, definitely) and will often excel in fields like science, computer programming, and music (Oh, my God! Michael! No! Not Michael! Anyone but Michael!) .

  Symptoms may include:

  Abnormal nonverbal communication—problems with eye contact, facial expressions, body postures, or uncontrolled gesturing (ME! Also Boris!)

  Inability to develop relationships with peers (Totally me. Also Lilly)

  Labeled by other children as “weird” or “freakish” (This is creeping me out!!! Lana calls me a freak nearly every day!!!)

  Lack of response to social or emotional feelings (LILLY!!!!!!!!)

  Atypical or noticeably impaired expression of pleasure in other people’s happiness (LILLY!!!! She is NEVER happy for ANYONE!!!!!!)

  Inability to be flexible regarding minor trivilialities, such as alterations to specific routines or rituals (GRANDMÈRE!!!!!! ALSO MY DAD!!!!!!! Also Lars. And Mr. G)

  Continuous or repetitive finger tapping, hand wringing, knee jiggling, or whole body movement (Well, this is totally Boris, as anyone who has ever seen him play Bartok on his violin could attest to)

  Obsessive interest or concern with subjects such as world history, rock collecting, or
plane schedules (Or possibly the PROM????????? Does being obsessed with the prom count? Oh, my God, I have Asperger’s syndrome! I totally have Asperger’s!!!! But wait. If I have it, so does Lilly. Because she is obsessed with Jangbu Panasa. And Boris is obsessed with his violin. And Tina with romance novels. And Michael with his band. Oh, my GOD!!!!!!!! We ALL have Asperger’s syndrome!!!!!!!! This is terrible. I wonder if Principal Gupta knows???????? Wait…. What if AEHS is a special Asperger’s-syndrome school? And none of us knows it? Until now, that is. I am going to bust the whole thing wide open! Like Woodward and Bernstein! Mia Thermopolis, forging a path for Asperger’s sufferers everywhere!)

  Obsessive concern or attention to parts of objects (I don’t know what this means, but it sounds like ME!!!!!!!!) rather than the whole

  Repetitive behaviors, generally self-injurious in nature (BORIS!!!!!!! Dropping globes on his head!!!!!!!!! But wait, he only did that once….)

  Symptoms not included in Asperger’s:

  No indication of language retardation (Duh. We are all excellent talkers) or of retardation in typical age-appropriate curiosity (Seriously. I mean, Lilly got to second base already and she is only in the ninth grade)

  First identified in 1944 as “Autistic Psychopathy” by Hans Asperger, the cause of this disorder is still unknown. Asperger’s syndrome may possibly be related to autism. There is no known cure for Asperger’s at this time, and indeed, some case subjects do not consider the disorder an impairment at all.

  To eliminate other causes physical, emotional, and mental evaluations are usually administered to suspected cases of Asperger’s. (Lilly, Michael, Boris, Tina, and I ALL need to take these tests!!!!! Oh, my God, we’ve had Asperger’s all along and never knew!!!! I wonder if Mr. Wheeton knew, and that’s why he assigned me this disease!!!!! This is spooky….)

  Tuesday, May 6, the loft

  I just went into my mother’s bedroom (Mr. G is on an emergency run to the Grand Union to secure more Häagen-Dazs for her) and demanded to know the truth about my mental health status.