Princess in Love Read online

  Quadrant 1 (positive, positive)

  Quadrant 2 (negative, positive)

  Quadrant 3 (negative, negative)

  Quadrant 4 (positive, negative)

  Slope: slope of a line is line denoted m.

  Find slope

  negative slopes

  positive slopes

  zero slope

  Vertical line has no slope

  Horizontal line has 0 slope

  Collinear—points that lie on the same line

  Parallel lines have the same slope

  4x + 2y = 6

  2y = –4x + 6

  y = –2x + 3

  Active voice indicates that the subject of the verb is acting

  Passive voice indicates that the subject of the verb is being acted upon

  Tuesday, December 16

  Algebra and English finals completed.

  Only three more, plus term paper, to go.

  76 comments today, 53 of them negative:

  “Sellout” = 29 times

  I-Must-Think-I’m-All-That = 14 times

  Here Comes Miss Thang = 6 times

  Lilly says, “Who cares what people are saying? You know the truth, right? And that’s all that matters.”

  That’s easy for Lilly to say. Lilly’s not the one who people are saying all those mean things about. I am.

  Somebody left another yellow rose in my locker. What is up with that? I asked Kenny again if it was him, but he denied it. Strangely, he seemed to get very red in the face about it. But this might have been because Justin Baxendale, who was walking by at the time, stepped on Kenny’s foot. Kenny has very large feet, larger even than mine.

  Three more days until the Nondenominational Winter Dance, and nada on the date front.

  Wednesday, December 17

  World Civ exam finis.

  Two more, plus term paper, to go.

  62 comments, 34 negative:

  Don’t give up your day job = 12 times

  Sellout = 5 times

  “If I was flat-chested like you, Mia, I could be a model, too” = 6 times

  One rose, yellow, still no indication who left it. Perhaps someone is mistaking my locker for Lana’s. She is, after all, always hanging out in that area, waiting for Josh Richter, whose locker is next door to mine, so that the two of them can suck face. It’s possible that someone thinks he is leaving roses for her.

  God knows no one at Albert Einstein High School would want to leave flowers for me. Unless I were dead, maybe, and they could fling them onto my grave and say, “Good riddance, Miss Thang.”

  Two more days until the dance. Still nothing.

  Thursday, December 18, 1 a.m.

  It just occurred to me:

  Maybe Kenny is lying about the roses. Maybe they really are from him. Maybe he’s leaving them as kind of teasers, leading up to asking me to the dance tomorrow night.

  Which is kind of insulting, really. I mean, him waiting this long to finally ask. For all he knows, I could have said yes to somebody else by now.

  As if somebody else might have asked.

  HA!

  Thursday, December 18, 4 p.m.,

  limo on the way to the Plaza

  THAT’S IT!!!!!

  I’M DONE!!!!!!

  DONE WITH FINALS!!!!!!!!!!!!

  And guess what?

  I’m pretty sure I passed all of them. Even Algebra. The grades aren’t posted until tomorrow, during the Winter Carnival, but I bugged Mr. G so much he finally said, “Mia, you did fine. Now leave me alone, all right?”

  Got that????? He said I did FINE!!!!!!!!!! You know what fine means, don’t you?

  IT MEANS I PASSED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Thank God all of that’s over. Now I can concentrate on what’s important:

  My social life.

  I am serious. It is in a state of total disrepair. Everyone at school—with the exception of my friends—thinks I am this total sellout. They’re like, “You talk the talk, Mia, but you don’t walk the walk.”

  Well, I’m going to show them. Right after the World Civ exam yesterday, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew exactly what to do. It’s what Grandmère would do.

  Well, okay, maybe not quite what Grandmère would do, but it will solve the whole problem. Granted, Sebastiano isn’t going to like it very much. But then, he should have asked ME, not Grandmère, if it was all right to run those photos in an ad for his clothes. Right?

  I have to say, this is the most princessy thing I’ve done so far. I am very, very nervous. Seriously. You wouldn’t believe how much my palms are sweating.

  But I cannot continue to lie back and meekly take this abuse. Something must be done about it, and I think I know what.

  The best part is, I am doing it all by myself, with no help from anyone.

  Well, all right, the concierge at the Plaza helped by getting me a room, and Lars helped by making all the calls on his cell phone.

  And Lilly helped me write down what I was going to say, and Tina did my makeup and hair just now.

  But other than that, it was all me.

  Okay, we’re here.

  Here goes nothing.

  Thursday, December 18, 7 p.m.

  I have now watched myself on all four major networks, plus New York 1, CNN, Headline News, MSNBC, and Fox News Channel. Apparently, they are also going to show it on Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood, and E! Entertainment News.

  And I have to say, for a girl who supposedly has issues with her self-image, I think I did a fine job. I didn’t mess up, not even once. If I maybe spoke a little too fast, well, you could still understand me. Unless, you know, you’re a non–English-speaker or something.

  I looked good, too. I probably should have worn something other than my school uniform, but you know, royal blue comes off pretty good on TV.

  The phone has been ringing off the hook ever since the press conference was first aired. The first time it rang, my mom picked it up, and it was Sebastiano, screaming incomprehensibly about how I’ve ruined him.

  Only he can’t say ruined. It just came out “rued.”

  I felt really bad. I mean, I didn’t mean to ruin him. Especially after he was so nice about designing me that dress for the dance.

  But what was I supposed to do? I tried to make him look on the bright side:

  “Sebastiano,” I said, when I got on the phone, “I haven’t ruined you. Really. It’s just the proceeds from the sales of the dresses I’m wearing in the ad that will go to Greenpeace.”

  But Sebastiano completely failed to look at the big picture. He kept screaming, “Rued! I’m rued!”

  I pointed out that, far from ruining him, his donating all the proceeds from sales of the dresses I modeled to Greenpeace was going to be perceived in the industry as a brilliant stroke of marketing genius, and that I wouldn’t be surprised if those dresses flew off the racks, since girls like me, who are really the people his fashions are geared for, care a great deal about the environment.

  I must have picked up a thing or two during my princess lessons with Grandmère, since in the end, I totally won him over. By the time I hung up, I think Sebastiano almost believed the whole thing had been his idea in the first place.

  The next time the phone rang, it was my dad. I may have to scratch the plan to get him a book on anger management, because he was laughing his head off. He wanted to know if it had been my mom’s idea, and when I said, “No, it was all me,” he went, “You really have got the princess thing down, you know.”

  So, in a weird way, I feel like I passed that final, too.

  Except of course that I’m still not speaking to Grandmère. Not a single one of the calls I’ve gotten tonight—from Lilly and Tina and Mamaw and Papaw back in Indiana, who saw the broadcast on a local affiliate—have been from her.

  Really, I think she should be the one to apologize, because what she did was totally underhanded.

  Almost as underhanded, my mom pointed out to me over dinner from Number One Noodle Son,
as what I did.

  Which is sort of shocking. I mean, I never thought about it before, but it’s true: What I did tonight—it was as sneaky as anything Grandmère’s ever done.

  But I guess that shouldn’t be very surprising. We are related, after all.

  Then again, so were Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader.

  Must go. Baywatch is on. This is the first time in a while I’ve been home to watch it.

  Thursday, December 18, 9 p.m.

  Tina just called. She didn’t want to talk about the press conference. She wanted to know what I got from my Secret Snowflake. I was all, “Secret Snowflake? What are you talking about?”

  “You know,” Tina said. “Your Secret Snowflake. You remember, Mia. We signed up for it like a month ago. You put your name in the jar, and then someone draws it, and they have to be your Secret Snowflake for the last week of school before Winter Break. They’re supposed to surprise you with little gifts and stuff. You know, as a stress breaker. Since it’s finals week, and all.”

  I dimly remembered, one day before Thanksgiving Break, Tina dragging me over to a folding table where some nerdy-looking kids from the student government were sitting on one side of the cafeteria with a big jar filled with little pieces of paper. Tina had made me write my name on a slip of paper, then pick someone else’s name out of the jar.

  “Oh, my God!” I cried. With all the stress of finals and everything, I had forgotten all about it!

  Worse, I had forgotten that I had drawn Tina’s name. No real coincidence, since she’d stuffed her slip of paper into the jar right before I picked. Still, what kind of heinous friend am I, that I would forget something like this?

  Then I realized something else. The yellow roses. They hadn’t been put in my locker by mistake! And they really weren’t from Kenny, either! They had to be from my Secret Snowflake.

  Which was kind of upsetting in a way. I mean, it’s really starting to look as if Kenny has no intention whatsoever of asking me to tomorrow night’s dance.

  “I can’t believe you forgot about it,” Tina said, sounding amused. “You have been getting stuff for your Secret Snowflake, haven’t you, Mia?”

  I felt a rush of guilt. I had totally blown it. Poor Tina!

  “Uh, sure,” I said, wondering where I was going to find a present for her by tomorrow morning, the last day of the Secret Snowflake thing. “Sure, I have.”

  Tina sighed. “I guess nobody picked me,” she said. “Because I haven’t gotten anything.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” I said, hoping the guilt washing over me wasn’t noticeable in my voice. “You will. Your Secret Snowflake is probably waiting, you know, until the last day because she’s—or he’s—gotten you something really good.”

  “Do you think so?” Tina asked, wistfully.

  “Oh, yes,” I gushed.

  Reassured, Tina got businesslike.

  “Now,” she said, “that finals are over . . .”

  “Um, yes?”

  “. . . when are you going to tell Michael that you’re the one who sent him those cards?”

  Shocked, I went, “How about never?”

  To which Tina replied, tartly, “Mia, if you don’t tell him, then what was the point of sending those cards?”

  “To let him know that there are other girls out there who might like him, besides Judith Gershner.”

  Tina said, severely, “Mia, that’s not enough. You’ve got to tell him it was you. How are you ever going to get him if he doesn’t know how you feel?” Tina Hakim Baba, surprisingly, has a lot in common with my dad. “Remember Kenny? That’s how Kenny got you. He sent the anonymous notes, but then he finally fessed up.”

  “Yeah,” I said, sarcastically. “And look how great that turned out.”

  “It’ll be different with you and Michael,” Tina insisted. “Because you two are destined for each other. I can just feel it. You’ve got to tell him, and it’s got to be tomorrow, because the next day, you are leaving for Genovia.”

  Oh, God. In my self-congratulations over having successfully maneuvered my first press conference, I’d forgotten about that, too. I am leaving for Genovia the day after tomorrow! With Grandmère! To whom I am not even speaking anymore!

  I told Tina that I’d confess to Michael tomorrow. She hung up all happy.

  But it was a good thing she hadn’t been able to see my nostrils, because they were flaring like crazy, on account of the fact that I was totally lying to her.

  Because there is no way I am ever telling Michael Moscovitz how I feel about him. No matter what my dad says. I can’t.

  Not to his face.

  Not ever.

  Friday, December 19, Homeroom

  They are holding us hostage here in Homeroom until they’ve passed out our final semester grades. Then we are free to spend the rest of the day at the Winter Carnival in the gym, and then, later this evening, the dance.

  Really. We don’t have any more classes after this. We are just supposed to have fun.

  As if. I am so never having fun again.

  That is because—you know, aside from my many other problems, including the fact that I don’t love my boyfriend, who also apparently does not love me anymore, at least not enough to ask me to the school dance, but I do love my best friend’s brother, who is not even remotely aware of my feelings—that I think I know who my Secret Snowflake is.

  Really, there is no other explanation. Why else would Justin Baxendale—who, even though he’s so new, is still totally popular, not to mention way good-looking—be hanging around my locker so much? I mean, seriously. This is the third time I’ve spotted him lurking around there this week. Why else would he be hanging around there, except to leave those roses?

  Unless he’s planning on blackmailing me about the whole fire-alarm thing.

  But Justin Baxendale doesn’t exactly strike me as the blackmailer type. I mean, he looks to me like somebody who’d have something better to do than blackmail a princess.

  Which leaves only one other explanation for why he could possibly be spending so much time around my locker: He is my Secret Snowflake.

  And how totally embarrassing is it going to be when I go out there when the bell rings, and Justin comes up to me to confess—because that’s the rule, it turns out: You have to reveal your identity to your Secret Snowflake today—and I have to look up into his smoky eyes with those long lashes and give a big fake smile and go, “Oh, gee, thanks, Justin. I had no idea it was you!”

  Whatever. This is actually the least of my problems, right? I mean, considering that I am the only girl in this entire school who does not have a date to the dance tonight. And that tomorrow I have to leave for a country I am princess of, with my lunatic grandmother who isn’t speaking to my father, and who, I know from past experience, is not above smoking in the airplane lavatory if the urge strikes her.

  Really. Grandmère is a flight attendant’s worst nightmare.

  But that’s not even half of it. I mean, what about my mom and Mr. Gianini? Sure, they’re acting like they don’t mind my spending the holidays in another country, and yes, we’re going to have our own private little Christmas among ourselves before I leave, but really, I bet they mind. I bet they mind a lot.

  And what about my grade in Algebra? Oh, Mr. Gianini says it’s fine, but what is fine, exactly? A D? A D is not fine. Not considering the number of hours I’ve put into raising my grade from an F, it isn’t. A D is not acceptable.

  And what—oh God, what—am I going to do about Kenny?

  At least I got Tina’s present out of the way. I went on line last night and signed her up for a teen romance book-of-the-month club. I printed out the certificate, saying she is an official member, and will give it to her when the bell rings.

  When the bell rings, which is also when I have to go out there and face Justin Baxendale.

  It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for those eyes of his. Why does he have to be so good-looking? And why did a good-looking person have to pi
ck me as his Secret Snowflake? Beautiful people, like Lana and Justin, can’t help but be repulsed by ordinary-looking people, like me.

  He probably didn’t even pull my name from that jar at all. Probably, he picked Lana’s name and has been putting those roses in my locker, thinking it’s Lana’s, seeing as how God knows she never hangs out in front of her own locker.

  What’s even worse is, Tina told me yellow roses mean love everlasting.

  Which of course was why I figured maybe it was Kenny after all.

  Oh, great. They are passing around the printouts with our grades on them. I am not looking. I don’t even care. I DO NOT CARE ABOUT MY GRADES.

  Thank God for the bell. I’m just going to slip out of here—not looking at my grades, totally not looking at my grades—and go about my business like nothing out of the ordinary is going on.

  Except of course when I get to my locker, Justin is there, looking for someone. Lana is there, too, waiting for Josh.

  You know, I really don’t need this. Justin revealing that he is my Secret Snowflake right in front of Lana, I mean. God only knows what she’s going to say, the girl who has been suggesting I wear Band-Aids instead of a bra every day since the two of us hit puberty. Plus, it isn’t like she’s been super happy with me since the whole cell-phone thing. I’ll bet she’ll have something extra mean all prepared for the occasion. . . .

  “Dude,” Justin says.

  Dude? I’m not a dude. Who is Justin talking to?

  I turn around. Josh is standing there, behind Lana.

  “Dude, I’ve been looking for you all week,” Justin says, to Josh. “Do you have those Trig notes for me, or not? I’ve got to make up the final in one hour.”

  Josh says something, but I don’t hear him. I don’t hear him because there’s a roaring sound in my ears. There’s a roaring sound in my ears because standing behind Justin is Michael. Michael Moscovitz.

  And in his hand is a yellow rose.

  Friday, December 19, Winter Carnival