Princess in Pink Read online

  Although they went away when I realized that the TV in the teachers’ lounge is fully forty inches, whereas all the TVs in the student media room are only twenty-seven.

  Wednesday, May 7, the Plaza

  This is unbelievable. I mean, truly. When I walked into the hotel lobby today, all ready for my princess lesson with Grandmère, I was completely unprepared for the chaos that met me at the door. The place is a zoo.

  The doorman with the gold epaulets who usually holds the limo door open for me? Gone.

  The bellboys who so efficiently pile everybody’s luggage onto those brass carts? Gone.

  The polite concierge at the reception desk? Gone.

  And don’t even ask about the line for high tea at the Palm Court. It was out of control. Because of course there was no hostess to seat anybody, or waiters to take anybody’s orders.

  It was amazing. Lars and I practically had to fight off this family of twelve from, like, Iowa or whatever who were trying to crowd onto our elevator with the lifesize gorilla they’d just bought at FAO Schwartz across the street. The dad kept yelling, “There’s room! There’s room! Come on, kids, squeeze.”

  Finally Lars was forced to show the dad his sidearm and go, “There’s no room. Take the next elevator, please,” before the guy backed off, looking pale.

  This never would have happened if the elevator attendant had been there. But this afternoon the porters union declared a sympathy strike, and joined the restaurant and hotel workers in walking off the job.

  You would think after everything we’d gone through just to get to my princess lesson on time, Grandmère would have had some sympathy for us when we walked through the door. But instead she was just standing in the middle of the suite, squawking into the phone.

  “What do you mean, the kitchen is closed?” she was demanding. “How can the kitchen be closed? I ordered lunch hours ago, and still haven’t received it. I am not hanging up until I speak to the person in charge of room service. He knows who I am.”

  My dad was sitting on the couch across from Grandmère’s TV, watching—what else?—New York One with a tense expression on his face. I sat down beside him, and he looked at me, as if surprised to see me there.

  “Oh, Mia,” he said. “Hello. How is your mother?”

  “Fine,” I said, because, even though I hadn’t seen her since breakfast, I knew she had to be okay, since I hadn’t gotten any calls on my cell phone. “She’s alternating between Gatorade and Pedialyte. She likes the grape kind. What’s happening with the strike?”

  My dad just shook his head in a defeated way. “The union representatives are meeting in the mayor’s office. They’re hoping to work out a negotiation soon.”

  I sighed. “You realize, of course, that none of this would have happened if I had never been born. Because then I wouldn’t have had a birthday dinner.”

  My dad looked at me kind of sharply, and went, “I hope you’re not blaming yourself for this, Mia.”

  I almost went, “Are you kidding? I blame Grandmère.” But then I realized from the earnest expression on my dad’s face that I had, like, this huge sympathy quotient going for me, and so instead I went, in this doleful voice, “It’s just too bad I’m going to be in Genovia for most of the summer. It might have been nice if I could have, you know, spent the summer volunteering with an organization seeking to help those unfortunate busboys….”

  My dad so didn’t fall for it, though. He just winked at me and said, “Nice try.”

  Jeez! Between him wanting to whisk me off to Genovia for July and August, and my mother offering to take me to her gynecologist, I am getting way mixed messages from my parental units. It’s a wonder I haven’t developed multiple personalities. Or Asperger’s syndrome. If I don’t already have it.

  While I was sitting there sulking over my failure to keep from having to spend my precious summer months on the freaking Côte d’Azur, Grandmère started signaling me from the phone. She kept snapping her fingers at me, then pointing at the door to her bedroom. I just sat there blinking at her until finally she put her hand over the receiver and hissed, “Amelia! In my bedroom! Something for you!”

  A present? For me? I couldn’t imagine what Grandmère could have gotten me—I mean, the orphan was enough of a gift for one birthday. But I wasn’t about to say no to a present… at least, not as long as it didn’t involve the hide of some slaughtered mammal.

  So I got up and went to the door to Grandmère’s bedroom, just as someone must have taken Grandmère off hold, since as I turned the knob she was hollering, “But I ordered that cobb salad FOUR HOURS AGO. Do I need to come down there to make it myself? What do you mean, that would be a public health violation? What public? I want to make a salad for myself, not the public!”

  I opened the door to Grandmère’s room. It is, being the bedroom of the penthouse suite of the Plaza Hotel, a very fancy room, with lots of gold leaf all over everything, and freshly cut flowers all over the place… although with the strike, I doubted Grandmère’d be getting new floral arrangements anytime soon.

  Anyway, as I stood there, looking around the room for my present and totally saying this little prayer (Please don’t let it be a mink stole. Please don’t let it be a mink stole.), my gaze fell upon this dress that was lying across the bed. It was the color of Jennifer Lopez’s engagement ring from Ben Affleck—the softest pink imaginable—and was covered all over in sparkling pink beading. It was off the shoulder with a sweetheart neckline, and this huge, filmy skirt.

  I knew right away what it was. And even though it wasn’t black or slit up the side, it was still the most beautiful prom dress I had ever seen. It was prettier than the one Rachael Leigh Cook wore in She’s All That. It was prettier than the one Drew Barrymore wore in Never Been Kissed. And it was way, way prettier than the gunnysack Molly Ringwald wore in Pretty in Pink. It was even prettier than the prom dress Annie Potts gave Molly Ringwald to wear in Pretty in Pink, before Molly went mental with the pinking shears and screwed the whole thing all up.

  It was the prettiest prom dress I had ever seen.

  And as I stood there gazing at it, a huge lump rose in my throat.

  Because of course, I wasn’t going to the prom.

  So I shut the door and turned around and went back to sit on the couch next to my dad, who was still staring transfixedly at the television screen.

  A second later, Grandmère hung up the phone, turned to me, and said, “Well?”

  “It’s really beautiful, Grandmère,” I said sincerely.

  “I know it’s beautiful,” she said. “Aren’t you going to try it on?”

  I had to swallow hard in order to talk in anything that sounded like my normal voice.

  “I can’t,” I said. “I told you, I’m not going to the prom, Grandmère.”

  “Nonsense,” Grandmère said. “The sultan called to cancel our dinner tonight—Le Cirque is closed—but this silly strike will be over by Saturday. And then you can go to your little prom.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s not because of the strike. It’s because of what I told you. You know. About Michael.”

  “What about Michael?” my dad wanted to know. Only I really don’t like saying anything negative about Michael in front of my father, because he is always just looking for an excuse to hate him, since he is a dad and it is a dad’s job to hate his daughter’s boyfriend. So far my dad and Michael have managed to get along, and I want to keep it that way.

  “Oh,” I said lightly. “You know. Boys don’t really get into the prom the way girls do.”

  My dad just grunted and turned back to the TV. “You can say that again,” he said.

  He’s one to talk! He went to an all-boys high school! He didn’t even HAVE a prom!

  “Just try it on,” Grandmère said. “So I can send it back if it needs fitting.”

  “Grandmère,” I said. “There’s no point…”

  But my voice trailed off because Grandmère got That Look in her eye. You know the
one. The look that, if Grandmère were a trained assassin and not a dowager princess, would mean somebody is about to get iced.

  So I got up off the couch and went back into Grandmère’s room and tried on the dress. Of course it fit perfectly, because Chanel has all my measurements from the last dress Grandmère bought there for me, and God forbid I should grow or anything, particularly in the chestal area.

  As I stood there gazing at my reflection in the floorlength mirror, I couldn’t help thinking how convenient the off-the-shoulder thing is. You know, in the event Michael and I ever wanted to get to second base.

  But then I remembered we aren’t actually going anywhere together where I would actually get to wear this dress, since Michael had put the whole kibosh on the prom, so it was kind of a moot point. I peeled off the dress sadly, and put it back on Grandmère’s bed. Probably there’ll be some function I’ll end up wearing it to in Genovia this summer. Some function Michael won’t even be there to attend. Which is just so typical.

  I came out of the bedroom just in time to see Lilly on TV. She was addressing a room full of reporters at what looked like the Chinatown Holiday Inn again. She was going, “I would just like to say that none of this would be happening if the dowager princess of Genovia would publicly admit her culpability in her failure to control her dog, and in bringing said dog into a dining establishment.”

  Grandmère’s jaw dropped. My dad just kept staring stonily at the TV.

  “As proof of this claim,” Lilly said, holding up a copy of today’s edition of The Atom, “I offer this editorial written by the dowager princess’s own granddaughter.”

  And then I listened in horror as Lilly, in a singsong voice, read my article out loud. And I must say, hearing my own words thrown back at me in that manner really made me cognizant of just how stupid they sounded… far more so than, say, hearing them read in my own voice.

  Oops. Dad and Grandmère are staring at me. They do not look happy. In fact, they look kind of…

  Wednesday, May 7, 10 p.m., the loft

  I really don’t get why they’re so upset. It is a journalist’s duty to report the truth, and that is what I did. If they can’t take the heat, they both need to get out of the kitchen. I mean, Grandmère DID take her dog into that restaurant, and Jangbu DID only trip because Rommel darted out in front of him. They cannot deny this. They can wish it didn’t happen, and they can wish that Leslie Cho had not asked me to write an editorial about it.

  But they cannot deny it, and they cannot blame me for exercising my journalistic rights. Not to mention my journalistic integrity.

  Now I know how the great reporters before me must have felt. Ernie Pyle, for his hard-hitting reportage during World War II. Ethel Payne, first lady of the black press during the civil rights movement. Margaret Higgins, the first woman to win a Pulitzer for international reporting. Lois Lane, for her tireless efforts on behalf of the Daily Planet. Those Woodward and Bernstein guys, for the whole Watergate thing, whatever that was about.

  I know now exactly what it must have been like for them. The pressure. The threats of grounding. The phone calls to their mothers.

  That’s the part that hurt the most, really. That they would bother my poor dehydrated mother, who is busy trying to bring a NEW LIFE into the world. God knows her kidneys are probably rattling around in her body like packs of desiccant right now. And they dare to pester her with such trivialities?

  Plus, my mom is so on my side. I don’t know what Dad was thinking. Did he really think Mom would be on GRANDMÈRE’s side in all of this?

  Although Mom did tell me that to keep peace in the family, I should at least apologize.

  I don’t see why I should, though. This whole thing has resulted in nothing but heartache for me. Not only did it cause the breakup of one of AEHS’s most longterm couples, but it caused me to have what looks to be a permanent falling out with my best friend. I have lost MY BEST FRIEND over this.

  I informed both Dad and Grandmère of this right before the latter imperiously ordered Lars to get me out of her sight. Fortunately, I had the foresight to snag the prom dress from Grandmère’s room and stuff it in my backpack before this happened. It’s only a little wrinkled. A good steaming in the shower, and it will be good as new.

  I can’t help thinking that they could have handled this little affair in a more appropriate manner. They COULD have called a press conference of their own, fessed up to the whole dog-in-the-restaurant thing, and had it all over and done with.

  But no. And now it’s too late. Even if Grandmère fesses up, it’s highly unlikely the hotel, restaurant, and porters unions are going to back down NOW.

  Well, I guess it’s just another case of people failing to pay heed to the voice of youth. And now they’re just going to have to suffer.

  Too bad.

  Thursday, May 8, Homeroom

  OH, MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THEY’VE CANCELED THE PROM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  THE ATOM

  The Official Student-Run Newspaper of Albert Einstein High School

  Take Pride in the AEHS Lions

  * * *

  Special Supplementary Edition

  PROM CANCELED

  by Leslie Cho

  Due to the citywide hotel, restaurant, and porters union strike, this year’s senior prom has been canceled. The restaurant Maxim’s notified school officials that due to the strike, they would be closing, effective immediately. The prom committee’s $4,000 deposit was returned. This year’s senior class is left high and dry with no alternative but to have the prom in the school gym, something prom committee members considered, but then dismissed.

  “The prom is special,” said prom committee chairperson Lana Weinberger. “It’s no ordinary school dance. We can’t just have it in the gym, as if it were another Cultural Diversity or Nondenominational Winter Dance. We’d rather have no prom than a prom where we’re stepping on old French fries or whatever.”

  Not everyone in the school agrees with the prom committee’s controversial decision, however. Said senior Judith Gershner, when she heard of Lana Weinberger’s remarks, “We’ve been looking forward to our prom since we were ninth graders. To have it taken away now, over something as trivial as a stray French fry, seems a bit petty. I would rather have French fries stuck to my heel at the prom than no prom at all.”

  The prom committee remains adamant, however, that it will have the prom off school grounds, or not at all.

  “There’s nothing special about coming to school dressed up,” ninth grader Lana Weinberger commented. “If we’re going to get dressed to the nines, we want to be going somewhere other than where we have gone every morning all year long.”

  The cause of the strike, which was summarized in this week’s edition of The Atom, still appears to have been an incident that occurred at the restaurant Les Hautes Manger, where AEHS freshman and Genovian princess Mia Thermopolis dined last week with her grandmother. Says Lilly Moscovitz, friend of the princess and chairperson of the Students Against the Wrongful Termination of Jangbu Panasa Association, “It’s all Mia’s fault. Or at least her grandmother’s. All we want is Jangbu’s job back, and a formal apology from Clarisse Renaldo. Oh, and vacation and sick pay, as well as health benefits, for busboys citywide.”

  Princess Mia was, at press time, unavailable for comment, being, according to her mother, Helen Thermopolis, in the shower.

  We here at The Atom will attempt to keep all of you informed as strike negotiations progress.

  Oh, my God. THANKS MOM. THANKS FOR TELLING ME THE SCHOOL PAPER CALLED WHILE I WAS IN THE SHOWER.

  You should SEE the dirty looks I got as I made my way to my locker this morning. Thank God I have an armed bodyguard, or I might have been in some serious trouble. Some of those girls on the Varsity Lacrosse team—the ones who smoke and do chin-ups in the third-floor girls’ room— made EXTREMELY threatening hand gestures toward me as I got out of the limo. Someone had even written on Joe, the stone lion (in chalk, but still), GENOVIA SU
CKS.

  GENOVIA SUCKS!!!!!!!!! The reputation of my principality is being besmirched, and all because of a stupid dance being canceled!

  Oh, all right. I know the prom is not stupid. I mean, I, of all people, KNOW that the prom is not stupid. It is a vitally important part of the high-school experience, as Molly Ringwald can all too readily attest!

  And yet, because of me, it is being ripped from the hearts and yearbooks of the members of this year’s AEHS graduating class.

  I’ve GOT to do something. Only what???? WHAT????

  Thursday, May 8, Algebra

  I cannot believe what Lana just said to me.

  Lana:

  (swiveling around in her chair and glaring at me) You did this on purpose, didn’t you? Caused this strike and made the prom get canceled.

  Me:

  What? No. What are you talking about?

  Lana:

  Just admit it. You did it because I wouldn’t let your boyfriend’s stupid band stink up the place. Admit it.

  Me:

  No! That’s not it at all. It wasn’t me, anyway. It was my grandmother.

  Lana:

  Whatever. All you Genovians are the same.

  Then she whipped back around, before I could say another word.

  All you Genovians? Um, excuse me, but I’m the only Genovian Lana has ever even met. She has some nerve….

  Thursday, May 8, Bio

  Mia, are you all right?—S

  Yes. It was just an apple core.

  Still. That was way cool how Lars hit that guy. Your bodyguard has some sharp reflexes there.

  Yeah, well. That’s why he got the job. So how come you’re speaking to me? Don’t you hate me, too? I mean, after all, you and Jeff were going to go to the prom.