Princess in Love Read online

  Besides, he’s been married like four times, so I highly doubt he knows anything about romance.

  Also, he should know by now we’re not allowed to talk during Homeroom.

  Wednesday, December 10, Algebra, 9:30 a.m.

  I just saw Lilly in the hallway. She whispered, “Don’t forget! Ten o’clock! Don’t let me down!”

  Well, the truth is, I did forget. The walkout! The stupid walkout!

  And poor Mr. Gianini, standing up there going over Chapter Five, not suspecting a thing. It’s not his fault Mrs. Spears didn’t like Lilly’s term paper topic. Lilly can’t just arbitrarily punish all the teachers in school for something one teacher did.

  It’s already nine thirty-five. What am I going to do?

  Wednesday, December 10, Algebra, 9:45 a.m.

  Lana just leaned back and hissed, “You gonna walk out with your fat friend?”

  I take real objection to this. Only in a culture as screwed up as ours, where girls like Christina Aguilera are held up as models of beauty when clearly they are in fact suffering from some sort of malnutrition (scurvy?), would Lilly ever be considered fat. Because Lilly isn’t fat. She is just round, like a puppy.

  I hate it here.

  Wednesday, December 10, Algebra, 9:50 a.m.

  Ten minutes until the walkout. I can’t take this. I’m getting out.

  Wednesday, December 10, 9:55 a.m.

  Okay. I’m standing in the hallway next to the fire alarm by the second-floor drinking fountain. I got a hall pass from Mr. G. I told him I had to go to the bathroom.

  Lars is with me, of course. I wish he’d stop laughing. He does not seem to realize the seriousness of the situation. Plus Justin Baxendale just walked by with a hall pass of his own, and he gave us this really weird look.

  And yeah, I probably do look a little strange, hanging out in the hallway with my bodyguard, who is currently experiencing a fit of the giggles, but still—I do not need to be looked at weirdly by Justin Baxendale.

  His eyelashes are really long and dark and they make his eyes look sort of smoky. . . .

  OH, MY GOD! I CAN’T BELIEVE I AM WRITING ABOUT JUSTIN BAXENDALE’S EYELASHES AT A TIME LIKE THIS!

  I mean, I am in a real bind here:

  If I do not walk out with Lilly, I’ll lose my best friend.

  But if I do walk out with everyone, I will be totally dissing my stepfather.

  So I really only have one choice.

  Lars just offered to do it for me. But I can’t let him. I can’t let him take the fall for me if we get caught. I am the princess. I have to do it myself.

  I just told him to get ready to run. This is one time being so tall comes in handy. I have a pretty long stride.

  Well, here goes.

  Wednesday, December 10, 10 a.m., East 75th Street, beneath some scaffolding

  I don’t get why she’s so mad. I mean, yeah, if everyone evacuates the building due to a fire alarm going off, it’s not the same thing as everyone leaving in protest against the repressive teaching techniques of some of the teachers.

  But we’re still all standing in the middle of the street in the rain, and nobody has coats on because they wouldn’t let us stop at our lockers for fear we’d all be consumed in a fiery conflagration, so we’re probably going to get hypothermia from the cold and die.

  That’s what she wanted, right?

  But no. She can’t even be happy about that.

  “Somebody ratted us out!” she keeps yelling. “Somebody told! Why else would they schedule a fire drill for exactly the same time as my walkout? I’m telling you, these bureaucrats will stop at nothing to keep us from speaking out against them. Nothing! They’ll even make us stand out in freezing drizzle, hoping to weaken our immune systems so we’ll no longer have the strength to fight them. Well, I for one refuse to catch cold! I refuse to succumb to their petty abuses!”

  I suggested to Lilly that she write her term paper on the suffragettes, because they, like us, had to put up with numerous indignities in their battle for equal rights.

  Lilly, however, told me not to be facile.

  God, being best friends with a genius is hard.

  Wednesday, December 10, G & T

  I can’t tell if Michael got the note or not!!!!

  Worse, stupid Judith Gershner is here AGAIN. Why can’t she stay in her own class? Why is she always hanging around ours? We were all getting along perfectly well until she came along.

  My life is pathetic.

  I thought about going across the hall to the teachers’ lounge and asking Mrs. Hill a question about something—like why she had the custodians remove the door to the supply closet so we can’t lock Boris in there anymore—so she’d maybe look over and NOTICE that there’s a girl in our classroom who is not supposed to be there.

  But I couldn’t bring myself to do it, because of Michael. I mean, Michael obviously wants Judith here, or else he’d tell her to go away.

  RIGHT?????

  Anyway, with Michael so busy and all with Miss Gershner, I guess I am on my own with the whole Algebra review thing.

  That’s all right. I’m completely fine with that. I can study on my own just fine. Watch:

  A, B, C = disjoint partition of universal set

  Collection of non-empty subsets of U that are pairwise disjoint and whose union is equal to the set of U

  I get that. I totally get what that means. Who needs Michael’s help? Not me. I am totally cool with the collection of non-empty subsets.

  TOTALLY COOL WITH IT.

  Oh, Michael

  You have made my heart

  a disjoint partition.

  Why can’t you see

  that we were meant to be

  a universal set?

  Instead, you have turned my soul

  into a collection

  of non-empty subsets.

  I cannot believe

  that our love was meant to be

  pairwise disjoint.

  But rather

  a union—

  equal to the set of

  U and me.

  Wednesday, December 10, French

  You know what else I just realized? That if this thing works—you know, if I do manage to get Michael away from Judith Gershner, and I break up with Kenny, and I end up, you know, in a potentially romantic situation with Lilly’s brother—I will not know what to do.

  Seriously.

  Take kissing, for instance. I have only ever kissed one person before, and that’s Kenny. I cannot believe that what Kenny and I did really encompassed the whole of the kissing experience, because it certainly wasn’t as fun as people always make it look on TV.

  This is a very disturbing thought, and has led me to an equally disturbing conclusion: I know very little about kissing.

  In fact, it seems to me that if I am going to be doing any kissing with anybody, I should get some advice beforehand. From a kissing expert, I mean.

  Which is why I am consulting Tina Hakim Baba. She may not be allowed to wear makeup to school, but she has been kissing Dave Farouq El-Abar—who goes to Trinity—for close to three months now, and liking it, so I consider her an expert on the subject.

  I am enclosing the results of this highly scientific document for future reference.

  Tina—

  I need to know about kissing. Can you please answer each of the following questions IN DETAIL????

  And DO NOT show this to anyone!!!! DO NOT lose this paper!!!! —Mia

  1. Can a boy tell if the person he is with is inexperienced? How does an inexperienced kisser kiss (so I can avoid that)?

  The guy may sense a feeling of nervousness coming from you, or that you are uneasy, but everyone is nervous when they are kissing someone new. It’s natural! But kissing is easy to catch on to—believe me! An inexperienced kisser might break away too soon because he or she is scared or whatever. But that is normal. It’s SUPPOSED to be weird. That’s what makes it fun.

  2. Is there such a thing as a great kiss
er? If so, what are the qualifications? (So I know what to practice.)

  Yes, there is such a thing as a great kisser. A great kisser is always affectionate and gentle and patient and not demanding.

  3. How much pressure do you exert on his lips? I mean, do you push, or like in a handshake, are you just supposed to be firm? Or are you just supposed to stand there and let him do all the work?

  If you want a gentle kiss (a caring one) don’t apply too much pressure (this is also true if he is wearing braces—you don’t want to cause any lacerations). If you give a guy a “harsh” kiss (too much pressure), he might think you are desperate or that you want to go further than you probably do.

  Of course you aren’t supposed to just stand there and let him do all the work: kiss him back! But always kiss him the way YOU want to be kissed. That is how guys learn. If we didn’t show them how to do everything, we’d never get anywhere!

  4. How do you know when it’s time to stop?

  Stop when he stops, or when you feel like you’ve had enough, or don’t want to go any further. Just gently (so you don’t freak him out) move your head back, or if the moment is right, you can change the kiss into a hug, then step back.

  5. If you are in love with him, is it still gross?

  Of course not! Kissing is never gross!

  Well, okay, I guess I could see that maybe with Kenny, it might be. It is always better with someone you actually like.

  Of course, even with someone you really like, sometimes kissing can be gross. Once Dave licked me on the chin, and I was all, Get away. But I think that was by accident (the licking).

  6. If he is in love with you, does he even care if you are bad? (Define bad kisser. See above.)

  If the guy likes/loves you, he won’t care if you are a good kisser or not. In fact, even if you are a bad kisser, he will probably think you are a good one. And vice versa. He should like you for what you are—not how you kiss.

  DEFINITION OF BAD KISSER: A bad kisser is someone who gets your face all wet, slobbers on you, sticks his tongue in when you’re not ready, has bad breath, OR sometimes there can be kissers whose tongues are all dry and prickly like a cactus but I have never experienced one of those, just heard about them.

  7. When do you know if it’s time to open your mouth (thus turning it into a French)?

  You will probably feel his tongue touch your lips. If you want to pursue the idea, open your lips a little. If not, keep them closed.

  Coming au demain–Chapter II: How to French!!!!

  HOMEWORK

  Algebra: review questions at the end of Chapters 8–10

  English: English Journal: Books I Have Read

  World Civ: review questions at the end of Chapters 10–12

  G & T: none

  French: review questions at the end of Chapters 7–9

  Biology: review questions at the end of Chapters 9–12

  Wednesday, December 10, 9 p.m., in the limo on the way home from Grandmère’s

  I am so tired I can hardly write. Grandmère made me try on every single dress in Sebastiano’s showroom. You wouldn’t believe the number of dresses I’ve had on today. Short ones, long ones, straight-skirted ones, poufy-skirted ones, white ones, pink ones, blue ones, and even a lime-green one (which Sebastiano declared brought out the ‘col’ in my cheeks).

  The purpose of all this dress-trying-on business was to choose one to wear on Christmas Eve, during my first official televised speech to the Genovian people. I have to look regal, but not too regal. Beautiful, but not too beautiful. Sophisticated, but not too sophisticated.

  I tell you, it was a nightmare of hollow-cheeked women in white (the new black) buttoning and zipping and snapping me in and out of dresses. Now I know how all those supermodels must feel. No wonder they do so many drugs.

  Actually, it was kind of hard to choose my dress for my first big televised event, because surprisingly, Sebastiano turned out to be a pretty good designer. There were several dresses I actually wouldn’t be embarrassed to be caught dead in.

  Oops. Slip of the tongue. I wonder, though, if Sebastiano really does want to kill me. He seems to like being a fashion designer, which he couldn’t do if he were prince of Genovia: He’d be too busy turning bills into law and stuff like that.

  Still, you can tell he’d totally enjoy wearing a crown. Not that, as ruler of Genovia, he’d ever get to do this. I’ve never seen my dad in a crown. Just suits. And shorts when he plays racquetball with other world leaders.

  Ew, I wonder if I will have to learn to play racquetball.

  But if Sebastiano became prince of Genovia, he would totally wear a crown all the time. He told me nothing brings out the sparkles in someone’s eyes like pear-shaped diamonds. He prefers Tiffany’s. Or as he calls it, Tiff’s.

  Since we were getting so chummy and all, I told Sebastiano about the Nondenominational Winter Dance, and how I have nothing to wear to it. Sebastiano seemed disappointed when he learned I would not be wearing a tiara to my school dance, but he got over it and started asking me all these questions about the event. Like “Who do you go with?” and “What he look like?” and stuff like that.

  I don’t know what it was, but I found myself actually telling Sebastiano all about my love life. It was so weird. I totally didn’t want to, but it all just started spilling out. Thank God Grandmère wasn’t there. . . . he’d gone off in search of more cigarettes, and to have her sidecar refreshed.

  I told Sebastiano all about Kenny and how he loves me but I don’t love him, and how I actually like someone else, but he doesn’t know I’m alive.

  Sebastiano is actually quite a good listener. I don’t know how much, if anything, he understood of what I said, but he didn’t take his eyes off my reflection as I talked, and when I was done, he looked me up and down in the mirror, and just said one thing: “This boy you like. How you know he no like you back?”

  “Because,” I said. “He likes this other girl.”

  Sebastiano made an impatient motion with this hands. The gesture was made more dramatic by the fact that he was wearing sleeves with these big frilly lace cuffs.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” he said. “He help you with your Al home. He like you, or he no do that. Why he do that, if he no like you?”

  I took “He help you with your Al home” to mean “He helps you with your Algebra homework.” I thought for a minute about why Michael had always been so willing to do that. Help me with my Algebra, I mean. I guess just because I am his sister’s best friend, and he isn’t the type of person who can sit around and watch his sister’s best friend flunk out of high school without, you know, at least trying to do something about it.

  While I was thinking about that, I couldn’t help remembering how Michael’s knees, beneath our desks, sometimes brush against mine as he’s telling me about integers. Or how sometimes he leans so close to correct something I’ve written wrong that I can smell the nice, clean scent of his soap. Or how sometimes, like when I do my Lana Weinberger imitation or whatever, he throws back his head and laughs.

  Michael’s lips look extra nice when he is smiling.

  “Tell Sebastiano,” Sebastiano urged me. “Tell Sebastiano why this boy help you, if he no like you.”

  I sighed. “Because I’m his little sister’s best friend,” I said sadly. Really, could there be anything more humiliating? I mean, clearly Michael has never been impressed with my keen intellect or ravishing good looks, given my low grade-point average and of course my gigantism.

  Sebastiano tugged on my sleeve and went, “You no worry. I make dress for dance, this boy, he no think of you as little sister’s best friend.”

  Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Why must all my relatives be so weird?

  Anyway, we picked out what I’m going to wear on Genovian national TV during my introduction. It’s this white taffeta job with a huge poufy skirt and this light blue sash (the royal colors are blue and white). But Sebastiano had one of his assistants take photos of me in all the dresses, so I can
see how I looked in them and then decide. I thought this was fairly professional for a guy who calls breakfast “breck.”

  But all that isn’t what I want to write about. I’m so tired, I hardly know what I’m doing. What I want to write about is what happened today after Algebra review.

  Which was that Mr. Gianini, after everyone but me had left, went, “Mia, I heard a rumor that there was supposed to have been some kind of student walkout today. Had you heard that?”

  Me: (freezing in my seat) Um, no.

  Mr. Gianini: Oh. So you wouldn’t know then if somebody—maybe in protest of the protest—threw the second-floor fire alarm? The one by the drinking fountain?

  Me: (wishing Lars would stop coughing suggestively) Um, no.

  Mr. Gianini: That’s what I thought. Because you know the penalty for pulling one of the fire alarms—when there is, in fact, no sign of a fire—is expulsion.

  Me: Oh, yes. I know that.

  Mr. Gianini: I thought you might have seen who did it, since I believe I gave you a hall pass shortly before the alarm went off.

  Me: Oh, no. I didn’t see anybody.

  Except Justin Baxendale, and his smoky eyelashes. But I didn’t say that.

  Mr. Gianini: I didn’t think so. Oh, well. If you ever hear who did it, maybe you could tell her from me never to do it again.