Princess in Waiting Read online

  Great Thing Number Two: I know it is only the first day of the new semester, but as of yet, I am not flunking anything, including Algebra.

  Great Thing Number Three: I am no longer in Genovia, the most boring place on the entire planet, with the possible exception of Algebra class, and Grandmère’s princess lessons.

  Great Thing Number Four: I don’t have Kenny for my Bio partner anymore. My new partner is Shameeka. What a relief. Which I know is cowardly (feeling relieved that I don’t have to sit by Kenny anymore), but I am pretty sure Kenny thinks I am this horrible person to have led him on like that all those months, when really I liked someone else (though not the person he thought I liked). Anyway, the fact that I don’t have to deal with any hostile looks from Kenny’s direction (even though he fully has a new girlfriend, a girl from our Bio class, as a matter of fact—he didn’t waste any time) is probably really going to boost my grade in that class. Plus Shameeka is really good at science. Actually Shameeka is really good at a lot of things, on account of her being a Pisces. But like me, Shameeka has no one particular talent , which makes her my soul sister, if you think about it.

  Great Thing Number Five: I have really cool friends who seem actually to want to hang around with me, and not just because I am a princess, either.

  But that, see, is the problem. I have all these great things going for me, and I should be totally happy. I should be over the moon with joy.

  And maybe it’s only the jet lag talking—I am so tired I can barely keep my eyes open—or possibly PMS—I am sure my internal clock is way messed up from all this transcontinental flying—but I can’t shake this feeling that I am…

  Well, a total reject.

  I started to realize it today at lunch. I was sitting there like always with Lilly and Boris and Tina and Shameeka and Ling Su, and then Michael came and sat down with us, which of course caused this total cafeteria sensation, since usually he sits with the Computer Club, and everyone in the entire school knows it.

  And I was totally embarrassed but of course proud and pleased, too, because Michael never sat at our table back when he and I were just friends, so his sitting there must mean that he is at least slightly in love with me, because it is quite a sacrifice to give up the intellectual talk at the table where he normally sits for the kinds of talks we have at my table, which are generally, like, in-depth analyses of last night’s episode of Charmed and how cute Rose McGowan’s halter top was, or whatever.

  But Michael was totally a good sport about it, even though he thinks Charmed is facile. And I really did try to steer the conversation around to things a guy would like, such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Milla Jovovich.

  Only it turned out I didn’t even need to, because Michael is like one of those lichen moths we read about in Bio. You know, the ones that turned black when the moss they fed on got all sooty during the industrial revolution? He can totally adapt to any situation, and feel at ease. This is an amazing talent that I wish I had. Maybe if I did, I wouldn’t feel so out of place at meetings of the Genovian Olive Growers Association.

  Anyway, today at the lunch table, someone brought up cloning, and everyone was talking about who would you clone if you could clone anyone, and people were saying, like, Albert Einstein so he could come back and tell us the meaning of life and stuff, or Jonas Salk so he could find a cure for cancer, and Mozart so he could finish his last requiem (whatever, that one was Boris’s, of course), or Madame Pompadour so she could give us all tips on romance (Tina) or Jane Austen so she could write scathingly about the current political climate and we could all benefit from her cutting wit (Lilly).

  And then Michael said he would clone Kurt Cobain, because he was a musical genius who died too young. And then he asked me who I would clone, and I couldn’t think of anyone, because there really isn’t anyone dead that I would want to bring back, except maybe Grandpère, but how creepy would that be? And Grandmère would probably freak. So I just said Fat Louie, because I love Fat Louie and wouldn’t mind having two of him around.

  Only nobody looked very impressed by this except for Michael who said, “That’s nice,” which he probably only said because he is my boyfriend.

  But whatever, I could deal with that. I am totally used to being the only person I know who sits through Empire Records every time it comes on TBS and who thinks it is one of the best movies ever made—after Star Wars and Dirty Dancing and Say Anything and Pretty Woman , of course. Oh, and Tremors and Twister .

  I am content to keep the fact that I must watch the Miss America Pageant every single year without fail secret, even though I know it is degrading to women and not a scholarship fund, considering no one bigger than a size ten ever gets into it.

  I mean, I know these things about myself. It is just the way I am, and though I have tried to improve myself by watching award-winning movies such as Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and Gladiator , I don’t know, I just don’t like them. Everybody dies at the end and besides if there is not dancing or explosions, it is very hard for me to pay attention.

  So okay, I am trying to accept these things about myself. They are just the way I am. Like, I am good at English class and not so good at Algebra. Whatever.

  But it wasn’t until we got to Gifted and Talented today, after lunch, and Lilly started working on the shot list for this week’s episode of her cable access show, Lilly Tells It Like It Is , and Boris got out his violin and started playing a concerto (sadly, not in the supply closet because they still haven’t put the door back on it), and Michael put on headphones and started working on a new song for his band, that it finally hit me:

  There is not one thing that I am particularly good at. In fact, if it weren’t for the fact that I am a princess, I would be the most ordinary person alive. It is not even that I can’t surf, or weave a friendship bracelet. I can’t do anything .

  I mean, all my friends have these incredible things they can do: Lilly knows everything there is to know and isn’t shy about saying it in front of a camera. Michael can not only play guitar and, like, fifty other instruments including the piano and drums, but he can also design whole computer programs. Boris has been playing his violin at sold-out Carnegie Hall concerts since he was, like, eleven years old, or something. Tina Hakim Baba can read, like, a book a day, and retain what she’s read and quote it back practically verbatim, and Ling Su is an extremely talented artist. The only person at our lunch table besides me who has no discernible special gift is Shameeka, and that made me feel better for about a minute, before I remembered that Shameeka is totally smart and beautiful and gets straight As and people who work at modeling agencies are always coming up to her in, like, Bloomingdale’s when she is shopping with her mom and asking her to let them represent her (even though Shameeka’s dad says over his dead body will any daughter of his be a model).

  But me? I do not know why Michael even likes me, I am so talentless and boring. I mean, I guess it’s a good thing my destiny as the monarch of a nation is sealed, because if I had to go apply for a job somewhere, I so fully wouldn’t get it, because I’m not good at anything.

  So here I am, sitting in Gifted and Talented, and there really is no getting around this basic fact:

  I, Mia Thermopolis, am neither gifted nor talented.

  WHAT AM I DOING IN HERE????? I DO NOT BELONG HERE!!!! I BELONG IN TECH ED!!!! OR DOMESTIC ARTS!!!!! I SHOULD BE MAKING A BIRDHOUSE OR A PIE!!!!

  Just as I was writing this, Lilly leaned over and went, “Oh, my God, what is wrong with you? You look like you just ate a sock,” which is what we say whenever someone looks super depressed, because that is how Fat Louie always looks whenever he accidentally eats one of my socks and has to go to the vet to have it surgically removed.

  Fortunately Michael didn’t hear her on account of having his headphones on. I would never have been able to confess in front of him what I confessed then to his sister, which is that I am a big talentless phony because then he would know I am nothing like Kate Bosworth and dump me.<
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  “And they only put me in this class in the first place because I was flunking Algebra,” I told her.

  Then Lilly said the most surprising thing. Without batting an eye, she went, “You have a talent.”

  I stared at her, my own eyes wide and, I am afraid, filled with tears. “Oh, yeah, what?” I was really scared I was going to cry. It really must be PMS or something, because I was practically getting ready to start bawling.

  But to my disappointment, all Lilly said was, “Well, if you can’t figure it out, I’m not going to tell you.” When I protested this, she went: “Part of the journey of achieving self-actualization is that you have to reach it on your own, without help or guidance from others. Otherwise, you won’t feel as keen a sense of accomplishment. But it’s staring you in the face.”

  I looked around, but I couldn’t figure out what she was talking about. There was nothing staring me in the face that I could see. No one was looking at me at all. Boris was busy scraping away with his bow, and Michael was fingering his keyboard furiously (and silently), but that was about it. Everyone else was bent over their Kaplan review books or doodling or making sculptures out of Vaseline or whatever.

  I still have no idea what Lilly is talking about. There is nothing I am talented at—except maybe telling a fish fork apart from a dinner one.

  I can’t believe that all I thought I needed in order to achieve self-actualization was the love of the man to whom I have pledged my heart. Knowing Michael loves me—or at least really likes me—just makes it all worse. Because his incredible talentedness makes the fact that I am not good at anything even more obvious.

  I wish I could go to the nurse’s office and take a nap. But they won’t let you do that unless you have a temperature, and I’m pretty sure all I have is jet lag.

  I knew it was going to be a bad day. If I had had on my Queen Amidala underwear, I never would have come face-to-face with the truth about myself.

  Tuesday, January 20, World Civ

  I will never invent anything, either of benefit or cost to any society, because I am a talentless reject. I couldn’t even get the country I will oneday rule to install PARKING METERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  HOMEWORK

  Algebra: probs at beginning of Chapter 11 (no review session, Mr. G has mtgs—also, just started Inventor Invention Benefits to Society Cost to Society semester, so nothing to review yet. Also, not flunking anymore!!!!!!)

  English: update journal (How I Spent My Winter Break—500 words)

  Bio: read Chapter 13

  Health and Safety: read Chapter 1, You and Your Environment

  G & T: figure out secret talent

  French: Chapitre Dix

  World Civ: Chapter 13: Brave New World

  Tuesday, January 20, in the limo on way to Grandmère’s for princess lesson

  THINGS TO DO

  Find Queen Amidala underwear.

  Stop obsessing over whether or not Michael loves you vs. being in love with you. Be happy with what you have. Remember, lots of girls have no boyfriend at all. Or they have really gross ones with no front teeth like on Maury Povich.

  Call Tina to compare notes on how notchasing-boys thing is working.

  Do all homework. Do not get behind first day!!!!!

  Wrap Michael’s present.

  Find out what Grandmère talked to Mom about last night. Oh, God, please do not let it be something weird like wanting to take me skeet shooting. I don’t want to shoot any skeets.

  Or anything else, for that matter.

  Stop biting fingernails.

  Buy cat litter.

  Figure out secret talent. If Lilly knows, must be pretty obvious, as she hasn’t even figured out about nostrils yet.

  GET SOME SLEEP!!!!!!!!! Boys don’t like girls who have huge, un–Kate-Bosworth-like purple bags under their eyes. Not even perfect boys like Michael.

  Tuesday, January 20, still in the limo on way to Grandmère’s for princess lesson

  Draft for English Journal:

  HOW I SPENT MY WINTER BREAK

  I spent my winter break in Genovia, population 50,000. Genovia is a principality located on the Côte d’Azur between Italy and France. Genovia’s main export is olive oil. Its main import is tourists. Recently, however, Genovia has begun suffering from considerable damage to its infrastructure due to foot traffic from the many cruise ships that dock in its harbor and

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  Wednesday, January 21, Homeroom

  Oh, my God. I must have been even more tired than I thought yesterday. Apparently I fell asleep in the limo on the way to Grandmère’s, and Lars couldn’t even wake me up for my princess lesson! He says that when he tried, I swatted him away and called him a bad word in French (that is François’s fault, not mine).

  So he had Hans turn around and drive me back to the loft, then Lars carried me up three flights of stairs to my room (no mean feat, I weigh as much as about five Fat Louies), and my mom put me to bed.

  I didn’t wake up for dinner or anything. I slept until seven this morning! That is fifteen hours straight.

  Wow. I must have been fried from all the excitement of being back home and seeing Michael, or something.

  Or maybe I really did have jet lag, and that whole I-am-a-talentless-bum thing from yesterday wasn’t rooted in my low self-esteem, but was due to a chemical imbalance from lack of REM. You know they say that people who are sleep deprived start suffering from hallucinations after a while. There was a DJ who stayed up for eleven days straight, the longest recorded period of time anyone has ever gone without sleep, and he started playing nothing but Phil Collins, and that’s how they knew it was time to call the ambulance.

  Except that even after fifteen hours of sleep, I still feel like a bit of a talentless bum. But at least today I don’t feel like it’s such a tragedy. I think sleeping for fifteen hours straight has given me some perspective. I mean, not everyone can be super geniuses like Lilly and Michael. Just like not everyone can be a violin virtuoso like Boris. I have to be good at something . I just need to figure out what that something is. I asked Mr. G today at breakfast what he thinks I am good at, and he said he thinks I make some interesting fashion statements sometimes.

  But that cannot have been what Lilly was referring to, as I was wearing my school uniform at the time she mentioned my mystery talent, which hardly leaves room for creative expression.

  Mr. G’s remark reminded me that I still haven’t found my Queen Amidala underwear. But I wasn’t about to ask my stepfather if he’d seen them. EW! I try not to look at Mr. Gianini’s underwear when it comes back all folded from the laundry-by-the-pound place, and thankfully he extends the same courtesy to me.

  And I couldn’t ask my mom because once again she was dead to the world this morning. I guess pregnant women need as much sleep as teenagers and DJs.

  But I had seriously better find them before Friday, or my first date with Michael will be a full on disaster, I just know it. Like, he’ll probably open his present and be all, “Uh… I guess it’s the thought that counts.”

  I probably should have just followed Mrs. Hakim Baba’s rules and gotten him a sweater.

  But Michael is so not the sweater type! I realized it as we pulled up in front of his building today. He was standing there, looking all tall and manly and Heath Ledger-like… except for having dark hair, not blond.

  And his scarf was kind of blowing in the wind, and I could see that part of his throat, you know, right beneath his Adam’s apple and right above where his shirt collar opens, the part that Lars once told me if you hit someone hard enough, it would paralyze them. Michael’s throat was so nice-looking, so smooth and concave, that all I could think about was Mr. Rochester, out on Mesrour, his horse, brooding about his great love for Jane….

  And I knew, I just knew, I was right not to have gotten Michael a sweater. I mean, Kate Bosworth would never have given her quarterback boyfriend a sweater. Ew.


  Anyway, then Michael saw me and smiled and he didn’t look like Mr. Rochester anymore, because Mr. Rochester never smiled.

  He just looked like Michael. And my heart turned over in my chest like it always does when I see him.

  “Are you okay?” he wanted to know, as soon as he got into the limo. His eyes, so brown they are almost black—like the peat bogs Mr. Rochester was always striding past out there on the moor, because if you step into a peat bog, you can sink in up to your head and never be heard from again… which in a way is like what happens every time I look into Michael’s eyes: I fall and fall and am pretty sure I will never be able to get out of them again, but that’s okay, because I love being there—looked deeply into mine. My eyes are merely gray, the color of a New York City sidewalk. Or parking meter.

  “I called you last night,” Michael said, as his sister pushed him to move over on the seat so that she could get into the limo, too. “But your mom said you’d passed out—”

  “I was really, really tired,” I said, delighted by the fact that he appeared to have been worried about me. “I slept for fifteen hours straight.”

  “Whatever,” Lilly said. She was clearly not interested in the details of my sleep cycle. “I heard from the producers of your movie.”

  I was surprised. “Really? What did they say?”

  “They asked me to take a breakfast meeting with them,” Lilly said, sounding like she was trying not to brag. Only she wasn’t succeeding terribly well. You could totally hear the gloating in her voice. “Friday morning. So I won’t be needing a ride.”

  “Wow,” I said, impressed. “A breakfast meeting? Really? Will they serve bagels?”

  “Probably,” Lilly said.