Forever Princess Page 2

  Only she never does.

  I guess it’s the least I can do for Dad after what I did. Dealing with her, I mean. I figured, when I spilled the beans about this whole Genovia-is-really-a-democracy thing, he’d run for prime minister unopposed. I mean, with our apathetic population, who else would be interested in running?

  I never dreamed the Contessa Trevanni would put up the money for her son-in-law to campaign against him.

  I should have known. It’s not like René has ever had an actual job. And now that he and Bella have a baby, he’s got to do something, I suppose, besides change the Luvs disposables.

  But Applebee’s? I suppose he’s getting a kickback from them, or whatever.

  What’s going to happen if Genovia is overrun by chain restaurants and—my chest seriously gets tight when I think about this—turned into another Euro Disney?

  What can I do to make this not happen?

  Dad says to stay out of it—that I’ve done enough…

  Yeah. Like that doesn’t make me feel too guilty.

  It’s all just so exhausting.

  Not to mention all this other stuff. Like it even matters, in comparison to what’s going on with Dad and Genovia, but…well, it kind of does. I mean, Dad and Genovia are facing all these changes, and so am I.

  The only difference is, they aren’t lying about it, the way I am. Well, okay, sure, Dad’s lying about why Grandmère is in New York (to plan my birthday party, when really, she’s here because he can’t stand having her around).

  That’s one lie. I have multiple lies. Lies layered upon lies.

  Mia Thermopolis’s List of Big Fat Lies She’s Been Telling Everyone:

  Lie Number One: Well, of course, first, there’s the lie that I didn’t get into all those colleges. (No one knows the truth but me. And Principal Gupta. And my parents, of course.)

  Lie Number Two: Then there’s the lie about my senior project. I mean, that it wasn’t actually on the history of Genovian olive oil pressing, circa 1254–1650, which is what I’ve told everyone (except Ms. Martinez, of course, who was my advisor, and who actually read it…or at least the first eighty pages of it, since I noticed she stopped correcting my punctuation after that. Of course Dr. K knows the truth, but he doesn’t count).

  No one else even asked to read it, because who’d want to read a four-hundred-page paper on the history of Genovian olive oil pressing, circa 1254–1650?

  Well, except for one person.

  But I don’t want to talk about that right now.

  Lie Number Three: Then there’s the lie that I just told Lana, about how I can’t go prom dress shopping with her because I’m busy hanging out with John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy IV after school today, when the truth is—Well. That’s not the only reason why I’m not going prom dress shopping with her. I don’t want to get into it with her, because I know what she’ll say. And I just don’t feel like dealing with La Lana right now.

  Only Dr. Knutz knows the exact extent of my lies. He says he’s prepared to clear his schedule for the day when they all blow up in my face, as he’s warned me is inevitably going to happen.

  And he says I better do it soon, because next week is our last session.

  He’s mentioned it would be far better if I just came clean—confess the truth about having been admitted to every college to which I applied (for some reason, he thinks it isn’t necessarily just because I’m a princess), tell everyone what my senior project is really about, including the one person who wants to read it…even fess up about the prom.

  If you ask me, a good place for me to start telling the truth would be in Dr. K’s office—with telling Dr. K that I think he’s the one in need of therapy. Yeah, he pretty much came to the rescue when I was going through one of the darkest periods of my life (though he made me do all the real work to climb out of that black hole myself).

  But he has to be nuts to think I’m simply going to start blurting out the cold hard truth to everyone like that.

  It’s just that so many people would be so hurt if I suddenly started telling the truth. Dr. K was there when the fallout happened after the Princess Amelie revelation. My dad and Grandmère were in his office for hours afterward. It was awful. I don’t want that to happen again.

  Not that my friends would end up in my therapist’s office. But Kenny Showalter—oh, sorry, Kenneth, as he wants to be known now—wanted to go to Columbia more than anything, but instead got into his second-choice school of MIT. MIT is a fantastic school, but try telling Kenny—I mean, Kenneth—that. I guess the fact that he’ll be separated from his one true love, Lilly—who will be going to Columbia, just like her brother—is what’s bothering him about MIT, which is in Massachusetts.

  And then there’s Tina, who didn’t get into her first choice of Harvard—but did get into NYU. So she’s kind of happy, because Boris didn’t get into his first choice of Berklee, which is in Boston. Instead, he got into Juilliard, which is in New York City. So that means Tina and Boris will at least be going to colleges in the same city. Even if they aren’t their first-choice colleges.

  Oh, and Trisha is going to Duke. And Perin is going to Dartmouth. And Ling Su is going to Parsons. And Shameeka is going to Princeton.

  Still. None of them is their first-choice college. (Lilly wanted to go to Harvard.) And no one who wanted to go to school together got into the same place!

  Including me and J.P. Well, except that we did. But he doesn’t know that. Because I told him I didn’t.

  I couldn’t help it! When everyone was checking online, and all the envelopes were coming, and no one was getting into their first-choice schools and everyone was finding out they were going to be one or even two states apart, and they were all crying and carrying on, I just…I don’t know what came over me. I felt so badly about getting in everywhere, I blurted out, “I didn’t get in anywhere, either!”

  It was just easier that way than telling the truth, and having someone get their feelings hurt. Even though my lie made J.P. turn pale and swallow resolutely and put his arm around me, and say, “It’s all right, Mia. We’ll get through this. Somehow.”

  So, yes. I suck.

  But it wasn’t like my lie was all that unbelievable. With my math SAT score? I shouldn’t have gotten in anywhere.

  And, honestly? How can I tell anyone the truth now? I can’t. I just can’t.

  Dr. K says this is the cowardly way of dealing with things. He says that I’m a brave woman, just like Eleanor Roosevelt and Princess Amelie, and that I can easily surmount these obstacles (such as having lied to everyone).

  But there are just ten more days of school to go! Anyone can fake anything for ten days. Grandmère’s faked having eyebrows for the entire time I’ve known her—

  Mia! You’re writing in your journal! I haven’t seen you do that in ages!

  Oh. Hi, Tina. Yeah. Well, yeah, I told you. I was busy with my senior project.

  I’ll say. You’ve been working on it for the past two years, almost! I had no idea the history of Genovian olive oil pressing was that fascinating.

  It is, believe me! As the main export of Genovia, olive oil and its manufacture is an extremely interesting subject.

  I can’t believe myself. Listen to me! How sad can I sound??? As the main export of Genovia, olive oil and its manufacture is an extremely interesting subject?

  If only Tina knew what my book was really about! Tina would die if she knew I’d written a four-hundred-page historical romance…Tina adores romances!

  But I can’t tell her. I mean, it obviously isn’t any good if I can’t get it published.

  If only she had asked to read it…but who’d want to read about olive oil and its manufacture?

  Okay, well, one person.

  But he was just being nice. Honestly. That’s the only reason.

  And I can’t actually send him a copy. Because then he’ll see what it’s really about.

  And I’ll die.

  Mia. Are you all right?

  Of cour
se! Why do you ask?

  I don’t know. Because you’ve been acting sort of…funny the closer we’ve gotten to graduation. And as your best friend, I just thought I’d ask. I know you didn’t get into any of the colleges you applied to, but surely your dad can pull a few strings, right? I mean, he’s still a prince—not to mention, soon to be the prime minister! Well, hopefully. He’s sure to beat that jerk, Prince René. I just know your dad could get you into NYU…and then we could be roomies!

  Well…we’ll see! I’m trying not to worry about it too much.

  You? Not worry? I’m surprised you haven’t had your nose stuck in that journal for the past six months. Anyway, what’s this Lana tells me about you not wanting to go prom dress shopping with us this afternoon? She says you’re going to J.P.’s play rehearsal?

  Wow, news travels fast around this place. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not like any of us seniors is actually going to do any work the last two weeks of school.

  Uh-huh. Gotta support my man!

  Right. Except didn’t J.P. forbid you from attending all rehearsals of his play, because he wants you to be completely surprised by the show when you see it opening night? So…what’s really going on, Mia?

  Great. Dr. K was right. It’s all blowing up in my face. Or starting to, at least.

  Well, all right. If I’m going to start telling people the truth I might as well begin with Tina…sweet, nonjudgmental, always-there-for-me Tina, my best friend and total confidante.

  Right?

  Actually, I’m not sure I’m going to the prom.

  WHAT? Why? Mia, are you taking some kind of feminist stand against dances? Did Lilly put you up to this? I thought you guys still weren’t even speaking.

  We’re speaking! You know we’re speaking. We’re…civil to each other. I mean, we have to be, since she’s the editor for the Atom this year. And no one has updated ihatemiathermopolis.com in almost two years. You know I think she still feels kind of bad about all that. Maybe.

  Well—I guess so. I mean, she never did update it again after that day she was so awful to you in the caf. Maybe, whatever it was Lilly was so mad at you about, she got it out of her system that day.

  Right. Either that, or she’s just totally preoccupied with the Atom. And Kenny, of course. I mean, Kenneth.

  I know! It’s sweet Lilly’s managed to stick with one guy for so long. But I honestly wish they wouldn’t make out in front of me in Advanced Bio. I don’t want to see that much of anyone’s tongue. Especially now that she’s pierced it. But none of this explains why you’re not going to the prom!

  Well, the truth is…J.P. hasn’t actually asked me to go. And I’m fine with that because I don’t want to go.

  Is that all? Oh, Mia! Of course J.P. is going to ask you! I’m sure he’s just been so busy with his play—and figuring out what FANTASTIC thing he’s going to give you for your birthday—he hasn’t gotten around to thinking about the prom yet. Do you want me to have Boris say something to him about it?

  Ack! Ack, ack, ack, ack.

  Also, why me?

  Oh, yes, Tina, yes, I do. Yes, I want you to have your boyfriend remind my boyfriend to ask me to the prom. Because that’s super romantic, and just how I always envisioned getting my invitation to the senior prom—via someone else’s boyfriend.

  I see what you mean. Oh, dear, what a mess. And this was supposed to be our special time—you know.

  Wait…

  Can Tina actually be talking about…

  She is. She actually is.

  She’s referring to that thing we used to talk about during our sophomore year.

  You know, that losing-our-virginity-on-prom-night thing.

  Doesn’t Tina realize a lot of time has passed—and a lot of water gone under the bridge—since we sat in class when we were in tenth grade and fantasized about our perfect prom nights?

  She can’t possibly think I still feel the same way about it that I did back then.

  I’m not the same person I was back then.

  And I’m certainly not with the same person I was then. I mean, I’m with J.P. now—

  And J.P. and I…

  It’s too late now for J.P. to make reservations for a room for after-prom at the Waldorf. Last I heard, they had no rooms left.

  Oh my God! She’s serious!

  It’s official: I’m freaking out now.

  But he can probably get a room somewhere else. I hear the W is really nice. I just can’t believe he hasn’t asked you! What’s wrong with him? This just isn’t like him, you know. Is everything all right between you two? You didn’t have a fight or anything, did you?

  I seriously can’t believe this is happening. This is way too weird.

  Should I tell her?

  I can’t tell her. Can I?

  …No.

  No, no fight. There’s just been a lot of stuff going on with finals coming up and our projects and graduation and the election and my birthday and all. I think he really just forgot. And didn’t you read my earlier text, Tina? I DON’T WANT TO GO TO THE PROM.

  Don’t be silly, of course you do. Who doesn’t want to go to her senior prom? And why didn’t you ask him? This isn’t the 1800s. Girls can ask guys to the prom, you know. I know it’s not the same, but you two have been going out for, like, forever! You’re a little more than just friends, even if you still haven’t…well, you know…yet. I mean…you haven’t…have you?

  Awwww…she still calls it You Know! That’s so cute I could die.

  Still. Tina brings up some good points. Why didn’t I ask him? When the ads for the prom started appearing in the Atom, why didn’t I clip one out and stick it on J.P.’s locker door with Are we going to this? written on it?

  Why didn’t I just ask him, point-blank, if we were going to the prom, when everybody else was talking about it at lunch? It’s true J.P.’s been distracted with his play and Stacey Cheeseman sucking so majorly in it (it would probably help if he weren’t always rewriting it and giving her new lines to memorize).

  I easily could have gotten a yes or no answer out of him.

  And, of course, because he’s J.P., it would have been a yes.

  Because J.P., unlike my last boyfriend, has nothing against the prom.

  The thing is, I don’t need to check in with Dr. K to figure out why I didn’t ask J.P. about the prom. It isn’t exactly a mystery. To Tina, maybe, but not to me.

  But I don’t want to get into that right now.

  You know, prom’s not that big a deal to me anymore, T. It’s really kind of lame. I actually wouldn’t mind blowing it off. So why waste time shopping for some dress I might not ever wear? You guys have fun shopping without me. I have stuff to do anyway.

  Stuff. When am I going to stop calling my novel “stuff”? Seriously, if there’s one person in the world I can be honest about it with, it’s Tina. Tina wouldn’t laugh if I told her I’d written a novel…especially a romance novel. Tina is the person who introduced me to romance novels, who got me to appreciate them and realize how fabulously cool they are, not just as an introduction into the publishing world (although more of them are published than any other genre, so your chances of getting published are statistically higher if you write a romance as opposed to, say, a science fiction novel), but because they’re the perfect story. You have a strong female protagonist, a compelling male lead, a conflict that keeps them apart, and then, after a lot of nail-biting, a satisfying conclusion…the ultimate happy ending.

  Why would anyone want to write anything else, really?

  If Tina knew I wrote a romance, she’d ask to read it—especially if she knew it was about something other than the history of Genovian olive oil presses, a subject no rational person would want to read about….

  Well, except one person.

  Which, really, every time I think about it, I want to start crying, because it’s just about the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Or e-mailed me, actually, because that’s how Michael sent it to me…his
request to read my senior project, I mean. We only randomly e-mail a couple of times a month, anyway, keeping it strictly light and impersonal, like that first message I sent him after he broke up with me: “Hi, how are you? Things are fine, it’s snowing here, isn’t that weird? Well, I have to go, bye.”

  I’d been shocked when he’d been all, “Your senior project’s on the history of Genovian olive oil presses, circa 1254–1650? Cool, Thermopolis. Can I read it?”

  You could have knocked me over with one of Lana’s pom-poms. Because no one had asked to read my senior project. No one. Not even Mom. I thought I’d picked such a safe subject, I was safe from anybody asking to read it.

  Ever.

  And here was Michael Moscovitz, all the way in Japan (where he’s been for the past two years, slaving away on his robotic arm—which I’m so sure is never going to get done, I’ve given up asking about it, since it doesn’t seem polite to bring it up anymore, since he barely acknowledges the question), asking to read it.

  I told him it was four hundred pages long.

  He said he didn’t care.

  I told him it was single-spaced and in 9-point font.

  He said he’d enlarge it when it came.

  I told him it was really boring.

  And he said he didn’t believe anything I wrote could be boring.

  That’s when I stopped e-mailing him back.

  What else could I do? I couldn’t send it to him! Yeah, I can send it to publishers I’ve never even met before. But not my ex-boyfriend! Not Michael! I mean…it’s got sex in it!

  It’s just…how could he say that? That he didn’t believe anything I wrote could be boring? What was he talking about? Of course something I wrote could be boring! The history of Genovian olive oil presses, circa 1254–1650. That’s boring! That’s really, really boring!