Princess Mia Read online

  I really didn’t mean to make her cry! I’m sorry to have made her feel bad. Especially because I don’t really want to move to Genovia. I’m sure they won’t let me lounge around in bed all day there. Which I’m really sort of starting to like doing. I have a whole little schedule now. Every morning, I get up before anyone else does and have breakfast—usually whatever leftovers are in the fridge from the evening meal the night before—and feed Fat Louie and clean out his box.

  Then I get back into bed, and eventually Fat Louie joins me, and together we watch the top ten video countdown on MTV, and then the one on VH1. When either Mom or Mr. G comes in and tries to get me to go to school, I say no…which usually exhausts me so much, I have to take a little nap.

  Then I wake up in time to watch The View and two back-to-back episodes of Judging Amy.

  After I make sure no one else is around, I go out into the kitchen and have some lunch—a ham sandwich or microwave popcorn or something. It doesn’t matter much what—and then get back into bed with Fat Louie and watch Judge Milian on The People’s Court, and then Judge Judy.

  Then my mom sends in Tina, and I pretend to be alive, and then Tina leaves, and I go to sleep, because Tina exhausts me. Then, after Mom and everybody is asleep, I get up, make myself a snack, and watch TV until two or three in the morning.

  Then I get up a few hours later and do it all over again, after I realize I wasn’t dreaming, and I really am truly broken up with Michael.

  I could conceivably keep this up until I’m eighteen, and start receiving my yearly salary as Princess of Genovia (which doesn’t kick in until I’m a legal adult and begin my official duties as heir).

  And, okay, it’s going to be hard to do my official duties from bed.

  But I bet I could figure out a way.

  Still. It sucks to make your mother cry. Maybe I should make her a card or something.

  Except that would involve getting out of bed to look for markers and stuff. And I am way, way too tired to do all of that.

  Wednesday, September 15, 5 p.m., the loft

  I guess my mom wasn’t kidding about bringing out the big guns. Tina didn’t show up after school today.

  Grandmère did.

  But—much as I love her, and sorry as I am to have made her cry—Mom’s totally wrong if she thinks anything Grandmère says or does is going to change my mind about going back to school.

  I’m not doing it. There’s just no point.

  “What do you mean, there’s no point?” Grandmère wanted to know, when I said this. “Of course there’s a point. You have to learn.”

  “Why?” I asked her. “My future job is totally assured. Throughout the ages, most reigning monarchs have been total morons, and yet they still were allowed to rule. What difference does it make whether I’ve graduated from high school or not?”

  “Well, you don’t want to be an ignoramus,” Grandmère insisted. She was perched on the very edge of my bed, holding her purse in her lap and looking around all askance at everything, like the homework assignments Tina had left the day before and which I’d sort of thrown across the floor, and my Buffy the Vampire Slayer action figures, apparently not realizing they are expensive collectibles now, like her stupid Limoges teacups.

  But from Grandmère’s expression, you could tell that, instead of being in her teenage granddaughter’s bedroom, she felt like she was in some back alley pawnshop in Chinatown, or something.

  And okay, I guess it is pretty messy in here. But whatever.

  “Why don’t I want to be an ignoramus?” I asked. “Some of the most influential women on the planet didn’t graduate from high school either.”

  “Name one,” Grandmère demanded, with a snort.

  “Paris Hilton,” I said. “Lindsay Lohan. Nicole Richie.”

  “I am quite certain,” Grandmère said, “that all of those women graduated from high school. And even if they didn’t, it’s nothing to be proud of. Ignorance is never attractive. Speaking of which, how long has it been since you washed your hair, Amelia?”

  I fail to see the point in bathing. What does it matter how I look now that Michael is out of my life?

  When I mentioned this, however, Grandmère asked if I was feeling all right.

  “No, I’m not, Grandmère,” I said. “Which I would have thought was obvious by the fact that I haven’t gotten out of my bed in four days except to eat and go to the bathroom.”

  “Oh, Amelia,” Grandmère said, looking offended. “We’ve stooped to scatological references now, as well? Really. I understand you’re sad about losing That Boy, but—”

  “Grandmère,” I said. “I think you’d better go now.”

  “I won’t go until we’ve decided what we’re going to do about this.”

  And then Grandmère tapped on the Domina Rei stationery from Mrs. Weinberger, which she’d found peeping out from beneath my bed.

  “Oh, that,” I said. “Please have your secretary decline for me.”

  “Decline?” Grandmère’s drawn-on eyebrows lifted. “We shall do no such thing, young lady. Do you have any idea what Elana Trevanni said when I ran into her at Bergdorf’s yesterday and casually mentioned to her that my granddaughter had been invited to speak at the Domina Rei charity gala? She said—”

  “Fine,” I interrupted again. “I’ll do it.”

  Grandmère didn’t say anything for a beat. Then she asked hesitantly, “Did you just say you’ll do it, Amelia?”

  “Yes,” I said. Anything to make her go away. “I’ll do it. Just…can we talk about it later? I have a headache.”

  “You’re probably dehydrated,” Grandmère said. “Have you drunk your eight glasses of water today? You know you need to drink eight glasses of water a day, Amelia, in order to keep hydrated. That’s how we Renaldo women preserve our dewy complexions, by consuming plenty of liquids…”

  “I think I just need to rest,” I said in a weak voice. “My throat is starting to hurt a little. I don’t want to get laryngitis and lose my voice before the big event…it’s a week from Friday, right?”

  “Good heavens,” Grandmère said, leaping up from my bed so quickly that she startled Fat Louie from the pillow fort I’d made him at my side. He was nothing but an orange blur as he ran for the safety of the closet. “We can’t have you coming down with something that might endanger your attending the gala! I shall send over my personal physician immediately!”

  She started fumbling in her purse for her bejeweled cell phone—which she only knows how to work because I showed her about a million times—but I stopped her by saying weakly, “No, it’s all right, Grandmère. I think I just need to rest…you’d better go. Whatever I have, you don’t want to catch it….”

  Grandmère was out of there like a shot.

  And FINALLY I could go back to sleep.

  Or so I thought. Because a few minutes later, Mom came into the doorway and stood there peering down at me with a troubled look on her face.

  “Mia,” she said. “Did you tell your grandmother you’d speak at a Domina Rei Women’s Society benefit?”

  “Yeah,” I said, pulling my pillow over my head. “Anything, to make her leave.”

  Mom went away, looking concerned.

  I don’t know what SHE’S so worried about. I’m the one who’s going to have to find some way to get out of town before the event actually happens.

  Thursday, September 16, 11 a.m., Dad’s limo

  This morning at nine o’clock I was in bed with my eyes squeezed shut (because I heard someone coming and I didn’t want to deal) when my covers were thrown back and this stern, deep voice said, “Get. Up.”

  I opened my eyes and was surprised to see my dad standing there, wearing his business suit and smelling of autumn.

  I’ve been inside so long, I’ve forgotten what outside smells like.

  I could tell by his expression that I was in for it.

  So I said, “No,” and snatched the covers back, pulling them over my head.

&n
bsp; Which is when I heard my dad go, “Lars. If you will.”

  And then my bodyguard scooped me—covers still clutched over my head—from my bed, and began to carry me from my mother’s apartment.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded, when I had disentangled my head from the covers, and saw that we were in the hallway, and that Ronnie, our neighbor from next door, was blinking at us in astonishment with her arms full of grocery bags.

  “Something that’s for your own good,” my dad said, from behind Lars, on the stairs.

  “But—” I seriously couldn’t believe this. “I’m in my pajamas!”

  “I told you to get up,” Dad said. “You’re the one who wouldn’t do it.”

  “You can’t do this to me!” I cried, as we exited the apartment building and headed toward my dad’s limo. “I’m an American! I have rights, you know!”

  My dad looked at me and said very sarcastically, “No, you don’t. You’re a teenager.”

  “Help!” I screamed to all the New York University students who live in our neighborhood and were just rolling home after a fun night out in the East Village. “Call Amnesty International! I’m being held against my will!”

  “Lars,” my dad said disgustedly as the NYU kids looked around for the movie cameras they evidently thought were rolling, since the whole thing appeared to be some scene from a Law and Order episode being filmed on Thompson Street, or something. “Toss her in the car.”

  And Lars did! He tossed me in the car!

  And okay, he tossed my journal in after me. And a pen.

  And my Chinese slippers with the sequin flowers on the toes.

  But still! Is this any way to treat a princess, I ask you? Or even a human being?

  And Dad won’t even tell me where we’re going. He just goes, “You’ll see,” when I ask.

  After getting over the initial shock of being manhandled in such a way, I find, to my surprise, that I don’t much care. I mean, it’s weird to be sitting in my dad’s limo in my Hello Kitty pajamas, with my sheet and duvet wrapped around me.

  But at the same time, I can’t summon up any real indignation about it.

  I think that might actually be the problem. That I just don’t care about anything anymore.

  Except I can’t even be bothered to care about that very much, either.

  Thursday, September 16, noon, Dr. Knutz’s office

  We’re sitting in a psychologist’s office.

  I’m not even kidding. My dad didn’t take me to the royal jet to go back to Genovia. He brought me to the Upper East Side to see a psychologist.

  And not just any psychologist, either. But one of the nation’s preeminent experts on adolescent and child psychology. At least if all the many degrees and awards framed on the wall of his outer office is any indication.

  I guess this is supposed to impress me. Or at least comfort me.

  Although I can’t say I feel too comforted by the fact that his name is Dr. Arthur T. Knutz.

  Yes, that’s right. My dad has brought me to see Dr. Knutz. Because he—and Mom and Mr. G—apparently think I’m nuts.

  I know I probably look nuts, sitting here in my pajamas, with my duvet still clutched around me. But whose fault is that? They could have let me get dressed.

  Not that I would have, of course. But if they’d told me they were taking me out of the apartment, I might have at least put on a bra.

  Dr. Knutz’s receptionist—or nurse, or whatever she is—doesn’t seem too bothered by my mode of dress, however. She just went, “Good morning, Prince Phillipe,” to my dad when he brought me in. Well, I mean, when Lars carried me in. Because when the limo pulled up in front of the brownstone Dr. Knutz’s office is in, I wouldn’t get out of the car. I wasn’t going to walk across East Seventy-eighth Street in my Hello Kitty pajamas! I may be crazy, but I’m not THAT crazy.

  So Lars carried me.

  The receptionist didn’t seem to think it was at all weird that her boss’s newest patient had to be carried into his office. She just went, “Dr. Knutz will be with you in a moment. In the meantime, will you please fill this out, dear?”

  I don’t know why I got so panicky all of a sudden. But I was like, “No. What is it? A test? I don’t want to take a test.” It’s weird, but my heart started beating all crazy at the idea of having to take a test.

  The receptionist just looked at me funny and went, “It’s just an assessment of how you’re feeling. There are no right or wrong answers. It will only take a minute to fill out.”

  But I didn’t want to take an assessment, even if there were no right or wrong answers.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

  “Here,” Dad said, and held out his hand to the receptionist. “I’ll take one, too. Will that make you feel better, Mia?”

  For some reason, it did. Because, to be honest, if I’m crazy, so is my dad. I mean, you should see how many shoes he owns. And he’s a man.

  So the receptionist handed my dad the same form to fill out. When I looked down, I saw that it was a list of statements that you were supposed to rate by checking off the most appropriate answer. Statements such as, I feel like there’s no point in living. To which you could check off one of the following replies:

  All of the time

  Most of the time

  Some of the time

  A little of the time

  None of the time

  Since there was nothing else to do and I had a pen in my hand anyway, I filled out the form. I noticed when I was done that I had checked off mostly All of the times and Most of the times. Such as, I feel like everyone hates me…Most of the time and I feel that I am worthless…Most of the time.

  But my dad had filled out mostly A little of the times and None of the times.

  Even for his answers to statements like, I feel as if true romantic love has passed me by.

  Which I happen to know is a total lie. Dad told me he has had only one true love in his entire life, and that was Mom, and that he let her go, and totally regretted it. That’s why he urged me not to be stupid and let Michael go. Because he knew I might never find a love like that again.

  Too bad I didn’t figure out he was right until it was too late.

  Still, it’s easy for him to feel like everyone hates him none of the time. There’s no ihateprincephillipeofgenovia.com.

  The receptionist—Mrs. Hopkins—took our forms back and brought them through a door to the right of her desk. I couldn’t see what was behind the door. Meanwhile, Lars picked up the latest copy of Sports Illustrated off Dr. Knutz’s waiting room coffee table and started reading it all casually, like he carries princesses in their pajamas into psychologist’s offices every day of the week.

  I bet he never thought that was going to be part of his job description when he graduated from bodyguard school.

  “I think you’re going to like Dr. Knutz, Mia,” my dad is saying. “I met him at a fund-raising event last year. He’s one of the nation’s preeminent experts in adolescent and child psychology.”

  I point at the awards on the wall. “Yeah. I got that part.”

  “Well,” Dad says. “It’s true. He comes very highly recommended. Don’t let his name—or his demeanor—fool you.”

  His demeanor? What does that mean?

  Mrs. Hopkins is back. She says the doctor will see us now.

  Great.

  Thursday, September 16, 2 p.m., Dad’s limo

  Well. That was the weirdest thing. Ever.

  Dr. Knutz was…not what I was expecting.

  I don’t know what I was expecting, really, but not Dr. Knutz. I know Dad said not to let his name or his demeanor fool me, but I mean, from his name and his profession, I expected him to be a little old bald dude with a goatee and glasses and maybe a German accent.

  And he was old. Like Grandmère’s age.

  But he wasn’t little. And he wasn’t bald. And he didn’t have a goatee. And he had sort of a Western accent. That’s because, he explained, whe
n he isn’t at his practice in New York City, he’s at his ranch in Montana.

  Yes. That’s right. Dr. Knutz is a cowboy. A cowboy psychologist.

  It so figures that out of all the psychologists in New York, I would end up with a cowboy one.

  His office is furnished like the inside of a ranch house. On the wood paneling along his office walls there are pictures of wild mustangs running free. And every one of the books on the shelves behind him are by the famous Western authors Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey. His office furniture is dark leather and trimmed with brass studs. There’s even a cowboy hat hanging on the peg on the back of the door. And the carpet is a Navajo rug.

  I could tell right away from all this that Dr. Knutz certainly lived up to his name. Also, that he was way crazier than me.

  This had to be a joke. My dad had to be kidding that Dr. Knutz is one of the nation’s preeminent experts on adolescent and child psychology. Maybe I was being punk’d. Maybe Ashton Kutcher was going to pop out any minute and be all, “D’oh! Princess Mia! You’ve just been punk’d! This guy isn’t a psychologist at all! He’s my uncle Joe!”

  “So,” Dr. Knutz said, in this big booming cowboy voice after I’d sat down next to Dad on the couch across from Dr. Knutz’s big leather armchair. “You’re Princess Mia. Nice to meetcha. Heard you were uncharacteristically nice to your grandma yesterday.”

  I was completely shocked by this. Unlike Dr. Knutz’s other patients, who, presumably, are children, I happen to be acquainted with a pair of Jungian psychologists—Dr. and Dr. Moscovitz—so I am not unfamiliar with how doctor-patient relationships are supposed to go.

  And they are not supposed to begin with completely false accusations on the part of the doctor.

  “That is total and utter slander,” I said. “I wasn’t nice to her. I just said what she wanted to hear so she would go away.”

  “Oh,” Dr. Knutz said. “That’s different. So you’re telling me everything is hunky-dory, then?”

  “Obviously not,” I said. “Since I am sitting here in your office in my pajamas and a duvet.”

  “You know, I’d noticed that,” Dr. Knutz said. “But you young girls are always wearing the oddest things, so I just figured it was the new fashion craze, or something.”