Forever Princess (21 page)

Thursday, May 4, Lunch

Dad just called with more Moscovitz news.

This time it was about Lilly.

Seriously, I should stop purchasing food here, since I'm only going to end up dropping it on the floor. Although since tomorrow is Senior Skip Day…I guess this is the last day I'm going to have this particular problem.

“Do you remember how she was filming everyone at your party?” Dad asked, when I picked up the phone, convinced this time Grandmère really
had
keeled over.

“Yeah…” I was picking bits of salad out of my hair. Everybody else was giving me the evil eye, picking bits of salad out of their own hair. Though it wasn't my fault, really, I'd dropped my Fiesta Taco Bowl.

“Well, she's crafted a campaign commercial from the footage. It began airing on Genovian television last night at midnight.”

I groaned. Everyone looked politely inquisitive—except J.P. He got a call on his own cell phone at that exact moment.

“It's Sean,” he said apologetically. “I've got to take this. I'll be right back.” He got up to go take the call outside, away from the din of the caf.

“How bad's the damage?” I asked. Dad's numbers had gotten a little better since Michael's donation, and the press Dad had received because of it.

But René was still leading in the polls.

“No,” Dad said. He sounded strange. “You don't understand, Mia. Her commercial's in
support
of me. Not against me.”

“What?” I asked him breathlessly. “
What
did you say?”

“That's right,” Dad said. “I just thought you should know. I've e-mailed you a link to it. It's really lovely, actually. I can't imagine how she accomplished it. You said she has her own show in Korea, or something? I suppose she had her people there put it together, and then they had someone over here—”

“Dad,” I said, my chest feeling tight. “I've got to go….”

I hung up, then went straight to my e-mail. Scrolling through all the hysterical messages from Grandmère about what I was going to wear to the prom and then the next day, to graduation (like it even matters, since I'll have my graduation gown on over whatever it is), I found Dad's e-mail and clicked on it. The link to Lilly's commercial was there, and I clicked on that. The ad began to play.

And he was right. It
was
lovely. It was a sixty-second clip featuring all the celebrities from my party—the Clintons, the Obamas, the Beckhams, Oprah, Brad and Angelina, Madonna, Bono, and more—all saying sweet, very sincere-sounding things about my dad, about stuff he'd done for Genovia in the past, and how Genovian voters ought to support him. Interspersed between the brief celebrity endorsements were gorgeous shots of Genovia (which I realized Lilly had taken during her many trips with me there), of the blue sparkling waters of the bay, the green cliffs above it, the white beaches, and the palace, all looking pristine and untouched by touristy schlock.

At the end of the ad, some curlicue script came on that
said, “Preserve Genovia's historic wonder. Vote for Prince Phillipe.”

By the time the music—which I recognized as a ballad Michael had written, way back in his Skinner Box days—had ended, I was almost in tears.

“Oh my God, you guys,” I said. “You have to see this.”

And then I passed around my cell phone and showed them all. Soon the whole table was almost in tears. Well, except J.P., who hadn't come back yet, and Boris, who is immune to emotion unless it involves Tina.

“Why would she do that?” Tina wanted to know.

“She used to be cool,” Shameeka said. “Remember? Then something happened.”

“I have to find her,” I said, still blinking back tears.

“Find who?” J.P. asked. He'd finally returned from his Sean Penn call.

“Lilly,” I said. “Look what she did.” I handed him my cell phone so he could watch the commercial she'd made. He did, a frown on his face.

“Well,” he said, when it was over. “That was…nice.”

“Nice? It's amazing,” I said. “I have to thank her.”

“I really don't think you do,” J.P. said. “She owes you. After that website she made up about you. Remember?”

“That was a long time ago,” I said.

“Yeah,” J.P. said. “Even so. I'd watch out, if I were you. She's still a Moscovitz.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I asked. J.P. shrugged. “Well, you of all people should know, Mia. You have to imagine Lilly wants something in return for her apparent generosity. Michael always did, didn't he?”

I stared at him in complete shock.

On the other hand, maybe I shouldn't have been surprised. He
was
talking about Michael, the boy who'd broken my heart into so many little pieces…pieces J.P. had so kindly helped put back together again.

Before I had a chance to say anything, though, Boris said, from absolutely nowhere, “Funny, I hadn't noticed that. Michael's letting me live with him next semester for absolutely nothing.”

This caused all of us to swivel our heads around to stare at him as if he were a parking meter that had suddenly magically begun speaking.

Tina was the first one of us to recover.

“WHAT?” she demanded of her boyfriend. “You're living with
Michael Moscovitz
next semester?”

“Yeah,” Boris said, looking surprised she didn't know it. “I didn't hand in my housing registration to Juilliard on time, and they ran out of singles. And I'm not going to live with a ROOMMATE. So Michael said I could crash in his spare bedroom until a single opens up for me on the waiting list. He's got a kick-ass loft, you know, on Spring Street. It's huge. He won't even know I'm there.”

I glanced at Tina. Her eyes were bigger than I'd ever seen them. I wasn't sure if it was with rage or bewilderment.

“So all this time,” Tina said, “you've secretly gone on being friends with Michael behind Mia's back? And you never told me?”

“There's nothing secret about it,” Boris said, looking offended. “Michael and I've always been friends, since I
was in his band. It has nothing to do with Mia. You don't stop being friends with a guy just because he's broken up with his girlfriend. And there's lots of stuff I don't tell you about.
Guy
stuff. And you shouldn't be stressing me out today, I have my concert tonight, I'm supposed to be taking it easy—”

“Guy stuff?” Tina said, picking up her purse. “You don't have to tell me about
guy stuff
? Fine. You want to take it easy? You don't want to be stressed? No problem. Why don't I just relieve
all
your stress? By leaving.”

“Tee,” Boris said, rolling his eyes.

But when she stormed from the caf in a huff, he realized she was serious. And he had to hurry to chase after her.

“Those two,” J.P. said, with a chuckle, when they were gone.

“Yeah,” I said. I wasn't chuckling, though. I was remembering something that had happened nearly two years ago, when Boris had come up to me and urged me to write back to Michael, when he kept writing to me, but I didn't trust myself to write back. I'd wondered then how Boris even knew Michael had been writing to me. I thought it was because Tina had told him.

Now I wondered if I'd been wrong. Maybe
Michael
had told him. Because the two of them had been in communication.

About
me.

What if Boris, scraping away on his violin in the supply closet while the two of us were in Gifted and Talented together, had been spying on me for Michael the whole time?

And now Michael's giving him free room and board in his fancy SoHo loft to pay him back!

Or am I reading too much into this—as usual?

And I don't think that's true, what J.P. said, about the Moscovitzes always wanting something in return. I mean, yes, Michael wanted to have sex back when we were dating (if that's what he was implying…and I think it was).

But the truth is, so did I. Maybe I wasn't as ready for it emotionally then as I am now. But we couldn't exactly help being attracted to each other.

And now I finally realize why!

This is all just so confusing. Honestly,
what
is going on? Why did Lilly make that commercial for Dad? Why did Michael donate the CardioArm?

Why is everyone in the Moscovitz family being so nice to me all of a sudden?

Thursday, May 4, 2 p.m., the hallway

I'm cleaning out my locker.

Tomorrow is Senior Skip Day (although technically not an officially school-sanctioned holiday), and I'm done with finals, so this is basically the only time I'm going to be able to do this—also the last time I'll be inside this hellhole (aside from graduation, which will be in Central Park, unless it rains).

It's really sad, in a way.

I guess this place wasn't really a hellhole. Or at least, it wasn't always. I had some good times here. At least a few. I'm throwing away tons of old notes from Lilly and Tina (remember when we used to write notes, before we got cell phones, and started texting?) and a lot of things that are stuck together that I can't identify (seriously, I wish I had cleaned this thing out once or twice before in the past four years. Also, I think a mouse has been in here).

Here's a flattened Whitman's Sampler (empty) someone once gave me. I seem to have eaten everything that was inside it. And here's a smushed flower of some kind that I'm sure had some kind of significance at some point but now it's kind of moldy. Why can't I take better care of my things? I should have pressed it neatly between the pages of a book the way Grandmère taught me, and noted what kind of flower it was and who gave it to me so I could always treasure its memory.

What's wrong with me? Why did I jam it in my locker like that? Now it's rotten and I have no choice but to stuff
it in this trash bag Mr. Kreblutz the head custodian has given me.

I'm a terrible person. Not just because I don't take better care of my belongings, but because…well, all the other reasons, which should be obvious by now.

What am I going to do? WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?

I looked all over for Lilly, but I couldn't find her. I suppose she has finals this afternoon.

(I did find Tina and Boris, though. They made up. At least if the fact that they were making out in the third-floor stairwell means anything. I snuck discreetly away before they noticed me.)

I guess I could call her (Lilly, I mean). But…I don't know what I'd say. Thank you? That seems so lame.

What I want to say is…
why?
Why are you being so nice to me?

Maybe I'll ask her brother at lunch tomorrow. I mean, if he knows. After I warn him about my cold. And to stay far away from me.

Anyway.

It feels so weird to be wandering around the halls of this place while everyone else is in class. Principal Gupta totally saw me, too, but she didn't say anything like, “Why aren't you in class, Mia? Do you have a pass?” She was just like, “Oh, hello, Mia,” and kept walking by, all distracted. Clearly, she was worrying about graduation (So am I—WHAT COLLEGE AM I GOING TO CHOOSE???) or whatever, and had more pressing matters on her mind than why a princess was roaming around
in the halls of her school.

Either that, or I didn't look like much of a threat. I guess that's what happens when you're a graduating senior.

With a bodyguard in tow.

Maybe someday I'll write a book about this. A senior girl, experiencing conflicting emotions as she cleans out her locker, saying good-bye to the place of higher education she's known so long…her love/hate relationship with it…She wants to leave it, and yet…she's afraid to leave it, to spread her wings and start anew somewhere else. She hates the long, gray, smelly hallways, and yet…she loves them, too. I mean, in a way.

Good-bye, AEHS. You suck. I hate you.

And yet…somehow I'll miss you, too.

Thursday, May 4, 6 p.m., the loft

I had to hide the above from J.P., who's here right now. He came over after school today. It's the first time in months he didn't have play rehearsal or I didn't have princess lessons or one of us didn't have therapy.

So. He came over.

He's out in the living room right now, talking to Mom and Mr. G about his movie deal. I'm “changing for Boris's concert.”

But, obviously I'm not. I'm writing about what happened when he came over instead. Which is that I totally tried VERY VERY HARD to get my MHCs to respond to his. I did this by doing what Tina did, when she saw Boris in his swimsuit.

Yes. I jumped his bones.

Or I tried to, anyway. I just figured, if I could get J.P. to kiss me—
really
kiss me, the way Michael used to, when we were having a heavy-duty make-out session in his dorm room—maybe everything would be all right. Maybe I
wouldn't have to worry about pretending I have a cold tomorrow when I have lunch with Michael. Maybe I won't be so super attracted to him anymore.

But it didn't work.

Not that J.P. pushed me away, or anything. He kissed me back, and stuff. He tried. He really did try.

But he kept stopping every thirty seconds or so to talk about his movie deal.

I'm not even joking.

Like about how “Sean” had asked him to write the screenplay. (I guess a screenplay isn't the same as writing a play. J.P. has to rewrite the whole thing from scratch now, in a different computer program.)

And how J.P. is seriously considering moving out “to the Coast” so he can be there for the filming.

He's even debating putting school off for a year so he can work on the movie. Because you can go to school any time.

But you can only be one of the hottest young screenwriters in Hollywood once.

Anyway, he asked me to come with him. Out to Hollywood.

This completely killed the mood. The making out mood, I mean.

I guess some girls would love it if their boyfriend, who'd written a play about them that was soon to become a major motion picture directed by Sean Penn, asked them to defer college for a year and move out to Hollywood with them.

But I, being the ultimate loser that I am, just blurted out, “Why would I do
that
?” before I could really stop
myself. Mostly because I didn't really have my mind in the conversation. I was thinking about…well, not Hollywood film deals.

Also because I'm a horrible person, for the most part.

“Well, because you love me,” J.P. was forced to remind me. We were lying on my bed, with Fat Louie glaring balefully at us from the windowsill. Fat Louie hates it when anyone but me lies on my bed. “And you want to support me.”

I flushed, feeling guilty for my outburst.

“No,” I said. “I mean, what would
I
do out in Hollywood?”

“Write,” J.P. said. “Maybe not romance novels, because frankly, I think you're capable of much more important work—”

“You haven't even read my book,” I reminded him, feeling hurt. We'd still never gotten to have our Stephen and Tabitha King editorial talk. And important work? Romance novels are important! To the people who like to read them, anyway.

“I know,” J.P. said, laughing. But not in a mean way. “And I'm going to, I swear, I've just been so swamped with the play and then finals and everything. You know how it is. And I'm sure it's the best romance novel there is. I'm just saying, I think you could write something much weightier if you really put your mind to it. Something that could change the world.”

Weightier? What is he talking about? And haven't I done enough for the world? I mean, I made Genovia a democracy. Well, not me personally, but I helped. And if
you write something that cheers someone up when they're feeling down, doesn't that change the world?

And let me tell you something: I have seen
A Prince Among Men
now, and it is not going to change the world OR cheer anybody up. I don't mean to sound like I've got sour grapes, but it's the truth. It doesn't even make you think except to make you think that the guy who wrote it must think pretty highly of himself.

Sorry. I didn't mean that. That was uncalled for.

Anyway, I was like, “J.P., I don't know. Moving to Hollywood with you isn't something my mom or my dad is going to approve of. They both expect me to go to college.”

“Right,” J.P. said. “But taking a year off might not be such a bad idea. It's not like you got in anywhere that great anyway.”

Ouch. See, that would have been a great opportunity for me to say, “Actually, J.P., I was kind of exaggerating when I said I didn't get in anywhere….”

Only, of course, I didn't. Instead, I just suggested we go into the living room and watch
True Life: I'm Hooked on OxyContin
, because I didn't want to get in an argument.

Anyway, after watching
True Life
, I learned something. Not just that I am never going to do drugs (obviously). But that writing is my drug. It's the only thing I ever do that I really like.

I mean, besides kiss Michael. But I can't do that anymore, obviously.