From the Notebooks of a Middle School Princess (7 page)

Uh, I'm pretty sure that's not why.…

Trust me, that's why. I'm a princess expert. I know a hater when I see one.

I know Nishi likes to think she's a princess expert, but she's wrong. Annabelle Jenkins, the most popular girl in the sixth grade at Cranbrook Middle School, will never be jealous of me—

Uh-oh.…

We're here.

 

Wednesday, May 6
6:30 P.M.
The Plaza Hotel

When my dad isn't in Genovia, being the prince, he stays at the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue, which Aunt Catherine once told me has the most expensive apartments in all of New York, possibly the world.

I believe it! Everything here is super elegant. In fact, I feel pretty underdressed in my school uniform, especially my hideous pleated skirt, which is probably going to be famous now because so many people took photos of me in it when I got out of the limo.

That's because
someone
posted pictures online of me with Princess Mia in front of Cranbrook Middle School, and tagged her as my sister!

Hmmm, I wonder who that
someone
could have been … no, I'm being sarcastic. I'm pretty sure it was Annabelle, seeing how much she hates me.

Anyway, that tipped off the media, and every single last one of them (it seemed) showed up outside of the Plaza.

“This is going to be bad,” Princess Mia said as we pulled up in front of the red carpet leading to the front doors of the hotel.

I had to agree with her. I've never in my WHOLE LIFE seen as many people holding cameras as were waiting for us in front of that hotel! At first I thought it must have been for some sort of movie premiere or something.…

But, when the limo stopped, and a man in a green uniform with gold braid on it came up to the door of the limo and opened it, and I heard all the people with cameras yelling
my
name, I knew: It wasn't a movie premiere. Those people were there for me. ME!

And they weren't just yelling my name, either, but a lot of questions, some of them not very nice (or true), like:

1.
How did I feel about having been “abandoned” by my rich white dad?

2.
Did I think it was because I was black?

3.
Was I upset that my parents never got married?

4.
Who was I going to sue first?

5.
What was I going to do now that I was a princess, go to Disneyland? (OK, this question was kind of funny. Not
all
the questions were mean.)

Princess Mia heard the rude questions, too. I could tell because she looked angry. Her mouth got very small and her eyebrows slanted down.

“Uh,” I said, looking out at all the reporters. “Maybe we should come back some other time.”

“No,” Princess Mia said, reaching out to straighten my school tie. “It's always going to be like this. I'm afraid you're just going to have to get used to it. You don't have to answer them if you don't want to. In fact, I recommend that you don't. Just smile and wave.”

“Smile and wave?” I was a little bit shocked. I didn't think people asking things like that
—
things that were so rude, and weren't in the least bit true
—
deserved to be smiled at, much less waved to. “Really?”

“Really.” She showed me how to smile very big, and wave using only my hand, not my whole arm, because it's less tiring. “Yes, that's right,” she said when I tried it. “Then smile like this.” She pasted a giant smile on her face.

I tried it, though it felt very fake. I didn't see how anyone could possibly believe it was a real smile. “Like this?”

“Bigger,” she said, still waving and smiling, but not moving her lips at all when she spoke. “There, you've got it. Perfect. You're a natual.”

I said I didn't
feel
like a natural, so Princess Mia let me practice another minute or so. We didn't have anyone to practice smiling and waving to inside the limo except Francois and Lars, since we'd dropped off the ladies-in-waiting at their apartments, so we smiled and waved to them. Lars looked the most impressed, and offered a few other instructions.

“Ready?” he finally asked, and Princess Mia looked at me.

I shrugged, even though my stomach was filled with nervous butterflies, and slipped on my backpack, wishing it was a magic shield like some of the warrior princesses in Nishi's movies have. But there are no magic shields. “I guess so.”

“Good,” Lars said. “One, two,
three
.”

On “three” we got out of the limo and hurried across the red carpet and up the steps to the hotel's front door. The truth was, I could hardly see where I was walking, so many flashbulbs were going off. If it hadn't been for Princess Mia's hand around my arm, I would have tripped and fallen flat on my face.

Fortunately the reporters were being held back by the doormen (and even some police officers). Everyone was shouting, “Princess Olivia! Princess Olivia! Over here!” I couldn't hear anything else.

I almost looked, even though Lars had said not to. His instructions in the limo were:

1.
Don't look.

2.
Don't answer anyone's questions.

3.
Don't accept any gifts anyone might try to give you.

4.
Even if you see your best friend standing there in the crowd, don't go up to her.

I'd thought about Nishi and how much I was missing her (even though we'd just been texting) and had asked him why.

“Because then everyone will start crowding her in order to touch you, and there'll be a stampede, and the barricade will fall down, and your friend will get trampled,” he'd said. “If you want to see your friend get trampled, that's fine.”

“Uh … I don't, thanks,” I'd said.

“If your friend really wants to see you, the safest thing for her to do is schedule an appointment.”

I guess this is how it is to be a princess. People ask you rude questions and expect you to answer. You can't hop on your bike and go over to your friend's house anymore or you'll be mobbed (or kidnapped). Instead, you have to “schedule an appointment” to see each other.

Still, I really wanted to be able to share what was happening with Nishi (despite the mean questions).

So when I got to the top of the steps, I turned around and snapped a quick pic of all the people yelling.

I can't wait to see what Nishi says when I send it to her.

The inside of the Plaza Hotel is the fanciest place I've ever been in my LIFE. The ceilings are probably about a hundred feet high, and the chandeliers are made out of real crystals and GOLD. Probably 100 percent. I couldn't stop staring at everything. I felt so out of place! There was even a lady playing a HARP in a place that Princess Mia (I still feel weird calling her my sister) told me is called the Palm Court.

“You're lucky we're not going there,” she said on our way to the elevators. “They make you eat egg salad sandwiches.”

“I like egg salad sandwiches,” I said. “I like any kind of sandwiches, as long as they have gluten.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, then we'll go there later and you can have all the egg salad sandwiches you want.”

Except for the mean reporters, it's like I've died and gone to heaven.

On the elevator there was a man whose job it is
just to work the elevator
. He rides in it up and down all day, so the rich people don't have to tire themselves out, pushing all the buttons.

I bet he gets carsick. I looked around, but I didn't see any throw-up. They probably take the bucket away when no one is looking.

“Hello, Lyle,” Princess Mia said to the elevator man. “Lyle, I'd like you to meet my sister, Olivia.”

“Hello, Princess Olivia,” Lyle said. He nodded as he pushed the button that said “PE.” At first I thought, “Why would they be taking me to do physical education? School was out hours ago!” Then I realized PE had to stand for something else.

“Hope you have a nice visit,” Lyle said.

“Thanks,” I said, politely. “I hope I will, too.”

The elevator ride to PE took a long time, and when the doors opened, there was no sign of a gymnasium. Instead, we were in a red-carpeted hallway with white walls trimmed in gold. A sign on the wall said in elegant gold script
PENTHOUSE EAST
. So
that's
what PE stood for. The east penthouse!

I had never been in a penthouse before, but I knew from all the TV I'd seen at Nishi's house that it was the fanciest apartment in the building. Also, it was on the top floor of the building, so that meant it was the most expensive. Obviously, princes are very rich, from having saved all their family money for many hundreds of years, which is another reason it made me so mad that those reporters downstairs had asked about my dad “abandoning” me, when actually he'd sent me large checks (and personal letters) every month, and it had been my mother who'd requested I not be told of my royal heritage.

Then, as we walked down the long, hushed hallway, which was filled with tall vases of real live white roses, I noticed that a door was open at the end of the hallway, and standing in the doorway was an old white lady I recognized from some of the same magazines in which I'd seen Princess Mia. But I'd never bothered to read anything about her because she looked so boring.

Except that Princess Mia looked pretty scared of her. She was standing up straighter and holding her purse tighter.

“So this is she?” the old lady asked, before we'd gotten all the way down the hallway.

“This is she, Grandm
è
re,” Princess Mia said in a very polite voice.

I couldn't believe it!
This
was my grandmother, Dowager Princess Clarisse Renaldo? She looked completely unlike any grandma I've ever seen! She wasn't warm and cuddly like Nishi's grandma, who loves to cook and tell stories about life back in India, where Nishi's family comes from.

My dad's mom is tall and skinny and was dressed in a dark purple suit with even
darker
purple fur on the cuffs of her sleeves (and I'm pretty sure it wasn't fake fur, which we learned in school isn't very environmentally conscious), and her fingernails were long and pointy and her long white hair was piled up on top of her head in a big bun.

Also, I'm not sure but I think she might have drawn her eyebrows on with a black pencil and she had on about a million giant rings that I think were real diamonds and rubies and pearls and emeralds. In fact I
know
they were, because she's a princess!

Mia poked me in the back and suddenly I remembered what she'd taught me in the car to do and say when I met my grandmother.

“It's so nice to meet you, Grandmoth
—
is that a miniature
poodle
?”

I hadn't meant to say that last part, but I couldn't help it!!! All of a sudden as I was curtsying I saw this little white powder puff with a tiny black nose peeking out from around Grandm
è
re's feet.

“I love poodles!” I cried. “They're the most intelligent breed of dog. And they're also very excellent swimmers.”

I didn't mean to start yelling everything I know about dogs in front of my new royal grandmother.

But I just really, really like dogs, almost as much as I love kangaroos. Aunt Catherine would never let us have one (not a kangaroo, of course, but a dog or a cat or even a guinea pig).

“Yes,” my grandmother said very stiffly. “Poodles
are
very intelligent, aren't they? Did you know they were used as defense dogs on the home front in World War II?”

“Yes,” I said. “I've read all about them. They also don't shed.” I had tried this argument many times on Aunt Catherine in order to convince her to let us get a poodle, but it had never worked.

“Interesting. My
other
granddaughter only likes cats.”