Princess In Love (3 page)

Only the thing is, Kenny isn't very good at skating backwards. I can skate forward, but I'm not good enough at it that if someone is wobbling around in front of me, I can keep from crashing into him if he doesn't move out of the way fast enough.

Which was exactly what happened. Kenny fell down and I couldn't stop, so I crashed into him and my chin hit his knee and I bit my tongue and all this blood filled up in my mouth, and I didn't want to swallow it so I spat it out. Only unfortunately it went all over Kenny's jeans and on to the ice, which clearly impressed all of the tourists standing along the railings around the rink; taking pictures of their loved ones in front of the enormous Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, since they all turned around and started taking pictures of the girl spitting up blood on the ice below - a truly New York moment.

And then Lars came shooshing over - he is a champion ice-skater, thanks to his Nordic upbringing; quite a contrast to his bodyguard training in the heart of the Gobi desert -picked me up, looked at my tongue, gave me his handkerchief and told me to keep pressure on the wound. Then he said, 'That's enough skating for one night.'

And that was it. Now I've got this bloody gouge in the tip of my tongue, and it hurts to talk, and I was totally humiliated in front of millions of tourists, not to mention in front of my friends and, worst of all, Judith Gershner, who it turns out also got accepted early decision at Columbia (great, the same school Michael's going to in the fall) where she will be pre-med, and who advised me that I should see my family practitioner as it seemed likely to her that I might need stitches. In my tongue? I'm lucky, she said, I didn't bite the tip of it off.

Lucky!

Oh, yeah, I'll tell you how lucky I am:

I'm so lucky that while I lie here in bed writing this, with no one but my twenty-five pound cat, Fat Louie, to keep me company (and Fat Louie only likes me because I feed him), the boy I've been in love with since like for ever is up at midtown right now with a girl who knows how to clone fruit flies and can tell if wounds need stitches or not.

One good thing about this tongue thing, though: if Kenny was thinking about moving on to frenching, we
totally can't until I heal. And that could - according to Dr. Fung, whom my mom called as soon as Lars brought me home - take anywhere from three to ten days

Yes!

Ten Things I Hate about the Holiday Season in New York City

1. Tourists who come in from out of town in their giant sports utility vehicles and try to run you over at the crosswalks, thinking they are driving like aggressive New Yorkers. Actually, they are driving like morons. Plus there is enough pollution in this city. Why can't they just take public transport, like normal people?

2. Stupid Rockefeller Center tree. They asked me to be the person who throws the switch to light it this year as I am considered New York's own royal in the press, but when I told them how cutting down trees contributes to the destruction

of the ozone layer, they rescinded their invitation and had the mayor do it instead.

3. Stupid Christmas carols blaring from outside all the stores.

4. Stupid ice-skating with stupid boys who think they can skate backwards when they can't.

5. Stupid pressure to buy meaningful gifts for everyone you know.

6. Final exams.

7. Stupid, lousy New York weather. No snow, just cold wet rain, every single day. Whatever happened to a white

Christmas? I'll tell you: global warming. You know why? Because everybody keeps driving SUVs and cutting down trees!

8. Stupid manipulative Christmas specials on TV.

9. Stupid manipulative Christmas commercials on TV.

10. Mistletoe. This stuff should be banned. In the hands of adolescent boys it becomes a societally approved excuse to

demand kisses. This is sexual harassment, if you ask me.

Plus all the wrong boys have it.

Sunday, December 6

Just got back from dinner at Grandmere's. All of my efforts to get out of having to go - even my pointing out that I am currently suffering from a perforated tongue - were in vain.

I could be bleeding out of the eyes and Grandmere would still expect me to show up for Sunday dinner.

And this one was even worse than usual. That's because Grandmere wanted to go over my itinerary for my trip to Genovia which, by the way, looks like this:

December 20

3 p.m. 

Commencement of Royal Duties

3:30 p.m. - 5 p.m. 

Meet and greet palace staff

5 p.m. - 7 p.m. 

Tour of palace

7 p.m. - 8 p.m.

Change for dinner

8 p.m. -11 p.m.

Dinner with Genovian dignitaries

December 21

8 a.m. - 9:30 a.m.

Breakfast with Genovian public officials

10a.m.- ll:30a.m.

Tour of Genovian state schools

12 p.m. - 1 p.m.

Meet with Genovian schoolchildren

1:30 p.m.-3p.m.

Lunch with members of Genovian Teachers' Association

3:30 p.m. - 4:30 p.m.

Tour of Port of Genovia and Genovian naval cruiser (The Prince Philippe)

5 p.m. - 6 p.m.

Tour of Genovian General Hospital

6 p.m. - 7 p.m.

Visit with hospital patients

7 p.m. - 8 p.m.

Change for dinner

8 p.m. - 11 p.m.

Dinner with Prince Philippe, Dowager Princess, Genovian military advisors

December 22

8 a.m. - 9 a.m.

Breakfast with members of Genovian Olive Growers' Association

10 a.m. - 11 a.m.

Christmas-tree lighting ceremony, Genovia Palace Courtyard

ll:30a.m. - 1:00 p.m.

Meet with Genovian
Historical Society

1 p.m. - 3 p.m.

Lunch with Genovian Tourist Board

3:30 p.m. - 5:30 p.m.

Tour of Genovian National Art Museum

6 p.m. - 7 p.m.

Visit Genovian War Veterans Memorial, place flowers on grave of Unknown Soldier

7:30 p.m. - 8:30 p.m.

Change for dinner

8:30 p.m. - 11:30 p.m.

Dinner with Royal Family of Monaco

And so on.

It all culminates in my appearance on my dad's annual nationally televised Christmas Eve address to the people of Genovia, during which he will introduce me to the populace. I am then supposed to make a speech about how thrilled I am to be Dad's heir, and how I promise to try to do as good a job as he has at leading Genovia into the twenty-first century.

Nervous? Me? About going on TV and promising 50,000 people that I won't let their country down?

Nah. Not me.

I just want to throw up every time I think about it, that's all.

Whatever. I so have nothing to look forward to. NOTHING. Not that I thought my trip to Genovia was going to be like going to Disneyland, but still. You'd think they'd have scheduled in some fun time. I'm not even asking for Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. Just like some swimming or horseback riding.

But, apparently, there is not time for fun in Genovia.

As if going over my itinerary wasn't bad enough, I also had to spend my dinner at Grandmere's being nice to my cousin Sebastiano. Sebastiano Grimaldi is my dead grandfather's sister's daughter's kid. Which I guess actually makes him a cousin a couple times removed. But not removed enough that, if it weren't for me, he wouldn't be inheriting the throne to Genovia.

Seriously. If my dad had died without ever having had a kid, Sebastiano would be the next Prince of Genovia.

Maybe that's why my dad, every time he looks at Sebastiano, heaves this big shudder.

Or maybe it's just because my dad feels about Sebastiano the way I feel about my cousin Hank: I like him in theory, but in actual practice he kind of bugs me.

Sebastiano doesn't bug Grandmere, though. You can tell that Grandmere just loves him.

Which is really weird, because I always supposed Grandmere was incapable of loving anyone. Well, with the exception of Rommel, her miniature poodle.

But you can tell she totally adores Sebastiano. When she introduced him to me, and he bowed with this big flourish and kissed the air above my hand, Grandmere was practically beaming beneath her pink silk turban. Really.

I have never seen Grandmere beam before. Glare, plenty of times. But never beam.

Which might be why my dad started chewing the ice in his whiskey and soda in a very irritated manner. Grandmere's smile disappeared right away when she heard all that crunching.

'If you want to chew ice, Philippe,' Grandmere said, coldly, 'you can go and have your dinner at McDonald's with the rest of the proletariats.'

My dad stopped chewing his ice.

That's how scary Grandmere is. She can make princes stop chewing ice with one sentence.

It turns out Grandmere brought Sebastiano over from Genovia so that he could design my dress for my nationally televised introduction to my countrymen. Sebastiano is a very up-and-coming fashion designer - at least, according to Grandmere. She says it is important that Genovia supports its artists and craftspeople, or they will all flee to New York or, even worse, Los Angeles.

Which is too bad for Sebastiano, since he looks like the type who might really enjoy living in LA. He is thirtyish with long dark hair tied back in a ponytail, and is all tall and flamboyant-looking. Like, for instance, tonight, instead of a tie, Sebastiano was wearing a white silk ascot. And he had on a blue velvet jacket with leather trousers - which aren't any better, really, than pony-skin skirts, but at least we eat cows. Nobody eats ponies, except maybe in France.

I am fully prepared to forgive Sebastiano for the leather trousers if he designs me a dress that is nice enough. You know the kind of dress I mean. A dress that, should he happen to see me in it, will make Michael Moscovitz forget all about Judith Gershner and her fruit flies and fill his head with nothing but thoughts of me, Mia Thermopolis.

Only, of course, the chances of Michael ever actually seeing me in this dress are very slim, as my introduction to the Genovian people is only going to be on Genovian television, not CNN or anything.

Still, Sebastiano seemed ready to rise to the challenge. After dinner he even took out a pen and began sketching -right on the white tablecloth! - a design he thought might accentuate what he called my narrow waist and long legs.

Only, unlike my dad, who was born and raised in Genovia but speaks fluent English, Sebastiano doesn't have a real keen grasp of the language. He kept forgetting to put the second syllables on to words. So narrow became 'nar'. Just like 'coffee' became 'coff', and when he described something as magical, it came out as 'madge'. Even the butter wasn't safe. When Sebastiano asked me to please pass him the 'butt', I had to stuff my napkin in my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

It didn't do any good, though, since Grandmere caught me and, raising one of her drawn-on eyebrows, went, 'Amelia, kindly do not make light of other people's speech habits. Your own are not even remotely perfect.'

Which is certainly true, considering the fact that, with my swollen tongue, I can't really say any word that starts with s.

Not only did Grandmere not mind Sebastiano saying the word 'butt' at the dinner table, she didn't mind his drawing on the tablecloth, either. She looked down at his sketch and said, 'Brilliant. Simply brilliant. As usual.'

Sebastiano looked very pleased. 'Do you real think so?' he asked.

Only I didn't think his sketch was so brilliant. It just looked like an ordinary dress to me. Certainly nothing to make anyone forget the fact that I'm about as likely to clone a fruit fly as I am to eat a Quarter Pounder with cheese.

'Um,' I said. 'Can't you make it a little more ... I don't know. Sexy?'

Grandmere and Sebastiano exchanged looks. 'Sexy?' Grandmere echoed, with an evil laugh. 'How? By making it lower-cut? But you haven't got anything there to show!'

Now, seriously. I would expect to hear this kind of thing from the cheerleaders at school, who have made demeaning other people - especially me - a sort of new Olympic sport. But what kind of person says things like this to her only grandchild?

I had meant, of course, a side slit, or maybe some fringe. I wasn't asking for anything Jennifer Lopez-ish.

But trust Grandmere to turn it into something like that. Why can't I have a normal grandmother, who bakes me cookies and can't stop bragging to her friends in the Bridge Club about how wonderful I am? Why do I have to be cursed with a grandmother who shaves off her eyebrows and seems to enjoy making light of my inadequacies?

It was while Grandmere and Sebastiano were cackling to themselves over this great witticism at my expense that my dad abruptly got up and left the table, saying he had to make a call. I suppose it's every man for himself where Grandmere is concerned, but you would think my own father would stick up for me once in a while.

I don't know, maybe it was residual depression over the giant hole in my tongue (which doesn't even have a nice sterling silver stud in it so I can pretend to have done it on purpose to be controversial). But as I sat there listening to Grandmere and Sebastiano chatter away about how pathetic it was that I would never be able to wear anything strapless, unless some miracle of nature occurred one night that inflated me from a 32A to a 34C, I couldn't help thinking about Michael.

Like about how with my luck, Michael will end up marrying Judith Gershner, so that even if I do ever get the guts to break up with Kenny, I will still never get a chance to be with the man I truly love.

And probably, given my luck, it will turn out that Sebastiano isn't just in town to design me a dress for my royal introduction, but to kill me so that he can assume the throne of Genovia himself.

Or, as Sebastiano would say, 'ass' the throne.

Seriously. That kind of stuff happens on Baywatch all the time. You wouldn't believe the number of royal family members Mitch has had to save from assassination.

Like supposing I put on the dress that Sebastiano has designed for me to wear when I'm introduced to the people of Genovia and it ends up squeezing me to death, just like that corset Snow White puts on in the original version of her story by the Brothers Grimm. You know, the part they left out of the Disney movie because it was too gruesome.